tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16188507809504936162024-02-18T21:41:34.892-08:00grown ups are like that....Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-43498060888960870322016-06-11T08:05:00.000-07:002016-06-11T08:14:59.959-07:00Separate is Never Equal Dear Julian and Valentina,<br />
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Last night I met an amazing woman! Her name is <a href="http://sylviamendezinthemendezvswestminster.com/" target="_blank">Sylvia Mendez</a>. When she was just a little girl the local school board wouldn't let her or her brothers attend school in their neighborhood because she was Mexican? Can you believe that, my loves?<br />
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Her father took the case to the courts and they won! Because of Sylvia the California schools were desegregated in 1947.<br />
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She travels the country encouraging children to get an education, and in 2011 she was awarded the Presidential Medal of Honor.<br />
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Well guess what? We met her last night! She was excited to learn that I was also from California and said she was just visiting San Jose where mama and I grew up.<br />
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We then saw a whole play about her life called <i><a href="http://www.democratandchronicle.com/story/lifestyle/2016/06/04/separate-never-equal-premieres-muccc/85336042/" target="_blank">Separate is Never Equal</a></i>. The <a href="https://www.facebook.com/RochesterLatinoTheatreCompany" target="_blank">Rochester Latino Theater Company</a> did a wonderful job, and the city of Rochester issued an official proclamation recognizing Sylvia's efforts to improve education nationwide. Now the Rochester City School District will be teaching their students about her life. Bridget and I hope that the Brockport School District will follow suit.<br />
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We bought a book about her life for you to share. She signed it to you both, so take good care of it. She is a very import person, and when you read the story remember all she did for the Latino community.<br />
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With love,<br />
Tia Chrissy & Cousin Bridget<br />
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-41116889455513707432016-02-28T08:48:00.000-08:002016-02-28T08:48:32.419-08:00BreatheI have the window wide open today. The air rushes in and I take great gulps.<br />
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My friend writes every Sunday. The words flow from her onto the page and she feels lighter. She has processed. She has created. <br />
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When I was pregnant with my children each would shove little feet up into my ribs on the right side. Sometimes it was a hard jab and other times slow, persistent pressure. Either way, my lungs were compromised and air was hard to hold onto. I'd stretch and wiggle until I could breathe properly again only for their foot to once again find that comfortable place that made me choke and gasp for air.<br />
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When they were born I could breathe with ease almost immediately.<br />
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It is so easy to compare writing to birth. Of course it's been done. Of course it's cliche. Hackneyed.<br />
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But isn't it true that you can breathe better after an essay, story, or poem is done? Our "babies" are out there now, no more foot in the rib.<br />
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Today I imagine my friend sitting at her computer with a cup of coffee. Her window is open and she watches the sun next to the Austrian crystal that hangs there. Words flow. <br />
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Poems emerge.<br />
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She can breathe.<br />
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-37217643670624843402015-10-04T07:54:00.002-07:002015-10-04T07:54:12.235-07:00TrioLast night I had a small party to celebrate the release of my husband's new book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0801454131?keywords=Paul+Moyer&qid=1443968828&ref_=sr_1_1&sr=8-1" target="_blank">The Public Universal Friend.</a> The event was fun, and so many good, kind friends and colleagues came out to support us. But this post isn't about the party or the book, really. It is about my two dearest friends, Kelly and Nadine.<br />
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To say they helped with the party is an understatement. As soon as the event was announced they agreed to come, no questions asked. And then they ever so gently pushed..."How can we help?What can we bring? How early should we arrive to set up?" But I pushed back..."No, I want to do this all on my own."<br />
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They patiently waited until I came to my senses. They read my stressed out emails and helped review my menu choices. And they were right there when I buckled and said, "Help."<br />
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So Kelly shuffled off her children to grandma's house. Nadine told her significant other that the party he was having the same night would have to wait. They brought their own linens and decorations and showed up ridiculously early to help make this event absolutely perfect. Nadine whisked my kids away, so we wouldn't have to tend to them or worry. Kelly and her husband stayed until the very end to help clean and lock up.<br />
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Thank you both, I love you. Your support amidst my crazy-making is appreciated more than you will ever know.<br />
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-16428655540187056272015-03-15T18:20:00.000-07:002015-03-15T18:30:09.464-07:00Hey there, honey...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
My friend Christina gave me some unfiltered beeswax and some honeycomb from her beehive.</div>
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I stuffed the whole mess into an old stocking and added the stocking to the top of a double boiler. I learned this method on <a href="https://kindacrunchykate.wordpress.com/2011/01/24/how-to-make-hard-lotion-bars-a-photo-tutorial/" target="_blank">THIS </a>website.<br />
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I made sure to have a clean drink carton on hand. I cut off the top.<br />
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I turned the heat to medium and watched as the clear wax seep through the hose. When it appeared all the wax was rendered, I discarded the hose full of dirt, bee bodies, bee bread, and pollen.</div>
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I added a second pair of hose over my juice carton and poured my clear, hot wax through it.<br />
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After the filtered wax cooled all that was left was wax and a little bit of brown watery stuff.<br />
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The dark watery stuff was a little sweet, but wasn't pure honey. I discarded it as well.<br />
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And now I have some lovely wax to make candles!!!<br />
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-7138786318502700862015-01-13T10:59:00.001-08:002015-01-13T10:59:40.212-08:00FlowThere are days when you sit in front of the computer for hours writing, editing, reading, submitting. Your butt starts to hurt so you break for tea. It grows cold, though, because your fingers are simply flying over the keyboard. No time for sips of tea. Your eyes strain, but you press on. Today you have a lot to say. You have no idea where it comes from or why, but you don't question the flow. You embrace it.<br />
<br />
Other days you'll sit in front of that same computer and nothing comes. You screw around on Facebook. You read the dumbest news stores. On-line shop. Text your friends. These are the days you'll get mad and hate yourself and wish you decided on a different life and feel defeated. <br />
<br />
But those days are also part of the flow. Like it or not, it is best to embrace that part of life as well.<br />
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<br />
Today my fingers fly and so does my heart. Tomorrow...who knows? But no matter what I plan to simply go with the flow.<br />
<br />
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-31325097616855906632015-01-05T05:50:00.000-08:002015-01-05T05:50:01.000-08:00Craft<div class="MsoNormal">
I stand in the craft store looking for wire and the little
clamps that you use at the end of a beaded project to hold the whole thing
together. But I don’t have my instruction
book with me. I don’t know what I’m looking for, not really. My daughter stands
beside me exasperated and eager to just get out of here so we can go to the
mall. But I’m determined. I want to make
prayer beads for meditation. So far I’ve
collected a pink skull bead, a rose quartz bead, a cowrie shell, an evil eye,
and a small pomander ball filled with osha root. I’m keeping my eye out for a small cross and a
bumble bee. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stare at the wall of supplies and realize that I’m totally
at a loss. Do I need those fancy jewelry
pliers? What about the cowrie? How do I wrap it? Or do I drill a hole in it?
I’m clearly confused, but I try to maintain my cool. I’m not sure if I want to be like the other
moms in there buying scrapbook supplies and puff paints or if I want to be like
the cool Bohemian twenty-somethings buying steam punk beads and modge podge. Maybe I don’t want to be like either. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I distract myself
with candles. There is an audible sigh from the teen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why do you always buy so many candles? It’s weird.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ignore this comment and ask her if I should get scented or
unscented white votives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Unscented, of course.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
She knows I’ll cover each in perfumed oil anyway. She knows that the synthetic fragrances in
the scented candles won’t mix with the smell of incense and sage that permeates
my house. Two of my best friends say my
house smells like a hippie, but they like it.
I just secretly thank god it doesn’t smell like a dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m back at the beads. I pick up various bags of wire. I simply have no idea what the hell I think I’m
doing. Prayer beads? What kind of new agey jerk have I
become? I feel silly and like I’m
grasping for something totally out of my reach and beyond my age and absolutely
trendy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Screw it. I’m going to do it anyway. I grab a bag of generic
“Craft Wire” in various colors and toss it in the cart with my unscented white
votives, three empty bottles that I’ll later fill with Four Thieves vinegar,
and a tiny purple stuffed octopus that my daughter urges me to get. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I buy my random assortment of treasures and head for the
car. My daughter puts the new octopus
toy on the dash board and we name him Periwinkle. At home, I stash the wire
with the beads I’ve collected. I set my candles on my table and put the vinegar
jars in the cupboard. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t begun my prayer bead project yet. Sometimes I’ll
take all the beads out and look at them, study their shape and size. But I don’t do anything with them besides
keep them in a pretty box my mother gave to me that I keep right next to the
sage and scented oils. <o:p></o:p></div>
Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-37240328112929537532015-01-01T07:49:00.000-08:002015-01-01T07:57:04.383-08:00Resolved<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I am not usually one
to make New Year’s resolutions. I
usually make my big yearly changes back in October when the nights are getting
longer and endings are in the air. But
this year I think I’ll make one.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I resolve to further
embrace the life of a writer.</span></i></b><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I realize that it
sounds pretentious to don this label and pronounce it to the world, but it
is real, from the heart, and a resolution that I intend to keep. But what, exactly, does that even mean? What
is “the life of a writer” exactly? </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>To me, being a writer means. . .<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
. . . being at peace with the fact that I will never make
the kind of money others around me do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means turning down
jobs and opportunities that don’t feed my soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means letting
snide comments about liberal arts degrees and people’s jokes about maids and
housekeepers slide right off my back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means writing
every day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Single. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means coloring
mandalas at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means having a
house that is always slightly messy and is perfumed with incense. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means that I probably won’t travel as much as my
wealthier peers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means that it is
ok to grieve over that but not to let that grief stop me from writing and push me towards work I don’t love just so that I have more cash in my hands and
plane tickets in my pocket. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8y7og0FPCBsOv6sa1aiSQeUskjlfTsQJshwHw5te-woS_mV_zJjwT6lS87Qzqo2hRWh-0-Cs6Xor3583_JTpRgplmKPv0M9bV57KXQz_CWjV33xqCsmKG7H36kAP6UEE47Ba69zzY2DJU/s1600/toes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8y7og0FPCBsOv6sa1aiSQeUskjlfTsQJshwHw5te-woS_mV_zJjwT6lS87Qzqo2hRWh-0-Cs6Xor3583_JTpRgplmKPv0M9bV57KXQz_CWjV33xqCsmKG7H36kAP6UEE47Ba69zzY2DJU/s1600/toes.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means creating a safe, special, and loving place to live
right here in my own small town.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means filling my space with objects that may seem like clutter
but are really inspiration—candles, and glitter, and children’s crafts, and
postcards, and magazine clippings, and feathers, and herbs, and crystals, and
photos, and plants, and art. . . <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means surrounding
myself with people who support my craft and actually read my work and show up
when it counts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means letting go
of people who have belittled me or been unkind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means failing. A lot. Some of what I write will be crap.
That will have to be ok.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means accepting that some of what I write will also be absolutely
amazing. It means knowing that without
apology.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BL1c6aHdWel7vvPGRgYtdGYr4LFkypfO3HXry19EvwQBqBTo4Pu6-QXirHCfjQHmvNhVTu9ZhkLPmOKTU-pIei71ilts43QbsW_gB_Foq8Np3oHRM_VfKfS-jbE2gFIercT5KPH6z3vI/s1600/book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BL1c6aHdWel7vvPGRgYtdGYr4LFkypfO3HXry19EvwQBqBTo4Pu6-QXirHCfjQHmvNhVTu9ZhkLPmOKTU-pIei71ilts43QbsW_gB_Foq8Np3oHRM_VfKfS-jbE2gFIercT5KPH6z3vI/s1600/book.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means that I will sometimes get rejected when I submit my
work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means that sometimes I will get accepted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means seeing the world with my heart and crying too much
and dreaming quite a bit and never feeling bad about any of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It means being free.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-86605604488044227122014-12-23T07:18:00.002-08:002014-12-23T07:34:28.040-08:00Mama<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three years old or thirteen, it doesn’t matter--you always
want your mama when you’re sick in the night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hold her tight as she trembles. I spoon against her slight body and realize
that, actually, she’s not so slight after all.
She’s curvy and womanly and almost as tall as I am. But right now this girl-woman is shaking with
illness and fatigue. She snuggles closer and I wrap my arm around her waist. My neck aches; her bed is too small for the
two of us. I consider moving to the floor and realize that she doesn't just
need me in the same room; she needs me right next to her like when she was
a baby. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Earlier in the night
I heard her desperate call of, “MAMA!” from my room. Every imaginable boogie
man swam in my head. I stumbled down the
hall only to find her bed empty. Instead I found her in the bathroom, sobbing
over the toilet bowl. She finally let it all come up and out, and I got her
back to bed where we are now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel guilty as I silently pray that no one else gets sick
before Christmas Eve. I stare at the bottom
of the top bunk while I whisper a mother’s incantation. . . <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Let her be ok. Let her
feel better. Spare my boy this. Spare ME this. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look around the room and see all that makes her my
daughter: Chap Stick on the night stand, candles on the dresser, bookshelves
two deep, messy journals, tie-dye socks, posters of foreign lands, sea shells, crystals.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sprints from the
room and I race behind her. She dry heaves again over the commode. I notice she is gripping tight to her glasses,
the cute turquoise and black pair.
She is afraid they’ll fall in the bowl.
I slide them off of her face, and she empties her stomach again. I sweep back her hair and hold back my own
tears. It makes my heart clench to see
her so weak. I cover her in towels and
watch as she lays her cheek on the tile.
I remember moments when viruses or beer or heartache put me in a similar
spot. I remember that all I wanted was a
clean towel and a cold tile floor and my mama.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She decides on a shower, and I let her have her privacy
though every cell in my body wants to sit on the toilet lid and make sure she
is ok and that she doesn't slip in her shaky state. But I don’t stay. I go back to her bed and
nod off to sleep. I have fitful dreams
of lost babies and an absent friend. I dream
my daughter is driving a car. I dream of
an empty museum and yellow flowers with wooden stems.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point she comes back and I help her dress in fleece
PJs and warm socks. I tuck her in and slip away, back to my own bed. At eight-o’clock
my mom calls and I snuggle under the covers with the phone and pretend she is
with me, keeping me warm in my big empty bed. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>1973</i></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvv1ohvN8vN-Cfd5YLDZNy7SxHW4CWf5kaVZeP-Rw2AngTs6JbuLbiLRmslNGbj_76SiYVNHcveRZHbWB4VKbd9f0MK5JwbFZMR7osNX8AciEC4gH3mAnWB5FmuxuUh4xHoN2v6TvLUKYk/s1600/bridgetkeuka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvv1ohvN8vN-Cfd5YLDZNy7SxHW4CWf5kaVZeP-Rw2AngTs6JbuLbiLRmslNGbj_76SiYVNHcveRZHbWB4VKbd9f0MK5JwbFZMR7osNX8AciEC4gH3mAnWB5FmuxuUh4xHoN2v6TvLUKYk/s1600/bridgetkeuka.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>2011</i></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>2014</i></span></div>
<br />
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-88822903256547541002014-12-14T15:57:00.000-08:002014-12-14T16:05:41.163-08:00WriterSeveral months ago I handed my husband a stack of <a href="http://www.pw.org/grants?gclid=CKrZkM_bxsICFRAwaQodq04AMQ" target="_blank">Poets & Writers</a> magazines and told him to get rid of them.<br />
<br />
"Recycle them, take them to the library, leave them in the English Department. I don't care, just get rid of them"<br />
<br />
I had declared--rather childishly, I admit--that I was done with writing. I was no good at it, I felt, and the local writing community did not support my writing efforts or the <a href="http://wordsonthevergebrockport.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">literary reading series</a> I host. I felt lost and ridiculous and tired of trying. I was done.<br />
<br />
Several weeks ago I woke with a start and tears filled my eyes. I needed to write again. I couldn't contain the words roiling in my brain and belly and heart. <br />
<br />
With the help of a <a href="http://www.dreamyourbook.com/" target="_blank">professional writing coach</a> and editor I began again. I've written almost every day for four weeks. I've submitted one creative non-fiction piece and have several others earmarked for either editing for future submission or inclusion in a book. <br />
<br />
Today I found that stack of magazines hidden under a shelf. I showed them to my husband. <br />
<br />
"I couldn't do it. I would just have been <i>wrong.</i><i>"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
This gesture was more loving than any bouquet of flowers or fancy piece of jewelry. I think I'll keep those magazines indefinitely now. I'll look at them and remember that someone special loves me. I will look at them and remember that I am a writer. <br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-38490044248607460582014-11-17T04:37:00.000-08:002016-04-11T16:26:37.909-07:00Ekphrasis IV: The Artist's Studio<div class="MsoNormal">
“You have something pent up inside. You are frustrated. You need to create.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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For a crazy moment I think she
is a bit drunk and has lost all sense of who she is talking to. But I look in
her eyes and she is serious, her beer nowhere near empty. I feel shaken, like a fortune teller has just read my cards and showed me Death. But an educated querant knows that the death
card only means change, not demise, so I take a deep breath and say, “Yes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We go to her art studio after the beer is gone. One by one we switch on the lights to reveal nude figure drawings on every wall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a static buzzing in my brain, yet I can’t figure
out where this electricity is coming from. Why does it feel like a heated spark is bouncing around inside of my
skull? I realize, crazily, that the
nudes are conduits of energy, and I’m picking up a charge just being near
them. I want to feel this power all the
time. I suddenly decide I will go to art school and immerse myself in charcoal and pencils and pastels.
But do I want to be an artist playing with shadow and light or do I want
to be the nude figure, face turned to the wall, pubic hair and nipple
boldly exposed? When the static calms I realize that I want neither.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjWEldC2-AJtkVnPIJEbgJPhW4E1vyhGNIkX8XQuGPKSNFutQ-IPdklAG86sxM2aUQ1zYX_v1X7iRdcVuaZeKBUQJUkZKKJQsywLPe2Qtg6gFqtwAk_MR_OPzvDD0SaTjWmd8Fu4tgg0J/s1600/Vitruvian-Man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjWEldC2-AJtkVnPIJEbgJPhW4E1vyhGNIkX8XQuGPKSNFutQ-IPdklAG86sxM2aUQ1zYX_v1X7iRdcVuaZeKBUQJUkZKKJQsywLPe2Qtg6gFqtwAk_MR_OPzvDD0SaTjWmd8Fu4tgg0J/s1600/Vitruvian-Man.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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<o:p><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Vitruvian Man Leonardo DaVinci</span></i></o:p></div>
</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
We talk of discipline and
education in art, of how if we want to challenge convention we first have to
learn the rules. This makes me think of
my writing, and I fight back hot tears (am I sad? tired? inspired?) and hate myself for being such a crier,
a personal trait that annoys me and so many others. <i>Keep it together, keep it together</i>, I chant
in my brain. I focus on the objects in her studio in order to calm down. They
are so simple and perfect and loved. A poem in 3D. I take stock of what
I see. <o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Yellow and brown paper coffee cup.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Rubber band, fat.
The kind that holds your broccoli stalks together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Bottle of German mineral water: Gerolsteiner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. Pencils of all sizes.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. Charcoal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6. Stoneware mustard bottle holding paint brushes of various
size, bristles up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7. Two saints candles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8. Reclined nude pencil drawing. Her legs are up the wall, head and arms
resting on an oversized pillow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9. Hoosier cabinet: light sage green with enamel-top work surface.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10. Lemon juicer: ceramic, white and blue.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.janvermeer.org/the-art-of-painting.jsp#prettyPhoto" target="_blank"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jan Veermer,The Art of Painting 1666</span></i></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Time to go. Walking into the
cold air feels good and sobering though I've had nothing at all to drink. I'm ready to create now, give birth to what she saw pent up inside me. I say a little prayer to the cold stars thanking them for this night.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Winter, 2012</span></i></div>
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Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-32754954792010906982014-05-14T04:40:00.000-07:002015-10-22T12:59:38.328-07:00Coffee Talk: World Book Night 2014<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">When my daughter was small I’d throw her in the
umbrella stroller and head down to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Java-Junction-Brockport/131465660243126?filter=1" target="_blank">Java Junction</a><span style="font-size: small;">. Java is a quirky-cool coffee shop in my
little town in Western NY. It is a place
where you can grab a cup of coffee and a fresh baked scone and settle right
in. Kids and babies are always
welcome. So, when my, now thirteen year
old, daughter was just a wee thing, I would escape to Java.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I could nurse her without being looked at sideways or
being asked to leave. I could sit for as
long as I wanted while she slept peacefully in the stroller or squirmed in my
arms. As she grew, she </span><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> just want breast milk though, I could get her a
bagel or a grilled cheese and a lidded cup of juice. I was given cookies and smiles and boxes of
crayons for her active little hands. It </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">didn't</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> matter if she was fussy or quiet;
she –and all children—were always welcome.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Fast forward a few years and my son came into the
picture. Now,
I had new infant snuggled in the sling as well as a slow-shuffling toddler.
The five minute walk now took what felt like twenty years. Yet still, we went and the years passed
swiftly by. Soon, strollers and slings
and wagons were abandoned and we would walk and skip and sometimes dance to our
downtown destination. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;">We’d meet friends or have coffee with my husband. We’d have prolonged breakfasts that eased into leisurely
lunches. We’d run in for a cold
drink in the summer or a cookie and hot cocoa in the winter. </span>Today we still go to Java, though everyone
can get there on their own steam, and my girl can now go there all by herself
when the urge calls to her. <span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1le9qpYy96HElYBTUyiAUx9rzV6cavQN-m3e7hAkdcA89GCDh9NSHInCujOL1OKSsFfqbaW6KbryziX89KADZOwEFr1kGN3Jnijk_pjw63ePMYIZO_DETyBTLgGV9-eCUVDoWhJSJPU9H/s1600/tales.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1le9qpYy96HElYBTUyiAUx9rzV6cavQN-m3e7hAkdcA89GCDh9NSHInCujOL1OKSsFfqbaW6KbryziX89KADZOwEFr1kGN3Jnijk_pjw63ePMYIZO_DETyBTLgGV9-eCUVDoWhJSJPU9H/s1600/tales.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">The sense of home and love and family is why I chose
to pass out<a href="http://www.armisteadmaupin.com/BooksTOTC.html" target="_blank"> Armistead Maupin’s <u>Tales of the City </u></a>to my friends at Java
Junction for the second year in a row. There we all sat with coffee and bagels and
tea and cookies. Several of us sent our
kids off to school that morning, and others came with toddlers and infants. We passed around little baby Phin and I
looked at his sweet face as he swatted Cheerios on the table. I saw my girl and boy and every “Java Baby”
in his eyes, and I knew I had chosen the right place, the right people, the
right book; a book that could take us far away to the other coast to visit with
Mona and Mrs. Madrigal, and Mary Ann. We could close
our eyes and see a city bright with life in the not too distant past. Each and every one of us needed an escape and
a gift, and I was thrilled to be able to hand over those books to some very
happy women.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">
The best “thank you,” though, came from Bobby, the owner of Java. She is a business owner and baker and mom to
three lovely children. When I handed her
that book, her smile was the brightest I’d ever seen, and my heart was glad.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Thanks to </span><a href="http://www.us.worldbooknight.org/" target="_blank">World Book Night 2014</a> for making this all possible.</i></span></div>
</div>
Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-81818970520800156412014-04-29T10:52:00.000-07:002014-04-29T12:57:46.937-07:00On Not WritingLast week, all the literary "things" happened. I <a href="http://www.us.worldbooknight.org/" target="_blank">gave away books </a>on <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=shakespeare&oq=shak&aqs=chrome.3.69i57j0l3j69i60j0.4115j0j4&sourceid=chrome&es_sm=122&ie=UTF-8#q=shakespeare's+birth+date" target="_blank">Shakespeare's birthday</a>, read poetry at a <a href="http://www.liftbridgebooks.com/" target="_blank">local bookstore</a>, hosted a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ADifferentPathGalleryFallWinterReadingSeries" target="_blank">literary reading</a> at an <a href="http://www.differentpathgallery.com/" target="_blank">art gallery</a>, and attended and read at an <a href="http://www.liftbridgebooks.com/event/april-poetry-month-3" target="_blank">open mic</a>. I offered advice to a friend as she chose a cover for her <a href="http://beatingonthechestofgod.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">new book</a>. I helped form a local writer's group. I had a <a href="http://www.germmagazine.com/tiny-poem-by-christine-green/" target="_blank">Tiny Poem</a> published in a wonderful <a href="http://www.germmagazine.com/" target="_blank">magazine</a>.<br />
<br />
But the one thing I didn't actually do was...write. <br />
<br />
I haven't written in a dog's age, as they say. I sit down in front of my computer or with a pen and my journal and nothing comes. Nothing. <br />
<br />
I do everything but write, actually. I meditate and practice yoga. I work, of course, and run errands. Countless errands. I volunteer. I lift weights. I make healthy meals. I balance the check book. I walk the dog. Watch TV.<br />
<br />
But I don't write.<br />
<br />
There was a time that I would wake in the night with an idea fresh in my mind. I would get up and write and write until it was all out and I shook with relief. Something was created and purged and spoken into the ether all at once. I would sleep deep and feel refreshed. Other days I would form whole stories and essays in my my head as I ran. When I returned from my jog I would have to type furiously lest I forget my ideas. <br />
<br />
But not now.<br />
<br />
Perhaps my Muse will return. Maybe not. For now, I think, my role is to watch others as they write and help them when I can.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'll write tomorrow.<br />
<br />
But not now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-38513717875452383502014-01-01T09:54:00.000-08:002014-01-01T16:11:05.296-08:00Ephemera<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;">Burning the Old Year (Naomi Shihab Nye)</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;">Letters swallow themselves in seconds. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;">Notes friends tied to the doorknob, </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;">transparent scarlet paper,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;">sizzle like moth wings,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;">marry the air.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;"><br />So much of any year is flammable,<br />lists of vegetables, partial poems.<br />Orange swirling flame of days,<br />so little is a stone.<br /><br />Where there was something and suddenly isn't,<br />an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.<br />I begin again with the smallest numbers.<br /><br />Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,<br />only the things I didn't do<br />crackle after the blazing dies.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px;">Naomi Shihab Nye, "Burning the Old Year" from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems (Portland, Oregon: Far Corner Books, 1995). Copyright © 1995 by Naomi Shihab Nye.</span><br />
<br />
<i>When <a href="http://splittinginfinitives.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Sarah </a>posted Nye's poem on Facebook I felt a keen, driving need to touch, feel, hold the ephemera of 2013. I should count my stones instead, but there is an urgency to this, a voice shouting, "Take account. File, save, treasure, or burn the hand written petitions of the year gone by."</i><br />
<br />
<i>I take heed.</i><br />
<br />
Artist's postcard. I took a snowy January walk to her art show. Snow drifted in the streets and flakes stuck to my hair and scarf.<br />
<br />
"Patron Receipt" from a quick library trip. <i>Cloaked in Red</i>. Did I read that? No, one of the kids, I'm sure of it.<br />
<br />
Ikea sales slip. I recognize only one item on the list and realize it was a friend's receipt, not mine. She bought me a Skydda mattress pad.<br />
<br />
Date book entry, April 7: "Write thank you notes" (<i>for what? i can't remember</i>), "Pay bills," "Balance the budget." What isn't written: "<a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/democratandchronicle/obituary.aspx?pid=164135675" target="_blank">Mary </a>passes."<br />
<br />
Yoga practice created by my friend <a href="http://www.stephanieyogatherapy.com/stephanie.html" target="_blank">Stephanie</a>. It's on lined note-book paper with little stick figures demonstrating how to perform the poses. At the top is written "Stability." She underlines this word twice.<br />
<br />
Fluorescent yellow post-it note. "Sheets, drawers, E. BD, camping list, $ store, B. library." Only B. library, sheets, and camping list are crossed out.<br />
<br />
Broccoli soup recipe. The grease stains suggest that I've used it several times this year, and it's true. A note at the top tells it like it is: "It's easy and fast!" <br />
<br />
Stack of cards from my surprise birthday party. The top one reads, "#40, You Go Girl! Love, Amber." There was so much love.<br />
<br />
Newspaper clipping. "Club prepares for Brockport <a href="https://sites.google.com/site/momsclubbrockportgiftaway/" target="_blank">Giftaway </a>with Toy Drive." Thousands of toys. Tears. Fatigue. Joy.<br />
<br />
Christmas card. The very last holiday card of 2013 reads: "Wishing you much Peace & Love in 2014."<br />
<br />
<i>Even as I recycle and shuffle and file these feather-light tokens of the last twelve months I realize that these *are* the stones. If each one erupts in flame and is reduced to ash they will still be gems, still golden, still treasures. Even those things that go up in smoke carry supplications and griefs and gratitudes to the heavens, perfuming the air with prayer.</i>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-7763787645805058322013-12-15T17:13:00.002-08:002013-12-15T17:16:14.342-08:00Snow Globe<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
Today was one of those days that makes you want to capture each scene and trap it in a snow globe: winter play, cookie baking, sleeping in, reading, goofing off. Days like these both exhilarate and frighten me since underneath it all I feel shaky like the whole pretty snow globe is built on tooth pick legs. Beneath the joy is so much grief and fear, but I worked hard today (harder than I should have to) to let that go and "live in the moment," as they say. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
My friend <a href="http://splittinginfinitives.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Sarah </a>said that <a href="http://splittinginfinitives.blogspot.com/2013/12/all-feelings.html?spref=fb" target="_blank">December is the month to feel all the feelings</a>, and it is true. Every little thing feels so tender and momentous and wonderful and rocky all at the same time.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
It's exhausting maneuvering these ship-swaying December waves of emotion. These one moment excited-and-giggly and the next moment teary-and-scared feelings. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
I miss my mother and my sister who live far away beyond mountain ranges and states. I miss my deceased father and grandmothers who live beyond even the sea and sky now. I miss my far-away friends who are everywhere but here in my tiny little town. I miss friends who are only streets away but who have grown as distant as if they are in foreign lands. </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
But despite this heart-sore missing of so many people I do recognize that I am surrounded by love. My good, kind, sweet friends and family, near and far, shower me with light and affection, and I know I am blessed and lucky. I want to push this feeling of happy gratitude to the front of my life and to feel those feelings more deeply than those that pull me down with sadness.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
I try. God knows I try. And sometimes, on days like today, I win this little battle, and I will crawl into bed contended and warm. Tonight I will sleep the sleep of the fortunate, and I will dream of the sea and the mountains and I will taste sea salt on my tongue and smell redwood in the air. I will wake in the morning to the sound of the snow plow and ready myself for another day.</div>
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Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-31056833419837818642013-08-12T06:22:00.000-07:002013-08-12T06:22:06.201-07:00The Light EkphrasticI have a couple of poems in <a href="http://thelightekphrastic.com/" target="_blank">The Light Ekphrastic </a>today. Please head over and <a href="http://thelightekphrastic.com/issues/august-2013-issue-15/green-parks-august-2013/" target="_blank">check it out.</a> I worked with the amazing photographer, Lynne Parks.Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-48437877993424821362013-02-04T08:06:00.000-08:002013-03-12T15:50:30.886-07:00How to Clean Your Sink<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b><i>9:00 AM</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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Tell yourself that you will write for one hour straight, no interruptions. It is your Writing Day after all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Make a cup of tea. There
may be grease and grime and some weird food-stuff stuck on the tea kettle. Clean it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As you wash the tea kettle you will see that the sink is
gross. Gross as in you need to get out
an old toothbrush and the bleach gross.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Since you clearly cannot write while your sink sits in the
kitchen all dirty and gross you must postpone the beginning of your Writing
Day. This will only take a minute anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To make sink cleaning more “literary” you should find a
lecture by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lynda_Barry" target="_blank">Lynda Barry</a> on You Tube to listen to while scrubbing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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While Barry talks about “creative concentration” and how to
transform images and memory into stories run your paper towel covered finger
nail around the metal edge of your old 1950s sink. It’s really the only way to get out the
grime.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Your buddy Lynda will mention “imaginary friends" and "imaginary enemies” and you will cry thinking of an old friend who has dumped you unceremoniously and unkindly. Not to worry, tears bring up the shine on the
porcelain. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Use the toothbrush on the faucet and handles. Wipe off the soap pump. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Your tea is now cold. Stick it in the microwave to revive
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do you know what goes well with tepid tea? Pickles.
And cheese.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After the pickle-tea-cheese snack return to the sink. Buff it dry with a clean rag.<o:p></o:p></div>
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While you have the rag and toothbrush out you might as well
clean the counters, too. And the stove.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Have another piece of cheese.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Scratch off the words “Writing Day” on your calendar. There
is always next week. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i>10:00 AM<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-86272622851550433722012-11-28T14:04:00.000-08:002012-11-28T14:06:14.025-08:00Winter ChillDecember is just two days away, and I'm not prepared. Oh, I have gifts purchased and Christmas cards ready to send. I have the calendar full of parties and events. But, still, I feel a dread that quickens my pulse and tightens my throat. <br />
<br />
I have lovely memories of golden roasted turkeys, holiday carols, and frosted cookies. Yet, scattered between these are darker memories that still chill my bones:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>1. Nana: She becomes ill and enters the hospital right after Christmas. I wait to hear how she is, but I'm scared.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>2. Daddy: He dies, suddenly, one December day as I prepare for college finals. Everything changes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>3. Momma: She gets terribly sick and is admitted to the hospital. I am too far away to get to her. I am helpless.</i><br />
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<i>4. Grandma: She dies, after years of suffering, in a nursing home in St. Louis. I hadn't seen her in over a year.</i><br />
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<i>5. Sister: She is admitted to the hospital in San Francisco after her water breaks six weeks before her due date. She gets an infection and my niece is born pre-mature. She is forced to spend Thanksgiving day in the hospital.</i><br />
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My mother and sister are fine now. They are healthy and well as is my sweet little niece, but every year as the holidays approach I begin to panic. I find myself grinding my teeth and my neck tightens with anxiety. I have trouble sleeping, and I become nervous and twitchy. I jump when the phone rings, and I find myself thinking, "What will happen this year? Who will it be? What will we have to deal with now?"<br />
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I dream of my father and grandmothers and wake with tears in my eyes and my head aching. <br />
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I know this type of thinking is irrational especially considering that the majority of the holiday seasons I have lived through have been pleasant and uneventful. But I cannot help it. My heart has scars that itch when the weather turns and the days get darker. There is no salve that will calm the irritation or soothe the pricking of fear I live with this time of year. <br />
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All I can do is watch the snow fall and hope, hope, hope, that this year will be a good one.<br />
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-45674830003256743182012-10-02T08:11:00.000-07:002012-10-02T08:11:43.707-07:00ScrapsToday I found a fragment of the wallpaper that hung in our living room when we first moved into our house nine years ago. <br />
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The day we closed on our house our friends came over with a bottle of champagne and a gift card to the hardware store. We drank and laughed and toasted, "to our new home!" as we all peeled at corners of the wallpaper that I said had to go<i>.</i> The paper in the living room, to our surprise, came off in long, thin, easy-to-peel pieces. Soon everyone had a glass of bubbly in one hand and a strip of wallpaper in the other. Our two-year old toddlers raced around ripping paper and weaving between our legs, and I felt so happy to be here in this place with those I loved so dearly. I felt so secure in that love, those friendships. <br />
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To my surprise I found a working phone in the dark, dirty basement. I snuck down and dialed my mother in California. <br />
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"Oh honey, your first home! Daddy would be so proud!" <br />
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I cried with her, a little drunk now, and wished my father was there, so I could have told him about how I had saved and scrimped in order to buy this house. I'd have told him how we ate lots of cheap macaroni and cheese and didn't buy new clothes for months and only had one car. He would have applauded my thriftiness and, like my mom said, would have been so proud.<br />
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I look at the wallpaper shred now, and it makes me sad and nostalgic. Why didn't I take pictures that day? Why aren't there snapshots of us with our friends, arms around each other in goofy poses? Where are the pictures of us all standing in the empty kitchen or waving on the front porch? Why didn't we have a camera to take shots of the kids being crazy and enjoying themselves in the wide open rooms that smelled of cleanser and dust and other families?<br />
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I don't have those photos, but I do have this wallpaper scrap. It's something.<br />
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-31694281103189998512012-09-02T13:53:00.000-07:002012-09-02T13:53:29.176-07:00Abundance<div>
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With spring beginnings come promise, hope, renewal and a thousand other cliches about what might be right around the bend. We shake off the crust of winter snow and toss the boots in the attic and march forward into the sun wanting more. <br />
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Ever and always wanting more.</div>
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But now, in late summer, the basil plants are hanging weak and thirsty, and the tomatoes drag their vines so low you want to yell, "get up you lazy things!" The early September light is white and glaring and almost garish, and the squirrels are as fat as piglets. The pepper plants are bursting, and you sigh deeply because <i>what am I going to do with all those peppers</i>? The jam is made and the canning done. The school supplies are purchased. The new clothes are laid out carefully for the first day of classes. </div>
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Before you know it the harvest will be over and the fresh fruit gone. The pumpkins will turn orange, and the new clothes will be stained. All the tomatoes will be mealy and imported and utterly disappointing. Everyone will have to buy their basil in depressing little plastic clam shells that hide the brown leaves in the center.</div>
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All of these things--the riches of late summer and the barrenness of the coming fall and winter-- make me feel heart-achy in way that makes me grateful and honest and raw and tearful and <i>ready </i>all at once. I'm ready to say good-bye to summer. </div>
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I'm ready to say good-bye to so many things. <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>summer cairn</i></span></div>
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Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-79181227663962963442012-08-30T06:58:00.000-07:002012-08-30T06:58:52.547-07:00Tiny Poem<br />
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Words leak from my ears at night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the morning,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I shake out the pillowcase to see if<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sentences<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fall out.</div>
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Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-88124759515793964332012-08-14T04:49:00.001-07:002012-08-14T04:49:27.612-07:00Fiction: Name Contest I had several people suggest names for a <a href="http://grownupsarelikethat.blogspot.com/2012/08/fiction.html" target="_blank">hard boiled Brockport detective.</a> I can't decide on just one winner, so I'm going to put it to a vote. Vote in a comment here or on the link on facebook or twitter by Monday August 20th. The winner gets a little Brockport, NY memorabilia.<br />
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Here's the list:<br />
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Daniel John Walker<br />
Captain<br />
Nick Stone<br />
Mitch Denson<br />
Jud Harrison<br />
Chet Marony<br />
Dirk Wolcott<br />
Silas James<br />
Rodney (Rod) Beach<br />
James Styles<br />
Silas Dupree<br />
Clarkson Manning<br />
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-85616651593387556382012-08-09T13:57:00.000-07:002012-08-09T14:32:27.209-07:00FictionI don't write fiction. <br />
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But if I did I would write a story about a hard boiled detective living in my little Western New York town. <br />
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He would drink lukewarm coffee at the the diner and throw back Gennys with the local color at Barber's Tap Room. He would know, though, that if he needed info for a case that he could usually find it at C&S Saloon.<br />
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He'd walk the banks of the Erie canal late at night thinking about a woman who hurt him in ways that words couldn't describe. She would have left a sweater that smelled of Chantilly Lace in his coat closet. He would refuse to get rid of it even when other women asked why he kept it.<br />
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He'd have a beat up old clunker of boat that he would take out on Lake Ontario to get away from it all. The boat would be named Doll.<br />
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He'd rent a loft apartment over a downtown gift shop and run his small time detective business out of his tiny kitchen. He would be independently wealthy because of a family inheritance, but he wouldn't want anyone to know. He would be proud, and since he always worked hard he would continue to work hard, money or not.<br />
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Most people around the village would think of him as a decent but quiet sort of man. He would chew on the end of a match when he talked on the phone because of his constant struggle to give up smoking. Most of his work would come from cuckolded spouses, but every now and then he'd get a case just a little bit more interesting, a little bit more mysterious.<br />
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He would stay out of village politics but find that politicians and police needed his services more often than they would care to admit.<br />
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He would know almost everyone but like almost no one. <br />
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He would have scars, lots of them, but he would rarely if ever talk about how he got them. Even a few extra Gennys wouldn't squeeze it out of him.<br />
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But, alas, I don't write fiction.<br />
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<i>Care to give my detective a cool-as-a-cucumber-but-tough-as-nails-name? Best entry wins a Brockport-themed prize. </i><br />
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-28140649018510214582012-07-30T06:50:00.000-07:002012-07-30T07:14:57.779-07:00GirlfriendsThey hold hands, snuggle on the couch, and spoon under the covers. They hug with true affection and often lift the other off of the ground in joy during an embrace. They press their cheeks together and giggle when a photo is taken.<br />
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This sweet, affectionate couple is not a pair of young lovers nor is it an old married couple. </div>
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This pair I speak of are two small girls. Many, but not all, young girls give their affection to their friends free of charge. The touches, the caresses, and close-to-the-ear whispers come without reservation and without self conscious embarrassment.</div>
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But when women grow up the affection they once shared with girlfriends wanes. Hugs may linger, but not much else. Curling up on the couch to read a magazine together or holding hands at the mall? No, this rarely happens during the adult years. The door shuts on that physicality sometime in our twenties. If we're lucky we let it tarry into our early thirties, but, really, the women I know now hesitate to touch each other beyond a simple hug. My one dear friend always greets her female friends with a kiss, which I love, but I sense that others are shy about such an intimate gesture and find it strange or too "European."</div>
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I watch my girl, eleven, still eagerly cuddling with her girlfriends even now as she prepares for middle school. <span style="background-color: white;">They play with one another's hair and take pleasure in mutual grooming. </span><span style="background-color: white;">They snuggle and hold hands and share a bed without hesitation during sleepovers. In short, they cherish each other's touch.</span></div>
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I've always been a "touchy-feely" and "huggy" kind of a person, and I readily admit to missing this sort of physical yet utterly platonic relationship with my women friends. But this sort of intimacy is not the sort of thing one pushes with those that are more reserved or shy. It isn't OK to expect people to reach beyond their interpersonal comfort zones in such a way. Frankly, it is wrong to force such a thing.</div>
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Would the kinship we have with our female friends be different if we allowed platonic, loving touches back into our lives? Would we feel more comfortable telling our secrets if we whispered them while holding fast to another woman's hand? Could we become closer, more like sisters, if we didn't hesitate to brush the hair out of each other's eyes, loop our arms together as we walk, or kiss on the cheek when we met? <br />
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I can't really know for sure, but I expect that, for me at least, hearts would open and more love would spill out around us cementing the bonds even tighter than before.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>photo courtesy of Melanie Macdonald</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-37252250470950279512012-07-15T17:23:00.001-07:002012-07-15T17:24:10.378-07:00News & EventsI have some readings coming up! I do hope you can join me. Info can be found <a href="https://sites.google.com/site/christinegreenwrites/home/news" target="_blank">HERE</a>. Chapbooks, Mother Muse, and Motherly Musings books will be available for purchase.Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1618850780950493616.post-58498899191038362892012-05-21T12:32:00.001-07:002012-05-21T12:48:56.187-07:00Gimme Shelter<i>What have you written lately?</i><br />
<i>When are you going to post on your blog again?</i><br />
<i>Any freelance pieces coming out soon?</i><br />
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These are the questions that I am hearing quite often lately. I don't have any answers, really. Truth is, I am having a hard time writing.<br />
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"Writer's block?" my mother asks. But it's not. It's as if the simple, driving <i>need</i> to write has suddenly slipped away. I come home from work or finish my tasks around the house, sit in my wicker rocker, and stare into space. A voice in my head says, fervently, "Get up. Go write."<br />
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But I shoo the voice away like a buzzing fly and pick up a magazine or book. Sometimes, I break my own rule of No TV During Daylight Hours and sneak a peek at the boob tube, eager for a rerun of "Celebrity Ghost Stories."<br />
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Lately, I've been experimenting with new recipes: low fat cheesecake ice cream, Cajun spice rub for meaty pieces of catfish, green chutney with parsley, mint, and lemon, Cioppino with muscles and shrimp and fat clams, coconut cassava cake.<br />
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I vaguely mention to my family that I should start a food blog or better yet a podcast. The kids say that I should call it "Coffee with Christine," and anyone who knows me well will laugh, because I'm really a tea drinker.<br />
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I heard the Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter" in the car today. I had the window down and laughed (with joy? regret? shame?) as I pictured myself: Thirty-eight year old mom of two rocks out like a crazy teen to the Stones at full blast on a perfect spring day in a mini-van with a load of groceries in the back. At home she has a binder full of new recipes to test and a rocking chair calling her name.</div>
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<i>Oh a storm is threatn'ing</i></div>
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<i>My very life today.</i></div>
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<i>If I don't get some shelter</i></div>
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<i>I'm gonna fade away.</i></div>
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<i>-Mick & Keith</i></div>
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<br />Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04662448292809451387noreply@blogger.com4