tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-304589262024-03-13T04:09:43.806-04:00Whatever He SaysNow it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful.
1 Corinthians 4:2 NIV
Semper FidelisBelindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.comBlogger2600125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-68580994479854031312023-08-03T13:32:00.002-04:002023-08-03T13:32:19.965-04:00Letters to the Editor<p> One Sunday morning, a little while ago, I noticed a woman I
hadn't seen before and went to welcome her at the end of the service. I learned
her name was Wendy, and I recognized her last name, McGenerty, from a church we
attended in the early 1970s. It turned out that we had known part of her
extended family.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wendy became a regular attendee and plunged into the church's
life. She found ways to share her gifts as she loves sending handwritten cards
or calling people who need encouragement. She found her niche so effectively
that she became someone you never knew you missed until she showed up! Wendy's
heart beats with gratitude, compassion, and courage that rises above challenging
circumstances.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Soon, Wendy and I discovered that we were both 1950 models and
born within ten days of one another in June of that year, although separated by
the Atlantic Ocean. Our physical proximity diminished when I came to Canada in
1969 as a 19-year-old new bride. I left behind my family, including my mum,
whose love and example continue to shape me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That was why I had to write something in 1981, when I was
30, and The Topic Newspaper invited letters in April on Why My Mother is
Special to Me. My letter was published on April 21, 1981, and I sent the page
to Mum, far away in England. My mum was Dutch; her name was Pieternella Kaatje
Janny Schipper-Cater, and she died in 2012. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have a box with some of the pieces of paper Mum saved—I
think of them as footprints of her life. This week I opened the box and found
the page with the letter I'd written so long ago and had forgotten about. I sat
on my bed, smoothed out the wrinkles as best I could, and reread my letter.
After reading my letter, I continued to read a heartfelt letter about a mother
named Lylla Lonsdale. It was signed by Wendy McGenerty, Newmarket, Age 30.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvE5XEr8EZnjThOQ68TE39gnUJlAgeitXqIx9bqsHBxt0fMmRhWCKunitFl6Ode7zMDwF_VIKcGnDkhFCxArIa3mI200v6jbQSgbBci82sDMFvPUlqBqdgOoLCZQUmPQzV-2_zNSTC8DEuUg1uDKjzG7BKLMJCLlSStsnHg5IRaQjeQ-9pF1rGA/s2192/IMG_8600.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1979" data-original-width="2192" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvE5XEr8EZnjThOQ68TE39gnUJlAgeitXqIx9bqsHBxt0fMmRhWCKunitFl6Ode7zMDwF_VIKcGnDkhFCxArIa3mI200v6jbQSgbBci82sDMFvPUlqBqdgOoLCZQUmPQzV-2_zNSTC8DEuUg1uDKjzG7BKLMJCLlSStsnHg5IRaQjeQ-9pF1rGA/w200-h181/IMG_8600.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">I couldn't wait to tell Wendy what I had discovered and my
awe at the mystery of connections made over time. Wendy recalled writing
something about her beloved mother, but it was 42 years ago, and memory dims! I
was so excited to give her a copy of the page with our letters, side by side,
carefully preserved by my mother.</span></div><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-20189873503767499142023-03-14T21:38:00.002-04:002023-03-14T21:40:48.779-04:00Monsters in the Garage<p> Family gatherings are always an
occasion for reminiscing—and our children, Peter and Brenda, have memories that
have morphed into legends.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>To start with, there was a uniqueness
to our "family." It consisted of our nuclear family plus twelve men
who needed support so that they could one day live more independently. After
breakfast each weekday, a van would take the men to their places of work, and
in the afternoon, around the time the children came home from school when they
were old enough to attend; the men would also come home.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>In addition to an already full house,
one of the children's uncles from England lived with us for two years, and an
aunt came each evening to help the men learn the skills they'd need to live on
their own and take whoever wanted to go out, shopping, all in turn. Meanwhile,
I was always busy shopping for groceries, cleaning, and cooking.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>Each year over the college semester,
from January through March, students taking the Developmental Support Worker
course at Humber College would come in pairs on their field placements, and the
children would get to know them, too.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>It's not hard to see that their
formative years were a-typical, but they never speak of them in terms other
than fondness and pride. Instead, they seem to like telling people they grew up
in a group home.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>We lived in a rented large, rambling
farmhouse on two acres of land overlooking a valley through which a stream
meandered. The field was filled with wildflowers each summer, and a mist hung
over the valley each morning.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>Although our lives were rich in
relationships, if we lacked anywhere, it was in owning anything new. When we
first took up our post at the farmhouse, it was the mid 70's. We had only been
married five years and had two children aged two and four. We brought our
humble belongings, and the previous house parents left behind things they
didn't want, including a big dog with a tough-sounding name to match his
appearance—I believe it was Bullet. It wasn't long before there was a
thunderstorm, and the aptly named Bullet jumped right through the screen in the
front door. We knew it wouldn't work out and returned him to his original
owners.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>The previous house parents left furniture
in the men's part of the house and an ancient fridge in the garage. I guess it
was vintage 1950s because it was smaller than modern fridges and had rounded
corners, and it wasn't Avocado Green or Harvest Gold like the fridges of the
1970s. It must have been white when new, but it had grown rusty over the
decades, and on the front, it had a long, pointy handle that opened the fridge
when lifted.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>There was a breezeway between the house
and the garage, which we called "the verandah," although it wasn't a
verandah. I hung out of one of its windows to hang the laundry on a line with a
pulley.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>The garage was haunted by a gigantic
orb spider, which terrified Brenda. I had read that if you named your fears,
you would overcome them. So I tried calling it Harriet, hoping Brenda would
consider it a pet, but it didn't work.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>Children of busy mothers make up their
own amusement, and, much too late to do anything about it, we've learned of
dangerous escapades in the old barn on the property next door. I am just
grateful that they survived to tell us.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Occasionally, the children would head
for the garage and the ancient refrigerator. They approached the fridge with
wooden sticks—not for fear of Harriet, but because they had learned by
experience that lifting the metal handle could result in an unpleasant electric
shock. Not always—but they didn't like the odds.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Peter and Brenda learned a lot about
relationships and people in their childhood. They also knew that if fear is big
and hairy enough, it will still terrify you, even if you name it Harriet. And
they handily learned that wood does not conduct electricity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-73565143819075113322022-12-24T14:05:00.004-05:002022-12-24T14:14:48.011-05:00An Element of Surprise<p>It was the day of the annual Christmas pot-luck lunch with
my work team and boss at our home. Everyone relaxed and socialized while I
finished my part of the meal, which was, as was tradition, roast beef with
mashed potatoes and Yorkshire Puddings.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The potatoes were mashed, the meat was carved, and the gravy
was made. The side dishes were warmed up, and all that remained was to cook the
Yorkshire Puddings. So I put the muffin tins holding a little oil into the oven
and turned the temperature to high. As I prepared the batter, I listened for
the sizzle of the oil reaching smoking hot, which is always my cue to get the
pans out of the oven and fill them. But, unfortunately, the fat didn't sizzle,
and when I opened the oven door, it was stone cold! The rest of the stove was
evidently working, but the element had hung in long enough to cook the meat and
then died!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With a sigh, I adjusted the plan. There was nothing for it
but to break the news there would be no Yorkshire Puddings this year. At least
everything else was hot and ready to serve. Faces fell in disappointment, but some
in the room seemed to feel a sudden call as though born for the occasion. Then,
gleaming with purpose, a Stove SWAT Team rose to its feet and headed for the
kitchen.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Everything in me wanted to stop them, to bar the kitchen door
and guide everyone to the table, but I could see that a mission was on. Already
there was a man on his knees in front of the open oven door, head deep inside,
with helpers hovering close at hand. The element was burned out, he confirmed. Another
member of the Stove Swat Team said they'd go into town and be back in "no
time" with a new one.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I looked at the cooling meal and, clutching at a skinny
straw, went to find our son-in-law, who happened to be downstairs. He came up
and joined the Stove SWAT team. He quickly surveyed the situation and went to
the garage, where an old stove was handy. He took out its element and brought
it in. Someone went downstairs to turn the power off and said, "I think it's
off." <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> Our</o:p> boss could be counted on to have a story for every
occasion. And, in the days before phones had cameras, I always had a camera
ready to capture the day in photos.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Triggered by the person saying they thought the power was
off, my boss launched into a story about the week before when he removed wiring
for a reno. He had turned the switch off on the panel a few days earlier and, with
that in mind, cut the wire with confidence that it was off. But he was wrong, and
as sparks flew, he and his wire cutters both got a good jolt. He survived the
shock unscathed, but the wire cutters were severely deformed and only useful
afterwards to illustrate the story.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxGjG1Q31dG2bs2K5nx_Tlf8QseZqwPKD9Kf_b7QhlmMXrDZ_ddwdWaOpDPuJ5PnRB1oEcuVAI1NRixqJWeZOAtddZm4qWdZnLZ2OGCPzOTBAv1ZWCjzb6-YwtmWo48BD5Zb_hd4NEXlW9mT5Ksyb0ZhpYDPbnDIqxe-Z3G6ppFAbmL4mD-Gc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="153" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxGjG1Q31dG2bs2K5nx_Tlf8QseZqwPKD9Kf_b7QhlmMXrDZ_ddwdWaOpDPuJ5PnRB1oEcuVAI1NRixqJWeZOAtddZm4qWdZnLZ2OGCPzOTBAv1ZWCjzb6-YwtmWo48BD5Zb_hd4NEXlW9mT5Ksyb0ZhpYDPbnDIqxe-Z3G6ppFAbmL4mD-Gc" width="178" /></a>As our boss regaled us, someone reconnected the stove element, and
I reached for my camera to capture the scene. As the flash went off, the entire
Stove SWAT Team leaped away from the stove, sure that the man inside had gotten
fried. Shock just as quickly turned to gales of laughter.</div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We eventually ate the meal—with "all the fixings!"
And I am telling this story because it has been "on the back burner"
for too long.</p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-51061383632462165742022-02-27T17:27:00.000-05:002022-02-27T17:27:03.159-05:00My Encounter with a High Horse<p> <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My
eyes fluttered open as the grey light of dawn filtered into my room. Stretching
in the warm cocoon of my bed, I reached into the crisp cold air of my bedroom
with outstretched arms. Something important was tugging at my sleepy brain, and
slowly I remembered; I had an adventure planned for this morning!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">
<br />
As quietly as I could, I slipped from between the covers. Then, shivering
and teeth chattering, I quickly dressed and tiptoed downstairs, careful not to
wake my sleeping parents and brother. My parents wouldn't have understood-- and
my brother, three years younger, would have wanted to tag along.<br />
<br />
Leaving the silent house with a couple of apples in my pocket, I stepped
out into a world alive with chirping, twittering bird-song. A short walk from
our house was a meadow, and I ran through the frosty grass towards the paddock.
There stood my friend Merrylegs, who I often stroked on my way to school.
Seeing me, she walked towards the fence, the breath from her nostrils hanging
like puffs of smoke in the cold air. Her warm, velvety nose nuzzled into my
outstretched hand, her lips feeling for the juicy apple. I climbed over the
fence and jumped to the ground, landing with a thud. My aim was to ride
Merrylegs, but I'd never ridden a horse before, and all of a sudden, standing
right beside her, I realized how high she stood. She patiently tolerated my few
valiant attempts to jump on, but my fantasy of galloping around the field would
be unfulfilled, at least on that day!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">Belinda (edited version of a post from 2006)</span></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-72050206968914141862022-02-19T09:24:00.001-05:002022-02-19T09:25:15.957-05:00We Need More of That<p class="MsoNormal">Edited version. First published 18/05/2016</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The sun shone bright, and the day was full of the promise of
spring as our cars converged on the small church standing at the side of a
quiet country road. It was a glorious day for our purpose: remembering someone
who would have loved to be there but who had more pressing business in heaven.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The gathering was informal and
simple, just staff of the agency that had supported the person and
his friends and family. We simply sang songs that were his favourites and
shared our memories. We laughed and wiped away some tears, and we all left with
more than we came with.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I loved all of the stories, but two
shared by one of his support staff stuck with me. To understand them, you need
to know two things: he loved to sing and was irrepressible if the moment called
for a song, and he had an intellectual disability. He left his seat at
one event they were at, mounted the podium, and took the microphone. Then he
sang the song, "Jesus Loves Me," and his staff said there was no dry
eye in the room. He and his support staff would go grocery shopping together
each week, and while she paid the cashier, he would pack the groceries as they
came down the belt--all the while singing his favourite hymn, "All Hail
the Power of Jesus' Name" at the top of his voice. One day a customer
said to her, nodding to the loud singer, "We need more of that."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Later as we had refreshments and
chatted, someone said with a sigh, "Well, he's normal now that he's in
heaven." Inside, my heart cried out, "No!" because,
after all, we had just celebrated someone we all loved so much for who he was,
and "normal" sounded to me like a downgrade. I wish I had said that,
but instead, I just made a little joke and said, "And we will be
too," and everyone laughed and agreed that we were far from
"normal" now ourselves. After I left, I couldn't stop thinking of the
customer's words at the grocery store: We need more of that. Yes, we do.</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> Most of us struggle for
much of our lives with self-esteem and self-acceptance. How different would it
be if each child heard and felt the benediction, "We need more of you?"
from the start and for every day of their lives? I believe that when God
gazes at us, what he thinks is, "We need more of that"--that while we
are always "in process," not one of our basic building blocks--how we
are intrinsically made--is defective or broken but precisely what the world
needs more of. And if only we could let that sink into our soul--the
assurance of our own perfect "belovedness," </span></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-42716639005990605662022-02-07T08:53:00.000-05:002022-02-07T08:53:17.507-05:00On Procrastination<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">I realize that I am using a chunk of my so-called "daily writing time," 1.5 hours, first thing every morning, in "writing study." I love learning, reading, and, sometimes, practicing, but the buzzer rings and I have done little </span><em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">writing. </em><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">So, I thought of separating both things and building in five hours of strictly "writing time" into my weekly writing schedule to be used in one chunk or several smaller increments. This week is my first trial.</span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Here is some wise advice on schedules that I read this morning:</span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">"GO EASY</span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Now that you have your schedules set for reading and writing, don't be too harsh a boss! What's it going to hurt if sometimes you daydream on the job a little or goof around in the kitchen? As long as your working hours are clear, you at least know you ought to be working. You have a schedule to know when you're messing up. </span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Then again...</span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">It won't do to coddle yourself. Not at your desk when you're supposed to be? Call yourself on the phone. Throw a tantrum. Ask yourself where the hell you are. Demand that you get yourself to your desk and get to work. Give yourself the business. Fire yourself if necessary. There are plenty of writers to go around. </span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> A little guilt is a good thing sometimes...</span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> Onward."</span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">From Writing Life Stories by Bill Roorbach with Kirsten Keckler Ph.D., Chapter One, Getting Started, p.24.</span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0e101a; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Today I plan to do exercise 5: First Lines. I've done it before, but I can no longer find my notes on it. It will take some browsing time, so I'll have to be careful to count it from my study time and not skim from my writing time. On second thoughts, writing this down makes me realize that again I am procrastinating. So today I will try using the time instead, first, for really writing, in a chunk of several hours.</span></span></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-56941479551868625822022-02-02T16:05:00.001-05:002022-02-02T16:12:18.389-05:00The Magic Shoe Company<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> Yesterday our granddaughter Tori came to pick up a cheque
that had arrived in our mailbox and stayed for a visit with her mom, Brenda and
me. In the course of the conversation, we talked about customer satisfaction.
However, I can’t recall how we got onto that topic, only that it reminded me of
my satisfying conclusion of a slipper purchase almost a month earlier. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">We were all
sitting on the floor at the time to be less threatening to her shy dog, Kevin,
so I pointed to my feet stretched out in front of me—and my new slippers with
their moccasin-like uppers, cozily trimmed and lined with faux-fur. Tori
appraised them approvingly, “They’re nice,” she said. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">“I love them,” I said, “but
the first pair I bought after spending forever choosing them and thinking they
were perfect began to pinch after several hours of wearing them around the
house. Thinking I’d get used to them, I kept them on despite the discomfort and
even dropped something on them in the kitchen, which I wiped off with a damp
cloth. The next morning, I opened the shoebox to break
it down for recycling and saw the store’s mission statement on the inside of
the lid. It said that they wanted every customer to be pleased with their shoe
purchase, and if they changed their mind about the fit or style after the
purchase, they should return them.” I said that it sounded so convincing that I went back
the next day and exchanged them for the ones I was now wearing, “And” I said, “even
as I was leaving The Magic Shoe Company, the sales assistant reminded me, ‘If there’s
any problem, even up to 90 days, you can bring them back.'”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">“Mom,” said Bren, who was with me for the purchase of the
first pair of slippers, “that wasn’t the name of the shoe store,” and she began
to laugh at the fanciful name she was sure I'd made up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I am never wholly confident in my memory for details, but I knew
that I had the receipt on file. “Find it!” said Bren, so I scrambled to my feet
and went upstairs to look. I found my receipts of that day, one from Soft Mocs,
where I had purchased a pair of lovely dark brown suede slippers for Paul, and
the receipt for mine—from <b>The Famous Shoe Store. </b>Humbly I went
downstairs to admit I’d been wrong, to more laughter from Bren.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> Ah, the whims and
creativity of memory! I read a Russian insult recently that bears this out, “He
lies like an eye-witness.” How true that is! Even Bren, although she knew my quirky
store name was not right, did not recall the correct one. I comfort myself with
that thought!</span><o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-22349172336465428362022-01-28T08:07:00.002-05:002022-01-28T12:37:13.047-05:00I Choose<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I’m studying a book I’ve had for years: Writing Life Stories,
by Bill Roorbach, with Kirsten Keckler Ph.D. I am struck by Bill Roorbach’s
endearing personality, which shines through every line. He is helpful, wry,
funny, and compassionately understanding of the aspiring writer. His book is not
only a pleasure to read but is packed with wisdom. So why did I never apply
myself to reading it? Life! Life in all its busyness can rob us of the best
that is always there waiting for us to choose it. But I realize more than ever
that a choice for something of importance implies excluding much else that is
mere filler and froth. How distracting is the foam on the sand of my life—the rabbit
holes of Facebook and Google are so addictive. But I realize that I cannot
waste precious time and that I need self-control to avoid these tempting
trapdoors. If not, they will win the battle for my time and attention.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">God, I’ve seen mention of self-control in the Bible as a fruit of the Spirit</span></i><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">(Galatians 5:22-25)</span></i><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">. It is both a fruit that grows inwardly and must
be reached for and plucked. I want it. I will seek after it, strive for it. Go
after it. God help me choose to live out the inner determination in conscious,
moment-by-moment discipline and self-control. Because “wasting time” has a more
significant implication at 71 than at 17.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">“Talent alone won’t make you a success. Neither will being
in the right place at the right time, unless you are ready. The most important
question is: Are you ready?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Johnny Carson, quoted by Bill Roorbach<o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-62756269068416889192022-01-24T08:25:00.002-05:002022-01-24T08:29:25.155-05:00Retrospect<p><br /> <span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #2b2b2b;">Labour Day 2015 was
as hot and sultry as high summer. Yet, in the shade of our magnolia tree, I sat
on our small north easterly deck, listening to the chatter of leaves in the
soft breeze, and smiling at the irony that Labour Day, being a holiday, gave me
permission to do nothing at all. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.65pt; margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-CA" style="color: #2b2b2b; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">
I did it--nothing, that is. I simply leaned back into my bright blue resin
Adirondack chair and thought for a while as the cars on the nearby highway
zoomed by as though in another world.<br />
<br />
For me, this Labour Day was the first in 41 years that didn't precede a paid
workday. So I had the freedom, now, to choose how to spend my time and hadn't
stopped thanking God for that privilege several times each day.<br />
<br />
The past year had been intense and busy. So much so that I found I couldn't
write, even though there was so much to write about. At the end of each day, I
had little energy, let alone time, so I focused instead on surviving the stress
of my husband, Paul's heart attack; trying to "end well," at a career
I loved; and fulfilling a dream to travel to Europe with three teenaged granddaughters.<br />
<br />
Here I was, at last, having caught my breath, embarking on a whole new
adventure that felt like "school let out" and "back to
school" all at once!<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.65pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-CA" style="color: #2b2b2b; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I found myself with
time: for investing in relationships in a more profound way; to develop the
craft of writing and more skill in photography; time for building spiritual
muscle; to pray; to exercise my physical body; to read; to have space for God's
agenda.<br />
<br />
None of us knows how much time we have, but it felt like the greatest of riches
to have more as I started this new life chapter. I was so grateful to have
broken the writing ice at last!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.65pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-CA" style="color: #2b2b2b; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">In a nearby church parking
lot stood a row of yellow school buses. Shiny and clean, they had numbers
prominently displayed on their front windows; their seats awaited a new
season's batch of young students. I felt I joined them in this thing—school.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.65pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-CA" style="color: #2b2b2b; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">It's almost six and
a half years since that Labour Day when I contemplated and celebrated a new season.
The past year has been a new season of a different kind, refining and
clarifying focus, with the greater wisdom of more limited time ahead. I've reflected and dug deep to ask myself hard questions in the past year: What do I want? How will I manage to achieve it? Then I found answers and took steps forward. The result has
been new growth and sound change.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-CA" style="color: #2b2b2b; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-CA" style="color: #2b2b2b; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh458mtwta3JY-2fhx9i939vJodzrjB0GI4FCznufCszrSMN8hei-AxJKjoUKlhcDitN5vR9-wUk_nzw_cOsBctf7RxlCUXxsxUzW4Ds00C7c3ocy5pKBbvkfIRAL_tfRaws41vyJ1-Js67Y7PAWWGtiiHbcnbnW8AS6POlk_O4WoXt4QXJa6U=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="4608" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh458mtwta3JY-2fhx9i939vJodzrjB0GI4FCznufCszrSMN8hei-AxJKjoUKlhcDitN5vR9-wUk_nzw_cOsBctf7RxlCUXxsxUzW4Ds00C7c3ocy5pKBbvkfIRAL_tfRaws41vyJ1-Js67Y7PAWWGtiiHbcnbnW8AS6POlk_O4WoXt4QXJa6U=w200-h113" width="200" /></a></span></div><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-CA" style="color: #2b2b2b; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">It never stops this adventure of life and learning. <br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-51769964347411961982022-01-11T07:03:00.002-05:002022-01-11T07:03:46.078-05:00Do All Good Things Come to Those Who Wait?<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I answered the question in the title as a response to today's assignment for my writing group, in which we</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> were asked to argue against a common cliche we chose from a list. I hope you enjoy mine. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">For most of my life, I’ve been the kind of person who made a
change only when circumstances forced me to. The philosophy of “all good things
come to those who wait” seemed to work. But I have come to doubt this
philosophy. It’s not that I’m discounting those who patiently wait or entrust
their hopes and dreams to God and leave them there. On the contrary, my life
following this way of thinking was happy and blessed. But I have taken on a
more active and engaged approach lately and found it invigorating, fruitful,
and even more honouring of God.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Change is deeply uncomfortable for me, although I have
friends who thrive on it and are energized by it for its own sake. I am
learning to embrace change actively instead of passively, though. Perhaps
because realistically, in my seventies, my finish line is close enough to
really matter, I am invested in seizing the days I have left, with more
incredible determination and self-direction, whether they be many or few. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve always encouraged young people not to worry, that God
has a plan for our lives and will direct our paths if we place our lives in his
hands and trust him. I believed that God opened doors for me from an early age,
which I had the good sense and trust to walk through. And he has never failed
to bless. But on the other hand, I grew up in a time when children were expected
to be seen and not heard, taught not to question or contradict adults and when we
often listened to the phrase, “Who do you think you are?” The correct answer was, “Nobody,” it seemed,
or at least, “Not the one in charge.” It was wrong to think highly of oneself,
and humility and obedience were prized traits. Although I married a man who
grew up in the same environment, he fought back against that conditioning; I
accepted it and stifled the questions that arose in my young mind about some of
the things that seemed to make no sense. My survival skills were niceness and accommodation.
I did not rock boats or seize anything, let alone the day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last year I knew that I needed to make an essential change
in a particular area, and I knew that to do so required action and not passive
hoping. It took me much longer than it might have taken others, but I did it, and
for the first time, I felt an energy and pride that I’d not experienced before.
I think that even God might have been wondering if I’d ever move forward in the
wisdom and good sense he’d built into me. Would I ever consider what it was I
wanted—what would make me happy? I did learn to embrace these questions last
year and acted on the answers, working hard for the things in life that would
bring me the greatest joy. The result is becoming a person who is a better
example to others, and one whose remaining days I hope will be defined by well-chosen
purpose, clarity, and greater ease in saying, “No,” to pursuits or
opportunities that do not fit.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Have I arrived? No. Is this all my own brilliant doing? No.
But with the help of friends and family who support, pray and cheer me on, I am
getting there.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All good things come to those who wait? Sometimes, perhaps,
but I now believe that more good things come to those who actively engage in prayerfully
choosing what to pursue and who partner with God to bring them about. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-83201854810569056812022-01-09T08:48:00.008-05:002022-01-09T11:13:45.196-05:00Four Cookbooks and a Yellow Giftbag<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Over this weekend, I inherited four cookbooks. Three came
from my friend, V, who is also the mother of my much-loved son-in-law. V's
force of nature Russian mother, Julia, also a friend I used to visit
occasionally, moved into a retirement home some time ago. One of V's parts in
sorting through her mother's belongings that couldn't move with her included a
small library of cookbooks. She gave me the first refusal at several she
thought I might like and sent photos of their covers so that I could select the
ones I'd like, including a selection last week. Then, on Friday, she came for
dinner with her son and our daughter in our downstairs apartment, which they're
renting for a few months. She brought the three books I'd chosen in a
repurposed cheery bright yellow gift bag: The Oy of Cooking, a treasury of a
Jewish grandmother's recipes, complete with stories; Baking with Julia (no need
to add the last name!) and a book of Amish cooking.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday my friend A came up from the city to pick up an
order of baked goods. I included a couple of extra things I thought she'd like:
a Merry Fruit Loaf and some popular Gingersnaps and a card with New Years' good
wishes. In her hands, she also held a gift for me, a bag containing a cookbook
that had belonged to her late mother, whom she'd loved dearly. She apologized
in advance, saying that it might not be the best shape, but her mother's other
books were all in Armenian. The book was likely given to her by one of their
new Canadian neighbours' many moons ago. I treasured the book the moment it
passed into my hands. When I opened it after A left, I was thrilled with the
book for its own sake. It is a classic from the 1970s, edited by Norma
MacMillan, whom I discovered edited many cookbooks, many for the British
department store, Marks and Spencers. The recipes have two sets of
measurements: British pounds and ounces and North American cups and spoons, and
at the back, there are special instructions for Australian cooks! On Amazon,
the book has 4 global ratings, all 5 stars. I quickly spotted three classic
British recipes I want to try soon: Victoria Sandwich, Dundee Cake, and
Flapjacks (made with Golden Syrup, which Paul loves.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I took V's books from the yellow gift bag, I noticed a
name and phone number on the bag, so I sent a message to her with them. She
thanked me and said that the note was in her late husband's handwriting and she
just could not erase it, after which I told her that now it meant something to
me, too. So yesterday afternoon, I carefully cut out that section of the bag
and glued it into my journal, to which I will add this little story.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-22980617750880457962022-01-08T07:02:00.000-05:002022-01-08T07:02:12.210-05:00More on Listening<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> Yesterday was a day of sleepy exhaustion, and I reluctantly
dragged my feet to start our first Life Group meeting of the year in the
evening. Trying to prepare by reading the chapter for discussion felt so
difficult. I repeatedly tried over two days to get through it, but I was so
tired that I fell asleep every few minutes, and as a result, it took so much
longer than it should have. The topic, “The Art of Spiritual Dialogue,” was a
good one and connected to Brenda Ueland’s essay, “Tell Me More: On the Fine Art
of Listening,” which I had read the day before, the topic of which was the
importance of really listening to others. I do that poorly, I realize, and
maybe everyone does in general. Sometimes it’s because it is an art, and I need
to work at it deliberately, as we must do to acquire any skill. Still,
underlying anxiety often causes me to fill conversational space too quickly
instead of drawing out the other or others around me. I can see this so easily
when someone else does it, and then I want to shout, “Stop talking and listen!”
at the talker, mainly when the person they’re talking to is younger and more
apt to simply defer. Then, I see the dynamic at work so clearly. But I am that
person—all the time. Oh, may this be the year to study, practice, and grow in
that area—learn everything I can and change.</span></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-27650162016400477552022-01-07T08:39:00.000-05:002022-01-07T08:39:23.494-05:00Listening<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Yesterday I read an essay on listening by Brenda Ueland, a
writer whose book, If You Want to Write, inspired and instructed Edna Staebler,
lately one of my writing heroes. I loved and learned from Brenda’s beautifully
written essay on listening. Still, I will reread it today, and perhaps many
times in the future, to absorb it well enough that I can practice what she
describes so brilliantly; to listen intentionally and well.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I remember from my first quick reading that she learned to
really listen in a way that draws something of the speaker out. But, of course,
this doesn’t happen automatically, only in the presence of a skilled listener.
It saddens me that we miss this—that I have missed this—when each person we
encounter has a bright soul and spirit locked up inside unless drawn out into
the light to be revealed and honoured.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Brenda Ueland writes of how she used to prepare for social
occasions by thinking she had to be “on,” She meant by that to be bright and
animated—artificially so—and sometimes aided by cocktails. Somehow she changed
course and instead learned that quieting herself was better. She practiced the
art of drawing out another person and resisting the terrible urge we often have
to interrupt, resist, or oppose the ideas of others. The title of her essay is,
Tell Me More: On the Fine Art of Listening.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-41908228838904230752022-01-04T08:20:00.011-05:002022-01-04T08:30:41.318-05:00<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Words—what a fantastic thing they are! At the moment, a tiny
being is visiting the apartment downstairs. At least twice a day, the door from
the apartment opens, and our daughter, Brenda, announces, “We’re here for a
visit!” Paul and I drop whatever we are doing, and like iron filings to a magnet,
we gather to receive this marvel--a child just twenty-three months in the
world.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The child’s chief joy at the moment is naming, starting with
us, at whom she points, dubbing us with our sweet titles: “Mi-mi,” for Omie,
and “Gandad,” for grandad. “Yes!” we say enthusiastically as she looks up at Brenda for confirmation and affirmation. This wonder-child then proceeds to
name everything else she notices in her surroundings for the next few minutes. “Tree”
(for we still have two Christmas trees standing,) and then the decorations on
the tree—the letter “B” which appears a few times, and an ornament that is “pink,”
and contains “books,” a gift from a friend to me, a book lover. And we respond
with awe at the rapidly growing fount of words with which she names her world.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Naming is such a phenomenal ability when you consider it;
one of the first tasks assigned to Adam and Eve in the story told in the book
of Genesis. The ability to name is a foundational ability and gift to humans.
Words are like arrows in a full quiver, and selecting the perfect one for a
particular use is a joy to the speaker/writer and the listener/reader. Brenda
recently grappled for the right one, and I called out “emblematic” with the
enthusiasm of a game show participant! “Emblematic!” she repeated and turned it
over in her mouth with pleasure, “I love it—I can’t wait to use it with M-,”
and she named a word-loving friend.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Those familiar with the Bible know that in the Gospel of
John, John was inspired to use a strange and powerful metaphor in the very
first verse: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God.” Then in
verse fourteen, he writes: “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among
us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from
the Father, full of grace and truth.”</span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“The Word!” How incredible that the metaphor of “word” was
chosen to describe the one John claimed “was” God communicating to us, “who” he
was—in the most profound sense. He came with an invitation to “know” him
through this one named “the Word.” Some quiver the writer John had--some choice
of words.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-6487310021982173142022-01-03T08:13:00.002-05:002022-01-03T11:27:01.356-05:00New Year Thoughts<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">A new year feels like writing for the first time in a new
journal, one of those special ones gifted by friends who know you love new
journals, no matter how many you have tucked away. Those first lines always feel
so important and significant! Also, opening a new book adds to the sense of
opportunities ahead and a new determination to seize them when hopes to do so
before were subverted by other pressing priorities or the mere lackadaisical way
in which everyday life can steal our promises.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A new year can also overwhelm with thoughts of calls to duty
and responsibilities that seem impossible to fulfill when considered as a whole:
letters to write, rooms to be tidied, organized and decluttered, relationships
to nurture, passions to pursue and latent gifts to practice, polish and hone
into true excellence.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet at the centre is a quiet call to be still and know: “Be
still and know that I am God,” writes the psalmist in Psalm 46, verse 10. The psalm
is written for the director of music, I notice, so perhaps it is perfect for
the directors of the music of our lives, ourselves. The psalm describes the availability of God’s
strength and ever-present help and goes on to paint a picture of the turmoil,
uproar and chaos that can represent life. It ends with an invitation to be still, to experience at our
centre, his presence, a mainstay and comfort. As I contemplate this new year,
that is all I long for as its foundation, </span>direction and<span style="font-family: inherit;"> springboard.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-90572182139651466032021-11-30T06:08:00.000-05:002021-11-30T06:08:04.675-05:00The Gift<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I read the story over lunch a few days before Christmas of 2016. Alone,
I laughed aloud, as it brought to colourful life in my imagination, a hilarious
scenario played out in black on white.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
A day or so later, I was talking to my son, and I said, "Pete, there's a
gift I'd love from you this Christmas."<br />
<br />
"Oh?" he said, surprised, I suppose, at my unusual boldness in
asking. "What is it?"<br />
<br />
"It's a story," I said, "And the gift would be that you would
read it for the rest of the family and me when we all get together for
Christmas." <br />
<br />
He agreed, on condition he might get the story ahead of time to practice.<br />
<br />
Life being busy, he didn't pick up the story ahead of time. But I had not
forgotten, and on Boxing Day, when we all assembled to celebrate what was for
some family members, "Christmas--version # 3, at Omi and Grandad's," I
kept the bright-yellow-covered book with its coffee-stained pages near at hand.<br />
<br />
The house was fragrant with the aromas of Christmas dinner: roasting turkey,
with a stuffing of bread, celery, onion and sage--and colourful winter
vegetables: carrots, turnips and Brussels sprouts. The feast was waiting,
with equally delicious options for the vegan members of the family.<br />
<br />
But first, all eyes were on the coffee table, piled with gifts wrapped lovingly
into the night, in brightly covered tissue, with sparkly bows and decorations.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
We tried to open the gifts one by one so that each could be admired and
acknowledged, but like a train leaving a station, the gifting, opening and
thanking gathered speed, fed by a seemingly unstoppable force. Finally, the
flurry of flying paper, exclamations and laughter reached a sort of grand
Christmas crescendo!<br />
<br />
The careful wrappings of just moments ago were gathered into clear plastic
garbage bags when I surprised everyone by announcing, "I have asked for a
gift from Pete." <br />
<br />
I had everyone's attention, so I continued, "The gift is a story I have
asked him to read out loud. So your part in the gift would be to listen to it
with me. But I'm not sure when would be a good time."<br />
<br />
"How about after we finish our meal?" suggested someone, and to
general assent, the tidying resumed.<br />
<br />
The meal was everything I had hoped it would be, and it seemed to be enjoyed to
the full. No one had room for another bite. Now it was time for the gift I
had been looking forward to for days.<br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Two long tables had been pushed together so that all 13 of us
could sit together for the meal. I handed Pete my book, open to the story.<br />
<br />
Our youngest grandson, Josh, left the table to work on his new Lego project,
promising he'd be listening, and Pete began to read.<br />
<br />
Josh returned to his seat within the first lines, his eyes dancing with humour
as they locked on his dad's in rapt attention. Pete's deep voice broke into
chuckles at several points, and I looked down the table at the faces of our
family laughing out loud with him, not an earbud to be seen. And I received my precious
gift: a moment of shared laughter from words on a page, a present best when shared.<br /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-87424549400400927332021-05-24T15:06:00.002-04:002021-05-24T16:33:24.439-04:00Nature<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAArNPkvM4TN0ea-JNDfa73bACGJkUycLtgW6cjsuGZbwHO0bSjpuP_8IqdnsQ8NRLpEs1Gj1sGDzvps0awK7IOHVGOnjzkiVRmJX2TdSG4LJ1JLxjjO_IsWJ7600GRvdOMrRd5w/s4608/20210524_104148.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2592" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAArNPkvM4TN0ea-JNDfa73bACGJkUycLtgW6cjsuGZbwHO0bSjpuP_8IqdnsQ8NRLpEs1Gj1sGDzvps0awK7IOHVGOnjzkiVRmJX2TdSG4LJ1JLxjjO_IsWJ7600GRvdOMrRd5w/w113-h200/20210524_104148.jpg" width="113" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />It’s easy in these days of seclusion to wear the same clothes
for days on end, for who will notice? But nature changes her dress daily! Today, the maple keys that were chartreuse tinged with
cranberry just days ago are softer in colour: silk green and watermelon dusted
with silver. Everything changes in a day. And the seasons are no exception. No
fall, winter, spring or summer is quite the same as another in sensory
experience. We can have such particular memories of one sultry summer etched
into our consciousness, the colour palette of a specific fall; all purple,
blue, orange and white, or the deep cold winter of 1947, for instance.</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5krwwoQKZzVImpE8qDQBAtWlbATDxJy_RBELobzJJ4AyUlzjUIqj2w-btqxQv7MTsZ073Sb0Ax-m2ReMjJaIGHHNT1GKaHZDXIwzl7mFvSGom3vqmCD0jfWPflPK4ZRIgeLV98Q/s4608/20210520_101606.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="4608" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5krwwoQKZzVImpE8qDQBAtWlbATDxJy_RBELobzJJ4AyUlzjUIqj2w-btqxQv7MTsZ073Sb0Ax-m2ReMjJaIGHHNT1GKaHZDXIwzl7mFvSGom3vqmCD0jfWPflPK4ZRIgeLV98Q/w200-h118/20210520_101606.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTq37WT7wFU7QlCheZLR4GSY65zXXMbjxTV8gTXK0U58DSKe4n-xP4zb14xSgGhZ6bo22WJsen5_sR4DXsz4DGxI4W4Zk_IL1wQFTTItntmRzowWUxlcs1CSY8FnHBnzkxybO8CQ/s4608/20210523_174409%257E3.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2592" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTq37WT7wFU7QlCheZLR4GSY65zXXMbjxTV8gTXK0U58DSKe4n-xP4zb14xSgGhZ6bo22WJsen5_sR4DXsz4DGxI4W4Zk_IL1wQFTTItntmRzowWUxlcs1CSY8FnHBnzkxybO8CQ/w113-h200/20210523_174409%257E3.jpg" width="113" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmuz14Bkzu9QO0F-ndFqjkayN4jX8_mSC3AZi_GaTG0KfCy0nNpgqsspTEMD6uvWhRWuHRhvbBHHeFtu7i7sWXujPw3pLcWMhE_9e-fy4Cn3umBw-g7yyxc5QxNe2JqeDN9z6mCg/s4608/20210520_101458.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2592" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmuz14Bkzu9QO0F-ndFqjkayN4jX8_mSC3AZi_GaTG0KfCy0nNpgqsspTEMD6uvWhRWuHRhvbBHHeFtu7i7sWXujPw3pLcWMhE_9e-fy4Cn3umBw-g7yyxc5QxNe2JqeDN9z6mCg/w113-h200/20210520_101458.jpg" width="113" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">We are richer for paying attention—noticing the clever folds
of a forsythia flower and the delicate frill of an autumn olive blossom;
admiring the work of One who delights in beauty for its own sake.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Almost home on my morning walk, a young man in a black
baseball cap, tank top and shorts, pushes a stroller towards me. A small vision
of loveliness walks by his side, her blond hair cut in a medium bob with
bangs and wearing a dress of palest lavender that falls at mid-calf length.
The sun shines through its delicate gauzy skirt and petticoat, she is as pretty as any
of the flowers I’ve passed today. It’s in our nature, too, to want to be admired in every season.</span><div><br /></div>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-7066303494962664102021-05-17T12:22:00.003-04:002021-05-19T21:28:29.642-04:00May<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is May again. I love this month for hopeful buds and
fruit-filled seed pods scattered on the edges of streets and some on the soil
where they may find a place to take root. It feels like such a miracle, this
annual victory of life over what seemed like death, so cold, determined and definite a closure. But life returns.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IEDd_3tpHsgDc56IdjvlIDXeYhsWt6Fe3Qp1vSHilu3WgOGPNLoxfp-9Y9SfTqKgjhdHvPgV95tV2k9CDUHtVUP0dMeeZu8mYSziqZpDRRO_3s8su-hv5Njodoe1_CEguF2E5w/s4608/20210517_070240.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2592" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IEDd_3tpHsgDc56IdjvlIDXeYhsWt6Fe3Qp1vSHilu3WgOGPNLoxfp-9Y9SfTqKgjhdHvPgV95tV2k9CDUHtVUP0dMeeZu8mYSziqZpDRRO_3s8su-hv5Njodoe1_CEguF2E5w/w113-h200/20210517_070240.jpg" width="113" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Life is in birdsong and the spring of grass beneath my
feet. How strong the life force in a blade of grass—and what weight they do uphold
when mustered together.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I walk and feel, see, smell, and hear evidence of
the miracle of life. I give thanks for the beauty of planet earth –the blue
dome above us, the warmth on my shoulders cloaked in sun rays.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">In my years of growing old, I am grateful for life-lived, even
more, thankful for life now, with children grown, grandchildren, and a life partner
who loves me and whom I love, after all our years together.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">These things are so precious, as are the many friendships that
I treasure. Yet I know now not to cling to them. God gives us each gift in its
time and for its time, but if ever we close our fingers and hold on too tightly,
we betray our trust in the Giver of all good things, who waits for us to let go
when it is time, so that he may give us yet another, more excellent gift. For
that is his nature: never to take without giving again.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4KV7BCdDtLPIiMOWV_ddWx6AbWrUzJVyFafkJjOCr0fub4tf5SU_pRykIR9IMxWvbqqO2avzSp6G0Zbr6xewLlQkKigvkOBTV5O52KdcJa2pp70C7LapvMFcrIjTq5lF_EgCb7w/s2048/IMG_6927.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4KV7BCdDtLPIiMOWV_ddWx6AbWrUzJVyFafkJjOCr0fub4tf5SU_pRykIR9IMxWvbqqO2avzSp6G0Zbr6xewLlQkKigvkOBTV5O52KdcJa2pp70C7LapvMFcrIjTq5lF_EgCb7w/s320/IMG_6927.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So I am at peace. I cherish the joy of this day and this
very moment. I contemplate the buds and seeds and know that they
are the messengers of God. There is no loss in surrender to winter, only rest,
only waiting for rebirth.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">God is with us in each moment of our lives, and he is so perfect
and always faithful. So I trust, I celebrate and am grateful. </span></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-53682934391109071582021-04-05T18:48:00.007-04:002022-04-10T16:54:00.918-04:00Siblings Forever <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 26px;"><span>"To the outside world, we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside a touch of time." - Clara Ortega.</span></span><br />
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9ss04zvNBh0/VLL1RjGEYwI/AAAAAAAApbk/-uVf78PJy3k/w320-h198/Scan0003.jpg" width="320" /></span>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9ss04zvNBh0/VLL1RjGEYwI/AAAAAAAApbk/-uVf78PJy3k/s1600/Scan0003.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="line-height: 26px;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 26px;"></span>
<br />
</span><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FK5t25tm2dA/VLL1TnTaSAI/AAAAAAAApcQ/ld2-KSIz-Zk/w217-h320/Scan0007.jpg" width="217" /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"We know one another's faults, virtues, catastrophes, mortifications, triumphs, rivalries, desires, and how long we can each hang by our hands to a bar. We have been banded together under pack codes and tribal laws." - Rose Macaulay. </span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A set of photos was taken on a summer's day long ago. They always make me smile and feel sorry for being such a meanie. Rob</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> was having so much fun until I came along! </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M-Su9WxdYIQ/VLL1UEcmuoI/AAAAAAAApcY/VoeJ0W0FGzs/s1600/Scan0009.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M-Su9WxdYIQ/VLL1UEcmuoI/AAAAAAAApcY/VoeJ0W0FGzs/w320-h216/Scan0009.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-viQxRLuaquI/VLL1UaFBeMI/AAAAAAAApcg/FxOS4FGzajs/s1600/Scan0008.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-viQxRLuaquI/VLL1UaFBeMI/AAAAAAAApcg/FxOS4FGzajs/w320-h218/Scan0008.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We had our share of sibling rivalry growing up, but now it is rare for more than a few days to go by without calling the other, even though we have lived on different continents for so many years. </span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We can talk for an hour about the most menial details of our lives, and they are important enough to keep us interested.</span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In Rob, I have someone to whom I could confide anything and know that he will tell me the truth in return, yet not judge.</span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He is intuitive, sensitive and instinctively knows my heart, for good or bad. Sometimes he knows what I think before I express it in words.</span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rORh50jIeDA/VLL1V7cvuzI/AAAAAAAApdA/z44DjNiHlOk/w232-h320/Scan0014.jpg" width="232" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We are different in personality and outlook on life, yet we share a history no one else does, our childhood, and family dynamics.</span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I sometimes measure the quality of whatever I am writing by how Rob might read it. He doesn't enjoy writing; although he can do it well, he is gifted in drawing and can describe a scene in a movie so well verbally that when you actually see it, you recognize every detail and experience deja vu. </span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once long ago, he said to me, "I sometimes feel that I just haven't done enough for other people." So I reminded him of all that he means to me.</span></div>
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Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-20869306752300546332021-03-01T09:59:00.005-05:002021-03-01T09:59:40.521-05:00Saturday Morning <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc9Q6qlrw46VRuja1S3PuO8JJG5HUwgQKmQiKvSjfmZD5cd03ZeeBfuVg9I5pGKYZbeSdRVVPPmr0zlvZwGLJSvbcgCuHAkxXq-tJNcgjePACaqpybWWHfkhMTd4U8FS7NxmM5uw/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1240" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc9Q6qlrw46VRuja1S3PuO8JJG5HUwgQKmQiKvSjfmZD5cd03ZeeBfuVg9I5pGKYZbeSdRVVPPmr0zlvZwGLJSvbcgCuHAkxXq-tJNcgjePACaqpybWWHfkhMTd4U8FS7NxmM5uw/" width="279" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I savour the tang of hot, strong, black coffee from one of my favourite mugs--the one that glows with the colours of a Tom Thomson painting. The scent of a spiced apple candle lingers. Classical music plays in the background to the strong, firm metronome of our treasured, oak-encased wall-clock; its swinging pendulum the heartbeat of our home.</span><p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-25395547004867263902021-02-19T21:17:00.007-05:002021-02-20T09:12:11.483-05:00The Price and the Prize<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYYBIPGkKufDBJbis0l09VHHSUTht-R8wn-rIeHZyO79fWkKcm1XqtylbEvOY5LNEqKGXFHD_PN8sVTc1mmuUj1vwHxzWxeztcN1gG3OS9f6tAbAqyPwyVRbGozLYv2O-gkX6UA/s3205/20210204_103819_001%257E2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3205" data-original-width="2592" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYYBIPGkKufDBJbis0l09VHHSUTht-R8wn-rIeHZyO79fWkKcm1XqtylbEvOY5LNEqKGXFHD_PN8sVTc1mmuUj1vwHxzWxeztcN1gG3OS9f6tAbAqyPwyVRbGozLYv2O-gkX6UA/s320/20210204_103819_001%257E2.jpg" /></a></div><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote> Weeding disturbs the soil, and pruning opens up an area that will need to heal over--but without them, neither land nor tree is as fruitful as it can be. Therefore I am willing to endure discomfort--and more than that, I embrace it as necessary for growth in life and grace.</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p>I wrote these words about ten years ago and found them today, just when I needed them, as I flipped through an old journal.</p><p>I don't love change. Its antonyms: stay, rest, remain--they attract me, not disruption--the price of change. Change is oxygen to some people's souls--not to mine. </p><p>But when I consider the prize--greater fruitfulness--my soul settles into peace, and I say, yes, weed--yes, prune, stir up my serene pond--even if I love it here. </p><br /><p><br /></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-64044666932070847522021-01-10T15:58:00.005-05:002021-01-10T15:58:26.770-05:00Christmas Amaryllis 2021<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">From earth-bound bulb shoots life--sturdy, limber, vibrant and beautiful--flawless, yet fleeting and fragile.</span></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja7RhkSHSnyiFkPviK92X8KFT29nkxCRefAOfpeEn9_ddENGTQwVkHUp2K54evOzG8MWktLUwR17n6Gy7TcPo4XYPPGJ_KFzdFKS_6nHhZFpuBo1CHJ3ILPfTpHS9bDzSxD2DLJA/s4608/20210109_091611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2592" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja7RhkSHSnyiFkPviK92X8KFT29nkxCRefAOfpeEn9_ddENGTQwVkHUp2K54evOzG8MWktLUwR17n6Gy7TcPo4XYPPGJ_KFzdFKS_6nHhZFpuBo1CHJ3ILPfTpHS9bDzSxD2DLJA/w225-h400/20210109_091611.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>"See me and gaze awestruck," she seems to trumpet, a messenger, saying, "My purity and perfection is a glimpse, existing only for a moment. There is more than this world bound by time. In eternity there is no limit or decay to sully beauty or truth. Look at me, and see beyond ."<br /></div></div>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-74938361952969100752020-10-23T16:38:00.002-04:002020-10-26T19:14:32.579-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The wind rushed through trees, shrubs, and brush today—one minute turbulent as the ocean in a storm, the next soft as a brush on drumskin. I wandered our hamlet in as much awe as I once wandered the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. I stooped, squatted, stared and squinted my way through my walk.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZ_PDBR97pxMIJz0rBeFb30VO_sR0C_-z9eNWyURNia104ywj0LSPR7qCWRPyvthZOjBj7ZKLBcp9UxUGzbm9G2yDlq0o71FhGoYZBsPXvFIMBi0mh4tOi7CzcS2iyo7wZucxqQ/s2264/20201023_095542.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1871" data-original-width="2264" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZ_PDBR97pxMIJz0rBeFb30VO_sR0C_-z9eNWyURNia104ywj0LSPR7qCWRPyvthZOjBj7ZKLBcp9UxUGzbm9G2yDlq0o71FhGoYZBsPXvFIMBi0mh4tOi7CzcS2iyo7wZucxqQ/w200-h165/20201023_095542.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLb6cxTxuxg5S9ge7-v0SdyvxZFb2_RrKZPRxCzGI_aHG8c0A-lpLla36bDq_s6p3OfbBI366jeiNqkINJVZIw8CoDtdXsvMgZgGlfWYd57UkI2q-ucR2j_YP2_LZYz9hXgNNYyA/s4608/20201023_095705.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLb6cxTxuxg5S9ge7-v0SdyvxZFb2_RrKZPRxCzGI_aHG8c0A-lpLla36bDq_s6p3OfbBI366jeiNqkINJVZIw8CoDtdXsvMgZgGlfWYd57UkI2q-ucR2j_YP2_LZYz9hXgNNYyA/w150-h200/20201023_095705.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>In the presence of so much glory, how could I be anything by attentive and enraptured? This morning, sin would have been to heed the call of duty instead of the call of beauty. Humans are so like leaves in the brevity of our bodily existence and we were made to interact with our Creator’s work as joyfully as leaves dance in the wind.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSM9oKXLSOQk-8_XEpKNPv0kLlk838Wfnt-i8ddyAb0FrI31TBnXtX6udX2g7sYYjmPhQab-3YRYtcb7web69gbpbDt4da-MyZ7nVETlSoaxo0mr4KSmT21MApM0HAnfCrUtFrLQ/s3277/20201023_110925.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3277" data-original-width="1843" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSM9oKXLSOQk-8_XEpKNPv0kLlk838Wfnt-i8ddyAb0FrI31TBnXtX6udX2g7sYYjmPhQab-3YRYtcb7web69gbpbDt4da-MyZ7nVETlSoaxo0mr4KSmT21MApM0HAnfCrUtFrLQ/s320/20201023_110925.jpg" /></a></div></div></div></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-63032828484310754002020-10-13T14:06:00.003-04:002020-10-13T14:06:19.456-04:00Autumn Walk<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have been so busy that I've missed walking for a while. Meanwhile, nature changed out of her pretty summer dress into a russet robe, accented with burgundy, flaming salmon, and gold. Today, I walked to the soft maracas beat of clattering, chattering leaves, which spiralled through the air in a dizzy dance! </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">A humble earthbound human</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I crunched through the new land of Fall that had unfolded in my absence!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBRt_mN2uRozF3vQFP8pA2Htc6C_hMSnaqba5J12s6p4xzBhsd7yD6gld7zrtLW8EZJuRzdCU35kRHLFJjLFY8WtmUtze8G8g2GoqP1N-sblHBvz46pdL4HbfUbju4ubWznm_XQ/s4898/IMG_5778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBRt_mN2uRozF3vQFP8pA2Htc6C_hMSnaqba5J12s6p4xzBhsd7yD6gld7zrtLW8EZJuRzdCU35kRHLFJjLFY8WtmUtze8G8g2GoqP1N-sblHBvz46pdL4HbfUbju4ubWznm_XQ/w400-h266/IMG_5778.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30458926.post-30655135251085568702020-09-21T15:41:00.001-04:002020-09-21T15:41:30.474-04:00Morning Walk<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gratitude--for the moment I looked up at the sky this morning; at the deepest, clearest blueness, with a swathe of marshmallow cloudlets. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And for the utterly relaxed dove, looking around from the wire above me. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I stopped and gazed up at her tiny pink feet, surrounded by her fluffy feathers as she rested on them, her head cocking slightly as she looked back at me. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her shining eyes took in the awestruck human below, looking up at Her Fluffiness.</span></p>Belindahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09251920708783268740noreply@blogger.com0