tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38918936652365452382024-02-07T05:23:28.316-05:00 Threading the DogJulie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-642502388112513102021-04-22T13:44:00.006-04:002021-04-23T08:23:03.710-04:00Waiting for "They"<p>Well before the pandemic, I read <i>Station's Eleven </i>by Emily St. John Mandel. I guess it is post-apocalyptic, in that modern civilization quickly implodes following a sweeping,fatal respiratory pandemic. </p><p>But that's not my point. One scene sticks with me.. Outbound travellers at a midwestern airport are of course aware of the viral death march around them. But what does that have to do with my flight being late? They are annoyed at the confusing delay announcements...and then dumbstruck when the voice finally announces that all personnel have left the airport. As have all the taxis, buses, and other public transports. <br /></p><p>So they sit. Waiting for "they." As in "<i>I'm sure they will send over the National Guard to take us to some hotels</i>." "I'm sure" dwindles to "<i>I hope they are going to leave us some food</i>" and finally to the edge.</p><p>"<i>They wouldn't just leave us here. Would they?</i>"</p><p>Sooner or later, some folks let go of their boarding passes and figure out that the only "they" who will care for them are the ones in the mirror </p><p>Which brings me to trying to get a COVID vaccine in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. </p><p>I live in a largely affluent county that sits right next to Philadelphia and across the river from the capital of New Jersey. My doctors are part of a sophisticated tertiary-care hospital network and I am smart, energetic, and finally happy to be old because I am now in the coveted "1A" group. The county is falling over itself converting this college and that mall into injection sites by appointment. </p><p>But how do you get this mysterious appointment? </p><p>My doctor's message is "wait for us to call you." So I wait. As all my 1A friends in other states get their vaccines--and their grandchildren. My doctor can't get enough supply, she suggests I try Rite-Aid, Walgreen's, and CVS. She heard that a local grocery store pharmacy posts new appointments every morning at 5:30 am. She heard? Like she heard that Kim and Kanye are on the outs? <br /></p><p>But I grab at any straw. I am up at 5 am every day filling in the same lengthy forms only to arrive at the same page: no appointments available. <br /></p><p>I finally locate the County website that is taking names and "we will call you" to schedule an appointment when...when whatever they need to happen occurs. </p><p>Its now early March and my daughter in Illinois is completely vaccinated and I break down crying. Nice, huh? I have turned myself into a madwoman...in all senses. Partially from lack of sleep and the psychic assault that comes from filling in e-forms at dawn every day. But mostly, it is from outrage (and fear) erupting from my core: This is what government is for, to protect and defend us. Aren't "they" supposed to be taking of us?</p><p>I turn to "them" directly. My congressman's office <i>completely </i>agrees with me, the lack of a centralized response plan is appalling. And that of course is the fault of the state. My state senator's office <i>completely</i> agrees with me. Too bad the county's such a mess. (My county commissioner had the good sense to return my call when I was not at home.). Both pointed how difficult it is to reach everyone...I pointed out that they had no trouble when they wanted my vote. I added that the local kids' soccer league and pee-wee softball have six signs across the street telling me how to sign up for spring training. Maybe they should contact the local coaches for advice?</p><p>Then I got another lead from more whispering-down-the-lane antics and signed up for the medical networks in the next county and throughout New Jersey. I nearly required cardiac resuscitation when I logged on in an automaton coma for the fourth time in one day and bingo: an appointment! Of course, I had to drive 60 minutes north but it was worth it. </p><p>And look where they sent me: our amusement park! Dorney Park and Wild Water Kingdom, to be exact.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4JHUor4J9FbHWl6XmlJMIl-uHICexTAd9RKYWTzrE8zhxFBgBwPx975lmde9J4Pf0EGpiIO8lsXUgJyWWRSJSThwJ_xayfPighnN9xULXotHugx9d47eGKPuf2rCatNsJq5wuq9VLOir/s2048/IMG_1407.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4JHUor4J9FbHWl6XmlJMIl-uHICexTAd9RKYWTzrE8zhxFBgBwPx975lmde9J4Pf0EGpiIO8lsXUgJyWWRSJSThwJ_xayfPighnN9xULXotHugx9d47eGKPuf2rCatNsJq5wuq9VLOir/w640-h480/IMG_1407.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><p>Ironically, I have always been petrified of roller coasters, tilt-a-whirls and all other rides except for those little boats with the bell you can ring. But Himself told me that if I got my shot and didn't cry, they would give me cotton candy. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNgZDl3E3J3rvkghSbxy7JK_rfvVaC-KX20D3B2oARkZnHyhGH-yl-tF87s-Upmcyn5YVo3-uF2N3EH5U4yhxk492C5GDjcpMcd8Ce6oPzcehk6nneBqPvs6Zh3zSiNuz9skYzO5oX-vW/s2048/IMG_1405.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNgZDl3E3J3rvkghSbxy7JK_rfvVaC-KX20D3B2oARkZnHyhGH-yl-tF87s-Upmcyn5YVo3-uF2N3EH5U4yhxk492C5GDjcpMcd8Ce6oPzcehk6nneBqPvs6Zh3zSiNuz9skYzO5oX-vW/w640-h480/IMG_1405.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><p>And here's where the story, if you're still with me, turns beautiful. Because "they" became us. Hundreds and hundred of volunteers logging us in and explaining the drive-through (yes!) procedure... </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3YQ9JJQQgabcxq7qBqWyYxKSXjCWd9QWy5O4E6I1G6TMIEPw7SkQ6YaMj4zdSoWS0CahQOBNY_W_LexCdwaNaRZhyphenhyphenEZKLqZS1pHZuOlLclifaJ9YWwO80rIhBAs6LIvJ9LZHFKcTQ8UrM/s2048/IMG_1560.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3YQ9JJQQgabcxq7qBqWyYxKSXjCWd9QWy5O4E6I1G6TMIEPw7SkQ6YaMj4zdSoWS0CahQOBNY_W_LexCdwaNaRZhyphenhyphenEZKLqZS1pHZuOlLclifaJ9YWwO80rIhBAs6LIvJ9LZHFKcTQ8UrM/w640-h480/IMG_1560.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>...giving the injection and handing over the paperwork... </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nDHve-ePK1LJkwu9_GSYlTaDZTBhdO6yGQl9pyQckMmIipM6QxWNrX8wtsJV4BVyWRvW_GxuebeyFqobV2n7YJPCV5Mtk-fYBlWeYZgX2wdB1lJW2j1BXdPwhfUcVqYkzsJVx6ytyNGT/s2048/IMG_1564.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nDHve-ePK1LJkwu9_GSYlTaDZTBhdO6yGQl9pyQckMmIipM6QxWNrX8wtsJV4BVyWRvW_GxuebeyFqobV2n7YJPCV5Mtk-fYBlWeYZgX2wdB1lJW2j1BXdPwhfUcVqYkzsJVx6ytyNGT/w480-h640/IMG_1564.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>...watching over us for
anaphylactic reactions..and cheerily waving us out of the park. Thirty minutes start to finish.<br /> <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HcO5OvggskApZnqysko4VgKEFJ1BrOVPftG_SN2xUqNVi4MDaFcEmM3T3HUa1nWlxWWHcNkV_xp6YG4GP2RdbzQtmDlvtYurXDd-WvsnTpytASJyi4rK3AMwJ1rWPQvTdE2gMxANp4ci/s2048/IMG_1563.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HcO5OvggskApZnqysko4VgKEFJ1BrOVPftG_SN2xUqNVi4MDaFcEmM3T3HUa1nWlxWWHcNkV_xp6YG4GP2RdbzQtmDlvtYurXDd-WvsnTpytASJyi4rK3AMwJ1rWPQvTdE2gMxANp4ci/w440-h330/IMG_1563.JPG" width="440" /></a></div><p>It got me crying again. But this time, it was because I was overwhelmed by these faces. "They," these magnificent volunteers, filled a park in the Poconos chill to make it happen for me...for all of us. Ok, the government "they" made the vaccination possible, but at least in my area, they couldn't do what any little league seems to be able to do: get out the word and sign 'em up. </p><p>But here in Dorney Park, I saw the "they" that is us at its best. They made me safe. They made it possible for me to fly into the arms of my daughter and grandson next week. They helped the negativity of the early months ease into relief and gratitude.<br /></p>Now, um, could we talk about the cotton candy thing?<br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p><br /></p>Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-41251750249121866672021-03-24T12:18:00.003-04:002021-03-24T14:40:53.406-04:00Oh Yeah, I Remember Writing<p>I worked a lot with my hands during the pandemic. First, I cleaned out every space in or near this house. Then, like a crazed Rapunzel, I fashioned yards and yards of my obscene supply of fabric into pillows.... <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZprTWm2wJrOp6Y1O34gZ5_WNlHfncCR93jkN66n8KRGcX0XYNB4TMRM1h9eC69Ek8h51B6u5VmAeAbs8ZsS3p0bJfAw1B_DERbmOfI5pgzph_jMoUc_Ktr3SdBBmHNagVWXujfwyHy0bR/s2048/pillows.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1308" data-original-width="2048" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZprTWm2wJrOp6Y1O34gZ5_WNlHfncCR93jkN66n8KRGcX0XYNB4TMRM1h9eC69Ek8h51B6u5VmAeAbs8ZsS3p0bJfAw1B_DERbmOfI5pgzph_jMoUc_Ktr3SdBBmHNagVWXujfwyHy0bR/w400-h255/pillows.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />and rag rugs.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGXQRHfA1rAESjthXtBpB88W9FUoFnILvY4h2q7_pMIGXkmVl-9WLBVF4-zXe5JZTWiuJYkLSdnCYJh4ByGwLwsLzS0_zBu4wOlrN2ghJXJgxlnyCNWqqL8cuItk0YFwvBKsc8wvPFBf65/s2048/rag+rug.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1285" data-original-width="2048" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGXQRHfA1rAESjthXtBpB88W9FUoFnILvY4h2q7_pMIGXkmVl-9WLBVF4-zXe5JZTWiuJYkLSdnCYJh4ByGwLwsLzS0_zBu4wOlrN2ghJXJgxlnyCNWqqL8cuItk0YFwvBKsc8wvPFBf65/w400-h251/rag+rug.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p> I collaged everything with a bare surface, except for Rob and Molly. <br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDAPDvEO5G559GA4x1jb1S6v-fexY5krIz9wIRMTHU1kole7nTh8rkevmmgDIWM6Ltk8bH6W3fhikM_goOq99LG1NbN9O9ARoB8sU3iB0-s2V5B42n6yW6EeT9aYyNYHQFgRmmzHQdXPR/s2048/jawbone+flats.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1580" data-original-width="2048" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDAPDvEO5G559GA4x1jb1S6v-fexY5krIz9wIRMTHU1kole7nTh8rkevmmgDIWM6Ltk8bH6W3fhikM_goOq99LG1NbN9O9ARoB8sU3iB0-s2V5B42n6yW6EeT9aYyNYHQFgRmmzHQdXPR/w400-h309/jawbone+flats.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p> I learned how to paint. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvhe-KnLPqESabSKlGBkGzGSZyuzmZJuP3tsL8gcAPVSRwrPDBmFaAtDhkY2kAJ-bQRrqGU7TOFQdgHmT3G_27jZJMkWFyP3QWP3ZH_a7TjBIjK_PVrFa1PAzm1BUoYWGd4hP7IhEMPY5c/s2048/memory+keeper.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2036" data-original-width="2048" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvhe-KnLPqESabSKlGBkGzGSZyuzmZJuP3tsL8gcAPVSRwrPDBmFaAtDhkY2kAJ-bQRrqGU7TOFQdgHmT3G_27jZJMkWFyP3QWP3ZH_a7TjBIjK_PVrFa1PAzm1BUoYWGd4hP7IhEMPY5c/w400-h398/memory+keeper.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">" Memory Keeper"<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>And then I traveled in our Airstream for 3 months, 12,000 miles, and 15 mostly Western states. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFBpnyMl1dLdHBsXyBSfdg-nGLK0NIRUMBd3vzIh70hvT2dMoxIQzfQwAKdLpziuJ-phXDbRAf_18Teu65JQPQ5BCTd0WImSwn7EhGD6rCwnKcB_lMY1izeSh01X_BhNrQLmhKLhWVp2x/s2048/IMG_0946.JPEG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFBpnyMl1dLdHBsXyBSfdg-nGLK0NIRUMBd3vzIh70hvT2dMoxIQzfQwAKdLpziuJ-phXDbRAf_18Teu65JQPQ5BCTd0WImSwn7EhGD6rCwnKcB_lMY1izeSh01X_BhNrQLmhKLhWVp2x/w300-h400/IMG_0946.JPEG" width="300" /></a></div> The Badlands, South Dakota<br /><p></p><p></p><p>I did all this stuff. </p><p>But I forgot to write. <br /></p><p>Ok, Grace, since you're still sitting across from me demanding that I tell only truth, that is a big fat lie. I did jot down daily descriptions in my journal about how I spent the day, just to affirm that I was coping. And perhaps, for the future, to chronicle what coping looked like. But I couldn't muster any interest in coming here. At first, I thought I had nothing to say...a big psychic "Who Cares?" Then, as I became more and more intrigued by painting, I thought "I <i>know</i> how to write, let me spend my time learning how to paint." </p><p> This morning, with my second dose of Moderna vaccine just three weeks away, my pandemic cocoon is starting to feel tight around the edges. I peeked back out into the world and happened to catch up on <a href="https://www.saskiavanherwaarden.com/" target="_blank">Saskia's blog</a> as she moves through these very early days of losing both her parents.. And that helped me understand the truth. I wasn't reluctant to write, I just couldn't write truth about anything that wasn't about my own broken heart after the loss of my parents. And for me, the work of healing required--requires--a lot more feeling and a lot less word-crafting. <br /></p><p>With that understanding, I also took a peek at my old self. I read back through my own entries here and saw how well I captured my experiences of their deaths. And how I reached total strangers who nodded in agreement.</p><p>And how over some 157 posts, I made us laugh, you and me both. </p><p>I remember writing. And how good it all feels. <br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-22461853608150073262020-01-27T14:01:00.000-05:002020-01-27T14:15:18.158-05:00"My, people come and go so quickly here..."Those were the words of that great Kansas philosopher, Dorothy Gale. She muttered it in Munchkinland but, based on my last year or so, I now accept it as a sound Principle of Life.<br />
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As you know from my last post, Mom died in September of 2018. Our big black boxer Tui started having seizures two months later and died the following March from a presumptive brain tumor. (Presumptive because I said no to Dr. Crazy Canine Neurologist, who advocated spending $3,500 for an MRI to find out for sure so I could then subject him--the dog, not the neurologist--to brain surgery.)<br />
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My daughter and her husband safely delivered my gorgeous grandson Ezra in July and he thrives, happy and loved. I tried to upload a video because I know you have never seen adorable babies before, but Blogger says the file is too big. I'm sure they offer a workaround for Martin Scorsese or Woody Allen, but all I can do is give you this Ewok in its place. <br />
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One month later, my 92-year-old father died. I know now that he worked as hard as he could to stay alive without my mother, who was his light. He pushed and pushed through the strangulating effects of Parkinson's on his physical ability and his mental clarity. He pushed until he could see that his beloved granddaughter and her new son were fine and that I had a clear mastery of and full legal access to his estate. Despite the fact that, to his lifelong chagrin, I am no better at math now than I was in fifth grade. <br />
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When Dad saw that all was fine, he just stopped pushing. He felt weak on Sunday morning and died the following Saturday, in the early morning hours of my mother's birthday. He spoke his last words to me from a fog midweek. "<i>Be sure to clear away the leaves." </i>From where, Dad? "<i>From the ground." </i><br />
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My daughter and her new family left for the funeral. She and the baby headed to Detroit. Her husband headed to Wisconsin. His grandfather, the man who helped make my son-in-law the spectacular man that he is, died one day after my dad.<br />
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In October, my stepson and his wife safely delivered a beautiful baby elfin child. She too thrives, happy and loved.<br />
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One week later, little Ezra and little A's auntie, my stepdaughter, announced that HER son will be arriving at the end of May! <br />
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And so now I see what Dorothy Gale saw. People come....people go. Sometimes, its as fast as the Wicked Witch of the East going up in smoke or the Good Witch popping down in her bubble. <br />
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I became a Bobbe (Yiddish for Nana/Grandma/Granny/Mom Mom and all that other cockamamie stuff) and an orphan in four weeks. The family I grew up with once was four...and then there was one. My other family, the one facing forward, will have three new babies within 10 months.<br />
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Other times, it is only visible out of the rear view mirror. Now, I am the next generation in line to slip away.<br />
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Hopefully, without drama. <br />
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But it is always happening. I struggled mightily with the tornado as it whirled around me. But now I accept it. In fact, it isn't a tornado, it is the way. The Way. Perhaps my acceptance comes from a daily meditation practice that seems to have at last taken root. Perhaps it comes because once again, the passage of time remains the best cure for what ails ya. I am not going to look a gift of acceptance in the mouth, that's for sure. <br />
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Ironically, like Dorothy, Himself and Molly and I are also headed to Kansas. Next month, this beauty comes into our driveway.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS8HD0Zih51RsNIOqgoEKaXqvGzQ0A4IXf4H_EDPyrFKwdlFwiSBMcb22CRvZ1khRzeDXoh9Uw-BA9HVL2wmd_5lUhlDxODxPiz0CO2N30PpYJYtqSEbL6fvnd5djsdGQjxEMOFkyVMFd5/s1600/airstream+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1562" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS8HD0Zih51RsNIOqgoEKaXqvGzQ0A4IXf4H_EDPyrFKwdlFwiSBMcb22CRvZ1khRzeDXoh9Uw-BA9HVL2wmd_5lUhlDxODxPiz0CO2N30PpYJYtqSEbL6fvnd5djsdGQjxEMOFkyVMFd5/s320/airstream+1.jpg" width="312" /></a></div>
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Our own Airstream! When it comes, we will go. To the Black Hills of South Dakota, via the Oregon Trail and whatever else strikes our fancy. No deadlines, no reservations.<br />
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Just coming and going. <br />
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-85467723959496622662019-05-05T14:28:00.000-04:002019-05-06T11:35:24.617-04:00What My Mother Taught Me About Dying<br />
Last year, as spring slid into summer, my mother slowly slid into what would be the last months of her life. The process started with disengagement. First, she shied from the outings that had always energized her. Then, she grumbled at having to leave the apartment. Finally, she refused to leave the couch, where she slept most of the day tucked in the nest of handmade pillows that she collected over a lifetime of traveling around the world. <br />
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The next step was a week-long tsunami of agitation and combativeness. This was even more astonishing because the single gift of Mom's dementia had been to make her sweet and compliant. <br />
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In retrospect, I now see that I was actually astonished by the whole last months of her life. ..or were they the first few months of her dying? Because the first thing I learned from my mother's death in mid-September was that even at age 64, I knew nothing at all about dying.<br />
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I was a young teenager when Elisabeth Kubler-Ross challenged our notions of how to treat the dying. Along with the rest of the culture, I assimilated the radical notion of <i>On Death and Dying </i>that we should no longer shunt our dying loved ones to the hospital. The New Directive was to support their dying at home or in a compassionate environment like Hospice, where they could retain their dignity all through their final hours.<br />
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And let me add that, in the absence of any direct experience, I just assumed that dying was exactly that: a matter of hours. Fed by the filtered black and white photos in my copy of <i>On Death and Dying, </i>I developed quite a poetic bank of images of what those final hours would look like. You know what I mean. A hospital bed, its steel softened by a handmade quilt and the family cat, sits by the window, arranged to capture the view of the magnolia tree in pink bloom. A bedside candle flame dances as loved ones hold hands, share memories, and beg--or offer--forgiveness. The whispered "I love you" and then...perhaps a shudder...and then sorrow. With serenity just around the corner. <br />
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My mother's death left me with a profoundly different bank of images.<br />
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Yes, there were the angelic aides from Hospice, who alternated between lovingly massaging cream into Mom's eroding skin and checking their cell phones for Facebook updates. Yes, there was a hospital bed but I couldn't add the afghans she had knit because my father keeps the thermostat set to "Human Body, Feverish." <br />
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But there was no candle (see thermostat, above). And there were none of the serene exchanges that resolve all unspoken tensions between mother and daughter. In fact, there were no exchanges at all. My real mother's default response to emotion was avoidance. I will never know if dying would have changed her mind because her mind was full of Ativan, Haldol, and morphine to control terminal agitation.<br />
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Yeah, "terminal agitation." Ever hear of it? Me neither.<br />
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As the name suggests, terminal agitation is an escalating picture of restlessness, agitation, and downright combativeness that may occur in the last weeks of life. Hospice considers it a crisis--and given all they have to deal with, that's saying a lot.<br />
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Terminal agitation has bloodied all my fantasies of how we die. Here's a snapshot from the morning I stayed with Mom during a care planning meeting. The last day she ever talked to me.<br />
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"We need to go now," she insisted, trying to get off the couch without any success. </blockquote>
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"Get me out of here NOW," she commanded. I obliged, trying to figure out a route away from the public spaces of the nursing home.<br />
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"Can't you go any faster?" she demanded, as I wheeled her up and down the halls of the third floor. That held her. Until it didn't.<br />
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"What's the matter with you, we need lunch."<br />
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"Ok, here you go," I said as we returned to the apartment and I slipped a small plate of her favorite foods on to the table.<br />
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"What's the matter with you? I said 'lunch'!"<br />
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Here is where mothering two toddlers came in handy. "Okay, here's lunch," I said as I put two M & Ms in her mouth. But she wasn't having any and I was shit out of ideas. Luckily for the both of us, the nurse returned and, even luckier, she had a morphine injection in her pocket. I coaxed Mom to the couch, where she relaxed into my arms. She asked me to tell her a story...which I did, with tears in my throat.</blockquote>
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My gentle and gentlemanly father could not acknowledge that his wife of 65 years was dying and so could not help but scream at her when she swore at and scratched at the aides. Hospice took her to another apartment to stabilize her (and him). Mercifully for me, they told me I shouldn't come by. By the time I saw her four days later, "stabilized" looked a lot like unconscious.<br />
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If I hadn't experienced the agitation myself, I would have suspected they were simply drugging her to make their lives easier. But they weren't. They were drugging her to make her life easier for her. ...to make her death easier for her.<br />
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We went to our craft show for the weekend because 1) no one told me I should not and 2) I desperately needed to catch my breath. Rona the Super Aide stayed with Mom in her deep fog, whispering to her that I would be home on Monday as she cleansed the sweat off her brow (see temperature, above).<br />
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I came back Monday morning and held her hand, searching for any sign that she was holding my hand too.<br />
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<i>"I'm going home now to change and will be back later</i>," I whispered. "<i>But if you need to go now, it is ok. I am taking care of Daddy and I will make sure he will be all right."</i><br />
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I was in the car for 15 minutes when Rona called me to tell me she was gone.<br />
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It is going on eight months since that phone call. I am starting accept, rather than avoid, my new understanding of the reality of dying. I am starting to accept what my mother taught me about dying: it is not a
moment but a process. It may not be pretty, but it will be real...as
real as life.<br />
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And I am now starting to catch glimpses of my real mother through the searing images of last year. They are in the way I am quick to judge anybody and the way I wave my hand to dismiss opinions of others. They are in the way I trim fat off the brisket I cook for Passover and the way I fold used pieces of aluminum foil and tuck them in the drawer.They are in the way I love adventure and the color red.<br />
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They are in the way I am washing and folding the sweaters she knit for my babies, readying them for the grandchild I am expecting in July.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQspRzem70fCo3lF2B2oc-Q9D9W_sVdvPf0lizRWFmeapK-_y85pg6rlw7nDUF-qnXwq4VWddvRdQYEBArtxKelobeYkrua3iaZ7qE_b4C99iSw9htHUlnX9SmvYA0fqGg74jmrmuAVmEc/s1600/mom+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="665" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQspRzem70fCo3lF2B2oc-Q9D9W_sVdvPf0lizRWFmeapK-_y85pg6rlw7nDUF-qnXwq4VWddvRdQYEBArtxKelobeYkrua3iaZ7qE_b4C99iSw9htHUlnX9SmvYA0fqGg74jmrmuAVmEc/s640/mom+cropped.jpg" width="472" /></a></td></tr>
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Thanks, Mom. </div>
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-54915615598458954272018-09-03T20:11:00.001-04:002018-09-03T20:11:03.813-04:00An Army of DaughtersEverywhere I look, I see an army massing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfINtQrIdmB8muAF10HV-1X4w35ldzzu7Rw3fk5ES4d81pwJ8WfbQ0GgNccYCOErdbHQz2gdX-TaEoQC9JRwzlEz5YmG8Y6iVmdedVSrgeAewV7G1lbtkRzig3XPy9hNnYkK3Z6dwywtXn/s1600/army10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1418" data-original-width="1600" height="566" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfINtQrIdmB8muAF10HV-1X4w35ldzzu7Rw3fk5ES4d81pwJ8WfbQ0GgNccYCOErdbHQz2gdX-TaEoQC9JRwzlEz5YmG8Y6iVmdedVSrgeAewV7G1lbtkRzig3XPy9hNnYkK3Z6dwywtXn/s640/army10.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It is the army of daughters, holding on to their aged parents.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCP-JzbgTrUwMjHEg4kC8JRgMSRby9Xp-U1duCRlxTbTA_dt-S57fnxHlOptyNBm4m4qgDM7CdTMfZFy4AAUaBOLEM_ROrsFs_aJSNFWDaQrUNu_RP1VCSs3xe8qGaqMU0Q3eXvvKZwp20/s1600/army12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1600" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCP-JzbgTrUwMjHEg4kC8JRgMSRby9Xp-U1duCRlxTbTA_dt-S57fnxHlOptyNBm4m4qgDM7CdTMfZFy4AAUaBOLEM_ROrsFs_aJSNFWDaQrUNu_RP1VCSs3xe8qGaqMU0Q3eXvvKZwp20/s640/army12.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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To doctors and dentists, to dinners at 5 pm and 10% off days for seniors. Down the halls of nursing homes and up aisles at supermarkets, slowly pushing a cart that holds two apples, one tomato, and a small box of low-sodium Saltine crackers.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIzhRQr1jZhwPmU5D0fLGv5vfwjfxNgu5nkwbsA29bVZYVgC3aMzWlLDfBa6i931R63mBVPGD_cFmMdQ_SFEPPcAKFsvxTWXGGscRBFe_KmRNg-g3KHo6hB6I6XfxS0xDvbbZwJkodTtLi/s1600/arm3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="860" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIzhRQr1jZhwPmU5D0fLGv5vfwjfxNgu5nkwbsA29bVZYVgC3aMzWlLDfBa6i931R63mBVPGD_cFmMdQ_SFEPPcAKFsvxTWXGGscRBFe_KmRNg-g3KHo6hB6I6XfxS0xDvbbZwJkodTtLi/s640/arm3.jpg" width="342" /></a></div>
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The army of daughters is in every corner of the parking lot, snapping walkers and wheelchairs into and out of trunks in two expert maneuvers..the way they mastered strollers so many years ago. Always scanning for a car door swinging shut too soon, or an SUV backing out of a parking space too fast.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvj8-Il0mkO9m3ipJpJwQpPtlg7BVmwwglmbRWKc0Qrsn8iIn8DGt9lp3E8MxxqB2dvZlfOWqRpUWaHFMCAuyN_NtCil15clJ1JZrnPZltZOeS_rfsM1R8JLJB1HEUio5DeiSXyRcGYRnp/s1600/army6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvj8-Il0mkO9m3ipJpJwQpPtlg7BVmwwglmbRWKc0Qrsn8iIn8DGt9lp3E8MxxqB2dvZlfOWqRpUWaHFMCAuyN_NtCil15clJ1JZrnPZltZOeS_rfsM1R8JLJB1HEUio5DeiSXyRcGYRnp/s640/army6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The way they protected their toddlers so many years ago.<br />
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The army of daughters is hardly a silent one. In fact, they're always on their phones. They're pleading with medical receptionists to let them bring Mom this afternoon so that this night too does not end in the emergency room. They're dialing every number in the zip code to find an after-hours pharmacy that is truly open past 6 pm. They're calling Dad for grocery lists, which will inevitably include all the items they just dropped off the day before.<br />
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And they try so very hard to answer the ringing phone calmly, even when their throats constrict as they see the number on the caller ID...<br />
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...and they find themselves throwing on jeans and heading out the door.<br />
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Again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbM_SO1vlXLZF47WPz9o0dQTY2E7jIFBcJCNinahcyulZsrk-QUFxz1htn0AREH39HRL27zEQLFrvXqAz6YAsdnyPKxZwjNsiR8ooIgl57QZWkEn16goHnDJOACO1tSzW6OlRf5lqspva8/s1600/army0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="981" data-original-width="1600" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbM_SO1vlXLZF47WPz9o0dQTY2E7jIFBcJCNinahcyulZsrk-QUFxz1htn0AREH39HRL27zEQLFrvXqAz6YAsdnyPKxZwjNsiR8ooIgl57QZWkEn16goHnDJOACO1tSzW6OlRf5lqspva8/s640/army0.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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At its best, this army is a holy exercise in compassion and a desperate primal desire to prevent the suffering overtaking the minds and bodies of those who taught them Love. At its worst, the army of daughters can't choke back the ugly thought that you don't enlist in this army...<br />
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You get drafted. <br />
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-73533335297353813242018-07-08T14:30:00.000-04:002018-07-09T10:42:05.183-04:00Home DecWe had a lot of construction around here this winter. Mostly so Himself, now retired and a full time woodworker, could have a studio that 1) facilitates the level of craftsmanship he has attained and 2) does away with the need to climb over large power tools butted up against one another like a herd of sheep at shearing season. (You can see pictures of the tools now running free over at our <a href="https://www.deadhorsebayarts.com/blogs/news/new-studio-opens" target="_blank">website</a>.)<br />
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Being the opportunist that I am, I agreed to sign off on the New Studio Bill if I could attach to it House Amendment #2018, stipulating new kitchen cabinets and countertops. We tiled the backsplashes ourselves and managed to stay married. But we deliberately left one stretch undone, so that I could go to it with my broken china, bottles, and other ephemera that I have dug up in the finest trash heaps the United States has to offer.<br />
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I am really happy with the result. (And yes, my favorite woodworker made that counter top). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzT4tmTLlXX5zUd-jF8qtwaQAHCb7zGuue86Yq_Fb8hpet664a2KNEB9dQZsOKgDW7wuzg6Wp3Nm4LreU5_c_aoR_NKPYqXKMqFJordZ6Qb-pX1aV9_Y-TYIbqUjXcLSpBJK_90gPP1MY/s1600/counter1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzT4tmTLlXX5zUd-jF8qtwaQAHCb7zGuue86Yq_Fb8hpet664a2KNEB9dQZsOKgDW7wuzg6Wp3Nm4LreU5_c_aoR_NKPYqXKMqFJordZ6Qb-pX1aV9_Y-TYIbqUjXcLSpBJK_90gPP1MY/s640/counter1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The strange object on the left is called a "land line."</td></tr>
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I spent lots of time trolling Pinterest for ideas and latched on to two of them: making it flow along the wall, instead of covering it. And letting it come out of the wall, adding dimension and the whimsy that I so love. That made good use of the intact pieces I have found.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHtHAJdqQOQQxNhk8QueM30s9BXm7VxdAu4yDcYZCeulLQcDdWgtTuQyjz2HO6Ms3RyJdTnKoa4jevrpNSg_eyviyXBdO3rFFtoUfa1NT7nz-jxPNo3vuq_Dw1xOF1JOvcm9yT7tPZGrfF/s1600/counter6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1600" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHtHAJdqQOQQxNhk8QueM30s9BXm7VxdAu4yDcYZCeulLQcDdWgtTuQyjz2HO6Ms3RyJdTnKoa4jevrpNSg_eyviyXBdO3rFFtoUfa1NT7nz-jxPNo3vuq_Dw1xOF1JOvcm9yT7tPZGrfF/s640/counter6.jpg" width="640" /></a> While I was rushing to get this done in time for a Memorial day weekend wedding in our backyard, I asked Himself to focus on one of the outside projects. I love the sound of running water. Could he come up with an idea for a fountain that we could hook into the return valve on the pool? </div>
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He did.</div>
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"How will that fit into the wedding that the millenial bride and groom are imagining? I asked. </div>
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"Hmmm. You're right," he said. </div>
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But it didn't him long to come up with a solution. </div>
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Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-4170188001370737012018-04-29T20:08:00.000-04:002018-04-29T20:08:23.602-04:00Back to collageNo, its not a typo. Cutting up pages from magazines, adding bits of handmade paper, throwing in the odd bit of ephemera here and there...and gluing it all down without thought into my journal has become the only way I can name emotions too big for me to look right in the eye. (You can read about my technique, if you call it that, <a href="http://juliestockler.blogspot.com/2015/01/tips-for-random-acts-of-collage.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)<br />
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The other evening, even two glasses of a very nice beaujolais failed to dissolve the massive emotion that was still pushing out from my brain into my eyes. I was desperate. I surrendered to glue stick and my plastic box of clippings.<br />
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And 10 minutes later, this appeared.<br />
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The Yiddish alone told me the name of the emotion: I miss my mother. She is here but she is not she any more.<br />
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I keep the little Mexican china bowl on her coffee table filled with M & Ms and slip her oatmeal raisin cookies every few minutes. I remind her that I am not just "Mort's daughter," but her daughter, too, and she also had a son. Once. I tell her the weather outside every three minutes.<br />
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I love this woman... <br />
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But I miss my mother. A lot.Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-7276090428809107422018-04-19T19:30:00.001-04:002018-04-19T19:30:17.274-04:00The Meaning of Rusty Old Door LatchesThe big waves that washed over me last winter washed away my interest in quilting. Instead, they activated my passion for assemblage. I hobbled with Himself through the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see a small exhibit of pieces by <a href="https://www.metmuseum.org/exhibitions/listings/2018/birds-of-a-feather" target="_blank">Joseph Cornell</a> and came home as full of energy as someone on two crutches can be.<br />
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I dragged out our ghost town and Dead Horse Bay finds...and discovered that we have cornered the market on rusty old door latches. I don't even remember how it happened but they turned themselves into elephants.<br />
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A strong and sturdy mama elephant....<br />
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A big ole bull papa elephant...<br />
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And of course, a baby elephant.<br />
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When I finished with this little guy, I started humming songs from Disney's Dumbo. Which was when I realized that the family was trying to escape from the circus. I used Jude's technique of cloth weaving on pages from an old dictionary and made a platform out of an old frame. I decorated it with equal parts distress ink and spills from my lunch. And now, I'm getting them ready to leave the Big Top:<br />
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Old bicycle wheel, mounted courtesy of woodworking husband, and pieces of an old Erector Set are a good start, but there's more to go. I am loving working on this, which is pretty ironic considering my one and only experience with a circus did not go well. ( I was five years old and was completely overwhelmed by the noise and chaos of what was probably a Ringling Brothers three-ring extravaganza. The whole family had to leave once people started flying out of cannons. Cannons? Shooting people out of cannons???? I started screaming in terror and didn't stop till we got left the tent.)<br />
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I also went back to a piece I started in an a<a href="https://juliestockler.blogspot.com/2015/01/found-objects-find-home.html" target="_blank">ssemblage weekend workshop </a>in 2015.<br />
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I ripped out stuff that no longer spoke to me and, if we're being honest, some of the stuff that was hanging by my thread of shoddy technique. I added other objects, including strips of burlap I ripped off a wall of an old miner's cabin. As the piece changed, it felt like my life in its contained form. <br />
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I found an old date book I must have gotten from a flea market and suddenly, my little life became my midget life...and my piece, My Midget Diary:<br />
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It needs coils and springs, but don't we all?<br />
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I have another piece waiting in the wings for some fine-tooling. The Mama Elephant above is made from the back of a clock we found at Dead Horse. A bunch of gears popped off and they made their way to the front of the clock. The whole thing made its way onto a wood scrap donated by my favorite woodworker. And when it grows up, it will be The Tree of Knowledge:<br />
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Of course, this assemblage stuff really only works if you have stuff to assemble. Not to mention your own personal woodworker. And that really goes against my entire being (the stuff, not the woodworker. Generally.) I am just having too much fun to stop and besides, I'm using it up, right?<br />
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It wasn't fun at the beginning. As always, I tripped myself up desperately trying to seek out a story and impose Meaning. But a trip around your blogs and some wonderful You Tube assemblage creators slowly showed me what an idiot I was. Meaning is discovered, not imposed. In fact, creation itself is the meaning. If you're lucky, and if you create honestly, you will discover Meaning.<br />
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If you're not lucky, you still can have a blast sanding, drilling, screwing, and painting...and making a dent in your supply of rusty old door latches.<br />
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-80060668808137801392018-04-15T12:49:00.003-04:002018-04-15T12:50:44.116-04:00Riding the Waves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXhvBLmpmn34H5e7LU4B3fUq9UucpxWxEUuIR38Gak6-Z1qJoPK61IGIilYnQ8PDdNWphVCK_rUeULSZkE4iAG-qT0WuiS3HBnAz-70c4wykKld1YvQyDIaBJ5hRJcjIyEdU51CS6czEL/s1600/watch+out+for+waves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXhvBLmpmn34H5e7LU4B3fUq9UucpxWxEUuIR38Gak6-Z1qJoPK61IGIilYnQ8PDdNWphVCK_rUeULSZkE4iAG-qT0WuiS3HBnAz-70c4wykKld1YvQyDIaBJ5hRJcjIyEdU51CS6czEL/s640/watch+out+for+waves.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
I took a photo of this sign on a beach in Iceland because I loved how it cut right to the truth without a whole lot of extra verbiage. And now, it pretty much explains where I've been for the past 7 months.<br />
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When I was here last, I waxed rhapsodic about the medication I was receiving for my newly- diagnosed <a href="http://juliestockler.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">dermatitis herpetiformis</a>. It eradicated my skin inflammation in just days. In just weeks, it also eradicated about a third of my red blood cells. Yeah, the ones that carry oxygen. My walks with the dogs dwindled to a pitiful halt and climbing up stairs looked like this:<br />
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My falling blood count scared the doctor so badly that he even gave me his personal cell phone number. Maybe so he could walk the dogs? <br />
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We stopped the medication and slowly, my community of red blood cells replenished itself. I had looked at my gluten allergy as a prison of sorts, but quickly shifted my perspective. Avoiding gluten is the simple and magical way to keep that toxic pill out of my life. It is often a challenge and I find myself pouting in the company of other people, but by and large, it falls into what the Manhattanites in Anna Quinlan's new book (<i>Alternate Side</i>s) call: "First World problems." </div>
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I was back to my self by the first week in November and took the dogs to the field to celebrate. Yes, Molly is sweet and petite at rest...</div>
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<br />
but never forget the 10th Law of Physics: "A Boxer in Motion Stays in Motion." That day, she zoomed around and around the field...<br />
<br />
...and straight into my left knee. Now called the Knee Formerly Known as Good. The xray didn't show any break and I was advised to "take it easy." (Only a male doctor could say this to a woman with a straight face.) I limped around with a cane for three months and then by January, went for an MRI, which showed a tibial stress fracture...and with the general overlay of osteoarthritis, a knee replacement down the line. And quite probably, an end to my point-to-point hiking.<br />
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So I began life without weight-bearing for six weeks. And here's what happened in Week 1:<br />
<ul>
<li> My boss retired and sold her company, so my job of 10 years was over. </li>
<li>Himself also retired so that so he could work full time in his woodworking studio. </li>
<li>The contractor appeared almost without notice to begin the major overhaul of the studio, making it completely off limits to the above-mentioned woodworker.</li>
<li>The contractor also tore everything functional out of the kitchen (in my wisdom, I had taken a lesson from Congress and attached to my approval of the studio renovation a plan for renovating the kitchen) </li>
<li>My aging parents each took a turn for the worse, requiring two separate trips to the ER. That would be with him and his walker, her and her dementia, and me on crutches.</li>
</ul>
Yes, it is definitely the ultimate in First World problems to whine about being confined together in one room all day for two months, unable to eat much besides peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (or gluten-free versions of same) while fighting for control of the TV remote. But hey, I am a First World gal. And, honestly, all my jovial recollections don't really do justice to the psychological impact of those big dangerous waves of accidents and illness, end of careers, and the relentless march of time over my parents' bodies and minds...and my heart. The name of this big wave is, of course, "reckoning with mortality" and it is a tsunami. <br />
<br />
So that's where I've been. And the longer I was there, the harder it became to return here. But the waters have subsided for now. I'm on my feet after a month of physical therapy. I can walk about a mile today, and feel hopeful about tomorrow. There's nothing on my skin except bits of gluten-free oatmeal and dog drool. The kitchen is lovely and the studio just re-opened. We walk the dogs and take a Tai Chi class together. My parents are getting worse, but at least they now have nurses on call in the middle of the night, instead of me.<br />
<br />
So I'm back, in more ways than one. <br />
<br />
With love from the First World,<br />
julie <br />
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-63609234796105081212017-09-24T11:27:00.001-04:002017-09-24T11:51:27.714-04:00My Personal LourdesA combination of my desperation and an opening in the Cosmos got me an appointment with the Gods of Dermatology, downtown in the clinic at Jefferson University School of Medicine.<br />
<br />
I am serious about the Cosmic Opening. After getting an appointment in August for sometime in the end of September with an Unnamed Source in the clinic, I felt a strong tug on Monday, August 27 and went to the phone. I dialed the clinic to see if there were any cancellations and for no really good reason, the Office Administrator happened to answer the phone. I replayed my monologue about scratching myself into small julienne strips.<br />
<br />
He listened and said, "Well, lucky for you, I am the only person who can override the computer." And he put me in on top of another patient (no, not literally) for two days later. Downtown Philadelphia is an hour train ride away and, because of the train schedule, I got there 30 minutes early, thereby beating out poor unsuspecting Patient Number One. They took me back into what turned out to be my personal Lourdes.<br />
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After the usual monkeying around with the well-meaning resident and medical student, both of whom were young and uber-fit, in walked the most Zen physician I have ever met. In his 60s, Asian, kind eyes and portly-ish frame. He silently inspected all the julienne strips and calmly sat down.<br />
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In the most kind and sage way, he then walked the resident into a Socratic inquiry. (Remember, this is a teaching institution. Patients are Lab Rats with Insurance.)<br />
<br />
"<i>The key finding is that the rash is symmetrical. What does that suggest?</i>"<br />
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I didn't even realize that, and I've been scratching at myself for four months.<br />
<br />
She offered a possible diagnosis. He countered: "<i>But why would that be symmetrical?</i>"<br />
<br />
She demurred. It went on for a few rounds. .<br />
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Being a former medical writer, I jumped in. "<i>How about bed bugs?"</i><br />
<br />
<i>"Why would that cause symmetrical bites?" </i><br />
<br />
"<i>Umm...well, because mine are very well organized?"</i><br />
<br />
Me and the resident surrendered and Dr. Zen said two words: dermatitis herpetiformis.<br />
<br />
I only heard "something-something HERPES." But that was just a red herring. He explained that this disorder is a skin manifestation of (cue trumpets): gluten intolerance.<br />
<br />
That floored me even more than herpes.<br />
<br />
He gave me an overview, tossed off some orders to the resident, and walked out of the room.<br />
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"Wow," I said to her. "Can you tell me what causes this?"<br />
<br />
Her reply told me that she will go on to be a very, very good doctor. "<i>I don't know! I have never seen this before. I have to read up on it."</i><br />
<br />
When I got home, I looked up everything I could about DH (as we pro's call it). I also looked up everything about Dr. Zen. That chance phone call in August not only got me into the Clinic faster, it put me in the hands of a full Professor of Dermatology and Vice-Chairman of the Department. He has been practicing for 45 years and "no longer accepts new patients."<br />
<br />
Except for me, for this singular opening in the Cosmos.<br />
<br />
So I am now on medication and off bagels. And, of course, being 2017, there's an app to help me out. It scans the bar
code on anything prepared and rings with a "go" or 'no go" response.<br />
<br />
It took me a few weeks to get my head around this diagnosis. But here's where I am now. No longer itchy, sleeping through the night. And fully aware that of all the systemic diseases that creep into people my age, this is nothing. <br />
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<i> </i><br />
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-76547017392441021232017-08-22T17:17:00.000-04:002017-08-22T17:17:04.301-04:00Mother of the Bride<br />
My daughter married her sweetheart this past June. As you can see, we felt full of joy (that's as joyful as Himself ever looks when someone makes him wear a suit and tie)...<br />
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I was overwhelmed by the majesty of this bride, my deep love for our new son-in-law, and their willingness to stand beneath the chuppah with my own beloved Rabbi Diana.<br />
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My return trip back up the aisle ended with my head buried against my own beloved's mighty chest, sobbing for reasons I still can not explain.<br />
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While I enjoyed my fleeting status as Mother of the Bride, I admit that I mostly felt confused about what I was supposed to do. After all, this bride is 31 and runs one of Chicago's premier restaurant corporations. Her name opens slots in reservation books, triggers an onslaught of unordered appetizers and desserts "from the Chef," and results in a check that is two decimal places to the left of what it should be.<br />
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Me, I still don't know for sure which side the forks go on. <br />
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This bride is surrounded by girlfriends her own age who love her fiercely AND who know their way around stuff like karaoke bashes, nail artists,and after parties.<br />
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My version of an after-party is unhooking my bra and climbing into bed at 9 pm with two dogs and a British mystery. <br />
<br />
Most of these women entered my life as preteens in Joe Boxer pajamas glued to scary movies rented by the dozen from Blockbuster. We cherish one another and while they lovingly included me wherever appropriate, it felt strange that on this most momentous occasion of my daughter's life, it was clear that I was not of Them. Yeah, I could be disqualified from their company just on the basis of their fresh skin and lovely bodies. But there's more: they know my daughter in ways that I never will. That is as it should be. After all, she doesn't know what my own dear friends know about me.<br />
<br />
Nor should she.<br />
<br />
I just never saw it so clearly before.<br />
<br />
So only now, two months later, do I see that her wedding was a momentous occasion in my life as well. The moment I came face to face with my daughter completely separate from myself, completely separate from all the memories stacked up within my heart, in the place called "motherhood."<br />
<br />
Being able to say goodbye to my delusion of primacy in her life has opened me to a new world. A world where It turns out my little Thing One is her own woman. Beautiful and poised, compassionate and deeply committed to everyone she loves.<br />
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And now, I would like you to meet her: Elana Stefanie Green Kopp.<br />
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-47402754948222793632017-08-16T12:15:00.000-04:002017-08-16T12:15:59.118-04:00Itching to Be HereI mean that literally.<br />
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In fact, I am itching no matter where I am. For the past two months, my skin has been jumping out of my skin with a very mean rash It could be anything from bites by unknown insects to sudden allergy to unknown triggers to an immune response to the action movie that has been my summer.<br />
<br />
And just trust me, this is one case where photos will not improve the readability of my blog.<br />
<br />
While I await some diagnostic test results, I ingest copious amounts of steroids. You know the expression we use to describe any noun intensified: "XXX on steroids?" I now move through my day like...like..like me on steroids. Last week, I woke up at 6, sewed until 8, walked the dogs, went to work until 4, mowed the lawn, weed-whacked, and blew the landscape clean of all detritus. Then I hand-picked the rest of the weeds and carted them off to the field. There was still an hour to go before sunset and I thought about building a railroad or an addition to the house, but couldn't find the hammer.<br />
<br />
Get it?<br />
<br />
Twice a day, I slather gobs of white cream onto the "affected areas," which means my entire trunk, arms, and lower scalp. It looks like Crisco--in fact, I think it may be Crisco. After all, when was the last time you bought Crisco? Wouldn't it make sense that General Foods has dumped their inventory onto a drug company?<br />
<br />
Steroids apparently make the mind race.<br />
<br />
Ok, I found the hammer. Be back when the addition is done.<br />
<br />
Sometime tonight.Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-12184332839932734162017-05-13T12:52:00.001-04:002017-05-13T12:54:29.806-04:00Animal House<br />
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A new baby is about to join our extended family. She will get this for her wall when she does. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81j2UciNBfo3zB1nVd0Pv9n0nbq0QNUJLdngpBdyLsJvYN-vKXf4U2JuJFAy-U9K0dKB5qDLt5Djhd2SZ_eRxNHr9wcrZxpQosnRVS8y0M9DfY3yFTNcK23CeRzlvojpWZi3-_O3oQX_s/s1600/baby+quilt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg81j2UciNBfo3zB1nVd0Pv9n0nbq0QNUJLdngpBdyLsJvYN-vKXf4U2JuJFAy-U9K0dKB5qDLt5Djhd2SZ_eRxNHr9wcrZxpQosnRVS8y0M9DfY3yFTNcK23CeRzlvojpWZi3-_O3oQX_s/s640/baby+quilt.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
I adapted it from a pattern by Kimberly Rado that I found in a magazine that had slipped behind the bookshelf. When I say adapted, I really mean "I cut the number of dogs in half, threw out the centers, got rid of the bones, and eliminated the sashing and borders."<br />
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Hers is lots of fun--and a whole lot of work. Mine is Essence of Dog.<br />
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My favorite part of the project? Picking the fabrics ONLY from the those already on my shelves. (I don't use the word "stash" except when referring to the candy I hide from Himself, hoping against hope that I will remember where I put it.) I love having a boundary that forces my color and pattern choices and I <i>really </i>love using this stuff up!<br />
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In other animal news, Yusra continues to follow her primal maternal instincts...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKdj1Gkp8KehmWQbeUAjlKtu_WG3dgM-t168LRIo6PSWuMFrOKXGvhm6Crs_fjA5MsxKKN-Z0gOyIoswamr5zHbtdP2VE66DLJkZT4pkXN5xZWWZu8Wo51Xx1TnAaEV2th_yNiTynOL51/s1600/yusra1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKdj1Gkp8KehmWQbeUAjlKtu_WG3dgM-t168LRIo6PSWuMFrOKXGvhm6Crs_fjA5MsxKKN-Z0gOyIoswamr5zHbtdP2VE66DLJkZT4pkXN5xZWWZu8Wo51Xx1TnAaEV2th_yNiTynOL51/s640/yusra1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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...although the primate in question does seem rather unresponsive. Perhaps he is in shock because she put him in a diaper?Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-52395113344856258382017-03-10T16:05:00.002-05:002017-03-10T16:08:34.022-05:00SkittlesIf you keep checking back here to find another uproarious installment of "<i>Two-Dumbass-Easterners-Travel-Arizona-in-the-Snow/Mud-in-a Broken-Down-Airstream</i>, you probably will want to hit that red "Close" arrow right now.<br />
<br />
That's because I'm onto something far more rewarding.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uPmigNEf4YbKlOni5fCis5rtzKWyA_zsxXUeUmi-Xv5cFdkL8atlSzeYH4XDWtebCQ9FS7rvHmdBtL3VzOJnSccTHGmOFvtaWvLjth_M8aa2_6CoN-jZ2YOe0wl6PVtkm_dkYzSGcV6X/s1600/threading+the+dog+15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uPmigNEf4YbKlOni5fCis5rtzKWyA_zsxXUeUmi-Xv5cFdkL8atlSzeYH4XDWtebCQ9FS7rvHmdBtL3VzOJnSccTHGmOFvtaWvLjth_M8aa2_6CoN-jZ2YOe0wl6PVtkm_dkYzSGcV6X/s640/threading+the+dog+15.jpg" width="462" /></a></div>
Skittles are my lingua franca with my two new friends. I'm reluctant to show you their pictures because Yusra is only 3 1/2 and her sister Rasha is just 15 months. I can't ask their mom for permission because she is just learning to speak English and I have no faith in my ability to translate "for my blog" into Arabic.<br />
<br />
Yes, Arabic. "Mom" is Amal. She and her husband Moustafa are from Aleppo, Syria. A local woman who was determined to heed an inner voice calling her to sponsor Syrian refuges spread her wings and damn, a small group of self-described "mostly old ladies" made it happen! This young family arrived in our community last fall (and another mom with two young boys slid in under the wire after the election). The core group quickly ballooned to a county-wide coalition of people grateful, just so grateful, to be able to translate paralyzing sorrow about Syria and raw grief about immigration bans into positive action. You can read the facts <a href="http://www.pym.org/newtown-meeting-member-starts-bucks-county-coalition-refugee-resettlement/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Every other week, I babysit for the girls while a volunteer ESL tutor works with Amal at the dining room table. I bring a package of Skittles.If you are more than broken-hearted by the vitriolic voices from Washington, I offer this conversation in its place.
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<iframe frameborder="no" height="300" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/311750996%3Fsecret_token%3Ds-YWa3U&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe>
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<br />
<span style="background: rgb(189, 8, 28) url("data:image/svg+xml; border-radius: 2px; border: medium none; color: white; cursor: pointer; display: none; font: bold 11px/20px "Helvetica Neue",Helvetica,sans-serif; left: 42px; opacity: 1; padding: 0px 4px 0px 0px; position: absolute; text-align: center; text-indent: 20px; top: 1047px; width: auto; z-index: 8675309;">Save</span>Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-32308510066427579742017-01-26T16:16:00.001-05:002017-01-26T16:16:16.996-05:00AirstreamingI found this book on our Xmas trip to Arizona and plan on stealing the title for the filmed version of my life. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPG1cym6X0D5QInsGVzELNgNrd9Hg1zT1T07fP-1Br-aKV2wqUp_2MhtdQx7jLTvlXRmVf6YO-8i9Awl_mYkn7Rn2cEaTS-ZuUYd78gZyvvOGaF9qdWchnPZHvSbUIZ1ylOOb2R8_VfLee/s1600/threading+the+dog+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPG1cym6X0D5QInsGVzELNgNrd9Hg1zT1T07fP-1Br-aKV2wqUp_2MhtdQx7jLTvlXRmVf6YO-8i9Awl_mYkn7Rn2cEaTS-ZuUYd78gZyvvOGaF9qdWchnPZHvSbUIZ1ylOOb2R8_VfLee/s640/threading+the+dog+3.jpg" width="458" /></a></div>
The purpose of this trip (aside from neatly sidestepping the Christmas Craziness) was to see how our yearning to be Airstream nomads actually feels in the field. In this case, the field was in the Tonto National Forest of central Arizona.<br />
<br />
We waited for our rented 16-foot Bambi and truck to be delivered to the parking lot behind our hotel in Scottsdale. There, in the dark, the guy who drove it down from San Francisco would show us RV neophytes how everything works. The guy, who made The Dude from The Big Lebowski look hyperactive, ambled out and showed us how to put the key in the lock of the door. (Pretty much how every key goes in every door, by the way.) The information flow went downhill from there: <br />
<br />
"What is this panel of indicators for?"<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Wow. Yeah. I've never seen one like that.</i>"</blockquote>
"Where's the switch for the hot water heater?"<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Yeah. It is supposed to be over here. Not sure why it isn't."</i></blockquote>
<br />
"Well, is there a set of docs we can look at?"<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Yeah, well...um..there should be."</i></blockquote>
Fortunately, I opened a whole lot of drawers and pulled out this manual:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIstjgpCmwLcO66Gpl6-S9DNsQyN0aB3aZYCTE7SerRO3ChRQMnLNFeafEzVJKfHovFS-oMS0pBoIa2ApH2JTppJW1RuiiC3o7YB9q0AsIehEEI9L5W6P8rh6dx3ETYOmFls_zvMlL_h8Z/s1600/threading+the+dog+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIstjgpCmwLcO66Gpl6-S9DNsQyN0aB3aZYCTE7SerRO3ChRQMnLNFeafEzVJKfHovFS-oMS0pBoIa2ApH2JTppJW1RuiiC3o7YB9q0AsIehEEI9L5W6P8rh6dx3ETYOmFls_zvMlL_h8Z/s640/threading+the+dog+9.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Unfortunately, this was a manual for a 2007 Safari. We were in a 2005 Bambi.<br />
<br />
We called the Dude's boss, who enlightened us.<br />
<br />
"So what is this panel of indicators for?"<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Each light gives you important status info: how much water is left in your tank, how close you are to sewage overflow, how much charge is left in your battery.</i></blockquote>
"So how do we know which light goes with which function?"<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Don't worry about it."</i></blockquote>
"How do we empty the sewage tank?"<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Open the valve on the outside pipe after you've connected the hose to the dump station</i>."</blockquote>
"But there doesn't seem to be anything to pull. Everything is covered in electrical tape."<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Don't worry about it." </i></blockquote>
The Dude headed off into the sunset with Big Gulp in hand. We headed back to the room, where we debated the wisdom of actually driving off in this mess in the morning. It was a spirited and informative exchange:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"This is NOT what we signed up for. Maybe we should just pull out now and rent a car."</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Is that what you want to do?"</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I don't know. What do you think?"</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I <i>don't know. What do you think?"</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I don't know. What do you think?"</blockquote>
Things were different in daylight. That's when we could see that both propane tanks were empty and that the truck had two bald tires.<br />
<br />
We headed out and by the time we arrived at Lost Dutchman State Park in the Superstition Wilderness, we were back in our saddles. Who could worry about anything in a campsite like this:<br />
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I made our nest cozy...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4-A1kNnrt0hf_a_21-4NhQuALRPQiFeZ-jdAYZPS5nf3KqyGfMNr2kTXFf3_5SjANDduXWG36FSkhc7OleF-tvi0q_RcvVPBbdk1403HWY1APD7pn-ObTGDAAVbM0ErlUWMiQSxp5SadR/s1600/airstream3+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4-A1kNnrt0hf_a_21-4NhQuALRPQiFeZ-jdAYZPS5nf3KqyGfMNr2kTXFf3_5SjANDduXWG36FSkhc7OleF-tvi0q_RcvVPBbdk1403HWY1APD7pn-ObTGDAAVbM0ErlUWMiQSxp5SadR/s640/airstream3+-+Copy.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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And we set off to bed, snug inside our little home while the temperatures outside plummeted to freezing.<br />
<br />
Which is when we discovered that the heater didn't work.<br />
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I jumped out of bed, threw on my Iceland gear, and renewed my love affair with French press coffee while Himself went to the showers. When he returned, he looked grim.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We have big problems.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Don't worry, I'll call Bill about the heater</i>.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We are sitting in a puddle of sewage.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Huh?</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Everything that's gone down the sink or down the toilet is now dripping on to the ground. On to the campground. The one that everyone else around us can see just by walking by. </blockquote>
I ran outside. Remember being 16 and discovering a surprise menstrual period while wearing a white skirt? On a field trip? That's roughly what I experienced seeing our mess in this neighborhood of shiny RVs that probably started at $500,000.<br />
<br />
Did I mention it was a Saturday? Did I mention it was the day before Christmas?<br />
<br />
I called Bill and suggested it was time to start worrying. He found a solution.<br />
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Yes, Mobile RV Repair! On a Saturday, on the day before Christmas! Himself went out to assume the hands-in-pockets-man-posturing-position once the truck pulled up and I was startled when I finally crept outside (in my Iceland gear) to see a rather large gentleman in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt stretched out on the ground.<br />
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He quickly discerned that the reason we couldn't close off the waste valve was because...there was no valve. Just a whole lot of electrical tape. Miracle of miracles, he had a replacement in that truck and we were back in business. He came inside, stretched out on the floor (activating the gas alarm with his rather large body), and rewired the furnace.<br />
<br />
It was Santa Claus and nobody can tell me otherwise. So our little home was in its right way from then on. And we were ready to soak in the delights of the southwesten desert that we so love.<br />
<br />
Like the sunsets...<br />
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The saguaros talking to each other...<br />
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The footprints of another culture echoing everywhere... <br />
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The dusty brown mountain roads...<br />
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The adventure ain't over yet. Stick around.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-2751509729769153582016-12-14T19:47:00.001-05:002016-12-15T07:50:36.616-05:00Collections <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I hate stuff. I zealously prune bookshelves, clothes closets, kitchen cabinets, piles of fabric, the attic, the garage, and the parts of the basement that don't have fungus. Stuff actually affects me physically: accumulation constricts my throat and curls my shoulder bones into tight little balls. Naked space gives me oxygen and makes me more tolerant of my husband.<br />
How could this be? Perhaps it is nature: my mother is a heavy pruner. Undeterred by the fact that she has already given away most of her own things, she is now well into my father's side of the closet. Perhaps the cause is nurture (using the term loosely): I often came home from school to furniture void of any of the objects I had seen on them that morning. The large misshapen lump bulging beneath the neatly folded covers on my bed, however, was hard to miss. <br />
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And yet, on the other hand, I adore collections.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisex6hL7aDwDYDznQLLy1Q_lsokIwkTTa93w-mCcEIWymhAQdiMkFXqUYJJC082kxNu0aYYQwV5FxPcbj1RCg1Z1DdiNXr6OLXCwPP_YUXj-hzFBTakwJGSJUoNbL7bbo20LpteqnVjEU2/s1600/collections+at+threadingthedog+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisex6hL7aDwDYDznQLLy1Q_lsokIwkTTa93w-mCcEIWymhAQdiMkFXqUYJJC082kxNu0aYYQwV5FxPcbj1RCg1Z1DdiNXr6OLXCwPP_YUXj-hzFBTakwJGSJUoNbL7bbo20LpteqnVjEU2/s640/collections+at+threadingthedog+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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Of just about anything.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXqh5MHUpP_aa8oPAFwcGJdyFI8ooQCYVm3pHNHuLcmm4R9WEjYaFXGCRNuA-iVRh3R3MQbWSQ5qgalakEsvs3Y6Cxb0482O7Xrmi7y7qHGXIi08_Cfecu2svZGROZvEiC4ptPfZSbtF-9/s1600/museum+of+everyday+life+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXqh5MHUpP_aa8oPAFwcGJdyFI8ooQCYVm3pHNHuLcmm4R9WEjYaFXGCRNuA-iVRh3R3MQbWSQ5qgalakEsvs3Y6Cxb0482O7Xrmi7y7qHGXIi08_Cfecu2svZGROZvEiC4ptPfZSbtF-9/s640/museum+of+everyday+life+3.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0Y4OOceCdazCSRDtXOHDjVT06fUczi17VoaigGj8xUn5yMK6L6bj33n3953vuIw7ni-WgRbDTIDFwPnh9g4iZMjVDun9sBExXjvxyV1d6lgDN4mittXpzbxwat7EqR5KkLbuy1NrlF7e/s1600/iceland+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0Y4OOceCdazCSRDtXOHDjVT06fUczi17VoaigGj8xUn5yMK6L6bj33n3953vuIw7ni-WgRbDTIDFwPnh9g4iZMjVDun9sBExXjvxyV1d6lgDN4mittXpzbxwat7EqR5KkLbuy1NrlF7e/s640/iceland+3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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My relationship to collections is also physical: I am yanked toward multiples as if in the grip of an Acme magnet from a Roadrunner cartoon.In the right hands,a collection is more than just a thing, pluralized...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXxvSYJByPTH9K3WJ43_HMPiYiz43c59XtVvGdvo-NEUWsjcEkL00gYDhXcivIIjWSBne7UqK_PzXqU4W8kMsJBczkgk85QjMlTsbzjr4LTUqe1hBnWfDYRddJiBkjciZ99m_urqYAC7RS/s1600/bread+and+puppet+theater+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXxvSYJByPTH9K3WJ43_HMPiYiz43c59XtVvGdvo-NEUWsjcEkL00gYDhXcivIIjWSBne7UqK_PzXqU4W8kMsJBczkgk85QjMlTsbzjr4LTUqe1hBnWfDYRddJiBkjciZ99m_urqYAC7RS/s640/bread+and+puppet+theater+8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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In the right hands,a collection is an entirely new construct, just begging for exploration. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZumcufE80ou8rKELEEK5PsbouhDRwkcAhWby9aQtS-aN3swfoPA792J9tRcwmTZ86giGnZ-Sc3pIqKNGQuzlHYnFUQFrwAldCjiB1MSsyFi1juHcSRw5HKq6AdWpo7Sd8uQtOorU-0W2q/s1600/bread+and+puppet+theater+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZumcufE80ou8rKELEEK5PsbouhDRwkcAhWby9aQtS-aN3swfoPA792J9tRcwmTZ86giGnZ-Sc3pIqKNGQuzlHYnFUQFrwAldCjiB1MSsyFi1juHcSRw5HKq6AdWpo7Sd8uQtOorU-0W2q/s640/bread+and+puppet+theater+4.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
The Bread and Puppet Theater Museum in Glover, Vermont overflows with 50 years of puppets from their uniquely radical political theater. In this world, "puppet" has nothing to do with Bert or Ernie: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlb2r-QFldycfHsFfs9L8DmtJ45OAI1KNhV3LUPMNAtFUJEaN8DQRKpy_-xGVszAUYye_LGy0R7YBekEEL61AI5EtS9O6C2RanV2CiNiweTBd2cODJtheB6g9UNp_MCdgIr6J_RX6EoL4/s1600/bread+and+puppet+theater+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlb2r-QFldycfHsFfs9L8DmtJ45OAI1KNhV3LUPMNAtFUJEaN8DQRKpy_-xGVszAUYye_LGy0R7YBekEEL61AI5EtS9O6C2RanV2CiNiweTBd2cODJtheB6g9UNp_MCdgIr6J_RX6EoL4/s640/bread+and+puppet+theater+6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieWOmTJwoASmMblaZVF6ndJnRfpTkkVU_e8if8jJYHbbE5eQngI6wDZiZVaoEjNywxwEC4k7DhsnpfEPjanuGLLp_mIXa-O0Cc-tsergptU_NMV0kDOwQgOPnDk7GdCgYvG0038CpxQQn1/s1600/Bread+and+Puppet+Theater+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieWOmTJwoASmMblaZVF6ndJnRfpTkkVU_e8if8jJYHbbE5eQngI6wDZiZVaoEjNywxwEC4k7DhsnpfEPjanuGLLp_mIXa-O0Cc-tsergptU_NMV0kDOwQgOPnDk7GdCgYvG0038CpxQQn1/s640/Bread+and+Puppet+Theater+3.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2Fs-_niwSWrD8sPSg8LNm87p77ByVgCANgVwPywTa5r5srYpmsC7jgJ7KbYAHleYN8DlpR22qRHE5V4PjIaca5GQY3l6I3os0kpwUONQUVT8EJC8qZwHuumYzoXtWsB1p2hbKVgUMgPH/s1600/Bread+and+Puppet+Theater+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2Fs-_niwSWrD8sPSg8LNm87p77ByVgCANgVwPywTa5r5srYpmsC7jgJ7KbYAHleYN8DlpR22qRHE5V4PjIaca5GQY3l6I3os0kpwUONQUVT8EJC8qZwHuumYzoXtWsB1p2hbKVgUMgPH/s640/Bread+and+Puppet+Theater+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
Other collections are less charged.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8VDbjpNNGei9vkstBAA9OFiqSUKrt7FmquHQoG89Jn40t37B-CJC1mxAULvTIsc_lYJ_5kYOOlaCF1IoGcJbzntnlPW2pdPqH4jWJf9Q-fZdslCrxOlpHWAUzreIgG9mcIyhQafVJLHC/s1600/Fosters+Toy+Museum+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8VDbjpNNGei9vkstBAA9OFiqSUKrt7FmquHQoG89Jn40t37B-CJC1mxAULvTIsc_lYJ_5kYOOlaCF1IoGcJbzntnlPW2pdPqH4jWJf9Q-fZdslCrxOlpHWAUzreIgG9mcIyhQafVJLHC/s640/Fosters+Toy+Museum+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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Collections seem to start small...multiples of two grow into four, four
into 10, shoeboxes into glass cases...display cases into rooms of a
house.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrLNn7yl9aYORKfwWfEJMPIxOvb_uUeBsxNmqosD8VP544JmfvxcwdqxUFSzFUiRcdcIPQlup4f-Rb-uJSqyRj9BjaifFYNqHyR59GvHufqTj84HmdmsWPAl9GZps6e2nDIzP2LkIJWIb/s1600/Fosters+Toy+Museum+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrLNn7yl9aYORKfwWfEJMPIxOvb_uUeBsxNmqosD8VP544JmfvxcwdqxUFSzFUiRcdcIPQlup4f-Rb-uJSqyRj9BjaifFYNqHyR59GvHufqTj84HmdmsWPAl9GZps6e2nDIzP2LkIJWIb/s640/Fosters+Toy+Museum+3.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
Eventually, some collections take over entire buildings. That's when you get to call it a museum.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5XMWewMpH7CNLbbIrxNlNdpxmdOeM1QmwriexH-exvaYkJRjc8UMqmhkiCGGlMYyOVRT8bmkivScoio7qtIwuWYb-jEVTr1zfPmWyTfKAdMdlx_dXKAieiGyJMB6cfH8zJQ3rOK0iM8QK/s1600/museum+of+everyday+life+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5XMWewMpH7CNLbbIrxNlNdpxmdOeM1QmwriexH-exvaYkJRjc8UMqmhkiCGGlMYyOVRT8bmkivScoio7qtIwuWYb-jEVTr1zfPmWyTfKAdMdlx_dXKAieiGyJMB6cfH8zJQ3rOK0iM8QK/s640/museum+of+everyday+life+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Museums like this one dot the backroads of America. We've seen them filled with the ordinary...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JDnHB3wwlkfcjl0eS-TEpsMX34tqchWUCMF2UOdgLnaS9-SjrVlU8I44Qxhs1YxtrQqSu1IM0PKmwMb6HUasQgi0kQYqoXLmGNN-VbL7-lveJIGBTxJfZe5AUYkTrZ0VVsWJ6CidSVrT/s1600/museum+of+everyday+life+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JDnHB3wwlkfcjl0eS-TEpsMX34tqchWUCMF2UOdgLnaS9-SjrVlU8I44Qxhs1YxtrQqSu1IM0PKmwMb6HUasQgi0kQYqoXLmGNN-VbL7-lveJIGBTxJfZe5AUYkTrZ0VVsWJ6CidSVrT/s640/museum+of+everyday+life+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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...and with the paranormal.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw1_I5sk6pV9ZCXWYbY5eVLWZH4TQMVeRAzCa4ViziIO_zAuCVR_inmmmWLUjw0TEkan-dKbkxW_s2tbaul10PzwIxG1-k6BUvRiNNpgjOVHmRYDb7ERVJyT_VqtaBPwpcZm-z5fH-nUo/s1600/miracle+of+america+museum+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="542" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSw1_I5sk6pV9ZCXWYbY5eVLWZH4TQMVeRAzCa4ViziIO_zAuCVR_inmmmWLUjw0TEkan-dKbkxW_s2tbaul10PzwIxG1-k6BUvRiNNpgjOVHmRYDb7ERVJyT_VqtaBPwpcZm-z5fH-nUo/s640/miracle+of+america+museum+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
Hell, we've even stumbled onto museums that are collections of the buildings themselves.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-1fYO9FgAHMau5PnTc7sJh1vBR1C7gaR1vlckOs9VV3JTzRSUu7FH_9m_CveB9yo9xiTG_LsRFkjKh6vunzcc7vDD9dvfMUqkBhVc7lrT9rneXiVBJDvfeDs1C1xCr4djXkOXGD4_hX3/s1600/miracle+of+america+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-1fYO9FgAHMau5PnTc7sJh1vBR1C7gaR1vlckOs9VV3JTzRSUu7FH_9m_CveB9yo9xiTG_LsRFkjKh6vunzcc7vDD9dvfMUqkBhVc7lrT9rneXiVBJDvfeDs1C1xCr4djXkOXGD4_hX3/s640/miracle+of+america+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
My favorite collection is gently brewing in an enchanting little studio off a lovely lowland road in The Netherlands.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMc-lfJ7h3K2M2IzJwtc17GUwO4TbZbBKKyIZKeOYcNhWAuzlEAXb6MAlDFsQ2aeLl76zuSg94pdB8mbOCnvtmBal-vPQyEmmeL2S1UzY11vVaXSm3mPnpAFpkHZbDjavUX_4g-xMFVXT/s1600/tales+of+the+birdhut+20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMc-lfJ7h3K2M2IzJwtc17GUwO4TbZbBKKyIZKeOYcNhWAuzlEAXb6MAlDFsQ2aeLl76zuSg94pdB8mbOCnvtmBal-vPQyEmmeL2S1UzY11vVaXSm3mPnpAFpkHZbDjavUX_4g-xMFVXT/s640/tales+of+the+birdhut+20.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
This is The Birdhut. It is home to a collection that maker/curator/appliance repair scheduler Saskia van Herwaarden calls "The Project." She chronicles its activity on her blog "<a href="http://www.saskiavanherwaarden.com/" target="_blank">Tales of the Birdhut</a>." Here's the big picture...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbO6JNqeN-DgwnuqKNBLCznCcc3mjO-F1ZBXE-ffT1hIIRaBPP0lef5Et31tbsKUyCG_OKcAiPt-nmw9Vr5ISB56jlEktClYnlt-ilzVqIpj4WDCd82rj2Rzzdo4kqRzcqG3nKXuBsdetY/s1600/tales+of+the+birdhut+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbO6JNqeN-DgwnuqKNBLCznCcc3mjO-F1ZBXE-ffT1hIIRaBPP0lef5Et31tbsKUyCG_OKcAiPt-nmw9Vr5ISB56jlEktClYnlt-ilzVqIpj4WDCd82rj2Rzzdo4kqRzcqG3nKXuBsdetY/s640/tales+of+the+birdhut+1.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
...but you really need to look closer.. .<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYKKJlXZL84peXhcaE9drSe1tkzx_DT8T7Xm_DJdzgzjfjpfmF_zGjIfONMd_-6Mh_RFPTSndB3ym0s3ZkyDikh3qkV97_OkhKTRK3QeI5NrZLFviaE8Cp-2sOmkKOD2exOuZ2RIh20eK_/s1600/tales+of+the+birdhut+18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYKKJlXZL84peXhcaE9drSe1tkzx_DT8T7Xm_DJdzgzjfjpfmF_zGjIfONMd_-6Mh_RFPTSndB3ym0s3ZkyDikh3qkV97_OkhKTRK3QeI5NrZLFviaE8Cp-2sOmkKOD2exOuZ2RIh20eK_/s640/tales+of+the+birdhut+18.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
...and closer still. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PaLEot2F5VIh6beIwWZZZ0AJOk6GFDssx3tQdafOCQgyBXxIuWs6Lcm8JvJTTKrkSGwygKNcHcRwuOGxVOgjtoAYvVfX5BuOzFVZcyciaX4GaqnmoKSSORY2IPz3iq8pEUKVCoSwBo4k/s1600/tales+of+the+birdhut+19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PaLEot2F5VIh6beIwWZZZ0AJOk6GFDssx3tQdafOCQgyBXxIuWs6Lcm8JvJTTKrkSGwygKNcHcRwuOGxVOgjtoAYvVfX5BuOzFVZcyciaX4GaqnmoKSSORY2IPz3iq8pEUKVCoSwBo4k/s640/tales+of+the+birdhut+19.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Each inhabitant of The Birdhut has a name, a personality, and favorite sport. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi3yUy7QxlxyVhUaAxZQ4ZvBRKMZaiJ4kv4UX9SGRzH9mejBQKw_VDEfOBE2AgHmaRXRI2YldkiNXbgsSsY0KnEduueZlcPZrKr4SUTXT3bfioRTz5t2YxeUlnSdWr8jOwWD5_WHsHeL4L/s1600/tales+of+the+birdhut+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi3yUy7QxlxyVhUaAxZQ4ZvBRKMZaiJ4kv4UX9SGRzH9mejBQKw_VDEfOBE2AgHmaRXRI2YldkiNXbgsSsY0KnEduueZlcPZrKr4SUTXT3bfioRTz5t2YxeUlnSdWr8jOwWD5_WHsHeL4L/s640/tales+of+the+birdhut+5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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They come together in community to share household chores...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqPsp4Cx2qN00H7mA_6r7DTRdhzYlxVJKE36thH5k3ehCW5CuASKPSZCiftuqYNzUtQmQ4jIlgBp-MD6ng5rew-oDWVpIiF9y7cAhGnZxRTj5Ug_P1hncASXZgbR-1M1q1S-lLDppWa9_r/s1600/tales+of+the+birdhut+16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqPsp4Cx2qN00H7mA_6r7DTRdhzYlxVJKE36thH5k3ehCW5CuASKPSZCiftuqYNzUtQmQ4jIlgBp-MD6ng5rew-oDWVpIiF9y7cAhGnZxRTj5Ug_P1hncASXZgbR-1M1q1S-lLDppWa9_r/s640/tales+of+the+birdhut+16.jpg" width="360" /> </a></div>
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And important events, like choir practice...</div>
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...and holiday meals.</div>
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Like us, they live their lives across a panorama of events. From praying for new baby born in New Mexico...</div>
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...to honoring the arrival of cable TV!</div>
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Saskia shares their philosophical musings and breaks up their fights. She dresses them in Easter bonnets and gets them in the mood for Halloween.</div>
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I adore The Birdhut because it is a collection, yes. But especially because it is a three-dimensional collection brought to life by a fourth dimension: the place where Saskia's imagination meets real life. </div>
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Like I said, my affinity for collections is physical. And this one, in an enchanting Dutch studio, brings me to my knees.</div>
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Go see it. </div>
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-26862239476938475422016-11-27T12:26:00.000-05:002016-11-27T12:26:16.658-05:00Being Hot GlueAbout that <a href="http://juliestockler.blogspot.com/2016/11/so-rabbi-buddhist-priest-and-episcopal.html" target="_blank">"Be Peace"</a> thing?<br />
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Its really hard to do. I would find it so much less stressful to "Be Sarcastic." Or "Be Belligerent." Or, in the best of all possible worlds, "Be Really Honest and Just Say the Thing That Is On Your Mind."<br />
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But that wouldn't fit on a button. So I continue to bumble my way through Being Peace and find that it is driving me back to two different activities. The first is meditation. That soothes me and also serves the world by having me otherwise engaged in activities that don't involve me speaking my mind.<br />
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The second, of course, is hot glueing. Yesterday, I plugged in the hot glue gun, entered a trance, and when I came out of it, found that I had created a whole new community.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4GLi9yXOEdXNAL7GucX0xgMP3SOKj0G8_RC0NOpsbR8a21PQ07mDCDB1FA4qYd9Bl1NQYU2d9gOUjoyA3oARFB_3bd_Xe_Jj5BwI_4xad2FMGCQuu9TWYFSkcSMVMgEQ_X1gKD-qa34Sm/s1600/glue1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4GLi9yXOEdXNAL7GucX0xgMP3SOKj0G8_RC0NOpsbR8a21PQ07mDCDB1FA4qYd9Bl1NQYU2d9gOUjoyA3oARFB_3bd_Xe_Jj5BwI_4xad2FMGCQuu9TWYFSkcSMVMgEQ_X1gKD-qa34Sm/s640/glue1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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They are currently living together atop my Cabinet of Wonder, which I wrote about <a href="http://juliestockler.blogspot.com/2014/11/a-weekend-of-wonder-part-2.html" target="_blank">here</a> but have since curated and refined. <br />
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Like me, they are getting ready for The Unknown. In a <a href="https://www.tarabrach.com/bodhisattva/" target="_blank">recent lecture</a>, Tara Brach explained it best for me. She notes that before the election, so many of us had a story about how the world--the United States--worked. "Now," she points out, "that Story is over. But we do not yet know how the New Story will unfold. We are in that uncomfortable space between stories." Paraphrasing, she points out that the discomfort makes us want to act (because discomfort is so intolerable). Instead, she suggests we simply pause and deepen our awareness. There will be a time when it is appropriate to act. <br />
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Me? I suggest hot glue. <br />
<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-61895805015032980482016-11-10T07:28:00.001-05:002016-11-10T07:28:38.342-05:00So A Rabbi, A Buddhist Priest, and an Episcopal Priest Walk into a Bar...Actually, they walked into a tiny, one-room stone Episcopal church in our Delaware River community. And they sheparded this community..well, let me back up a bit.<br />
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Yesterday, I took to my bed. Australian red licorice for breakfast. Soft caramels for lunch. You get the picture. And I was ruminating about whether to make a run for potato chips for dinner but the idea of getting dressed was more than I could handle. And then I received an email from my beloved Rabbi Diana:<br />
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<i>"We wake up this morning to the aftermath of an incredibly polarizing
and difficult campaign season. What we see is a country divided. Half
of voters are celebrating a surprising victory for their candidate. Half
of voters are mourning a shocking loss for theirs. While there is
optimism and joy in some quarters, in others there is real pain,
despair, fear, and foreboding about what the outcome of this election
means for the country we share.”</i><br />
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<i>
</i><i>No matter who we voted for, we all know that we and our country are
in dire need of healing. To begin that process, there will be a
post-election Community Conversation at St. Phillips Church at <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_1391106306" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ">7:00 p.m.</span></span> We will listen to each other and care for each other.</i><br />
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Tears flowed and even though I am the opposite of a "community type," I got dressed and quasifunctional. At the church, we heard teachings from three faiths.<br />
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Many folks stood up in a room full of strangers and shared feelings of being Other...or of demonizing Others.<br />
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Community supervisors and volunteers from many social action groups spoke about where to volunteer locally, because service connects us...<br />
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And is a start to healing division.<br />
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It doesn't change anything Out There. But it changed everything in me.<br />
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And I didn't stop for potato chips on my way home. Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-48323723047517531392016-11-07T11:02:00.003-05:002016-11-07T11:02:58.853-05:00Announcing Dead Horse Bay Arts CompanyI've carried on about Dead Horse Bay <a href="http://juliestockler.blogspot.com/2014/04/treasures-from-deadhorse-bay.html" target="_blank">in this blog</a> for years now. And now, we are actually doing something about it.<br />
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We just unveiled our new crafts venture moments ago as a healthy alternative to election coverage. I started to wax poetic about it here and realized that the words I was typing felt strangely familiar. Oh. I have already said exactly what I want to say over at our website (which took me an entire summer to create and made my vocabulary swell with strange acronyms like "HTML" and "SEO").<br />
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So take a peek <a href="https://deadhorsebayarts.com/" target="_blank">here</a> to learn more about who, what...and why. <br />
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And please don't worry about buying anything. I just want to share. If you are the social media sort and want to share the link, we'd be much obliged. <br />
<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-54936238666752021102016-10-29T15:25:00.000-04:002016-10-29T15:26:17.343-04:00SpudnikYesterday, I went hunting for dinner in my favorite venue.<br />
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I wait all year to find 'em.<br />
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Growing spuds is not like growing tomatoes or beans. You just never know what's going on under there. But this year, health and happiness prevails beneath the straw, because it is the third time in two weeks that I've pulled in a harvest like this.<br />
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And turned it into this..<br />
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Yesterday, I mashed 'em up skins on, added butter, chives, and yogurt and gave them to Himself so he could have all 730,000 calories of his annual caloric intake in one convenient meal. <br />
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That was fine with him. <br />
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But others just stared at their kibble in disbelief.<br />
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-14836211046932396952016-10-16T12:14:00.000-04:002016-10-16T12:14:34.759-04:00Back to Basics<br />
All summer, I felt torn between coming here to write Big Thoughts about life vs staying outside and living it. As if there were nothing in the middle. Anyone who has spent more than 20 minutes with me knows that balance has never been my strong point. Now, however, it is becoming a medical necessity. <br />
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Because for first time in my 61 3/4 years, the insanity out there is actually worse than than the routine craziness in my mind. It has shaken my balance and I am in desperate need of a safe haven. <br />
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When I think of safe havens, I thought of my connection to all of you. Yet my lack of posts in the previous months and months shows me that writing Big Thoughts is obviously more than I can handle, at least until November 10th. And so, for the moment anyway, I'm just going to go back to basics: writing about the stuff I am making. And maybe we can pick up where I left you off?<br />
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I created this over a very snowy winter a few years ago. <br />
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The rule for this quilt was simple: only fabric already in my shelves, and even then, only my favorite ones.It holds the story cloths that really reflect my My Story:<br />
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It has bits and pieces from flea markets...<br />
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And from the pile of jeans that Himself has been stockpiling for future black market operations:<br />
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I basted the quilt top to some kantha cloth and began some handstitching here and there. But no clear direction emerged. I threw it on the bed for inspiration...<br />
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But nothing happened, so so I just rolled it up and stashed it away.<br />
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Meanwhile, over the past three years, I have also been handstitching the world's longest connection of blue and white squares, with no intention other than an idle fantasy about the Guinness Book of Records.<br />
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Several weeks ago, these two worlds collided. Probably moved by a search for a piece of myself to cling to, I put the quilt top back on the wall and the blue and white squares jumped on. That lead to these four borders:<br />
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I have been focusing all my stitching on them, embellishing them with other scraps that I have created for no apparent reason...just moving the needle through them in complete contentment.<br />
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And THEN, all the stars aligned. Specifically, the stars over at <a href="http://spiritcloth.typepad.com/" target="_blank">Spirit Cloth</a>, where Jude has retooled her Sun, Stars, and Moon teachings. She periodically fills her shop with clusters of overdyed indigo stars and moons and lo and behold, I was actually able to score a few sets. Within 24 hours of landing here, these little beauties found their way into the border:<br />
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Sooner or later, it will be time to marry the borders to the quilt but right now, we're just enjoying our very fine romance. <br />
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Thanks for looking. I feel better already.<br />
<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-31320690372389853102016-07-24T15:35:00.000-04:002016-07-24T15:35:28.944-04:00The Months of Kindred Spirits: Part One<i>I loved this phrase the moment I first heard it from little Anne Shirley (of Green Gables fame). Kindred Spirits. Those souls whose core contains a piece of our own...who trigger the feeling of deep connection in even the most simple of encounters.</i><br />
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<i>May and June brought me two precious encounters with Kindred Spirits. (July brought a war between my camera and my computer, with a momentary truce attained just today.) </i><br />
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In May, I returned again to the Crow Timber Barn for another week with fiber artist Dorothy Caldwell.<br />
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Remember how much I loved her first class, <i><a href="http://juliestockler.blogspot.com/2014/06/human-marks-part-one.html" target="_blank">Human Marks</a></i>? This workshop is called <i>In Place. </i>It consists of various exercises that capture Dorothy's passion for experiencing place, recording information about it, and translating all this onto paper and cloth. Specifically, two small handmade books. <br />
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So there we were, 19 women. Some in pairs of friends or sisters, many on their own. We started with a simple map and three pins each. One by one, we pinned 1) where we were born; 2) where we live now...<br />
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...and 3) a place that is important to us. In the stories we told explaining this last pin, we begin to perceive Place as much more than landscape. "<i>I left Cuba when I was just a little girl." "This is where my daughter was born." "I saw the Aurora Borealis here." </i><br />
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<i>"Look how much we impose on the land," </i>Dorothy points out. <i>"It is the library. It holds</i><i> heritage, experiences, and people. It holds everything."</i><br />
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For Dorothy, everyplace is Place. Look how she records airplane landings from every trip.<br />
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She makes rubbings from soil or plant matter everywhere she goes (or ink wash, when the mood strikes). I noticed she uses a singular expression about her fieldwork and it fits: <i>When I am working, when I am In the Land...</i><br />
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We start by comparing dirt she had asked us to bring from home...<br />
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...and rubbing it into fancy Japanese paper.<br />
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<i> </i>There were many other exercises. We made cord and colored it by rubbing it in local flora...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDWvzO26zaNqrTUqZAmmk1bWYq-3i-jFuPRKm2DA9AmuprqUKG_tsFM5CBGdRQ7Mcaokj1Rea9J8PBNhZTlM5EPC58FKFUYeAz2D9FLk1yv_bNyZ7O7i-GOrjmZVT0d5UXtwqxxMQf06T/s1600/map2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDWvzO26zaNqrTUqZAmmk1bWYq-3i-jFuPRKm2DA9AmuprqUKG_tsFM5CBGdRQ7Mcaokj1Rea9J8PBNhZTlM5EPC58FKFUYeAz2D9FLk1yv_bNyZ7O7i-GOrjmZVT0d5UXtwqxxMQf06T/s640/map2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I couldn't get enough of this one. </td></tr>
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We wandered with pen on paper and then stitched those lines.<br />
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We each selected a Place on the farm (roped off with our cord) and recorded with simple lines the sounds, the sensation of the air there. And then stitched THOSE lines. We examined maps and how they reflect our beliefs. Read through this one if you can:<br />
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We dyed with rust and plant, we marched blindfolded around a pond. We talked about curating collections, comparing the 100 objects she asked each of us to bring from home.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As if you couldn't guess which one was mine.</td></tr>
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Are you wondering where the Kindred Spirits come in yet? From their introductions and samples of work, it was clear that many women in the group were dazzling professional artists. From the remarkable use of paint, of color, of line, it became equally clear that the quiet ones too were extraordinarily accomplished Makers. <br />
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Yeah.<br />
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Yikes.<br />
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It didn't take long for me to feel underwhelmed by my own work. Seduced by the colorful pages emerging around me, I too took watercolor brush to paper. At which point I felt even worse. I had a sleepless night and then called Himself in tears. <i>I don't know how paint works, </i>I sobbed. He suggested that a one-week workshop might not be the place to master a new medium. And anyway, wasn't I there to learn and absorb the approach Dorothy takes to Place? <br />
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<i>And feel grateful that you are in the midst of such talent, </i>he added.<i> Would you rather you were spending a week with people who didn't know how to do anything? </i><i><br /></i><br />
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Sometimes, he is the most Kindred Spirit of all, that one.<br />
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I took his advice and surrendered into the warmth and comraderie in the studio. <br />
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After all, when in the history of time have 19 girls ever gotten along all day, every day? Seriously, this place was far from the high school lunchroom as possible. I felt the strand that ran through us all, the urge to create, and just hung on to that.<br />
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Creativity is probably the most elemental part of my spirit and it became magical to be among others made the same way.<br />
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By Day 4, I recognized that while I don't understand paint, I do know more than a little about how fabric works. Hey, now I get it. I am not a painter. I AM a quilter. So I asked each person for a two-inch square of fabric, whatever she could spare. (One woman--a gifted professional painter, naturally--shrewdly bartered her Japanese shibori scrap for a piece from my 100 finds from Dead Horse Bay.) <br />
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I sat with the squares and within a few hours, had the last page of my book all sewn together.<br />
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-33794912208066460882016-06-29T19:18:00.002-04:002016-06-29T19:18:59.901-04:00While You're Waiting...I am trying to write a brilliant post about Kindred Spirits. It is taking me a long time because 1) I can't bear to come in from the yard in this beautiful green June; and 2) Picasa is stubbornly holding on to the mistaken belief that my photo files are corrupt.<br />
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So while I 1)wait for a rainy day and 2) wind my way through yet more troubleshooting forums (fora?), I have some news to keep you entertained. Oddly enough, it too is on the theme of Kindred Spirits.<br />
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For Molly has found hers, in the form of her new friend.<br />
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Meet Tui, a four-year-old formerly male boxer. He's a rescue from a family who adopted him several years ago as a stray and then had to relocate to New Zealand and did not want to put him through the rigorous quarantine requirements.<br />
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My best guess is that this explains his name: a tui is a New Zealand bird with a stark white chest (feel free to step in and get the record straight here, Mo). His two inner toenails on each foot are white, while the outer ones are black.<br />
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He loves squeaky toys and food on the counter and jumping into bed with us at 5:30 AM. It took the obligatory three weeks and then we became a new family.<br />
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Here we go again....<br />
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Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-47149493163259636632016-05-10T08:23:00.000-04:002016-05-10T08:23:12.361-04:00My Life As An Alfred Hitchcock MovieEvery day for about two years or so, at every groundfloor window in this house, we have this.<br />
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Apparently, he is defending his territory against the Intruder he imagines he sees in the reflection of the glass. <br />
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What a metaphor.Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3891893665236545238.post-80125239850621481622016-05-05T13:29:00.000-04:002016-05-05T13:31:04.517-04:00Billy Dog<div style="text-align: left;">
Of all our dogs, Billy was the simplest. He was not "almost human." He was not "my best friend." </div>
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Billy was a dog. <br />
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Last weekend, Billy's abdominal tumor snaked into his well-being. When we fed him, he collapsed in contortions of abdominal distress. When we didn't, he told us he was starving. In the wild, he would have been killed by another animal.<br />
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In our world, the animal was me. <br />
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He didn't make it easy on me, the little bastard. By the time we made the decision, six months to the day when he was given three weeks left to live, he could no longer get himself up without me lifting up his butt. Except when I asked him if he wanted to go for a ride. <i>Then,</i> he jumped into the car, bounded out at the vet's, and eagerly answered all the doggie messages he read on the landscaping. <br />
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Once inside, he wriggled in insane delight at being the object of so much attention. I love this practice--they had already spread an old comforter across the floor, complete with a dog treat in three corners. A box of tissues was in the fourth corner. But my wonderful older vet had just recently retired and sold the practice to a new fellow. Kind and gentle though he was, he has not yet learned the magic words.</div>
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"You're doing the right thing."</div>
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When I expressed alarm at Billy's apparent animation, he told me that the burst of adrenaline an animal experiences at the vet's can supercharge an impaired body. He said, "that makes it hard."But he didn't say what I needed to hear.</div>
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"You're doing the right thing."</div>
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As the sedation took hold, Billy's head slipped onto my lap and damn if his tongue didn't slip an inch out of his mouth, exactly the way Clutch slept. Oh God, Billy, don't you be making that moronic face too, I smiled to myself. I wish I could tell you I saw it as a sign Clutchie was there to welcome his old friend, but I didn't think that. All I thought, as the up-and-down of Billy's chest slowed and then stopped, was This is Death. I thought, I still am thinking, that Death gouges out a deep black footprint onto the soul. Separate and apart from the heart's loss is the hardness of this act. A being...a big sloppy dog, but a being nevertheless...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6kY288UHwY3KPAjKaHJmWUs1xTzbg6P46gLP6d3n7EDy31yk6LdXmRovvj6-9qeA8Zrbc0rdDY3wtG1xlIUOBq6t6QTRg4YEzizwPRyJwxCozbDOpjDDKsuHWA-63uoOP65K6f9Tbj5V3/s1600/dog11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6kY288UHwY3KPAjKaHJmWUs1xTzbg6P46gLP6d3n7EDy31yk6LdXmRovvj6-9qeA8Zrbc0rdDY3wtG1xlIUOBq6t6QTRg4YEzizwPRyJwxCozbDOpjDDKsuHWA-63uoOP65K6f9Tbj5V3/s640/dog11.jpg" width="640" /></a>is no more. Is No More.</div>
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I don't need reminders that this act was merciful in light of his suffering. Now, I don't even need to hear that I did the right thing. Because, let's face it, I have already done it. I--we--need to feel the weight of this when we make it happen. Its only right to feel overwhelmed in the presence of Death. Simply, as Grace so often reminds us,to stand and face it.</div>
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<br />Julie Shttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10978914181459849382noreply@blogger.com16