tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73456450473577039892024-03-19T01:42:01.910-07:00WanderTimeWan'der (v): Move slowly away from a fixed point or place, meander.Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-8628434681643713602024-02-19T05:29:00.000-08:002024-02-19T05:41:46.709-08:00Shame On Trial<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Hql1_86H5JXFRqdqH13jmOQk9EquEQR4L2J2HTfzhTrb1jCjByclDpWuho_jRE3hdtkRXK5TJQ2NbL0_5niaGx6arJI8rTSOFjuAbNzVbY-WdIWWXyLn7zHVEXzPxd3Zgr8QJahg70gkNmBq6vmAWh_dd1DJrCWj2LzIoY8ATZoD7XQKxhG6htvjyxo/s1179/Enough.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="1179" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Hql1_86H5JXFRqdqH13jmOQk9EquEQR4L2J2HTfzhTrb1jCjByclDpWuho_jRE3hdtkRXK5TJQ2NbL0_5niaGx6arJI8rTSOFjuAbNzVbY-WdIWWXyLn7zHVEXzPxd3Zgr8QJahg70gkNmBq6vmAWh_dd1DJrCWj2LzIoY8ATZoD7XQKxhG6htvjyxo/s320/Enough.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When I was a kid, shame was associated with something you’d done wrong. Or something that had been done to you, or something you should have done, or…<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I wasn’t totally clear on shame back then, other than to say: it was not a good thing. Shame was the hot potato of emotion. Thrown away upon arrival. Best never to rub up against it, lest you fall into its fiery pit of damnation. The word—let alone the destination—was associated with bad things and bad people, and it was a very bad place to linger too long.<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Fast forward to the 1990’s when I was in my 20s. My desires were seemingly simple. I wanted it all. To be loved and respected. Taken seriously but also adored. It was an idealistic time—the era of Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky.<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Remember how judgey the collective universe was about the blue dress and Linda Tripp—and how both women were the punch line on SNL skits? I remember, as a girl around Monica’s age, feeling sorry for her privately while publicly nodding as she was rendered a deranged stalker of powerful men.<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That was my own shame talking, or not-talking. To show empathy for a woman who’d— gotten herself into all that trouble, shaming her family not to mention the Presidency because, after all, the guy who held the title and all the power, was so brilliant, that we needed to discard anyone and anything that got in his way—felt risky. <br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It doesn’t anymore—I’m sorry, Monica. None of that was okay.<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Now, fast forward thirty or so years to this week. <br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I’m now a middle-aged woman who still wants it all, including walking without pain. Hence, I’m one-month post-foot surgery and in a recliner for 6 weeks. It’s weird and uncomfortable. And while I’m making the most of it, catching up with friends, reading, and writing…there’s been some serious TV watching too. <br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Which is how I found myself captive on the first day of the Fulton County hearing in Atlanta to determine if Fani Willis is still eligible to be the District Attorney in charge of the election fraud case in Georgia.<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I don’t know what I was expecting—except to say not much. However, when a friend called to check-in at the end of the day, I confessed immediately: “I watched CNN, ALL day!”<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Then I struggled to describe why. What had been so interesting? Why had this hearing held my attention and left me on the verge of speechlessness? <br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“Fani Willis is amazing,” was all I could think to say. “The timing of her choices stinks but she’s not apologizing and I’m here for it!”<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I’d watch a grown, accomplish woman be grilled by a literal line of attorneys smugly asking questions dripping with condescension. All to see if she was worthy of bringing a case against a former President (and others) who attempted to allegedly “find some votes” to overturn an election. Oh—and that same guy has publicly smeared women for decades in broad daylight and owes one woman 83 million dollars for defaming her.<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And then there was Fani. Not at all afraid of explaining her choices. Talking about how she defined relationships. How her private life was her business. How her father had been concerned for her safety. How she paid for things and why. Even why her relationship had ended with the person in question. She was grace under fire and unapologetic. Emotional in moments and steel in others. <br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Her time on the stand was a masterclass in how to not to accept the shame that others are throwing.<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Commentators after the testimony (women!) said things like: “She knew better as a woman of color. That she’d be held to a higher standard,” and on and on it went. <br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But Fani wasn’t playing. And wow was it refreshing to watch.<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Which led me to an overwhelming sense of hope…and why I’m choosing to write this blog about something other than my usual metaphorical musings.<br /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Is it possible that the face of shame is actually changing?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">At this ripe stage of life, I now know that shame is natural, even positive sometimes. Actions have consequences. When actions illicit feelings—in us—that encourage the soul, or heart, or mind to feel the pull toward self-correction, that in my opinion, is a productive kind of shame. The emphatic kind for ourselves and others.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But, when that correction comes from a large unyielding collective of people who don’t know us, value our individual experiences, and who may consciously or unconsciously harbor ill-will because “they’ve seen our type before” or “we should have known better”—that’s judgment.<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Judgment is always going to be there. But how and to whom we respond is our choice. And there’s power in watching others make choices that we know from a lifetime of our own experience, are hard and hard-fought.<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It’s possible, likely even, that it’s not shame that’s changing—but me. And I guess that should be enough. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But it’s not. Shame isn’t owned by a political party or gender or decade—it’s everywhere, all the time and we’re all complicit in keeping the game of hot potato going. <br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Fani’s not on trial. But we are. </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgFODBem4vpHIS5yIYHmxcVTCn-ddiC-x9sCrsx080KeIhBrNRNCdM-7GgVeAKNwCNK_7J0WdqaRuW8EGiNlbHfY-Xue0B5VqHO0_mqCTKWTgIGrKz7Q_UnWA_BF11OhJRNnqqDKS_ZyDE1yeFkhPyNyQ-6AQSASlYx8YWXCvjHA8yZbaw8ZGTvjDl5A/s1179/Lady%20Justice.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="1179" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgFODBem4vpHIS5yIYHmxcVTCn-ddiC-x9sCrsx080KeIhBrNRNCdM-7GgVeAKNwCNK_7J0WdqaRuW8EGiNlbHfY-Xue0B5VqHO0_mqCTKWTgIGrKz7Q_UnWA_BF11OhJRNnqqDKS_ZyDE1yeFkhPyNyQ-6AQSASlYx8YWXCvjHA8yZbaw8ZGTvjDl5A/w400-h294/Lady%20Justice.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-63392402313496783272023-12-22T07:18:00.000-08:002023-12-22T07:27:26.133-08:00ISHspiration!<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3KhAyKehXDPpRE_-jEddkCGAkUd4s45u0c0WsnrXmlwbF-qyE5LYTsHgV56msjWNTi2VsmyjBgPrX4upxcXh6jTwzO4eJFxgpfBt9ozPskIX4BGbCcGxz3K_F7McmgY7ZgdiHnGQ2Blx4ajxSaAX-PF3ArUf1LO2BScKhQLBnIOsTMp9Haf0gxC9OFY/s1800/collage%20Memes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1350" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3KhAyKehXDPpRE_-jEddkCGAkUd4s45u0c0WsnrXmlwbF-qyE5LYTsHgV56msjWNTi2VsmyjBgPrX4upxcXh6jTwzO4eJFxgpfBt9ozPskIX4BGbCcGxz3K_F7McmgY7ZgdiHnGQ2Blx4ajxSaAX-PF3ArUf1LO2BScKhQLBnIOsTMp9Haf0gxC9OFY/w300-h400/collage%20Memes.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">Little shiny gems of understanding. Sea glass in washed-up social media garbage. The universe saying: <i>I hear you!</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">That’s how it feels when a resonating inspirational quote washes over me mid-scroll—and the reason I have so many of them saved in my camera roll. </p><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">I know that many of these quotes are the marks of highly targeted messages of manipulation based on overheard phone conversations, massive amounts of data collected from clicks, and items purchased on Amazon. But it’s still nice to feel understood—simultaneously unique and part of a larger collective of humans experiencing loss, or hurt, or extreme gratitude, or fed-upness, or…</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">The -ors are endless. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">For me, internet quotes, just like their sarcastic cousin—the meme—have the power to alter the course of a day after reading what feels like world-ending news. Or while sitting in a meeting that’s spinning in circles. Or experiencing anything in the collective while wondering if you’re the only one feeling a certain way.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">It’s comforting to know that a person you’ve never met is missing their newly launched college kid too. Or that the colleague who is pulling off engaged in that square on Zoom is also thinking: <i>What are we even talking about right now?</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">Or that the rollercoaster that is middle age is a human stage that will not result in me melting into an actual menopausal puddle. (I could do without some of the images though. The detailed illustrations of apron belly, for instance, that now inundate my feed. No need, Instagram. I have a mirror.)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">Actual human contact may still the best way to feel the community. But my happy<i>ish</i> journey is also showing me that being seen and heard is not a zero-sum game. The well-timed quote, meme, or funny TikTok from a person I barely know can be the difference between feeling alone and alone<i>ish</i>.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">It takes a village of connection to make sense of this long<i>ish </i>journey. And this blog—and all of you—are part of mine. And so is the adorable kid in England who is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWIdE6llljY" style="color: #954f72;">Door Holder Number Three</a> in his school nativity this year. And every <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXt4MBkb8IU" style="color: #954f72;">Schitts Creek GIF</a> ever made. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">Wishing you and yours a very happy<i>ish</i> holiday! <o:p></o:p></p></div></div><br />Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-64123868552503622162023-11-14T05:16:00.000-08:002023-11-14T14:07:49.556-08:00No Ish in Friendship<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYu_5J2cETl0W8K0HGZnCHwhOTse9NzuzZrAidfg6Oi_PQrxf60Gmmkk_9qeO1cYfEOYMjLnYoUKasFpoRmSJWmBjWP75CX_qAqcneo6abHjxcgeM0z0k-tVWg6bGZBWIHOX7ZbtfxvMwup6uaYtl3wz0jJlPCL1YYnuCKTCcyQ3VJJ5l8RH0sOBDUpuE/s2016/Happy....jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYu_5J2cETl0W8K0HGZnCHwhOTse9NzuzZrAidfg6Oi_PQrxf60Gmmkk_9qeO1cYfEOYMjLnYoUKasFpoRmSJWmBjWP75CX_qAqcneo6abHjxcgeM0z0k-tVWg6bGZBWIHOX7ZbtfxvMwup6uaYtl3wz0jJlPCL1YYnuCKTCcyQ3VJJ5l8RH0sOBDUpuE/s320/Happy....jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What Are Three Happy Words?</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Happiness is a personal topic. It's somewhere north of asking about hygiene habits but south of religion or politics. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Ask someone what makes them happy, and they’ll have answers.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">What is happiness? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">What does it feel like?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And look like?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And is it in our control? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">These are just a few of the questions that my book club and I explored at our recent gathering.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">First, let me be more precise. I said book club, which likely suggests toiling over literary themes and the satisfaction of a particular ending or…<i>no</i>. We are not that kind of book club. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Our club is also not the kind filled with people who gather but haven’t read the book. We’ve all read the book and likely ten others since our last meeting. We’re just generally more interested in each other. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">We’re friends. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We have varied lives and interests and philosophies on all sorts of things. Our desire to spend time together is not predicated on seeing everything the same way…but it is firmly based on a fierce respect for each other’s happiness. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The collective gasp if one of us has been wronged. Tears shed followed by murders plotted if someone or something has messed with one of our kids. Those are common friendship themes explored—whether the book in question obliges or not.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So, it was not one bit of a stretch for me to ask if they’d dive into this somewhat abstract topic when all they wanted to do was pour more wine. I came prepared with scraps of paper and markers. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">And off we went.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxtjPuTXArozEQndacRHf4JVLVInMaS0agX1b_ERwJZZvlYe9nbRlyz-40R7L7Rga2QYM7H_NicVkyjILcKHreZWLM5ExcLrwphkL9Zw-rJVsceRp9dPzzxbmlb-sY4p8OAbMv2iCaCFqxvEHtm42b8p8Huz_eZ-K5MkHQDdjUCOH_qe-gVOV5usO47o/s1512/Cut%20Lab.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"><br /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxtjPuTXArozEQndacRHf4JVLVInMaS0agX1b_ERwJZZvlYe9nbRlyz-40R7L7Rga2QYM7H_NicVkyjILcKHreZWLM5ExcLrwphkL9Zw-rJVsceRp9dPzzxbmlb-sY4p8OAbMv2iCaCFqxvEHtm42b8p8Huz_eZ-K5MkHQDdjUCOH_qe-gVOV5usO47o/s1512/Cut%20Lab.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"><br /></span></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>If happiness were an animal, which animal would it be? </b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDMmi43AwWHWv9T23hcEOOvDUphPNyIy_WHokdvw8pOm0U988O8hbh45FBJl8o6Zu4ZYLATl4eLDrB6aGJJORCjwydQe1YCDmNK9so2M3fYvVUx1MDatuxWifWMZ-6RZWk6yPG-SyMt325VTjR63nQWAKZnaU1Jybgbn1OPsd8Oz0JVD-6vn-BedOSn_I/s320/FEELS....jpg" width="320" /></span><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">This question was answered with uber speed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Lab, yellow lab, puppy, sea otter.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Note to self: happiness and animals generally go together.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Three words that describe how happy FEELS…</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Now, this where all hell broke loose. Okay, not really but there was a certain level of panic coming from a book club bestie.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What do you mean how happy feels?” Her look was incredulous. I started giggling as the others stepped in, to give examples of their words. “I was a math major!” she said, as though this explained it all—her aversion to digging in about how happiness felt. </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We had a good laugh as I tried to let my friend off the hook. This exercise was after all voluntary, I reminded her. There were no grades being given, and absolutely nothing at stake. But she wouldn’t have it. She is a rule follower, by nature. She sputtered before adding her words to the pile.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The final question, by my own estimation, was the hardest. But my happyish focus group did not find it that way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Do you believe happiness is always within your reach?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;">Yes, yes, yes, yes-ish (tee-hee).</span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Score one for decisiveness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><b>So, what is the sage wisdom, in this the fledgling stage of my very serious happyish research? </b></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m still gathering data.</span><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">BUT I can conclusively state that there’s no ish in friend<b>shi</b>p—the actual letters are there but they’re in a different order, which may be the point. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Happiness, for me, feels like...gathering with an eclectic group of friends who show up willing to dig deep and simultaneously scratch the surface of life’s big questions. And it’s a bonus if the book is good too. </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFN0-SNJPX_UmgbADAt8_Z9UQNBZtU2fT3xrnwmiWM6_qltNe4fDKdpCXhR_7aHO0kxoQD_2oHBKDgKfKM24_ftPaOYXjsuCd2a36vJKym-I3LTmHlLWfybosvzeddhyQACa_hDUbjrxLDUfnPZKo8wqWOzgNtS2S1gfyeI9cessTIbThgHSOLTmgoiaY/s2016/Buttons.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFN0-SNJPX_UmgbADAt8_Z9UQNBZtU2fT3xrnwmiWM6_qltNe4fDKdpCXhR_7aHO0kxoQD_2oHBKDgKfKM24_ftPaOYXjsuCd2a36vJKym-I3LTmHlLWfybosvzeddhyQACa_hDUbjrxLDUfnPZKo8wqWOzgNtS2S1gfyeI9cessTIbThgHSOLTmgoiaY/w400-h300/Buttons.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p></div></div>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-50103130962136084032023-10-07T07:45:00.003-07:002023-10-07T09:20:31.027-07:00Happy(ish)<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwi6zqXCakpsq3IEk-fzryKmXaoveBCDM6VKv62QgAPNweLdRdYGRrwwMAU_Broc6WWaHpMeRmZEy843pLgH0ofxyz9qtwuX4rIegkrPS6C7Vp6jtEqbEpVNyQ5vmVmJee4tjU5RyreeRjxz6n9deUMTxDUip3Y7iH4Tw2VbwBdSVJiVEMT7UYvYZdIzI/s2016/Bucket%20o'flowers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwi6zqXCakpsq3IEk-fzryKmXaoveBCDM6VKv62QgAPNweLdRdYGRrwwMAU_Broc6WWaHpMeRmZEy843pLgH0ofxyz9qtwuX4rIegkrPS6C7Vp6jtEqbEpVNyQ5vmVmJee4tjU5RyreeRjxz6n9deUMTxDUip3Y7iH4Tw2VbwBdSVJiVEMT7UYvYZdIzI/w300-h400/Bucket%20o'flowers.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I started to write my annual blog…about summer in the garden. About my amazing tomatoes and the herbs-a-plenty, and the flowers that didn’t flourish but arrived with sparing splendor. I was busy crafting metaphors about my writing and the boys, and time moving on and…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Something stopped me. I just wasn’t feeling it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Which is weird because weaving words into sentences—that’s my happy state. And, tending tomatoes and flowers—is my happy place. Throw in my two awesome boys alongside the most loving partner a gal could ask for—and all that should add up to happy with a capital H.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But honestly, I’m more happy<i>ish.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tired<i>ish</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Inspired<i>ish</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Frustrated<i>ish</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dissapointed<i>ish</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Content<i>ish</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Old<i>ish</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Confused<i>ish</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hopeful<i>ish<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Which feels more than and not enough <i>ish</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not the only one out here who feels this way. The sheer number of non-fiction books with Happy in their title tells me that there are more than a few of us out here wandering in <i>ish</i>land.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, I’ve decided rather than fighting the feeling—or the lack thereof, to lean in.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5yFrKbTMG_EHA8ak5_zluwfrLD8XPOVE_BjJ0sJVAQhXIhfKMazdBlQFTVQ3C74RM5B2BrFJ0NodyElyT1clKeVQgHadBpN-yjbeaIeejIdKjjllMxT2jBq2clPqEChGQ0y39ivXQWg2QrKG3pzp0mn58sEoWBBZgDweYVRCDBmMojKnnOZ8QvYvGQ5U/s1800/Summer%20in%20the%20Garden.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Between now and “The Most Wonderful Time of The Year!” (insert sarcastic laughter), I’ll be exploring the origins of <i>ish </i>and how to get from here to there…and where there even is anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Open invitation…if you’re a long-ago friend from places of origin, or a writing soul that I met while toiling over our craft, or a parent that I PTA’d alongside, or a former or current colleague…..or…..reach out: hollyhowley@cox.net. </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Let’s explore<i>ish</i> this topic together in a future blog. </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the meantime, please enjoy<i>ish</i> these photos of tomatoes from…summer in the garden.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2A-e_9C5ymWwCm9d0qLKiErVjdC6sJ9QSPrL2Ay9rvTKNHc7x-aonBbTHKQjfkx9BKRuonqV7ODoawYthJfJjuW4BDfmTVUsUyoByURyJ0vCnfAcPoFzY7AezSAIBuH1ajCumdkVUg26iSxUPKIvdg7Mf5vM2HM5Rld2ORLZo76jcSeF2mphw1NS8hc/s1800/Tom--atoes!.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2A-e_9C5ymWwCm9d0qLKiErVjdC6sJ9QSPrL2Ay9rvTKNHc7x-aonBbTHKQjfkx9BKRuonqV7ODoawYthJfJjuW4BDfmTVUsUyoByURyJ0vCnfAcPoFzY7AezSAIBuH1ajCumdkVUg26iSxUPKIvdg7Mf5vM2HM5Rld2ORLZo76jcSeF2mphw1NS8hc/w400-h300/Tom--atoes!.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-40849909561994905262023-05-07T07:20:00.001-07:002023-05-07T07:33:54.004-07:00Re-Nesting (It's a Thing!)<style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><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/AVvXsEg6RQEdFTm1Bj90TWwih4J_VPTmZRkUPqmBjVXBNxw2AjRK0rvP86Ai0plhXpJmpsB2gfbaeqcu4d9OPS7mhP6Z5rwPJXWdCZOiH9ocrVf3dMHyeSpJrHk6XLrbeEIUsrQJMtiEL0-OOseYAJm-fZqgLJBWyBv5RYM0M1OeCrRbHUs1Gg3j8JLFc5ZI/s2016/IMG_5330.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6RQEdFTm1Bj90TWwih4J_VPTmZRkUPqmBjVXBNxw2AjRK0rvP86Ai0plhXpJmpsB2gfbaeqcu4d9OPS7mhP6Z5rwPJXWdCZOiH9ocrVf3dMHyeSpJrHk6XLrbeEIUsrQJMtiEL0-OOseYAJm-fZqgLJBWyBv5RYM0M1OeCrRbHUs1Gg3j8JLFc5ZI/s320/IMG_5330.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gambler circa 1980 something</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Re-nesting is a thing. And if it’s not a thing, let’s make it a thing. Cause I need something to get me to the other side of milestone May.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Re-nesting is like the well-known burst of domesticated energy right before a person gives birth, known as nesting, but at the stage when the birdling is about ready to be released from the nest out into the world. It’s the conscious act of purging the inevitable clutter associated with the busyness of a full throttle life. (I say “conscious act” because bursts of energy are no longer viable at the re-nesting stage.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Put simply:<b> Re-nesting is a way to productively use the volcano of unrest associated with saying goodbye to the humans you love most by ridding your life of the crap that’s weighing you down. <o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Now that I’ve defined the term (lookout Marie Kondo), let me illustrate what I found during a recent bout of re-nesting—in my basement.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Clothing Time Capsule<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It’s hard to remember exactly when the final decision was made. Not to have a third kid. But judging by the clothes I found in our basement—it was around size 7 or 8. That’s when I stopped storing and started on-site purging from the closets of my two boys.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">That was almost a decade in, and over a decade ago leaving a lot of clothes waiting in bins. I’d thought about sorting the clothes many, many times over the years. But the emotional fortitude required to peer back in time and then decide what to do with those clothes was overwhelming. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">So, they sat and sat and sat—until the re-nesting began. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After the many years of angst about the mountain of clothes in my basement, here is what I found: not much. Sorting my sons’ clothes was not nearly as overwhelming or emotional as I’d imagined. The memories lingered, for sure. Some clothes were washed within an inch of their last thread, many barely used, and others I didn’t remember. But the process did not pack nearly the emotional punch I’d been bracing for.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Mid-sort, I reached out to neighbor friend at the beginning of their journey. They confirmed that between their own kids and lots of family, they’d put the clothes to good us. It felt amazing to hand them all over.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Except for a few time-capsule pieces that I’ll saddle the boys with one day. Which leads me to the bulk of my sorting…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">WHAT Are Those?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I hadn’t fully appreciated the massive volume of boxes that I’d inherited from my mother over the years until the re-nesting began. She’d brought bags of this and bags of that on her many visits. And I had a vague memory of a large unloading around the time we were moving into our first house, and I was pregnant with my oldest. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I shoved those boxes into a storage closet and over the next 20 years (yes, 20!), I moved them from space to space, house to house waiting for “the day” when I would give the contents a once-over to make sure I wasn’t throwing away priceless family memorabilia. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">What I did not realize until “the day” that would turn out be a week arrived was that my mother had packed up my entire childhood bedroom without purging ANYTHING. Imagine opening boxes that have been sitting in your basement for two decades and finding…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A McDonalds takeout bag of letters, receipts, and random life memorabilia <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A Kenny Rogers concert program<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Every art project you ever made (art was NOT my subject)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Every letter ever written you by people ranging from your first crush at summer bible camp, to your deceased grandparents, to high school besties, and people that you haven’t the slightest idea who they are but claim to know you so well that they…wrote you a letter.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And your extracted wisdom teeth (yes…you read that correctly)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">There was more, so much more. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After comparing notes with a few friends, apparently, this is a common occurrence—parents dumping childhood stuff on their offspring right around the time of a milestone, like a marriage, or the purchase of a new home, or the birth of a first child.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">So, lookout boys, just when you’re settling in…that’s when I’ll show up with your trophies, academic accolades, and art projects from third grade. I will, however, spare you your wisdom teeth. You’re welcome.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Priceless No More<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The next category of items was of my own collecting. Décor from the early stages of adulting—when candles meant sophistication and lampshade versatility was a must. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I found thirty-two lampshades. I also unpacked several candelabras. My younger self was much fancier than I remember and did so much entertaining that she needed different styles of candelabras for every occasion. I do still love a good tablescape but candles and their eloquent holders no longer speak to me. I’m in a tealights and fresh flowers phase. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Hopefully a young Holly clone happened into the local Goodwill during the week of the purge and found these no-longer-priceless-to-me treasures. If so, they are now swimming in candelabras. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">That Box Is Not Special<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Finally, I wish to share a public service announcement of sorts. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">To the person out there who just bought a medium-sized appliance, say a computer or microwave or espresso maker who is contemplating keeping the box it came in because it’s the perfect size for any number of items that you can’t think of at this moment…listen up. This message is for you. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Take out your scissors and collapse that sucker. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Otherwise, you’ll store that box for years and years and it will procreate into other similar sized boxes that you’ll convince yourself probably contain priceless something-er-others. Until eventually you peer inside those boxes to find nothing but packing materials and outdated appliance manuals. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Again, I repeat, take the box to the recycling bin. Now. Like this minute.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And to the other Me’s out there who LOVE to wrap gifts. Maybe you’ve just ordered an item on Amazon, and it came in the most amazing box. What constitutes an amazing box, a non-gift wrapper might wonder? Box lovers know them when they see them. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">For me special boxes are usually two pieces with a top that is a different color than the bottom, it’s made of sturdy material, and big enough to hold a pair of flat shoes or a scarf—and here’s the most important trait—it’s a shape that doesn’t give what’s inside away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I have a message for THAT person. The box in your hands is not special. You don’t need to save the box. There are plenty (too many) boxes in the world. Another one will come along at the exact moment you need it. Recycle the box. Now. Like this minute.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">You’re Winning<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">If you’ve read this far, you’re feeling pretty good about yourself. You likely figured out much earlier than I did to recycle your kids’ clothing as they were growing. You’re probably not hoarding lampshades. And there’s no random wisdom teeth in your basement (that you know of). You are winning, my friend.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But if, like me, this season of milestones is forcing you to unpack an excess of emotion—know that you’re not alone. There’s a lot of us out here sorting. Trying our best to create space for what comes next while honoring the many labors of love that came before.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">And unfortunately, there is no special box for that. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">(So, recycle that box. Now. Like this minute.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihFxWOvh6rtAhIRkNVxrEPsvkuL1NRgtP3hYbXi_hgbVl817pCbJoVqJJHdoHp9mM7PuxorCJMHZQC5UjcxjR5UB6a4sPDA7KRf422dxHDtlmEYTqQ5_dxHwqElHphaYnofsSSHad4MFjvfPdNKpC7O-kxMQJGi_5y9DsVDZUDzOv2eXZIKgNgZ38a/s1800/Re-nest%20collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihFxWOvh6rtAhIRkNVxrEPsvkuL1NRgtP3hYbXi_hgbVl817pCbJoVqJJHdoHp9mM7PuxorCJMHZQC5UjcxjR5UB6a4sPDA7KRf422dxHDtlmEYTqQ5_dxHwqElHphaYnofsSSHad4MFjvfPdNKpC7O-kxMQJGi_5y9DsVDZUDzOv2eXZIKgNgZ38a/w400-h300/Re-nest%20collage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span><o:p></o:p></p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-52972910973400802112023-02-06T04:22:00.000-08:002023-02-06T04:22:27.340-08:00Shoshin<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtmHmTe3V4Xu19RgFrKTw4RctBHiIe7awzW4vRlRB633dZnHIeHxoLaqp05iAb_45EGxCsEO1SHpPeTdXpfnM6XmeBHINeDSgQHhPjSbZyp3xjFzUf0ZvykJX_D7NInQ2PTcIgILvu1V1dKW5WC7Vn1a5wgTi5DP0MwUAl-JliTTMqZChhvHoK7kQ1/s275/Bud%20Poking%20Through.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtmHmTe3V4Xu19RgFrKTw4RctBHiIe7awzW4vRlRB633dZnHIeHxoLaqp05iAb_45EGxCsEO1SHpPeTdXpfnM6XmeBHINeDSgQHhPjSbZyp3xjFzUf0ZvykJX_D7NInQ2PTcIgILvu1V1dKW5WC7Vn1a5wgTi5DP0MwUAl-JliTTMqZChhvHoK7kQ1/w400-h266/Bud%20Poking%20Through.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">No resolutions for me this year. No dry January or cleansing regimens or familiar “eat less carbs” mantra. There was not an ounce of “new me” inhabiting this been-there-done-that girl as the clock struck 2023. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I was good enough, as is. It was time to listen to the algorithm of middle age. Engage my comfy clothes and find the new intellectually curious binge watch. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">First Sunday of the new year, firm in my lack of conviction, I headed off to church with my people. As we sat waiting for the service to start, I pushed away the to-do list of tasks that had been punted during the “most wonderful time of the year” and let the music overwhelm me. I thought of bacon and mugs of coffee…and…<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Choose a word from the basket,” the pastor said to the congregation. “The hope is that it provides you with inspiration for the year ahead.” Then she proceeded to illustrate through thoughtful example, the many ways in which this practice had guided her in the past year. Nodding parishioners surrounded me. They too had been moved by a word extracted from a basket last year around this time. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Nope.</i> I would not be pulled back into the vortex of be better, do better. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I sank further into<b> </b>the breakfasty thoughts and prayed I would draw a universal word that meant nothing or everything. Or better yet one that gave me permission to let it all go, like: acceptance. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When it was my turn, I drew a card, then passed the basket along to my son. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“What did you get?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">How was I to explain to my almost twenty-year old that no matter what this silly word was—I was done with the wanderlust associated with the turning of the calendar page. That I’d said good riddance to the exhausting pile of never-ending expectations that kept us all tethered to the idea that one should forever be and do more. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He was still staring at me. <i>Fine.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I looked down at the blue card. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Shoshin.</i> It was oh-so-appropriate that I’d have to look mine up. Later.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Shoshin,” I said. “What’s yours?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Joy,” he whispered.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I smiled. Joy is exactly what I wished for him in the days, weeks, and years ahead. And a word I gladly would have embraced for myself.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">He handed me his phone; he’d already looked up what Shoshin meant. As I read the words, a kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions flooded my bacony brain. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Shoshin, a Japanese phrase meaning</i> <i>beginner’s mind. An attitude of openness, eagerness, and lack of preconceptions.</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My first thought was: Is this some kind of spiritual joke? My second thought was: Is that even possible? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I generally pull off a <i>can-do</i> attitude. But openness? Lack of preconceptions? I am a person built on intuition. I’m likely to give people and situations the benefit of the doubt, but right underneath is a tiger, ready to pounce. To clean up the inevitable mess that I see everywhere as I plot through my day. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Not to mention, I just had a birthday—a milestone one—that comes with a lot of life baggage better known as experience. What was the point of experience without the accompanying shorthand of quick judgments?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I dropped the little blue card in my purse, and the service continued. But I couldn’t shake the word and the feeling that Shoshin, along with breakfast, was exactly what I was craving.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Being at the beginning again was almost unimaginable. Was it even possible this late in the game to recognize the familiar patterns of wasted time or impending defeat—and believe that a new outcome could rise? One that I never could have imagined or feared?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Fear lived right alongside my new “no self-improvement” philosophy if I was being honest.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Could beginner’s mind be the pursuit of living without the panic that came with all the experience? Could I face the day with a maybe or even yes attitude, no longer burdened by the obvious patterns of predictable disappointment?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Like the latest software upgrade at work that we were expected to embrace even though the upsides were “in the cloud” and all the very visible downsides lived with us as we scrambled to find our files and the smallest modicum of productivity.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Or the many, many exciting strides I’d made in my first passion—writing—that yet again, recently had resulted in a publishing cul-de-sac, and not the scenic kind. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">How would someone with beginner’s mind approach those scenarios? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">To the software update, Shoshin might say:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“A software upgrade means future capacity for productivity! So what if right now you can’t send e-mails or find any documents? Pause = rest. And when I am finally back up and running, and way behind on every project, with an unrecognizable desktop…that’s when I’ll dig deep and search for questions—ones I don’t even know I should be asking—then listen with an open mind, never once thinking: Was any of this <i>really </i>necessary?!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">To the publishing disappointment, Shoshin might say:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Trust! You’re getting closer, Holly! Rejection isn’t a no…it’s the universe passing the ‘you’re almost there’ baton. Of course, your stories will find their way into the world.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The fact that I was contemplating the concept—even if I wasn’t crystal clear on what beginner’s mind truly meant yet—surprised me. I’d arrived a mere hour ago, resolute in my lack of resoluteness. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Now I was leaving church wondering what would happen if I gave myself permission to view daily annoyances and hard-fought pursuits with more awe and less prediction? What if I trusted that I’d get there—without necessarily knowing where <i>there </i>even<i> </i>was?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The premise excited me—still does. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEFRR8PD5cn9YYYem6eNdedG2j3lnsFHr6R87ezptaO3_qXHL-K5hzlag6STqpogBuNoHKmnciqyD0jvuVgZM29bDUncW9-oeeM69djIwRynDh1SZ7uHfwUZgq9HetRvYZxwy8TBc_h28dyp4lo9E1aR4IiCfvfma6YefJNX3ZLJL0_stMQU0PALV7/s2016/Shoshin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEFRR8PD5cn9YYYem6eNdedG2j3lnsFHr6R87ezptaO3_qXHL-K5hzlag6STqpogBuNoHKmnciqyD0jvuVgZM29bDUncW9-oeeM69djIwRynDh1SZ7uHfwUZgq9HetRvYZxwy8TBc_h28dyp4lo9E1aR4IiCfvfma6YefJNX3ZLJL0_stMQU0PALV7/w320-h240/Shoshin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><h4 style="text-align: left;"><o:p><div style="text-align: center;"> “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.” </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind</i> (1970)</div></o:p></h4><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-63326507937933335502022-11-26T11:18:00.000-08:002022-11-26T11:18:09.608-08:00Waiting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">A lot of life is spent waiting. For news. The hard work to pay off. For the chips you didn’t eat to tip the scales in the opposite direction.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In its most positive form, the one we teach our kids during the inevitable sideline moments, waiting is a rite of passage wrapped decoratively in words like patience and faith.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeAZVJSb-TVYlPWS4g4SVioEl66Ja0bfLj8zz50Yw1ZVUaBG6aN0YJG0IF7rcy7mUOojLxrpueVn_Rs3oTE926piEQsNgAF50LGHVIEk3n4WPhymJI3QFfDDqHoPig7laZlSUTwB0tJacvNFyYC4PxLmWY0CMkz5jIcsLvec71HGlTExHTC0zfs3J/s2016/Time.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeAZVJSb-TVYlPWS4g4SVioEl66Ja0bfLj8zz50Yw1ZVUaBG6aN0YJG0IF7rcy7mUOojLxrpueVn_Rs3oTE926piEQsNgAF50LGHVIEk3n4WPhymJI3QFfDDqHoPig7laZlSUTwB0tJacvNFyYC4PxLmWY0CMkz5jIcsLvec71HGlTExHTC0zfs3J/s320/Time.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In its less glamorous form, waiting looks like a whole lotta nothing, especially to those of us who find ourselves entering, quitting, then re-entering “the busy pageant” where worth is assigned by the lack of time and attention, we pay to ourselves and each other. In that competitive circuit, looking out the window, re-reading a favorite book, binge-watching horrible TV is efficiently labeled as unmotivated and lazy.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>But what if </i>the highly motivated, productive people and the slovenly, wandering daydreamers share more DNA than the piano teachers of our youth led us to believe? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>What if</i>…<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The infuriating nature of waiting was THE common experience that united everyone—the extroverts and introverts, the agreeable and disagreeable, the neurotic and blasé, even (stay with me here) the democrats AND republicans!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>What if </i>people in fast forward alongside their idling counterparts, joined idiosyncrasies to create a new brand of waiting? This emerging practice could be known as Effective Waiting and defined as: the harmonious balance of pause and productivity. The practice would be integrated into K-12 curriculums. And humans would receive master’s degrees in waiting from lauded universities. Then, Effective Waiting would become THE top ten trait of highly successful AND completely average people!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Until slowly, over a lot of time spent waiting, Effective Waiting would become ineffective. And a new generation of waiters would necessarily emerge and once again unite over the mind-numbing, life-sucking, you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me nature of…<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>“Thanks for waiting, your call is important to us. Please stay on the line for the next available representative.”<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Waiting. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>What if…<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-60534088269091081952022-10-06T04:15:00.000-07:002022-10-06T04:15:07.338-07:00NOW WHAT? Wandering At The Edge (of 50)<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6wcSYKK_8bi8FmI7xXccWhUusfTvWc5Ft-ujofWQTaby4PvS5cejuHRykp6NOS8xttq33Xfe6hX9XX_4o8eNVhzw0RWxOgwBPIoH0nlWR2tLovcVtQ16r_JZoglkuDRUFlExN7vU6fjYNMqDAQwhPfytSL9jybDcpNzqC5e_OgnVtmDM7NVlM9Ij/s2016/coffee%20and%20flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6wcSYKK_8bi8FmI7xXccWhUusfTvWc5Ft-ujofWQTaby4PvS5cejuHRykp6NOS8xttq33Xfe6hX9XX_4o8eNVhzw0RWxOgwBPIoH0nlWR2tLovcVtQ16r_JZoglkuDRUFlExN7vU6fjYNMqDAQwhPfytSL9jybDcpNzqC5e_OgnVtmDM7NVlM9Ij/s320/coffee%20and%20flowers.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The day my youngest son began kindergarten, I invited a group of friends—my coveted playgroup—over for coffee. I had the whole morning timed out perfectly.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Will would get on the bus, I’d hit brew on the coffee maker, lay out the beautiful new mugs purchased just for this occasion, add muffins, and voila! The makings of a milestone morning surrounded by the people who’d helped me through sleepless nights, potty training, and deciding that the scootch crawl was developmentally okay.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">There was only one problem. After Will got on the bus, I promptly went to our bedroom, with my husband following closely behind, and fell apart. I still recall the look on his face—the visible confusion about what I was attempting to process. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Now what?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“I thought you were having the girls over for coffee?” he said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Omg.</i> Did he really think I literally meant “now what?” as in like this exact moment? How could he not feel the enormity? We were at the precipice of all that had come before and all that would come next. Both of our sons were out in the world, spending as much of their waking day with other people as they did with us—with me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And to be clear I was the one emotionally dangling, not Will. He’d gotten on the bus willingly, with his too-big backpack of favorite books and snacks. And he’d be home in three short hours. Kindergarten was still a half-day proposition back then. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I tried again, to have my angst validated as my first guests arrived. “I can’t believe he’s in kindergarten. Now what?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A parent who’d already been through the paces said simply, “That takes a while. Today just drink coffee.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Just drink coffee? </i>Interesting perspective—and not that different than Rob’s, just a little less annoying because it was coming from a girlfriend.<i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The larger point which well over a decade later, I now understand, is that any one day, is just a day. Being the mom of a kindergartner is not that different than being the mom of a kindergartener minus one day. But it is very different than being the mom of a newborn. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">On day one when I gazed at my startled, hairy, handsome son—kindergarten might as well have been the moon.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIWhf_3m1WCpFDK8zy0ozXoMJ34nDSUoqxD62VxABpvXierKq2IH8r3CTVXLpOg0EkIS0PwAkPMn072q8E202RL4dreXaRGNWCaci5sz5TOMSyBMZWZR2k8nzgoESUGu4zhMxgm1vJPdWsutCaaHMSvCASvF52O_Sz5-X5BKVnb6M-An0h_Mfa0-T/s2016/Day%20Will%20was%20born.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIWhf_3m1WCpFDK8zy0ozXoMJ34nDSUoqxD62VxABpvXierKq2IH8r3CTVXLpOg0EkIS0PwAkPMn072q8E202RL4dreXaRGNWCaci5sz5TOMSyBMZWZR2k8nzgoESUGu4zhMxgm1vJPdWsutCaaHMSvCASvF52O_Sz5-X5BKVnb6M-An0h_Mfa0-T/s320/Day%20Will%20was%20born.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And on that same day, at thirty-two, the thought of turning fifty was…well…definitely not a thought. I had more important things to do than age. But it happened anyway. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Are you metaphorically with me here?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">If my own personal movie trailer could have prepped me, on that day, for the next eighteen years, I’d have thought…that’s a lot and pretty great. I also would have been prematurely exhausted and confused. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Life generally makes more sense in rewind. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I know how lucky I am. To be here, getting older, contemplating twilights. I now appreciate that <i>what comes next</i> won’t magically sort itself out on a random day commemorating the number of times I’ve rotated around the sun. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And I also now fully embrace that it’s human nature—or at least my nature—to want milestone days to feel monumental. Which is why I’ve stocked up on coffee. And wine. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-13308452846403197262022-07-18T11:16:00.001-07:002022-07-18T11:18:45.712-07:00For Now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCIgesu4kOhhRjCd0Bv89O9htUgr1nQsoHZMm2ogMMBvT8Ax0b-4nd7-5WDfTr-7RG6jj0noftJrQnitFDoWnMrPmR94UQ8ypUQg-wa_lJjZ6ltUy4HFy2DAKH2dYYYhvfKQOY6khuwXFkxA4u-bMw0qCNmKZ5JGzreXyiGPcGBZQsQ2sNcv0_wyoK/s2016/Blurry%20Flower.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCIgesu4kOhhRjCd0Bv89O9htUgr1nQsoHZMm2ogMMBvT8Ax0b-4nd7-5WDfTr-7RG6jj0noftJrQnitFDoWnMrPmR94UQ8ypUQg-wa_lJjZ6ltUy4HFy2DAKH2dYYYhvfKQOY6khuwXFkxA4u-bMw0qCNmKZ5JGzreXyiGPcGBZQsQ2sNcv0_wyoK/w300-h400/Blurry%20Flower.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Last summer was a blur…a weepy, sticky haze of emotion. With my oldest just graduating from high school, a global pandemic finally in the rearview (psych!), and my impending reality as a half-empty nester— pride, relief, and fear overlapped like a rubber band ball ready to snap.</span></div></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Except in the garden. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Last season was the first year, I cut the fluff. <span style="font-size: 11pt;">All that remained were the essentials.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Flowers—for cutting in heaping arrangements.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Tomatoes—for many batches of my ceremonial sauce.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Herbs—because they make everything better.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Out with the squash.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Only dabbled in peppers.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">And the addition of a wildflower border in the back!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">It was pure joy even if, as usual, by early August the entire garden blended with the wildflowers. Weeds have their own degree of beauty; I now comfortably rationalize.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Then—with the swiftness of a first winter storm, late August moved in. Dorm prep was in full motion and there was finally freedom to fly away on vacation with the fam before we were down a member. <span style="font-size: 11pt;">Serendipity</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> left me ill-prepared for what came next. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Covid quarantine. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">We were among the first Delta variant alumni to utter, “Us? No. We’re vaccinated.” Such idyllic times.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Through those strange, strange days of disbelief and dread, it was the zinnias and tomatoes that kept me sane.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">A friend with proximity to medical advice, fielded truly delirious questions like: “If I make sauce, and freeze it, is there any chance that when we defrost it months later that we’ll get Covid?” And “Is there any chance of me giving Covid to my neighbors while outside picking flowers?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">I am indebted to her decisive and empathetic emojis. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">As abundant offers emerged for staples like soup, beverages, reading material, supplements, and the coveted oximeter (much more effective than panic in reading oxygen levels btw), I’d text: <i>pick some zinnias and tomatoes! Scissors on the garbage can! <o:p></o:p></i></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyuyNqeIVUqXQSvOjDbPZajv70FPj8MeRNjEhg0uL9kfUBJIovOa8IFamnX6kdZKz6Y56YSP8Yrgq7Xc2WxvjkhkZI3bzWI4x_dG1zWTi6incbD8w4vF8eRke-pncsYINFYXPvdjDdae_6d1mb2UhsqVs7FBDwZC62vMwETz78_ZUjkp6J8b2Lap-n/s2016/Quarantine%20Tomatoes%20.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyuyNqeIVUqXQSvOjDbPZajv70FPj8MeRNjEhg0uL9kfUBJIovOa8IFamnX6kdZKz6Y56YSP8Yrgq7Xc2WxvjkhkZI3bzWI4x_dG1zWTi6incbD8w4vF8eRke-pncsYINFYXPvdjDdae_6d1mb2UhsqVs7FBDwZC62vMwETz78_ZUjkp6J8b2Lap-n/s320/Quarantine%20Tomatoes%20.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last Summer's Haul</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Then, I’d add a paranoid quip like:</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">“Don’t worry, I wore gloves when I took them out there!”</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">I find humor to be a highly effective delusion-masking tool.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">It was an unusual period. Add in that we sent the boys away to their grandparents' cottage because as the kind CDC woman put it, “If they haven’t gotten it by now, they’re safer out of the house.” Just what every parent mourning her child about to leave for college wants to hear.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Still…as bursts of energy emerged…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">I made batches and batches of sauce.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Flooded the house with flowers.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Fielded fun pictures from friends enjoying their zinnias and tomatoes.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">What a colorful, juicy contradiction last summer was. Happy running alongside fear, with gratitude the ever-present assist. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">This year, summer’s middle is fast approaching, and I don’t yet have a descriptive. It’s too early to label this full, yet quiet, (where am I?) time. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Except in the garden. In there, the flowers, tomatoes, and herbs are popping alongside the mostly manageable weeds. Harbingers of a beautiful August. <i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">Thankfully, it’s always summer—in the garden. And that’s enough, for now. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></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/AVvXsEicIeImqFIC_KuE4BE9PATgrGaAwHUxjRUJhLHkTtXXIGW8Mu30l5IV0i57YMTKSrlZwzIb_jdRGTWPJePMdth14gXFM2Cp5JCDJBLmKj9u4w0dcZkSyqOX--jsJaSkHBRdMUzkGSJW9KESb2m3S_RFI8OpOmbSBfRSeO3yitGEf_YzLG-6JjRIUDeT/s1280/Flower:Tom%20collage.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIeImqFIC_KuE4BE9PATgrGaAwHUxjRUJhLHkTtXXIGW8Mu30l5IV0i57YMTKSrlZwzIb_jdRGTWPJePMdth14gXFM2Cp5JCDJBLmKj9u4w0dcZkSyqOX--jsJaSkHBRdMUzkGSJW9KESb2m3S_RFI8OpOmbSBfRSeO3yitGEf_YzLG-6JjRIUDeT/s320/Flower:Tom%20collage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Summer, So Far...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><br />Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-3617078199358274362022-02-04T04:08:00.001-08:002022-02-04T04:10:58.049-08:00Either Way<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPHLfusU7Q3yTndykkbH9MVEBFwRkJsJWFvb9Wi4my-_9pkv_MxgsEcVjdFsu_ySKjVRffT_6C7xeuZPZU4z7eDYvL4N7mV6PljUKU5VQNMHJULWftUXZp0gdYQzBGD4ZiU0YoysgC2LYAXSimkiZtSpILxWCXKFUFr0ukP1Pb8D0Pj0IBULUlges9=s750" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="750" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPHLfusU7Q3yTndykkbH9MVEBFwRkJsJWFvb9Wi4my-_9pkv_MxgsEcVjdFsu_ySKjVRffT_6C7xeuZPZU4z7eDYvL4N7mV6PljUKU5VQNMHJULWftUXZp0gdYQzBGD4ZiU0YoysgC2LYAXSimkiZtSpILxWCXKFUFr0ukP1Pb8D0Pj0IBULUlges9=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Having a Daisy means twice daily walks. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Fortunately, I love being outside and I adore my dog but not all days are created equal. Some are jam-packed with obligation, others bursting with snow, still others are teeming with lazy. Doesn’t matter, Daisy needs to walk.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We have our familiar routes. The short, the medium, and the long with the “wooded” jaunt mixed in. You would think being the human in this equation that I would control which path we take. That would be too simplistic a conclusion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Daisy has a decidedly determined nature. She is not easily taken off-task.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When we get to the milestones, the obvious decision points where Daisy knows left means long and right means short, if she doesn’t agree with my decision, she plants her behind on the sidewalk and motions with her neck to say, “This way.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She’s so darned cute and stubborn. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Most days she nudges me toward the larger loop—which means more exercise and fresh air for both of us. Occasionally, I pull rank with a “Nope, not today” when work or dinner or new episodes of Ozark are calling.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Whichever route we take, I never return home thinking, “Wish that walk was shorter!” It’s always the other way around. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj25JwxWFL9Gd0eKs-_dt4CtuBAPOIwaKg6z1gLKpOTjrcvdsvw_WGX1qmYaR3_A3hGx8fZFYWpYYjcO6mFNOtAhXiqFYopGJGURfRuwKEAeTEzK59jPKDEEJQSQ_euxxgbY19CnMLTqOgLAS0SOPDJzAmV_no3frIgKfI9OaP6N3ERQSwPtqziWc9D=s1280" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj25JwxWFL9Gd0eKs-_dt4CtuBAPOIwaKg6z1gLKpOTjrcvdsvw_WGX1qmYaR3_A3hGx8fZFYWpYYjcO6mFNOtAhXiqFYopGJGURfRuwKEAeTEzK59jPKDEEJQSQ_euxxgbY19CnMLTqOgLAS0SOPDJzAmV_no3frIgKfI9OaP6N3ERQSwPtqziWc9D=w400-h400" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">As motivating as Daisy is to get me outside and moving, she is the opposite when it come to my writing. In that process, she is my…detractor, preventor, saboteur.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The warm snuggler that begs me to hit the snooze button again. The tap, tapper, wanting me to play or go for a walk. It takes willpower to say no to that face. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-family: arial;"><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>But I mostly do because Daisy isn’t the only one with stubborn as a character trait.</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Words and I have a mutually beneficial relationship. After tossing them around for any length of time, I’m happier, more content, energized. And the world makes loads more sense to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That said, I am, as the writing community calls us, a “pantser” which means that while I have a general idea of where the story is going, the characters give me the details. I fly by the seat of their pants as I write.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Unlike the tried-and-true routes that Daisy and I have carved out for our daily walks, storytelling necessitates taking unknown paths—ones filled with heartbreak and possibility. Not knowing what will happen next is exhilarating.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Until it’s time for editing. That’s when we—the characters and me—must sort out if we like where they landed or if there is a more genuine destination. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Editing usually feels like walking in circles looking for potholes that go deeper, then clawing my way out alongside my characters, the whole time wondering…do we always have to go the long way? It’s a fraught process.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And just as I am about to throw my hands up and stare off into space wondering, “Why?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Daisy comes tap, tapping and it’s my moment to decide. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Keep going in here or out there?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Luckily, either way I win. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /><o:p><br /></o:p></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-82509087756304789642021-11-01T14:16:00.003-07:002021-11-05T05:52:40.719-07:00Life Prompts<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhw8BMXLs7qvV-7m5Vj_8a454nlFNDd1lbOF6s9jvZBXTlJsl-uTFuEOjabYnPv_RT76BHPAc_D6aGGch2sS9PV_oNkrFR4dACFJ-mAV0yk3r_HAyPNc34GDtf2jUyC2FjkYsztVW_24k/s2048/Closer+writing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhw8BMXLs7qvV-7m5Vj_8a454nlFNDd1lbOF6s9jvZBXTlJsl-uTFuEOjabYnPv_RT76BHPAc_D6aGGch2sS9PV_oNkrFR4dACFJ-mAV0yk3r_HAyPNc34GDtf2jUyC2FjkYsztVW_24k/s320/Closer+writing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It takes a lot of mental, physical, and emotional energy to write—anything. A sentence, a book, a poem, a letter. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We writers mostly write alone. But we can’t do it alone. We need the world around us, to present itself. Then it’s up to us to…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Dare<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sit<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Think<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hope<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Dream<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Write.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I used to believe the best place to start was with the dripping moments—the giving birth highs and saying goodbye lows. It’s not. Those memories meld to the DNA, forever changing our make-up. Finding words worthy of those soul-poppers takes a lot of practice.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">While I practiced, I led a writing workshop in the town where I live for many years. The class was for anyone and everyone who wanted to…Just Write.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>What I learned?</i> Writing is about seeing and being seen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Most folks showed up with more than a little hesitation about being seen. Drawing attention to an everyday act or emotion was often viewed as boastful, akin to dipping your toe into a self-grandiosity pond where you might quickly drown or start believing that you were special. Or worse, find out that you weren’t. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I could immediately relate because my generation was taught that there was a pecking order to who was seen. That you earned the right, through credentials or pedigree to be a this or a that. Being seen was an honor reserved for worthy types or outliers who’d achieved.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It’s human nature to compare ourselves to others then assign worth based on a set of data points we value. Problem is, when we sort ourselves and others this way, we negate what makes for good writing…the unexpected, the raw, the scraps that haven’t seen light yet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For the first class, I started by talking about my background—a credo to my worthiness—proof that I should be standing in the front of the classroom. It was tedious and made me feel like a poser, so I stopped. By the second session, I formed a circle with the classroom chairs so there was no front of class and began with what I actually believed:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“What makes us all writers is that we write. For the next several weeks, commit to stringing words together to understand yourself and the world around you a little better. That’s it. The words don’t need to be grammatically perfect or profound, they just need to be written, by you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I usually started with a prompt that had been given to me, at a writing workshop, I’d attended. “Write about your dinner table growing up.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Then, off we’d go, in search of truth or fiction or both.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrABIcx7FUem6Rsz5_laYdVNjWMNNJQOSSDEvNM2BUaUKHWbK9UVJcb7F5tNOlAZY_a0Z1-U1I_2gVVmmZ19RvrVu96EFLssWMPmeJkG6TSgk15HfLWwaUBDlAf-woFfLByl5Yl-ddUng/s800/Maid--Alex.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrABIcx7FUem6Rsz5_laYdVNjWMNNJQOSSDEvNM2BUaUKHWbK9UVJcb7F5tNOlAZY_a0Z1-U1I_2gVVmmZ19RvrVu96EFLssWMPmeJkG6TSgk15HfLWwaUBDlAf-woFfLByl5Yl-ddUng/s320/Maid--Alex.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maid on Netflix, book by Stephanie Land</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">All of this came rushing back recently while watching the immensely moving Netflix series Maid, based on the book by Stephanie Land. After journeying with this character through an emotional story about abuse, massive disappointment and personal growth, there was a very simple scene toward the end where she shares her love of writing with a group of women.</span></p><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The character, Alex, begins by saying, “No one can take writing away from you. Or tell you that your words are wrong. Because they’re not. Your words are f*in right cause they’re yours.” She then invites the woman to write with her. “I brought some writing prompts that I got from a real professor off the internet that is actually qualified to teach things.” </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was a sideswipe of a plot point, but wow did it resonate with me. Alex struggling to embrace her value while encouraging other women with shared experiences permission to do the same. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It’s a simple but powerful truth. We all crave permission.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sometimes we give the permission to ourselves and sometimes we share it with others. Sometimes we do both at the same time. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And hopefully over time we see that life prompts are everywhere, willing us to…<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Take the blurry picture <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dance the imperfect dance<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Sing the song off-key<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Kick the ball before we know how<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Wrestle with words—until they’re unapologetically ours.<o:p></o:p></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-66051895483415367222021-09-01T15:59:00.005-07:002021-09-01T16:08:31.020-07:00What I Was Thinking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyFPh6skGrfNRV4aeBPA2hzZU5pJv8C16fN3cWLgty36OCZZGEf91Sqn1MdlaWAErvXClFwyizQr5Up-JRMQftoPpl7J5TMU8hWVHamIrsBu-lGKAHhzkciIZJqYv_xMIr2lQYl4t5ROU/s1170/Poduim.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="1170" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyFPh6skGrfNRV4aeBPA2hzZU5pJv8C16fN3cWLgty36OCZZGEf91Sqn1MdlaWAErvXClFwyizQr5Up-JRMQftoPpl7J5TMU8hWVHamIrsBu-lGKAHhzkciIZJqYv_xMIr2lQYl4t5ROU/s320/Poduim.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span>“How did I do?” he asks, moments after the graduation ceremony ends. “I could see you clearly when I was up there, and you had this look on your face, but I couldn’t tell what you were thinking.”<br /></span><o:p> <br /></o:p><i>Oh, um…<br /></i><o:p> <br /></o:p>My kid is up there giving the senior speech and he looks more man than boy. When did that happen? <br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>The guy at the podium was born like fourteen seconds ago, in one of the snowiest winters on record, to two scared parents who’d just moved away from family to an entirely new town and state. Everything was strange but promising and…<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>Then there was you. Smiley and hungry. Colicky too, every night from 6-9 pm. Which is when your dad would walk you in circles reciting the silliest song that you surely don’t remember:<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p><i>My name is John Robert and I’m in the house<br /></i><i>I’m here to tell you I’m not a little mouse<br /></i><i>I’m almost as big as that (syncopated pause) oak tree<br /></i><i>So…you better start respecting me!<br /></i><i>Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.<br /></i><o:p> <br /></o:p>After the baby, came the little man. The one who proudly pronounced, “Use your imagination!” as the answer to most questions. The one who built towering sculptures out of his toys instead of playing with them. </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhuICosNMIuwN7QU3O3aNUAv1tqM25qs4Uw-2JT3iscNQU-V0Na6iXOJ8tlwUk6CMGdbBaI9cGPNBCjs0HUcAq3QLeQT9Gh0BY9bBzsIKp_bLOML6GTLXWW840ivCOXOkWSz0BCjl7lE/s1280/Scally.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhuICosNMIuwN7QU3O3aNUAv1tqM25qs4Uw-2JT3iscNQU-V0Na6iXOJ8tlwUk6CMGdbBaI9cGPNBCjs0HUcAq3QLeQT9Gh0BY9bBzsIKp_bLOML6GTLXWW840ivCOXOkWSz0BCjl7lE/s320/Scally.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">That little man grew into a cautious but persistent tween who preferred an Irish cap to a baseball hat and was prone to telling wildly entertaining stories that we knew to be hyperbole, but we played along anyway. Cause those stories also came with seeds of wit and grace.</span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The same qualities that are now on full display as the guy at the podium commemorates a rite of passage while his classmates laugh and cheer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">“I was overwhelmed with pride. That was a big deal and you knocked it out of the park. A smile was too simple a reaction for my face,” I tell him. He laughs. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">It’s impossible for him to comprehend the mere surface of my love. How could he? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I want to freeze time. This moment we’re in—and live it over and over and over again. While he is still mostly mine and not the world’s quite yet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">That’s what I was thinking.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><br /></b></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/AVvXsEiEP-mchNO0CSx2yj8dRhdCKf57LnhB3OSluSc8O8gKboYXO8Lzmmc-RKBDalV9IW7b1yV9b2Kwj1CodzcLzHNv4sdCBGnzZBcc0_F0fsFX_aZWYNgpsD0VtpJpARAOLrqany6kSmunwr4/s1280/Collage-MI.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEP-mchNO0CSx2yj8dRhdCKf57LnhB3OSluSc8O8gKboYXO8Lzmmc-RKBDalV9IW7b1yV9b2Kwj1CodzcLzHNv4sdCBGnzZBcc0_F0fsFX_aZWYNgpsD0VtpJpARAOLrqany6kSmunwr4/s320/Collage-MI.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I couldn't freeze time...<br />Move-in Day at Columbia University!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /><b><br /></b></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-87698934184304263482021-07-25T06:14:00.001-07:002021-07-25T06:16:19.239-07:00The Middle (In The Garden)<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtwmhitNxJ2TR0Ky30owdz7-e_8rdKVGTrhDgxMHt3GG1X3KW-Tv4w9qiVRv93cTynqsprhhid_j2dl9SNHaQ_H5sKD4sZTc9qxvB-Tt9dQRB3s8pCLxXu1csay_9CWXHH6T-GB300zI/s1800/The+Middle%252C+in+the+Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1350" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtwmhitNxJ2TR0Ky30owdz7-e_8rdKVGTrhDgxMHt3GG1X3KW-Tv4w9qiVRv93cTynqsprhhid_j2dl9SNHaQ_H5sKD4sZTc9qxvB-Tt9dQRB3s8pCLxXu1csay_9CWXHH6T-GB300zI/w300-h400/The+Middle%252C+in+the+Garden.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><b><br /></b></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b style="font-family: arial;">It’s a mystical, murky mess in the middle.</b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">July into August, in the garden, is where hard work collides with luck, producing a snapshot of reality. Where the distance between “Is this really worth it?” and “Those are amazing!” is a short, predictable stroll. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: arial;">Quick crop update:</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> the peppers are once again underperforming. The cauliflower started out with promise but now is a bug infested mess. The basil has taken over. There is so much that I’ve incorporated it into most meals. (Turns out basil is DELICIOUS in scrambled eggs.)</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The over-achieving crop of the season? By far, the flowers. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Last year toward the end of summer, I lamented to a friend that the herbs and tomatoes were the season’s lone stars. She suggested I do a combo next year. A mixture of flowers and vegetables. The idea intrigued me. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I am a flower enthusiast. But the planning of flower beds—the quest for the optimal balance of annual and perennial pop—just doesn’t tug at me. Cut flowers, however, are always on my grocery list. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mid-winter a book arrived in my mailbox titled </span><i style="font-family: arial;">In Bloom by Clare Nolan</i><span style="font-family: arial;">. I scanned each picture and read some of the content, but I am not a research driven DYI’er. I’m more of a throw some seeds in the dirt and hope for the best kind of gal. Which is exactly what I did in late May.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was impossible in the early days to discern the fledgling buds from the weeds. I did my best, then made a chicken wire fence around their perimeter and let them be. Now the wild back garden border complete with cosmos and sunflowers is a wonder to behold and best of all: carefree. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSJEdA0RWEZ5tG-eBZ_RBAC1BG4TpiDth9lLEMygQpPHG8U7_ttfT7LmyWdMMZCU9OSddJi7oyJt3L4fAzcGS8APpAl-30yzHYvY-PQ2BQplxkW1Qq4ejtL0_LlrJncJ9CFX7vgsfyOk/s2016/Bee+Shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSJEdA0RWEZ5tG-eBZ_RBAC1BG4TpiDth9lLEMygQpPHG8U7_ttfT7LmyWdMMZCU9OSddJi7oyJt3L4fAzcGS8APpAl-30yzHYvY-PQ2BQplxkW1Qq4ejtL0_LlrJncJ9CFX7vgsfyOk/w240-h320/Bee+Shot.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;">I also planted zinnia plants (not quite the same gamble as seeds). Just a few on the edge of the garden bordering my neighbor, near the peppers. I thought maybe the zinnias would give the slackers a pep talk. No such luck, the peppers are barely peppering. But the zinnias are visual rocket ships to joyland. Endless fireworks all day. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Other than the flowers, only a few cucumbers and wax beans have been harvested. Unless you count the dill, parsley, and basil that could fuel a small country. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There is a section in <i>In Bloom</i> titled “Enjoying the Fruits of Your Labor.” That’s the stage that comes next. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But for now, we are solidly in the middle. Where misshapen rows of green tomatoes meet jumbo dill and thriving weeds in a glorious, tangled display. All under the watchful eye of the shooting-star zinnias and cosmos. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Further proof that Mother Nature doesn’t subscribe to human intention. She’s too busy surpassing our wildest expectations. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-31810863756032390212021-06-04T07:04:00.001-07:002021-06-04T07:47:57.183-07:00Even If I'm Not Quite Ready<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPQ-HFjSJ_HBZqdOc5Z8wK6YaXBefGuKEXeQEQAxzrhUTo7wwZdVz8nE_P6nMPV5xF3ReCiRNPwYb13lHFgcgGipbZq578Dsh-SKYrAhu1Pllvhq7Gb_zQPnGEEU80huKZmWEnFk1c6k/s2016/Horiz+Cauliflower.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPQ-HFjSJ_HBZqdOc5Z8wK6YaXBefGuKEXeQEQAxzrhUTo7wwZdVz8nE_P6nMPV5xF3ReCiRNPwYb13lHFgcgGipbZq578Dsh-SKYrAhu1Pllvhq7Gb_zQPnGEEU80huKZmWEnFk1c6k/w400-h300/Horiz+Cauliflower.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The beginning, in the garden, is all about possibility. <br /></span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">And questions:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]-->Should I go heavy on tomatoes since they always grow the best?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]-->Or lean adventurous with new varieties of garlic and onions?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]-->Is this the year to finally stop attempting peppers?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]-->Is there any point in planting beans when I know they are bunny caviar?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]-->What is the appropriate fence height? (Last year my garden was basically a wild-life buffet.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">It helps to ask questions. Questions (and the subsequent answers) come with an air of controlled understanding. But the truth is much of what happens in the garden defies reason and planning. You can time the seeds, plant the right combination, guard the fledgling newbie growths, and…Mother Nature has other ideas. Major hang-on-to-your-sunhat, take-cover kind of plans.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">For instance, ten ninety-degree days in a row, which a month after planning (I’ve noticed) can be ideal. But at weeks one or two, is almost always fatal. You can water and water (and water too much) but if scorched earth is how the plants are greeted as they enter even fertile soil, full plant potential is rarely realized.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">This year I planted just as a three-day rain torrent hit. I knew the rain was coming but gambled that moisture balanced by subsequent forecasted heat might play out as balance? I had no choice. After a spring of familial milestones, there was no emotional bandwidth or time to be found in early May for thoughtful planting. This year, the edge of unofficial summer, was the best that I could do.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">When my superhero neighbor saw me feverishly planting, he asked if we might want to combine fencing efforts to keep the vermin out. I gladly obliged. The result? A big open concept garden that will no longer have an awkward weedy path between our plots. He also offered me his extra pepper plants. How could I say no? Peppers: this is your last chance. </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo5xMOMitm27dzZIPcM4HZrv8egCtRJ0pkXjIrXBhOdHFR64u2g0Ww0O1qLS5NYWnWxknsyWxU50uwgrYT8jeUQVc5vHl8mx7pFNDtIsWwCmsWEQyi3ejR1TlQkFj2KHHCirCTaqCiSo4/s960/John+gardening.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">That’s life, in the garden. Each year is different, new. <br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNuWf7MHFmfYchVZh7ukQRlGvhATRK2Srp7vzGyWhyphenhyphendcLZwbTNOb0KzGxBTqn4xABtiPbV4qq57Lrtt1K3au0Kr50XcDdICQljb9ktOIrQKdblV0S-ix9_LtH01Uyf36DmDX9sLjiXJwI/s960/John+gardening.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNuWf7MHFmfYchVZh7ukQRlGvhATRK2Srp7vzGyWhyphenhyphendcLZwbTNOb0KzGxBTqn4xABtiPbV4qq57Lrtt1K3au0Kr50XcDdICQljb9ktOIrQKdblV0S-ix9_LtH01Uyf36DmDX9sLjiXJwI/s320/John+gardening.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John The Backyard Farmer, circa 2016</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">You give it your best. You water and prune and tend to the plants as if they’re your children. The children who used to plan “opening day” in the garden and choose the crop with you. The children who would enthusiastically ask, “is this from the garden?” at late summer dinners. The same children who now rarely make it out to the backyard because they have time consuming gardens of their own now. Not actual gardens but real-life endeavors. (Work with me here it’s a metaphor.) </span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The central purpose of a garden is of course to grow food, but time spent in the garden serves up other benefits too. <i>Excitement</i> for the season that lies ahead. <i>Trust </i>that Mother Nature is doing her thing. <i>Appreciation</i> for whatever fruits come from all that labor. <i>Acceptance</i> of the inevitable melancholy that will undoubtedly take root when it’s time to let go. (No…I’m not talking about the peppers. But the damn onions are already getting in my eyes!) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">It’s time even if I’m not quite ready. For summer, in the garden.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-71988282846691899322021-05-06T03:37:00.001-07:002021-05-06T03:37:08.843-07:0021!<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUyuBrofDzqJFSIsmq03fmXRK5FOrw6r0LrB7CXuBBuf8Bkr-x_l_rMCP62LPAyjcSHccsF1kX3rnZJ2hJeRo8UUdbvJWb0qFH0N51twRcH6V4D5R6yBgPey2EA9kZbZ1PpZkAMU405k/s960/Dancing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUyuBrofDzqJFSIsmq03fmXRK5FOrw6r0LrB7CXuBBuf8Bkr-x_l_rMCP62LPAyjcSHccsF1kX3rnZJ2hJeRo8UUdbvJWb0qFH0N51twRcH6V4D5R6yBgPey2EA9kZbZ1PpZkAMU405k/w400-h300/Dancing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />I’ve always preferred even years. I ever-so-slightly exhale when an odd one passes, and evenness is once again ushered in. Maybe it’s because I’ve had many happy milestones in even years? Or maybe it’s my gravitational pull toward symmetry.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But 2020 blew my previously held belief to smithereens. It’s going to be a while before the grudge lifts, and I crave a perfectly round number.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">This time last year (as though I need to paint the picture) we were barely leaving our house except to engage in toilet paper scavenger hunts. It was a very unsettling, strange time and so when my husband announced that he was “taking a half day” on our anniversary, my reply was not one of a new bride.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Why?” I asked. “We can’t do anything.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">May 6, 2020 was our 20<sup>th</sup> wedding anniversary. We were married in one of those even years that I’d previously loved so much.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">With worry lurking on every doorknob, we hadn’t so much as ordered takeout since the world shut down. What exactly did he propose we do to celebrate two decades?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Luckily there are times when history outpaces youth. When decades of happy moments and monumental misses merge to form a perfectly clear view. (As regular readers of this blog know I have trouble feigning grace when days like say Mother’s Day <span style="font-family: Wingdings;"></span> aren’t given their due. ) <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Perhaps the greatest gift of all time? He knew before I did what we were going to do.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We packed a picnic and made our way to a slice of green by the water in a town that we hadn’t visited since the kids were little. He and I laughed at how silly we must have looked, day-sipping in a park on a Wednesday in the middle of the apocalypse. But there we stayed, reminiscing until our bladders announced that it was time to go home.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The weather was overcast and the food scrappy, but the company was made of the stuff of 20 years. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH4unHaeNYCCN9QG-dByq2zaZ3BBJLvbQogOL5UAOlh24CmkfmsLwOmRictTnN_HVHTUG54IXEmk9ZkZJ2ZAueGd95o1dqiNeGWlJR91WPmlWyLPyPVThwI2brnMgVaH10Iwh-2ZkVOM4/s1800/Happy+21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH4unHaeNYCCN9QG-dByq2zaZ3BBJLvbQogOL5UAOlh24CmkfmsLwOmRictTnN_HVHTUG54IXEmk9ZkZJ2ZAueGd95o1dqiNeGWlJR91WPmlWyLPyPVThwI2brnMgVaH10Iwh-2ZkVOM4/w266-h400/Happy+21.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>Fast forward (Who am I kidding? It was slow motion!) and it’s one year later. Vaccinations are complete and the slightest bit of hope is on the horizon. We’re not yet inside restaurant eaters, but we happily enjoy a patio evening out now and then. <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">So here we are looking at the weather forecast, mulling where to make our anniversary plans. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And my mind keeps wandering… to that little patch of grass overlooking the Connecticut River. A true bright spot in an otherwise not-so-even year. A memory that I'll re-live over and over, with any luck for the next 20 years. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: right;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></p><br />Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-33004026342125288942021-03-20T12:06:00.002-07:002021-03-20T12:06:55.388-07:00A Year in TV<br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ik_2w_rO9r6ao06lnl2IzkwcAN61ymSEDUtbjrki3HpNtg1lO7jCQXN5j5ip8o3tKM2E_OggSx7u5Z97ps6ma1CK59VX96Q-neLVeLzmC7L4mr44WElJknuyeWAQYu8kyKVFATphYs4/s275/Couch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ik_2w_rO9r6ao06lnl2IzkwcAN61ymSEDUtbjrki3HpNtg1lO7jCQXN5j5ip8o3tKM2E_OggSx7u5Z97ps6ma1CK59VX96Q-neLVeLzmC7L4mr44WElJknuyeWAQYu8kyKVFATphYs4/w320-h213/Couch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div>When the pandemic started now over a year ago, I, like most people wasn’t sure how to feel about what was happening. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lucky. I settled on that emotion first. More time with my loved ones. Time to cook lingering meals and have real conversation now that all of the external bustle was temporarily gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lucky lasted a while.
Then, right around the time lucky was morphing into disbelief, a friend made a dramatic plea on Facebook that <b>Mad Men</b> was leaving Netflix soon. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Who cares? I thought.</i> But, just to be safe, I hit the glorious dun, dun button on the remote control and sank into the 1960s misogyny, glamour, and smoke-filled rooms. It took me a few episodes but soon I was in, deep. I stopped watching the endless loop of horrific news and was happily lost in the self-deprecating cast of horribles and heroines. I’d never watched TV during the day before. But before long my daytime consumption started to rival Don Draper’s day-drinking. It felt wrong and simultaneously right, and in moments a huge waste of time but mostly great. I made it through the many seasons before Netflix snapped my Mad Men away. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Really, Holly, you have to try it again!” friend after friend told me. With Mad Men in the rearview mirror and the pandemic ramping up, I did try <b>Schitts Creek</b>, again.
The second time around, I once again found the first episode self-indulgent and almost impossible to watch. <i>Why does anyone care about these people? </i></div><div><br /></div><div>By episode three or four, I got that that was the whole point and began caring about each and every character. (Maybe a little too much?) I started to rope family members into watching with me as I cooked dinner or over coffee (oh, the shame) and soon we were having “who’s your favorite character?” contests while drawing straws for who would don the hazmat suit and go to the grocery store. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I reached the final season of Schitts Creek, my viewing drastically slowed. I didn’t want it to be over. But, alas it was. Almost as quickly as it began. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was also around this time, that my “TV life” was starting to take its toll on my marriage. <i>Okay, that’s an overstatement but makes a good transition, right? </i></div><div><br /></div><div>The truth is for both Mad Men and Schitts Creek, my husband watched once in a while but he’d yet to get sucked in with the intensity that by this point had hit me like a tidal wave. I craved a partner in obsession, so I started asking around: “What are you guys watching? As a couple?” </div><div><br /></div><div>I received a wide array of answers in my unofficial TV poll, but ultimately settled on a series of British mysteries that would unknowingly mark a definitive shift in our TV viewing. </div><div><br /></div><div>I’ll call this next phase: The Howleys Leave America </div><div><br /></div><div>Since all actual trips had been unceremoniously cancelled (we’d been so hopeful back in spring!) our first stop was England via <b>Broadchurch</b>. It was the first series that Rob made me promise not to watch without him. The plot was hardly break-neck, but the characters were comfort embodied. We needed to know: what would happen next? </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, came <b>The Stranger</b>, followed by <b>Doctor Foster</b> (so weird) until finally it was time to leave England for Australia and <b>Safe Harbor</b>, then to Ireland and <b>Behind Her Eyes</b>. </div><div><br /></div><div>All was happy in TV land until fate intervened. As in normal life, pandemic watching can reap havoc on the most solid of TV watching relationships. </div><div><br /></div><div>Enter <b>Derry Girls.</b> </div><div><br /></div><div>What was it that made my 100% Irish (although he’ll tell you he’s half Canadian) partner look away? The wry wit, the sacrilegious undertones, the flagrant generalizations of how the Irish process life?
I’ll never know, because I went on, without him. </div><div><br /></div><div>Watched all of three seasons (they’re short) alone first, then sucked the kids in not mentioning that I’d seen them before, and on a recent sister visit watched a good chunk of the episodes again with her. Because Derry Girls is that fecking awesome. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, there you have it. I am sure I missed a few indulgences. But let’s face it Monday is Thursday is what month is it, anyway? Such as life, TV goes. </div><div> </div><div>I don’t have a new series in the queue, which I guess is okay, because it’s spring and hope is shining bright. Time to go outside. To once again re-convene in small groups, masked and six feet away, of course. </div><div><br /></div><div>But…just in case outside isn’t as glorious as I remember… </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>What are you watching?</b></div>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-57172581403467041262020-12-28T07:11:00.007-08:002021-01-02T09:09:34.220-08:00Dave<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/AVvXsEiwNA_9aaIpMFlO5V338AMcm9X7MkptOzrAn4vFA49mlvvksVChgfFIahOYX6ivpuH2eQ2RUirMY_scOZeesNMtvXAfalxVg_qI1l2AlJiPtdJwIaShbmZIO0g884fB3aTrSAVwxDUarsc/s1512/City.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwNA_9aaIpMFlO5V338AMcm9X7MkptOzrAn4vFA49mlvvksVChgfFIahOYX6ivpuH2eQ2RUirMY_scOZeesNMtvXAfalxVg_qI1l2AlJiPtdJwIaShbmZIO0g884fB3aTrSAVwxDUarsc/s320/City.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Umbrellas Over Manhattan by Dave Magee</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Memory is a funny thing. It leaves room for emotional translation. Space for the undercurrent of what was and what might have been.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My first memory of meeting Dave was while standing at a community bulletin board in a favorite local coffee shop—a recently opened out-of-the way establishment that made this young (ish) mom feel more me. Even though it was a stone’s throw from my boys’ preschool, somehow I felt happily lost and tucked away the moment I stepped in. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">On this particular day, I’d consumed my coffee and packed up my computer when I noticed an intricate postcard, smaller than the other posters that read (something like): <b>Writers in the Barn. Meet and share your stories. All are welcome.<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I recall thinking two things: <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Interesting <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Weird<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">That probably would have been it for me on that topic. I was—had always been—a writer and had plenty of stories to share. But, now I was a mother too who was learning the serious business of shaping fledgling lives and was finding the endeavor all-consuming.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Mothers didn’t go to barns in towns where they were still new to “share their stories.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i>Or did they?</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Know anyone?” he asked. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Again, if I am being honest, I don’t remember what Dave was wearing that day. But since that moment was the beginning of a fifteen year friendship—one where my mind can compilate the mix of outdoor ordinary and touch of whack that was Dave—I’m going to say he was wearing khakis, a blue fleece, and a wool cap with long pompoms and a feather protruding from it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Um, no well, I am a writer but…” I verbally stumbled.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Look, a writer!” he’d said, reporting back to the gaggle of folks that always surrounded, Dave. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I probably smiled awkwardly and started to leave.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Did you write down the address?” Dave asked.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I nodded. And, this part I remember verbatim. I went back to the bulletin board the next day and wrote down the address, just in case on Monday evening at 6 pm I found myself able and wanting to go to a stranger’s barn to “share my stories.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Which I did—that next Monday and a lot of Mondays for many years. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Those evenings in the barn were creative nirvana. An eclectic mix of people, most of whom are now friends, some of whom have passed on and others that vanished into thin air. That’s what happened in the barn. You arrived, you shared, and you went back to the real world until another Monday rolled around.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">People who lasted more than one meeting in the barn knew the only rule: Be exactly who you are and give the other people around the circle the same opportunity.<o:p></o:p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpMLQOiUejR4w1aPGACRUCOMk1vKQ_QyiBUWRWFPL4iZs9ToTorYmUMvVWEsfs2R8QFM5-UbgKqMxWEcF8sylOIKYd3FaoydK_BSCH4opoPat7TCYdKqh1A7w42AL7HGR8DGS4TPAnH8/s1512/Sunflower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpMLQOiUejR4w1aPGACRUCOMk1vKQ_QyiBUWRWFPL4iZs9ToTorYmUMvVWEsfs2R8QFM5-UbgKqMxWEcF8sylOIKYd3FaoydK_BSCH4opoPat7TCYdKqh1A7w42AL7HGR8DGS4TPAnH8/w290-h290/Sunflower.jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunflower by Dave Magee</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">That was it and it was magical. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The routine of that time in the barn slowly (I am talking snail meets turtle meets sloth kind of pace) started to transform the rest of my week. As soon as Monday was over, I began tackling whatever muse was rattling around in my head. No subject was too small or too large. I had stacks of stories already but why not create new ones?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Dave was a lot of things to a lot of people, a soul too grand to boil down succinctly. But since his recent passing, my brain keeps trying to pinpoint: what was it about Dave?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In those early days, he was my creative whisperer. <i>You’ve got one life; how will you use it? </i>Though he never uttered those words directly, they were baked into every conversation with Dave.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">After he got to know my family (my oldest was a frequenter of his 5 cent art lessons) he became “let’s call Dave” when there was an off-the-beaten-path project like affixing a house number to a lamppost. Dave spent a whole day helping us do just that.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When Dave and his wife moved not too long ago, my boys (all three) lugged boxes and did odd projects “in the barn.” I didn’t go. I wasn’t emotionally ready to pack-up the barn. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maybe that’s the thing that I will most remember about Dave.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Being ready” never held Dave back. He just did.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Share a story. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Make a piece of wood or metal or stone into a unique creation. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Paint life as it appeared to him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Encourage others to do the same.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Move on when it was his time to go.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I will miss our conversations, Dave. But thanks to you, I will always know where to find you. Your address is forever written in my heart.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></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/AVvXsEiQzbHNrh_kwhG8wA20K6kNjj0voz-S26UxyulHpE_W-7TojcuV6nF7KsIaX1GLt18gD_JxF3hYHG9yiRu37SJgvQKlFR_D1a9H0iADEO1uHGBy4Hi8M1cE6SI_j3iOvbKj-VW9JJx-9J8/s1280/So+G.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzbHNrh_kwhG8wA20K6kNjj0voz-S26UxyulHpE_W-7TojcuV6nF7KsIaX1GLt18gD_JxF3hYHG9yiRu37SJgvQKlFR_D1a9H0iADEO1uHGBy4Hi8M1cE6SI_j3iOvbKj-VW9JJx-9J8/w320-h320/So+G.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sketch of me, by Dave, writing in my favorite spot <br />at So G Coffee Roasters.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-34020263265596776282020-09-20T06:27:00.001-07:002020-09-20T06:38:22.045-07:00Done<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOK6uYUzwk8G7GizNiDI-ZmM5J2UTqYgTDvjQNSWpLQ1gHh0S_wjYtXHBHwJZ6cj11brdaXx-hR6ODR2K8QmtIdiZtCwM5WhYpaSheJT17sVDgk2xCD80Rf-k_-umwKuHYeUV5cE6jps/s720/Piglet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOK6uYUzwk8G7GizNiDI-ZmM5J2UTqYgTDvjQNSWpLQ1gHh0S_wjYtXHBHwJZ6cj11brdaXx-hR6ODR2K8QmtIdiZtCwM5WhYpaSheJT17sVDgk2xCD80Rf-k_-umwKuHYeUV5cE6jps/s320/Piglet.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Normally, fall is my favorite time of the year. I welcome the gentler, cozier season after the frenzy of summer slows and the world moves inside by the fire.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Problem is, this summer, while the weather was surely hot the calendar was not. Most plans were postponed and the small group gatherings that we said “yes” to came with a hovering cloud of guilt and apprehension. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Five years ago, if you’d told me a global pandemic was on the way, that would side-line six months and counting, I’d have said: “Is that even possible?” And, then I’d have silently looked forward to being stuck in my house, with the people I love.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I did that. (Please refer to early pandemic blogs.) </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And, now I am officially here to say:<b> I’m done.</b> Time to move the hell on. Which, of course, hardly matters because COVID is not done with all of us. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I am resigned to the severity and ugliness of what we are living through and am determined to do my part to keep this horrible virus away. But accepting what that means, with winter closing in…well, that’s left this comfy-sock-wearing gal stymied. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’ve read the blogs and well-written articles. I’ve meditated and eaten better (some days) and made exercise routine (thank you, neighbor Vicki.) I’ve had the supposed-to-be calming mug of tea and kept a gratitude journal (turns out those don’t work for me).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’ve watched comedians on social media that made me laugh out loud, then consumed Facebook posts that had me spiraling down the rabbit hole of shame and regret. <i>How can they be doing just fine? I’ve wasted the last twenty minutes!<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">So, what do we nesters do when we’re all nested out and there’s no end in sight until potentially next pumpkin carving season? Buy more Halloween candy?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The Halloween candy is indeed lining the shelves—like it’s a normal year. In fact, the candy at my local Stop & Shop is already half gone. Does anyone think the usual princesses and Jack-the-Rippers are going door to door this year? <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Will those of us living in heavily populated neighborhoods leave our lights off? Or, replenish big bowl of candy on our stoops, with a nifty legal disclosure making it clear that we cannot be held liable for viruses caught while consuming snack-sized Snickers.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maybe the people buying that candy are giving in to what anyone over the age of eleven already knows. Halloween is an excuse to buy a big bag of your favorite candy and chow down. And, this year, of all years, we deserve it. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Problem is, if I were to eat a mass quantity of Milk Duds (gosh they are just the best), in my caramel haze, I’d still have to reckon with the fact that this is one of the most difficult, depressing years on record. And, I’d have gained back the two pounds it’s taken me four weeks to lose.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">So, to re-count, I’ve tried:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Exercise<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Eating better<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Meditating<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Herbal Tea<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Gratitude Journal<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Watching funny videos <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A chocolate coma<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And, it’s still 2020. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Perhaps it’s time to do the most difficult thing of all: stop trying. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Nothing is going to turn this year around. In fact, we don’t want to—ever—turn this year around. I want to go forward. And, so far (knock, knock, knock) the earth is still rotating around the sun. So, that’s something.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">In different places and shapes and states of gratitude and chocolate euphoria—we are all collectively moving forward.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And for now (maybe?) that has to be enough.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ifv2jIJfHNNZPjFlWWKSq6sGMZnpSibQ6CtrEYbu4QBYQgPFCHYX7mqs4-Vx3Z9OjOrXM6-i9CqNpdsq6Tdkmfe4XuitKLkKW7VIbyNGhpW5T9atC-Q69X2eQRHQa9i1nZsc1U-p528/s720/Piglet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ifv2jIJfHNNZPjFlWWKSq6sGMZnpSibQ6CtrEYbu4QBYQgPFCHYX7mqs4-Vx3Z9OjOrXM6-i9CqNpdsq6Tdkmfe4XuitKLkKW7VIbyNGhpW5T9atC-Q69X2eQRHQa9i1nZsc1U-p528/s720/Piglet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6gFZ4lDzI4pMcaxkmNVBk1WxMgqavh0ZgHdt-D-XBtac6WyiIFDhwf0sNJJfMYLG91yn0pW9t4lLL2__q7RNmtZuogBka0ny_S_C1WzG6Tyc8L6LoTBgC_HUCKclug6H0lNu5qE4tC0Q/s1512/Sun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6gFZ4lDzI4pMcaxkmNVBk1WxMgqavh0ZgHdt-D-XBtac6WyiIFDhwf0sNJJfMYLG91yn0pW9t4lLL2__q7RNmtZuogBka0ny_S_C1WzG6Tyc8L6LoTBgC_HUCKclug6H0lNu5qE4tC0Q/s320/Sun.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /></div><br /></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-24585435326239191622020-06-19T13:48:00.000-07:002020-06-19T15:09:12.270-07:00Furry Soul Sister<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
We’ve had a reliable pandemic routine, Daisy and me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Early morning snuggles,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mid-morning walks,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Afternoon Zoom interruptions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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(She climbs right on my lap, to say, “Enough!”)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA3hWItU_CUzKBR4hLIEVWi9LDKlpUXMLTNP0zX6lVw3GNV5taM_rs7vWCo3ErgvfSiTnatysel4Ay1HfsBqmYzwL-1pZryRNaFS0tkeKerjUKw3nh30-_FJMH5v9ETb2pAB-z4W_60lc/s1600/D+and+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA3hWItU_CUzKBR4hLIEVWi9LDKlpUXMLTNP0zX6lVw3GNV5taM_rs7vWCo3ErgvfSiTnatysel4Ay1HfsBqmYzwL-1pZryRNaFS0tkeKerjUKw3nh30-_FJMH5v9ETb2pAB-z4W_60lc/s320/D+and+Me.jpg" width="240" /></a>This routine has served us—me—well. There have been many days when daydreaming almost got the best of me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>“When are we getting out of here?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>“When will life be normal again?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>“What is normal, anyway?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Then along comes Daisy to move the day along. She doesn’t prescribe to wallowing. We make a good team.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Which is why the other day when I reached the bottom of our driveway, turned to my left to hook my girl in for our morning walk and she wasn’t there, momentary confusion enveloped me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Maybe she needed a pit stop in the backyard?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Nope, not there.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<i>Did she bolt?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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She does that from time to time to visit a neighbor dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I made my way back up the driveway, I saw that Daisy was sitting in our garage, by the passenger side of my car dutifully wagging her tail, encouraging me to see today’s walk her way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You want to go in the car?” I asked, with special emphasis on the word car.<o:p></o:p></div>
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(My family often reminds me that dogs do not understand sentences. I’m not sure they fully grasp Daisy’s unique intellect, but whatever, I play along.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her tail thumped faster. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A walk by the Connecticut River, that is what getting into the car means to Daisy. Sure, it’d been a while since we walked by the river, but I only had forty-five minutes to walk Daisy, hop in the shower and…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>For god sakes, it’s a pandemic. What am I doing with my day besides staring at a computer, watering vegetables and flowers and making dinner? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I pondered the question for a beat before deciding there was no time for her shenanigans. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Come, on, Daisy,” I said, again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She followed me back down the driveway, this time ready as I fastened the leash until I attempted two steps forward. She sat firm, bolted to the ground.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Come on,” I said, again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her nose shot up in protest, the canine version of a look-away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Fine!” I acquiesced. I too was now craving time away from our usual stroll around the block.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Into the car she and I went, off for the five-mile drive to the Connecticut River. Daisy right beside me, with the AC blowing her hair, we were Thelma and furry Louise.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Soon, the “Oldest Running Ferry in the Country” sign greeted us, along with vaguely familiar scenes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Hortons tilling their spectacular sunflower patch. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A fellow parent that I hadn’t seen since preschools days.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Astute political pleas.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lots and lots of creative hearts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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By the time we made it back to our car, over an hour later, I was sweaty and overwhelmed with a realization that somehow I’d previously overlooked: <i>it’s summer.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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This summer would surely be different, not usual or carefree. But, only the seasons cemented in far-removed nostalgic memory ever truly fit that description. The real ones are a salty mix of chaos and fun obligation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, while “normal” sounded appealing, what I was really craving was the mental freedom to just be…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Starting with a Wednesday morning river walk, just my furry soul sister and me.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2OzTFimiXUH319YdHRNnqIcg_ctnI28JNqatjhqd3QEhlCDQyNtCcvw0frELyIknkzzMvcYOF3gWBUa7vxHZBmRwvcHA9TRBTEbSlxrSJ2pVv5llxUAMxukr08IokqIUSMV7f8d5P-w/s1600/Collage2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2OzTFimiXUH319YdHRNnqIcg_ctnI28JNqatjhqd3QEhlCDQyNtCcvw0frELyIknkzzMvcYOF3gWBUa7vxHZBmRwvcHA9TRBTEbSlxrSJ2pVv5llxUAMxukr08IokqIUSMV7f8d5P-w/s400/Collage2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-37456973257706080132020-05-05T09:41:00.000-07:002020-05-06T05:04:13.372-07:00Imagine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsefJ_e7lk0riW6JKD7ZPf7NoUh9SC1IKmMqQ4A8g7ho9_4j5UTTeKm4eKWG1nKCd2JD21jNvy8GcR-3-yQauGBmGwRw2gw1h77DPpfjK9krHqvLkR2MMGFy1y3x9JMdQbOClgQE7xMs/s1600/Heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsefJ_e7lk0riW6JKD7ZPf7NoUh9SC1IKmMqQ4A8g7ho9_4j5UTTeKm4eKWG1nKCd2JD21jNvy8GcR-3-yQauGBmGwRw2gw1h77DPpfjK9krHqvLkR2MMGFy1y3x9JMdQbOClgQE7xMs/s320/Heart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
If all of the things you were looking forward to, had planned for, and rehearsed in your head like a favorite movie ending,<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Proms, and trips, <o:p></o:p></div>
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Concerts, and work milestones,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tournaments, and<o:p></o:p></div>
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Graduations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Imagine...<br />
Those events: <b>cancelled.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Then, the things you'd started to let go of, like;<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dinner together, at home,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Impromptu back rubs and “meet you on the deck” happy hours,</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Neighbors who formerly tossed a wave, having actual social-distanced conversations,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Teenagers sharing their unhurried views,<o:p></o:p></div>
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You doing more listening than talking (now there was plenty of time for both).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Imagine...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Those pieces:<b> found.</b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And through it all, the waiting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some days anxious,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Other days content,<o:p></o:p><br />
Most days caught in between.</div>
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The whole time knowing <o:p></o:p></div>
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going back<o:p></o:p></div>
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to the unknown, altered, strange<o:p></o:p></div>
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Waiting World<o:p></o:p><br />
would be an honor</div>
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because not everyone would.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Imagine...</b><br />
All of that?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-87834309768606457682020-03-25T07:03:00.000-07:002020-03-25T11:45:22.303-07:00What is there to say?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I am…</b></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">anxious </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">frustrated</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">determined</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">resilient</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">lucky</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2R0wVJDbQc5fpvlFgv4ufH95gmPwrvXk3ZBLK3sKqpUa8RvRrutAUHHADkHapve7_Ph4XJGwRwFD3gKZ7wvGwb7aW-PDmOaxt1EsE9JnIaNTjzfgFHtULO7Rjs4BWpS0XpK5RLJhoNc/s1600/Pic+Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2R0wVJDbQc5fpvlFgv4ufH95gmPwrvXk3ZBLK3sKqpUa8RvRrutAUHHADkHapve7_Ph4XJGwRwFD3gKZ7wvGwb7aW-PDmOaxt1EsE9JnIaNTjzfgFHtULO7Rjs4BWpS0XpK5RLJhoNc/s320/Pic+Collage.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">loved</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">scared</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">apprehensive</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">confused</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">amused</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">bored</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>overwhelmed.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>I wish…</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I could find my focus</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That I knew when this would end so I could “enjoy” it more</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I had more comfy sweatpants</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’d bought more toilet paper before the world went crazy</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I trusted our leaders</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My teenagers were at school with their friends</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I didn’t panic whenever I hear someone sneeze</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>For exactly the family I have.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>I am thankful for…</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Time, at home, with my kids (even when they bicker)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The sun</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For the healthcare workers and truck drivers and grocery store clerks and teachers and…</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Smiling faces of colleagues on Zoom</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Snuggles with Daisy</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Books to write and read </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">New recipes and people at home to eat </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Texting with friends </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Exercise and meditation and</span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Time.</b><br />
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Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-18159110355239852842020-02-19T05:06:00.000-08:002020-02-19T14:04:16.717-08:00The Why<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 8px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKYauS6rnwZFClvVzZqWYfKohJReQD2638gpiy3vulGg8D9-LbDg6-4thNFuqAV4NooFw3e2rXWtFjLWcfqvU97PRKgIK6QoB4eJutN7piiAzZetGbferDnSXUZrFQYQyAz1ZWwiHabc/s1600/creative-reward-ideas-featured.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKYauS6rnwZFClvVzZqWYfKohJReQD2638gpiy3vulGg8D9-LbDg6-4thNFuqAV4NooFw3e2rXWtFjLWcfqvU97PRKgIK6QoB4eJutN7piiAzZetGbferDnSXUZrFQYQyAz1ZWwiHabc/s320/creative-reward-ideas-featured.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“What’s your why?” the trainer asks. We are halfway through a complimentary fitness consultation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Hmmm…Overall Health? Disease prevention? Not having a tourniquet around my stomach when I sit in pants?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Any of those reasons could have done as my why. Come to think of it, all of them <i>should</i> have been the why. And yet, they didn’t seem to answer the question. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Working on that,” was my reply.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“The why is important,” he says, before ushering me to the weight station.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I was a journalism major in college. I am well versed in who, what, when, where and why. In school, the why was the nucleus to which facts radiated. The why was all that mattered back then. If facts were the cardinal directions, the why served as the compass. I was a pioneer discovering truth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Now as the world picks teams based on versions of facts, the whys rendering us all for or against; clarity has left me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Where did my conviction go? Not to mention my waistline.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A few minutes later I am standing in the full length mirror learning correct free weight form. It’s just me and him. The Why Guy. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQ6VSCqG8hb7-XrsjYmGPlbwbRz84CZwNg47gzXfqH00sYWqhiAcJbrcuDOmqvKoNUH9h5DHsfO1R5VnTLO3EWREW360U1oBFdq8pMOdnl7EM1M97d7BlUQsou143_MOc2DDdRZAArhI/s1600/competition-icon-51.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQ6VSCqG8hb7-XrsjYmGPlbwbRz84CZwNg47gzXfqH00sYWqhiAcJbrcuDOmqvKoNUH9h5DHsfO1R5VnTLO3EWREW360U1oBFdq8pMOdnl7EM1M97d7BlUQsou143_MOc2DDdRZAArhI/s200/competition-icon-51.png" width="200" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">He is fixated on showing me the proper way to lift weights. All I can see is the figure in the mirror and she’s most definitely not Jane Fonda—now or back in 80s exercise prime.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Firm core, hips square, butt back,” he says, crossing the room to adjust the music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">What is the proper musical backdrop for a middle-aged weight-form challenged me? He picks Lizzo. I fight back a giggle and recommit to concentration.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Firm core, hips square, wait no…hips back, butt square…that can’t be right. I think it was hips square, butt back, firm core...yeah, that’s it. The words at least. I look absolutely ridiculous. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And that’s when: my why hits me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’d like to take her seriously,” I say, to the me in the mirror. “But not too seriously.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Pardon?” the Why Guy asks, now back from the musical sojourn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Having rejiggered my compass, it's time to clarify the facts. “I don’t get the butt back part.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Don’t giggle. Don’t giggle.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This isn’t going to be easy.</span></div>
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Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-17069590971085081042019-12-09T04:29:00.000-08:002019-12-09T04:39:07.853-08:00That Time of Year<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejBYl47BapeCx3qcJ7IOAfdKB8wuo16WxrAYBSVUp2E-kiBeb6kE5Pc1I-I5j3vFD5jYojuFwT27BKtA1ku6Cx7VGyOmh41XqZ7ToG_VI5_xccP1IAQpnd5myNxeOcCiw4IwP_Vv5WeA/s1600/pareve-christmas-1598x900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1598" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejBYl47BapeCx3qcJ7IOAfdKB8wuo16WxrAYBSVUp2E-kiBeb6kE5Pc1I-I5j3vFD5jYojuFwT27BKtA1ku6Cx7VGyOmh41XqZ7ToG_VI5_xccP1IAQpnd5myNxeOcCiw4IwP_Vv5WeA/s400/pareve-christmas-1598x900.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">September should be the official start of the new year. It has all the makings—leaves rustling, pumpkin infused drinks and front stoops, youngsters buying backpacks and oldsters feeling the urge to sniff number 2 pencils. September is the sweater draped guidance counselor suggesting you consider what comes next. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">January is the “Enough partying! What are you doing with your life?” aunt reminding you that it’s time to take down those tacky ornaments and do your taxes after you’ve shoveled the driveway. </span><br />
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Which is why December is so important. Imperative, really. Sure it’s thirty-one days choked with obligation but if we’re lucky the real-deal moments seep in too.<br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">Like how grandma’s kitchen floor groaned underfoot as she’d lovingly bake that next batch of cookies. There was always a next batch of cookies.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">How it felt to hope with all hoping that you were getting that thing. The thing that is now hard to recall but the feeling, the longing, all these decades later remains.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">The twinkle of candles and conversation around the table. Time spent listening and praying that no adult would take notice that I—the only kid for many years—was paying attention. I learned a lot by just being at the table.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">Eventually when asked, “Holly, what do you think?” I reveled in officially being part of the conversation. And on years when I didn’t have an answer, I’d vow silently that I’d have one next year. An exercise in goal setting 101—more productive than any class I’d ever take in college.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">Now, as the person who often sets the table and buys the cookies (didn’t inherit the baking gene) and lovingly makes the roast, there’s a different kind of longing that invades the season.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">A desire to linger even when the magic is hard to locate under all of the wrapping. To breathe in time with loved ones still at the table. To pray for the health, happiness and dreams of the future table setters. </span><br />
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A deep respect for all of the past Decembers. A nagging knowing that this December will soon be in that category too. A child-like hope that January will be kind.<br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Happy Holidays & New Year!</span></h3>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where Daisy will be when the clock strikes midnight.</td></tr>
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Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-80037935056966127192019-09-23T14:39:00.000-07:002019-09-23T18:12:40.935-07:00To Weed or Not to Weed? That's the editing question.<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Five years ago I was doing a lot of walking with our newest family member. Round and round Daisy and I would go; endless traipsing to drain new puppy energies. I felt like a first time explorer in my own neighborhood, noticing </span><span style="font-kerning: none;">details that I hadn't picked up on before.</span><br />
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Details are matches for the creative mind, sparks to narratives that create a life of their own. Details are different than facts, often quite the opposite actually. </div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Take the young couple who at the time had just moved to our street and were attacking their formerly neglected homestead with a vigor that made me tired just watching. From the grace of his wave and her razor sharp stride (not to mention impeccable taste in wreaths), I assigned him to pharmaceutical sales and she marketing. She was this close to a big promotion and they wanted kids but were unsure of the timing. Best to get the house in shape immediately, just in case.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Farther around the block was a single level yellow home inhabited by an elderly woman who’d managed an office at one of the large insurance companies in town. Despite her passion for work, her true love had been her children and husband. But, all had left her, through life’s natural stages of attrition. Now, so much energy went into her tedious day-to-day routines that she was unable to make it to the edge of her backyard where a pesky weed was flourishing, ravaging her carefully appointed row of shrubs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She would thank, maybe even bake, for a passerby who would just yank that thing. That’s the narrative I’d created as I made my way on to her property. That’s right, I was two steps in with my cute puppy in tow, when reality called. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“What are you doing? That is not your weed!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I backed away as only a semi-sane person would do and hurried us on our way, hoping that whoever did occupy the dwelling was out or at least not looking out the window.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I took another route the next day and the day after that. After all, that weed would still be calling my name.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>I’ve long had a precarious relationship with weeds.</b> In the garden, I’ve learned to eliminate the almighty weed early in the season. Through much trial and error, however, I now know that it’s best to work around most weeds from the mid-season point on. Neatness can quickly become the enemy of the harvest. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But, the weeds I detest most are the non-literal writing kind.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I am a lover of origination. The free flow of getting words down on the page. The internal magic that leaks out as ideas and characters are forming is complete bliss to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My “writers block” comes after the first draft is done. Choosing what gets to stay and what has to go is agony. I can spend hours twisting myself into knots over the simplest of phrases. Deciding one minute I’ve struck profound, then the next complete drivel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Which leads me to a recent coffee walk with two very good friends.</b> We were mid-banter, solving our worlds’ problems when we passed the house, the one level where I’d considered trespassing years before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Look at that!” I chirped, temporarily halting motion. “Do you see that tree? That was once a weed. A weed that I watched grow for weeks and weeks and almost pulled but I didn’t and now it’s a tree!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Luckily my friends know me well and are not phased by my variety of crazy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The shrubs that were once the yard’s center of attention are now dwarfed by the tree. It’s up for debate if the shrubs and the tree co-exist in visual harmony. What’s not up for debate is if I’d yanked that weed all those years ago, there would be no tree. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Which is exactly what I’ve learned about editing over these last few years. Sentences become stories that become manuscripts that with luck (and editing) become books when we give protruding thoughts that don’t belong room to breath. </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Like mid-season pruning, editing necessitates a deeper understanding of process, a healthy respect for weeds. </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I</span>t will always be more comfortable to yank those suckers before they make a mockery of what would otherwise be neat. But then we’d miss out on the trees.</div>
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Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com57tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7345645047357703989.post-34462865812014107492019-08-27T16:42:00.000-07:002019-08-27T16:49:06.140-07:00Summer. In the Garden.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The 2019 line-up: tomatoes, snacking peppers, basil, wax beans, beets, lemongrass, summer squash, zucchini and pumpkins.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This year’s stars? The beets and wax beans. I’ve always had a thing for wax beans—the ones in the can. Salty, soft vegetable candy—that’s how I saw them as a kid.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">As an adult, in the garden, they are crisp and earthy, a touch sweeter than their cousin, the green bean. They barely made it into the house this summer for proper cooking. I mostly munched what I picked as I pulled weeds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The beets were more than fulfilling but I didn’t plant enough. They’re literal, beets. They produce exactly the number that you plant. I have always loved the taste of these ruby gems but feared the cooking, wondering if they were worth all the mess? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">After sampling preparations, I found my stride. Peeled just like a potato, cut into bit size chunks, roasted then drizzled with a little honey, and served on salads with feta cheese or as a colorful weekday side. <i>Yum! Yum! Yum! </i>I no longer fear the almighty beet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Squash, you are my go-to, eat up space, feel good crop. So what the heck happened this year? You took over, as you always do, decisively invading but wow did you underperform. You were all flower and no fruit. I assume it was weather related. Maybe high heat followed by monsoon rains aren’t your optimal growing conditions? I could research reasons on your lackluster results in articles titled, “When Squash Don’t Produce.” But I’m choosing to acknowledge something more existential going on here. <i>You’re sending me a message, aren’t you, Squash?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s time to stop fearing that extra space in the back of the garden and plant crops that I love. I don’t really crave you. I end up giving most of you away to neighbors and co-workers who have a noticeable squash hangover by August 1st. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Dear Squash: You’ve served your purpose over the last nine years. Thank you but I won’t be needing you next year. </i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8KzMwI4RhtT5p3tnlkSTKfBd-4jFZUXqQVxmB7CZcKdThWszvi1irHN5EhjJKcNDwRlR7TJCCv7z2Vo1UJ8LtX7li8jPWbRhD5ZXYhIqeXc_lopvC6S1ZlrEpw3bmnnh6zoUZ6JnKsA/s1600/Tomatoes+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8KzMwI4RhtT5p3tnlkSTKfBd-4jFZUXqQVxmB7CZcKdThWszvi1irHN5EhjJKcNDwRlR7TJCCv7z2Vo1UJ8LtX7li8jPWbRhD5ZXYhIqeXc_lopvC6S1ZlrEpw3bmnnh6zoUZ6JnKsA/s200/Tomatoes+2.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><i></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Finally, there’s the all-star tomatoes unfurling in waves of color well into fall. I planted many varieties this year—yellow, heirloom, purple cherry, beefsteak. Their pompoms of color have only just begun to pepper surrounding green in a veggie fireworks display. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Tomatoes are the dessert of the garden, unapologetic in their balance of sweet and demanding. Pulling the gardener back from new season preoccupations. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">To summer, in the garden.</span></div>
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Holly Howleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098195360066404275noreply@blogger.com4