tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59510849693285635852024-03-12T18:26:08.637-07:00pentimento-mamaPen ti men to: The reappearance in a painting of an underlying image that has been painted over, usually when the later painting becomes transparent with age.Lesley Fountain Studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11082830989177607247noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-84955730928066853992018-01-31T11:57:00.002-08:002018-01-31T17:43:33.464-08:00Lovingly, Sincerely, Faithfully, Cordially Yours (take your pick)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last week a dear old friend of mine and I spent several days holed up in a hotel in the city where she lives and where I once did too, laughing, talking, drinking pink champagne and reminiscing. We have been friends for over 50 years, so there is always a lot to reminisce about.<br />
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She had brought a bundle of letters I had written her at ages 16 through 19. It was a fascinating peek into who I was as a young woman, and aside from adoring the written word and having an irreverent and sarcastic streak and a flair for drama, what struck me most about the content of these letters was that it revealed to me something I didn't know at the time. I was unbelievably optimistic, resilient and sanguine.<br />
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The bulk of the letters were written when I was 18, and had moved by myself back to the mountain town in another province that she and I had moved to the year before, straight out of high school and both of us 17. Upon returning to the town, I found a job right away, but was having trouble finding an affordable place to live, and I apparently couch surfed for more than three months. The letters showed a casual, unconcerned attitude about having no place to live. Apparently I had no money either, as was evidenced in this passage in one letter where I discussed not having the money to buy a ski pass:<br />
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"As for my equipment - nil, bank account - $5.00, cash - $2.00, debts $500.00. Chance for ski pass, equipment, very slim."<br />
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On the heels of lamenting my lack of liquidity (this letter was dated November) I talk about my "brainstorm" idea to go to Hawaii in April of the following year. Amazingly, I did just that - took a 3 week vacation to Hawaii that following spring, putting the plane ticket on my brand new credit card!<br />
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Reading these letters is like time travelling back to my teenage self. I was not particularly introspective at age 18, and I did PLENTY of dumb things that are spelled out in some of the letters (note to self not to share those ones with my 17 year old daughter) but as well as the glimpse of that lovely little mountain town - long before all of the funky little cabins and decrepit houses we all lived in were torn down and three story condominiums took their places, when the train ticket to Vancouver was 97.00 and the monthly rent on my first place there was 85.00 - was the priceless gift of being able to hear my 18 year old voice shining out from the pages. <br />
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It seems that, unbeknownst to me at the time, I was brave. I was laid back, fun loving, fearless, and optimistic - a young woman, alone in the world for the first time ever. Having new experiences. Learning lessons (oh yes indeedy, no shortage of those). Kicking ass and taking names.<br />
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If I met my 18 year old today I think I'd like her.<br />
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<span id="goog_1528885846"></span><span id="goog_1528885847"></span>Lesley Fountain Studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11082830989177607247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-64146872321533898552017-10-17T17:31:00.001-07:002017-10-17T18:06:59.646-07:00Two Men, Three Dogs and a PrayerIn the wake of the unfolding Harvey Weinstein horror show, and women worldwide sharing that they have experienced sexual assault with #metoo, I want to share this story. It is not a story of assault, but rather an illustration of the heavy burden of fear and worry that women all over the world carry, pretty much constantly, with regard to possible violence at the hands of men.<br />
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Fourteen years ago my little family had just arrived in the small community I call home. We had not yet made any friends, and my three year old daughter and I spent many days wandering the trail behind our lakeside rental home, playing made up games with sticks and rocks that our dog loved to get in on.<br />
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It was a beautiful fall day on the trail - peaceful and serene, with the sun shining in a brilliant clear sky. Leaves drifted down from the trees, and the dog raced ahead to search for rocks my daughter had thrown onto the path. I was experiencing one of those sublime moments, when all feels right in the world, when we rounded a corner and I saw two men with three dogs off leash coming towards us.<br />
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This is what happened next.<br />
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My body flooded with adrenaline as I did the math - two large men versus me on an isolated trail. Three large dogs versus my medium sized one. I have my child with me.<br />
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Over the next 10 seconds the following thoughts raced through my brain:<br />
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How close are we to the access road that runs down from the trail to the main road?<br />
How far away is the nearest house? <br />
How fast can I run if I am carrying my daughter? <br />
What type of dog is each, and what kind of body language are they exhibiting?<br />
Will the dogs attack and kill my dog?<br />
What is my daughter wearing, in case they take her?<br />
Observe carefully each of the men - body type, facial hair, clothes, body language.<br />
Could you identify them?<br />
Are they carrying anything that can be used as a weapon?<br />
Has their body language changed since they spotted us?<br />
What tactic would most likely work to try to convince them not to hurt us?<br />
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As we walked toward the men, my daughter chattering away, oblivious to the maelstrom of thoughts jostling for position behind my forehead, I tried to arrange my features to look friendly, calm, assertive, relaxed, and like I knew exactly where I was going, but inside my heart felt like it was going to hammer right out of my chest, because those thoughts all lead to one indisputable one. If these two guys weren't decent, stand up guys, we were fucked. I am not the praying type, but that day I prayed.<br />
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The two guys did turn out to be decent, stand up guys, ( well, they didn't attack me - is that the bar at its lowest for "decent, stand up?") and they got their dogs under control, said a friendly hello to us, and passed on by, but my body stayed in flight mode for hours. I did walk that trail again with my daughter and dog, but I was always tense and vigilant, and never felt joyful and relaxed on it again.<br />
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Last summer on a local beach not far from my house a woman taking photographs of the sunset was tackled from behind and thrown to the ground. The assailant was pulling her pants down when she managed to land a few blows on him and wriggle out from underneath him and escape.<br />
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I love to walk in the forest, and I love to go a nearby deserted beach, but every time I do I calculate the very real risk against my desire to live my life as I choose, enjoying alone time in nature. (Beach calculations - can I swim to safety elsewhere if I need to leave the beach? Is there driftwood or sticks to use as a weapon? If I can't go back the way I came is there another way off the beach? How close are the nearest houses? Can I run AND swim in this footwear?)<br />
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I have to wonder how many of my guy friends make that risk assessment every time they fancy a walk alone on the beach or in the woods? If not, can they imagine needing to do so?Lesley Fountain Studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11082830989177607247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-14020981189968362192017-06-27T20:23:00.002-07:002017-06-28T15:30:57.327-07:00My Husband's Motto is Semper Fi - Honor, Courage and Commitment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Last night I discovered something I didn't know about my husband of 22 years.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband Michael is an avid, lifelong rower and a former Marine. Anyone who knows him knows both of those things. Personality-wise he is chatty, good natured and forthcoming - a real "open book" type of person - and he told me pretty much his entire life story the night we first met. But he has never told me how he got the scar that runs the length of his inner left forearm until last night. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On March 23rd, 1984, Michael was training on the Schuylkill River in Philadelphia when the weather suddenly turned from sunshine and calm water to rain, wind, and chop. Swollen with spring rains, the river was full of logs and debris, now moving down river at a fast clip. As the storm gathered force, all of the boats out on the river beat a hasty retreat back to the safety of Boathouse Row.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband had told me this story many years ago, but last night one of our house guests was an old college friend of his, a fellow rower and Olympic gold medalist who happened to also be training on the Schuylkill that day, and he gave me a firsthand account of what happened next.</span><br />
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After struggling to bring his own boat ashore in the heavy weather and helping others to get their boats in out of the rapidly rising water, John saw Michael and another rower, Bill Lamb, head coach at St. Joseph's Prep, jump into a launch and speed off towards the head of the Fairmount Dam at full throttle. John was shocked and mystified until he realized that there was a stalled launch with two female occupants drifting toward the dam.<br />
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Across the width of the head of the dam ran a steel cable. From the shore, John saw the men approach the dam in their launch with Bill driving, and saw Michael grab hold of the steel cable with one hand and reach out his other arm to one of the women in the stalled launch. That woman was Kippy Liddle, a 23 year old history teacher and coach of the novice girls' crews at Brooks School in Massachusetts. The other occupant of the launch was a Brooks student, to whom Kippy had given the sole life jacket. As Michael attempted to retain his hold on Kippy and hold her boat steady alongside theirs, the engine on their own launch stalled, and from the shore John and the others watching saw all four people and both boats go over the 12 foot falls.<br />
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Michael has described to me what happened next as feeling like he was inside a giant washing machine. The turbulence and pull from the base of the dam was extreme, and it was impossible to know which direction the surface was. Bill was able to get the young rower in the life jacket safely to shore, as Michael continued to search for Kippy, repeatedly diving deeper each time, holding his breath for 2 minutes or more at a time and getting closer to the base of the dam with each dive. Sadly, he was not successful in his efforts, and Kippy Liddle was not found.<br />
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Every October my husband returns to the Schuylkill River to participate in the Navy Day Regatta, and I know that he is reminded of the events of that terrible day every time he rows that course.<br />
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Brooks School, deeply affected by the tragedy, holds a yearly remembrance service named Kippy Liddle Day. When it was discovered that the Brooks School's launch was not properly equipped - which contributed to the tragedy that took Kippy's life - there was no anchor, paddles or oars, no whistle, blankets, or ropes, and just the one life jacket - the US Rowing Association created the Kippy Liddle Safety Kit for launch boats which contains PDFs for 11 people, blankets, flashlights, a paddle, an airhorn, and a first aid kit.<br />
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My husband received a commendation from the City Council of Philadelphia for his "act of extreme bravery with no thought for his own safety" on the river that day. He also has an indelible memory etched on his skin, a thin white scar on his inner arm where Katherine "Kippy" Liddle held onto him with all her strength, a permanent reminder of how hard they both fought to save her life.Lesley Fountain Studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11082830989177607247noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-60488636141116395712017-04-09T11:35:00.002-07:002017-07-08T18:11:34.851-07:00My Wonderful Holiday - Four Photos and a Video (well, half a one)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wall Mural on Isla Mujeres - artist unknown</td></tr>
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Shh! Come closer! There is a secret I want to share...<br />
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You don't need to incessantly document your life to live fully and happily. In fact, if you truly want to practice living "in the moment," take some advice from Bruno Mars and "Put your phone down, let's get it, forget your Instagram and your Twitter." I know, ironic that I am sharing this on social media, but bear with me.<br />
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Before the days of taking hundreds of photos of you and your friends sipping margaritas, doing tequila shots, and frolicking provocatively in the surf with your hang tens and fist bumps, then examining the photos, possibly taking more of them if you don't look like super models in a magazine shoot, then posting on social media and waiting to respond to your friend's reactions to the photos, it WAS possible to go on a vacation to Mexico and have a fabulous time, and it was a lot less exhausting. The relentless need for folks to document and share their every move has me at times perplexed, bemused and depressed. Instead of living inside the experience of their lives, people seem to be unable to connect to the reality of the moment, and instead view everything from the outside, as in "what will this look like on my facebook feed?"<br />
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My sister and I returned home this week from another 2 week vacation in Mexico. She is the very best travel companion, because we are on the same wavelength 98% of the time, and find the same things hilarious, worthy of an eyeroll, poignant, disturbing, truly marvelous and deeply satisfying. Not everyone is as lucky as I am, to have a sibling they are as close to as we are, and I am deeply grateful for our relationship.<br />
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On this trip, as our last, we spent leisurely mornings sipping coffee on our nearly hidden treehouse-like palapa-roofed deck overlooking the rustic yoga studio and pool, strolling the streets of the small town with its wonderful art murals, shops and restaurants, lazing on the beach, and swimming in the crystalline waters of the Caribbean sea. In the afternoons we would head over to our pal Mattie's beach bar and have a chia smoothie or a beer, listening to some reggae while the sun went down. After that, barring some previous-night-hijinks that kept us in for an early night, recovering, we would get cleaned up and head downtown to various bars and restaurants, starting with a nice happy hour two-for-one margarita, then off to one of the many restaurants for a night of fabulous food and outstanding live music, often making new friendships or enjoying deepening ones previously made. In sleeveless dresses, with that soft balmy breeze gently blowing through our hair under a star filled night sky, we would saunter home through the quiet streets, another wonderful-memory-filled day ending, and fall happily into bed under our soaring palapa roof.<br />
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I took four photos; one of the view from our deck, one of the beach while sitting in Mattie's bar, one of an art mural, (new since I was last there), and one of our musician friends performing - Alejandro on guitar and Jorge on percussion. I managed half a video of a truly gorgeous song that is my particular favourite before my phone clapped out. <br />
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But no matter. These are the memories I will hold, "like a jewel box in my heart," as Antje Duvekot sings in the song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-gE2IXvNvTE">Sweet Spot</a> :<br />
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Numerous people who recognized us from November and welcomed us back with warm, genuine smiles and lovely heart to heart hugs.<br />
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Having a dance with my very favourite waiter/manager from our last visit, to a terrific live version of Uptown Funk on a sand dance floor.<br />
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Hearing a hilarious anecdote from a friend in the hotel business about a very famous musician who insisted a never-used gate on the property be opened (a big hassle) because she knew that hordes of paparazzi were waiting outside, and when the gate was opened, there was a lone old woman outside the gate selling chicharróns from her cart.<br />
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Meeting the wonderful Nancy from New York and sharing a bit of our life stories with her, delightful!<br />
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My sister, a former figure skater herself and huge skating fan, asking the bar staff at another favourite spot to turn on the World Figure Skating Championships, and watching the all male staff protest loudly, the protests turning to grumbles, then silent admiration, then comments that the bartender could probably "do all of those moves, but in a Speedo."<br />
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Sharing conversations so full of connection with a dear friend that we alternately all bent over with hysterical laughter or shed tears together with painful revelations and empathy.<br />
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Receiving an unexpected kiss from a Cuban Salsa band member I had never met and am not sure I would recognize again. (Nothing for anyone to get alarmed about, it was just a quick peck on the lips, but a sweet surprise all the same!)<br />
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The look on the sarong vendor's face when my sister told him (after he gave her a bit of attitude) "I only buy from women" in Spanish. She kept that up for the rest of the trip, and it was a real delight to see the reaction. We did buy from women, who bent over backwards to please us - one young woman leaving her store with us in it watching her two toddlers, and running, not once but twice, around the corner to another shop to find an embroidered bag "with more lime green in it," for my sister, another sweet older woman who, after we made our purchases, gave us each a bracelet as a gift.<br />
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Swimming for hours in that gorgeous, warm Caribbean sea while a terrific salsa band played at the beach side bar. <br />
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I feel a bit sad for all of the people I saw who were so intent on getting that one perfect shot of them looking hot on their holiday that they didn't even go in the water. People taking their 20th selfie of themselves with their drinks held high in bars, or posing with statues while making the peace sign, one leg bent and thong clad butt to the camera for the women, shorts hiked up to the crotch (for some inexplicable reason) and hands in hang ten position for the men. Yes, they will have the photos 30 years from now, and I will not, but I have the memories of meaningful connection with others to hold in my heart, and those are what really make life spectacular.<br />
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Mexico, te amo. Gracias for another heart warming, soul filling holiday. Voy a regresar. xxx<br />
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<br />Lesley Fountain Studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11082830989177607247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-71198633464507741242016-11-24T13:29:00.002-08:002016-11-25T23:56:30.799-08:00Near Death on a Plane and the Sweet Beauty of Kindred Spirits<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Section of a wall mosaic on Isla Mujeres, Mexico<br />
“We are mosaics. Pieces of light, love, history, stars... Glued together with magic and music and words.”
- Anita Krizzan </div>
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In writing the Passionate Life books I explored the dear-to-my-heart themes of creativity, connection and community. As an artist, the concept of creativity was what initially prompted me to write the first book, but in the second one it was the concept of connection that revealed itself to be even more fascinating to me. How we as human beings can travel a transformative and deeply satisfying path when we choose to, as Brene Brown puts it, "show up and be seen." This, to me, is the holy grail - the reason why we are all here. Which is how I ended up finding the beauty and joy in a handful of moments the night before last, clutching a total stranger's hand, whilst believing I might be about to die.<br />
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In the sky somewhere over Texas on my flight from Cancun to San Francisco, our plane flew into a violent thunderstorm. Mere moments after the elderly woman sitting to my left told me that she needed to take her blood pressure medication the plane hit a wild patch of turbulence and the pilot immediately banked and descended the plane steeply to get out of the storm, taking my stomach with it. For several moments the plane pitched and jerked, while outside a spectacular show of lightening occurred without pause for 15 minutes, which would have been fascinating to watch had I not been thousands of feet above the ground. I heard my seat mate gasp and saw her make the sign of the cross and grip both armrests tightly. I took her hand in mine and stroked it, as I sat there wondering if this was it - maybe my time was up? But I have more art to create, more books to write, more interesting conversations to have! At one point the woman raised my hand and pressed it to her forehead, then gently kissed it, and at that moment my feelings of fear subsided. If I was going to die, at least it would be while holding the hand of a gentle and lovely soul, a kindred spirit. A beautiful moment of connection elevated me out of my lizard brain of terror into something unutterably peaceful and lovely.<br />
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The power of connection to others is what transports us to a higher and more deeply satisfying way of experiencing our lives. It is in these moments of naked sameness and the conscious awareness that we are sharing a common experience that we can know a deep joy and a profound sense of well being, even in times of fear. <br />
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I did not die, which was quite wonderful. What happened instead was that a mutual admiration society was formed by three disparate travellers in row 7 - an elderly, deeply religious Mexican woman returning to LA after visiting family, an accountant from San Jose who, upon having her husband leave her on their wedding anniversary after reconnecting with his high school sweetheart at a reunion, transformed her life by getting incredibly fit and becoming a champion Spartan racer (if you don't know what that is, google it, it's wild), and me, who wasn't even supposed to be sitting in the middle seat of row 7, but chose to move when I thought the mean and angry woman in aisle 8 where my assigned seat was might actually hit me if I didn't switch seats with her husband. (A story for another day.)<br />
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There is a quote I used in my second book that is from an adaptation of The Net of Jewels, or Indra's Net, one of the oldest written creations of humanity - "There is an endless net of threads throughout the universe. At every crossing of the threads there is an individual. And every individual is a crystal bead. And every crystal bead reflects not only the light from every other crystal bead in the net, but also every other reflection throughout the entire universe." We enhance our lives immeasurably when we take the risk to share our authentic selves to others, to be seen, all fears and flaws, hopes and dreams, vulnerabilities and pain. The tenet of Chaos Theory that describes how very small actions can have extremely complex effects is known as the Butterfly Effect. When we share who we are with others we enhance not only our own lives,
but other's lives as well, and sometimes the exchange can alter the
trajectory of one or both lives, in small or significant ways.<b></b> One of the profound experiences for me on this vacation in Mexico with my sister was this one, which involves an actual butterfly:<br />
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My very dear friend Veronika, who passed away in 2012, had a finely tuned appreciation for life, love, beauty, and connection with others. After a very traumatic childhood filled with loss, flight from war, and abuse, she chose to focus her energy on healing, kindness, and helping others. She was deeply spiritual and positively glowed from within with a light that drew others to her. Veronika's closets were filled with beautiful clothes, and after her death her husband gifted them to her friends. I inherited her "blue circles" dress - a retro and fun sleeveless shift covered with interlocking blue circles with a flirty little ruffle on the bottom, and I was wearing it for the first time ever when my sister and I had a marvelous conversation with a beautiful on the outside but even more lovely on the inside young guitarist one evening. After he complimented me on my "style" I told him the story of Veronika and how I came to own the blue circles dress. The lengthy conversation we three shared sparkled and skipped from topic to topic: whale migration, recycling programs, politics, Shamanic beliefs and practices, reincarnation, the upside and downside of tourism, embracing authenticity and risk, social media addiction, electric cars, global awakening, being a family black sheep, balancing love and commitment with the pursuit of personal dreams, aging gracefully, finding love and caring from others if not your family, the mastery of music and art, the butterfly effect, and taking personal responsibility and owning your own shit, a personal favourite of mine. Our conversations, combined with his excellent, heart filling music, some delicious food and drink, and plenty of laughter and mutual admiration were, for me, the highlight of our vacation.<br />
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So, to the profound experience of which I speak. On the heels of that astounding conversation, I was sitting on the beach the next day looking out at the sea when a Monarch butterfly flew right over my head from behind. It lingered there for a bit, then flew straight out over the ocean, and then rose up until it disappeared in the sky above.<br />
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Veronika has sent me many messages from beyond over the past four years. When I got home I took a look online at what the spiritual significance of the butterfly is, and here is what I found:<br />
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<i>Butterflies are considered power animals, and are highly revered in many shamanic cultures, especially
among Native Americans. In many traditions around the world, the butterfly is a symbol of the
soul or soul world. For example, in Chinese symbology, it can represent
immortality. For the Japanese, a white butterfly symbolizes the soul of departed ones. In Ancient Greece, butterflies represent the psyche or soul, and its attribute of immortality.</i><br />
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<i> <i>Butterflies represent joy, freedom,
creativity and change. Times of transition evoke the butterfly around us, reminding us to be
positive and joyful in times of change. Butterflies will often gather
around true love (soul mates) between people. </i>The Monarch butterfly introduces us to concepts of reincarnation and, if we are believers, asks us to invest some more time into thinking about our beliefs regarding rebirth and spiritual transformation across lifetimes. As power animals butterflies are magical and cherished. They
represent spiritual rebirth, transformation, creativity, endless
potential, vibrant joy, change, ascension, and an ability to experience
the wonder of life.</i><br />
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As the flight attendant said to me, after noticing the love fest going on between our group of three travellers in aisle 7 and thanking me for moving from my assigned seat, "sometimes the universe works in mysterious ways." Indeed it does. And if we are brave, if we take the plunge into the deep end and risk seeming foolish, silly, or too open with strangers, we can be ever at the ready for when that "diamond shines and catches our eye."<br />
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Philosopher, mystic, and political activist Simone Weil said that attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity. My deepest thanks to all of the generous and brave souls who shared their authentic selves with me on this most wonderful vacation - my sister, of course, as always, and also coffee baristas, hotel staff, our massage therapist, waiters, and our lovely new musician friend, fellow travellers in hot tubs, on the beach, in bars and restaurants and on planes - may we meet again somewhere, some day. In the meantime keep your eyes on the skies, watching out for those butterflies.<br />
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<br />Lesley Fountain Studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11082830989177607247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-87753475905386016912016-10-23T07:30:00.000-07:002017-01-22T10:41:45.998-08:00Passionate, fierce, curious, opinionated, fearless, that was my mom. <div>
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Bike riding in the snow - Xmas 1990</div>
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My mother passed away on Friday, two days after her
89th birthday. Vascular dementia, like a thief in the night, stole her
autonomy, memories, and recognition of her loved ones. It is a deeply
painful process to watch anyone go through, because those things, we
believe, are what make us who we are - what our experiences have taught
us, the millions of memories we hold dear, and how we relate and
communicate with others. As helpless outsiders looking on, watching the
decline, we are left with the sometimes challenging reality that the
present moment is all that matters, when there is no past or future to
anchor us in a seamless timeline. No past. No future. Just right here,
right now.<br />
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Oddly, accepting that reality was a huge
comfort to me. As my mother's memories slipped away, I found myself able
to sit in that space, the here and now, and just BE with her. We did
listen to music and look at photographs, but sometimes we just sat, for
hours, in a calm and peaceful state. My mother's last few years ended up
being both a lesson and a gift - just accept what is happening, right
here, right now. Accept it, lean into it, surrender to it, and feel
gratitude.<br />
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My mother was quite a force to be reckoned with
in my childhood. She was passionate and fierce, energetic, capable and
creative. She was physically strong, fearless, and unflappable in a
crisis. We four kids spent pretty much the entire summer every year with
just my mom in charge at our summer cabin. From violent storms to bears
outside tents, our St. Bernard giving birth to 13 puppies, and the usual
childhood calamities and ailments x 4, she handled it all with a cool head. I don't
remember her ever complaining that she had too much on her plate, as she
made endless meals and snacks and served us kids on the dock as we
loafed and played. She was in charge, and we were free to enjoy one
idyllic summer after the next, something I am extremely grateful for. <br />
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My
mother had a love of learning that included languages and travel. When I
was 17 my grandmother died, and my mother came into an inheritance that
allowed her to do something she had always yearned to do: travel. Her
first trip was to Europe, where she cycled and traveled by barge through
Germany and Austria. Prior to her trip she took German classes at night
school. This trip was followed by several other solo trips to Australia, New
Zealand and Fiji, and then several more to England, Scotland and Wales.
In her late 60s she trained for months before tackling a 2000 km bike
trip in New Zealand. I will never forget her showing up at my apartment
in Vancouver with a red brush cut pre-trip, her bike panniers loaded and
ready to go. In her late 70s she traveled multiple times on her own to Wales, and
taught herself Welsh, a difficult and complex language to learn. As
recently as last year, deep into dementia and unable to recognize her
children and often her husband, she could still sing along with a
recording I made her of a favourite singer singing the Welsh national
anthem. Even though my mother could no longer manage a coherent sentence
she sang along. In Welsh.<br />
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Deeply intrigued by genealogy, my
mother traced her ancestors in Scotland, Wales and England, and visited
the areas where they had lived and died. Recently I underwent DNA
testing, and I think of how much my mother would have marveled at the
results - irrefutable evidence of our 45,000 year journey that did
indeed land our ancestors in the British Isles, but took some
interesting twists and turns along the way that she would be very
surprised at!<br />
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My mom had some great tales from her
childhood that I never tired of hearing. Her grandparents owned a hotel
in a small community outside of Montreal, and my mom and her sisters
spent their summers there. I could well imagine the mischievous and
daring child my mother was from the stories she told, from being chased
across a field by a bull to taking her cousin out in a boat and floating
off down the river for hours until her father found her and sternly
told her to bring the boat (and the young cousin) in to shore. She said
she got into big trouble for that escapade. Another story I loved was
the one about being a camp counselor giving her campers swimming lessons
and having to remain calm and collected when she emerged from the lake
covered in bloodsuckers. She taught my prairie raised father to swim and
ski as well as all four kids. My earliest memories of being on the ski
slopes were going up the rope tow between her skis, hanging onto her
thighs for dear life. I would have been 3 or 4 years old. When I think
of the energy and determination my mom gave to motherhood when we kids
were growing up I am in awe of it. She handled it all like it was no big
deal - I rarely if ever saw her break down and cry or lose her temper, she just
got on with it.<br />
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One of my mom's true loves was music.
As early as I can remember she had music playing in the house, and she
loved to sing or whistle along with the song. Engelbert Humperdinck,
Herb Alpert, Nat King Cole, Elton John, and opera singers Kiri Te
Kanawa and Bryn Terfel - she knew all of the words and would sing them
at top volume. </div>
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When I think back over my own
memories of my mother's lifetime, and those from her childhood that have
been relayed to me by her, I see what a truly marvelous and
multifaceted person she was. She gifted her four children by example to
be passionate and curious, political and outspoken, determined and
strong, to love learning, and to not be afraid of trying new things. As a
result each of her children have followed their own passionate creative
pursuits - acting, photography, art, cycling, writing, travel, and
music. <br />
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Passionate, fierce, curious, opinionated, fearless, that was my mom. <br />
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May this last journey take her somewhere wondrous and extraordinary.Lesley Fountain Studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11082830989177607247noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-22298396370945773952016-08-29T11:26:00.003-07:002023-09-23T18:29:36.050-07:00The Extraordinary in Ordinary<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="color: black;">This weekend I was reacquainted with the beautiful truth that the most ordinary places and things are actually extraordinary, and that in our busy lives, rushing from one distraction to another, we often miss the small things that make life so rich and delicious. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">I
drove to a favourite nearby town, a mere half hour from my house, and
stayed there for two days. I had a plan to visit a nearby island, and
another plan to drive to a different town just a few minutes away that was
having a big art festival. In the end I did neither. This is what I did
do. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"> I sat on the porch.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">In the mornings I sat here drinking
coffee and reading my book, while folks walked down the street to their
jobs, the odd tourist couple strolled by, and the birds flew from
treetop to treetop, excited to be birds, from the sounds of them. In
the evenings I sat here drinking wine and listening to music, while the
guys across the street admired a red truck, and cats came out to prowl
under a brilliantly starry sky. </span></div>
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Ordinary but beautiful. Restaurants and laundromats, trucks and picket fences.</div>
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That first night I had a Gilmore Girls moment that absolutely filled me up with contentment. </div>
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Gilmore Girls fans, remember how Lorelai and Rory would go to the Black, White, and Read Bookshop/Theatre for movie nights? I discovered a tea shop right around the corner that screens movies every Friday night. I watched Hologram For The King with a handful of other folks, as we sat in a kooky eclectic selection of chairs and couches, including the one on the left of the above photo, which was jacked up on 18 inches of stacked wooden pallets. I sat on a bar stool at my little cafe table and enjoyed a pot of peppermint tea. Cost of the evening - 3.50, including the tea. I walked home in air so sultry it felt like being in Jamaica. On the corner I stopped to listen to a beautiful song coming out of an open window. I stood in the dark street in that gorgeous night air, listening to the pure vocals and guitar of that unknown song, while cats crossed the street and the ocean lapped the shore nearby, and I felt...well, sublime contentment. It was one of those moments, perfection in every way. </div>
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The next morning I abandoned my ambitious plans for ferry rides and markets, and instead walked the streets of the town for six hours. I went into art galleries, bead shops, antique stores, ice cream shops, thrift stores, book stores, coffee shops, and restaurants. I had conversations about art, marriage, family relationships, running a business, and moving and starting over in life. I talked with the neighbour down the road, in the house where I heard the beautiful song, and while he couldn't identify it, he said it was playing on Radio Paradise. I mean how perfect is that? I bought a beautiful fused glass fish plate for 10 dollars at a thrift store, (the young woman running the store laughed, as she had just marked the price down) a book on how to die leaving your loved ones with all the information they need to sort out your affairs and give messages of love and cherished items to friends on your behalf, a whale necklace, a gorgeous bar of soap, and a book about discovering the fundamental essence of our individuality. I bought another very cool book entitled How To Be an Explorer in the World. Best of all, I ran into a very dear old friend I have not seen for 23 years. Talk about sublime! Sue, this blog post is for you. xxx</div>
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Total cost of the entire outing - less than 50.00 and utterly priceless. As I sat on my deck admiring my purchases while listening to a favourite playlist on my ipod, eating wasabi cashews with a glass of wine and mulling over the conversations and connections I had made during the day, I had another one of those moments. Sublime contentment.</div>
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After fortification from the wine and cashews I set off to do one of my favourite things in the world - stroll along residential streets with my ears and eyes wide open. I love observing homes created by their inhabitants into shrines of of quirkiness, charm, character and individuality - places where people LIVE - sitting in their yard in deck chairs, barbequing, picking fruit, trimming hedges, and painting doors propped up on sawhorses. (Pink!) Windows open and sounds of people laughing and talking, dogs barking, the guys in the park drinking and swearing, (one guy apparently with only one line in his vocabulary toolbox - "What is your fucking problem?" (I heard him say it 8 times. I counted. While laughing to myself.) Music playing. Kids crying. Three tough (ish) teens that gave me a "whassup?" to which I replied "Not much." A family laughing hysterically over some private joke. </div>
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house has bouquets of plastic flowers that are very beautiful in their
plastic-ness. They cheer up their porch, which is very unique, like the
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Their gate is one of a kind, and the red dragons made me feel cheerful every time I walked by. </div>
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So much to love here - the gate, the surround, the foliage, the number sign, the steps, the colours.</div>
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Something about this side yard pergola gave me the sublime feeling again. Secretive and beckoning. And the picket fence helps - I do love a picket fence. </div>
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More ordinary with a touch of enchanting, I found this cute little Boler while snooping down a back lane, one of my favourite places to spot cool things. I saw two benches put out for people to rest on in the lane. How kind is that? (Apparently snooping is a tiring sport, sometimes you need to rest a while.)</div>
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The sign on the gates of this garden shop said that it would be closed for the weekend for a family wedding, yet piles of soil, urns and plants sat there unattended. My heart gave a little hippity hop of pleasure at the trusting nature of these plant loving folk, and the people of the town respecting that trust.</div>
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My two days exploring this town, ordinary and yet extraordinary in so many ways, was delightful, refreshing, and satisfying to me on a deep level. Ordinary people - each and every one of us ordinary people - craft extraordinary lives, by our choices, conscious and unconscious, day by day, and minute by minute. We all live lives that are far from mundane. They are, each of them, sacred and holy, spectacular and rich, with the capacity to fill us with sublime contentment. </div>
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A cat. A red truck. A bag of cashews. A vase of plastic flowers. A "whassup" or a meaningful conversation with a stranger. An overheard family laughing. A song on Radio Paradise. </div>
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<br />Lesley Fountain Studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11082830989177607247noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-43355041558134365082014-03-18T09:52:00.006-07:002023-09-23T18:35:26.753-07:00My Aunt Shirley - Vivacious, Outrageous, Smart, Generous, Kind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My Aunt Shirley was a hoot. She was vivacious, filled with life, always smiling, a terrific tale teller, mischievous, and kind. She was well traveled, well read, deeply interested in people and world events, and generous to a fault. Growing up, my siblings and I would eagerly await a Christmas parcel from her, which would arrive without fail at least a week before Christmas. Sometimes there would be two parcels - often accompanied by a box marked "for the tree." As she had lived in Germany for some time she would always include German candies and beautiful foil wrapped edible Christmas ornaments for the tree. Her gifts were wildly unique - sunglasses with eyelashes on them, unique clothes and trinkets from exotic locations, and given the fact that we had actually spent time with my aunt a handful of times in our entire lives, those gifts somehow managed to be perfectly suited to the growing, changing, unique personalities in our family. Even at a young age I could sense the care and delight she took with her gift giving. <br />
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<i>From the Lotte Lehmann League: Shirley Sproule, soprano, (left) was born in Canada and trained and sang
there until first studying opera and Lieder with Lehmann at the MAW in
1953. She continued there with Lehmann, working in the winters as well
as the regular summer sessions and after 1956 sang in Europe (Munich,
Mainz, etc.). She sang in Lehmann’s London Masterclasses in 1957. In 1965 Dr. Sproule returned to Regina, Saskatchewan to teach voice
and sing there. In 1970 she began her doctoral studies at the University
of Arizona in Tucson, breaking her work there to cover sabaticals and
sing in Canada in 1971-72. After she returned and finished her doctoral
degree in Tucson, she stayed there, teaching until her retirement.</i></div>
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My aunt was an opera singer in Europe before moving to Regina in the '60s, where she taught voice at the University of Saskachewan. She and her life partner of over 30 years, Anne K Miller, were living in Regina when I visited them with my parents. I can't remember how old I was on this visit, perhaps 13 or so, but what I remember most is how warm and welcoming Shirley and Anne were. The house was filled with interesting artifacts from their travels. They loved to cook and experiment in the kitchen, and served us cold avocado soup (very chic!) as an appetizer to a wonderful meal. Music and laughter filled the house. It felt like another world to me. What was tangible, too, was the love and affection they had for each other. It was an eye-opening visit for me to see for myself what a truly loving and welcoming atmosphere in a home looked and felt like. My aunt was very demonstrative and loving, and called Anne by various endearments - Anna Kat, Anna Katherine, or Anna K, all with hugs and looks of love.<br />
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Anne was a quiet, fiercely intelligent, no-nonsense counterpart to my aunt's larger than life personality. Usually dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, she looked like a lean cowgirl (cow woman? Anne had grown up on a ranch in California) with a face prematurely lined by the California sun. I loved the lines on her face, as they radiated out from her eyes and mouth and I knew they were the evidence of a lifetime of smiling and laughter. She could shoot rifles, herd cattle, and fix cars, and she had an extremely sweet, gentle nature. She was interested in finding out who I was, what I cared about, what I thought. I loved both Auntie Shirley and Anne equally; they were a matched set - Shirl and Anne - and growing up I never gave their relationship a second thought.<br />
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When I was 17 I decided at Easter Break to go by myself to Tucson to visit Shirley and Anne. By this time Shirley had received her doctorate at the University of Arizona and was teaching there. They had bought a large, sprawling rancher with a pool in the hills outside the city. During my visit my aunts took me to Nogales, Mexico where Shirley proudly introduced me to her favorite shopkeepers, whom she seemed to know quite well. We went to Kitt Peak Observatory, to a dinner theatre where we saw Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap performed, to an amazing restaurant called The Beehive - a huge dome filled with plants, to the artist Ted DeGrazia's Gallery in the Sun, as she knew I loved art. She took me to a place where I met indigenous women weaving baskets. We ate wonderful meals and swam in the pool and played with their Old English Sheepdog Mucho. They took me to huge shopping malls and dropped me off, making sure I had money to spend, and coming back to get me after I had shopped to my heart's content.<br />
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I had so much fun on that visit that the following year, when I was 18, I took my friend Lori back with me. This time Shirl and Anne gave up their master suite and Lori and I enjoyed a huge poolside bedroom with a massive, tesserae glass soaker tub. Again - fabulous meals, engaging conversations on subjects ranging from cattle ranching to LSD (which they admitted to trying as part of a university experiment.)<br />
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After the death of her life partner Anne, Shirley continued to live in the Tucson house, surrounded by the memories and mementos of their life together, but a bad fall several years ago caused her to be hospitalized with a broken hip. At that time it was decided that she no longer could live on her own, and she was immediately moved back to Montreal, a city that hadn't been her own for many decades. I think Shirl was heartbroken in every sense of the word. Her life, her history with her partner, her story, gone.<br />
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My aunt was a woman whose life had a huge impact on others. She was beloved by her students, some of whom I met at her Tucson house when they came for voice lessons. She remained in contact with many of them long after she retired.<br />
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Every life is a story that deserves to be told.<br />
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<div id="stcpDiv" style="left: -1988px; position: absolute; top: -1999px;">
SPROULE, Marion Isabel Shirley<br />
Died
peacefully at the Montreal General Hospital on Tuesday, March 11, 2014.
Shirley, born in Montreal on September 11, 1924. She was the first born
child of Clive and Eunice Sproule. Dear sister of Gwyneth, of Victoria,
B.C. and Arlene, of Montreal. Shirley studied voice at McGill
University, University of Toronto and on scholarship with Lotte Lehmann
at Santa Barbara. Her operatic career was primarily in Germany. On
retirement, she returned to Canada to teach voice at the University of
Saskatchewan in Regina. During this period she was also a straight A
student taking her Doctorate in Performance degree at the University of
Arizona. She retired to Tucson, where she lived for many years. Shirley
returned to Montreal in March 2009 to live at Place Kensington. She will
be greatly missed. Private service will be held. - See more at:
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/montrealgazette/obituary.aspx?n=marion-sproule&pid=170145120#sthash.KiQhTcJ3.dpuf</div>
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<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align:left; width:450px"><object id="myWidget" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://www.blurb.com/assets/embed.swf?book_id=2936213&locale=en_US" width="450" height="300"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><param name="movie" value="http://www.blurb.com/assets/embed.swf?book_id=2936213&locale=en_US"></param><a target="_new" href="http://www.blurb.com/books/preview/2936213?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget"><img src="http://bookshow.blurb.com/bookshow/cache/P4185844/md/wcover_2.png"></img></a></object><div style="display:block;"><a href="http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/2936213?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget" target="_blank" style="margin:12px 3px;">The Passionate Life by Lesley Fountain</a> | <a href="http://www.blurb.com/landing_pages/bookshow?ce=blurb_ew&utm_source=widget" target="_blank" style="margin:12px 3px;">Make Your Own Book</a></div></div><br />
For more information on the book take a gander at my other blog:<br />
www.thepassionatelifecowichan.wordpress.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-72771780581737964062011-11-27T15:56:00.000-08:002011-11-27T15:57:19.474-08:00My Book!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-YtMM97xx_VXTRZc1KRYeMXUCJMsIdUwsfy-x1d8CTHDX5sQTDAktKpt_1vWqkvhT0nCrgMq6dgB2mykYJQTQkU5HQZ0d7sZPnO7JZuzHeJo54GLgREJBr49qyFyq6bj-4d-xbp1RqWF/s1600/DSCN2792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-YtMM97xx_VXTRZc1KRYeMXUCJMsIdUwsfy-x1d8CTHDX5sQTDAktKpt_1vWqkvhT0nCrgMq6dgB2mykYJQTQkU5HQZ0d7sZPnO7JZuzHeJo54GLgREJBr49qyFyq6bj-4d-xbp1RqWF/s400/DSCN2792.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-YtMM97xx_VXTRZc1KRYeMXUCJMsIdUwsfy-x1d8CTHDX5sQTDAktKpt_1vWqkvhT0nCrgMq6dgB2mykYJQTQkU5HQZ0d7sZPnO7JZuzHeJo54GLgREJBr49qyFyq6bj-4d-xbp1RqWF/s1600/DSCN2792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a>My Book</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Finally, after 6 months of interviews, tinkering with layouts and images, and sending the first 2 books back to the printers, then editing all of the images again, I have the completed book in my hot little hands, finished to my satisfaction and ready to release to the world. I have to say that I felt a feeling of pure pride when I held it for the first time - a feeling that at 52 years of age was an absolute first in my life. Hard to believe one can get to such a (relatively) advanced age without ever feeling it. Never mind. It is a sweet feeling at any age - kind of like chocolate and lattes and twinkly lights and fresh sheets and big hugs from your favorite person all rolled into one. Plus we get to eat cake soon! For a thank you to all of the wonderful women who participated in this project I am going to order up the yummiest cake from a talented local pastry chef and we are all going to scarf it down, along with some hot and creamy drinks (caffeinated for some, not for others who cry and get crabby with too much of that good stuff tingling through their veins). Thank you thank you thank you, all of you fabulous Cowichan Valley Women. You know who you are. You inspire me with your enthusiasm, talents and joie de vivre.Your stories had me crying, laughing, and feeling so blessed to live in such a beautiful place surrounded by warm, friendly, talented and kind women. And men. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Maybe they can be in my next book. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-24259143873790002682011-08-28T14:44:00.000-07:002011-08-28T15:35:56.516-07:00Not Just a Cobalt Blue Glass<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNINRkFec8c2pnm1kaIhI2sQoJMCosDRc-6-aTIypc_kC5iYGbyQWi8btlwJ5JprZBqr-1wALvKZrrDTGL8Dvlsz6hBW2wFxsw8hD3clPby6rXd2VVNMlbpV7-LwKDw7NTCkg0vs23w3Bb/s1600/glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNINRkFec8c2pnm1kaIhI2sQoJMCosDRc-6-aTIypc_kC5iYGbyQWi8btlwJ5JprZBqr-1wALvKZrrDTGL8Dvlsz6hBW2wFxsw8hD3clPby6rXd2VVNMlbpV7-LwKDw7NTCkg0vs23w3Bb/s320/glass.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
It looks like a blue glass with a 2 dollar price sticker on it, but it is worth a lot more to me than the 2 dollars I paid for it. <br />
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Today my friend held a garage sale. She and her family are moving to California, and they need to get rid of some of their stuff. It happens every day, all over the world. People are on the move - new horizons beckon, new opportunities present themselves. They keep what they cherish, part with stuff they can part with, pack up, wave goodbye, and are gone.<br />
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My friend will leave me with this cobalt blue glass and 4 others like it. She will hug me goodbye and drive off with her boxes and bags. She can live without this cobalt blue glass. It's just a glass, right?<br />
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Well, to me, the new owner of this glass, it is not just a glass. It is a beautiful reminder of my friend and our 14 years of friendship, and every time I drink out of it or admire it on my shelf I will think of her and all that she has done for me and all that we have shared.<br />
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We met 14 years ago; both Canadians living in the same townhouse development in the Bay area in California. She was a young mother, I was newly married but had not entered my mothering years yet. We were both enamoured with California and the US in general - we loved the sunshine, the enthusiasm and enterprenurial bent of many of our American friends, and the relaxed California lifestyle. We both thought we would stay forever - why would we want to go back to the wet and dark winters of the Pacific Northwest when we could ride our bikes and rollerblade to Starbucks every day, baking in that California sunshine? Everyone here has great ideas! They are fearless! Life is exciting and interesting! We love it here!<br />
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That was the summer of 1997. Fast forward to the spring of 2003. The horrific events of 9/11 had caused both my friend and me to feel very homesick for Canada; in fact she and her family had already returned to Vancouver Island. The economy had tanked and my husband was out of work. The US was gearing up to invade Iraq and I was madly painting my house while I listened to the news - Britain offering their support to the war, Canada deciding against it. I painted the entire inside of the house while I listened to the news of the pending war. I painted the outside of the house, beginning my work at 5 a.m. to beat the merciless midsummer heat. The clock was ticking and I wanted to go home. The house sold within a week, thankfully, and at the end of August 2003 we stuck our for sale tags on our glasses, loaded up our car, said tearful goodbyes to friends, and drove north.<br />
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Which brings me back to the cobalt blue glasses. We arrived at my friend's house, broke and completely at a loose end. My husband was still unemployed, all of our stuff was in storage, and we had no idea what we were going to do. My friend and her family welcomed us into their home. They generously offered it to us for 5 weeks, as they were looking after their parent's place while they were away. For 5 weeks I decompressed, drinking out of those cobalt blue glasses and planning our next strategy. My friend, with her amazing generosity and kindness, helped me transition out of this bumpy and trying time in my life. She cut me slack when I was uptight and tearful, and introduced me to many wonderful people that I now call my good friends. Through her friendship she helped me to accept and make peace with events that had led to this move. She smoothed and facilitated, and even though we have never talked too much about that crazy time, I am endlessly grateful for her generosity and kind deeds.<br />
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Life is a river. I know that. You can no more stop life and hold it in your hand than you can a moving river. As humans we must adapt or perish. My friend and her family have a wonderful opportunity that, ironically, is taking them right back to where they were when we first met, whereas we, completely enamoured with this Valley that we now call home, wouldn't budge for all the opportunities in the world. I live here, a place that I love, because of my friend. I have dear friends that I cherish because she introduced them to me. She has changed my life for the better in so many ways. That is what I will think of every time I drink from that glass.<br />
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So it may look like just a pretty cobalt glass, but to me it is much, much more. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-26482851956304135432011-06-23T10:46:00.001-07:002023-09-23T18:41:50.589-07:00Is This Person Fat?<div class="photo photo_none">
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My almost 11 year old daughter is not fat. Not plump, chubby, or any other descriptive that means packing too much poundage. How much she weighs seems irrelevant to her - in fact neither of us actually know how much she does weigh - because she has a healthy body image and does not compare herself to others, real or animated, and find herself wanting.</div>
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I make this point because of the shorts she is wearing in these photos. The last person who wore them was me, I was 32 years old, and yes, I thought I was fat when I was wearing them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me at 32 thinking I was fat. I so wasn't.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Looking back over many decades of photos of myself I am often shocked and saddened to see, with the perspective of middle age, how many opportunities I denied myself and how much time I wasted obsessing over my weight. Not wanting to wear a bathing suit in public, fretting that a pair of pants felt tighter than before, worrying about rolls around the midriff in a sitting position - it all seems insane, and has so little to do with who I really am. My perception of myself in human form was warped by severe mishandling of my slight plumpness as a child, and has set me up for a lifetime, - well half a lifetime, I hope - of chronic disappointment and dismay with my looks and a dysfunctional relationship with food. I have felt fat my entire life, and yet my photo albums tell me that this is just not true.</div>
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I am now, in middle age, making a conscious decision to cut myself a big hunk of slack. To love my body for its strength and beauty, just the way it is. To eat sensibly, when I am truly hungry, the way humans are meant to eat, instead of to soothe or stuff uncomfortable emotions. To feel grateful for the fact that I am healthy and able. To revel in the wonder of how the human body functions - a true miracle that most of us take completely for granted, as we regard our image in the distorted glass of our minds, forever finding fault with what we see.</div>
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So for all of my female friends and family out there, young and not so young, be proud and happy of your form. Walk tall, dress the way you have always wanted to dress, spend time admiring your body instead of giving it the drill sergeant treatment - "Drop and give me 20". If you have health concerns by all means address them - if you truly need to lose excess poundage do so safely and healthily, and from a place of self love, not self hate. Appreciate the miracles that we all are. Most importantly, spread the word. Encourage healthy body image with the girls in your life. Call your friends on it when they make disparaging remarks about their bodies.</div>
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I may not ever wear those shorts again, but my daughter will, and I'll be damned if she is going to look in the mirror and think she looks fat.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-81960204655805395352011-05-19T08:52:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:51:12.581-07:00Dog Love - Pure and Uncomplicated<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndQjUlJh-vD-4_Siv_CQWNvIjsJBSSDGK21D1O9TFU0Pm3PxSMtVlIDzxeGDyncCD_40RL6-7K92Y_is2OrpVOs56c4mgJpiXiv27hu7PONg88AJBJ0mHlLdMNHJsfXNlFUWmfKnT4s0S/s1600/cozziepb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndQjUlJh-vD-4_Siv_CQWNvIjsJBSSDGK21D1O9TFU0Pm3PxSMtVlIDzxeGDyncCD_40RL6-7K92Y_is2OrpVOs56c4mgJpiXiv27hu7PONg88AJBJ0mHlLdMNHJsfXNlFUWmfKnT4s0S/s400/cozziepb.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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I have a lot to be grateful for, and I know it. One of the things that fills me with gratitude these days is my beloved dog, Cosmo. Everybody thinks their dog is the smartest, cutest or funniest. I know this, and I know that we can all look at our furry friends with slightly rose tinted glasses sometimes, as was evidenced to me when my sister looked after Cosmo for two weeks a few years back and was not quite as enamored with his quirks and oddities as I am - they both looked rather worse for wear when we came to pick him up - but I maintain that he holds a place in the cutest, smartest and funniest Hall of Dog Fame.<br />
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As a puppy Cosmo was insane. A handful. Most of our video footage from that period involves blurry black and white streaks popping up in the bottom of the frame intermittently, with shouts of "Cozzie! No! Down!" He attended Dog Obedience 3 times, and aced it - picture 30 dogs in a circle while the instructor squeaked a toy that sounded like a cat, or had her cell phone ring, while the dogs trembled and twitched in a "down stay" position - but out of the classroom setting he was still a menace. He would shred my husband's socks as he stepped over the baby gate that barred Cosmo from the upstairs of our California townhouse. Once I picked up a basket full of magazines and all of them fell out. Cosmo had chewed the entire back of the basket off, but he did it in stealth mode. He would keep his bone right next to the basket, and every time I glanced his way would quickly switch over to the bone. "La la la. Not doing anything wrong over here, just chewin' on my bone."<br />
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Another favorite "toy" of his was our television remote. We actually took one that he destroyed into his obedience class for the instructor to use as a training device. He seemed to be the only dog who knew what it was, perhaps because it had been mangled almost beyond recognition by his needle sharp puppy teeth. I don't know if he loved it because it smelled like us or just because he saw us holding it so much so he jealously coveted it, but he could move from a resting-with-eyes-closed position to in-your-lap- and-just-snatched-it-out-of-your-hand position in 3 seconds flat, as my husband's astonished nephew discovered while visiting. Poof. Gone. Heaven help the person designated to retrieve it.<br />
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We had to tell our friends not to pay tug with him, as he would always take it too far. His pupils would go a funny blue colour and that was it - over the edge. For years my husband would hand out home made dog treats at the door like talismans- here, hold this and don't give it to him until you leave. No doubt about it, prior to our daughter joining the family he was at its epicenter. We adored him. We took him rollerblading, with my husband calling "Mush! Mush", as he towed him at high speeds around the little canals and lakes of Foster City. Eventually the baby gate came down and he came up, first to the floor by the side of the bed, then to the end of the bed. For a while there he actually would get under the covers - I woke up one morning to see him in my husband's customary spot, under the duvet and with his head on the pillow.<br />
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When our daughter was a baby he took his job of nurse very seriously. Evey time she squeaked from her bed he was on us with a furrowed brow -"She's awake! Come quickly". He would run back and forth from her room to us, getting in the way and causing additional chaos as we tried to get to her. As hard headed and impulsive as he was, he restrained himself beautifully around her. He knew not to walk on her little play mat on the floor, so he would lie right next to it, often with his paws juuuuust touching the edge.<br />
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I have an amazing bit of footage of him actually playing with her when she was about 8 months old. "The sunscreen episode" involved my daughter giving him a tube of sunscreen and him walking around a bit with it in his mouth, then coming back to where she was lying on the floor and holding it out, so gently, for her to take. Given that he NEVER voluntarily gave up anything that was in his mouth it was really something to watch. It went on for about six back and forth passes; long enough to see that it was actually a game they were playing with each other. He would play tug with her as a toddler with his "Quibble stick" - all of his toys had bizarre names courtesy of my husband - and at 60 lbs and with some serious jaw strength he could have lifted her off her feet several times. Instead he know just how hard to tug to make it interesting but not to end the game with somebody getting hurt, and somebody else getting blamed.<br />
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By the time we left California and moved to the Cowichan Valley Cosmo was 6, and had mellowed somewhat, although dog treats at the door were still mandatory, and would continue to be for about another 5 or 6 years. My daughter and I spent a lot of time on the Trans Canada Trail behind our house in Shawnigan Lake. We devised a game of rock throwing, where we would select a rock, heave it as far as we could, and then try to find it on a path strewn with thousands of others rocks. Cosmo decided he wanted to join the game, and would run ahead and find that exact rock, causing my three year old to shriek and insist he hand it over. He never liked to be left out of any game.<br />
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Cosmo was the Frisbee King. A pure delight to watch. He could pick a Frisbee out of the air at about 6 feet, as graceful as a ballerina. People in parks would be in awe - "What kind of dog is that" they would ask. Over the years our answer has changed. We were told he was an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie Cross, but we have friends with a Blue Heeler /Border Collie who is the spitting image of him. We discovered a breed called a McNab - described as sure footed, smart, and hard headed, with a photo of Cosmo's clone, so that's what we call him. Whatever breed he is, he is ours, and we love him unreservedly, all of us in my little tribe.<br />
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From the moment I brought him home at 7 weeks I have dreaded THE DAY. It is out there. I know, intellectually, that it is out there for all of us that breathe, with hearts that beat. One day will be the last day. But I can hardly bear to think of a Cozzie-less world. In the past few weeks several of my friends have lost their beloved pets. At 14, 13 and 17 1/2, you could most certainly argue that they had good long runs, all of them, but that doesn't make it any easier. It is heartbreaking and devastating to lose your companion, especially one who has been at your side for major life changes - marriage, babies, and all of the small disappointments and challenges that have us crying into their fur for solace. They love us unconditionally, they comfort and protect us and share so many moments of laughter and joy with us. They are not just pets, they are family, and when they go they deserve to be mourned like any other family member.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Today Cosmo is almost 14. He is having great difficulty getting up off the floor. Those halcyon Frisbee days are but a fond memory. He has arthritis in his hips, his eyesight is poor and he is pretty hard of hearing. The days of going down the long flight of steps into the backyard are gone too - he can barely manage the 2 steps at the front. I have switched his diet to 100% raw, with bones for breakfast and raw meat in a vegetable "slurry" for dinner and a list of supplements as long as your arm. Maybe apple cider vinegar and Devil's Claw won't prolong his life, but then again, maybe they will. Anything I can give him to keep him pain free. To keep him, just a little longer.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-2963107937802364882011-01-08T01:37:00.000-08:002011-01-08T08:38:49.976-08:00Friends - The Gifts That Keep Giving<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpYiBEtaqGeEGqbSfn5EbtUPW3tM7k-IV6e31noCNxRWM3XUaO5nOk_9s7W1osKS3_7WseB1Uu7_yM97tvfCWEZitZGWS3t5AeYdyLVvmkCxxTHUMwLxhAergQVjWMkzbBCTcpLBRmg6l/s1600/4752820275_320b819763.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgK3ht8KJjtDhhWK278ZWHmctvjiymb1YeX30Lm3qRENgdExppzO5VozaxEQb-EfuaFDrcktExSYYEYgRgwLvbAyf7uX1onrZ49N7p4zqzUK7xdCqb3GNAv41AGkhxu96c0e2D3fhrJwjv/s1600/4752820275_320b819763.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgK3ht8KJjtDhhWK278ZWHmctvjiymb1YeX30Lm3qRENgdExppzO5VozaxEQb-EfuaFDrcktExSYYEYgRgwLvbAyf7uX1onrZ49N7p4zqzUK7xdCqb3GNAv41AGkhxu96c0e2D3fhrJwjv/s320/4752820275_320b819763.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;">"I have to introduce you, I know you guys will love each other". This is how it begins. Take one friend that you love and admire, add another one you cherish and adore, mix them together and you have the ingredients for the greatest gift out there - the mutual friend love fest. I am blessed to have many friends that I began friendships with in many settings - from schoolmates to co-workers, fellow mothers to neighbours. Almost nothing can compare to the thrill of meeting a kindred spirit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I like to tease T by telling the story of how we met through a mutual friend. I had just moved to the community and had one friend that I knew from my years living in California. She invited me along to breakfast with some of her long time friends. When I arrived T was already at the table and her face did one of those "Er, who is THIS?" things when she saw me with our mutual friend. Seven years later she still insists that her face did nothing of the sort. I am fortunate that I can tease her about it on a regular basis - we get together bi-weekly with a group of other women who have become members of my friend love fest. Ironically I do not see the friend who brought us together very often, but I am forever grateful for the gift she gave me in that introduction that day over eggs and coffee.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">When I was a newcomer to my previous neighbourhood in California and a brand new mum my neighbour 2 doors down said "You must meet my friend R - she lives in that house over there. She has a new baby too, you guys will love each other". R was wearing a stylish brown skirt and getting her baby out of her Volvo as I walked by with mine in a Snugli on my chest. She had bright red lipstick and a cool barrette in her hair and she looked funky, fun and exceedingly friendly. I almost walked by, feeling frumpy in my shorts and faded T-shirt and frazzled due to lack of sleep, but instead bravely introduced myself in her driveway. She invited me in for tea, we told each other our life stories (somewhat abbreviated), switched to red wine after about 2 hours, and haven't stopped talking for 10 years. Even though we live in different countries we usually speak several times a week on the phone. Our conversations often skip the "Hi it's R" and launch right in to "You are never going to believe what I just saw, or "Listen to what I'm playing as I make dinner" or "I'm so glad you're home, I just had to tell you what happened today". Our conversation is really one long one instead of many. No matter how much time goes by we jump right in where we left off. It is the most delicious and satisfying type of friendships - the kind where you feel known and loved for your real true self.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Better than all the chocolate pudding in the world.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">And my first impression was bang on - she is the funkiest, most fun, friendly friend anyone could have. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Two years ago my dear friend T introduced me to her friend J. "You two have to meet! You will love each other!' she had insisted for months prior to our meeting. I made an ass of myself when we were introduced - you know how sometimes you attempt glib and it comes out all wrong - but luckily for me, J has a large heart and forgiving nature. Her daughter later told me that her mom had said something to the effect of "Did you hear that woman? She said blabitty blabitty blah! What nerve!"on the way home that day. Luckily for me she gave</span><span style="font-size: small;"> me a chance to redeem myself and I regularly take the opportunity to grovel and apologize for that first misstep. She dismisses it with a wave of her hand and a refill of my teacup. She is one of my dearest friends - kind, loving, exuberant, ironic, but never earnest (sorry, inside joke) and spending time with her is a tonic for my soul. Our friendship is particularly precious to me as our mutual friend passed away last summer. I am forever grateful for the gift she gave to both of us - as well as her friendship she gave us each other. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">To all of my friends, near and far, who have made these introductions, I thank you. And for those friends of friends I have yet to meet, I can't wait! </span> <br />
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</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial,Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">A landmark UCLA study on friendships between women found the following: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">"</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Women respond to stress with a cascade of brain chemicals that cause us to make and maintain friendships with other women. It's a stunning find that has turned five decades of stress research---most of it on men---upside down. Until this study was published, scientists generally believed that when people experience stress, they trigger a hormonal cascade that revs the body to either stand and fight or flee as fast as possible, explains Laura Cousin Klein, Ph.D., now an Assistant Professor of Biobehavioral Health at Penn State University and one of the study's authors. It's an ancient survival mechanism left over from the time we were chased across the planet by saber-toothed tigers.</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Now the researchers suspect that women have a larger behavioral repertoire than just fight or flight; In fact, says Dr. Klein, it seems that when the hormone oxytocin is release as part of the stress responses in a woman, it buffers the fight or flight response and encourages her to tend children and gather with other women instead. When she actually engages in this tending or befriending, studies suggest that more oxytocin is released, which further counters stress and produces a calming effect. It may take some time for new studies to reveal all the ways that oxytocin encourages us to care for children and hang out with other women, but the "tend and befriend" notion developed by Drs. Klein and Taylor may explain why women consistently outlive men. Study after study has found that social ties reduce our risk of disease by lowering blood pressure, heart rate, and cholesterol. There's no doubt, says Dr. Klein, that friends are helping us live longer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Friends are also helping us live better. The famed Nurses' Health Study from Harvard Medical School found that the more friends women had, the less likely they were to develop physical impairments as they aged, and the more likely they were to be leading a joyful life. "</span><br />
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</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-10324260319035255722010-12-07T16:09:00.000-08:002011-02-10T23:40:45.351-08:00Felted Soaps for Charitywater.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5xUok-G75IZufSjUoq3VgPiF4hPCxKFtuGRaBWhmiMY6tdJrvU-2vIk3LHbkyhyJW6GclOxzGYLzSqfXatAaBsliRwNkVdhi2Fg_10jIS1SMYjTOnCTgESIz1ZNMzfqv7xKguRkDAVRV/s1600/soap1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5xUok-G75IZufSjUoq3VgPiF4hPCxKFtuGRaBWhmiMY6tdJrvU-2vIk3LHbkyhyJW6GclOxzGYLzSqfXatAaBsliRwNkVdhi2Fg_10jIS1SMYjTOnCTgESIz1ZNMzfqv7xKguRkDAVRV/s320/soap1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
My daughter and I are making these soaps and donating 100% of the profits to: mycharitywater.org/5buckschallenge. They are 9 dollars a bar. Choose from Glycerin soaps: Passion Fruit, Citrus, Orange Mandarin, Tutti Fruiti, Apple, or Watermelon, or Goat Milk Soaps with Orchid Oil, Shea Butter, or Olive Oil.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNL6kgnKdLoOe9uuCqOcGnIHpL12TvVXaOalmmViyIMRZur3neUtxyPwJEjptThbzfTDOlPOn8-QQFnT_2U9jwt0MhsGULRxKjHuiSKIHnrdeV2rSsVILzxyBKVBTcu_pD97TRaGl3oe2b/s1600/soap2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNL6kgnKdLoOe9uuCqOcGnIHpL12TvVXaOalmmViyIMRZur3neUtxyPwJEjptThbzfTDOlPOn8-QQFnT_2U9jwt0MhsGULRxKjHuiSKIHnrdeV2rSsVILzxyBKVBTcu_pD97TRaGl3oe2b/s320/soap2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Snuggled in felted wool exfoliating coats these soaps are beautiful and practical. When the soap is gone simply slit the wool and insert a new bar. Choose which felted soaps you would like, let me know via email - majikx@msn.com - so that I can calculate your shipping and handling charges. Then you can pay by donation online at: mycharitywater.org/soapforwater.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimFwHZwZw9WeV_gm5NjADfPe5GfSpP3Jd_z6mvfSSKuq9mkMYsUy0MPPoaS5XVH0pjpcV3f3pgU2zUjAu6a0VSNEl1watv1Dyv8-h33mJv7J3e92eUolIAANTpVzrNJaG0kbcmAQFKhD0i/s1600/soap3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimFwHZwZw9WeV_gm5NjADfPe5GfSpP3Jd_z6mvfSSKuq9mkMYsUy0MPPoaS5XVH0pjpcV3f3pgU2zUjAu6a0VSNEl1watv1Dyv8-h33mJv7J3e92eUolIAANTpVzrNJaG0kbcmAQFKhD0i/s320/soap3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Thank you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-10144302615436875012010-11-09T00:20:00.000-08:002010-11-09T00:20:03.670-08:00Dragonfly Summer - Or How to Embrace Your Inner Dragonfly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://everystockphoto.s3.amazonaws.com/guerneville_california_flare_83148_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="http://everystockphoto.s3.amazonaws.com/guerneville_california_flare_83148_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=pentimentomam-20&l=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B0042XA37Q" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />I know it sounds like a movie Brooke Shields should have starred in. Maybe it is, I'm starting to get a bit fuzzy with details, one of the many delights of middle age is how dotty I am becoming. Don't get me started on my rant about the self serve checkout in Home Depot today - I was in full blown dottage. How to juggle my purchases, my wallet, the bag, and the transaction without losing or dropping something - I was breaking out in a sweat just as I finally figured out what the machine was wanting from me. I don't want to do it myself, it's too much responsibility. I feel flustered and uptight and senile every time I approach those self serve kiosks. "You can do it" I tell myself. Focus. Complete dottage. No wonder 20 somethings smirk. Anyhow, back to the dragonflies. Yes, we are officially in autumn and careening toward winter, but I was reading a blog post tonight about crow sightings and what the symbolism of crows is, and it made me think of how many dragonflies I noticed this summer. Just after my good friend T died, in fact mere days afterward, I was lying in my hammock in my newbie orchard, thinking of her. I sent her a little mental message - T - if you are out there give me a sign. A few minutes later a dragonfly fluttered by, and then another. I pondered on that for a bit. Then I started to notice that every time I was down in my garden I would have several dragonfly sightings. I made a mental note to look up dragonflies, but I didn't get around to it (too busy struggling with self serve kiosks and shrinking type - my brother sent me a Happy Birthday text but I couldn't read it without my glasses and the next time my glasses were handy the text message had vanished. At least I think it was from my brother. Oh well, somebody in Vancouver at any rate) until tonight, after the crow blog post.<br />
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I thought turning 50 would be the year of the big epiphany, and I did have a few, but as my sister told me, she discovered that the epiphanies sort of spread themselves out over the next few years. 50 is such a round, fulsome number. I actually like it quite a lot, but now I am 51, and it seems pretty great so far too. <br />
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Anyhow, I googled dragonflies and symbolism tonight, and this is what I came up with :<br />
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<h2><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">Symbolism of the Dragonfly</span></h2><ul type="circle"><li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><b>Maturity and a Depth of character</b><br />
The dragonfly, in almost every part of the world symbolizes change and change in the perspective of self realization; and the kind of change that has its source in mental and emotional maturity and the understanding of the deeper meaning of life. The traditional association of dragonflies with water also gives rise to this meaning to this amazing insect. The dragonfly’s scurrying flight across water represents an act of going beyond what’s on the surface and looking into the deeper implications and aspects of life.</span> </li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><b>Power and Poise</b><br />
The dragonfly’s agile flight and its ability to move in all six directions exude a sense of power and poise - something that comes only with age and maturity. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><b>Defeat of Self Created Illusions</b><br />
The dragonfly exhibits iridescence both on its wings as well as on its body. Iridescence is the property of an object to show itself in different colors depending on the angle and polarization of light falling on it. This property is seen and believed as the end of one’s self created illusions and a clear vision into the realities of life. The magical property of iridescence is also associated with the discovery of one’s own abilities by unmasking the real self and removing the doubts one casts on his/her own sense of identity. This again indirectly means self discovery and removal of inhibitions.</span> </li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><b>Focus on living in the moment</b><br />
The dragonfly normally lives most of its life as a nymph or an immature. It flies only for a fraction of its life and usually not more than a few months. This adult dragonfly does it all in these few months and leaves nothing to be desired. This style of life symbolizes and exemplifies the virtue of living in the moment and living life to the fullest. By living in the moment you are aware of who you are, where you are, what you are doing, what you want, what you don’t and make informed choices on a moment-to-moment basis. This ability lets you live your life without regrets like the great dragonfly.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><b>The opening of one’s eyes</b><br />
The eyes of the dragonfly are one of the most amazing and awe inspiring sights. Given almost 80% of the insect’s brain power is dedicated to its sight and the fact that it can see in all 360 degrees around it, it symbolizes the uninhibited vision of the mind and the ability to see beyond the limitations of the human self. It also in a manner of speaking symbolizes a man/woman’s rising from materialism to be able to see beyond the mundane into the vastness that is really our Universe, and our own minds. </span> </li>
</ul><br />
Thank you T - I received your message loud and clear. Be true to yourself. Go deeper than the surface. Live in the moment. Live without regret. Open your eyes to what matters.<br />
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Embrace your inner dragonfly.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-17287820805141279142010-09-13T16:11:00.000-07:002010-09-13T16:12:22.405-07:00Two Weddings, Two Funerals, Two Babies and an Engagement<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6XDMi1dvHvJO_LBcKaF7FR-pyia1PdEdn7VOS8NNGzRdwRiK_6kHO4jY88y3b9NG9fs2FjKdFQxpS2XO3ssHFw4TQaxkt8MOVNxxXmDmSO8AMERnEjI5uh2wEcvz8cyHRK95FUPHz3nE/s1600/loveisall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6XDMi1dvHvJO_LBcKaF7FR-pyia1PdEdn7VOS8NNGzRdwRiK_6kHO4jY88y3b9NG9fs2FjKdFQxpS2XO3ssHFw4TQaxkt8MOVNxxXmDmSO8AMERnEjI5uh2wEcvz8cyHRK95FUPHz3nE/s320/loveisall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> This summer was an emotional roller coaster. It was our own version of Four Weddings and a Funeral without the accents and with a few added surprises. As we head toward the middle of September and the twilight days of summer I look at the world around me with fresh eyes. My plan, as always, for summer was filled with to dos like finish the chicken run, build more raised beds in the vegetable patch, construct a shed, pressure wash the decks and re-stain the railings, paint the window ledges, steam clean the carpets - need I go on? I'm sure my list looks like many homeowner's lists for summertime chores and maintenance. After all, without maintenance the place starts to fall apart around your ears, right? Maybe so. For us, none of the items on the above list (which is incomplete because you only have so much time to read this and so much interest in the mundane) were accomplished, and that's okay. This summer I had several big reminders that life is short, life is grand, and we must not sweat the small stuff but rejoice in it instead.<br />
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I bought myself a hammock at the beginning of the summer, one of the ones that hangs on a frame rather than from trees, because my ultimate goal was to hang a hammock in my orchard from my pear and plum trees, but that would require putting perfectly good lazing time on hold while my trees grow big enough to support my weight plus a good book and a cool drink. The self-sustaining hammock was a great choice and a terrific bargain at $39.95. I spent several hours this summer with book and drink, watching the clouds gracefully float by overhead and pondering the meaning of life and the power of love and connection.<br />
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This summer was a summer of loss and a summer of hope and renewal. I lost a cherished friend and my dear mother-in-law. Those hours in the hammock helped me heal some of my pain. I held my friend and my mother-in-law in my heart and contemplated what made them so beautiful, and their legacies so rich. Their memorials could not have been more different - one in a Baptist church filled with hundreds of people, a choir and an organ playing, one near the ocean with a children running and laughing, people in a hot tub, and marimba music playing. The qualities of these two women that made them so adored were the same - a caring heart, a sense of humour, a generosity of spirit and a love of family, friends, and music. They touched many, many lives, and will be dearly missed by all who knew them.<br />
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Hope came in the form of two weddings, my brother's and my husband's godson's. Both weddings were outside by the ocean, both were beautiful, both occasions reminded me, as I watched bride and groom stare lovingly into each others eyes as they exchanged their vows, that love is actually, all around. ( I couldn't resist that, Love Actually being one of my favorite movies). What I was reminded of, as I watched the weddings, is that love is all that matters, it comes in many forms, it can be expected, inevitable, or utterly out of the blue, but when you get right down to it love is hope, and we all need it to lead complete and fulfilling lives here on earth.<br />
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Which brings me to renewal. Babies, ah babies. Who doesn't love babies? Two arrived this summer, and more are on the way. I may be an aunt and a grandmother in the not too distant future, which thrills me and my 10 year old cousin/auntie-to-be. This summer my son announced his engagement to the loveliest young woman I have ever not met! We have conversed extensively in email this past week, baring our souls and getting to know and love each other as we do the young man we have in common. I have discovered that I can still fall in love, and reminded that love and connection can come into our lives from many delightful and unexpected directions.<br />
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This summer I was reminded to keep my heart open, even when it hurts. If you aren't feeling, you aren't living. Embrace it all, the sad, the hopeful, the painful and the glorious. Life is messy and grand, and as I reflected in my hammock as I watched the clouds go by, fleeting. Grab that happiness. Comfort a friend. Share a good laugh. Forgive someone who hurt you. If you are a crier, like some people I know, hold your head up proudly and let the tears flow. Show the real you.<br />
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Tell someone you love them today. Love is it, the big enchilada. Love is all, and it actually is all around.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-54745847722645357022010-04-17T00:31:00.000-07:002016-09-15T20:34:08.454-07:00Confessions of an Outed SlobIt has taken me 50 years to 'fess up - My name is Lesley Fountain and I am a slob. There really should be a Slobs Anonymous, because I think there are more of us out there than might be thought at first glance. A lot of us are highly functioning slobs, with devious little tricks to cover up, distract, re-direct. Gosh, is that a Snowy Owl in that tree? (Kicking husband's sweaty rowing shorts under couch). One of the most cunning ways to hide your slobbishness is by surrounding yourself with those who have far more obvious slobby habits, which explains why I have married not one but two slobs. My current husband is delightful in many ways, but maddeningly messy and proud to be so. He does not see messes, even when he is tripping over them, wading through them, or lying under or over them. If I have a large pile of laundry on the bed waiting to be folded and put away and he is tired he will simply lift the covers under the teetering pile and climb in.<br />
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It is easy to get caught up in the blame game, especially if you have, as I say, chosen a more obviously out of the closet slob as a mate. They can be the reason why your house always looks like a tornado roared through it, why the bathroom has towels and clothes all over the floor, why you can't see the surface of the washing machine or the dryer in the laundry room because they have tools, cardboard for recycling, library books and an empty humane mouse trap (called a tin cat) on them, which is true for me as I type. They can be the cause of your lament - "I crave beauty, order and serenity so much and yet my house looks like an episode of Sanford and Son".<br />
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So how did I discover that it is me, only me, one finger pointing outward but four fingers pointing in? My husband started working away. At one point in the last two years he was away for the majority of 9 months, and a niggling little suspicion began to grow in the back of my mind - it's-not-just-him. It's ME! The funny thing is that it was a huge relief to finally embrace my inner slob. To stop blaming, trying to keep up the facade and just admit it, I'm a messy person who thought she was neat for 50 years, so what? Now I revel in it. I went 3 months without washing my kitchen floor last fall. My windows are so dirty I can hardly see out of them. The ones that are too high for me to reach I had cleaned back in 2005. There are parts of my house that I have never dusted or wiped, and we have lived in it for six years.<br />
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This morning I had intended to dust the bookshelves in the living room. Instead I went on an adventure walk with my daughter and two happy dogs. This afternoon I thought about gathering up all of the crap around the house for a thrift store drop and sweeping the area by the back door which is covered with leaves and dirt from the last storm, instead we all lit a bonfire in the yard and roasted hot dogs and made Smores. My first Smores ever! We tried to imagine what cave man and woman talked about around their fires. We listened to the wings of the Canada geese as they flew over the yard, and heard the first frogs of the night start up their singing. Tonight I contemplated folding some laundry and tidying up the living room. Instead I played my marimba and watched our baby chicks learning to snooze on their perch. Oh, and wrote this post. <br />
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The more I put off cleaning and tidying, sweeping and mopping, dusting, vaccuming, organizing and filing, the more I say oh who cares, I'll do it some other time - the happier I am. I must be on to something. The secret of life? Perhaps.<br />
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Now if I can only find my husband...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-78012422133290588872010-03-31T23:52:00.000-07:002010-04-01T10:32:43.564-07:00Got Chick?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz57m_1fEmRdmHjgPi3amK_DC7ojCn4Ak2cdgG3FMalPzlZCtNu85x5uUJpTPqIO_mU5ogC1AYCp66MQ0JuzfmW0cUGFpGNDS7z2sfVUjP0iD2PPpiJQTZ_hCJwYzIlGQrB3YNhUy8K3Xw/s1600/chickinmug.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz57m_1fEmRdmHjgPi3amK_DC7ojCn4Ak2cdgG3FMalPzlZCtNu85x5uUJpTPqIO_mU5ogC1AYCp66MQ0JuzfmW0cUGFpGNDS7z2sfVUjP0iD2PPpiJQTZ_hCJwYzIlGQrB3YNhUy8K3Xw/s400/chickinmug.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Sunday morning couldn't come early enough. My daughter and I had a mission - to be the first comers at the Poultry Swap and pick out our chicks. With the vacant guinea pig cage scrubbed and the chick welcome gift basket unpacked (water dispenser, chick food, grit, chick dishes, thermometer, video camera) we eagerly headed off, list of possible names in hand. We actually were just about the first folks to arrive - such keen chicken newbies - and headed straight for the nearest truck tailgate with peeping boxes on it. The books I have read all talk about this pivotal moment in chick purchasing - how important it is to take your time, try to "track one chick" with your eyes and take note of things like dry nostrils and lack of gimped up toes. Confession? I didn't even look at the toes. The sheer enchantment of a box of 4 day old chicks cannot be described. They are all adorable, every single one. How to choose? We had originally decided to go with three chicks, a Buff Orpington - a gorgeous golden colour -, a classic Rhode Island Red, and an Ameraucana for the pretty blue and green eggs. No Buff Orpingtons were to be had, so we decided on 2 Ameraucanas - one the quintissential Easter yellow and one with a pretty brown stripey pattern on her back, and the RIR. All set! We just needed one more dish for the grit. I popped inside the shop to get the dish and on the way back to the car I was waylaid by another peeping box on a tailgate and made an impulse buy of 2 Buff Brahmas. The woman in front of me bought 20, I was afraid they would sell out before I even had a chance to look inside the box. Chicken fever!!!<br />
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In three days I swear they have grown. They are adorable, more entertaining than TV, and seem to have distinct personalities. They fall asleep as a unit - all face planted until one hears something and they are all up again. Their names are...drumroll...Laura, Amy, April, Sally Henny Penny, and Mrs. Lydia Brown. Let's just pray that none of them grow up to crow at dawn.<br />
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I wonder why I ever waited this long to become a chicken keeper - it was love at first sight, times five.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-82164108219385290112010-03-21T23:51:00.000-07:002010-03-21T23:54:29.882-07:00Soap Helps Me Cope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xI8wD3qgDRbDKZG_YNQKxY-z5AWhDzp__jRZrWglzt3fq0X3guAxz9nV5bvEpP5aDgMBOGcLPCDCgPPv4WJbpeE5Oly_ov4lO2L3feqzqdANOh_4YSUM2kd-hyck8tnjf9C_GfXNDbS6/s1600-h/soap.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xI8wD3qgDRbDKZG_YNQKxY-z5AWhDzp__jRZrWglzt3fq0X3guAxz9nV5bvEpP5aDgMBOGcLPCDCgPPv4WJbpeE5Oly_ov4lO2L3feqzqdANOh_4YSUM2kd-hyck8tnjf9C_GfXNDbS6/s400/soap.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>One week down and two to go of my "cleanse". This is not a purist juiced-veggies only cleanse, I find I get too weak and crabby without some protein, but eliminating wheat, yeast, gluten, dairy, sugar, caffeine and alcohol while still eating food that requires some chewing is do-able for 21 days. Actually, I feel great! Clean and serene, and my various little aches and pains are gone. The photograph above reveals one of my secret weapons - fine Italian soap.<br />
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A couple of years back I realized something. While I have a hard time denying my 9 year old many of her heart's desires I frequently ignored my own. When I found myself standing in a local shop one day holding a nine dollar bar of soap in my hand and having an internal struggle over whether of not I should splurge on it I had a bit of an epiphany. I decided to embark on a love affair with myself. If I was just beginning a relationship with one I adored, what would I do? What most of us do, I presume - offer little tokens of our esteem and affection, small gifts that we know will please and delight. Right up there for me in the guaranteed-to-delight category along with books and chocolate is a fine block of soap. Recently I found a mother lode of delectable soaps in my local pharmacy. "Made with love and care in Florence Italy", Nesti Dante soaps are lovely - substantial in size, they are gorgeously packaged and come in several delightful scent combinations. So far I have tried Olive and Tangerine, Pomegranate and Blackcurrant, and Fig and Almond Milk. Heavenly! Almost nothing beats a long, quiet soak in the bath listening to the frogs in the pond next door and reading The Autobiography of King Henry VIII whilst enjoying the "enchanting olfactory sensations" my soap delivers whilst it awakens "the memories of an old orchard".<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>As long as I can stay in that old orchard until this cleanse is over I'll be just fine.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-60569329656231259932010-03-14T23:59:00.000-07:002010-03-15T00:39:21.589-07:00Born Under the Sign of the Scales<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8-u1kHYXS2JYmAEGt-kx7xJAjpLsSQOgc-BlhtO1kuurx2aZ9AD4oof9NVyh10t-fR-LcXwjdawYx0VoLNvs4onauWvu0iNfe5VMuJsJoKAjxqEYO2HouRtMz8VK2i_R4pgLro7ye9oXq/s1600-h/b1gabagge002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8-u1kHYXS2JYmAEGt-kx7xJAjpLsSQOgc-BlhtO1kuurx2aZ9AD4oof9NVyh10t-fR-LcXwjdawYx0VoLNvs4onauWvu0iNfe5VMuJsJoKAjxqEYO2HouRtMz8VK2i_R4pgLro7ye9oXq/s400/b1gabagge002.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Those of us born in October who are members of the illustrious Libra club have one thing in common. No sooner do we say or do one thing than we set off down a contradictory path. Take my last post about bread. Mere days ago I was waxing lyrical about my new found love - No Knead Bread - and yet tonight as I ate chocolate milk powder straight out of the tin I realized that yes, it is that time again. Cleanup time. Whenever I get this desperate for chocolate, sugar, butter and cheese my body is sending out a big loud SOS. So out the window goes new love NKB (sob), joined by all things gluten, wheat, dairy, sugar, caffeine, yeast and meat. What, you may ask, is there left to eat? Luckily for me I have been down this particular road a time or two, and once I get into the mindset needed it is actually quite do-able. Bananas, soy, brown rice, veggies, green tea, lentils, beans, fish, and leafy greens, yogurt, honey, goat's milk, pumpkin seed butter and spelt bread are all a go. <br />
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Oh, oh, I'm getting a fabulous idea here! My local bakery sells the most gorgeous Pumpkin Spelt loaf, I'll simply substitute the gorgeous PSL for KNB for 3 weeks. <br />
I know from past experience that it is worth it - in three weeks the bloated sluggishness will be gone and I will be feeling clean and energized and ready for spring.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-10144077468840530152010-03-10T22:51:00.000-08:002010-03-15T00:42:24.703-07:00The Radical Bread Maker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsIy8e0gP4Xjib_7wfyq2fCVq9IdHPlRxDEDtwP7LQJhSXfmfMMhtmMXyCpKyFQA8oY_40VQf8iR3NCFalvZVpetFwHQVZQnbFCM14SW1O1xclgnDiDU91J0eGD7hYkBz10QIebKigulE/s1600-h/march2010+008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsIy8e0gP4Xjib_7wfyq2fCVq9IdHPlRxDEDtwP7LQJhSXfmfMMhtmMXyCpKyFQA8oY_40VQf8iR3NCFalvZVpetFwHQVZQnbFCM14SW1O1xclgnDiDU91J0eGD7hYkBz10QIebKigulE/s400/march2010+008.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I happened across a book today with the enticing title: Radical Homemakers - Reclaiming Domesticity from a Consumer Culture, by Shannon Hayes. Here is the product description on Amazon:<br />
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Mother Nature has shown her hand. Faced with climate change, dwindling resources, and species extinctions, most Americans understand the fundamental steps necessary to solve our global crises-drive less, consume less, increase self-reliance, buy locally, eat locally, rebuild our local communities.In essence, the great work we face requires rekindling the home fires.<i>Radical Homemakers</i> is about men and women across the U.S. who focus on home and hearth as a political and ecological act, and who have centered their lives around family and community for personal fulfillment and cultural change. It explores what domesticity looks like in an era that has benefited from feminism, where domination and oppression are cast aside and where the choice to stay home is no longer equated with mind-numbing drudgery, economic insecurity, or relentless servitude.<i>Radical Homemakers</i> nationwide speak about empowerment, transformation, happiness, and casting aside the pressures of a consumer culture to live in a world where money loses its power to relationships, independent thought, and creativity. If you ever considered quitting a job to plant tomatoes, read to a child, pursue creative work, can green beans and heal the planet, this is your book.<br />
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Reviewer John de Graaf writes: "Imagine wives (and husbands) who reject the false promise of endless paid labor to tend gardens and children and friendships".<br />
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Whoa!! Now we're talking RIGHT up my alley! Sadly, my current "make do, consume less" status prevents me from immediately ordering this book and it is not in my local library, so I will have to practice patience until it is and develop my own theory about what is in the book.<br />
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I think I may well be a Radical Homemaker. I am certainly an extremely satisfied homebody who adores making things, and I have been known to do something radical now and then. I love being at home, and I've been home-centric since I was a wee girl. I practically had to be pried from my mother's arms when I started kindergarten and was relieved to come home after 2 1/2 hours. The word HOME is in my top ten words list. I feel happy when I enter my kitchen every day. I love to bake and cook, knit, sew, paint walls, refurbish furniture, rescue discarded lamps and tables from the thrift store and pore over organic gardening and raising chickens books. One of the recent skills that I have embraced with gusto is baking bread.<br />
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Ah, bread. Odes have been written to the humble staff of life. It is hard to fathom that flour, yeast, salt and water can get together and produce such a wondrous substance. It really does deserve to be capitalized , like a human getting awarded an OBE. BREAD. About 15 years ago I was given a bread making machine and it has been extremely well used, almost on a daily basis, for those 15 years. However, all of that changed about 5 months ago when I stumbled across an article in McLean's magazine about no knead bread. To my mind the only drawback to what I consider "real" bread (sorry bread maker, but it's just my opinion) is all that bloody kneading until your arms ache and your hands feel like they are going to fall off . Along comes Jim Lahey's 'miracle bread", - described as the slow food of your dreams. Every time I share a loaf of this wondrous bread with friends they go crazy. When I insist that making it is child's play they shake their heads no, they don't want to make it, they just want me to keep making it. This bread tastes like a crusty sourdough boule that you would pay about five bucks for at a bakery. It's rustic and hearty on the outside and chewy, moist, dense yet holey and and sweet yet sour on the inside. Heavenly! I am in the bread groove now - I usually have a loaf or two just baked when I start the process all over again for the next two. This recipe will make one loaf. Double, triple or quadruple as needed:<br />
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In large bowl mix together 3 cups flour, 1/4 tsp yeast, 1 1/4 tsp salt and 1 5/8 cups water. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and leave. (The recipe states 12-18 hours but I usually do closer to 22). Transfer dough onto floured cutting board, a little cornmeal too if you like, and shape into ball, tucking ragged bits underneath. Sprinkle top with flour, cover with tea towel and leave 2 hours. After 1 1/2 hours turn oven on to 450 degrees and put a lidded casserole dish in to heat up for the final 1/2 hour of the dough rising time. Carefully remove dish from oven, it will be piping hot, and quickly transfer dough into dish, just bung it in upside down and give it a quick shake to settle it. Cover and cook for 1/2 hour- remove lid and if it looks like it needs a bit of browning leave it in for another 10 minutes. My oven runs hot so I take it out at this point. Cool on a rack if onlookers can stand it. Start process all over again.<br />
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People seem to be put off by the long rising time but really this bread is a cinch to make if you have a square foot free on your kitchen counter and get into the dough making/baking routine. The yeast does all the work, it just does it slowly, the way it should. Radical? Maybe yes, maybe no. But for anyone trying to make the monthly budget stretch a little further, consider this - a 10 kg bag of flour costs about $8.00. It makes about 20 loaves. That's 40 cents a loaf. Plus it makes your house smell like baking bread, which surely should be in anyone's top ten smells list.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-27804131597572314402010-03-07T22:27:00.000-08:002010-03-15T00:44:05.934-07:00City Mouse Goes Country<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyHKVsnXytc_fASdke_zYmEClGOm0zSVEBxC0WYeHYJ2gdlvFv-TlxKZSPz57cEjqQb3WVvr76zbueTBEO8ruNo2_RB0SXcn7Ux_U9mBTtIS2fxYAOMnyZ1UlYU0F1U57sh5N1q7v9kCao/s1600-h/b17barb026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyHKVsnXytc_fASdke_zYmEClGOm0zSVEBxC0WYeHYJ2gdlvFv-TlxKZSPz57cEjqQb3WVvr76zbueTBEO8ruNo2_RB0SXcn7Ux_U9mBTtIS2fxYAOMnyZ1UlYU0F1U57sh5N1q7v9kCao/s400/b17barb026.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I'm not quite sure when I morphed from a city girl to a country bumpkin, but morph I did. Growing up in a city suburb I had scant contact with anything farmish or country. Our family pets ran to dogs and cats, and an occasional rodent. My only brush with nature was mowing the lawn in summer (more often decorating it by lying on it slathered in Johnson's baby oil) or watering a lone spider plant in its macrame hanger. I ate my vegetables out of a can (as long as they were corn) and was squeamish about all things that smelled "earthy". But all along the country life sang its siren song to me. Country Mouse/City Mouse - I always rooted for Country, and could relate to his sigh of relief when he returned home after the big switch. When I watched Green Acres I couldn't understand why Zha Zha Gabor was in such a hurry to get back to Park Avenue. John Denver's song "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" had me tapping my toes and dreaming about life on the farm being "kinda laid back"- I'm sure farmers everywhere had a laugh over that one! In my twenties I embraced country decor, and was enchanted by hooked rugs, samplers, and anything with a goose painted on it. Still, I remained a city girl, but I started dreaming about converting a barn into a house and listening to frogs at night instead of traffic, and I began to compile "the folder". Snip, rip, glossy magazines fell victim to my hands and photos of barns, meadows, funky rural art studios and various barnyard livestock filled folder after folder.<br />
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As John Lennon said though, life is what happens when you are making other plans. Events unfolded that kept me citified until about 6 years ago, when I moved to a one acre property just outside a small village, twenty minutes away from a town and 40 minutes from a city. The best of all worlds, in my opinion. The house has enough projects to keep me busy for the next 10 years at least. Funky and slightly decrepit it may be but I HAVE PLANS. Yes indeed. First, the vegetable garden. When we bought the house the vegetable patch was a huge fenced in square with a concrete kidney-shaped raised bed around an apple tree and some California poppies drooping in a lacklustre way at it's feet. Slowly but surely, every year it gets better. Last year I grew herbs, potatoes, lettuce, squash, zucchini, tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, garlic, rhubarb, onions, and peppers. I compost, augment the soil with manure from a nearby farm, and practice crop rotation and companion planting. I have two hoes! My spider plant would be so proud. Last spring I planted an orchard, with 2 Italian prune plums, 3 varieties of apples, and 3 pears. My mason bees will have their work cut out for them when they wake up this year.<br />
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Which brings me to the chickens. Yes, if any of you have a child who has become too tall to comfortably fit through the door of their playhouse I suggest you consider converting it into a hen house. By the end of the month we will hopefully have brought home our three chicks (already named) who will reside in our abandoned guinea pig cage (the guinea pigs were not abandoned, they just moved upmarket into a two story cage, with a loft area that overlooks the living room/ dining room/ bathroom) until they are big enough to move into the hen house. For a girl who's only point of reference for chickens was Kentucky Fried or Campbell's Chicken Noodle, I've come a long way, baby.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-73600797569739420972010-01-24T23:12:00.000-08:002016-11-24T18:40:58.234-08:00The Word Pentimento<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I ran across the word pentimento about 20 years ago and was fascinated by the idea of a previously painted image "peeking through" another image. I filed it away in my interesting words section of my brain until a week or so ago when I started this blog. Interestingly, the concept has taken on a slightly different meaning to me. I turned 50 this past October, and the idea of an original draft becoming visible through a top layer that is becoming transparent with age seems to fit with my feeling that as I age I become more of who I was long ago. Almost forgotten bits of me seem to be surfacing, returning to me. Hobbies and talents, interests, (including my love of chocolate pudding) seem to be coming to life once again after lying dormant for years. Recently I did some embroidery on a quilt square for a young friend who is becoming a woman - we had a ceremony and presented her with a quilt made up of squares that each woman invited had made to welcome her to womanhood. As I stitched my chain stitch on my square which was a combination of quilting, beadwork, and embroidery I was reminded of the pleasure I took in needlecraft as a teenager. I embroidered, knitted, hooked rugs, wove wall hangings - and then for some reason in my 20s I stopped. Many long forgotten projects and the joy I found in them resurfaced as I created my square, and my passion for all kinds of art and craft is once again ignited!<br />
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Another project that I completed this week was a painting for a friend who turned 50. I had her friends and family paint images or blobs of colour on a large canvas set up at her birthday party. Afterward I took it home and worked over it, adding colour, metallic accents, quotes and bits of song lyrics. The original shapes and images shine through from underneath, again bringing to mind the idea of pentimento.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5951084969328563585.post-66582824574143186542010-01-14T00:16:00.000-08:002011-01-05T16:32:06.921-08:00Running into 2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzf7Uz-q_vmB-gUS5klZM8MjW6-lAvQ2I5nodyXhZCc1jYgS4oGyZIOCDRxBb-iDcs5bYQJ003fqHxPduDkYVpAhneZmsAQ-h_VXedu2wHaSuBwGuoVDF_BidPbbWTI2cEuE-H2ZP7nLaZ/s1600/818466_woman_in_the_sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzf7Uz-q_vmB-gUS5klZM8MjW6-lAvQ2I5nodyXhZCc1jYgS4oGyZIOCDRxBb-iDcs5bYQJ003fqHxPduDkYVpAhneZmsAQ-h_VXedu2wHaSuBwGuoVDF_BidPbbWTI2cEuE-H2ZP7nLaZ/s400/818466_woman_in_the_sunset.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Lucille Clifton<br />
I Am Running into a New Year</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">i am running into a new year</div><div style="text-align: justify;">and the old years blow back</div><div style="text-align: justify;">like a wind</div><div style="text-align: justify;">that i catch in my hair</div><div style="text-align: justify;">like strong fingers like</div><div style="text-align: justify;">all my old promises and</div><div style="text-align: justify;">it will be hard to let go</div><div style="text-align: justify;">of what i said to myself</div><div style="text-align: justify;">about myself</div><div style="text-align: justify;">when i was sixteen and</div><div style="text-align: justify;">twenty-six and thirty-six</div><div style="text-align: justify;">even thirty-six but</div><div style="text-align: justify;">i am running into a new year</div><div style="text-align: justify;">and i beg what i love and</div><div style="text-align: justify;">i leave to forgive me</div><div style="text-align: justify;">from Good Woman: Poems and a Memoir 1969-1980</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0