A Year of Gratitude-Health, Wealth and Happiness for Free

Thank You. by Patresa Hartman

2008-12-31T05:00:00.000-05:00

On the day before the year turns, I feel wise and strong, sensing divine purpose in where I've been and alight looking forward. The 365 days before become a collection of lessons; the days ahead streak ready acres of limitless possibility. Possibility kicks ass (Many apologies to my mother for using the word "ass" in a public forum.).

I came to YOG late, invited to round out a shifting Gratitude Team. What an opportunity for big soul work! Thank you, Ms. Kat, for inviting me. And thank you, Ms. Barb and Ms. Angie, for welcoming me so warmly. High fives all around.

There are two key things I believe I have learned in this process: 1) Gratitude is a choice; and 2) Gratitude opens you to peace and joy. Peace and joy also kick ass.

I like math and think numbers are chronically underestimated. They are interesting and expose dynamic layers of the universe when tapped. I like that a -5 and a +5 are equal distances from zero; the concept implies that every number contains two parallel frequencies. Likewise, I think of each moment of my life as a point, a distance from zero, and therefore containing equal opportunities for negativity or positivity. With this acknowledgment, I can no longer believe that life is a series of events that happen to me. I can choose: wallow in the negative frequency; or celebrate the positive. I am learning there is joy everywhere -- in every moment -- if I only choose to look.

My friend, Mary, introduced me this year to a mantra inspired by Morrnah Simeona's teachings of an ancient Hawaiian healing system, Ho'oponopono. Simeona taught that we are all connected and therefore all responsible for one another. The external world is a projection of our internal world, and so the more peace we feel, the more peace there will be. (And the more peace there will be, the more peace we will feel.) The mantra, explained in Joe Vitale and Hew Len's Zero Limits, goes like this:

I love you.
Please forgive me.
I'm sorry.
Thank you.

I find it appropriate that the last line is "Thank you." There is a particular openness and peace that is communicated via gratitude. It is acceptance and surrender to something bigger than our immediate understanding. This concept is alive in every spiritual walk. Saying thank you for everything -- the bad and the good -- is an important acknowledgement that we are part of the universe, not separate, that the universe is ultimately good, and it is providing what it must. (I think it works just as well to say "God" instead of "universe.") I feel a lot of my own personal turmoil comes from resistance. There are things in the world I do not like, people I do not like, things about myself I do not like. When I do not accept these elements, I close myself not only to them, but everything else -- including love and joy. When I am closed, I feel isolated and angry, even superior.

Even in times of sadness, when I sense and accept my rightfully small place in the natural world, I feel open and connected. There is peace in this tiny shift, and sadness reconfigures. It hops frequencies and becomes joy.

So for 2009, I wish for you:

to choose joy
to choose peace
to choose gratitude
...in response to all things.

Thank you.

Year's End by Angie Ledbetter

2008-12-30T05:00:00.001-05:00

I'm sad in a way that our Year of Gratitude has come to an end, but happy I've had this opportunity to express the good, bad and ugly of daily life with a huge dollop of gratefulness on top of each "dish" served up to me this past year.

By spending so much time writing/thinking about, and steeped in being grateful, I hope the attitude has become an ingrained habit that will rest on my shoulders like a soft beautiful shawl for life. No matter what comes (and especially if it's bad, hurtful or sad), I think the lessons I've learned will continue to take away some of the chill. I hope I have added to the uplifting perspectives and interesting views of my fellow YOGgers.

I'll leave you with these thoughts, as I once and for the last time publicly, count blessings brought about by a year of focusing on being grateful:

Above all, I've realized life is all about how you choose to see things.
Rain will inevitably spoil the parade now and then, but grateful, joyful thinking makes one heck of an umbrella.
Gratitude is contagious.
Gratefulness is not only a state of mind, but a way of living.
When things are at their worst, a dose of gratitude can change things around, or at least assure you that tomorrow is definitely a new day.
Gratitude begets more gratitude.
Focusing on the goodness of life increases joy and health.
Thankfulness can bring people who have nothing (or very little) in common together.
It is just as easy to be glad as sad.
Perspective is an awesome and powerful thing.

I will always remember 2008 as the Year of My Gratitude. Thank you, Barb, Kathryn, Patresa and Nannette, for sharing your company and thoughts with me.

May all we've learned by concentrating on gratitude never be far from our hearts and minds.

Saying Goodbye to the Old Year and to YOG by Kat Magendie

2008-12-29T07:00:00.002-05:00

I went back to read my very first YOG, just to see what I’d written, how I’d written it, and how I was grateful in that moment. So very tempting to place that same gratitude post here again. The message is the same. I am still that woman; mostly, except I am a year older and have a year’s worth of experiences that can’t help but affect one in ways both subtle and profound. How appropriate here at this year’s end I received gifts that will change my new year. Ones that will change the way I see the world, and maybe how the world sees me. Receiving what you asked for is both thrilling and terrifying. I am up for the challenge. I am ready. I am strong. But mostly, I am filled with hopeful gratitude.

Looking back over the past year, it both seems as if it flew by and seems as if it is a distant dream. There were constants in my life, and this YOG is one of them. Days the words spilled and then gathered on the YOG page; and then, the days where I struggled to find words to fill a post. Like now. Now that the time has come for my last YOG post, for me to say “Goodbye” to this year of gratitude within this forum, I am at a loss for the perfect words. Oh, how I wanted this last post to be perfect.

I leave you with a bit of my words from a year ago. I think I said it best then, and it still applies almost three-hundred and sixty-five days later.

Simply by the act of saying, “Thank you,” I am released from old demons. I am unchained from fear and worry. From the comfort of my couch where I am snuggled under a throw while the wild wind rushes over and across the mountain ridge, whips the bare branches, pushes against my log house, from this place of security I sigh as if an old dog on a porch and breathe out, “Thank you.” Does it matter who or what I give thanks to? No, it is only important that I breathe in the air and breathe out the gratitude.

Thank you all, readers. Thank you for visiting and reading and commenting and for just being. This is it. My last YOG post. Here's to whatever comes next.

One Last YOG by Barbara Quinn

2008-12-28T07:20:00.002-05:00

My last gratitude post. Oh my.

It’s hard to believe we’ve gone through a year expressing our gratitude on a daily basis, but here it is the end of December with a new year on the way.

I’m grateful that we were able to finish out this project. Life had its ups and downs this past year, but we kept on being grateful through it all. What a help it was to turn to this gratitude blog each day. I learned much from the ladies of the Yog, and because of their words it has become easier to be grateful. Like practicing an instrument or a language, the more I studied their posts, and wrote my own, the more gratitude I was able to express. The more gratitude I expressed, the better I felt, the more I wanted to be grateful. It’s more than a win-win situation, it's an avalanche of gratitude, a gratitude addiction.

We’re going to leave this gratitude blog and journal of the past year up for others to find. That’s one of the nice things about the net. Once something is out here in the ether, it can stay for a long, long, time and be found by new people who need a daily shot of inspiration.

Thank you Yoggers, readers, posters, and lurkers. We’re grateful! And I hope to continue being grateful for as long as I can.

Happy New Year!

Don't write on her face. by Patresa Hartman

2008-12-27T06:30:00.002-05:00

I love my family. I know that I hit some kind of jackpot when I was born, and I am grateful. I have two older sisters, and together with my parents, they are a clever crew with sensible priorities and level heads. There is no drama when we get together...which is not to say there is never conflict. But even when we butt heads, we do it directly and compassionately -- not tiptoeing around one another, not slinging character attacks. And we always always laugh about it later.

My family has taught me humility (repeatedly) and to regard myself lightly. We see humor in small things, and poking fun at one another is a sign of affection -- a celebration of quirks and imperfections:

--> Our mother is stubbornly naive and/or gullible about many things (forcing us at times to explain our jokes), sings harmony with rock songs, and snaps and claps in rhythm with music that isn't playing anywhere but in her head.

--> Our father has at least two of everything, compulsively buys us books we'll never read (at least 3 covering the same topic that none of us have expressed any interest in -- like marketing trends), and gives ordinary items strange names (Mustard becomes "banana juice;" a small water bottle becomes a "bucket.").

--> My oldest sister, Paula, never ever stops talking (Never. I cannot emphasize this enough.), makes odd and alarming noises when she gasps or sneezes, and has absolutely no immediate, regional, national, or international awareness of geographical properties.

--> Our middle sister, Pam, is stoic and reserved, is the world's most standoffish hugger, and spends ridiculous amounts of time researching everything she can think to research (juicers, online radio stations, fish oil vs. cod liver oil, the healing properties of cayenne pepper...).

--> The youngest, I require copious amounts of alone time, am egregiously grumpy at times for no apparent reason (which are my sisters' favorite times to deliberately do things that annoy me), and hate the telephone to an almost pathological extent.

We like this about us, although the endearment of it may not be readily noted by outsiders. We are the funniest people we know without even meaning to be. This brings me to my favorite moment across the entire span of Christmas celebrations this year: the moment I witnessed Paula giving a wordy lecture to her 7-year-old, Katherine, about taking care of her new American Girl doll.

Paula concluded her long, stern lecture with this very serious command:

"Don't write on her face."

Day After by Angie Ledbetter

2008-12-26T06:00:00.000-05:00

It's the day after the Big Day. Christmas is over, and the only ones left with huge sacks to haul are the garbagemen coming to take away the trashed remnants. Out go the pretty wrapping all scrunched up; the torn boxes, ripped open in excitement; the boxes that held nifty kitchen gadgets, electronics or kids' toys; curled ribbons and remains from the feast.

My small family has a tradition of eating brunch out on Christmas, as we've spent the Eve enjoying the big family gathering, gag gift exchange, and eating a delicious potluck. We patiently waited for a table at the Waffle House, enjoying rehashing fresh memories of this year's holiday celebration with laughter.

Then a strange thing happened after we were seated. It was truly a sight to behold. There at the door of the breakfast restaurant stood a shirtless elderly man with long white hair and matching beard. He looked all the world like a day-after Santa. As most of the other diners snickered and pointed, I asked my husband to go to our vehicle and see if he had an extra shirt or jacket for the man who'd merely stuck his head in the door and asked, "Can y'all please fix me $4 worth of waffles? I'll wait out here."

Soon, my husband and the bedraggled Santa returned, the latter decked out in a brand new hooded sweat jacket with a few more bills in his pocket. I wish I could share the smile I had on my face and in my heart. My husband, not usually a demonstrative person, had gotten the opportunity to share. My teenagers, I'm proud to say, suggested we also pick up the man's tab for breakfast, and asked our waitress to tell him to order whatever he wanted. They had never once laughed at the unfortunate soul.

The other patrons went back to their conversations, and our "Santa" was treated with dignity by the hardworking staff who'd given up their Christmas morning to serve others.

At the table behind us, our Santa smiled and said, "God bless you," before returning to his babbling behind the menu to himself. I imagine he is a homeless veteran, someone who has no warm place to spend Christmas or any other day with loved ones.

Our Waffle House visit with "Santa" will be remembered long after I've forgotten what gifts I unwrapped this year. And the smile on the tired waitress's face when she saw her huge tip. And the pride I felt for my family around a cramped table eating brunch.

I am truly blessed and filled with gratitude. May you receive the same kind of gifts, long after the material ones have faded from memory, throughout the coming year and always.

{Photo by Angie Ledbetter}

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, by Kat Magendie

2008-12-25T07:00:00.006-05:00

I'm writing this on Christmas Eve. Actually, Christmas Eve is my favorite time. Of course, as a child, Christmas Eve seemed to last forever, and I remember the sleepless nights of excitement: what was under the tree? what would I get for Christmas? will it ever GET HERE! Even when we didn't have much money, there were always gifts under the tree. We kids never felt as if there wasn't a "Christmas," for somehow our mother pulled it off, even in the leanest of times. For years I thought Christmas stockings were supposed to be paper lunch sacks with our names written in a fancy script. Inside those "stockings" were fruits, nuts, and sometimes a little candy. As the years progressed, the candy became more present. We were allowed to skip breakfast Christmas morning if we wanted to and eat whatever treats we had in those sacks. Ah. I miss those lunch sacks of goodies. I have stockings now, but they just don't feel the same.

As an adult, Christmas Eve takes on the special feelings of anticipation that differ from those as a child who wonders what she will get Christmas Day. Instead, she wonders at what she already has, and what she has given: me that is, grateful for what I have and what I have been able to give to someone else for Christmas.

Christmas Eve is that pause between. For I know once Christmas Day is here (as it is now, just as you are reading this and I will be eating a Christmas Breakfast and drinking Deep Creek Blend and opening a few gifts and smiling and wondering at others opening their gifts and imagining children's laughter...), it quickly slides away and then soon the new year is here and all the glitter and sparkle of Christmas quickly fades away, the tree begins to lose its needles, the gifts tucked away, the memories caught in snapshots of mouths wide in laughter and surprise. But don't let's go that far. Let's take this moment, this day, and stretch it out far and wide as a Smoky Mountain Sky.

On Christmas Eve, I like to stay up as late as I can, and all afternoon and into the evening I watch certain Christmas movies: Alistair Sims's "A Christmas Carol," "It's A Wonderful Life," "Miracle on 34th Street," "A Charlie Brown Christmas," and the halarious but heartwarming "Christmas Story."

When the last movie fades away, if I have been able to stay awake before a fire, tucked under a quilt on my couch, I stay there just a bit longer (and I also sneak in a gift or two into Roger's stocking - just as I used to sneak my son's gifts into his stocking and place his gifts under the tree) and just enjoy the quiet, the solitude, the last remaining moments of Christmas Eve--which most times does turn into very very early Christmas Morning.

Oh! Christmas Day! Oh! Joyous Day! Oh! Wonderful Beautiful Day!

I will snuggle in and remember Christmases that have come and gone. I will embrace the one that is here. I will not yet look ahead to the next days coming.

Christmas is here. At last, Christmas is here. Ding, Dong; Ding, Dong; Christmas bells are ringing... And so...

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas(song lyrics removed - just in case...but, you can sing it along with me....make up the words if you do not know them...)

Traditions by Barbara Quinn

2008-12-24T07:17:00.002-05:00

There are so many traditions that surround my family at this time of year. Since I was a child, I’ve been making an Italian pastry we affectionately call Ceci, otherwise known as Strufoli, a small fried doughnut doused in honey, but it’s not like any regular doughnut. Ceci translates as garbanzo bean and this pastry is small and round, the same shape as garbanzo beans, though unlike them it is fried and doused in honey. It’s a simple recipe, notable for its appearance in Italian bakeries at this time of year, mounded high on platters and doused in colored sprinkles.

Much of the joy of this treat is in its creation. I still use the recipe I wrote out when I was 8 or 9 years old. My mother smiled at me with my notebook watching her every move and putting it into my child’s scrawl. I wanted to remember it, wanted to remember to make it the way I saw her easily making it each year since I was born. The year I wrote out the recipe, she had to stop to measure the ingredients. She didn’t normally measure. Like most of her dishes, she’d learned to make the treat from her mother, and neither of them used any sort of measuring cup or spoon. But I stopped her each step of the way and she tolerated my inquisitiveness. I helped her make a well in the flour on a wooden board, and put in the egg, milk, oil, sugar, vanilla, then blended it all together with my hands, enjoying the squishy feeling as the dough formed. Once it was kneaded and shiny, we broke off pieces and rolled the dough into long snakes that we cut up. My father manned the kettle with its two inches of oil and soon the strufoli were golden and ready to be coated with honey.

After that year, my mother used my measurements. We hauled out the piece of paper and followed them. I still measure the ingredients with that recipe. My husband man's the kettle. The result is sublime.

And with the first bite, I taste childhood again.

The joy, the anticipation of the holiday. It’s all there in a bowl of freshly fried and honeyed strufoli.

For that I am grateful.

Have a merry…..

Joy in Valley Junction. by Patresa Hartman

2008-12-23T08:13:00.003-05:00

I have five nieces and one nephew, and they are outrageous lunatics. I am so grateful for them and their ridiculousness that I can barely stand it. If they ever turn normal, I think the earth will turn sad sad sad. And so, every Christmas I try to find gifts that will encourage them to be weird. A great place to do this is at your local theater shop.

I discovered the treasures of a theater shop last Christmas when I wandered in grumpy and then lost myself in rock star wigs and glittery microphones. I bought a set for each, plus crazy Elton John glasses, and left the theater shop absolutely giddy and convinced I had found the secret to remaining joyful during stressful holidays. Yesterday, I returned to the theater shop and came out with top hats, moustaches, and magic wands. I giggled all the way down the street.

I learned something else yesterday...about shopping locally. Having worked earlier this year at a locally owned bookstore that had to close, I already understood the importance of supporting the little guys. But yesterday my body absorbed and noted a whole different energy in the small shops.

In Des Moines, we have the historic Valley Junction. I do not know why it's historic; but the signs say it is. It sits off railroad tracks by an old train depot in an old part of town. Small local businesses occupy a mixture of typical storefronts and old houses with large front porches. There are at least two antique stores on each block, a few coffee shops, a Mexican grocer, and three bead shops.

One of my favorites is the Fair World Gallery, which sells goods made by people in refugee camps all over the world. My nieces are receiving friendship beads made by a group of women who have moved to Des Moines from a Burundi refugee camp. Another favorite is a shop called Porch Light, where you can find a mix of new and antique household items. My coffee cup currently sits on a Hercules orange crate found in Porch Light's mix.

After a quiet and charming afternoon wandering through small, thoughtfully themed shops, I went to Target, and the mood shifted.

I like Target, typically. But I did not like it yesterday. Loud. Industrial. Crowded. I felt like a cog in a factory. I squinted through the flourescence, grabbed what I needed, waited in line with the other frowny pants, and then left as quickly as I could, hiking to my parking spot in the very back of a cornfield-sized lot.

The moral of this story is: I am grateful for the weirdness of my nieces and nephew, and I am grateful for the small shop owners who help me navigate Christmas shopping peacefully and joyfully.

Finding Peace by Angie Ledbetter

2008-12-22T05:00:00.000-05:00

By doze id stopped up add I catt top steezing. I've ude up two boxes of tittue alweady. *honk*

Okay, enough of my sad talking-with-a-bad-cold voice. It's been years since I've been sick, so I guess it was bound to happen. I mean, I did get out for a bit (finally) to do some Christmas shopping, and the germs were probably all waiting to pounce on me. I'll live, and when I fully recover my senses, I know I'm going to appreciate being able to breathe, taste, smell and hear again.

Along with my little waltz with Mr. Cold, I've also had to face some mightily unpleasant personal stuff in the last few days. I'm not sharing details, just take it from me -- it was worse than a triple cold with a trip to the dentist on top. It hasn't been a pleasant few days.

In spite of all that, I went to my "happy place," which happens to be located within my favorite church. There I prayed earnestly for help with the issue, and also in thanksgiving for a prayer request answered for a friend. I closed my watery eyes, blew my nose quietly and let the sanctified environment seep into my inner temple of turmoil. Within mere minutes, a warm glowing peace descended. As cliched as it sounds even to me who experienced it, I knew all would be well. I knew. And I was/am grateful.

However you seek your peace, serenity and comfort in bad situations, may it never allude you.

Yes, Kathryn, there really is a Santy Claus by Kathryn Magendie

2008-12-21T07:00:00.002-05:00

Days ago, I wrote a yog post about my Grinch’s heart. Who knew that these words really would be slipping from my fingers, when I wrote: “And perhaps by Christmas, somehow, someway, some magic will have happened...and I will write, ‘It happened...it really happened...’”

For my Christmas miracle seems to have arrived. No unwrapping pretty paper. No big red bow. But, amazing all the same. My good friend said, “Ha! Told you your Christmas magic would happen; but it isn’t magic, it’s the Baby Jesus! Told you I’d send out word.” I laughed. I said, “Baby Jesus, huh?” Last night I went outside to an almost silent, beautiful starry night. There were so many stars I could never count them in this lifetime or the next. The creek was rushing as it should from our recent rains (another gift?), and the air was crisp but not too cold. I stared up at the sky and said, “Thank you…” I thought, “How do I know where gifts come from? Who am I to question the source?” We search for answers, and sometimes those answers just will not be forthcoming. Sometimes the mysteries of the universe are just that.

And here, days before Christmas, I have a gift I have wanted for so long. One that I’ve worked so hard for. One that I have dreamed about and wished for and called out to the universe (and my friend has called out to Baby Jesus). What is the gift, you may be asking? I was going to say the gift is a publisher offering me a contract for my Virginia Kate novel—that is what all this is about and I am stunned with happiness and in love with Bellebooks; but then I realized suddenly that though that is the gift, the miracle comes from the feelings brought forth by the gift. Everything lined up just as it was supposed to for this to happen. What I did in the moments and days I did them was exactly what I was supposed to do—and it’s not just a “hindsight is 20-20” moment. It’s as if Santy Claus (or my friend’s Baby Jesus) is twinkling his eye right now, having set into motion the very things needed to bring me right where I am right now. Four days until Christmas. And I am feeling the spirit. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Hark how the bells,
sweet silver bells,
all seem to say,
throw cares away

Christmas is here,
bringing good cheer,
to young and old,
meek and the bold,
ding dong ding
that is their song
with joyful ring
all caroling…

Comfort and Joy by Barbara Quinn

2008-12-20T07:22:00.004-05:00

Tidings of Comfort and Joy. That line from the old Christmas carol, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, has a lot to be said for it. This time of year has me reflecting on the meaning of those words.

I want to bring glad tidings of comfort and joy. How can I do that?

I can hug the ones I love. I like hugs. They tend to make me feel better, make me feel all warm and soft inside. Who can't benefit from a hug? I’m going to make a special effort to hug for a beat longer when I greet my friends and relatives this season.

I will try to notice people, really see them. What color are their eyes? The rush rush of the season makes it easy to try to get through a task instead of embracing it, makes it easy to not see a sales clerk, a soldier home on leave, a waitress, a cashier. I can easily wish them season's greetings, the best of the season, and mean it. Perhaps for an instant that will bring them joy.

Where do I find comfort? Certainly in the arms of my loved ones. Sometimes in a piece of rich dark chocolate. But I find it in many other places and it is out there ready and waiting for even the most desperate of us. I have found comfort in the words of a good book, in the touch of a friend, in the roof over my head, and the food on my table. I have found it in my belief that the future can hold goodness and light and that can carry me through the darkness.

I count myself lucky to have known the joy of comforting a small child, and of sharing good times with family and friends.

I am grateful for simple things that give me joy and peace such as for the fact that even after over 35 years my husband is my partner, and he is willing to be leaned on. Joy is that little lighthearted feeling that spreads through my chest, so fleeting but so real I want to grab it and hold it forever. But like dance, it must be experienced, and cannot be captured. It can be found in a job well done, in a smile well-sent, in a dance of the spirit.

May you comfort someone in need, and may you in turn be comforted when you are in need. May your joys be many. May you dance.

Comfort and joy. To you.

Safe Travels. by Patresa Hartman

2008-12-19T08:04:00.004-05:00

Ice fell on Iowa last night. It's the fitted bed sheet under a blanket of lovely white snow. Corporate Des Moines has issued a two-hour delay for profit making. It takes quite an event for Corporate Anywhere to voluntarily delay profit making. Already, the mood of downtown has lifted.

Yet, the newspaper was right on time. And I am sure the mail will arrive right on time. I don't know what the hiring process looks like for mail and paper delivery, but it must include a very rigorous physical assessment -- testing candidates' ability to withstand rotating sheets of wind and hail and rain and ice. I am grateful for their willingness to risk life and limb to deliver my Christmas cards and crossword puzzles. Thank you, Delivery Soldiers.

I hear the neighbors' snowblower and know that whomever loses a childish game of rock, paper, scissors, either my husband or I will join. But I am grateful for that snowblower. Until this year, we have been Shovel City. My father donated his old John Deere blower, which is large and bulky and makes my forearms ache after I have finished the whole driveway. But I'll take sore forearms after 30 minutes of snowblowing over the complete body decay that occurs after two hours of shoveling. Thanks, Dad.

I am softening toward this Iowa weather. I used to say I hated the winter, that I belonged someplace warm and unfrozen year round, but I am changing my mind. Storms of snow and ice unite our communities. When weather becomes the story, we have full conversations with total strangers. We gather around windows like children to watch the sky spill its white; we wish each other safe travels when we leave. I like this. It makes me feel connected; and it brings out the kindness in people. For that, I am grateful.

Bad Chore Ahead by Angie Ledbetter

2008-12-18T05:00:00.000-05:00

I have dental phobia brought on by years of dentists not believing I am anesthesia resistant. Even after 14 shots once, I could still feel the heart-stopping pain of drill biting into nerve. The same thing happened with the epidurals I was given during the births of my three children. Not one of them worked, so it was natural childbirth for me.

Having finally found a dentist who believes me, and who has concocted a cocktail of three different medications to numb my mouth for at least 20 minutes, I am eternally grateful.

Today while I sit sweating and shaking in the dentist's chair for a regular check-up, I'll call up all my reserves to keep myself calm. Among the most prominent weapons in my arsenal will be listing and re-listing the many things for which I am grateful. And when it's all over and I'm back in my car on the way home, I will truly feel gratitude for my good dentist and that the dreaded appointment is over.

I accept: Words and Music by Kat Magendie

2008-12-17T07:00:00.001-05:00

"All I see with Christmas is just One More Thing I have to do," I say to my husband. He looks almost wounded, as if I'd struck him. For, after all, the holidays from Thanksgiving to Christmas have always been my favorite time of the year and I've always reveled in it. Giddy and happy.

I take the lights from the box and unravel them, a scowl squinching my face into folds of ugliness. I've always put the lights on the tree - for years, even before Roger. It's just become "my thing," and I do it because I want to. Until now.

Roger says, "Why don't you do that later?"

I spit out, "Later? When later? It's now or never."

He walks away. I begin throwing lights on the tree. But then I remember I haven't checked to make sure they will light. I plug in. Nothing. I tear the lights from the tree in a fury. I plug in another string. Nothing. Another. Nothing. No lights are working. The outlet is malfuctioned. Stomping into the little log house, I growl, "Lights. Won't. Work. That's. Just. Great." I feel just like I'm on the Fa la la la Lifetime Christmas Specials - the one where the woman is pissed off at everyone and is disallusioned and sad and angry and then something happens to make her Feel the Spirit of Christmas (see my previous Yog Post below somewhere). Except this is real life. This isn't the movies.

I come to my computer and splot my butt down into my chair and see an email from someone whom I do now know all that well. My first thought is, "Oh geez. Not another chain letter or joke or cartoon or..." I open the email and begin reading...it's religious in nature, but the very cadence of it begins to relax me. I all of a sudden do not care that I am no longer "religious." I suddenly do not care that I do not know what I believe. It is all about the words, the melody of them, the beauty, the old remembrance of what I have left behind not by design but by some force within myself that I do not understand (anymore than I really ever understood the religions).

I feel the rush of tears, and hold them back, as I have done for as long as I remember. What? Strong me cry? Ha! About that time, Roger puts on a holiday cd by Jim Brickman, with beautiful piano music. The music enters me and drifts languidly through my bloodstream, mixing with the beautiful words I've just read. I get up, walk into my living room, and pick up a gift my Louisiana friend has sent me -- a nativity scene. When did I stop believing? The nativity scene is lovely, heartbreaking. I place the scene gently down, beside my bed, as if a talisman for my coming sleep.

A calm overcomes me. I let it. I walk to Roger and give him a hug, say, "Sorry I'm a big grump."

He smiles, says, "I know you're really tired right now."

I say, "I'll string those lights tomorrow." He nods.

The words. The music. A simple gift from a friend. An understanding husband. All conspired to take away my angst and stress. Gifts come unexpectedly. Gifts that one can accept or turn away. I accept, with gratitude.

The Gratitude Diet by Barbara Quinn

2008-12-16T07:13:00.005-05:00

About this time, many of us start thinking about growing a little heavier from all those parties and holiday treats. I recommend going on a gratitude diet. It won't make the scale move, but it will allow you to feel lighter.

Like dieting, being grateful is not easy and sometimes it’s really hard to stick with it. I am not the most awake, focused or ready to talk in the mornings. But at the start of the day, when I visit this site, the words here help me adjust my attitude of gratitude. Those words, and a strong cup of tea, get me going in the morning, and suddenly I make the decision to be happy, to be grateful. My whole body feels lighter.

I learned that it is worth the fight to have a steady diet of gratitude. I am a better, healthier person when I am ingesting doses of gratitude. If I am giving thanks, I am thinking about all that I have, about all the good that does surround me. That brings me into the present moment. Gratitude is a welcome vitamin for the soul. It calms the fear of what might be. Most of the time what might be does not come to pass, and when it does, there isn’t much I can do about it. In addition, by dispensing doses of gratitude to others, I find I can stay in the ever calming present. And when I am present I feel lighter.

Part of the gratitude diet involves exercise. Like working out, it takes effort to work up a sweat of gratitude, takes effort to bring a positive attitude to the worst of situations. I grieve, and suffer loss, but I can help myself to to heal by doing good deeds, by reminding myself of all for which I am grateful, by stepping back and expressing gratitude in the midst of an angry conversation. I feel lighter.The diet is working.

Good luck with your gratitude diets. The tastiest parts of mine include being grateful for the people who listen and help me through. And a special treat is being grateful for all my fellow yoggers. They have been dedicated to this project and I’ve benefited from their delcious words, and for their indulgence in my half-baked ramblings. By penning these gratitude posts, and working with my fellow Yoggers, my life has been immeasurably enriched and lightened. I’m also grateful for the authors who have taken the time to dispense doses of gratitude in these pages. And most of all, I’m grateful for you readers who are touched by end enjoy our words. We thank you! Good luck with your efforts to grow lighter!

The introvert. by Patresa Hartman

2008-12-15T10:29:00.005-05:00

Today's late post is brought to you by:

Complete Mental Scattering...

which is brought to you by:

End of Semester.

***********

A long while ago, I read an article about introverted children. Specifically, children who are extroverts are energized by social interaction; children who are introverts are drained by it. The researchers' advice to parents of introverted children was to:

a) Understand the irritability their sons and daughters demonstrate after prolonged social interaction for what it is -- drained energy and a cry for solitude; and

b) Give them that solitude, because they need it in order to re-energize. They don't just want it; they need it in the same way our bodies need food and sleep.

When I read that article I felt an enormous sense of validation. I was an introverted child who came home from school and parties "talked out." I wasn't a mean, uncaring child, but when I was depleted, I became very irritable and could not hold a conversation without snapping and sneering. I hated that I snapped and sneered but couldn't stop myself from doing it. It was a frustrating dichotomy, and it was constant.

I am now an introverted adult with more or less the same issue. I call it my "social meter" and can feel when it expires. I still get irritable when it runs out and find conversation painful. The difference as an adult is that I understand where it comes from and can communicate what I need more constructively. The fact that I can communicate my need (not just want) for solitude means friends and family are more willing to give it to me. My relationships are healthier for it.

And so as I sit here on a Monday morning with an expired social meter, on the heels of weekend visits from two of my very closest friends and dinner parties with my family, I am thankful for a life full of people who love me even when I am a bear. My close friends forgive my quirks and crankiness; my family has endured a lifetime of expired social meters; and I married a man who has come to understand me enough not to take it personally when I can't speak.

Thank you, Good People.

My Choice by Angie Ledbetter

2008-12-14T09:00:00.007-05:00

Happiness, joy and gratitude really are states of mind. And like all states we wrap around ourselves to enjoy (whether positive or negative), they are sometimes hard to shed once we get comfortable with them. Today, I choose to swath myself in light and good things, even if I'm tempted to long for a heavy grey shroud. It's simply a matter of my own choosing.

To help me in this pursuit, I've printed out and began my morning reading uplifting quotes from famous folks on the subject:

"If you want to be happy, be." ~Leo Tolstoy

"Happiness is never stopping to think if you are." ~ Palmer Sondreal

"Most people would rather be certain they're miserable, than risk being happy." ~ Robert Anthony

"The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up."~ Mark Twain

"Nobody really cares if you're miserable, so you might as well be happy." ~ Cynthia Nelms

When Your Cup’s Half Full, You Don’t Thirst by Marta Stephens

2008-12-13T08:00:00.002-05:00

Is it me or has time zipped past me again? It seems it was only yesterday that ...

January 2008: Property taxes doubled this year with no cap in site. My mother-in-law moved in with us—it was time. The kids are back in college. The sum of 2007 was spent rewriting the second book in my series, “The Devil Can Wait.” The novel is on my publisher’s desk. I’m more grateful for my crit partners than they’ll ever know.

February 2008: Edits begin. Daughter broke up with fiancé. She and her miniature Daschund moved back home. She’s not doing well--glad she’s home. Her younger brother helped with the move. Our two Boston Bull dogs are glad to see the mini weenie again. Boxes and clothes all over the place. I’m grateful we have a large home -- back to the edits.

March 2008: Glitch in edits. Two chapters need major revisions. I call a friend and vent. Daughter is still upset—friends in and out of our house. She adopted two more mini Daschunds, Candy and Moo. We call them “the girls.” Sweet as can be. Famous last words, “They’re house-broken, mom.” I’m grateful to own a carpet shampooer.

April 2008: Some of my tulips are in bloom, delighted to have warmer weather. Rewrites on my novel are coming along. Two critical e-mails to my editor disappeared in cyber space. Translation: lost two weeks of edits.

May 2008: Daughter moved out and into my in-law’s empty house. Glad she’s ready to start fresh. The contract I signed and mailed to my publisher never arrived. I’m watching the dates--I’m nervous--she assures me all will be fine. Thank God one of us is calm and collected. I shampoo the carpets again.

June 2008: The nursing home called to say that my 93-year old father who has Alzheimer’s needs to be moved to another facility. It seems he’s learned how to open the outer doors. Interesting. I’m grateful to quickly find another qualified, secure facility. They’ve handled the move and all the paper work. The contract still hasn’t reached my publisher. Finger drumming has left dents on my desk. I decide to plant a vegetable garden.

July 2008: I give up and scan my copy of the contract and e-mail it to my publisher. Three artists seemed interested in doing the cover, none follows through. Glad to know we have other options. I’ve started to make a list of potential reviewers. Too nice to stay indoors, think I’ll go out and water my peppers and tomatoes.

August 2008: It’s technically fall since daughter and son are back in college. Dogs still at home as is hubby and mother-in-law. Plants are drying in the August sun but my concord grapes will soon be ready to pick.

September 2008: I have a freezer full of harvested vegetables and I processed a bushel for grapes and froze the juice. Began final proofreading of novel. Dang, how did I miss all those typos? Found another artist. This one wants to do the book cover and it’s looking great. Received launch date. I’m thrilled, still losing sleep.

October 2008: Crap, found out I miscalculated my son’s financial aid. I’m grateful we’re able to cover the difference. The proofreading is going well. I’m driving my publisher nuts with all the edits, but she’ll love me for this one of these days. The ARCs are in the mail.

November 2008: The launch date is here. Several great reviews have arrived. I’m relieved. My event calendar is filling up fast—bookstores and libraries are calling me. Who’da thunk? I just received word that I’ll be doing a virtual book tour next month. I’m humbled by the many generous-hearted friends I’ve met along the way and grateful for my family’s support. It’s Thanksgiving morning and the dishwasher decides to die. Twelve people for dinner today. Words can’t express the joy.

December 2008: New dishwasher looks great. The book is doing remarkably well and now that the tour articles are done, I’m happy to keep up with the readers’ comments and e-mails. It’s cold, but just a light dusting of snow so far. I’m ready to put up the tree. Started my shopping and Christmas card lists—I’ll do them tomorrow. Aside from the head colds, we’re healthy and, yes, still gainfully employed. Good news; the dogs finally figured out the “let’s go out” deal. Our property taxes were cut in half and gas prices are down to $1.40 a gallon. I’m breathing again. Maybe I’ll make some grape jelly this weekend.

We had our share of ups and downs this year, but that’s okay. They are to life what chilies are to salsa—spice! I’m grateful for strong family ties, laughs shared with my friends, the lessons from trials and errors, a host of new challenges and opportunities, and the many blessings that came our way. Good bye, 2008!

© Marta Stephens 2008 all rights reserved
* * * *

Marta Stephens is the author of the Sam Harper Crime Mystery series published by BeWrite Books (UK).THE DEVIL CAN WAIT – (2008), SILENCED CRY (2007)Honorable Mention, 2008 New York Book Festival, Top Ten, 2007 Preditors and Editors Reader Poll (mystery)http://www.martastephens-author.com/.http://mstephens-musings.blogspot.com/http://murderby4.blogspot.com/

Rain Rain Don't Go Away by Kat Magendie

2008-12-13T07:00:00.004-05:00

This is a simple yog. Simple and to the point. A simple thankfulness for what Father Sky gives to Mother Earth. Gives to this cove. Gives to Western North Carolina.

It is raining outside. A good rain. A rain that has been steady since sometime late last night.

I'd been watching the sky since yesterday morning. Watching fat black bloated clouds hover, blanketing my cove at Killian Knob. Watched the trees bend from the wind. Listened to the howl as that wind raced over the mountain ridges and down into the coves and hollows and valley.

But, nothing. No rain. Threatening, threatening. No rain. The day passed. I waited. I hoped.

Then, last night I woke to the sound of rain hitting the roof of my little log house. Oh! That sound! I've been waiting for it for so long. The darkling clouds had finally opened and let loose their contents in a nice downpour. Not a simple sprinkle. Not a fast quick rain and then gone. A good soaking rain.

And now the rain still falls. There is a white mist over the valley, hiding what I know is there. The cove feels even more secret. I am content.

This simple yog of thanks for rain. The ground soaking it up. The creek filling. I have need of nothing else this morning.

Play Those 88's by Barbara Quinn

2008-12-12T07:17:00.002-05:00

My mother turned 88 a few days ago and a small group of her family and friends celebrated by going out to brunch with her at a favorite spot. She was particularly happy that everyone could have unlimited Champagne, Mimosas, and Bloody Mary’s, and she loved the fact that there were so many choices so that everyone found something they liked to eat. In typical Mom fashion she insisted on treating the group as her birthday present. What a wonderful thing it was to see her family and friends gathered around her. The restaurant made a fuss over her, and at the end of the meal made a special dessert plate with chocolate and raspberry syrup hearts around an individual tira misu. Everyone in the packed place sang Happy Birthday. Mom had no trouble eating it all up and she also enjoyed several glasses of champagne, insisting on everyone at the table clinking everyone else's glass. That led to much laughter and confusion over who hadn't clinked glasses with whom.

I’m grateful that she was happy on this day. It hasn’t been easy for her since my dad died a couple of years ago. After 60 years of marriage, her days definitely are lonely and without their center. But she’s finally moving on and is able to find a little joy in watching her family grow and change, in spending time in the company of those who share this journey of life with her.

Happy Birthday, Mom! May we all clink glasses and get a little tipsy together next year.

The Pointillist. by Patresa Hartman

2008-12-11T06:30:00.000-05:00

i've been reading eckhart tolle
Power of Now
and i have been trying to lose track of time.

i have been severing the ties between
self and mind, because
i am not my thoughts.
i am not my emotions.
i am not my sleepy eyes or
my bad taste in pop music.
i am not my preferences
or my tendencies to analyze.
i am not my elbows or my skin.
i am not my sour mood.

it's hard, this new commitment to suspension.
it is difficult to take what was once a linear plane of events
stacked together on a continuum, and instead
see that they are points.
there is now.
and now.
and now there is now.
here is another now.
and another.

now is a new now.

there is no longer then, except for a little residue
left on my tongue.
but more importantly there is no upcoming.
and that is where i have my problem (life situation).
too much horizon gazing, and i miss where i am standing.
hours, i am in my head (which is not me.) accepting accolades, receiving
international acknowledgment of my most certain (elusive) genius.

and so in this now,
-- and this one, too --
i am going to honor the perfection of
fine, super fine points.
there is wine,
my favorite TV show,
my dog,
and cupcakes.

it is a fine moment,
and it doesn't matter what came before or
what comes next.

Whew! by Angie Ledbetter

2008-12-10T05:00:00.001-05:00

I'm tired and worn out right now. Feel like I've been running three ways from Sunday, or so the expression I grew up with says.

Doesn't it seem like this time of year just goes into hyper speed and the faster you run to accomplish chores and check off lists, the further behind you get? It can be stressful...if you let it.

I refuse to fall into a pit of angst. What gets done, gets done. If not, oh well and shrug. I'm happy to pass glittery Christmas lights dotting houses and landscapes. It makes me slow down and really look. I'm grateful my house isn't as filthy as it could be, given my lack of daily attention. And truthfully, I'm happy to be tired, my eyes so heavy I can hardly keep them open to type. Know why? Because I know I'm going to sleep deep and well tonight. No tossing and turning for me. No thoughts and worrying pinging around in my head as I try to relax for sleep.

Now, if only the chainsaw otherwise known as my husband doesn't make too much noise, I'm going to enjoy a good 8 hours or so of blessed rest. Ahh. Goodnight.

My Grinch's Heart by Kathryn Magendie

2008-12-09T07:00:00.007-05:00

I fear I am turning into the Grinch. You know, scowling about Christmas and all the Who’s in Whoville’s noise getting on my nerves. What’s happened to me? When Christmas was always the most perfect, most wonderful time of the year? Somewhere along the way, I’ve let some kind of magic go, some kind of beauty of the season. I want it back. Can you help me get it back? How?, you ask. Well…I’m open to suggestions. Send me Christmassy comments that enlighten and lighten? Email me cute Christmas cards? Post wonderful holiday thoughts on blogs and twitters and facebooks, oh my, and send me the link?

Saturday we were going to go buy our tree, but something else came up. I hated the feeling of momentary relief…where did that come from? I had been excited, hadn’t I? The decorations are stacked in boxes, ready for the tree we will get, maybe tomorrow. I want to look forward to decorating it.

Maybe part of it, too, is my friends and family are far from me.

What do I want for Christmas this year? I want that spirit back. I want that old feeling back. I can’t force it, so I’m asking you all, to help me find that Christmas-Holiday Gratitude. I know it’s somewhere. I must have just misplaced it in a corner, under a pile of sweaters, in the sock drawer, in the hollowed out tree, behind the dresser, under the couch, in the refrigerator (where we all open it and stare inside and think, "what was I looking for?")…somewhere, it’s here somewhere.

Right now as I'm writing this on Sunday, there are oodles of Fa La La La Lifetime Christmas specials. Where these women are living disallusioned lives at Christmas and yada yada the same old; but, every now and then I tear up, as if I am seeing parts of myself in these women. Thing is, at the end of the movie, I know they'll have found what is missing—will I find it along with her? Gee, I hope so.

I’ll fly like the hawk over a jeweled city of holiday shine and there I will find what I need, yes. Yes.

I’ll keep searching those little corners and places for that old feeling. It rises up and quickly flies away just out of my grasp. Maybe you’ve seen it? Floating around, my Holiday Spirit. If you do see it, grab hold of it and bring it back to me, and for that, I’ll be filled with gratitude. And perhaps by Christmas, somehow, someway, some magic will have happened...and I will write, "It happened...it really happened..." And what will have happened will be because of you and you and you and you...I'm already smiling, thinking about what magic may happen, all because I just reached out and asked.

O Tannenbaum by Barbara Quinn

2008-12-08T07:11:00.001-05:00

I spent the past few days decorating my house for the holidays. I’m having a crowd for Christmas and am looking forward to spending time with everyone. The more I can get done now, the less stress there will be when the holiday arrives. Busy, busy, busy. And so I finished trimming the Christmas tree last night. Then I took a deep breath and slowed down. What a joy it was to step back, turn on the lights, and take in the glorious decorated boughs.

My eyes ran over the branches and I sighed. There are felt ornaments I sewed when I was a child. There is one my son made from a cardboard eggshell carton son and another he made in nursery school. The cross he made in high school sits beside the sequined bell my Aunt made for us as newlyweds. My best friend’s Mom knitted us dozens. There are special glass ones that were handed down by my grandmother to my mom and then to me, and many more that my husband and I bought together: the ballerina, the skier, the huntsman. They all dangle and delight the way they have for many years. There are the ones I bought with my son at the post Christmas sales. It’s a hodgepodge of love on that tree. It made me smile to see all those years strung across the branches. It wouldn’t make it into any designer magazines, but it’s the prettiest thing in the room and now each time I pass it I find myself in a better mood.

Last year I shipped a bunch of ornaments to my son and his wife to seed their collection for their tree. Their dog devoured a few but there are still plenty of memories left for their branches. That gave me an excuse to pick up a few more ornaments at a craft fair this year for them. I went for the blowfish turned into a bird with a hat, and one that reads “Baby’s First Christmas”. Ah, I’m grateful for so many years spent with so much love. Shine on, tree!

31 Things That Are Awesome. by Patresa Hartman

2008-12-07T09:18:00.003-05:00

1. Well, You, of course. But also:

2. Cake.
3. The smell of my dog's feet.
4. The smell of my dog's head.
5. My dog in general.
6. The tree in the front yard, which appears to be dancing.
7. The possibility of a Christmas tree this afternoon.

And I do, if I may break momentarily before 8, recall with considerable fondness, the warmth of my Holly Hobbie sleeping bag when spending the night, as a child, under the glowing Christmas tree.

8. Christmas lights.
9. Childhood -- not just mine but others'. I wish everyone got one.
10. Conversations with my cat.
11. The bedroom door.

(Because I shut it this morning at 5:45 to keep my husband's cat out -- my husband's cat, who knocks things off dressers in order to get me out of bed to feed him. And it is delicious how much longer I can sleep when my jewelry and brassieres are not flying around the room.)

12. Discovering new tunes for my I-Pod workout mixes.
13. My body's willingness to change its shape when I move it on a regular basis.
14. New hair colors.
15. Old hair colors.
16. New glasses.
17. Old glasses.
18. Newness.
19. Oldness.
20. Snow days.
21. Finals week, and the way it so efficiently precedes The Big Relax.
22. The Big Relax, which really deserves its own line, and so:

The Big Relax

23. Days to do nothing.
24. Wandering
25. Meandering
26. Singing along with the radio.
27. Car dancing even when people are watching.
28. The neighbors who leave their lights on and curtains open past dark, so I can admire their wall colorings and furniture arrangements.
29. Massages.
30. Knowing all the words to cool songs, which are often times Alanis Morissette songs.

But mostly:

31. Well, You, of course.

What Glitters by Angie Ledbetter

2008-12-06T05:00:00.003-05:00

This afternoon started out with a gray cloud hanging over me. The husband was off hunting again, youngest son was with the band at an away football game, middle son was working until close, and my daughter (the eldest) was with friends enjoying her Friday night. I looked at the tons of Christmas decoration boxes and sat down in a chair. What is it about the prospect of decorating a tree and making the house all festive when you're most likely the only one who's going to enjoy or probably even notice it? I wondered if all the work was really worth it, and contemplated not bothering.

But visiting my parents today, I noticed they had a simple gold metal tree set up. Its lights cast a warming glow throughout the whole living room and it was nice to look at. As my mom is very ill, I was glad to see Dad had gone to the trouble of putting up the decoration for the holidays. He'd also bought and wrapped his "Advent angels" to give to all the women/girls of the family and certain close friends once again, even though it must've been hard for him to get to a store while someone stayed with Mom.

Couldn't I be of similar spirit? I had much to be grateful for; especially good health and a strong body. If my parents could maintain and carry on the important traditions, why couldn't I? All these thoughts whirled around in my head as I begrudgingly started to work on my Christmas tree. Before I'd gotten started good, my daughter bounced into the room and said she'd decided not to hang out with friends because she wanted to decorate with me.

As she dug through the boxes of ornaments to cull out the pink ones for this year's tree, I looked down at my hands, already shiny with glitter from the ribbons I'd been curling. Sometimes, depending on our outlook, things that glitter really are gold. As my own living room is aglow with the lights from my angel-topped tree, I'm grateful I went ahead with decorating plans, even though I didn't "feel like it," and for parents who've always led by example.

World of Color by Kat Magendie

2008-12-04T17:16:00.006-05:00

I awake with the colors of hovering just above my face, twisting and turning and shifting and waiting for me to pull them into myself where they mix with my blood, swift through my veins, and out they’ll come, through my fingertips, from deep inside of me, mixed with my own juices the colors are both yours and mine and the universe’s. I arise, full of color, full to the spilling point, full to the overrunning waters point, full and bloated with color, and I float to my writer’s room and spill the colors out for you to see, right onto the page I pour myself out to you.

As I write, my synapses fire off, pulse alive with energy in reds, pinks, yellows, oranges, all the colors of a blazing sunrise against an appearing blue sky, all the colors of the universe bend towards me in fractured kaleidoscopic beauty. My world in images compose the five senses—all explode about me in shattered prisms of dark and light, words drip and ooze, deep mysterious endless as a heavenly black hole where things are lost, and then hope-to-be found again by the bright intense white that rip my retinas with intensity, brilliant as any distant star flaring alive.

A meal is in front of me set on a white plate—alabaster yogurt piled high with delicate fresh raspberries and crunchy brown walnuts, along with black Deep Creek Blend coffee poured into a sea-green mug pitted with the potter’s fingerprints. I love the taste of color—round fat blueberries, strawberries bursting juice and tiny seed, crunchy peppery radishes, silky dark chocolate, sour limes, and the blackberries I pick on my mountain until my fingers are stained purple-black. I taste the colors; the shades coat my tongue and recall the hues of salty, tangy, sour, the bitter and the sweet.

I lift my head from the writing. Why, the evening is arriving! I’ve spent this day opening my veins and spilling colors. The sunset shouts into the sky, the seeming coming end, as all is fading to what is perceived as the absence of color—to black. Yet, the dark holds the colors within, as a backdrop for the swollen moon white and gray, the stars bright changling angels. In the dark, the day’s less apparent shine. But, I am ahead of myself, first the sunset amber, garnet, amethyst, coral blaze fire across the sky. The circle of life-colors, beginning with the sunrise and ending with the sunset. This is gratitude’s day; the color of life.

"Senza Sale" by Barbara Quinn

2008-12-04T07:11:00.000-05:00

The Italian’s have a phrase “senza sale” that they use for many things. It means without salt, and it applies to far more than food. My father would don a dismissive look, wave his hand, and utter “senza sale”. To be without salt was unthinkable, a signifier of a life wasted, of a soul-less person lacking the ability to take a stand or protect loved ones. Like pasta that has been cooked in salt-less water, a person who brings nothing positive to the table of life is “senza sale”.

Without salt, pasta is an abomination of blandness. Without salty people, life would be a drag. You can’t correct the situation by adding salt to your pasta after you boil it. You have to take the time to add the salt at the right time. People have to become properly seasoned too, to become desirable salty souls. (Those who need a salt-free diet, will have to rely on salt substitutes or other spices!)

Certainly there can be too much salt. No one wants a meal that tastes like the Great Salt Lake. You’ll be up all night trying to crave your thirst if you have too much salt. But that perfect balance of salt can bring out the flavor of food and enhance the meal. You can also add a few grains of salt to a glass of wine that you think is too flat. Try it sometime and you’ll be amazed at how that little bit of salt creates a tasty glassful. We can learn much from this little grainy chemical compound.

Last spring I toured a sea salt facility in, Trapani, Sicily. What a treat that was to see the way the salt is harvested with windmills and evaporation. I brought some home and have been enjoying the mild taste reminiscent of the sea. I’ve acquired a whole range of salts: Morton’s Iodized, David’s Kosher, Italian coarse Sea Salt, French Fleur de Sel, Lawry’s Seasoned Salt.

I’m grateful for salt, grateful for the salts of the earth that show us the way. May you literally and figuratively never be “senza sale”!

Unexpected Gifts by Angie Ledbetter

2008-12-03T05:00:00.001-05:00

Have you ever noticed how when you're really really down in the dumps or past worn out, that if something or someone comes along to lift you up, even if unintentionally, it makes all the difference in your attitude and outlook? It can be something as simple as a store clerk being extra helpful, a friend with whom you've grown apart who suddenly contacts you and says he/she misses you, a gorgeous burst of color from a tree changing its leaves from fall to winter foliage, a family member giving you a spontaneous hug, a stranger offering directions or picking up a package you've dropped on the floor, a bad drive in traffic offset by a glorious rainbow's appearance.

There's something so sweet about these incidents; a gift from an unexpected source or a cosmic pat on the back made sweeter because you didn't expect it or even know it was coming your way.

I'm exceptionally grateful today for these gifts offered by nature; for the people who extend a hand or kind words (knowingly or not); for those things which plump up your faith in human nature and reassure you God is looking on. Without them, life would be filled with a lot more black and white one dimensional pictures instead of an album of masterful works of art.

Snow Falling Morning by Kat Magendie

2008-12-02T07:00:00.002-05:00

I'm never at a loss for words when it comes to my mountain, but sometimes you just have to be there. And since you cannot be there, I am sharing one part of my mountain walk. This little trickle of runoff you can see and hear, in the video below, during a fine morning snow, used to flow more than it does here, but we are in drought conditions and that is how it is--still beautiful.
If you could see the other short videos I took, all you would hear is wind against the trees, a bird chirping, and my breath. It is that silent here at Killian Knob. You'd also see, in between the trees, at glances here and there, development out and beyond - silent development, as it has all come to a standstill, and I cannot help but be glad. I'd be more glad if it had not been developed as it had at all, for Developers seem not to have a sense of the mountain and only of lining their pockets.

What you see and hear below, and what you cannot see and hear on the other videos, but you may have read from my posts before, is what I wish I could preserve forever. I live in fear that someone will take it away, or take more of it away than they already have. People ask, "What would you do if you had a million dollars?" and I know the answer to that: I'd begin buying up this mountain land and stop all development, preserve the mountain land. It is a dream of mine that I can never imagine happening without so much more money than I can dream of, but there are always desires and wishes and hopes.

I live in gratitude for this land, for these beautiful mountains, for the silence of a snow falling morning. I forget the fear of Developers as I walk the old logging trails, listening to the trickle of water, to the bird's call, to the sound of swaying branches, the snow crystals landing on my jacket. It is too lovely to bear. It is too beautiful to lose. I do not know how to protect it in the face of another's greed; I can only hope and dream and wish, and in the meantime, appreciate.

The Buck Stops Here by Barbara Quinn

2008-12-01T07:22:00.000-05:00

There was a young buck in my backyard yesterday. What a gorgeous creature. I counted six budding points on his rack. Off in the woods behind him, was a female deer who was probably his mate. This is the time of year that the deer often venture into my yard. There’s a large doe that also comes to the bottom of the feeder. Sometimes she sleeps there at night. I’ve also woken up to see a red fox sitting on the hill back there. I guess they all sense that my yard is safe and a good source of food.

There isn’t much out there in my area for them to feed on, and my shrubs and plantings make the perfect deer buffet. The young buck was munching at the bottom of the bird feeder on the spilled birdseed. My back yard is a large open space and I really don’t think he should get used to being out in the open that way. When he heard my husband open the garage door, he raised his beautiful head and stared at him. Then his gaze followed Tom when Tom returned to the kitchen, and the two of them stared at one another through the large glass window, my gray-haired husband and this young, curious creature. The buck was glorious when he raised his head. What perfect musculature across his chest, what gorgeous coloring, and what a downy coating on those antlers. For a moment I held my breath at the beauty. And then I realized this creature could be shot if he looked at a hunter that way. I wanted to run out and clap my hands to scare him off. Tom moved away and the buck froze. Behind him the female watched the scene cautiously, her head raised. There I was doing the same, watching from behind my own mate. Pretty funny how similar we are. Soon Tom’s car rolled out of the driveway and at the sight and sound the two deer moved back into the woods, but not quickly enough for my liking. At least they had a little fear. It’s so hard to keep them wild when they are so beautiful and near. A part of me wants to befriend them, but I know I must stay away.

I am grateful for their presence not only in my yard, but in the world. I am glad I can provide them with a haven. It’s the least I can do for I receive so much joy from being the beneficiary of magical scenes like this. I am humbled by their beautiful unassuming presence.

Unwillingness. by Patresa Hartman

2008-11-30T06:30:00.000-05:00

It is 10:08 on Saturday night, and I must confess that I am having difficulty with gratitude. It isn't that I cannot identify things that are ridiculously blessed in my life -- so many. There are so many. My rational self can fill at least twelve grocery lists of them.

I am not in Mumbai.
I was not trampled at Walmart on Black Friday.
I was not shot at Toys R Us.
I am employed.
And so is my husband.
I am not a migrant worker from Mexico sent home empty-handed for the holidays because of this country's recession.
I am not an AIDS patient in Indonesia about to be microchipped like a kitten.

(These, of course, are recent news stories gleaned from the local paper.)

I am having a hard time pinpointing genuine, overwhelming gratitude at the moment, because I am tired. And I have a lot to do. And I have been eating poorly and sleeping poorly, and my body feels yucky.

I know there is a difference between clicking down a list of obligatory and sensible things for which to be grateful, and really and truly breathing in that gratitude and filling your entire soul cavity with it. I want to be grateful for the hard stuff. I want gratitude to be a lifestyle instead of a rational acknowledgement that things could always be worse. That's just too easy.

But right now my eyes are droopy and I am a little bit cranky. I am tired of my responsibilities and want to sleep for at least 3 weeks. Mine are such petty complaints, I can barely stand myself.

And so, I am going to be grateful for that.

I am going to be grateful for my pettiness, for my occasional bouts of self-loathing, for my oblivion and stubbornness and unwillingness. I am going to be grateful for my bad thought habits and my selfishness, my irritability and my laziness. I am going to be grateful for them, because they create light and shadow. I am going to be grateful for them, because they emphasize the fact that I have permission to be flawed. I am free to be every version of myself.

I am grateful for the liberty to be tired.

Gratitude Hand-Me-Downs by Angie Ledbetter

2008-11-29T05:00:00.002-05:00

Thinking about gratefulness for the better part of a year now, I wonder how I can best share the benefits I've received with others; pay it forward; instill it in my own children?

Reading an article called Thanksgiving All Year Long recently, there were a few tips for teaching gratitude by the author Jeff Smith. (Seek and ye shall find?) I'm paraphrasing and adding to his ideas here:

At home and about, an attitude of gratitude can be infectious to others. Sometimes people just need to be introduced to a new way of thinking, so role modeling our happiness can help spread the joy.

Thankfulness for things small and grand doesn't just have to exist around the Thanksgiving table. Simple things are available to us every day -- a beautiful sunset, rain to replenish the earth, people who go out of their way to be optimists and good servers rather than doom-spreaders. We should notice them and voice our thanks whenever possible.

I'm always grateful when my teenagers do their chores or share a kindness with dear ol' Mom. But do I remember to thank them? Not always, but I will work on that. Who doesn't like to be shown gratitude for a job well done? If you've ever worked for a boss who doesn't care to encourage and appreciate his/her employees, you know what a bleak work existence that is; so let's be sure we don't undervalue our family members and close friends. Even if our words of gratitude seem to be falling on deaf ears, they are heard by hearts and minds on some level. Our efforts in that regard are never wasted.

Remind people of the gifts and talents they have, especially when they share them with others, such as good humor, consideration, compassion, encouragement, unselfishness and generosity.

Praying for others, helping where we can, volunteering in our communities for worthy causes and goals, and taking the time to care about how someone else is feeling or doing are ways to spread the love and power of gratitude.

When we fertilize the gratitude seed in any way we can think of, it's awesome to watch it bloom and flower. And for that, I am truly grateful.

An Hour Electricity(work) Free by Kat Magendie

2008-11-28T05:50:00.000-05:00

The wind howls. Our chimes burst against each other in a symphony of sound. The birds work to fly from tree to feeder to tree to feeder. The red squirrels’ fur blow in swirls and tufts. The last few straggling leaves whip about in the air, straight up and then over and finally crash-land to earth. The rockers rock back and forth back and forth, and this time it isn’t the old mountain ghosts, but the force pushing against wood. Inside my little log house, I am warm and toasty. Then, a flicker, and there is the change. The sudden silence. The dimming of light on my laptop. The electricity has gone out.

In the kitchen, I hear, “Oh no! Not now!” as Roger is in the midst of preparing homemade granola bars for his spoiled wife. I say, “Oh oh,” because the heat strip in my study room where I work is electrical, and it’s a cold blustery day. I get up from my leather chair and go into the living room. Even though it’s been only moments since the electricity went out, I whine, “I’m colllddd.” I hurry to the fireplace and put on a “all-natural cheat log” (they make them out of coffee; "eco-friendly!" - Java Logs) and as it burns, I sit as close to the fire as I can—yes, I am over-dramatic when it comes to being cold; I hate being cold.

We call Progress Energy and the recording tells us it will be a few hours before the electricity returns. Me: Whine!

But then, I think, “Wait, this is such an opportunity to do nothing at all.” I grin. I then sit upon my couch, in my warm toasty clothes, small eco-friendly fire burning coffee, and play a game of solitaire. I listen to the wind howl outside. I watch the birds feed. It is a free feeling, this sudden chance away from work.

It’s only about an hour later before the electricity pops back on. Whir of refrigerator, bright of laptop. “Yayy!” from Roger as he resumes his task. But I feel a tiny flicker of disappointment.

I’d started this post to write about gratitude for electricity and the way Progress Energy is so wonderful in keeping us WNCers in warmth and light, but somewhere along the way, I found gratitude for that hour of release from any responsibility. To be able to say, “Oh, I can’t check my email. I can’t work on that project. I can’t…” Perhaps I should have “pretend outages” from time to time. Yes. Take time for yourself, my friends, for really, we do not need an “excuse” to stop and breathe. Namaste.

This cartoon touched me; I thought I’d share it, this day after Thanksgiving. I hope you all had a wonderful day:

Happy Thanksgiving by Barbara Quinn

2008-11-27T07:18:00.003-05:00

It’s Thanksgiving!

Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce. Sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie. Lots of other ethnic goodies to make the celebration your own.

I am grateful for this all inclusive holiday that everyone in the United States can celebrate. What a great idea to gather together and give thanks. We do have so much to be thankful for.

Sure there are family squabbles, and cooking disasters, and the same old family stories may get boring at times. But what a joy it is to be together, to share our happiness, and our struggles, to let each other know that we do care about one another. We can find ourselves in the act of communing with others. It’s a warm part of being human. Happiness is empty unless it is shared. That may sound like a platitude, but it is true so get out there and share it!

For those who don’t have a place to go on this holiday, or who are strapped for funds, I wish you a better future. Times are difficult for many. I am old enough to know that things do change and we do turn things around. I hope your situation changes soon. Thanks go out to all the workers and volunteers who take the time to provide meals on days like this to those less fortunate. Thanks go out to all who donate to food banks for they are more strapped than ever.

For those who have loved ones away in service who cannot be with them at this holiday, please know that we are grateful for what you and they endure. Our service people have my sincerest thanks and gratitude for being willing to serve our country.

For those who have lost loved ones, please know that in time the pain will soften and will allow you to have joy again. We don’t forget our loved ones. We keep them in our hearts and find a place for the pain. They are still with us at the holidays and still can bring us joy in the good memories we have of the times spent with them.

For those who give their precious time to the Rose & Thorn ezine, and to the ladies of the yog, thank you. It's a privilege to journey with you.

From my house and heart to yours, Happy Thanksgiving!

guts. by patresa hartman

2008-11-26T06:30:00.001-05:00

On the eve of a giant culinary tradition my focus is on my guts. I am thankful for them on many different levels, and to express those levels requires me to give you far more information than you care to have. Please prepare.

First of all, I love mashed potatoes and gravy with a reckless, food-in-the-hair, abandon. I am also ridiculously glad for stuffing, extra sage and celery, please.

Second of all, I am grateful that I have the resources to enjoy such feasts. I have never been hungry. The table has never lacked food nor company, my family loving and stable. The more I learn about the world, the more I understand the privilege of this.

Third, and in an entirely different capacity, I am grateful for the dysfunction of my guts. I have a very glamorous condition called Ulcerative Colitis. You will not see any Lifetime movies on this subject, because it would entail too much emphasis on digestion, including colons. It is not a sexy disease. I have 8x10 glossies of the inside of my colon.

Ulcerative Colitis essentially entails ulcers in the digestive tract -- much like Crohn's. Most of the year they are tamed into submission, remission. But around Thanksgiving and Christmas they wake up on the wrong side of the bed and get very cranky. Stress is my primary trigger. Why am I thankful for this? Because I have learned that this dysfunction is a messenger.

Some believe each element of the body is closely linked to each element of the spirit. Louise L. Hay, for instance, posits that diseases of the guts typically indicate an inability to let go and relinquish control. True for me. I am not always good at identifying my intangible emotions, and I attempt to control my environment with a white knuckle grip. This is not healthy. Sometimes I don't even recognize that I'm doing it. My body has to tell me.

The holidays are prime time for my control issues to flare -- navigating family traditions, finances, time crunching, and travel, etc. One thing I am very good at is pretending everything is fine and there is no need to change my behavior. The reason I am thankful for my faulty guts is they are no longer allowing me to be complacent about unhealthy spiritual patterns. Around the same time every year, they wake me up in the middle of the night to say, "Pardon us, but you still have not learned how to live with acceptance."

I do not care for their methods, but I appreciate the intent. Perhaps this is the year I listen.

The Skinny on Thanksgiving Week by Angie Ledbetter

2008-11-25T05:00:00.001-05:00

We're having a pared down Thanksgiving this year in an effort to minimize the work and preps, and maximize the fun of spending more time relaxing together.

Have you ever thought how the scales of work and play often become terribly unbalanced? Me too...so this Thursday, my family and friends will get a little more even-keeled with a streamlined celebration. Gone will be the week and a half spent in the grocery store and kitchen. Gone, too, will be the need for 10,000 plastic containers for all those leftovers.

Our menu is a downsized version of the traditional feast, and naturally we'll have enough leftovers for a good gumbo, but not the great galloping globs of all those items to pack up and bring home. Yay!

I'm excited for a different kind of Thanksgiving; one which I will be giving many thanks for a simplified family-oriented gathering around the table after our routine morning of packaging meals for shut-ins with others to give regular workers a break. Ah, doesn't that sound great? Since I'll have extra time this year, I may even bake a very small turkey with an aluminum foil bikini just for fun.

Year of Gratitude by Danielle Younge-Ullman

2008-11-24T08:00:00.004-05:00

In preparation for yogging with you wonderfully inspiring women, I was thinking of the many small things I am grateful for these days—the occasional extra thirty minutes of sleep, chili-flavored dark chocolate, a zillion cutenesses from my almost three-year-old, the way my husband makes me laugh—I could make a long list. (I still might.)

But as I think about the many things I’m grateful for this year, what I keep coming back to is challenge. I’ve had a challenging year and I don’t mean that euphemistically.

This August I had my debut novel, Falling Under, published and it was a dream-come-true. What I discovered, though, is having my dream come true was much more stressful, much harder work, more intense and full of potential heartbreak than I ever imagined. Along the road to this dream-come-true, I found a whole new world of conflict and paradox, of highs and lows, of challenges.

This year I learned what it’s like to attempt a full-time writing career with young child, a dog who thinks he’s my child, a husband who works erratic hours, a house in constant renovation and only part-time hours in which to do what feels like three or four full-time jobs. I read books on publicity, worked on publicity, conducted interviews with myself, interviews with others, I blogged, learned to pitch, wrote articles, recorded radio interviews and podcasts. I planned (and paid for and attended) two launch parties, traveled to New York, San Francisco, Boca Raton, New York again, Wisconsin and Hamilton Ontario. (And Minnesota next week!) I taught pilates two nights a week and did hundreds of hours of proofreading for a guy in Korea for money to pay for childcare. I lost weight, gained it back, did laundry, dishes, stayed up nights when my daughter was sick and slept through my writing hours the next day, panicked, calmed down, tried to work on my new book, panicked again, met with publicists and journalists, begged for blurbs from fellow authors, ran around signing copies of Falling Under, obsessed about my Amazon ranking, somehow finished my new book and and and…

And here I am.

Here I am, capable of more than I imagined but also aware I have much less time to do things than I imagined. Here I am, proud of myself and yet expecting more from myself every day and therefore more easily disappointed. Here I am deeper and stronger, more aware of joy and despair walking hand-in-hand, of exhaustion and fulfillment arriving together on the doorstep more often than not.

Here I am, reminding myself to be grateful, profoundly and humbly grateful, for the challenges presented to me, chosen by me, over this past year. I am better for them.

Thank you for having me—yog on!

Danielle Younge-Ullman has completed two novels and three plays. Her one-act play, 7 Acts of Intercourse, debuted at Toronto’s SummerWorks Festival in 2005 and her debut novel, FALLING UNDER, is newly released, published by Plume/Penguin. Danielle lives in Toronto with her husband, daughter, and their dog. Whenever she is not feeding, chasing after and/or entertaining the little beings, she is at work on her next novel.
(Read a review of Falling Under at Roses & Thorns.)

Wild Turkey by Kat Magendie

2008-11-24T07:00:00.001-05:00

That title is not what you think. It’s not about what you may be consuming on Thursday along with taters sweet or not, and if you are in my house and my momma’s house: old fashioned cornbread dressing. And it’s not about the bet you made back in the 70’s when you were nineteen years old and stupid as a stick and you bet your roommate five dollars, which in the 70’s is like, what, $20?, that you could drink an entire glass of “Turkey” straight and your roommate and her boyfriend had to help you to their car and to the house and to bed wherein said roommate had to check on you all night because she thought you were in a coma. Nope. Not either of those turkeys.

I’m talking about wild mountain turkeys.

Yesterday while walking the mountain roads, Roger said, “Hey! Look! Turkey tracks!” There, in the last bits of remaining snow from Friday were the large bird tracks. I grinned, and then said, “Oh! our turkeys are here!” We’d not seen “our” wild turkeys in quite some time and had been worried. Before the developers (said as if I’ve just eaten a cup of bug guts with a side of raw liver over slugs) devastated Muse Trail One, we used to see signs of our wild turkeys. The first time we saw them, we were on Muse Trail Two and about thirty of them suddenly appeared and ran up Muse Trail Three and up and over the ridge. It was such a surprising site, we just stood with our mouths open. Then, for a long time, especially after Trail One was cut so badly, we didn’t see them or signs of them. Any time a critter disappears it is worrisome, for we don’t want to lose what we have here—none of it (and it makes us happy the development suddenly stopped-ha!).

We yapped about the turkey tracks all the way home. Then, later that morning, as we headed down the mountain to run errands, I shouted, “Turkeys! There are the Turkeys!” We stopped the car and stared. There they were; about ten of them, just milling around, eating, bobbing their heads. I laughed aloud. They were most unconcerned of us as we gawked. I thought it funny they’d show up days before Thanksgiving—as if they were hiding out among the very humans who would consume their cousins. But, what a site, what a wonderful happy site to see those wild turkeys again. Can you tell I’m grateful for my life here among the wild and the beauty and the unexpected? Lucky me. Lucky Turkeys. Lucky Day.

What a Good Idea by Barbara Quinn

2008-11-23T07:15:00.000-05:00

I’m grateful for ideas and the way my brain manages to come up with them. I’m over sixty pages into a new novel and this is the point where I need to trust that the creative part of my brain will get the job done. It does no good to tell my brain what I want it to do. I have to listen and wait for the right solution to turn up, for the right dilemma to appear in front of my main character, for the next adventure to crystallize.

Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night with a suddenly obvious solution. Ideas come when they want, not when I want them to. It can be in the shower, or while cooking dinner, while taking a walk, while sitting quietly waiting for night to fall. I’ve learned that I don’t have any control over these ideas. And more importantly, I’ve learned to trust that they will come along.

If ideas were animals, they would be cats. You can call to them all you want, but if they don’t want to be around you, they will disappear for days on end. And they will only appear when they are comfortable and ready to interact on their terms.

Some people get ideas from current events, or from the past. Others get them from interactions with people and new occurrences. This is the time of year when I am often asked at parties and gatherings, “But where do you get your ideas?” My favorite answer for that question is a borrowed one: “I think them up.” Those few words, “I think them up”, explain a lot of the process. It’s an indirect kind of thinking, this idea creation, a conjuring, not a put-on-your-thinking-cap type of approach. Sure I have to plug up plot holes, and make things logical. But for a large part of the process, I need to sit back and let the brain do its elusive processing.

Here’s to ideas. May they purr to life for you!

Luscious Lips. by Patresa Hartman

2008-11-22T06:30:00.000-05:00

My lips were vigorously exfoliated by a woman named Sue at the mall. I went to the Clinique counter for moisturizer and eye cream; but then I remembered how wrinkly and peely my lips have been. So I asked Sue, "Sue? Is there something I can do about my wrinkly, peely lips?"

She said yes, and sat me down in a tall chair.

In the middle of steady foot traffic, Sue squirted exfoliating cream onto a wet paper towel, told me to pucker, and then scrubbed the crap out of my lips while holding my head in place. An older man walked by and peered over his half-moon glasses.

"Sue?" I said.

"Uh huh?" she responded.

"This is a little weird."

She agreed and we had a good chuckle. Sue told me she had just scrubbed countless lips the night before during their big "lip event," and she'd grown sort of immune to the weirdness of it.

After my lips had been publically scrubbed, Sue smeared cream over them and then bright, shiny apricot gloss. My lips looked and felt spectacular. I wanted to lick them and kiss strangers.

I never feel completely comfortable or attractive in the vicinity of a make up counter. But at the same time, I like them. The ladies behind them have always been very kind to me, and I think it must be the result of spending your day trying to help people feel beautiful. I imagine they must see me as a meaty project.

But more than that, I admire how comfortable these women are with their femininity. Until recently, I have been somewhat embarrassed by my own femininity, preferring to accentuate the parts of myself I perceived as masculine and therefore: strong, smart, and courageous. I don't know where it comes from, this idea that feminine is weak, stupid, and helpless. But I think it's dumb.

I am no less intelligent, no more helpless, no more daring when I am wearing lip gloss. In fact, I think I am likely a better version of myself when I am balancing pride in my presentation with good sensibility. This is a fine lesson from Sue and her intimate knowledge of skin care.

Thank you, Sue. And thank you for my soft, luscious lips.

Hats Off by Angie Ledbetter

2008-11-21T10:39:00.005-05:00

There really is no way to show proper appreciation for the personnel who fill the rolls of medical service provider companies. Most of these angels I've had the pleasure of meeting and dealing with on a regular basis are kindness itself. Yes, you meet a few grumps and sourpusses who shouldn't be in the profession, but on the whole, they are people who are doing a very hard (and lots of times thankless), depressing, and not-so-great-paying job with an angelic smile on their faces.

The home health nurses who've become more like extended family, the speech therapists, the aides who come to help with bathing and such, the physical therapists and others, I wish you knew how much your tender loving care and spunky attitudes have lessened the burden of one family. You approach your work and clients with passion and tenderness; going about your daily route like modern day Florence Nightingales. Your job is not a means to a paycheck; it is a vocation.

You, wonderful health service providers, make up for the snooty, cold, rushed, gruff, God complex-filled others who have negative bedside manners. And you are appreciated. I am grateful for your gifts every day. Even though you no longer wear the cap of healing pictured above, it is there like a halo above your head anyway.

Finding Power by Kat Magendie

2008-11-20T05:44:00.000-05:00

I remember days when I felt I had no voice. When what I thought and what I did were separate entities, because they had to be. I could write a very long blog about the instances where I felt I had no power, but I will not bore you with the details. Most all of us at one time or another has felt powerless against some force that has pushed its will upon us. I also know there were times I felt powerless when I really was not. I either was too afraid, or too naïve, or so used to how things were rather than how they could be that I did not make a change; I did not find my Voice, or my Power.

The other day, I had a conversation with someone, and without giving away details or places or events, this person said, “I really want to say something, but I’m afraid of the consequences.” I looked at her: this woman who is smart, capable, beautiful, and I wanted to tell her, “You have more power than you think.” But, what if I convinced her to speak up and the consequences she was afraid of happened? What good would her power be to her then? Of course, if the situation she is in warrants such care, such fear of reprisal, wouldn’t she be better off out of the situation?

Unlike her, I do not fear reprisal, because of different levels of perceived power. If I speak up, and the consequences happen, I can shrug it off, go on my way, and be just as happy, if not happier. But for this woman, she cannot perceive her power in that way. She will see the outcome as disastrous. I recognize my power in situations much more now than I ever did in my early adulthood. One learns that there is always something else. There is always another. There is always the next thing. There are some situations that are just not worth the anxiety, or the discomfort, or the sad, or the anger, or the fear, or the stress. I want to pass my power on to this woman, to tell her to stand up for herself, to give her the eyes to see inward the power she possesses, but I cannot. She must find it for herself.

And I, well, I feel grateful that I have my voice, my power. That I can easily shrug and say, “Sorry you don’t see it my way. But, I’m standing firm.” And then, if I have to, I walk away, and in some instances, I walk away with a big fat grin.

One Good Deed by Barbara Quinn

2008-11-19T07:14:00.003-05:00

I've renewed my efforts to do at least one good deed a day. It can be as simple as slowing down and letting in a car that is trying to enter the line of traffic, or letting someone go ahead of me on line when they have one or two items. I hold the door for people behind me, help out harried moms with strollers who are trying to prop doors open to enter, or hit the open button on the elevator when someone is approaching so they don’t miss the ride. There are so many opportunities. Usually I get a thankful wave or nod, which makes me smile, but even when I don’t get a reaction, I still feel good about the doing of a little kindness. I like to think that the person who has benefited from my small kindness will perhaps be kind to someone else in that “pay it forward” type of way.

But when I am pressed for time, or exhausted from all of life’s pressing engagements, I have to work hard to remember to take the time to be nice, not merely perfunctorily civil and acting out of habit. I have to take in my surroundings, have to come out of myself and my own little demanding and worrisome world. I force myself to notice things. This moment of staying in the present instead of worrying about what I need to do next is when I tell the clerk at the supermarket I like her earrings(they sparkle in the light), the librarian that the color sweater she is wearing looks good on her (the blue matches her eyes). It’s wonderful to see the broad smiles that are the result of these little interactions. And what did it take? A few words, a meeting of gazes, an acknowledgment of the connection between myself and a stranger. Ah, there is harmony in the world and in the midst of the chaos it's good to find it.

When I went to the theater the other night, we were rushing to get to our seats on time. A female usher greeted us and handed over our Playbills. I sat down, barely aware of the usher till she leaned in and said, “What scent are you wearing?” The rushing and hurrying were gone. I stopped and looked at her, suddenly caught up in a pair of smiling eyes. I answered, “It’s called Casual.” She nodded and I smiled. “It’s good I assume?” She laughed. “Really nice.” And then she was gone, back to ushering the next couple down the aisle. The few spritzes of my favorite perfume, Casual by Paul Sebastian, put on many hours earlier had caused this pleasant exchange. It’s a light scent I’ve worn for years, and I’ve had many similar comments when wearing it. I had no idea I still smelled of it since that always happens with perfume. How grateful I was that she took the time to tell me she liked the scent. The tables were turned and I was the beneficiary of a kindness. I vowed to double my efforts to say a kind word here, do a good deed there. And I also made a mental note to stock up on my dwindling supply of Casual perfume!

Old Stuff. by Patresa Hartman

2008-11-18T07:29:00.003-05:00

I am surrounded by old things -- antiques. Everything in my new writing room belonged to someone else first -- the bench in the corner was my great great Aunt's; the backless bench behind me sat in my grandmother's laundry room. The splintery wooden orange crates housing a lamp and books were uncovered in Mammaw & Pappaw's garage in Missouri; the kerosene lamp with the green shade, from their cabin in Minnesota. The piano, a 1960 Wurlitzer, I bought for $200 at a consignment shop in Parkersburg, Iowa; the owner and his two teenage sons dropped it in the snow twice while delivering it, and it held its tune.

A few months ago I found an old wall-hanging coat rack at an antique story in Des Moines' East Village -- Found Things. The owner, a gregarious woman with white hair and half moon reading glasses said they think it was part of the frame of an old school house doorway. The wood is thick and weathered. Someone nailed cast iron hooks across the top for coats. It's hanging on my wall now, my coat draped over a hook. I like it there. I wonder of its stories. Sometimes I think if I sit quietly enough it will whisper them to me.

I like old things. I like their stories. I want to know what energy of us they have absorbed -- our molecules seeping into the grains of their wooden planks. I want to know what songs were played on this piano before it came to live with me. Did children neglect to practice? Did pencils fall into the inner machinery and clank whenever someone played notes two octaves above middle C? There is a large, circular water damage spot on the top, and I want to know what plant leaked its nutrients and who got in trouble for it.

The orange crates -- who carried them first? Where have they been? How was the orange crop that year? I imagine tanned forearms and an occasional tattoo. I imagine these crates upside down on a dock, doubling as benches for men smoking cigarettes and laughing about...whatever men who carry orange crates laugh about.

Surrounding myself with old things piques my curiosity. As a writer, I want to squeeze wisdom from these tangible things. I want to know what they would have to say if they could. I am certain they are full.

Found in Translation by Angie Ledbetter

2008-11-17T05:00:00.001-05:00

Reconnaissance
Mahalo
Ik ben vol van dankbaarheid
Sunt plin de recunostinta
Olen täynnä kiitollisuutta
Je suis plein de gratitude
Estoy lleno de gratitud
Ja sam pun zahvalnosti
Jeg er full av takknemlighet
Jag är full av tacksamhet
Jsem plný vdecnosti
Jestem pelen wdziecznosci
Estou cheio de gratidão

No matter in what language you say it, or by which act you promote it or with whom you share it, gratitude is a thing of beauty. The loveliness inherent in being grateful is reflected in its ability to return (often with dividends) to the giver/sender/expresser.

Today, in some large or small way, make yourself a reflection of these words: I am full of gratitude. Notice how much better your day is.

The Silent Cove Returns by Kathryn Magendie

2008-11-16T07:30:00.004-05:00

Last night the rain came. And as I woke throughout the night and listened, I heard it thrum against the roof. I smiled. For just days earlier, I yogged my plea to Father Sky, asking for rain. Of course, being the ungrateful person I can be, even in my gratitude I ask for more, for we do need more rain in Haywood County.

Yet, this morning as I walk my cove in Killian’s Knob, it is more as it has always been. The creek isn’t as sick and I hear its rush just a bit louder than it has been these past months. The birds and red squirrels are happy, too. And the bare and almost-bare branches of the trees are filled with thousands of rain drops shining from a sun who peeks in and out of the clouds. I say to Sun, “Not yet, for we need more rain.” And I say to the clouds, “Yes, you come. Come filled with rain and let it loose.”

I walk up a little ways and stand at a precipice, and there, I look out over the cove, the valley below, the ridges. My dog and I are still (and as we stand, I think sadly of my old girl and how she would stand nose to air, the wind brushing back her thick coat). The morning sounds are as they should be: Nature and no Man’s Sounds.

The wind pushes against the bones of the tree, and what few leaves are left from a brilliant-colored fall scatter across the sky and cove and to the ground. I walk across hundreds of leaves, some still retaining their color. At one part of the road walk, there is a large crowd of leaves that have landed stem side curled up, and it makes me laugh to see all those stems pointing up to the sky, grouped together like a gathering.

Jake and I stop directly behind our little log house and look down (and I wonder if Jake’s dog-brain thinks “that is my place, down there). I hear our chimes on the porch. I hear the wind through the trees. I hear the creek singing. I hear a bird calling to another bird and the answering call. I hear a squirrel chattering. I hear raindrops falling from the tree’s branches onto a hungry ground. I hear my breathing, soft. I hear Jake’s breathing, soft. All is as it should be in our cove. The sounds of Man have been muffled by nature: by the rains come to replenish the creek; by the wind through the trees; by the tourists going home; by the wishes of a woman who called out to Father Earth and Mother Sky and all the ancients who have come and gone, who like the woman does, love this cove, this area, love these mountains more than any Human could ever love a lover.

Theater and Saturn Returns by Barbara Quinn

2008-11-15T07:23:00.001-05:00

Saturday night I went to see Saturn Returns, a new play by Noah Haidle. What a fascinating exploration of age and life. The play is set in a living room in Grand Rapids, Michigan and takes place in 2008, 1978, and 1948, moving back and forth seamlessly to explore how an elderly man arrived at his final days.

Luckily, the notes in the playbill explained: “The planet Saturn completes its orbit roughly every 29.5 years. When it returns to the same position it occupied at the time of a person’s birth, this is called a ‘Saturn Return’. In astrology Saturn is associated with three crucial turning points in a person’s life: first at 27-30 years of age, then around 58-60, and the third and usually final time around 86-88. “

And so we embarked on our journey of discovery about this 88 year old’s three “Saturn Returns”. There was no intermission and time flew. We saw the play in the Mitzi Newhouse theater, a small theater - it seats 299 - that’s part of Lincoln Center. The theater is set almost completely in the round and no matter where you sit you are practically next to the performers and the stage. It’s theater at its best for me.

This play was artful on so many levels: taut structure, witty dialog, emotional ups and downs. One actress played three women in the 88 year old man’s life: his wife when he was young, his daughter when he was in middle-age, and his nurse when he was elderly. Three men played the man at the different ages.

Afterwards, my husband and I were energized and we were still talking about the play the next day. We’d had a rough week and the play managed to wipe it all away and leave us in a much better frame of mind. Its universal themes of loss and love put things in perspective. The amazing pre-theater dinner we had at Josephina’s didn’t hurt either!

I’m grateful that I belong to the Lincoln Center Theater Club, and grateful that we can drive in to see excellent shows. And most of all, I’m grateful that there are young playwrights like Noah Haidle who are wise beyond their years, and who are showing the way and shedding light on the path.

reveling in revealing. by Patresa Hartman

2008-11-14T07:43:00.004-05:00

This morning, in addition to being grateful for the miracle of the SNOOZE button (55 minutes worth), I am also grateful for all of the weird stuff in me. I don't mean biologically -- although I am grateful for organs and molecules and blood and strange little bubbling things -- but I mean the weird stuff that hangs out in my... brain? soul? Where are these things stored? My feet? The meat of my lower abdomen?

It is never more clear how odd my subconscious than in November when I participate in NaNoWriMo, the National Novel Writing Month challenge. Across the 30 days of November, writers all over the planet start with a blank page and then produce 50,000 words of a novel. That's a lot of wordage -- particularly for someone with historically poor follow-through (That's me.). There are three primary things that disturb me about the month of November:

1. I write very very poorly when pressed;
2. I develop crushes on my characters; and
3. I am in touch with alternate realities.

I don't fancy I am unique in this. I believe we are all tuned into some pretty unnerving behind the scenes activity. I am sure that living in a media blitz ingrains all kinds of characters and scenery in our hidden centers. Writing writing writing just uncovers them by scooping off the top protective layer. Writing becomes a lot like dreaming -- sorting through the images we have absorbed and aligning them into something that makes neurological sense.

There are many who begin NaNoWriMo with a researched outline, and I think that's smart. Beginning with focus streamlines the process, I would imagine. But I like to begin with an absolutely blank as blank as blank white screen. This year I began with two characters and two sites. Word One was Word One in its truest sense, and I have been surprised at every line since.

I do it this way, I think, because I am addicted t0 the spontaneous reveal -- the layer peeling, fly-by-the-seatedness of it. I feel like I am revealing my darkest truths and am fascinated by the capacity of words on a page to show me exactly who I am. Didn't I know all this time? I am obsessed with trying to figure out what I look like on the inside.

Fringe Benefits by Angie Ledbetter

2008-11-13T05:00:00.002-05:00

I don't know what got me thinking about the idea of fringe. Maybe it's because in that all-important time of life -- high school -- I was never a certified member of any certain group. You know the ones I mean: the jocks, the artistic bohemians, the cool popular crowd, the super-brainy nerds...

Maybe it's because I'm involved with several groups at my kids' school, and realize that unlike most high schools, there is a place for everyone there, and that's part of the reason we chose that particular school for them. Besides the regular groups everyone squeezes and contorts themselves to fit into, there are lots of smaller organizations and sports where kids can belong. Whereas most people would see these as "fringe" groups, I see them as great little oasis of blessings for students who don't particularly want to just be another marble in an overcrowded jar.

Outside the Big 3 of sports (football, baseball and basketball), there are the "minors" like wrestling, volleyball, track and soccer. Then there are the even smaller groups most don't even think about, such as swimming, tennis, golf, bowling and fencing.

The same thing goes for the levels of popularity of extra curricular classes and fields of interest such as band, theater, service organizations, student government and literary clubs.

Getting to know some of the kids who populate these latter group rosters, I can tell you they are some of the most original thinkers. They are not afraid to be different. They don't see themselves as "lesser," and don't care if others do. They are, on the whole, achievers with a wide variety of interests and talents.

So, today I'm most grateful for these alternative activities to the Most Very Populars (MVP's), because they offer lots of benefits and a good bonding experience to exceptional, shy or well-rounded kids. I applaud these same groups in which adults find a place. And I only use the term fringe because they are the beautiful decoration around a broad swatch of fabric that might otherwise be bland. Fringers like me have always enjoyed hanging around the edges and having access to more than one group or type of people. Wouldn't the world be boring without them/us?

Mathematical Equations of Perfection in Nature by Kat Magendie

2008-11-12T07:25:00.003-05:00

“Nobody’s perfect,” I thought as I took my mountain walk one morning. “Is this a feeling of joy?” I wondered as I inhaled clean mountain air. Alongside the road I walked that morning many wildflowers and wild grown plants, some unique and rare and beautiful, grow seemingly random. A Daisy caught my eye, then another and another. I wondered, “Is there a perfect circle of yellow inside that flower?”

I am not a mathematician, and indeed, mathematics puzzles me, frustrates me—always logical, always right, always perfect? I am such a rabid Right-Brainer. I imagine the right hemisphere of my brain is swollen and pulsing, the synapses firing off chaotically, but with their own kind of weird organization when necessary to be in polite society; however, I imagine my left hemisphere as a bit flat and aloof, sitting stoic at a desk while reading important stuff that it won’t share with the right brain (because the right brain can’t or won’t listen).

I wonder then, if a mathematician were to measure the golden inside of the Daisy, would it be a perfect circle? It looks to the eye to be. Is it? I need to know, for the eye gauge is not enough; is the soft sun inside of the Daisy a perfect circle? Who will measure for me and then let me know? And if it is not, would I enjoy the Daisy any less? Why of course not. I just have a need to know if there is some order to the Daisy that I never noticed before. I imagine mathematics both calms and excites the innards of the left brainers as my creative chaos both stills and energizes my right brain.

Are there other “Orders To The Universe” that mathematics can solve? Somewhere out there are people whose left brains pulse like my right brain and can figure all this out.

But this morning, I’ll just be grateful for the daisy, with the (perfect?) little happy circle in the middle. I’ll be thankful there are left-brainers who can figure out the mathematical equations of perfection in nature.

Save a Tree! Opt-out! by Barbara Quinn

2008-11-11T07:05:00.003-05:00

I hate junk mail, especially the paper kind. It clogs my maibox with absurd offers and is a scourge on the environment. All that useless paper. What a waste of trees and waste of time to open and then shred or recycle. Do they really think I am going to switch insurance companies or take on yet another credit card? And so today I am grateful for being able to opt-out of junk mail. I’d already gotten on the do not call list http://www.donotcall.gov/ and installed a spam filter, but credit offers and insurance offers clogged my mailbox. I learned I didn’t have to put up with them any more.

A few weeks ago I went to http://www.optoutprescreen.com/ and registered for their free service. If you’d rather do this by phone you can call 1-888-5-OPTOUT. You can opt-out from receiving what they call “firm offers” for five years, or, oh joy!, permanently. If you elect the permanent opt-out option you print out and fill out a form and mail it in. I am here to tell you that it works! Within a few weeks, my mailbox started looking much emptier. You will no longer be included in firm offer lists provided by the consumer reporting companies. That’s one of the reasons why you get all this crap. Because the credit companies can send your name to the insurance and credit industries. (Another tool you can try is dmachoice.org which allows you to opt-out of catalogs, magazines, credit cards and more for three years at a time. )

I don’t like the fact that they call this “firm offer” opting-out. What a confusing and meaningless term. And printing out and mailing is cumbersome. But, at least this option does exist and it's permanent.

Why not save some trees and sanity and opt-out!

And if you ever change your mind and want to get those offers again, there’s an option to opt-in, which to me is more mind-boggling than the term "firm offer” opt-out.

Origins. by Patresa Hartman

2008-11-10T06:30:00.002-05:00

If I think too much about the origin of things -- literally things -- I lose my mind. Who was the first to decide a shoe was called a shoe and a lamp, a lamp, a dog, a dog? Who was the first to knit, the first to crochet, and the first to note the difference?

I don't know where anything comes from. I know that electricity started with a key on a kite, but I'm sure there was some inkling of it long before then. Who were the first two people to shock one another after skidding their feet across a hairy surface? And what was that like, to have no frame of reference to understand such a phenomenon? Was there fear? Panic? Giggling?

I wish I could remember the first time I saw rain or felt snow. I wish I could remember my very first sunset; I wish I'd had the wherewithal to record the shock and confusion, the suspicion that the earth was about to invert itself.

I want to know where the first note of music came from -- a drop in a pond? A tooth on a rock? It had to have been incidental. What did it sound like? And who heard music in that ding or clang? Who ventured to recreate it and recreate it again and at varying pitches? Who thought to put them together for chords and to pull strings across wood and hides across hollowed logs?

I want to know the origin of elastic and who invented the treadmill. I want to understand the first studies of muscle and the way it grows lean and powerful if you work it and feed it right. I want to know everything there is to know about the propogation of the very first tomatoes and who discovered what could be eaten and what could not and which things you could put together? Who stumbled upon casseroles and how? The miracle of cheese? Pizza? Cotton candy? The radish?

I want to know where balloons came from and why? That person, the one who stretched latex (Where did latex come from?) and then blew into it and tied it at the end... what in the world was she doing? Was she good friends with the main who screwed wheels to shoes and skated around?

What mindblowing phenomena are we stepping around daily, unaware? What civilization defining or simply convenience making inventions are at our fingertips, just waiting for our attention and curiosity? I am so grateful for the undiscovered and all of the beginnings yet to come, for the edges not yet reached and the nooks and crannies waiting to be illuminated.

Family Gratitude by Angie Ledbetter

2008-11-09T07:10:00.005-05:00

There's nothing quite like a close family, whether they are the group of people you are born into, or those you've become welded to by choice through the years. When I think of the gratitude I have for these people, they include a number of good friends as well as those related by blood or marriage.

Today I give thanks to those who shore me up in one way or another. Without them, life would be just existing, not living.

I am thankful for the father figures. The men at the helm of the ships who confidently navigate us through storms and rough sees. Men who volunteer their time, talent and "treasure" (financial gifts) to teach us how to be better at whatever it is we do. Men who are equitable sharers and givers by every definition.

I am thankful for all the mothers who work for years and sometimes decades doing odious chores, who swab the decks and fix delicious, nutritious meals down in the galley, even when no one notices or remembers to say thank you. Mothers who desire nothing more than to see their own little ships get a healthy launch in life. Moms who forgo solitary pleasure cruises for the sake of those they care deeply about.

I am thankful for the cousins, friends and siblings who keep me afloat when I could just as easily crash onto the shore or capsizing far out at sea. They are the barges who never cease to tow me to safety. Together, they form a joyous flotilla in my life.

I am thankful for the long line of ancestors in my family shipping line for showing us the way. And for the little ones, who just by their antics, achievement of milestones and precious sayings add buoyancy to everyday living. They are the hope of the future, the ones who may sail the furthest.

Inside a Rose by Kat Magendie

2008-11-08T07:30:00.003-05:00

I walked The Rose Walk along Lake Junaluska, even though most of the roses are not doing so well right now. We had a surprise snow a week before, and a few gentle frosts, and then back to springlike weather. I glanced at the roses here and there, noting their bowed heads and browned tips. Then, this one rose caught my eye. It was browned at the edge, yes, but not bowing its head in defeat, and I caught a glimpse of the inside of a petal—the petal was soft, dewy, and bright glowy red. I took my camera from my jacket pocket and snapped a photo. That rose was the perfect metaphor. For although as we age or go through tough times, we may become a little brown around our edges, a little worse for wear, our insides are full and ripe and dewy and beautifully soft and young.

I smiled as I walked away from the rose. Quickened my step. Felt as if I’d found out some secret that really isn’t a secret at all. I walked tall and straight and proud, head up, eyes forward.

One of the great things about my generation of women is that “Older Women” are no longer considered headed out to pasture—look at the female actors who are over forty and still tearing up the screen (oh, not as much as we’d like, for youth is still revered), and women who defy their age and circumstance by doing the things they’ve always dreamed of doing but were unable to because of lack of confidence. Our confidence levels rise with our age, and with experiences. It’s an incredible time in our lives. I think back to when I was younger and how I cringed at the idea of getting older, and now I see the beautiful part of it, the freeing part, the I feel damn strong and damn proud part.

There are, however, times when I fear time is moving too fast and I may not have as many years in front of me as I had behind me, but that only makes me work harder towards the things I want to accomplish before I leave. And, there are fewer things holding me back now than there were then: including my own self.

If, like that rose’s inside petal, all we women (no matter our age or circumstance) could turn inside out, we’d all look the same—beautiful and complex, pulsing with life. That’s my gratitude thought for today.

Out With The Old by Barbara Quinn

2008-11-07T07:25:00.000-05:00

I spent a pleasant afternoon heading down to the Bronx for a tour of the old Yankee Stadium. The Stadium had its last official game in Sept. 2008, but they’ve continued offering tours of the grand old place. Luckily, they opened up some new tour dates and I was able to score four tickets. So off I went with my husband, son, and son’s brother-in-law to see the place before they begin dismantling it and selling off whatever they can.

The tour took us into the Press Box where we were able to sit and see the game the way the press does, from right above home plate. Then we wandered around in Monument Park visiting the plaques of the honored players and greats who have spent time at the stadium. We walked on the warning track out into the outfield, something they never allow fans to do. What a different perspective you get from center field. That ball really does get hit far! And the wall that you see the players crash into may be padded now, but it’s ridiculously hard. (Yeah, we all tried it out.) After that we went into the players dugout where we sat on the bench. Finally, we landed in the clubhouse, the inner sanctum of the sport, the place you always see them shaking and exploding champagne, the place the players store their things. Each player has an area which is more of a big cubbie than a locker. Former Captain Thurman Munson’s area remains hauntingly empty ever since he died in a tragic plane crash in 1979.

Tattered Yankee Stadium definitely has seen better days and I’m sure the new stadium which we walked by, and which is almost complete, will be terrific, shiny and new. But there’s something sad about leaving behind all the history that’s been made at the old stadium, not just in baseball. Jou Louis slugged it out with Max Schmeling there, Ali also fought at the stadium. It’s seen three popes, Billy Graham and countless concerts.

I’m glad that they are going to keep the old field for use by local kids. But, oh, it was hard to take that last look at the stadium and know that I’ll never see it again. I remind myself that life is change. I’m ready to embrace the new stadium this spring. The golden letters are already emblazoned on the front of the new structure. I’m not sure if it will ever have the same feel as the old House That Ruth Built, but I’ll be there cheering and remembering, and also watching them make new history, and that too is something for which I am grateful.

Powerful People. by Patresa Hartman

2008-11-06T06:30:00.001-05:00

Election night was a full evening. I taught in the writing lab where I worked with another "lost boy" from Sudan, T. One of my coworkers brought in an old voting machine used for the 1936 election during which Franklin D. Roosevelt defeated Alf Landon for a second term as President. The drab green voting stand included pegs and levers enabling you to vote a straight party ticket using one large switch, or vote individually across parties using smaller gadgets. T fiddled with the pegs and asked me who I thought would win our presidential race that night.

I told him I thought Obama would win.

He nodded excitedly. I learned from T that he had earned his American citizenship and had already voted. He said he did not understand why so many people live here for such a long time and never vote. "In my country, no one gets to vote."

T, whose written English is surprisingly good, also told me that he had never been to school before he came to the U.S. He came here as a teenager, an unaccompanied minor like J, another "lost boy" I work with on Tuesday nights. "Imagine," he said, "never preschool or kindergarten or anything and then right away you go to high school."

Of course, I couldn't imagine. So many privileges we have here. This is a good country.

I left T and the writing lab past dark, drove home where my husband and I went together to our polling place. The parking lot was full; the voting booths were full; but the lines were passed. After our ballots were cast, we stopped for the exit poll from the media.

Two young black men with tattoos, one with a silver grill and pants sagging, stood in fretful discussion with one of the polling volunteers. The man with the grill left the woman and approached my husband. "My brother doesn't have a photo ID and they won't let him vote unless somebody says they know him and that he lives in this precinct. Would you just tell her you know him?"

Behind him, the volunteer said, "It has to be someone you actually know." The man left with his brother. We finished our exit polls and went back to the car, finding the two men on cell phones in the parking lot, clearly trying to find someone to come over and attest to identy and residence. I went home nervous that they wouldn't be allowed to vote. My husband reasoned it was their own fault; they weren't prepared. I said, "but it's such a confusing process. I don't understand it, either. I just happen to exist in a circle of people who do know what's going on and give me directions." The process, it seemed to me, was really designed for people who had access to particular resources. I wasn't sure if that was fair or not.

This morning in my reading labs, one of my students, a kind and outgoing young man -- a firefighter in a neighboring town -- immigrated from Mexico as a child. He is a citizen. He said that when he voted, they thought he was "an illegal." The police pulled him aside and questioned him for five minutes before he was finally allowed to vote. Another of my Latino students said the same thing happened to him on the south side of town. We chuckled half-heartedly that you would think they'd been trying to buy crack instead of cast a vote.

I also awoke to learn that Proposition 8 was likely passed in California, and my friend, K, who lives in San Francisco and married his partner of ten years, T, several weeks ago, may now feel invalidated and unsupported, his right to marry, taken just as quickly as it was granted.

Somewhere in the middle of my elation that things are turning up, that there is giant undeniable evidence of hope and progress, lingers the question: We are a powerful people; when will we learn to use our power more lovingly?

My gratitude today is a confused gratitude. I am so grateful for the opportunity to vote, to participate. I am so grateful to live in this country. I am so proud of the unity we exhibited yesterday, of how excited people are. I am so thankful that President-elect Obama has dared to take on the incredibly heavy weight of this country and its precarious state. I can't imagine the pressure and burden that comes with knowing millions of people believe you alone will deliver them.

But I am somber, too. I don't want us to stop here. I am eager for us to continue our evolution. I want us to be better. Don't you?

*I know this post is way beyond the 350 word count. I feel so full, I don't know how to prune.

Hands, by Angie Ledbetter

2008-11-05T06:38:00.004-05:00

I did an experiment today to be consciously aware of all the things I enjoy or produce due to having two working hands. This came about because I was thinking about people who do not have this benefit -- my elderly neighbor friend who suffers with arthritis, a good friend who just had surgery for carpal tunnel, and my cousin who lost an arm in Vietnam.

Because my hands function as they are supposed to, I am able to communicate by computer, which is a big part of my social life, as well as my work as a writer. I am able to cook for my family and others without even thinking about it. I can reach for things in a cabinet without pain or struggle, and do all the things my family needs doing. I can vote without assistance, and drive wherever I want to, and wave, and enjoy the use of expressive hand motions when talking, and scratch an itch.

It's something I've never really taken time to think about, as well as being one of the many blessings I just assume will always be part of my life. But after a day of focusing on my hands and what they are able to do, I don't think I'll ever take their abilities for granted again.

Let us lend our hands to those in need, and remember to appreciate the gifts our two good hands allow us to have and share.

"Gratefulness is the key to a happy life that we hold in our hands, because if we are not grateful, then no matter how much we have we will not be happy -- because we will always want to have something else or something more." ~ David Steindl-Rast

From the Selfish One by Kathryn Magendie

2008-11-04T07:30:00.002-05:00

Dear Father Sky,

Though I know today is Election Day and I should be thinking about our country, I feel my selfish ways prick against my skin. I have entered the huddle of my cove and cried. I have placed my feet upon the ground from which your children from the sky have walked (for, after all, all things originated from Sky). I have touched the dry Mother Earth; I have bent to the curling leaves, I have cupped water from the creek as I watched it struggle. I have stood in this cove and heard the sounds of men; and Father Sky, I know it is wrong to let my selfishness rise up out of me as a hungry beast, but I do not like the sounds the men are making below. Tearing sounds. Sounds of trees falling. Sounds of big machines ripping up earth. Even the sounds of traffic have cupped in the cove and hummed here, trapped from the changes in season and the poor creek's song low low. Father Sky, I am asking for rain for this area. I am not asking for a leader to be chosen in the way of my thinking, for what will be will be and I am here in my cove on my little mountain and the outward earth seems far away today, yet very very close when I hear the roar and the crash below. Yes, I am selfish today.

Father Sky, perhaps you do not hear my appreciation, for the days have been lovely and the colors wild and bright. I give thanks every morning when I rise, every day when I walk outside to the new day, every afternoon as I sigh into the treetops, every evening as I eat my supper, every night as I lie down in my bed and let out an old dog sigh—perhaps I have not been thankful enough? Perhaps my selfishness keeps you from hearing me, for after all, many must call out to you for many things, especially on a day as today in the America Land? But Father Sky, we need the rain. The ground thirsts, the critters’ movements changed, the creek—oh my creek!—does not sing joyous but is instead sick and low. Father Sky, send rain to our mountains, to our valleys, to the hollows and hills. The leader will be chosen and the Earth will spin. The people here will find the rhythm to the new. But, I, I want the cove like the old ways. Perhaps there are reasons for the lacking rain as things turn as they will for Mother Earth. But I am selfish.

In the case you do not know the thankfulness I feel from being here because of my selfish ways: Here. Right here and now, I raise up my voice and I raise up my hands and I call out to you, Father Sky, in happy thanks for the beauty I walk upon. But, please, send Rain to these droughted regions. Send the snow this winter to melt and fill the creek. As you will, I will receive. As you can’t, I will accept. As you know best, it will be. Thank you, Father Sky.

In Praise of Lights by Barbara Quinn

2008-11-03T07:21:00.004-05:00

Light! More Light! were the dying words of Goethe.

I’ve been thinking a lot about light lately. I’ve always been drawn to homes that have a lot of windows to allow the sun into the rooms. I find I have trouble breathing in dark Victorians with tiny windows. I don’t have screens on many of my windows because I prefer to have an unobstructed view and to allow more of that lovely light inside. Give me a sunny day and I’m instantly ready to take on the world.

The room where I write at the shore is bright on sunny days, so bright that in the summer I have to draw the curtains to temper the too strong late afternoon sun. But now, in fall, the light has changed. The sun sets in a different spot relative to where I sit, and the presence of that orb is most welcome, regardless of the time of day. The shadows in the room also change depending on the season. The rectangles that edge the light elongate differently, slant more to the left on the rich wood floor. Out on my balcony, sometimes it’s still warm enough to sit and watch the ocean which now is darker blue. The light does that, changes the color of the ocean from day to day, from season to season: pale blue-green, and green in summer, medium to navy blue in winter. There’s a starry night effect some days, the light twinkling off the darkness of the ocean mesmerizing me and lulling me to a calm place.

The evanescent time of day when light fades to dark, when it’s neither day, nor night, is always a wonder. Blink and that crepuscular moment is gone. But, oh, catch it for a second or two, and hover there, caught in the beauty of life.

It’s fascinating the way the sun does make a difference in our feelings and moods. Who wants to run around when it’s rainy and dreary? I’d rather snuggle under the covers with a good book. But a sunny day. Now that’s instant energy.

All this dwelling on light has made me realize that some people are like bright sunshine, filling you with warmth. They’re wonderful to have around. And like the light, we take them for granted, expecting them to always be there, recognizing their importance only when they are gone leaving us bereft and struggling in the dark. I intend to embrace and acknowledge the lights in my life while I can.

word count. by Patresa Hartman

2008-11-02T06:30:00.000-05:00

Today I am grateful for the word count tool in Microsoft Word. NaNoWriMo started today, and I began a thirty day obsession with words.

NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is a ridiculous charge to spill 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days. I don't know where these 50,000 words come from, but every November, thousands of people find pages and pages of sentences lurking in their fingertips.

I successfully met 50,000 words for the first time last year. It's a valuable process, this word purging. The extent of my imperfection was stunning for at least the first 20,000. The nasty critic who lives in my brain was absolutely aghast at the crap I slung. Cliche's were rampant, descriptions flimsy and incomplete, sentences crooked and loosely constructed. But somewhere around word number 20,001, things shifted. My writing did not improve, but my attitude did.

I forgave myself the crummy composition and just wrote. As soon as I let go, plot aligned and characters directed themselves. I had no idea where the story came from, but it made me trust the process more. It made me believe that writing is a lot more like channeling than it is like creating. It made me understand the value of staying open.

I'm sure it is about more than just writing.

A Different Sort of Halloween by Angie Ledbetter

2008-11-01T05:00:00.003-04:00

{Photo by Angie Ledbetter}

Last night was All Hallow's Eve, and I celebrated in a nontraditional, but wonderful way. My sister-in-law, a good friend and I cooked and served supper at a men's shelter where I'm on a rotating shift to help out.

What I like best about volunteering there is the kindness and genuine appreciation the men exude. I think most people must just drop the food off when it is their turn, but the best part to me is leisurely sharing the meal and conversation after everyone is served.

I'm really glad I didn't have to do the trick-or-treat thing this year. My kids are at an age where they are off at teenage parties and such, so no worries about putting together costumes, buying candy to hand out to kids (many of whom are way too old to be begging for treats), or any of that other commercial stuff. Instead, I enjoyed a nice quiet evening of interesting talk and a feeling of warmth that will last long after pumpkins have gone to mush. Tomorrow I will put aside time to remember ancestors and loved ones, and all they contributed to my family and others.

Another thing I'm grateful for today is the availability of good quotes like this:

"Have Infinite Gratitude for all things past, Infinite Service for all things present, Infinite Responsibility for all things future." ~ Huston Smith

Halloween by Kat Magendie

2008-10-31T07:30:00.003-04:00

In the cove here between Killian’s Knob and Walter Bald, there will not be, nor has there been, any trick or treaters. For to get to my little log house, they’d have to walk a ‘fir piece’ and then trek up my steep road, then up my steep driveway, then up my stairs, to my porch, and then knock on my door. By time they arrived, trick or treat would be over, and besides, all I’d have for them is some rocks a la Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin.

And speaking of Charlie Brown, I still watch that show—that is my Halloween celebration tradition. Since the move here, I don’t dress up. I don’t trick or treat. I don’t receive trick or treaters. I don’t watch any of the Halloween movie specials about vampires. And, I most especially do not buy Halloween candy, as I and my spousal unit in residence would be the only ones eating it (and yet, as I type this, I yearn for those miniature candy bars—the snickers, the milky ways, the health bars! Oh My!)

I found a photo the other day of my son dressed as—guess what?, come on, take a guess—yes!, a Hobo. He didn’t particularly want to be a hobo (what kid does when there are millions of manufactured suits out there of their favorite cartoon icons?), but I didn’t have the money to buy anything fancy. I was so proud of my ingenuity (um, okay, well, the old usual smudged face, patches on shirt and pant leg, and frayed pant cuffs, etc), but little kids only know that someone down the street bragged about their Star Wars, Spiderman, or Incredible Hulk costumes. He still had fun, once he ran out into the inky night full of ghosts and goblins and Icons.

So, tonight when it's time for the little ones to stalk the night elsewhere, I’ll be sitting in my tower on the mountain thinking about chocolate, and memories, and laughing, and “Trick or Treat; smell my feet; give me something good to eat!” I’ll be thinking about my favorite personal costume of all time—my mother dressed me up as a gypsy, complete with lipstick, one of her colorful skirts, and scarf. Oh I felt beautiful and grown up! One can find gratitude in anything if one opens up a memory, an idea, a moment, a tradition, and peers inside. Right this moment, I am smiling at that young girl, dancing through the night in her gypsy costume, feeling beautiful for the first time, ever.

Celebrate by Barbara Quinn

2008-10-30T07:26:00.000-04:00

I’m most grateful for happy occasions. Life is filled with ups and downs, and it’s important to take the time to enjoy the ups when they arrive. The good times help us to get through the bad ones. Yes, they are often bittersweet. I miss people who used to be there. I don’t always feel my best. But, sometimes just attending a fun event can make me feel better, make me see that there is something up ahead that will be a joy.

I went to my first “bris” yesterday and what a pleasure it was to be present at this ritual circumcision. It’s not so much what happens though that was fascinating. Rather, for me, it’s the support and camaraderie present at these occasions that makes them special. Dozens of people gather round the new parents and new babe and share in the joy of a new life, a new beginning. What a wonder new life is. How nice to acknowledge that together.

Birthdays, graduations, christenings, weddings all are opportunities for us to gather together and share the company of others. We’re social beings and studies have shown the importance to health of having a support system.

Those we choose to spend good times with are often the same ones who are there during the difficult times. Think about the people you like to share good news with. They are probably the ones you’d like to have around when the going gets rough. Take the time to maintain those friendships. Time really does fly and life does have a way of rudely interrupting the best of plans. So why not celebrate! I intend to keep on partying for as long as I can. Cheers!

Spilling Contents. by Patresa Hartman

2008-10-29T06:30:00.000-04:00

I tell my students this, but I'm not sure if they believe my sincerity: I love what they write. I believe writing peels off a sticky lid and allows the author to spill her contents. Spelling and grammar, punctuation and sentence structure -- these are cosmetics. The value of writing, as I experience it, is a thinking process, a method of discovery, spelunking into the gooey center of consciousness. I don't always like what my students say, but I like that I am privy to it.

So many of my students come to me terrified of (or angry about) having to write. They have been told year after year of their weak mechanics, each paper bleeding red for all their ideas incorrectly composed. It is true that their papers are not lovely in form; but it is a shame what we do to thwart expression. There is a concept we discuss in my Communication Skills class: the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis. This hypothesis suggests that our language influences our thoughts and attitudes. And so what happens when we clamp off our language like faulty spickets? Do we also clamp off our thoughts? And to clamp off the very action of thought, do we thwart our own evolution? So big, this case for writing is. Enormous.

At the Tuesday night writing lab I helm and in the regular classes I teach, I read papers with shoddy grammar and confusing structure. I squint through lumpy paragraphs and run-on sentences and decode cryptic vocabulary. But when I look past these cosmetics, I see a consistent pattern in student writing: Somewhere in the third quarters of their essays, they discover they have something to say.

The realization of something worth saying is incomparable motivation to keep talking.

I think the trouble is that many students are trained not to notice. If they recognize the emergence of voice and intent at all, it is too late; they have waited too long to complete the task and do not have time to revise or expand. Just as they finally warm up to start, they stop. They turn in their work with aborted ideas, only an inkling of the beautiful things they know and understand, sitting dormant under a flimsy layer of crud.

I am grateful for the opportunities I get to talk with students about their writing. It is my favorite part of my job, the one that makes me feel like I matter. I like to see the change in posture that occurs when I hold up a mirror to show them their own wisdom. "See here? What you said here is brilliant." The voice in their second paper is always more self-assured than the voice in their first paper, and I always wish we had more time. Just as we finally warm up, the semester ends and we stop.

Happy Parent by Angie Ledbetter

2008-10-28T05:00:00.002-04:00

As I was writing at my personal blog just the other day, I've had the extreme pleasure of being a really really proud parent lately. With the stress and strain of the normal relationship which usually exists between teenagers and their parental units, this elation doesn't come along very often, so I am reveling in it!

Oldest daughter, nicknamed Last-Minute Lucy, has foregone fun weekend events such as parties in order to write and edit a class paper and study for an exam. I remember how hard that was to do in college. I really do. And I'm grateful for the good head she has on her shoulders.

Middle son has received the Student of the Month award, and was nominated by two teachers. What a good accomplishment. He has struggled to maintain his focus on school work and grades instead of friends, sports, girlfriend and work. So I'm extra pleased of and for him. Same son also just completed his Eagle Boy Scout project (beautification and rehabbing of an awesome little inner city school's flower bed system) last weekend and squeezed under the age-imposed deadline a few days ago for securing final approval paperwork and such. Even though this all took place on THE day of his 18th birthday, I'm still overjoyed. Wow...the payoff of many years of coaxing, begging, bribing and such finally paid off. Besides his parents and family being proud of him, he is proud of himself. And that was the whole intent.

Youngest son is doing great in school. His first semester report card of junior year reflects straight A's. I could never have done this, especially not in a private school and taking mostly honors or advanced classes. He's maintained his grades while working, being on two bowling teams and participating in the band, which is quite time consuming.

Great moments in parenting far outweigh the grungy day-to-day drudgery of having to fuss at, discipline, talk to, reason with and otherwise communicate with your kids. I'm sure enjoying spreading my feathers and screeching with gratitude!

Is there someone whose accomplishments make you feel proud?

Alien Earth by Kathryn Magendie

2008-10-27T07:30:00.004-04:00

I am thinking of all those Science Fiction movies where the Blob or some Alien life form hurtles to our planet and then begins to destroy it; when instead, maybe these teeny little aliens came and were no more than the building blocks of life that led to Us and every living thing. These teeny aliens created instead of destroyed. Maybe we are the aliens! wow!

If one believes God had a hand in it, well then, maybe a happy God played marbles with the debris and as objects clanged one against the other, the Earth, and more, was formed, and out of that seeming Chaos was the Grand Design that is beautiful and awesome and should be protected and cherished. I keep the Open Mind, that Earth and the Heavens were formed by God the Great Scientist or by Science-Chaos Only—makes no matter to me for these purposes, for I am here, typing this to You. I exist. I am a ball of energy – a scientific wonder, connected to You. Who made me isn’t as important as, Will I Survive? Who made the earth isn’t as important as, Will Earth Survive Intact? But, then again, who made this, or what made this, or how it was made could be very important to survival, for all I know—since we could be going round and round and round back to our beginnings and then around again, never quite Getting It. If all of this is by Design, then what has the Design in mind for Earth and its inhabitants? Or, if Earth was formed out of some chaotic chance, then what has Chaos of the Universe in store for us? For surely we must pay attention. Surely we must feel a sense of Gratitude for our existence, and, a responsibility to sustain what is in our own control. What is out of our control simply is that.

Think of this: we all come from the same thing. We are the same thing. We all were formed from the same Stuff of Life, and this is forgotten as we celebrate our differences. Well, some differences are good; differences are what make the world interesting. The differences come not exactly organically, but through our thoughts and how and where we were raised, or what species we are. It is how we decide to react to those “differences” that will decide our future, perhaps? All I know is I am grateful to whomever or whatever or however our Earth became into being and allowed for such wondrous beauty and ideals and the kaleidoscope that makes up Earth.

The Salvation Army by Barbara Quinn

2008-10-26T07:29:00.004-04:00

Today I’m grateful for The Salvation Army. Most people are familiar with their kettles manned by bell-ringing Santa Clauses. (The song Silver Bells was inspired by the bell ringers outside of department stores.) It’s not Christmas for me unless I drop a few bucks into those kettles. The Salvation Army also takes donations of goods year round. Their truck came to my house yesterday and picked up three televisions, some lawn chairs, and sixteen bags of clothes and household goods. I gave them lots of old clothes, but a fair amount of the things in those bags were new. When I receive gifts I can’t use, or freebies at events, I save them to pass on to The Salvation Army. I never turn down anything that’s free. There were t-shirts and journals I’ve won, and mugs that were giveaways, hostess gifts of platters and plates, and the little toiletries from hotels that I take when I travel. It’s good to know that someone somewhere will get use of these things. When I have a dozen or more bags full, I call for the truck which comes from the Bronx. They make an appointment and show up on time. It’s a lot nicer than waiting for a repairman! And yes, you do get a tax deduction. They will mail you a letter for your records.

When I was first married I bought furniture and household goods at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. They are picky about what they take to sell, and I always knew that the things I found there would be good. I'm not a member or an adherent to their principles, but I’m grateful that I’m now in a position to give some things and cash to them. Times are tough for many. It’s good that places like the Salvation Army continue their mission to help the needy and provide disaster relief. The Salvation Army needs your help and donations, so before you re-gift something, keep them in mind. There’s someone out there who will be most grateful that you did.

PS The Beatles song Strawberry Fields was inspired by a Salvation Army children's home called Strawberry Field.

3 Dimensions. by Patresa Hartman

2008-10-25T06:30:00.005-04:00

I teach at a community college. The way I teach (or try to teach) is certainly infused with the way I be (or try to be), yet still I am the flattest version of myself in the classroom. My 3-D soul splats onto a paper-defined role called INSTRUCTOR and it never feels fully honest.

I do not know what happens in my sleep to make it so, but some days I wake up hyper-attuned to the space I occupy and the reflection I cast. I walk with a keen sense that who I am is foreign to how I seem. Few things make this clearer than standing in front of a group of 20 and then another group of 20 and then another group of 20 and then one more. The dynamics of me change with the dynamics of them.

I am at my best when the job description of INSTRUCTOR is large and amorphous -- when my job title becomes second to my human-ness. I am most grateful for my students who move with me, who grant me wide space to be: forgetful and disorganized, silly and a bad storyteller, disjointed and perplexed. I am their teacher, and I must do my job; I am also soul in flesh, and I must be imperfect.

I have some pretty terrific students this semester and am grateful for their willingness to recognize and embrace all 3 of my dimensions (which I mean in the most unpornographic way). Everything works better when we all agree to be flawed. We laugh together and problem solve more collaboratively. A micro-community establishes, and we are mutually supportive of our overlapping learning curves. With all channels open, we grow.

It doesn't always happen so. It is not universal, this understanding that a teacher exists outside the classroom and does not breathe for the sole purpose of providing a student "credit." The vibe of the room changes when we staple each other to pre-determined roles, narrowly defined. It feels tense and stifling, sometimes even hostile. It is easy to disrespect someone when you don't think they actually exist.

Those are challenging semesters and challenging classes. I fight the urge to hide and constantly question my competence. I slip into resentment and frustration, feeling forced to play a part that doesn't suit me. "Do they not understand that I am a person and not a robot?" I take things too personally. It is exhausting.

But the universe is kind and generous. Just as my confidence shakes, time nudges me forward. A new group of students enter, and they open the door wide -- an invitation to bumble and be ridiculous. There is nothing like the permission to be foolish that makes me feel more true.

Escape Gratitude by Angie Ledbetter

2008-10-24T05:00:00.002-04:00

Today I'm far away from home and I feel as if I've grown wings, or more accurately, unfurled the shriveled dried up ones I've had pinned beneath my shoulder blades for too long.

With the kids solidly on their own two feet, or at least with their own means of transportation and a decent amount of reliable good sense, Mom has flown the coop.

I am grateful for this escape from home and all-the-stuff-I-have-to-do-each-day. To enjoy time away from the world and clocks with a friend is one of life's greatest pleasures. And I intend to savor every moment of my vacation without guilt and worry. In that way, I can pay proper homage to the gift of this time. I sincerely hope you are able to shake out your feathers and do the same sometime in the near future.

Pass the PoBoy Please by Kat Magendie

2008-10-23T07:30:00.003-04:00

If I had never lived in South Louisiana, I would never have known what I was missing when it comes to Food. Now, there is good food to find in Western North Carolina, but the problem is this: when you have had South Louisiana food for many years, other food often pales in comparison. Restaurants in other cities often think that “Cajun” or “Creole” means to put lots of pepper or Tabasco sauce on the food, or to “Blacken” it. Instead, it’s all about the combination of spices, and The Love.

My good friend and YOG buddy, Angie Ledbetter, is on her way to our mountains. When she gets here, I will not be taking her from restaurant to restaurant, because how can I compare? Indeed, when she asked me, “What can I bring from here?” I said, “A hot shrimp poboy!” Of course she can’t take a hot shrimp poboy on the plane, but that’s the first thing that slathered across my brain rendering me slobbering with desire. South Louisianians just know how to cook—they adore food; and it’s not just the food, it’s the preparation of it—from grocery or farmer’s market, to home, to the skillet, all of it is created with Special Love. I know, for my spousal unit in residence is from New Orleans. Even so, he can’t re-create a poboy and hot salty French fries from GEORGE’s on Perkins Road—it’s right under the interstate, a tiny little building that one who didn’t know of it may just pass it on by; a true ‘hole in the wall.”

The years I spent in Baton Rouge, I took the food for granted a bit. It was always there, like Spanish moss in cypress trees, and always loyal LSU fans shouting, “EL ESS YOU EL ESS YOU EL ESS YOU!” on Saturday nights in the fall. Yet, even in my “taking it for granted” days, I still knew I was in the midst of something special, something time-worn, something Louisianians are damn proud of—and should be. I’m grateful for my time there, for every hot shrimp poboy, every etoufee, every spicy Creole or Cajun meal, every perfectly seasoned dish (oh! Crabmeat au gratin—slobbering again). Next time I visit my old adopted city, I will stop in GEORGE’s and calories be-damned; I’ll eat every luscious bite of my shrimp poboy, crispy hot fries, with an ice-cold beer. Thank you Louisiana!

Oh, Baby! by Barbara Quinn

2008-10-22T07:24:00.004-04:00

Americo Bret Quinn - 4 days old

My grandson arrived a few days ago. What a joy it is to welcome him to the world and to our family. He may be only a few days old, but he already is himself, a happy, curious, fellow who is remarkably calm considering how much kicking he was doing in the womb. Is there anything sweeter than soft little baby sounds? Those coos balance out the lusty screams. His skin is softer and smoother than velvet.

Americo Bret Quinn (named for my daughter-in-law’s grandfather, Americo,and my son, Bret) is our first grandchild. He was born in White Plains Hospital, which is the same hospital where I gave birth to Bret. That’s also the hospital my father spent most of his last days. I have bittersweet feelings when I roam those halls. How nice it is to have some more happy memories there.

Little Co came at a perfect time. The day my mother-in-law was buried, we received a phone call that Co had decided it was time to bust out of his comfy surroundings. There’s nothing like a new baby to ease the pain of losing a loved one. Only a little over a month ago we lost our nephew, and then my mother-in-law. What a rollercoaster of a ride these past weeks have been. Co is truly a wonderful gift and I have a feeling he’ll be this way throughout his life, showing up whenever and wherever he is needed with a ready smile and a calm hand.

At the hospital we stood around him noting the familiar characteristics: my son’s and husband’s cleft chin and forehead are there, and his fingers are clearly his Mom’s long slender ones. Co also reminds me of my grandfather, who was blindingly white-skinned and freckled, with pale blue eyes and whose large head was passed along to my brother but thankfully not to me. Co’s nose looks to be small and rounded like my Mom’s. That smile of his is going to be blinding, like my daughter-in-law’s. I don’t see myself in his blending of features. But I know I’m there, in his blood and soul.

Variegated Pallete. by Patresa Hartman

2008-10-21T06:30:00.000-04:00

I am grateful for many things today: pizza delivery, red wine, my sisters, my parents, my dog, my 10:10 reading class. I am grateful for vitamins and clean water, for indoor plumbing and the joy catnip brings my cats. I am also grateful for color.

I love color. I love turquoise and red. I love greens and yellows, browns and pinks. I love to pair purple with the unexpected orange or brown. We bought our first house three years ago, and my soul, finally free of renters' white wall restrictions, exploded into wall colors. Sensual jade covered the walls of my thinking room, grape leaf green in the bedroom, lavender in the guest room, brown and sage in the office, pottery red in the kitchen.

Red is my favorite accent. I will wear brick red boots with any shade of sweater.

I love paint samples and swatches. I love the square color cards and the rectangular color cards in graduating hues filed away on shelf displays at Home Depot. They are abundant, and I did not know the tiniest differences in their tones could pull me in for an hour or more. I study them, try to imagine myself swimming in them. I let them sneak past the limits of my skin and pay attention to the ones that tug on my brain. I am drawn to the bold ones. They are the cookiest corners of myself, and I want to give them air. I want to watch them oxidize when exposed.

Our new room is complete: The wall is down; the floors are laid and lain and lay; the furniture is reassembled. The new color is a dark, midnight navy. I am looking at the wall now, and it is rich and deep. The lamp casts an irregular circle the size of a pie plate on the wall -- its center, dirty yellow and fading out into cobalt rings.

Where did all this color come from? Such a brilliant pallete. I cannot imagine a world of only white and black. Give me all the colors of tree bark and berries, of dirt and sky and leaves of every variety. I love the subtle degrees of flesh and hair, of iris and freckle. Ingenius the way we contrast and blend, creating line and shadow. How do we not see how beautiful we are?

Grateful for Good Eats

2008-10-20T05:00:00.008-04:00

Not only are the flavors and varieties of great fresh food available here in Louisiana, they're plentiful and affordable all year round.

I've had my times of menus featuring rolls of bologna and government subsidized food allotments, and many lean years which included cooking mostly beans and clipping coupons, so I fully appreciate the gift and blessing of living in one of the truly great culinary capitols of the world. We are a cultural melting pot here, and have great farmer's markets available. Dotting almost every corner of the city are mouth-watering restaurants serving up a banquet of choices -- Creole, Cajun, Spanish, Mexican, Italian, Lebanese, Greek, Thai, Chinese and Japanese, to name a few. We also have access to fresh produce and locally grown fruits.

Today (and every day) I'm full full full of gratitude for the dishes I prepare for myself and others, and that my family has the means to enjoy going out to eat sometimes. I will never forget the years I dreamt of having such opportunities, and the reasonable assurance that the lean years are now behind me...literally and figuratively. *smile*

Advice from "Big Sis" by Kat Magendie

2008-10-19T07:30:00.016-04:00

The farthest thing from a young woman’s mind is that time far off into the future when she will be considered “Middle Aged And Menopausal.” Who has time to think about that when your toddler is crying and your eight-year-old just threw up all the pizza, cake, and, I’m not kidding—sushi (sushi?)—he had at a birthday party where the parents spent more to please Bobby or Suzy than what you spend on two-weeks of groceries? Or your boss has asked you to work late and on the weekend—again. Or you’ve over-extended your obligations to (fill in obligation blank here)—again.

Listen: how you treat yourself and how you ask to be treated by those around you will forever affect the person you will become. Who are you?—I mean, the real you, the Woman You, the one you must face in the mirror from now until, well, until you can no longer look into a mirror? For one day in your future you will look into that mirror and see the woman you have become from the experiences you have now. As your big sister, I want to tell you to care for yourself. To think in terms of gratitude, and health, and well-being—one decision at a time—in what you eat, drink, and how you perceive the world and react to it (or how you expect it to react to you).

Consider the benefits you will receive right away, yes, but also think about two years from now, five, ten, twenty—your body and mind will become healthier and stronger so that you will have more energy for your busy life, and further, when you reach My Age, you will have fared better with such a healthy base. You will be well-prepared for the Next Stage, even if that next stage is to be as good a grandmother as you are a mother. Your future you will thank you. Trust your big sister—she knows.

Finally, when is the last time you patted yourself on the back for a life well-done? Have you been perfect? I bet not. Has every day been a gloriously sunshine-filled day of joy and happiness? Probably not. Have you lost your temper, been in a foul mood, screamed at your kids/husband/co-worker/the person in line at the grocery who has fifteen items instead of ten in the ten-item line? Maybe. But if you did not do these things on occasion, I’d wonder what you were trying to prove. We’re all human, and we all need to give ourselves a little break now and then to consider just how hard it is to Be Humanly Human. You have permission to love yourself, to have gratitude for your days, to love yourself enough to care what happens to you now and then later and for the rest of your life.

Hospice Gratitude by Barbara Quinn

2008-10-18T07:24:00.003-04:00

I am most grateful for hospice workers. These selfless souls don’t get enough credit and they certainly are underpaid for the work that they do. A couple of years ago I was lucky to have my father spend his last days at Calvary Hospital in the Bronx, NY. Calvary is a hospital that only takes terminal cancer patients who have less than six months to live. The workers there are dedicated, caring, and make the end of days as comfortable as possible for those who are in residence. It’s an amazingly upbeat place with activities, music, and even a bar cart that circulates in the evening to the patients rooms so that anyone, patient or visitor, who wants to can indulge can. And there’s a similar snack cart filled with goodies of all sorts. This is not your usual hospital experience or food.

My father, in his last days, developed bile duct cancer, one of the stranger diseases that the human body is capable of falling prey to, and that’s how we wound up at Calvary. There is no easy way out of this world, but at least in a place like Calvary you have a team helping you. And we needed that team. One of the nurses was most kind in explaining exactly what to expect to me. Death is not the most cooperative of visitors. I am still grateful for her taking the time to walk me through what might occur, and grateful that she honored my father’s wishes to not be connected to tubes or wires. He was alert and cracking jokes till almost the end. What a comfort it was that he was able to be pain free and be with his family at the end. When he was no longer able to speak, he still squeezed my hand. Always a wise man, his ending was in his control, and was his final gift to his family.

Recently, my mother-in-law passed away. She suffered for many years with Alzheimer’s. Again, it was a hospice worker who kept me company and offered advice while I sat with her on her last day. That presence helped me greatly. These people simply do not get enough credit. So I send out a big warm thank you to all who work in the dying fields. Your work is important, difficult, under-appreciated, and oh so necessary. Thank you for being there!

Sassy China. by Patresa Hartman

2008-10-17T06:30:00.000-04:00

I've been riding an Appaloosa named China. The white splotch on her thick left shoulder is shaped like the sickle and star on the Soviet flag. China is not completely into me, yet, but today she let me pick the dirt out of her frogs and shoes with a pointed metal digging tool, so I think our relationship is improving. China also let me brush the soft of her belly where the saddle was cinched too tightly for many years. "Bad horsemanship," is what my teacher, Dennis, says about the visible welts across the downward dip of her underside. He did not like the way China's previous owners handled her. He is a gentle man with calloused hands. Every direction he gives to China he calls "asking," and I like that. "Ask her to stop...Ask her to scoot back...Ask her to trot." She always complies when Dennis asks.

When I ask she rolls her eyes. She snorts and lips her bit, jerks her head toward my feet. China is sassy.

Her primary complaint with me, I think, is that every time I show up, she has to pull her nose out of the feed bucket. I am also confused about my heels and the position of my butt in her saddle while we trot. I am an awkward driver who does not fully understand the pedals. Dennis says I'm squeezing too tight, that I need to relax. He tells me to look where I want China to look, and to breathe the way I want China to breathe, and that if I relax and let it happen, we'll meld.

Dennis wears Wranglers and a cowboy hat and has gray hair and blue eyes. When he learned to ride, they didn't have saddles, so they learned bareback. He has fallen off and been thrown off; I guess that earns you respect from the horses. They follow him around even when he hasn't asked them to.

I don't want to fall off or be thrown, so I hope that China will respect me just because I'm nice and I use the softest brush in the bucket after our rides. I don't bring her apples or carrots. Dennis says the best reward for a horse is to be given a break.

I like the horse barn. I like its smell, its dirt, its gemetrical stalls. I like the creaking sounds of the saddle when I hoist it across her back, the filth on my hands after I've brushed the dust from China's coat. I like the even, heavy plod of shod feet on the dirt floor, the air that crisscrosses west and north from the wide open doors of the riding rink.

I like that although I annoy her, China continues to show up and give me sass. I am grateful for her willingness to teach me how to relax and sit upright in my saddle even when the terrain gets rough.

Ballot Boxes by Angie Ledbetter

2008-10-16T05:00:00.004-04:00

No matter which presidential candidate you plan to vote for in November, isn't it awesome (and I don't use that word lightly) that we have the privilege to cast our vote without undue influence, hardship or risk? This same sense of awe and thankfulness pervades my being whenever I step behind the voting booth curtain of my precinct and make my choices in leadership and legislative acts up for a vote.

As another election nears, I'm filled with gratitude for living in a country where every eligible adult is free and encouraged to let his/her voice be heard. Countries struggling under harsh despots and dictators, madmen and abusers of human rights enjoy no such luxury; yet the citizens of these places would give almost anything to have a direct say-so in who leads them. Isn't it sad that so many of us feel apathetic about the whole issue here?

To honor the nation which holds the electoral process in highest esteem, let us all consider the stakes, and make the wisest choices possible in local and national issues and leadership. I appreciate the opportunity and will never take it for granted.

The Writer’s Life by Kathryn Magendie

2008-10-15T07:30:00.001-04:00

The world is in my head. My body is in the world—Paul Auster

There is the contradictory way that is both calculated and chaotic in which writers inhabit your world; how we watch you with the egocentric writer’s eye.

Enter into a writer’s line of sight, whether obliquely or directly, and you become embedded in a rapid-fire-synaptic whirly-world sub-consciously conscious brain, thus falling victim to subsequent literary scribblings. Your every move, flinch, tic; your every wish, dream, desire, your every unique phrase, laugh, cry—all of it fodder for the jumble of humans, animals, voices, actions, characters that make up the world of a writer’s novels, stories, essays, and poetry.

The universe in my head, where I am Supreme Being, is more familiar to me than the physical world in which you all swirl about. Yet I watch you keenly; dissect you with my creative-edged scalpel and poke to see what lies inside. Even by the simple act of you falling into my vision for the briefest of moments can I steal your expression.

Virginia Woolf said, “I think the effort to live in two spheres: the novel; and life; is a strain.” I feel the strain to separate the real from the unreal, the strain to stop the inner narration so I can carry on a conversation with you without giving in to my chaos. But while I smile, nod, speak, I surreptitiously inhale your spirit—a literary vampire.

I will have to sift through events, quiet the shouting voices, and find the reality versus the story I will write. Sad to say: my reality is the story I will write.

Pick up a book such as “The Writer’s Life,” (edited by Carol Edgarian and Tom Jenks, Vintage Books, 1997), and inside are writers’ quotes where they, as many writers do, attempt to make sense of this writers’ life. And this I say to you, that without remorse we will calculatingly use you to help us find our way through the chaos to the stories within. It is what we know; it is who we are. I am thankful for my gifts, even when they perplex me, when they isolate me, when they disappoint me. But always they are a part of me, just as with my gratitude for them.

Gratitude by June Shaw

2008-10-14T07:48:00.001-04:00

Why shouldn’t I be grateful?

My five grown children are doing great. So are the eight grandkids they’ve given me. My love life is wonderful with the important man in my life. My mom, who moved in with me because of poor vision, recently turned 102. Willard Scott wished her happy birthday and said whenever music starts, she’s first on the floor. Her favorite dances are the Freeze, Macarena, and Chicken Dance.

I keep close ties with friends. My faith sustains me. God remains most important in my life.

After I retired from teaching English to junior high students, a job I enjoyed, I managed to fulfill a lifelong goal—I became an author! I wrote and finally polished a novel, RELATIVE DANGER, until it caught the attention of a publisher who bought it. Featuring a spunky young widow and a man she loves but tries to avoid so she can rediscover herself, my debut was nominated by Deadly Ink for their new David award for Best Mystery of the Year! Publishers Weekly, Kirkus, and others also surprised me by giving it great reviews. My family loves my book. So do adults and teens. Harlequin bought reprint rights of RELATIVE DANGER for its mystery book club members and then sold out. A large-print edition came out recently and I sold audio rights. Books in Motion will create an audio version.

I sold my book’s sequel! KILLER COUSINS will be out in January. I’m working on the third book in the series.

Readers and editors surprised and thrilled me with their enthusiasm about work I’ve loved to create. What makes my achievements especially important are the battles my children and I faced to reach this point. My five children were five to eleven years old when their father died. To provide for them, I put off my goal of writing so that I could finish college. I then taught for twenty years.

Finally I’m fulfilling my lifelong dream. My family is proud. How could I not be grateful!

RELATIVE DANGER is available at many bookstores, my Web site,
www.juneshaw.ccom (where readers can register for prizes and see my mom doing the Macarena for her 100th birthday), and online sites such as Amazon. Keeping the mysteries in the family, KILLER COUSINS make its appearance in January.

Dear Life by Barbara Quinn

2008-10-14T07:21:00.002-04:00

I’m grateful to be alive and in good health. As the years have passed I’ve witnessed a lot of sad and just as many happy events. Life in all its wondrous circuitous paths has been full and often insane. That’s good news. For I love the company of other creatures. I am a better person for that contact.

How wonderful it is to go through this journey with friends and family. When I’m alone, I’m never really alone for I know that soon I’ll be with people who care, people who are broad-shouldered enough to allow me to unload. Where would I be without them? I’d still be me, but I’d probably be babbling to myself. Wait. I do that. Just not out loud. I’d be babbling to myself out loud. I’d be the kind of old woman people move away from instead of toward. Oh my.

Treasure the ones you love. Hold them close. Give them space. Do whatever you need to do to allow them to be themselves, and be happy. Life is too short. These may sound like clichés, but oh, they do have more than a kernel of truth at their center. Be grateful for life. I am.

Healing Power O' Dog. by Patresa Hartman

2008-10-13T06:30:00.003-04:00

I love my dog.

Her name is Kaya, and I love her purity, her complete lack of complication. I love the smell of her feet and the soft of her ears and her wet wet nose. I love her keen observation and her unwavering enthusiasm for: walks, treats, the garden hose, the vacuum, getting up in the morning, air through the car window, policing the cats, and voicing her concerns to the collie mix that walks the block.

I love her loathing of all things grooming, that she is far more content to be smelly and knotted than peach-scented and blow-dried. I love that she will not submit to other dogs -- that they expect her to, because she is pretty and a girl, but she flatly refuses. I love that she feels no shame in her tastes and tendencies. I gave her an apple slice yesterday and she left it untouched on the kitchen floor. Hours before, I had shoo'd her away from the litter box where she likes to snack. She sees no trouble with this -- this preference for poop over apples -- and she doesn't care who knows it.

We're connected, she and I. Wherever I am, so is she. She looks at me so often with a distinct plea for "Next? What now? I'm waiting." And I feel such responsibility for her. Which is why Thursday afternoon, when I came home sideways and all out of whack, I noticed her own sideways lethargy and felt so sorry.

I am up to my neck, presently. It is inconsequential stuff and stuff, so I don't know why I bother to spin over it (such a waste of my joy); but there it is, regardless. My seams have been splitting, and literally, my class folders are spilling. Ungraded, unplanned, unorganized papers are getting caught in the zipper of my bag. I am forgetting everything. I am waking up early to collect my thoughts and then walking out the door without them. My dog is feeling it, too.

When I came home Thursday after several hours demonstrating the growing ineptitude I'm feeling, I noticed how sad she looked. How put out. How bored and dismissed. She sighed dramatically, and had she words, I believe she would have said, simply, "Park" or "Air" or "Run." I listened.

I changed my clothes and grabbed her leash from the nail on the porch. We climbed into the car, windows open, and drove thirty minutes to Jester Park where there are trees and trails and lakes and creeks. We parked near the sand by the water, and I left the leash in the car.

She ran.

She stopped occasionally to drop and roll in things that smelled bad, or to charge into the lake and lap water that looked contagious, or to pull large burrs out of her velcro hair. She paused momentarily to make sure I was still there, to change her course if I changed my course. But she always ran again.

Kaya smiles when she runs, and it makes me giggle. There is an exploding glee, a reckless, full-speed, balls-to-the-walls about her when she is given the world without limits. She finds great joy in the freedom to be who and what she is -- a dog on the loose in the wild. The beauty of our connection is that it balances us both.

Dawg Tired by Angie Ledbetter

2008-10-12T07:55:00.005-04:00

I'm tired and feel like hanging out on the couch all day. It's been a busy week with lots of kid-related volunteer activities. Approaching the mid-century mark in birthdays racked up, I'm glad I still have the ability to do these things, but several days in a row, and I'm beat. Thank God for good daily vitamins.

I'm grateful for my body's ability and willingness to participate in the things I want to do. I'm thankful the only pill I take is a multivitamin. I'm glad the fundraising and hurricane clean-up work at school went well, and that we had good weather while doing it. I am most thankful for a good night's rest (even with my husband's snoring) when the work was all done.

Being bone tired is a good feeling. I know I've accomplished work toward worthy goals, my body got some much needed exercise and my sleep was deep for a few hours.

And today, if I choose to relax and do none of the chores needing done around the house, I have a free pass to do so without any feelings of guilt. I may even sneak in a nap! With aromatic coffee poured and everyone else in the house asleep, ahhhh, I'm enjoying being surrounded by a bubble of quiet relaxation. What do you do that allows you to relax or sleep well?

Mountain Music's Call by Kathryn Magendie

2008-10-11T07:00:00.002-04:00

As I barrel down Interstates 40, 81, 77, to my hometown in West Virginia for a funeral, I insert one CD after another, an eclectic musical mix of instrument and word blasting from the hearty speakers of my Subaru: Santana, where Carlos’s guitar lures me luridly; Beethoven, who I have a schoolgirl crush on—such genius in his handsome glowering stare as he interprets the silent world through his music; and the Cranberries, Alan Parsons Project, Incubus, Sting, Reamonn, Kristen Hall, Queen, Creed, Dido, and more.

Once I arrive in Charleston, I prepare myself for the visit to the funeral home. I dread the overpowering smell of flowers and the scents used to cover the formaldehyde smell that permeates the walls, furniture, carpeting, and the suits and hair of its employees. Even more, I dread the organ music that drones through the speakers, saying to me, “this is what death sounds like.” Through the heavy mahogany doors, I enter a foyer of silence. I turn my head to the side, listening—where is the cliché announcing, “Time to grieve now. This music surely must feel mournful, right?” Nothing. Silence.

I whisper, “What no dreaded organ?” My West Virginia Kin then shows me the CD they have created of beloved mountain songs. Moments later, I hear banjo, fiddle, acoustic guitar, and the lilting mountain voices singing about love and life and who we mountain people are and will proudly forever be. I hear the way we love, the way we live, the way we die. I hear the music all the way down into my bones, seeping deep into the marrow, settling there as silt to the creek, never stagnant, never stationary. Mountain’s music: the wind as it rushes down from ridge to holler, the owl’s midnight cry, the men scrubbing coal dust from their faces, the old women humming wistfully after their children rush mad-long through summer-heated grass straight into another life. Oh, the magic of music!—it even brings back the dead to the living.

We’re lost to the lowing strains of the fiddle playing along our skin, causing the fine hairs on our arms to stand and wave in time, the music enters our marrow, settling. The hillbilly ghosts listen, tap their vaporous feet. This is who we are, and I am grateful for my ancestors, their music, these mountains, my life, my West Virginia Kin.

(Dedicated to Coy Engle, done gone for a spell now, just a little spell. The image is from Kathy Mattea's COAL )

Down by the Sea by Barbara Quinn

2008-10-10T07:28:00.003-04:00

When the weather is not too hot, or too cold, I love taking a long walk along the shore. I travel from my place in Bradley Beach north to Asbury Park and then back again. It’s about three miles roundtrip and no matter how many times I walk that walk I enjoy it. Much of the pleasure has to do not only with what passes before my eyes, but with what passes beneath my feet. I am grateful for the physical wooden structure of the boardwalk.

In particular, I like the old wooden boardwalk of Ocean Grove. It’s wobbly, and needs repair, but the feel of those old boards beneath my feet is a joy. The wood gives a natural spring to your step. It’s so easy on the joints. I do need to be careful of holes and raised boards while walking. But that’s fine with me. That soft feel is worth the effort. In summer the boards swell. Now with the cool fall air there are small gaps between them and they emit a different sound when your feet hit them. In winter the brittle boards snap beneath your feet and have much less give to them. Any time of year, when a bike rolls over the boards, an unmistakable sound rumbles toward you. The boardwalk becomes a giant xylophone with two notes.

Some parts of the boardwalk have new man-made material. It’s a pleasant gray color, plastic, too uniform for my taste. And it feels different when you tread on it. There’s no give. It warps in odd ways. Other places, like Bradley Beach, have installed stone pavers along the shore, in place of the old wood. The stones look pretty but boy are they hard on your feet and legs.

There’s an older gentleman in Ocean Grove whose job it is to mark dangerous boards for future repair. He carries a bucket with red paint, and a brush, and he circles the areas that are sticking up, holes, the nails that jut out too far. He walks along slowly studying the boards. What a nice job. And he seems well-suited and dedicated as he thoughtfully makes his way along.

In some communities they are using ipe, a Brazilian wood that is working out well but causing controversy since it comes from the rainforest and needs to be certified to eliminate protests over its use. Ipe is much nicer than the man-made plastic boards, and lasts about three times as long as yellow pine boards. I’m glad they came up with a wooden solution that will enable the boardwalks to survive for future generations. Go walk the boards. You’ll come back a better person for it. Guaranteed!

A Good Book. by Patresa Hartman

2008-10-09T06:30:00.002-04:00

I am reading a fantastic book, and I am so grateful for it. Have you read What is the What by Dave Eggers? It is a novelization of the true story of a Sudanese Lost Boy, Valentino Achak Deng. It is beautiful and heartbreaking and inspiring.

It is a shameful account of how cruel we can be to one another, the long stretch we have to collective enlightenment, and how hardship does not end for refugees when they reach "safe" soil. It is also miraculous testimony to strength of spirit and generosity.

I am excited about this book. I have tried to share this enthusiasm with my students. I want them to know how powerful a story can be, how exciting it is to get lost in someone else's tale. I want them so much to understand that a book can be life-sized even when it presents in a purse-sized paperback. I want them to know intimately the words do not end on the page.

The story of Deng is remarkable, unimaginable: To walk for years, cross-country, barely dressed, knowing at any point you could be plucked from your traveling pack and eaten by a lion in the bush; To understand intimately that death is real and waiting for everyone; To feel, in a way that most cannot, that you are hunted by multiple predators, some of your own species. When I was ten, I argued for Barbies in the pink bedroom I shared with my sister. I never doubted my safety.

I am grateful for a childhood of Barbies and minor squabbles. I am equally grateful for the stories others tell so that I understand better that my experiences are not universal and that the world consists of far more texture. It is a painful and complicated texture, but it is better to know than not know. There is value in knowing of painful things.

Do you know what I mean by that?

When I read stories such as Deng's, my own trials are knocked into perspective. We are made of the same stuff, you, me, and Deng. And so, I know that what is in Deng is in me as well; I have the same capacity for resilience. I am inspired and encouraged by that, and I am grateful for Deng's survival and his willingness to share himself with me, his anonymous reader.

Good News Gratitude by Angie Ledbetter

2008-10-08T06:00:00.006-04:00

I felt like a bear just waking from a long dark hibernation, enjoying the renewed sense of life spring always brings. All this is possible, even though I'm not quite as hairy or big as this mammal, it's October and not even close to spring, and I haven't eaten any flowers yet today.

Nonetheless, I am overjoyed at the good news my mom got at her oncologist's office. In her battle with a deadly brain tumor (one year today!), the latest MRI shows she is holding her own.

Is there really anything better than hearing good news about someone you love dearly? If so, I can't think of what that might be right off the top of my head. Today, I celebrate the wonderfulness of joyful tidings.

Lights, Camera, Oh Oh! by Kat Magendie

2008-10-07T07:30:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I watch “America’s Funniest Videos” because I want a simple belly laugh. How can one not feel gratitude for all things great and good when one is laughing at their fellow humans, or their pets? One example is where the camera pans inside a small airplane with two men at the controls; and suddenly, from behind them floats this dog—he does a slow turn in the non-gravity of the cockpit, ears a-flopping, this funny doggy look—and every time I see it, I laugh until I cry.

Last night I was watching AFV and really noticed all the stupid (sometimes dangerous) things people do. The ones that make me crazy are when parents film their children and in the background you hear, “No, no little Johnny, don’t do that. Mommy says no. No. Mommy says No. Don’t. Stop that…don’t do it…” and all the while she’s filming and all the while little Johnny has a smirky grin on because he knows his mommy is filming him and he can just keep on doing whatever he’s doing—even if it’s eating a nasty ole bug! Ugh! Or, on his bicycle headed towards a tree—“Oh dear, Johnny has a concussion! Haw haw! Did you get that, Murline?”

I cringe a little at the ones where the kids act up when the parents aren’t around and in the background you hear their friends call out, “That was awesome!” or, "Wow, that must have hurt!” or “Hahahahahahahaha….oh my god, hahahahahahaha!” But, I thought about my days as a kid, along with my four brothers: The “daredevil” stunts we pulled. The days we explored the huge concrete drainage pipes from one side of town to the other—while barefooted, through grime, glass, nastiness, snakes and other vermin. The time my first boyfriend borrowed his mom's car and we went joyriding (fast of course) down a gravel road just so we could slide around in both joy and terror, while shouting, “Auuuuggghhhhh, hahahahahahahaha!” (Sorry Mom!)

Parents everywhere: We can be grateful in some instances that we do not to know everything our kids are doing. Once they are old enough to leave the house without us, they are old enough to test boundaries, feel invincible, do really dumb things (those things we did, gulp, oh geez). Then again, if someone, even an adult, has a camera handy and ten thousand dollars on the brain, all bet’s seem to be off. "We won! We won on AFV! We'll be using the ten thousand for hospital bills for little Johnny's busted up haid...hahahhahahha!"

Soup's On! by Barbara Quinn

2008-10-06T07:37:00.000-04:00

The last of the season’s peaches and tomatoes are almost gone at the farm stand replaced by fall’s produce. Last time I visited there were more varieties of apples, pears, and squash than I could count. The pumpkins were happily piled up on hay bales. And potatoes and sweet potatoes filled the bins. I’m partial to honey crisp apples, and Bartlett pears. It’s time to turn on the oven again and fill the house with the scent of apple and pear crisp, and simply baked apples. I’ve been buying pretty striped squash and stuffing them with figs and a little cinnamon and honey. Baked sweet potatoes, and baked sweet potato fries have also been on the table.

And then there are the soups of fall. Butternut squash soup, red lentil soup, ghoulash soup, all have made an appearance on my table these past couple of weeks. There’s something comforting about a steaming bowl of soup, something right about a pot of ingredients simmering on the stove filling the house with warmth and life. None of the soups I make are difficult but they are tasty.

I lose myself in the chopping of carrots, the dicing of onions, the cubing of beef. I love the way the ingredients come together to make something better. Think about it. Soup is the perfect example of teamwork, each ingredient offering its essence, combining with the others, and becoming something new, nourishing, and bursting with flavor. Is there anything better than a bowl of chicken soup when you're feeling yurky?

All is right in my world when there’s a pot of soup simmering and ready to spoon up for lunch or dinner. A world without soup? Oh no..that's a nightmare. It reminds me of the Seinfeld epidsode where the "Soup Nazi" refuses to serve Elaine soup stating, "No soup for you!" Whatever kind you like, take it from me, soup cures what ails you. The world needs more soup.

For Those About to Rock. by Patresa Hartman

2008-10-05T06:30:00.000-04:00

Here are two entities I love, and if we are going to continue together like this for the remainder of a year of Thank You, it is best to understand and accept my unwavering adoration for:

1) Alanis Morissette; and
2) live concerts.

I love Alanis Morissette for her unconditional honesty and for the courage it takes to invite people into your journey, to watch you fall and rise and fall and rise and fall and rise. I love Alanis Morissette fans who know, intimately, her music beyond 1995's Jagged Little Pill. I love those fans who acknowledge her evolution as they acknowledge their own and therefore do not continually refer to her -- narrowly, so narrowly -- as an "angry chick rocker," as if anger were not normal in a whole spread fan bouquet of humanness.

I love the permission I feel to be equally and embarrassingly honest about my own revolutions. These confessions -- for that is what they are; and you, my priest -- are never attractive and always lit harshly by flourescence. I love that when I listen to Alanis Morissette I feel tunnels self-excavate into the core of me, where all of my truthiest truths wait to be called to turn. I love that albums like Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie and Feast on Scraps inspire me to write more courageously, because the darkness in me will validate the darkness in you and create some kind of magic laser show that turns all of it into light and light and light.

And so, in summary, it is best that you know that I love Alanis Morissette, that I find her wise and gracious and real.

Which brings me to adored entity Number Two, which is live concerts. I attended Alanis's Flavors of Entanglement Tour stop in Chicago on Thursday, and it was really friggin' awesome, if you don't mind my saying without eloquence.

Even if it had not been Alanis, there is something about a live concert that fills me, absolutely full up, with Joy. It is Joy. I know it is Joy, because it is pure and focused. I think it is the miracle of thousands of people united in their respect and celebration of one individual who digests the love and transmits it back -- through concentrated energy, which is waves and waves of sound. And we are all -- every single one of us -- swaying to the same frequencies, and we are loving it, and we are clapping and united, and we are singing in unison and dancing and loving our neighbors. We are loving our neighbors.

And I am sure that if we really wanted to get simple and peel back the convoluted layers of mess that weigh us down, that pollute the beauty of who we were meant to be, that all it would really take to spread peace on earth, is a friggin' awesome concert.

Rock.

Searching for Balance by Angie Ledbetter

2008-10-04T06:00:00.001-04:00

This is what I feel like right now. I'm managing to keep all the things in my life balanced somehow, but one move too quickly in any direction, and they might come crashing down on my head. Or worse, I might fall off the teetering ball that supports me, then the balls I'm juggling will splatter. For the moment, I'm full of gratitude that I'm not swaying too much or vibrating, but maintaining.

To remind myself of the importance of staying steady in all things, I've made up an acronym:

Just do what you can and let the rest fall away without worrying over it.
Understand I am not in control of certain things and let them go. They'll will work themselves out one way or the other.
Get rest whenever possible, including getting off the hamster wheel for some R&R.
Give time to the important things/people. It's never wasted.
List your blessings daily.
Even if you drop a few balls or get off balance, it's okay. Tomorrow is a new day.

Do Not Try This At Home by Kat Magendie

2008-10-03T07:00:00.001-04:00

Here is what you do not do. You do not lie in bed at night, and because you are bored with the book you were reading and do not feel up to picking out another one, and since you are tired and want to be in bed, but aren’t feeling exactly sleepy, you reach over and pick up your cell phone and click on the little camera icon, and then you turn the camera eye towards you and start taking photos of what your face looks like while you are in bed..."Hmm, I wonder what my husband sees when he comes to bed...." Do not do that. I am able to tell you not to do this because it is what I did last night. Be grateful I am warning you.

Now, you are exempt from this if you are under twentyish-years-old. You are exempt from this if you have had extensive plastic surgery and botox (and if you have, may god have mercy on your expression). You are also exempt from this if you are a man, because everyone knows that men usually think they look better than they do while women think they look worse than they do; and besides, men would not lie in bed, bored, taking photos of their faces (I said faces) with their camera (or perhaps they would—see The Internet).

So, while lying on my back, my face smoothes out, all except for the Forehead Butt (of which I have already yogged and placed a photo below), but in that smoothing out, there is also some kind of weird morphing of my cheeks…huhn. Now, for god’s sake, do not: I repeat DO NOT turn over and snap a photo of yourself facing the camera whilst letting said face slide onto the cell phone and pool onto the pillows…god.

To also avoid, take my word for it: Turn to the side and everything shifts that way, turn to the other side and everything shifts the other way. Take a picture of the hand, just to give oneself a break and …well, whose hand it that? My mother’s? My granny’s? Not mine!

Taking photos of individual face parts is also not suggested. The bulbous nose, the incredulous eyes, the stubborn chin, the flushed cheeks, the forehead butt like a side-ways turned smirky mouth, the …wait! Hold up! I have lovely ears! Why, my ears are like little soft seashells. Ha! I am grateful for my pretty little ears, which lie flat against my pea-head most delicately. I knew I’d find a gratitude moment in this post if I just kept writing. Find your beauty, wherever you can, and be grateful for it.

Grateful for The Power of Now

2008-10-02T07:25:00.005-04:00

There’s a lot of free-floating anxiety around lately. The stock market plummeted 777 points in one day, then rebounded much of that the next. Money is becoming harder to come by for mortgages and other loans. People are moving what’s left of their portfolios to safer investments. It’s hard to navigate gratefully through the rocky shoals of this crisis and the maelstrom surrounding it when your retirement fund looks like it is disappearing faster than the polar ice cap.

But I take comfort in the knowledge that as sure as the market falls it will come back again. It may take years to get to the levels we became accustomed to seeing. Growth in our economy may stagnate further since businesses and banks are closing up shop, and lending requirements are tightening. After a time things will settle down. Retirement accounts may not look quite so comfortable. Things may cost more and be less available. Jobs will return slowly to the market. Our housing will be worth less. Heck, that may not be so bad across the board. Real estate skyrocketed to ridiculous levels that are unaffordable by most. We’ll get through this the way we’ve gotten through other difficult times. Being grateful helps.

I remind myself that I am grateful for the roof over my head, and for the meals on my table, grateful for my friends and relatives who listen to my fears and who share their thoughts, grateful for the women who write with me each day on this blog for they keep me focused on what matters. I'm thankful I can connect with other people and not just the nightly news. I’m most grateful that I can switch off the television and turn to other things. All around me are things of beauty and acts of kindness that give meaning to my life. The golden light of autmum is stunning from my window. It stops me in my tracks several times a day and beckons me to be still for a few moments and breathe. Life is within and without.

Lately I’m also grateful for the lessons of Eckhart Tolle. I don’t read self-help books usually, but his book, The Power of Now, was recommended by a friend. Tolle lays out strategies for finding inner calm and suffusing your life with it. He's great for reducing stress, great for allowing you to become you by shutting out the constant hum of thoughts. Staying present in the now and not slipping into the past or the future, definitely is a good idea at any time, and is even more of a challenge for me right now when birth and death hover on the horizon. Thank you Eckhart Tolle. You’ve managed to help me find restful sleep many nights, managed to help me to shift my focus to what matters. Read this book! You will be amazed at the simple and pure lessons it teaches and I bet that like me, you too will be grateful for his wisdom.

Positivity. by Patresa Hartman

2008-10-01T06:30:00.000-04:00

You know what I think is fantastic?

Positivity.

I do not mean the oblivious, falsely enthusiastic, step aerobics and pat-the-bunny, cute like buttons positivity. I mean the kind that comes genuinely from decision -- acknowledgement that there is bad and rotten, but that there is also choice to actively search for what is good (because there is always good). (Always).

My body has developed extra sensitivity toward negative vibes in the last year or two. I am increasingly aware of the effects of nay-saying and complaining, flaw-focusing and arm crossing, blind refusals and failure-expecting, on my physical person.

I feel it in my shoulders.
It tugs downward at the corners of my mouth.
It leadens my step.
The atmosphere grows thick and impenetrable with it.

Conversely, I have become increasingly aware of the buoyancy that comes with surrounding myself with people who seek light and celebrate possibility. I want to sit across tables from daring positivity-excavators, share desk drawers, sip wine with these potential-finders. I want to offer them my brain and my brawn, share air and ideas and punch out holes in darkness. I want to join forces and illuminate.

I feel it in myself -- the joy and openness I feel when I high-five success and breathe patiently through imperfection. It isn't easy. All too often, I find myself crabbing when students do not do what I want them to do, when my husband does not choose as I would choose, when the earth does not rotate in sync with my step. I feel my eyes narrow and forehead crease with perceived slights. Everything goes heavy, and I do not like the sound of my own voice. I do not like that in a moment of disconnect, I slip easily into negativity. I let frustration and pride usurp a space that compassion and grace should unconditionally fill.

It is not about being false or naive. It is about understanding the nature of energy. I must remember the effects of the energy I send, because I understand well the effects of the energy I receive.

Pulling Gratitude from the Air by Angie Ledbetter

2008-09-30T11:15:00.005-04:00

My day hasn't started out well. I'm late with my blog post because I didn't check my calendar to see it was my turn. I hate when I do "stoopid" things like that. I don't mean to imply that I think our lovely YOG blog readers are anxiously pacing, waiting for Ledbetter's pearls of wisdom to arrive on their computer monitors; it just makes me aggravated at myself for the screw-up. But after a few seconds, I can smile and laugh at my foibles. We're all human. "Things" happen to our plans from time to time. No big deal.

*Deep breath* Okay, I'm better now. I've been thinking a lot about being thankful for the little things, and have written on that subject before. Today I'm grateful for friends who care about me...who make a long long long distance phone call to make sure I'm okay, since I'm not usually late with posting. *Waving to Kat!* I'm oh-so-glad Mom had a really good night last night and that we've visited, laughed and talked together. After she wakes from her nap, we will make a banana pudding together for my cutie patootie godson.

Yes, I'm grateful for the ordinariness of days and for the most extraordinary and exquisite awareness that my days could be dull and routine and lacking any excitement. Even the sort that makes you fly to the computer to write a late blog post. LOL.

All is well. All is as it should be. Now...back to that banana pudding recipe. May your days be filled with calm during storms, serenity in the face of bad "stuff," and thankfulness for whatever comes your way.

Falling for fall by Kat Magendie

2008-09-29T07:30:00.003-04:00

My little log house is busy today, busy with being fall. This is Saturday, a few days before you all will read this YOG post, and on the television is the roaring cry of the crowd as they cheer on their team—college football is back in full swing. Tucked in between the roar and the shouts are commercials with beer and trucks and ducks selling insurance. There are men in helmets and uniforms, there is the crowd in their teams’ colors, there is the green field, the popcorn, soft drinks, hotdogs, the referees with their black and white stripes, the sweeping views of the college towns during breaks in the game.

I reach over and press the mute button when a particularly annoying commercial (wait, “annoying commercial” isn’t that an oxymoron?) is on, and there is this perfect fall afternoon happening right outside my screen door. The creek happy with the recent rain, a mother cardinal feeds a very loud and very insistent baby cardinal—I laugh at how he crosses from one side of the feeder to the other, squeak-squawking and shaking his tail feathers in impatience (the mother ignores him, and this makes me smile)—and a wind in the trees blows leaves up and around, the early dried leaves rustling. Here and there orange, red, and yellow tip the leaves on some of the trees in our cove, and there are giant vines that flame scarlet as they wind around, splashing a shot of red within the green. The air smells crisp and if I were to place my nose close to the ground, I’d smell the musty decay of foliage already fallen away. The mornings and evenings have turned cool, and I’ve retrieved my heavier bathrobe. In the little valley below, the city has begun to put up fall decorations: bales of hay, pumpkins, corn, and tall straw bundles. I saw the first Halloween advertisement a few minutes ago.

I am grateful to be sitting here on my couch, right here, right now, listening, watching, smelling the signs of fall. And there’s more to come: leaves will color in the Smokies and inspire art, poetry, song, and prose; there will be apple cider in the little tourist’s shops, first frost will dust the ridges and housetops, and peeking around the corner are the holidays. If spring is about re-birth, fall and then winter is the preparation for regeneration, the resting before the rising. The sleep after a long wake.

The Algonquin by Barbara Quinn

2008-09-28T07:23:00.011-04:00

My favorite spot for a drink and a chat in Manhattan is The Algonquin Hotel. The lobby is set up like a living room, filled with overstuffed couches and chairs that have comfy pillows to prop up your back. You walk in, sit down, and feel right at home immediately.It’s such an oasis of calm in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the city. The staff never intrudes and you'll find people reading quietly. For the price of one drink, (avoid the special drinks to keep the bill down) they will leave you be for hours and will provide a bowl of munchies. On the back wall there’s a painting of the famous people that used to hang out at the Algonquin including, Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, Edna Ferber, George S. Kaufman, and Harpo Marx. They met for lunch daily, exchanging witticisms, from 1919 to 1929 as the writer's Round table, and were known as The Vicious Circle.This hotel is the oldest operating hotel in New York and was one of the first to welcome women. Their house cat, always Matilda if a female, Hamlet if a male, has a chaise at the front door, and gets a birthday party each year. There's even a discounted lunch for struggling writers though it's probably still too expensive. And take a peek at the hallways whose wallpaper is made up of New Yorker cartoons.

The Algonquin is at 59 W. 44th Street, a short walk from the theater district. It’s always a treat to stop there after a show to dissect what we’ve seen with friends. This part of Manhattan has parking on the street and that’s another nice draw. Saturday, we parked on the street directly across from The Algonquin. Then we walked a short distance to a “Muni-Meter” and paid for two hours of parking.($4) We took the slip from the meter and placed it inside on our windshield. If there are no Muni-Meter spots available there’s always the Hippodrome indoor garage which is right opposite The Algonquin and is reasonable.

There’s lots of history not only at the Algonquin but on this block. Next door to The Algonquin is The Iroquois, a place where James Dean lived for several years. The New York Yacht Club (left) whose facade is cast to resemble the front of a ship is nearby.

I’m grateful each time I plop down in the Algonquin's lobby and soak in the history and tradition of the place.

Chaos Theory. by Patresa Hartman

2008-09-27T06:30:00.001-04:00

Today, while dressing for the treadmill at the gym, I heard a newscastor on CNN say that the economy discussions and the Presidential debates will yield consequences for "every man, woman, and child on the planet."

That's a pretty big deal. That's an umbrella of a deal, a mushroom cloud of a deal.

Everything feels big big big in this global, political climate. The newspaper is enormous and should weigh 1000 pounds with the weight of the stories it tells. TV news broadcasts life-size through a pixilated screen. I don't think my eyes or my brain are spacious enough to handle all of this giganticness; I watch with only one eye open. My skeletal frame is not designed for world weights.

And so I feel it is no coincidence that I have been noticing butterflies everywhere.

It is September, and the year's last generation of monarchs are migrating south. The last of spring and summer, this population is tasked with the trek to warmer weather to mate and lay more eggs. Preparing for their journies, they flutter across roads, spiral through parking lots, bob zigzag in the backyard. And they are beautiful.

I have developed a new habit of thanking every butterfly I see. I thank winged lovelies for all they add to the world. By this, I refer only peripherally to the butterfly effect in chaos theory. And I refer only marginally to the idea of metamorphosis and breaking free from tightly wound cocoons. These are charming details about the butterfly, but what I find most intriguing is that it lasts in butterfly form for as little as fourteen days. This intricately painted winged insect -- such marked grace, peace, and beauty -- occupies only the tiniest of space in the physical and chronological world. (If I had more space, I would suggest our human world is no larger when you boil it down to proportions.)

How can this small creature carry such large significance? While the rest of the world talks bailouts and international economy -- while two men debate for the role of next world leader -- why do I concern myself with insects in the driveway?

It is no trivial concern to be grateful for butterflies in September. They bring me focus -- a reminder to zoom lens into tiny glimpses of loveliness in a world so weighted by conflict.

TGIF by Angie Ledbetter

2008-09-26T06:00:00.004-04:00

Yay, it's Friday, and in honor of the end of another work and school week, I think I'm going to treat myself to a haircut. (Not the usual kind I get on the run from Super Duper Bill's that costs $9.95, but the real kind, in a real salon.) Although I'm saying, "TGIF" because it's almost time for the weekend, I'm sure my kids are saying it for another reason -- Thank Goodness It's Fixed, meaning Mom's hair.

While at the salon, I'm hoping the professionals there can wave their magic wands, sprinkle on the magic dust, and utter the proper incantations to bring this client from a look which resembles hair in a windstorm to something more befitting a woman with pride in self.

So, even if my vision of loveliness doesn't come true, at least I'll enjoy the luxury of having my hair washed and pampered as I lean my smocked self back in the reclining chair. And just for today, my bad hair day will be someone else's responsibility. Now, that's something worth being grateful for!