tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65686308414346236532024-03-12T19:33:31.833-05:00Nib's EndNib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.comBlogger291125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-9337190545569348712017-11-15T14:41:00.000-06:002017-11-18T10:12:59.644-06:00Sea Tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CjIFoX1S0YE/Wgyg22cLpjI/AAAAAAAADfQ/yxyXyfgo4ikXTGfnFDmkvZyStIUcuuGoQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_0249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CjIFoX1S0YE/Wgyg22cLpjI/AAAAAAAADfQ/yxyXyfgo4ikXTGfnFDmkvZyStIUcuuGoQCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_0249.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>t's a sea fan anchored to a rock. More of a summer decoration, I suppose. But I live so far from the sea, and at this time of year I look out my kitchen window on a cold, rainy day and see dozens of shapes just like it anchored to the soil of my back garden, with copper-scaled leaves swimming through currents of wet wind like fish beneath the waves. So I bring it out in the Fall, this barren sea tree. I imagine this is what its dreams are made of:</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-589334539609739562017-09-08T11:50:00.000-05:002017-09-08T11:54:44.708-05:00To Read or Not to Read<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span> found this in a catalogue that came in the mail:</div>
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<i> "Cultivating the mood of a well-read household, beautifully crafted faux books provide the rich colors and the gilt leather spines of a treasured collection of antique books. Carefully made to deceive the eye, these facades of hand-tooled leather feature spines of various sizes."</i></div>
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And the price for a set of 24 of these real leather, fake antique, fake books is less than $600. What a <i>steal</i>. Emphasis on the word steal.</div>
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No doubt the book covers are beautiful, but what happens when one of the friends I am attempting to deceive takes a volume from my shelf to look at and discovers it is sewn shut? The gig is up. My cover is blown. <i>April Fool!</i> I shout gleefully. Then I order a faux friend from the catalogue who doesn't read but will, nevertheless, admire my bookish facade.</div>
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<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-45283865268833434162017-08-30T12:03:00.000-05:002017-08-30T12:03:31.744-05:00Drought<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MqT5rQkqTnM/Wabs1IL7j-I/AAAAAAAADdk/fV_WavJlWx0EUzQlurrw9RN06PyUtBlwQCLcBGAs/s1600/christina%2527s%2Bworld.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="640" height="267" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MqT5rQkqTnM/Wabs1IL7j-I/AAAAAAAADdk/fV_WavJlWx0EUzQlurrw9RN06PyUtBlwQCLcBGAs/s400/christina%2527s%2Bworld.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span> notice it has been wet in Scotland this summer. And woefully wet in parts of Texas this week. Here, it has been dry, especially in our village. It is difficult, sometimes, to strike the balance between conservation, the cost of water, and protecting my garden plants. The birch trees are stressed. The front lawn has gone dormant. I've been thinking a lot about dry. It turned into a poem.<br />
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<b>Dry</b><br />
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Dry<br />
Dry as a bone<br />
The limbs of trees dripping yellowed leaves on the ground,<br />
ribs of mountains veined with parched streams<br />
and fists of knuckled stones,<br />
the supine spine of vines panting in the sun<br />
limp with exhaustion<br />
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Dry<br />
Dry as dust<br />
The pool of dust in the garden where the birds bathe,<br />
thirst in the throat of the drainpipe<br />
and the tongue of shade that laps the crackling grass,<br />
a coil of barren soil curling around a finger of air<br />
blowing smoke<br />
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Dry as death<br />
the tinder<br />
the match<br />
the aftermath of ash and sooty bones<br />
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~ Nib of Nib's End ~<br />
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<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-5396243942783333872017-08-26T13:23:00.000-05:002017-08-26T13:23:59.506-05:00Gray Bed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span>fter a storm destroyed much of our garden five years ago, we have spent every summer since restoring a portion of it. With my husband so often abroad, we have a short window in which to get projects done. Now that the garden is in order, we have moved inside to tweak a few rooms. The first project on the list was to paint our pine bed and nightstands. My husband wanted to try chalk paint, which turned out to be a mistake. Just breathing on it made the paint chip. Three coats of paint, three coats of finish and three days later, however, we had a lovely gray bed. The only negative was that it was supposed to be taupe. We have a long history of not being able to match the paint swatch in the store with the color in our heads.</div>
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Still, I like my gray bed...</div>
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The natural, yellow pine was a warm look, but the gray feels peaceful to me. I like to lay in bed and think quiet thoughts. It is a lovely way to start and end the day.</div>
<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-13600551171208102422017-07-28T21:21:00.000-05:002017-07-28T21:21:23.559-05:00Fine Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>To sit in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment.</i></div>
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<i> ~ Jane Austen ~</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">W</span>e did. It was. More, please.</div>
<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-67995362366374331842017-07-24T08:45:00.000-05:002017-07-24T08:45:52.018-05:00Despair<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GEIrpU4pv-0/WXOubNu9nqI/AAAAAAAADZA/wnLu__jXpoAkFpJRhJ5y-7LAiodjW3FNACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4955%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1437" data-original-width="1600" height="357" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GEIrpU4pv-0/WXOubNu9nqI/AAAAAAAADZA/wnLu__jXpoAkFpJRhJ5y-7LAiodjW3FNACLcBGAs/s400/IMG_4955%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Despair<br />
by artist Tony Staroska</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">W</span>e spent a portion of our summer holiday in Door County, Wisconsin exploring artist's galleries. Outside the Juddville Clay Contemporary Studio Gallery where artists Tony Staroska and Rebecca Carlton display their creations, we were shown this sculpture. My photo doesn't do it justice. As I examined the sculpture from different angles, it felt like a piece I wouldn't want to keep in either my house or garden. It's sudden impact is too unsettling, too disturbing. </div>
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But it does provoke a response, doesn't it? The skeletal fetal form, backbone of rebar, clutching hand and iron fist. I wish I could see it at dusk with a candle placed inside its hollow body and light filling the empty spaces. There is hope in the presence of light, and I long to give this man and all of his kind a glimmer of hope.</div>
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Art, in my amateur opinion, is often something one feels first and thinks about later; it is evocative, visceral. It isn't divorced from intellect, it just isn't dependent on it. And art begets art. I already have a short story half-formed in my mind with this figure at the crux. This<i> </i>is the kind of sculpture I would visit over and over again in a museum. Why isn't it in a museum? Who would have thought despair could look so distressingly beautiful?</div>
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Interestingly, next to the man in despair, on the front lawn of the studio gallery was a rock fountain. Placed among the rocks were dozens of small heart-shaped stones. Rebecca, a warm, charming and chatty woman explained to me that when she and her husband, Tony, met they discovered that they had something more in common than their love of art: they both collected heart-shaped stones.<br />
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There is hope in love, too. Whether it was intentional or not, the juxtaposition between the sculpture of despair and fountain of hope was deeply moving.</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-10403606423749707232017-07-21T10:41:00.000-05:002017-07-23T18:55:47.446-05:00Haircut<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I </span>blame it on my husband. He started it all by buying me an iphone and dragging me into the 21st century. I couldn't sleep my first night of ownership, overwhelmed by all of the technology I was going to have to learn to make the purchase worthwhile. I've always quipped that I wasn't smart enough to use a smartphone. Turns out I know more than I realized, and I've left the stress behind as I learn to navigate the apps. Yeah baby. I'm feeling my oats.<br />
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See what I mean? That's not how I talk. It's my husband's fault for buying that iphone.<br />
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I went to get my shoulder-length hair trimmed last Saturday and came home with it all chopped off. With my new iphone in my purse, suddenly, I was feeling like a modern woman. I have <i>never</i> worn short hair before, not even as a child, and now I have a pixie. When I went to change my bitmoji profile there wasn't a hair-length equivalent. I'm not losing sleep as I did with the iphone, but I have mixed emotions over the change, a moment of shock each time I glance in the mirror. The daily wash and dry routine is exceptional, but I've never been adept at styling or the use of mousse, gel and hairspray. Is there an app for that? Needless to say, my new do only remotely resembles Emma Thompson's in the photo that I showed my hairdresser.<br />
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The long and short of it is that I have decided to grow my hair out to look like my bitmoji, rather than the other way round.<br />
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<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-8999633584560629862017-07-07T13:13:00.000-05:002017-07-07T13:13:09.027-05:00Scrumptious<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">W</span>hat a delicious, delectable, mouthwatering, tasty, toothsome way to begin the month of July.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>photo by little a</i></span>Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-11419990907871896282017-06-30T09:45:00.000-05:002017-07-04T10:58:19.897-05:00Going Green<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OqZjyzcpIgk/WVU8VkAqfyI/AAAAAAAADXs/4OqxXbY9Mo4l9A9mwTm7oRN5_zxWQQ61wCLcBGAs/s1600/83222899a6194563500c0de384edbb84.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="210" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OqZjyzcpIgk/WVU8VkAqfyI/AAAAAAAADXs/4OqxXbY9Mo4l9A9mwTm7oRN5_zxWQQ61wCLcBGAs/s400/83222899a6194563500c0de384edbb84.jpg" width="350" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>ext message from the Passenger in London yesterday: "Am sitting in St Martin-in-the-Fields listening to a string ensemble practice for a Mozart/Vivaldi/Handel concert tonight."<br />
<br />
I turned green with envy over my ironing board.<br />
<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-45733536266481936672017-06-29T12:08:00.000-05:002017-06-29T12:08:24.734-05:00Bikefast<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zt4Z6ys--AQ/WVUYeILr3QI/AAAAAAAADW0/4zZsgvyPkvs-iR_0W6IPQlwH08ij8sBwwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_2216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zt4Z6ys--AQ/WVUYeILr3QI/AAAAAAAADW0/4zZsgvyPkvs-iR_0W6IPQlwH08ij8sBwwCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_2216.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>t has been over twelve years since I have ridden my bike. I was all set to sell it in my recent garage sale, but when my husband brought it up from the basement he persuaded me to keep it. He hung it in the garage beside his so that it would be easier to fetch. We had some lovely, cool and breezy days last weekend, so on Saturday afternoon we decided to take a ride on the Prairie Path.</div>
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Remember, it has been at least a dozen years since I have pedaled anywhere, and I felt a bit wobbly; I wasn't sure, at first, if I would even make it out of the neighborhood. I don't have the easy balance that I had when I was a whippet. My bike is out of shape, too, and the gears were stiff and sticking. Once on the Prairie Path, however, the riding was smooth, and I gained confidence. So with the wind in my hair and my legs burning with disuse, we pedaled to the river.</div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QDpM2HpCSGc/WVUc0hfT7II/AAAAAAAADXA/PUb54xQVtkMy5A5wrKO2iF8Cwlk5f4vLwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_2228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QDpM2HpCSGc/WVUc0hfT7II/AAAAAAAADXA/PUb54xQVtkMy5A5wrKO2iF8Cwlk5f4vLwCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_2228.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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I walked to the river in April with a friend who was visiting from the Philippines. We sat on the bench beside the Path eating chicken salad sandwiches and drinking fresh limeade till we were rested. It is a long walk. But it is a quick bike ride.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rba9hVlpF0k/WVUfGF_7bfI/AAAAAAAADXM/pG76mWNYd9wXzfC_edWwjw8vSGtdef1tgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_2204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rba9hVlpF0k/WVUfGF_7bfI/AAAAAAAADXM/pG76mWNYd9wXzfC_edWwjw8vSGtdef1tgCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_2204.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z1FzMmHn3oo/WVUfMeMIZsI/AAAAAAAADXQ/62kzRuITOVMDekWz6au5DsgQ9uLQY5P1QCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_2206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z1FzMmHn3oo/WVUfMeMIZsI/AAAAAAAADXQ/62kzRuITOVMDekWz6au5DsgQ9uLQY5P1QCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_2206.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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My husband and I stood on the bridge a long while watching the wind flighting through treetops and threshing the bulrushes and sedge. Watching winds thrash and dance and flutter is one of my chief pleasures in this world. A canoe with three passengers passed under the bridge and meandered around the bend. Far off, I heard children playing, their voices joining the cheerful chatter of songbirds. A hawk floated in the distance. A muskrat appeared at the edge of the river and dove beneath the cloudy water. I was reluctant to ride home.</div>
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My bikefast is broken and it certainly won't be another twelve years before I ride my old blue bike again.</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-2307003975775183192017-06-19T08:00:00.000-05:002017-06-20T12:06:05.227-05:00A Treasured Book<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uF9071jAByA/WUfIAVT8u4I/AAAAAAAADWQ/fQc07kFasnYWgat9lss3PoUgfeo3J8bhACLcBGAs/s1600/7f1cbf19b500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uF9071jAByA/WUfIAVT8u4I/AAAAAAAADWQ/fQc07kFasnYWgat9lss3PoUgfeo3J8bhACLcBGAs/s400/7f1cbf19b500.jpg" width="330" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">H</span>e gave me the Bible for Christmas the
year before we were married. A plain, brown cowhide cover back in the day when
leather meant something good. We were newly engaged and in our last year of
college. I read that Bible cover to cover five or six times before it began to
fall apart forty years later, going all loose at the seams with pages beginning
to slip and bits of the leather tearing off at the corners from wear. Like the
Velveteen Rabbit. Like me. Well-loved and well-worn.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So he bought me another one with a black calfskin cover like
he had always wanted to give me. Leather so soft it feels as if it might melt
between my fingers. I find myself caressing it just for the pleasure it gives
my palms, feeling the hint of grain beneath the softness. The pages are tissue
thin like the skin of an old woman, but smooth as silk. The volume opens as
gracefully as a dancer and lies flat on the dining table. The real beauty of
the book, of course, is contained inside the cover. “In the beginning…” I read
aloud the ancient words of poetry. Moses’ words. God’s words reaching down the
ages through men to men…to me as well. Words that have, many times, lifted
me out of a deep pit or carried me through a dark night. Words that have translated and transformed me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is undeniably the most incredible piece of literature
ever written. Dozens of authors telling a seamless story through multiple
genres over hundreds and hundreds of years. A love story. And, yes, the most
incredible story ever told. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It comes with a lifetime guarantee, both the story and the
new calfskin cover. Both are gifts I cherish. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">To see the binding process: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6y3vUcG1wM" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6y3vUcG1wM</a></span></div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-60887745033282089352017-05-29T13:41:00.000-05:002017-05-29T13:41:20.535-05:00The Passenger's Photo Album - Japan<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dMNURNjXcpo/WSxlIVbF6JI/AAAAAAAADVQ/qva-VtOLSB0Qd6Uu3wOP3SwufMsEZifGQCEw/s1600/IMG_5179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dMNURNjXcpo/WSxlIVbF6JI/AAAAAAAADVQ/qva-VtOLSB0Qd6Uu3wOP3SwufMsEZifGQCEw/s400/IMG_5179.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sH2Zm6ukibE/WSxqnlKMEEI/AAAAAAAADVc/eS2sTcvZKgkj9sag3XTNlpou68Hg0H7MwCLcB/s1600/IMG_1083.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sH2Zm6ukibE/WSxqnlKMEEI/AAAAAAAADVc/eS2sTcvZKgkj9sag3XTNlpou68Hg0H7MwCLcB/s400/IMG_1083.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Pied Beauty</b></div>
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Glory be to God for dappled things</div>
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For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;</div>
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For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;</div>
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Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings,</div>
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Landscape plotted and pieced -- fold, fallow, and plough;</div>
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And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.</div>
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All things counter, original, spare, strange;</div>
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Whatever is fickle, freckled (Who knows how?)</div>
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With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;</div>
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He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:</div>
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Praise him.</div>
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~ Gerard Manley Hopkins ~</div>
<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-33475157163086894092017-05-19T21:13:00.000-05:002017-05-19T21:13:55.277-05:00Celebrity Mom<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t5xPX2qgqxY/WR9YT1KJWvI/AAAAAAAADU4/HSDvb0aUNGkSGUO_kE2xtLyJspg1iPoLgCLcB/s1600/gettyimages-56892495.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t5xPX2qgqxY/WR9YT1KJWvI/AAAAAAAADU4/HSDvb0aUNGkSGUO_kE2xtLyJspg1iPoLgCLcB/s400/gettyimages-56892495.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span> stepped onto the train on a bright, May morning with my
hair looking like a birch broom in a fit. The frivolous winds had
played tricks on me as I waited on the platform for the train to
arrive. I was traveling into the city for a visit with Whistler’s Mother. Anna
Whistler does not seem to be the sort of matron who would look kindly on a
woman appearing in public all frowsy and blown. I combed my fingers through
my hair and fluffed my artistically arranged scarf, even though I would have it
to do all over again after walking from the train station to the Art Institute
where Mrs. Whistler was staying.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nevertheless, it was a lovely spring morning with wooly
white clouds grazing in blue meadows overhead and gray, feather-footed shadows skipping
over the ground. The trees along the track tossed their green heads at me as I
passed. I envy them. Trees never look frowsy with windblown tresses. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had a new book to read. My anticipation was palpable. Eleven stops later, I had
only finished one chapter. The words in that chapter were like a May morning:
bright and fresh above with shadows running along beneath. I had paused repeatedly to look at the beguiling, bittersweet words in the same way that I look out the window at each stop on the line to
watch passengers board the train. Boisterous Cubs fans on their way to a game; college students freed from the constraint of study; a few old
ladies like myself, alone and silent or in chatty pairs; a noticeable absence of commuters.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lunch came first because Anna Whistler is a genteel but
frugal woman and would not be serving tea. I sat at a tiny marble-top bistro table
in my favorite Belgian café eating tartine: thin, chewy brown bread; wholesome
turkey; slices of avocado, cucumber and radish; a sprinkling of rocket; a
drizzle of dressing and a triple cornichon garnish. Oh, so yummy without a gram of
guilt. I paused between portions to read a paragraph or two from my book. No
matter how tempting, one cannot hold a paperback and eat fully loaded slices of
tartine at the same time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We met after lunch, Whistler’s Mother and I. She lives in
France but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Gothic</i> went on
holiday to the Musée d’Orsay and Mrs. Whistler came to Chicago. I
had done some pertinent reading before my visit, so I knew the painting was much
larger than I had always imagined it to be. I am already fond of straight lines, order
and neutral tones, but studying the piece has built in me an even greater
appreciation for it. Whistler disliked the Victorian sentimentality portrayed in the art of
his day and never meant for the painting to be viewed as a portrait. It
is more an arrangement of items, perhaps as one would view them in a still life
painting. He did, in fact, title the painting: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1</i>. intending to reference the musical concept of arrangement.<br />
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Whistler may have painted his sixty-seven-year-old mother without that sentimentality for either her age or widowhood that would make her seem other than she was, yet I cannot help but notice that the only colors in the painting are the warm flesh tones of her hands and face. And he gave her something to rest her feet on. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why the painting has become an icon for motherhood and will always be remembered to the world as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Whistler’s Mother</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-36149281817637893292017-05-07T19:18:00.000-05:002017-05-07T19:18:50.816-05:00Meanwhile...<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TWE0BSnmG-M/WQ-4XHLlg0I/AAAAAAAADUg/XucxtSSMZTYVz8xxxiB8qxBLhoACIh8swCLcB/s1600/IMG_2293.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TWE0BSnmG-M/WQ-4XHLlg0I/AAAAAAAADUg/XucxtSSMZTYVz8xxxiB8qxBLhoACIh8swCLcB/s400/IMG_2293.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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...life goes on for the robins nesting in a yew in the back garden.</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-56586786799173844102017-04-28T10:00:00.000-05:002017-04-28T10:00:40.800-05:00Mourning Dove<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KXUyfFfpZPs/WQIsrMTF7zI/AAAAAAAADT0/wWVzHKsH01g9W6iQBLWoY0SCkbcHI8dRgCLcB/s1600/IMG_4149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KXUyfFfpZPs/WQIsrMTF7zI/AAAAAAAADT0/wWVzHKsH01g9W6iQBLWoY0SCkbcHI8dRgCLcB/s400/IMG_4149.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-at_Xn3m8B8E/WQItT5WFl2I/AAAAAAAADT8/mst4VRA6-VQmd578uiBpi2gcv2lzMzDhwCLcB/s1600/IMG_4149%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-at_Xn3m8B8E/WQItT5WFl2I/AAAAAAAADT8/mst4VRA6-VQmd578uiBpi2gcv2lzMzDhwCLcB/s400/IMG_4149%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> A</span> few days later, my <a href="http://nibsend.blogspot.com/2017/04/family-portraits.html" target="_blank">Noble Dove</a> was back on the nest, preparing to raise another family. My husband saw her lay the first egg.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sjZX5Bv60ZQ/WQIt_B2NCMI/AAAAAAAADUE/1RF7IifLYGoJBH_5TXz2wXHIPMZLO0zxACLcB/s1600/IMG_4157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sjZX5Bv60ZQ/WQIt_B2NCMI/AAAAAAAADUE/1RF7IifLYGoJBH_5TXz2wXHIPMZLO0zxACLcB/s400/IMG_4157.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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When I checked the next morning she was gone. Well, most of her was gone. A neighbor told us they had seen a hawk lurking around their birdbath. </div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VduBIpzCDg4/WQIuIU40eVI/AAAAAAAADUI/6YrucoipAg0_Tafi-fWpUCycP5aMhv_6wCLcB/s1600/IMG_4169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VduBIpzCDg4/WQIuIU40eVI/AAAAAAAADUI/6YrucoipAg0_Tafi-fWpUCycP5aMhv_6wCLcB/s400/IMG_4169.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The male stood at the peak of the neighbor's rooftop calling and calling for his mate. It was heartbreaking; we could hear his mourning from inside our house. He never returned to the nest.</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-44484272715965932532017-04-27T12:11:00.000-05:002017-04-27T12:11:42.008-05:00Family Portraits<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I </span>made several attempts to catch a glimpse of either the eggs or the hatchlings of my <a href="http://nibsend.blogspot.com/2017/04/noble-dove.html" target="_blank">Noble Doves</a>. Just once, I was present for the changing of the guard, and I thought my curiosity would be rewarded; but the instant I was seen by the mama and papa they froze. I tried to wait them out, but they are more patient than I am. I wasn't able to greet the squabs until they were too big for concealment.</div>
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<span id="goog_205366813"></span><span id="goog_205366814"></span> And then they flew the nest...</div>
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<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-16900188156838305492017-04-22T20:33:00.000-05:002017-04-22T20:35:01.198-05:00The Passenger's Photo Album - Australia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">O</span>n his way home from Papua New Guinea, the Passenger paused for a few days in Sydney. The iconic, shell-shaped roofs of the Opera House are meant to evoke the sails in Sydney harbor. They certainly do, but when I look at them I also see a cluster of upended fishing dinghies, or the thresh of wind in the waves.</div>
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What do you see?</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-19152376868676549522017-04-15T10:30:00.000-05:002017-04-15T10:30:53.398-05:00These Hands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lsgY2bVYY3k/WPEf3KmBjYI/AAAAAAAADSU/Neg58ed37RI-LH0oz6D-TXl7enx8VVdhACLcB/s1600/web%2BFoto%2Bmano%2Be%2Bchiodo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lsgY2bVYY3k/WPEf3KmBjYI/AAAAAAAADSU/Neg58ed37RI-LH0oz6D-TXl7enx8VVdhACLcB/s400/web%2BFoto%2Bmano%2Be%2Bchiodo.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>
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They drove the hammered nails into His hands,</div>
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His hands that shaped the hot sun overhead...</div>
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<i> ~ from Sequel to Finality by Patrick F. Kirby ~</i></div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-38209933482718775432017-04-14T00:25:00.000-05:002017-04-14T00:25:16.493-05:00Tea and Coffee Down Under<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">M</span>y husband arrived home from Australia just in time. I ran out of my favorite everyday tea bags two weeks ago. I can order them online, but the postage is too steep. So he brought me 5 boxes--that's 500 teabags--from Sydney. He spoils me.</div>
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My husband also bought a Sunbeam coffee grinder in Australia to give to a colleague in Sulawesi. Hmm. Interesting reading on the bottom of the box.</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-32260744474445635222017-04-11T13:32:00.000-05:002017-04-11T13:32:06.034-05:00Incongruent<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YrtY3kOczi4/WO0chUOUhWI/AAAAAAAADRc/gOtY1PbzSDg_UgnNR-2HysWzoY1wchGKwCLcB/s1600/IMG_2206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YrtY3kOczi4/WO0chUOUhWI/AAAAAAAADRc/gOtY1PbzSDg_UgnNR-2HysWzoY1wchGKwCLcB/s400/IMG_2206.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span>s I walked down to the postboxes to retrieve my mail the other day, I noticed that hundreds of desiccating worms had been washed into the gutter by a recent downpour.</div>
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I eat meat, wear leather shoes and go after the bunnies eating flowers in my yard with a BB gun like Elmer Fudd or Mr. McGregor...so why do I feel sad for these worms?</div>
<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-29185368853876094732017-04-02T15:19:00.000-05:002017-04-02T15:19:53.898-05:00Noble Dove<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qI_N5X7difY/WOFJrVjscTI/AAAAAAAADPY/X4XdomgjYdUYFSNCPFoPNonVZjYY9QALQCLcB/s1600/IMG_2084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qI_N5X7difY/WOFJrVjscTI/AAAAAAAADPY/X4XdomgjYdUYFSNCPFoPNonVZjYY9QALQCLcB/s400/IMG_2084.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>n spring and summer these pots on my front porch are planted with ferns. I empty them in the fall to grow stars in December. Come late winter they are empty again, awaiting the spring planting. Not so this year.</div>
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This year a mourning dove has moved in. I often think of doves as silly birds. They build silly, impossible nests. This one is just a loose handful of birch twigs laid in a flowerpot. If not for the paper I stuffed in the pot to hold stars, what would prevent the eggs from falling through and smashing? Surely a sudden storm could scatter the flimsy thing to the twelve winds.</div>
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When the dove and her mate first came to stay, the least bit of commotion sent them streaking for the garage roof or safety of the birch. Then, one day shortly thereafter, nothing could move either of them as they took turns warming the nest: not a delivery man knocking on the front door, a camera pointed too close, or a rude photographer trying to shift one aside with a twig to glimpse the eggs. Early in the morning or late at night, whenever I check there is a dove sitting stoically on the nest. Courage. Faithfulness. Patience. Not so silly after all.<br />
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Noble dove.</div>
<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-40204334736703508362017-03-23T10:55:00.000-05:002017-03-23T10:55:44.602-05:00Reflection on a Bridge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span> took this photo of the reflection of a red double-decker bus in the windows of Parliment as I stood on Westminster Bridge in London. I was there. In that exact spot. And even though it was nearly two years ago, after the recent terrorist attack, one cannot help but think: "It could have been me..." </div>
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My heart goes out to all those who are unable to say that with me. </div>
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I am praying for them, for the suffering of the injured and the grief of those families who have suffered irretrievable loss. I pray for all those in authority who must respond to these unconscionable deeds with resolution, discernment and a measured calm. I am also reminded to pray for my enemies, for there is no more effective tool against terrorism than a heart that has been transformed by the Gospel.</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-82800413002367641142017-03-13T11:20:00.000-05:002017-03-13T11:20:55.906-05:00Blind Optimism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5Owv-t3VXLQ/WMbB_Pz9x3I/AAAAAAAADOQ/AQk46nz-FB4rWRmiv9hh_cjx8tPvG1IPACLcB/s1600/IMG_2181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5Owv-t3VXLQ/WMbB_Pz9x3I/AAAAAAAADOQ/AQk46nz-FB4rWRmiv9hh_cjx8tPvG1IPACLcB/s640/IMG_2181.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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It snowed last night.</div>
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<b><i>Wishful Thinking</i></b>: The elderly birch in our front garden isn't dying.</div>
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<i><b>Optimism</b>:</i> I won't be shoveling the front walk because it will melt by mid-afternoon</div>
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I am in training to become a <i><b>Glass is Half Full</b></i> kind of girl instead of the other way round. Even so, I will be knitting mufflers for the daffodils.</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-48273518960087540392017-03-08T08:45:00.000-06:002017-03-08T08:45:01.260-06:00Shredding Stress<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span> was feeling stressed about something the other day. It was
the proverbial straw that was threatening to do unspeakable things to my poor
camel's back. Stress has a way of making ordinary tasks feel overwhelming. Suddenly my
laundry pile was screaming at me, and my calendar felt like a bag of bricks. I
was beginning to unravel, so while neither of my responses to the laundry or calendar were rooted in reality, I did the only reasonable thing a girl could
do at such a moment—I went to the basement to shred old tax documents.</div>
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After half an hour of intense shredding, my equilibrium was
restored. By the time the bags of scrap are carted away by the Recycler, there
will be plenty of space in my soul to breathe, mop the floors and roast
tomatoes for soup.</div>
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We all deal with stress in different ways. Mine is to
marshall the outside in order to manage the chaos within by tidying the
kitchen, stripping my wardrobe of cram, or cleaning the crawl space in the
basement of un-needed detritus. </div>
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So, whether it is a tornado warning, a disagreement, an unexpected hospital visit, or an aggravating news segment, you will probably find me in the basement shredding old tax documents...and praying, because there is no better way to manage stress than to put the matter into hands that can handle it.</div>
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Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568630841434623653.post-14833283018668575112017-03-03T07:30:00.000-06:002017-03-03T07:30:19.883-06:00Kissing Frogs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>t was 1:00 AM and I wanted to finish my book before turning out the light, so I began skimming. That's never a good sign. After fifty pages, I decided the book wasn't worth the loss of sleep. In the morning I decided it wasn't worth the loss of time to finish the last seventy pages and dropped it into the library return pile. I felt cheated. I had neglected housework to read that book, but at least I hadn't gone out on a limb and bought it. I have made that mistake before, bet money on a book I haven't read, and it makes the keen edge of disappointment even more acute when the book turns out to be a bust. Two years ago I bought a popular historical romance with so much bust in it, I dropped it in the trash bin after reading only a quarter of it. There is a difference between trollop and Trollope--it's called codswallop.<br />
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I have spent most of my adult life reading the classics, but, these days, I have been reading and buying more modern literature. By modern I mean books written in the last fifty years--the potential classics of the next century. The upside is that I have discovered some delightful new authors to populate my bookshelf and wax rhapsodic over when someone asks me to recommend a good book. The downside is the trash bin. And that feeling you get when a used car salesman gets the best of you.<br />
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I realize that my personal taste in literature is not by any means the barometer of accepted opinion, after all, I didn't enjoy War and Peace or The Great Gatsby. Who will want to read my blog after an admission like that? But I know what I like and what makes a book worthwhile to me.<br />
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And I also know that a girl's got to kiss a lot of frogs before she finds a prince.<br />
<br />Nib's Endhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00820552995581749771noreply@blogger.com3