tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89922123226148295742024-02-21T02:48:46.450-07:00Kiss The FiddlerAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.comBlogger481125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-5372060667224825622014-04-03T21:21:00.003-06:002014-04-03T21:21:36.728-06:00Bought a Car!I bought a car today! I've been pretty seriously car shopping for about a month now, and sort of semi-seriously looking for awhile before that. <br />
<br />
My car, my very fun to drive Saab, no longer fills my needs. It has wonderful heated leather seats and an oh-so-fun turbo. But it can't go off pavement. And, well, let's face it - I do (go off pavement). <br />
<br />
I bought a 2003 Subaru Legacy Outback wagon. Green, of course. I love it!<br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-72876809162110070462014-03-20T10:56:00.005-06:002014-03-20T10:57:32.427-06:00On the death of hate<div>
Fred Phelps, founder of the Westboro Baptist Church, has died. He and his church are known for their hateful and inflammatory speech and actions, specifically that "God hates fags" and that "fags" will "burn in hell". </div>
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The overwhelming response from the gay and lesbian (and bi, trans, queer and questioning) community has been one of reactive hate. For this, I am so, so sad. </div>
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Let us not trade hate for hate. This makes us no better than he. Let God be his judge. I hope this sad and angry man has finally found the "peace that passeth all understanding". I hope God welcomed him with warm and open arms, just as we hope God will welcome each of us. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I understand. I really do. Gays and lesbians, our friends families and supports, have been deeply hurt by this man and his followers. And, I am so, so saddened by the overwhelming response of hate this morning. When you are so hurt, it's easy to hate. Please though, try to let yourself breathe through it. Go ahead and feel it. Get angry. Then use that anger to focus your action. Become an agent of change and growth instead of spewing hateful sentiment. Please . . . </div>
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Let this be the death of this hate. </div>
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hbk</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-47822295671400324252014-03-17T08:10:00.002-06:002014-03-17T08:10:19.886-06:00Dark Side of the MoonIt was a full moon. And somehow I ended up on the dark side of it. The last few days have just been upside down and backward for me. Migraine and lots of body pain can get to a person after awhile and they start to wake up on the dark side of the moon. It's hard.<br />
<br />
Today I think I'm here. I'm sore. But trying hard. I sent Little Bear to school with green hair today in honor of St. Patrick's Day. <br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-16142442077289673792014-03-12T09:34:00.003-06:002014-03-12T09:34:45.771-06:00PromiseLast week I was trying my best to hurry Little Bear out the door and into the car. I should know by now that you can't hurry Autism. I still try. Anyway, I was pulling him along, intent on getting to whatever highly important place I wanted to go to. He, in true Little Bear fashion, had his heels dug in, intent on whatever thing it was that was of utmost importance to him. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, he stopped. He yelled, "Mommy! Stop!". I did. "Look!" he said with excitement. He pointed to the trees. I scanned them, trying to quickly see what it was he wanted to show me. A bird? An old brown crinkly leaf left over from the fall? What? <br />
<br />
"There's nothing there." I told him and tried to move him toward the car. <br />
<br />
"No! Look!" he said again. <br />
<br />
Frustrated, I said "What? Show me." He took my hand and every so gently, he guided it to a cold naked branch on the tree nearest us. <br />
<br />
"Spring is here!" he said with glee. <br />
<br />
On that tiny cold branch, there, right at the end, were swollen buds. He was right. Hiding right there in front of me, poking out of 2 feet of frozen snow, was the promise of spring and new life. In my hurry to get to whatever important thing (so important I now have no idea what it was), I had nearly missed this beautiful fragile yet persistent and determined sign of spring. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyg-kqLKnOZT3Hg6lwgioD9IWYeNjN2FGIh3XGcI6p6P-MqqnA96IwrSv7KnmDsB1oe0PGi1zihsJDnScq79t7KqRKrk_LbGnyaH-zQA8UPxTO1FQCi-tuPgB05v_8A_J10nRiPZyoNTE/s1600/DSC05548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyg-kqLKnOZT3Hg6lwgioD9IWYeNjN2FGIh3XGcI6p6P-MqqnA96IwrSv7KnmDsB1oe0PGi1zihsJDnScq79t7KqRKrk_LbGnyaH-zQA8UPxTO1FQCi-tuPgB05v_8A_J10nRiPZyoNTE/s1600/DSC05548.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
My challenge today is to stop, if just for a moment, and notice the promises around you. The tiny new green grass is pushing it's way toward the warm sun. The buds on the trees are swelling with promise. The snow melts and runs in rivulets, streams, rivers down to the low places. Calves frolic in the fields. For me, both morning and evening chores are not done in daylight. Yes! Spring is coming! <br />
<br />
Thank you, dear Little Bear, for making me slow down and notice these gifts. Thank you for being exactly who you are. I can't imagine being mama to any other boy. I love you.<br />
<br />
hbk<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-79942525718055045312014-03-10T09:21:00.001-06:002014-03-10T09:21:56.094-06:00Dare to Listen<div class="p1">
During Lent (and often not during Lent), I think of the quiet. People tend to scurry away from the quiet and fill the space with doing, with making lists or mindless drivvle. That’s not a bad thing. Not at all. It's part of what we do to survive a busy hectic world. Rilke though, invites us to listen. Listen to the quiet. It can deepen our being. I dare you to listen to the quiet. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The quiet of the soul - that’s where God meets me in the most powerful ways. It can be quite terrifying because in that sort of quiet, I am open and willing and sometimes the things I’m shown feel devastating in their pain. But it’s a healing sort of thing. For my Lenten practice, I intend to invite the quiet. To breathe through the uncomfortable-ness of it, to simply let it be. Wanna enter the quiet with me?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Here’s what Rilke has to say.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Listeners at Last</div>
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Oh when, when, when will we ever have enough</div>
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of whining and defining? Haven’t champions</div>
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in the weaving of words been here already?</div>
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Why keep on trying?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Are not people perpetually, over and over and over again, </div>
<div class="p1">
assaulted by books as by buzzing alarms?</div>
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When, between two books, the quieting sky appears,</div>
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or merely a path of earth at evening - </div>
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rejoice . . . </div>
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<br /></div>
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Louder than all the storms, louder than all the oceans, </div>
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people have been crying out:</div>
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What abundance of quietude</div>
<div class="p1">
the Universe muse yield, if we screaming humans</div>
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can hear the crickets, and if the stars</div>
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in the screamed-at-ether</div>
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can appease our hearts!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Let the farthese, oldest, most ancient</div>
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ancestors speak to us!</div>
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And let us be listeners at last,</div>
<div class="p1">
humans</div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
finally able to hear.</div>
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<br /></div>
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hbk</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-27180001389562866802014-03-09T23:18:00.000-06:002014-03-09T23:19:48.041-06:00In the Singing<pre style="background-color: white; line-height: 28px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the singing,
in the silence,
in the hands expectant, open,
in the blessing,
in the breaking,
in the Presence at this table --
Jesus Christ,
Jesus Christ,
be the wine of grace:
Jesus Christ,
Jesus Christ,
be the bread of peace.
In the question,
in the answer,
in the moment of acceptance,
in the heart's cry,
in the healing,
in the circle of your people --
Jesus Christ,
Jesus Christ,
be the wine of grace:
Jesus Christ,
Jesus Christ,
be the bread of peace.</span></pre>
<div class="romanNormal" style="background-color: white; line-height: 28px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="romanNormal" style="background-color: white; line-height: 28px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">--Shirley Erena Murray </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-62053094206832515122014-03-01T00:55:00.001-07:002014-03-01T00:55:23.562-07:00Too Much!It's winter. Full force winter. Feet of snow (2 and then it blew and now it's snowing again). Icey roadways. Blizzard winds. Bare naked wind chill. Winter in Montana. Like it hasn't been in the past 20 years. I like it.<br />
<br />
And it's completely wearing me out. We're down to one vehicle that can (sometimes) drive in these conditions. My car is long buried. Our big old truck won't even make a spark. Our snow shovels are worn out. Hinges on doors are breaking because they're cold or they have freezing rain stuck to them or they're just old. There's ice in all the windows and puddles on all the floors. Little Bear's sweet little faced is chapped and cracked. My hands are chapped and cracked. The wind keeps trying to rip our front screen door off so I've tied it on with some parachute cord and looped the cord around the inside of the door knob. Our steps are buried and caked in ice. The drifts on our back deck are hip deep. Time to shovel more.<br />
<br />
With the winter weather came slick roads. And with slick roads came the usual side off's, whoop-tee-do's and oopsie's. And, about a week ago, a terrible crash that has, so far, claimed 2 lives. I responded to the crash with the fire department. It was hard to see and has been somewhat daunting to deal with afterward. Not nearly so hard, though, as the families of those who lost their lives. I cannot imagine . . .<br />
<br />
Another thing that snow and wind bring to the mountains and hills of western Montana is avalanches. Today an avalanche swept down Mount Jumbo on the outskirts of Missoula. It blew right into a neighborhood and destroyed 2 houses. 3 people were buried. Neighbors grabbed their shovels and ran, on foot, to the scene and frantically searched and dug through the snow, broken trees, pieces of ruined house, desperately searching for those under the snow in the darkening evening and quickly falling wind chill. It took several hours but eventually, all 3 people were recovered. So far, the news on their conditions is positive. I hope it stays that way. <br />
<br />
Things have a way of getting kind of off kilter during extreme weather. An example of that is the thousand or so (ok, maybe hundred) starlings that think the "free" food in our chicken house is theirs. When I go out to care for our cold puffed up hens, I open the door to the coop and what follows is akin to a scene from a horror flick. Birds and flapping and beaks and squawking and screeching and feather and dust everywhere wings beating starling bodies thumping against my chest, my face, the wall in crazy desperation to get out. The chickens, cowering in corners, nowhere to go but into the freezing blowing snow outside. I've tried to block up all the places I think the starlings are getting in. Obviously I've missed some. The entire inside of the chicken coop is now painted in a thick fresh coat of starling shit. While it does lend an interesting texture to the place, it makes every surface slippery so when I tried to lean a ladder up to work on plugging more holes, it was like trying to climb slime. I eventually gave up, and with frozen and bleeding fingers, told the chickens I was sorry and went inside to thaw.<br />
<br />
As I'm sitting here trying to come down off the wall this evening (middle of the night now), I hear that another Search and Rescue team has been called out. I don't know if they're calling in help to locate lost skiers at Snowbowl or if there is somebody else in peril. <br />
<br />
I'm lucky. My house is warm. My bed is soft. My family is here. We are safe. Yes, the door is tied shut against the freezing wind. But we are together, not in a tree well or snow cave. I love winter. Real winter is exhilarating. And tonight, I've had quite enough, thank you. I want a day or two just to be normal. To have normal, not traumatic, non stressful things happen. I want to feed Ginger and watch her play and scamper happily up and down the hall. I want to bundle up warm and roll around in piles of snow with Little Bear. I want to sit on the couch next to my sweet wife and sip coffee together. But first, I want to sleep.<br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-17599376292276777402014-02-25T12:26:00.002-07:002014-02-25T12:26:30.108-07:00Snow Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
It's a snow day for us. </div>
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School is cancelled. </div>
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The chickens are UN-impressed!</div>
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DuckDuck and HuckDuck, </div>
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however,</div>
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seem to be quite enjoying themselves. </div>
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They sort of make paddling motions</div>
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and stay mostly</div>
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on top of the snow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq-eqQsLtrJMhyphenhyphenV52W9y73tkUXQenm77WMxq3MB8MzUPVppo7xyygN_C3QJee1cMuA8Q-05N-GEliEiFmvBzHccMey0XG0QsnHh1xn4BQJkEjRjAzjm1U7WX-y30FqhCZiLWJGuwsl9Sg/s1600/DSC05527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq-eqQsLtrJMhyphenhyphenV52W9y73tkUXQenm77WMxq3MB8MzUPVppo7xyygN_C3QJee1cMuA8Q-05N-GEliEiFmvBzHccMey0XG0QsnHh1xn4BQJkEjRjAzjm1U7WX-y30FqhCZiLWJGuwsl9Sg/s1600/DSC05527.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Wherever you are,</div>
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stay warm</div>
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and be safe. </div>
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hbk</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-287122019676024292014-02-15T06:12:00.000-07:002014-02-15T06:12:01.171-07:00Made it!The weekend is here! No, I didn't manage to get to all of my list yesterday. We'll get the drake on Monday. That's okay.<br />
<br />
Starting early today. We have a big day! We're sending Little Bear off to my sister's place for the weekend. Ginger Balsam is going too. We've cleared out our schedule. My wife and I are doing something FOR US!<br />
<br />
I'm excited and proud. I am open to learning. I love who we can become together.<br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-8327301794005828942014-02-14T11:54:00.000-07:002014-02-14T11:54:40.162-07:00Give it all you got . . . I feel like I am. Giving it all I have, that is. Little Bear has been home from school 2 days of the 5 school days this week. Wednesday he was home because we all just needed to sleep in. Today, there's no school. And yesterday, we had ice covered roads so the school and the busses had a 2 hour delay. It's a lot having Little Bear home to take care of. He's kind of a complicated kid. <br />
<br />
To add to what I have going on, I have a little orphaned goat to take care of. She needs to be fed every few hours 'round the clock. It's a lot of work.<br />
<br />
There is a LONG list of things I need to get done today. I gotta drive to Corvallis and pick up a drake. I gotta go pick up a bale of alfalfa hay. I gotta get Little Bear's food for the weekend ready. I gotta get my food for the weekend ready. I gotta do enough laundry that we have clean clothes for the weekend. I'm sure there are plenty of other "must do's"<br />
<br />
And today, I woke up with a migraine. It's a doozy of a migraine. I'm so nauseated that it's hard not to gag when I move my body at all. Sound hurts. Light hurts. Smells hurt. <br />
<br />
But I can't stop. I have to keep on giving it all I got. <br />
<br />
Lord, give me strength.<br />
<br />
hbk<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-17569076588239912772014-02-12T16:49:00.001-07:002014-02-12T16:49:55.670-07:00Ginger Balsam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Last night we brought home a goat. </div>
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She's a Nigerian Dwarf Dairy goat. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf7gsRCJpcc6xFklug3aek6OrZGyA_foI-atFDNDzrCFA6hELMbLSU9nmBZiyo_kYQBpqXiGHwI190HKjN4dX4tm8Y-Dgq2FLJefc6Z-Z19mBK5SAaWS1eDADdS-SCQv6j_-tMAP_d7EE/s1600/DSC05334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf7gsRCJpcc6xFklug3aek6OrZGyA_foI-atFDNDzrCFA6hELMbLSU9nmBZiyo_kYQBpqXiGHwI190HKjN4dX4tm8Y-Dgq2FLJefc6Z-Z19mBK5SAaWS1eDADdS-SCQv6j_-tMAP_d7EE/s1600/DSC05334.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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She was born 5 days prematurely</div>
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And was one of 4 babies in the pregnancy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRFi5RYqnzKcc7ihG8RktuLIUjUsFFfbd4ke-TQ-rE9wkm4gOOV3SV1mJ9BCIlWwdmUO746INo4ydgVo1R0C8Sfaoz96CsgUjEOUq39V1F-wym4pyYsvOGC_xGp6MyTRtY3q-BJcVm5w/s1600/DSC05367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRFi5RYqnzKcc7ihG8RktuLIUjUsFFfbd4ke-TQ-rE9wkm4gOOV3SV1mJ9BCIlWwdmUO746INo4ydgVo1R0C8Sfaoz96CsgUjEOUq39V1F-wym4pyYsvOGC_xGp6MyTRtY3q-BJcVm5w/s1600/DSC05367.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Her breed is small.</div>
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But she is tiny. </div>
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She weighs in at 2 pounds</div>
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And fits in the palm of my hand. </div>
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She's 6 days old. </div>
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The night she was born,</div>
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it was 20 degrees F below zero.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Because she was premature,</div>
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the dame hadn't been brought</div>
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into the barn.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When she was born,</div>
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her tiny body </div>
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froze to the ground.</div>
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When she was found,</div>
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she was frozen stiff</div>
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and thought to be dead.</div>
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Her right eye</div>
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was frozen</div>
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to a metal pipe.</div>
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Because of her</div>
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prematurity,</div>
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she is having difficulty </div>
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breathing. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We're doing </div>
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all we can</div>
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to keep her comfortable.</div>
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Little Bear </div>
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gave her the name</div>
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Ginger Balsam.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Our other animals</div>
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have been curious</div>
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and gentle </div>
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with Ginger.</div>
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Belle wasn't sure at first. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46hdhkOce-DiV29fSAPTFeV77_tkbIG2gzi9X_zjTCDIWtmDMIs_kQRawxxZsxZzLBc9HACsmpBDURX5XvdEItbgYmQXsGCw_V3byZkheleH6XHHFf2KQO4nhaIbFBJ6bd6wOQzz2D2s/s1600/DSC05327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46hdhkOce-DiV29fSAPTFeV77_tkbIG2gzi9X_zjTCDIWtmDMIs_kQRawxxZsxZzLBc9HACsmpBDURX5XvdEItbgYmQXsGCw_V3byZkheleH6XHHFf2KQO4nhaIbFBJ6bd6wOQzz2D2s/s1600/DSC05327.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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But she soon warmed up. </div>
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Now she won't leave Ginger Balsam's side. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWm80x3zcETESJvnioveCAG1xysKBwU-nwDmHzVFryMDqNLdL-b1LKJlXgI5ZiF7JFcwLPErWQHT55mKHOv47nAidmFrWx9TVbuvl4SdixonYAXA-9mdWVz3nuGy6zeJ-xXnWV8OC-Ajo/s1600/DSC05328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWm80x3zcETESJvnioveCAG1xysKBwU-nwDmHzVFryMDqNLdL-b1LKJlXgI5ZiF7JFcwLPErWQHT55mKHOv47nAidmFrWx9TVbuvl4SdixonYAXA-9mdWVz3nuGy6zeJ-xXnWV8OC-Ajo/s1600/DSC05328.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Even Fizz is gentle</div>
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and protective. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYG70RwPKCn-dMOYWPBkTmA18LWMI_iEMKqf_KOlVpYU9rij_XEN38qYfVgb5ZisMCc1SHteZcJX_sQCS7vomDfT5KbhYTAbgjc5AAHp69bi34CQZf5bEJnlIAjWzfup-Z1QGxCrcjx4/s1600/DSC05336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYG70RwPKCn-dMOYWPBkTmA18LWMI_iEMKqf_KOlVpYU9rij_XEN38qYfVgb5ZisMCc1SHteZcJX_sQCS7vomDfT5KbhYTAbgjc5AAHp69bi34CQZf5bEJnlIAjWzfup-Z1QGxCrcjx4/s1600/DSC05336.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I don't know if Ginger Balsam will</div>
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survive. </div>
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<br /></div>
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If she does, we'll keep her. </div>
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<br /></div>
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If she doesn't, we'll know we tried. </div>
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She's too premature to</div>
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maintain her own</div>
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body temperature. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So she's wearing a diaper</div>
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and rides around </div>
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tucked into my shirt</div>
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(or Kara's). </div>
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<br /></div>
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Ginger Balsam</div>
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is such a</div>
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sweet baby goat. </div>
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<br /></div>
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hbk</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-22423382647878780072014-02-11T08:01:00.001-07:002014-02-11T08:01:29.730-07:00Morning Comes HardSome days<br />
after long nights<br />
when it's still dark<br />
morning comes hard.<br />
<br />
Wakefulness comes<br />
crushing in<br />
upon my body<br />
weighing down my dreams.<br />
<br />
Breathing in,<br />
breathing out,<br />
pulling me<br />
into the day.<br />
<br />
Morning comes<br />
beckoning me<br />
to try again<br />
no matter what.<br />
<br />
Sun rises<br />
over the Sapphires<br />
coaxing me<br />
into consciousness.<br />
<br />
Pain pulses<br />
through my body,<br />
through my head.<br />
Morning comes hard.<br />
<br />
Morning comes.<br />
I gather my strength.<br />
I put down my feet.<br />
And I start my day.<br />
<br />
hbk<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-44836787857085843942014-02-10T09:48:00.000-07:002014-02-10T09:48:04.884-07:00Embody the SacredChristians today talk about showing Christ to the world in the way they live. They probably have good intentions. And, to me, it seems that they are somewhat constrained or limited by their perception of God or Christ.<br />
<br />
For me, Rilke gets more to the heart of the matter.<br />
<br />
He writes<br />
<br />
Go to the Limits of Your Longing<br />
<br />
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,<br />
then walks with us silently out of the night.<br />
<br />
These are the words we dimly hear:<br />
<br />
You, sent out beyond your recall,<br />
go to the limits of your longing.<br />
Embody me.<br />
<br />
From The Book of Hours I, 59<br />
<br />
He says "go to the limits of your longing", not "live according to the rules somebody wrote down hundreds of years ago that have been translated many times into something we can maybe understand in a way that makes us comfortable." <br />
<br />
What is your longing? Does your longing have limits? Will you be satisfied before you reach the limits of your longing? <br />
<br />
My longing is for love. For forgiveness, of myself and of others. For peace. For acceptance (of myself and others). For joy. For comfort. For rest. For health. For justice.<br />
<br />
If I journey openly with integrity on the path of my longing, and while I do it, I try to embody the sacred, am I not sharing that of God with those around me? <br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-66337795216459968782014-02-09T20:21:00.001-07:002014-02-09T20:21:19.978-07:00***!!!***SNOW***!!!***It snowed! It snowed a LOT! I LOVE snow! I want more. It's so much fun!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9PNODm4zAipOY_eiEpVk7lu5PpEFyHMQx1un2BYyiobIhmWN7huGRqLcchp70eD5sWEdoIeZNdXw7EkOwFTYAn7Y53D395BIvNqobNRJovwKJuBHGrw6zOQ_vG3g35lW_6pX8a15uv0o/s1600/IMG_0347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9PNODm4zAipOY_eiEpVk7lu5PpEFyHMQx1un2BYyiobIhmWN7huGRqLcchp70eD5sWEdoIeZNdXw7EkOwFTYAn7Y53D395BIvNqobNRJovwKJuBHGrw6zOQ_vG3g35lW_6pX8a15uv0o/s1600/IMG_0347.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Kara built Little Bear a snow fort. </div>
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Here he is, inside it, eating snow. </div>
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He's a child after my own heart. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvNUs7fBXpRZN-waIL0vEaSr4WEsJ84nSnGRuzVkXvgwPhS5ZnLwX15inagD6570hHwcPMBoLCeur-fJ2yE_tcDit9CL7Zdc0x3-NgUZArd8M-r94aN1YRGXXdvi9rlJQt_cHunypcEs/s1600/IMG_0336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvNUs7fBXpRZN-waIL0vEaSr4WEsJ84nSnGRuzVkXvgwPhS5ZnLwX15inagD6570hHwcPMBoLCeur-fJ2yE_tcDit9CL7Zdc0x3-NgUZArd8M-r94aN1YRGXXdvi9rlJQt_cHunypcEs/s1600/IMG_0336.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The door. It's big enough for coupla people to be inside. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd-gW3ke5_bqYISyStLIvSDgd12ctxLYQxP_B_sQVAD-D48ZpQQKkYUbrZwKwqmGkwA1XuI9GfBTP8paeDx7UuB10IqNZdid-IPkFuZkwtJEB8I-vZxHQdrR4AT67L5-InEth1NSSxOSs/s1600/IMG_0335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd-gW3ke5_bqYISyStLIvSDgd12ctxLYQxP_B_sQVAD-D48ZpQQKkYUbrZwKwqmGkwA1XuI9GfBTP8paeDx7UuB10IqNZdid-IPkFuZkwtJEB8I-vZxHQdrR4AT67L5-InEth1NSSxOSs/s1600/IMG_0335.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Chillaxin'.</div>
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Crawling out.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNswa-9wmniTpNRb35PB1P23vQgHo4M57BJWMSYf5pUYPLClshMaJrqPiwESrBQh-k671UAi3xHaFsZp7BNGNrC0dbUpxCcdEaFAV4YfeUa5PFln6as0n5fA_V9dllTtiWBoV2xlHq57U/s1600/DSC05290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNswa-9wmniTpNRb35PB1P23vQgHo4M57BJWMSYf5pUYPLClshMaJrqPiwESrBQh-k671UAi3xHaFsZp7BNGNrC0dbUpxCcdEaFAV4YfeUa5PFln6as0n5fA_V9dllTtiWBoV2xlHq57U/s1600/DSC05290.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Stop for a bite. Of snow. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghEDRx_6YtfkXrBMnlpqVTLV3cIrpijKq-81I6nmeJ1iquCGKytruDU7Z6msmZHL_wX4gGLZ1Sa3efx3V69Vgvl4w6JWChXuJJWopq050p1nkj0nvhMDDpi1-QPT0PewCI-MaouC6q97Q/s1600/DSC05291.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghEDRx_6YtfkXrBMnlpqVTLV3cIrpijKq-81I6nmeJ1iquCGKytruDU7Z6msmZHL_wX4gGLZ1Sa3efx3V69Vgvl4w6JWChXuJJWopq050p1nkj0nvhMDDpi1-QPT0PewCI-MaouC6q97Q/s1600/DSC05291.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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We had so much fun!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RziNUxrnHToxQeoAzNUJFCmWEkhn0PpTZi3IV-DuZMfBjTxH4g2AvmY1RisTletf22KKirLxnIokjnewXnTUHgXWax5XzfL_JEL2WeSxsjcgHG8feqaIVqPOboeEDVXcLh9E-5Epi1E/s1600/DSC05294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6RziNUxrnHToxQeoAzNUJFCmWEkhn0PpTZi3IV-DuZMfBjTxH4g2AvmY1RisTletf22KKirLxnIokjnewXnTUHgXWax5XzfL_JEL2WeSxsjcgHG8feqaIVqPOboeEDVXcLh9E-5Epi1E/s1600/DSC05294.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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I hope you and your family had a fun day too. </div>
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hbk</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-65104238659044694512014-02-08T20:12:00.000-07:002014-02-08T20:12:51.984-07:00Jus' Chillin'Saturday evening after what felt like a REALLY long day. <br />
<br />
Sitting in my living room with the woman I love most.<br />
<br />
Watching the good ol' tube. <br />
<br />
Yup. Jus' chillin'. That's how I roll.<br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-3721365953644277682014-02-07T07:04:00.000-07:002014-02-08T20:10:15.012-07:00Cold SpellIt's cold. And by cold, I mean 20 below zero F. For this part of the state, that's cold. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqyW1383EHQ_2rPl4jXsTydLaLtpbKdLrgT_iHJkhBJZSW6xXcUdlCRbO-bNw7sxGqWRHzhXuiqzZfgdLK6Z1xQdKWiPtcjG5V_WvyBBoVXjZPsMXGHIPIrHxhXFb0fS_zvwEkPiaxMxs/s1600/DSC05284.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqyW1383EHQ_2rPl4jXsTydLaLtpbKdLrgT_iHJkhBJZSW6xXcUdlCRbO-bNw7sxGqWRHzhXuiqzZfgdLK6Z1xQdKWiPtcjG5V_WvyBBoVXjZPsMXGHIPIrHxhXFb0fS_zvwEkPiaxMxs/s1600/DSC05284.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
It's cold for my chickens too. Too cold for a couple older ones. I noticed they weren't moving earlier today. So I scooped them up and brought them in the house. Put them in a dog crate which is now in our dining room. They both ate. That's a good sign. I'll keep them inside for another day or 2. Let them thaw and recover. Poor old birds.<br />
<br />
My duck, on the other hand, thought that today would be a great day for a bath! Yup, she sat in her water dish and took a 20 minute bath. Got soaking wet (on the outside at least) and very carefully cleaned every single feather. When I went out to check on everybody coupla hours later, DuckDuck had hoary frost all over her back and wings. I wish I had had my camera with me because that would have been a neat picture.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-54803374248371536382014-02-05T17:12:00.001-07:002014-02-05T17:12:03.937-07:00The Wall Between UsAgain, Rilke<br />
<br />
Neighbors<br />
<br />
You, God, who live next door:<br />
If at times, through the long night, I trouble you<br />
with my urgent knocking -<br />
this is why: I hear you breathe so seldom.<br />
I know you're all alone in that room.<br />
If you should be thirsty, there's no one<br />
to get you a glass of water.<br />
I wait listening, always. Just give me a sign!<br />
I'm right here.<br />
<br />
As it happens, the wall between us<br />
is very thin. Why couldn't a cry<br />
from one of us<br />
break it down? It would crumble<br />
easily,<br />
it would barely make a sound.<br />
<br />
From The Book of Hours I, 6<br />
<br />
<br />
So, God and walls and neighbors. <br />
<br />
This reminds me that there is That of God within each and EVERY person. That of God is within my neighbors, those that I like and those that annoy me. The noisy ones, the partiers, the ones who drive too fast down my street. The ones with well behaved children and dogs on leashes. The ones who help and the ones who turn away. There is That of God in all of them. <br />
<br />
And the walls. . . Who builds these walls? We build them to separate, to protect, to decorate, to designate yours and mine. Yet, in the grand scheme of all that is, these walls that we build are so thin. And Rilke is right, they come crumbling down, once heavy brick, reduced to dust in the wind and blown silently across the landscape of our lives. <br />
<br />
We build walls around our hearts. We fence them in. We guard them. And when we do, we distance ourselves from the greatest source of love. <br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-46584700338619626982014-02-04T21:31:00.001-07:002014-02-04T21:31:26.319-07:00Vast-nessIt's cold. No, it's REALLY cold. Below zero cold. Teens below zero cold. With wind. Which makes it feel even colder. <br />
<br />
Extreme weather excites me. It makes me know that I am so, so small. It shows me that there's a vastness to it all that I will never understand. <br />
<br />
So I be in it. I feel it numb my fingers. I feel it crackle inside my face. I feel the tingle of the cold on my thighs. I feel the ache of it in my feet inside my boots. I feel it's instant intense compression simultaneous explosion in my lungs. And I know it is powerful. And so, so big. And in it, I am so, so small.<br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-14412880064461658802014-01-29T13:53:00.001-07:002014-01-29T13:53:27.270-07:00Interesting ConversationI'm having an interesting conversation with somebody about the God-ness of Jesus. About the "True Light". <br />
<br />
I think that God is God. There are many paths to God. Light is Light. God is Light. Light is God. God is Good. To me, God, Light, Good exists in many ways. I see that of God in other people. In my mind, I do not see Jesus. I see God. When I see the clouds curl over the Bitterroots like waves of the ocean, I see God. <br />
<br />
I'm curious what you think. Leave me a comment. <br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-44211011591951844832014-01-29T10:04:00.000-07:002014-01-29T10:04:23.304-07:00Who Is Whole?I am really enjoying the writings of the late Rainer Maria Rilke lately. Here's another one that speaks to me.<br />
<br />
Am I Not the Whole?<br />
<br />
God, are you then the All? And I the separated one<br />
who tumbles and rages?<br />
Am I not the whole? Am I not all things<br />
when I weep, and you the single one, who hears it?<br />
<br />
from The Book of Hours II, 3<br />
<br />
I think about the immensity of the hurt inherent in the human condition. Often, O live in that place, the place of hurt, of loss, of weeping, tumbling and rage. When I'm there, yes, it feels all consuming. It feels like it is ALL that there is. And it feels apart. Apart from the God-thing that might hear, offer comfort, show me rest. <br />
<br />
Apart-ness from God is, theologians might say, sin. And that's an entirely different bucket of worms than I think Rilke was getting at here. I'm not talking about sin either. I'm talking about the depth of feeling that comes with living fully. <br />
<br />
Whole in an interesting concept for me. In my own broken way, yes, I am whole. I am a group of broken hurting people, all living in one broken hurting body. It's how I survive. And, it's how I will heal. If the singleness of God hears me, and offers help, then good. I'll take it.<br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-18899710943216100382014-01-26T19:26:00.000-07:002014-01-26T19:26:06.546-07:00SingingRilke writes<br />
<br />
Your Singing Continues<br />
<br />
As swiftly as the world is changing,<br />
like racing clouds,<br />
all that is finished<br />
falls home to the ancient source.<br />
<br />
Above the change and the loss,<br />
farther and freer,<br />
your singing continues<br />
god of the lyre.<br />
<br />
How can we embrace our sorrows<br />
or learn how to love,<br />
or see what we lose<br />
<br />
when we die? Only your song<br />
over the earth<br />
honors our life and makes it holy.<br />
<br />
from Sonnets to Orpheus 1, 19<br />
<br />
I like to sing. Singing is one of the things that coaxed me back to church. Singing music I like has this unexpected way of lifting me, above the din of my life, above my pain, out of the noise in my head. I don't always, or even often sound all that great singing. I don't do it for other people mostly. I do it for me. I do it for breath. I do it for life. And when I don't sing, I miss it. So here's a reminder for me. Sing! It turns the mundane into the holy.<br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-22422065315942744582014-01-25T10:46:00.000-07:002014-01-25T10:49:52.214-07:00Who Speaks?God Speaks<br />
<br />
I am, you anxious one.<br />
<br />
Don't you sense me, ready to break<br />
into being at your touch?<br />
My murmurings surround you like shadowy wings.<br />
Can't you see me standing before you<br />
cloaked in stillness?<br />
Hasn't my longing ripened in you<br />
from the beginning<br />
as fruit ripens on a branch?<br />
<br />
I am the dream you are dreaming.<br />
When you want to awaken, I am waiting.<br />
I grow strong in the beauty you behold.<br />
And with the silence of stars I enfold<br />
your cities made by time.<br />
<br />
-Rilke, The Book of Hours 1, 19<br />
<br />
A lot of Christians believe that Jesus speaks to them. I, personally have never experienced this. <br />
<br />
Jesus has never spoken to me. Do I feel left out? No. Why? <br />
<br />
Because God speaks to me. <br />
In the stillness. <br />
In the roaring of the wind as it tears through the great Ponderosa pines on the mountainside out my front door. <br />
In the tiny but swelling buds on bare naked frozen branches in the dead of winter. <br />
God speaks to Me!<br />
In the love of my lover's eyes, the upturned corners of her smile, the sweet curl of her neck.<br />
God Speaks to me.<br />
In the night, when all is quiet, and all I hear is the deep sleep breathing of my child, my wife, my pets and the night. In the warmth of my body between the sheets. In the comfortable safety in the crook of her arm and her warm breath on my back.<br />
God speaks To me. <br />
Direct and unmistakable, searing speak, from the soul of my child, an arrow shot straight into the core of my being. Undeniable, unbidden, in raw-ness, opening me wide but leaving no scar.<br />
God speaks.<br />
In so many ways. I must only slow down and let myself be quiet to hear it. <br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-52639780378255375162014-01-24T09:55:00.000-07:002014-01-24T09:55:25.706-07:00Everything MattersRilke wrote, "The tasks that have been entrusted to us are often difficult. Almost everything that matters is difficult, and everything matters."<br />
<br />
Yes, yes, yes! I've been struggling lately. It's been difficult. And the things that are difficult for me matter. <br />
<br />
What matters? Parenting. Being a spouse. Being true to myself. Being a good friend. Engaging in community. Spirituality. Searching and learning. Resting. Growing. Healing. Surviving. Living. Being. <br />
<br />
Are these things difficult. Often, yes. Sure, there are moments when it isn't difficult. But if you're honest with yourself and those around you, my guess is that you will say that the things that matter most are difficult. I think that's what makes them precious.<br />
<br />
hbkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-57079031580487159732014-01-23T09:37:00.001-07:002014-01-23T09:37:48.030-07:00getting set up. ignore<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3959465/?claim=3my4gsv48mh">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14313835272114721764noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8992212322614829574.post-57737282036329795572014-01-23T09:09:00.001-07:002014-01-23T09:09:36.600-07:00I'm Human<div class="p1">
This morning with Little Bear was really, REALLY hard. Nothing I did was right for him. And I tried so hard. He wouldn’t dress himself. He wouldn’t feed himself. He wouldn’t put on his shoes and socks. He wouldn’t brush his teeth. He wouldn’t put on his coat. I had to do it all for him. One bite at a time. One sock at a time. One shoe and then the other and then the first one again because he’d kicked it off. Gave up on brushing his teeth because I didn’t feel like wrestling him, kicking and screaming on the bathroom floor while he spat toothpaste spit at my and clawed at my face. Coat on over clenched swinging fists. And then I lost my temper. I yelled at him. He kicked me and then started in on trying to tip over furniture. So I gathered up his flailing little self and put him in a safety hold. It sucked. And I felt like a complete failure as a parent. We calmed down a little bit and it was time to leave for the bus. I asked him to come with me and told him it was time for the bus. He didn’t come. So I picked up his backpack and started off toward the bus stop. He followed, screaming and yelling and throwing things. He threw his blanket into the neighbor’s yard. I left it there. We got to the bus stop in one piece. Once there, the tantrum ramped up. He kept pulling out of my grasp. I had to wrestle him to the ground roadside to keep him from darting in front of an oncoming car. It was still dark. I prayed to the moon to give me strength. God is in the moon, right? I hope so. Finally his bus came. And stopped. And waited. I tried my best to get him on the bus. He kicked and screamed and yelled and clawed at my face. The bus driver suggested I drive him to school and said that he needed to go. Okay. The bus pulled away, leaving me there, beside the road, in the dark, with my son. I was calm. I started home with him. He pulled out of my grasp again and bolted. Down the street he ran. In the dark. I didn’t know what to do. I finally caught up with him, reeled him in and pulled him toward home. He kicked and screamed and again got out of my grasp. He ran, into a neighbor’s yard. At least he was safe. I pretended to ignore him and walked slowly toward home, keeping him in sight. He followed. Caught up with me. Then started kicking and hitting me and pulling my clothtes off. I dropped his backpack and picked him up and lugged him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I carried him home that way, kicking and screaming and biting and hitting. I felt like such a failure. Seriously, what kind of parent can’t get their kid on the bus in the morning? </div>
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Then I came home and opened my devotional book to today’s date. The first sentence: “It’s all right to be human.” That’s really all I need to read. I will make that mine today and try harder not to lose my temper with my son. I won't be perfect. He won't be perfect. But that's okay. Because we're both human. And because we love each other to the moon and back. And because we'll both keep trying. </div>
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h</div>
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