tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31440481338067419902024-02-07T06:25:38.395-06:00TesiThe Barefoot AuthorTesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-67271673057821048192013-09-11T17:55:00.001-05:002013-09-11T17:55:43.731-05:00A Prayer for September 11th<h2>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Turn Your Spirit Loose</span></h2>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
O God,<br />
turn your Spirit loose now,<br />
and me with it,<br />
that I may go to where the edge is<br />
to face with you the shape of my mortality:<br />
the inescapable struggle<br />
and loneliness and pain<br />
which remind me<br />
that I am less than god after all,<br />
that you have made me with hard limits,<br />
limits to my strength<br />
my knowledge,<br />
my days.<br />
<br />
Facing those limits, Lord,<br />
grant me grace<br />
to live to the limit<br />
of being unflinchingly alive,<br />
irrepressibly alive,<br />
fully alive,<br />
of experiencing<br />
every fragile,<br />
miraculous,<br />
bloody,<br />
juicy,<br />
aching,<br />
beautiful ounce of being a human being;<br />
of doing my duty<br />
and a little more;<br />
of loving the people around me,<br />
my friends and my enemies;<br />
of humbling myself to take others seriously<br />
and delightedly;<br />
of applying my heart to the wisdom of simplicity,<br />
the freedom of honesty.<br />
<br />
O God,<br />
turn your Spirit loose here,<br />
and me with it,<br />
that I may go to where the silence is<br />
to face with you the utter mystery<br />
of questions without answers,<br />
pain without balm,<br />
sorrow without comfort,<br />
and fears without relief,<br />
which hound my days<br />
and haunt my sleep.<br />
<br />
Facing the mystery, Lord,<br />
grant me grace<br />
to wrestle with it<br />
until I name the fears<br />
and force them to set me free<br />
to move on with whatever limp I'm left with;<br />
to wrestle with it<br />
until the pain teach me<br />
and I befriend it,<br />
until the silence subdues me<br />
into an awareness that it is holy<br />
and I am healed by it;<br />
to wrestle with it<br />
until I go deeper in it<br />
to gratitude<br />
for all the shapes of wholeness<br />
and of hope that bless me.<br />
<br />
O God,<br />
turn your Spirit loose now,<br />
and me with it,<br />
that I may go to where the darkness is<br />
to face with you the terrible uncertainty of tomorrow;<br />
of what will happen,<br />
of what might happen,<br />
to me<br />
and to my children<br />
and to my friends,<br />
to my job,<br />
to my relationships,<br />
to my country;<br />
all that I cannot see, but fantasize,<br />
that I would prevent, but cannot,<br />
and so must accept as possibilities.<br />
Facing the uncertainty, Lord,<br />
grant me grace<br />
to look at it directly and openly and truly,<br />
to laugh at it with crazy faith<br />
in the crazy promise<br />
that nothing can separate me from your love;<br />
to laugh for the joy of it,<br />
the joy of those saving surprises<br />
that also stir in the darkness.<br />
And, so, I trust,<br />
despite the dark uncertainty of tomorrow,<br />
in the light of my todays,<br />
in the cross,<br />
and in a kingdom coming,<br />
and, so, I move on and pray on<br />
with Jesus, my friend and redeemer.<br />
<br />
--Ted Loder, <i>Guerrillas of Grace</i>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-52725431071566732642013-02-19T08:56:00.001-06:002013-02-19T08:56:28.146-06:00Faith Causing the Absence of GodSo, this is what I'm contemplating today. The sense of the absence of God, and how it scares some people away and draws others closer.<br />
<br />
"The more a human being advances in the Christian faith, the more they live the presence of God as an absence, the more they accept to die to the idea of becoming aware of God, of fathoming Him. For they have learned, while advancing, that god is unfathomable. And from then on the presence of God assumes value in their eyes only against the backdrop of absence. The mystic, in his long and complicated pilgrimage, experiences alternately the presence and absence of God. But, by degrees, the absence of God is felt more and more and the mystic understands that this absence is now the norm. Thus the mystic is someone who has had a long-term confrontation with God, like Jacob in the struggle that he \waged all through the night, someone who does not cease to confront God...What the mystic experiences...is a kind of distancing from God in proportion to advances in the deepening of their faith."<br />
-Jean Francois Six<br />
<br />
I'm never quite certain how to respond to people who are doubting God, or abandoning their faith because they don't see Him. Don't hear Him. Don't get any answers to their prayers.<br />
<br />
Partly I don't know how to respond because I feel like they've discovered the greatest secret of the Christian Faith: Many, many of us don't feel God, a lot of the time. And I think the above quote is right, that it's often not the result of doubt--it's the result of faith. Yet, because our churches train us to act as if we NEVER doubt, never feel His absence, never feel lost or abandoned because we don't feel Him as we once did, we're left to believe that because we don't feel Him he left. Or because we don't feel Him, we're doing something wrong. We're left believing that that which often comes as a mark of deepening relationship is exactly the opposite.<br />
<br />
There's a quietness to the faith that carries on in the present absence of God. A gentleness much like sitting beside your lover in a dark room. You don't see them, you aren't talking to them (or if you are, they aren't talking back), yet even though your senses don't perceive their presence...you know they're there. Because sometimes the lights come one, and you have a conversation. But even when you don't...you still know they're there. And it's a gentle, quiet peace. A peace that comes with maturity of relationship, and less...NEED, I guess, of constant reminders. "Yes, I'm here. Yes, I love you. Yes, I'm here. Yes, I love you..." "I KNOW. I know in a way that means you don't need to keep telling me. It's okay. Let's just sit together."<br />
<br />
I'm not sure if this is making any sense. Please feel free to let me know if it is. My head aches again, and I've only just had my tea. So...here's hoping this gives you something to contemplate today as well.<br />
<br />
Shalom.Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-62757060420601545452013-02-11T09:01:00.003-06:002013-02-11T09:01:53.166-06:00Remember Your Song<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>It's Saint Caedmon's Day.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Caedmon (died 680 A.D.) lived in Ireland in a time when history, news, entertainment, life and love were all shared by word of mouth, and by music. Ballads passed down from generation to generation carried the life-blood of the People.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>But Caedmon couldn't sing. Couldn't play a note, couldn't even remember a story in the proper order. When his turn came, so the story goes, he would panic; words would get jumbled, notes lost, and singing would come to a standstill if he even tried to join. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>So he began to avoid any situation in which he might be called upon to sing. One night, having left a warm, joyful hall full of singing lest the harp be passed to him, he fell asleep on his bed in the cattle shed, where he'd gone to sleep with the beasts. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>In his dreams a man came to him, and stood before him. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>"Sing for me, Caedmon," he said. "Sing for me."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>"I can't sing," Caedmon protested. "Why do you think I'm out here, instead of at the feast?"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>"Sing anyway. Sing for me."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>"I don't know what to sing."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>"Sing about the beginning of the world, and sing about creation."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>And so Caedmon sang. In his dream, before the man who had called on him to sing, he sang a song of love and praise to the Father of Heaven, Creator of All. And, in his dream, the song was so beautiful as to draw tears from the hearer.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>But when he woke, the song was still with him, and he sang it for everyone who would hear. The story of Caedmon tells us that he sang for poor and rich, educated and simple, man and woman and child. He sang the stories of the Creator, the stories of Love. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>And so the man who couldn't speak a story, much less sing one, became the carrier of the greatest Story, because when told to open his mouth, he trusted that the song would be there.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And so today, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> we think of those whose song is unsung, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> and pray that they find their music</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> we think of our own song</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> and ask if we have sung it well</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> and if not, we take a breath</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> and ask for grace</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> and open our mouths to sing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>I cannot speak, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>unless You loose my tongue;</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>I only stammer,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>and I speak uncertainly;</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>but if You touch my mouth,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>my Lord, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>then I will sing the story</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>of Your wonders!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Teach me to hear that story,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>through each person,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>to cradle a sense of wonder</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>in their life,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>to honour the hard-earned wisdom</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>of their sufferings</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>to waken their joy</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>that the King of all kings</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>stoops down</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>to wash their feet,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>and looking up</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>into their face</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>says,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>'I know--I understand'</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>This world has become</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>a world of broken dreams</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>where dreamers are hard to find</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>and friends are few</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Lord, be the gatherer of our dreams.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>You set the countless stars in place,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>and found room for each of them to shine.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>You listen for us in Your heaven-bright hall.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Open our mouths to tell our tales of wonder.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Teach us again the greatest story ever:</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>the One who made the worlds </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>became a little, helpless child...</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>So many who have heard</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>forget to tell the Story.</i></span><br />
<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> --Adapted from Celtic Daily Prayer</i><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i> From the Northumbria Community</i></span>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-75959549569846711892013-01-28T10:05:00.001-06:002013-01-28T10:05:18.778-06:00Praise Be to You for LifePraise be to you, O Lord, for life<br />
and for my intense desire to live;<br />
praise be to you for the mystery of love<br />
and for my intense desire to be a lover;<br />
praise be to you for this day<br />
and another chance to live and love.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Lord,<br />
for friends who stake their claim in my heart,<br />
for enemies who disturb my soul and bump my ego,<br />
for tuba players, <br />
and story tellers,<br />
and trapeze troupes.<br />
Thank you, Lord,<br />
for singers of songs,<br />
for teachers of songs,<br />
who help me sing along the way,<br />
...and for listeners.<br />
thank you, Lord,<br />
for those who attempt beauty<br />
rather than curse ugliness,<br />
for those who take stands<br />
rather than take polls,<br />
for those who risk being right<br />
rather than pandering to be liked,<br />
for those who do something<br />
rather than talking about everything.<br />
<br />
Lord, grant me grace, then,<br />
and a portion of your spirit<br />
that I may so live<br />
as to give others cause<br />
to be thankful for me,<br />
thankful because I have not forgotten<br />
how to hope<br />
how to laugh<br />
how to say, "I'm sorry,"<br />
how to forgive,<br />
how to bind up wounds,<br />
how to dream,<br />
how to cry,<br />
how to pray,<br />
how to love when it is hard,<br />
and how to dare when it is dangerous.<br />
Undamn me, Lord,<br />
that praise may flow more easily from me<br />
than wants,<br />
thanks more readily<br />
than complaints.<br />
Praise be to you, Lord, for life;<br />
praise be to you for another chance to live.<br />
<br />
--From Guerrillas of Grace<br />
<br />
A prayer for those I love, and for myself. May the Peace of Christ be with you this day.<br />
In the name of the Father, gracious<br />
the Son, loving<br />
the Spirit, convicting.<br />
<br />
Precious three-in-one.<br />
<br />
Amen.Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-35345919818335060802013-01-27T13:20:00.003-06:002013-01-27T13:20:58.196-06:00I Need to Breathe Deeply<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Eternal Friend,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">grant me an ease</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">to breathe deeply of this moment, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> this light,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> this miracle of now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Beneath the din and fury</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> of great movements</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> and harsh news</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> and urgent crises,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">make me attentive still</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> to good news,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> to small occasions,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> and the grace of what is possible</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> for me to be,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> to do,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> to give,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> to receive,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">that I may miss neither my neighbor's gift</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> nor my enemy's need.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> --From <i>Guerrillas of Grace: Prayers for the Battle</i> by Ted Loder</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This is my newest discovery, a book of prayers that bring me to my knees by their beauty and their understanding. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I want to say things like this. I want to write things that make others understand God, themselves and the world better. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I tried doing that last night, though I'm not sure if I succeeded. I'm working on it again today, but writing real things about real life is hard. Pain, mistakes, God, hope, darkness...good things to share but hard sometimes to unearth and put on paper. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Sometimes saying other people's prayers helps.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Amen.</span><br />
<br />Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-73603068246474995172012-09-08T15:43:00.000-05:002012-09-08T15:43:03.678-05:00The Cracks Let Out the Light <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I found this in my Celtic prayer book last August, but last summer was full of love and dancing, so I am not sure I really got to process it thoroughly. Today, as I read it again, I'm reminded of the vulnerability of walking barefoot through the world. Opening yourself to picking up thorns along the way. To feeling what you walk through without the protection of shoes. It feels like the same idea to me...what about you?</span><div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"We are called to intentional, deliberate vulnerability." <i>Rule of the Northumbria Community</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"I had a vision of a house. Every time a crack appeared in the wall, or damage in the house, I dashed out to repair it as quickly as I possibly could, like most of us do, so that the inside of the house was protected and kept safe from the weather and the storms. And the Lord said to me, 'This is what your Christian life is like. Whenever any cracks appear in the wall that has been built up around about you over the years by the world and by yourself you dash out and fill in the cracks so that no one is able to see what is inside. But i want the world to be able to see what is inside. I want to be able to come in through the cracks in your life and I am not going to fill them up either, I am going to flow in and out of these cracks. So when you see the cracks appear in your life, do not rush out and fill them in. Let Me come in."</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <i>David Mattches</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I know I have filled cracks. Even after God has flowed into them, I've patched them up carefully so as to prevent anyone from seeing that I <i>had</i> cracks that God <i>had</i> to come in through. But if the cracks are sealed, God can't shine out of them, can He? Be weak, for then He is strong? Glorify Him in your weakness? Admit what you cannot do--let others see you admitting it--so that when you do more than you can on your own, they know it to be God? It's not a fun thought, but maybe it's an important one?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was reminded again this week how scared I am of being out of control of my emotions. Instability is one of the things i hate the most, because I feel like a failure when I can't be immediately available to everyone who needs me. But more and more I'm reminded that instability is <i>human, </i>and if I want to help those who experience it, I can't say ANYthing if they think I'm always in complete control. Hard thought, but maybe an important one? </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-37219559063674528552012-08-20T22:16:00.003-05:002012-08-20T22:18:19.187-05:00We Walk Barefoot Together<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It's not really a day for words. There are words somewhere; good words about stories and about Story, but they're still sitting in a dark corner in the back of my mind, cloaks pulled up to hide their faces as they puff at their pipe and wait to be named. Soon, maybe, they'll save me from the shadow and reveal their true intentions. But for now, I just have pictures. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This is the day I began to share my Journey with my Love. June 2, 2012. </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Harrington; font-size: 14.0pt; font-weight: bold; language: en-US; line-height: 113%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-ascii-font-family: Harrington; mso-default-font-family: Harrington; mso-latin-font-family: Harrington;">Why are we barefoot?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Harrington; font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 113%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-ascii-font-family: Harrington; mso-default-font-family: Harrington; mso-latin-font-family: Harrington;"> Being barefoot carries very personal symbolism for us. All our lives we have felt close to nature and being barefoot lets us connect to the earth in a way that the insulation of shoes does not allow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="en-US" style="font-family: Harrington; font-size: 12.0pt; language: en-US; line-height: 113%; mso-ansi-language: en-US; mso-ascii-font-family: Harrington; mso-default-font-family: Harrington; mso-latin-font-family: Harrington;"> Spiritually, being barefoot expresses a knowledge that we are on Holy Ground, standing naked and vulnerable before our Father and Creator. The act of going “barefoot through life” also represents a </span><span style="font-family: Harrington; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 113%;">desire to connect deeply—to feel everything and always be able to be hurt—or to enjoy—each experience that comes our way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I said it better in the last entry, but sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. We have been given Love. We know beauty and pain, hope and faith, loss and second chances. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br />And now we walk together. Barefoot, through the perils of the world. Will you take off your shoes with us?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-72342307302357467652011-12-14T12:14:00.000-06:002011-12-14T12:14:00.172-06:00Just jumped back down and read what I had to say on May 31. And...wow. I don't like to consider myself prophetic, but...that was exactly what my June 1 and 2 self needed to hear. God is awe inspiring, and His hand of preparation is sometimes impossible to miss.Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-74776123125196778562011-12-14T11:34:00.001-06:002011-12-14T11:40:36.045-06:00Walking Barefoot With Someone...May 31 is a day that makes me smile. Not because it was the last day I paid any attention to the blog-world (and any of you out there who might be reading what I have to say), but because it's the day before everything in my life changed. My world in April and May of this year, was very literary. I read so many books...was writing a couple times a week (which is really often, for me)...having trouble making time to be dragged out of my little tower-room for real-life interaction.<br />
<br />
And then June 1 happened.<br />
<br />
Not very many people want to walk through life barefoot. It's easy, if you're not used to being barefoot, to pick up thorns or stumble into something dirty that you're likely to carry with you for a while. It's not a risk most people are willing to take. Women prance through life in heels so tall they aren't even touching the ground. Men stomp through in heavy boots, oblivious of what they might be crushing or run through in athletic shoes specially designed to keep them from feeling the ground when they do touch it. Other people shuffle through in ragged Wal-Mart shoes, doing the best they can to just stay upright.<br />
<br />
When you're barefoot, you notice shoes. And you notice when someone is wearing them awkwardly. Because sometimes, people wear shoes just because they've never been told they could take them off.<br />
<br />
June 1 of this year, I had a conversation with someone from another life. Someone I knew and loved once long, long ago. I hadn't learned to take my shoes off, back then, and I didn't know enough to recognize that he was wearing his just to stay upright. All I knew, then, was that if we tried to walk very far together, we'd trip over each other and both end up with bloodied knees. He was sure if I held his hand we wouldn't fall, but I knew better and said so often enough that he eventually turned and walked away.<br />
<br />
Life is funny, so they say. True love will not be denied and all that. I'm not so convinced that's true and I've always scoffed at the <i>Ever After</i> idea that we are all meant to find <i>the one</i> for us. Yet, here I am, living a story as beautiful as any a fantasy author could have devised. Because, after we'd walked apart for long enough...after I'd learned the beauty of living barefoot in intimate connection with the living, breathing world...after he'd changed his shoes a couple times and still not found a pair that felt right...we walked back into each other's lives.<br />
<br />
It's been a beautiful summer. A summer full of flowing rivers and sunlight through oak leaves and long talks under the stars. Tents and moss and friends and family, tea at sunrise atop a rock to the roar of the highway while all the hotel guests watch us from behind the glass of their CNN-filled dining room and wonder why we're crazy. Kisses in the rain, tears at the remembrance of harder times, countless hours in the car learning each other through conversations that we hope will never stop.<br />
<br />
And, once he knew he could, my Love took his shoes off.<br />
<br />
He still puts them back on, some days. When he needs a little extra security or he's not quite sure where we're going to be walking next. But most days we walk barefoot, in and out of the lives of those we love, hands clasped, fingers entwined.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, when you walk barefoot and the world thinks you're crazy and you're tired of looking for someone to walk barefoot with you, you figure it must be easier and better to do it alone.<br />
<br />
But sometimes your Creator reminds you that you don't know quite as much as you think you do and steps into your life to teach you something beautifully new. Today, for me, that means walking barefoot with someone: pointing out the bits of ground to avoid stepping on, apologizing when I tread on his toes, reminding him that I don't mind when he steps on mine and smiling bigger than I ever have before when he pulls me into his arms and shows me how to dance.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My Love and I will be married next summer. Barefoot.</div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-89101595067199464482011-05-31T18:01:00.000-05:002011-05-31T18:01:05.739-05:00In the ebb...and in the flow...Because this is what I was reading today, and I found it to be amazing. I find myself enchanted by cycles and rhythms of all kinds, and the sea is one of the most compelling there is. Everything, I find, turns in a rhythm. Call it a cycle, or the Wheel of Time, or whatever you like; what is, has been before, what is past will come again. The question is--will you fight it? Or embrace the beauty of it?<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>"So beautiful is the still hour of the sea's withdrawal, as beautiful as the sea's return when encroaching waves pound up the beach, pressing to reach those dark rumpled chains of seaweed which mark the last high tide.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>"We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanence, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity -- in freedom, in the sense that dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern. The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hopng even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what it was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now."</i></span><br />
<br />
-Anne Morrow Lindbergh, <i>Gift from the Sea</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Posted by TesiTesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-46894885301621766952011-05-23T22:45:00.001-05:002011-05-23T22:46:50.539-05:00Another example...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Yet another re-write I'm pretty proud of. This morning, this is how the paragraph read:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 4.5pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 9.0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sabas didn't disappoint. He lifted gently, rising above the trees, moving toward the circling sarkan, ready to return. A touch and a word from Devyn turned him and sent him back to the wreck of the camp. It reeked of drying blood, but Sabas didn't hesitate as he dropped into the space between the trees. Carefully, as if he knew the need, he wrapped his great talons around the men and lifted them with him to the sky. The weight was awkward, slowing him, but he took his place at the front and the others fell into line behind him, flying into the darkest part of the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">And now:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">The clearing was a shrine to carnage. It reeked of fresh blood, putrifying as it soaked into the thirsty dirt. Twisted bodies lay where they had fallen, pieces torn away and thrown aside or missing entirely. Devyn wanted to close his eyes, to pull Sabas away and return without seeing. On raids, he was always one of the first to call his sarkan back--back to the emptiness of the sky. The men thought it was so he could keep watch.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">His empty stomach turned and he tasted the acid of sickness in his throat. <i>This is your fault. Your fault. Your </i><i>fault. </i>It was no longer his father's voice, in his head. Now, in the dead darkness, it was his own.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Swallowing down the burning in his throat, Devyn gently guided Sabas lower, until he was close enough for his voice to carry to the ground.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">"Go back to your sarkan! Stay clear of the trees!" Shadowy movement within the copse told him he'd been heard and he let Sabas swing away and pull up again, circling. The other sarkan were high above them; Devyn thought he could feel their riders' eyes on his back, watching. Waiting. Hoping they weren't about to see their companions slaughtered.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">The men had moved into the clearing, the corpse of their sarkan a wall between them and the dead. Devyn shifted Sabas' reins to his left hand and leaned forward as far as he could, his hand running gently along Sabas' neck. It was still tacky with blood.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">"We need to bring them home, Sabas." Did the sarkan cock his head back to listen? Or was it Devyn's imagination? "Will you help me bring them home?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">A light touch on the reins drew Sabas into the drop. Wings open to slow his fall, he drifted toward the men with a cautiousness Devyn had never seen him use. Carefully, as if he knew the need, he wrapped his great talons around the men and lifted them with him to the sky. The weight was awkward, throwing him off balance, but he compensated quickly and was more than ready when Devyn signaled their return home.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Of course, it's longer now, but...I'm pretty sure it's worth it. :-)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Copyright 2011, by Tesi</span>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-37855141405886526732011-05-22T01:26:00.003-05:002011-05-22T01:29:57.901-05:00Rewriting<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, I'm in the re-write stage of my WIP. Some days this is just frustrating, because what I <i>really </i>want to be doing is making <i>new</i> story, but I'm stuck making an "old" story <i>better</i>. Other days, I find myself relieved to get to fix bad writing. It's sort of like sweeping my carpeted stairs. I hate doing it, I put it off for weeks, but when I do it--when they're <i>clean</i>, I wonder why I didn't realize earlier what a difference it would make to clean them up. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(I would use mopping my floors as an analogy here, but I'm currently in the midst of a frustrating can't-find-soap-that-doesn't-leave-a-film-on-my-wood-floor experience, so the analogy would just fail miserably.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But as a taste, here's two paragraphs--before and after. I'd be interested to know what you think of the difference three re-writes make. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 4.5pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 9.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 4.5pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 9.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Devyn's band left with the moonrise, dropping into the darkness below the plateau before lifting far above the camp. Sabas met the sky with eagerness as they turned toward the moon, swollen and red with its own new life. His wings cut through the air in heavy strokes, the deep <i>whump</i> of their motion reverberating through Devyn's bones. Reaching up, he adjusted the leather goggles Captain had brought back from a recent trip to the market. Devyn wasn't sure if he liked the goggles, but fiddling with them served as a distraction from the voice in his head. It was a familiar voice, one he attributed to his father, though he wasn't sure any more if that was true or just a story that gave him comfort. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 4.5pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 9.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Red moon," it said, quietly. "Blood will be shed this night. Blood will be shed."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After:</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The moon hovered above the black horizon, swollen and red with new life against the ash grey sky. Sabas rose into the sky eagerly, his muscles tight with anticipation. His wings cut through the hot air in heavy strokes, their beat pulsing through Devyn like a heartbeat. Devyn closed his eyes and let the rush of air run fingers through his hair and over his body, wishing it could pull away the voice in his mind, too. His father's voice, he had always thought, though he wasn't sure, anymore, if it or he just wanted it to be. Either way, he didn't like what it was saying tonight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"Red moon," </i>it was whispering, over and over.<i> "Blood will be shed this night. Blood will be shed."</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I find it interesting that, frequently, re-writing consists greatly of removing words. Trimming the fat, I guess--saying more with less. I think I managed that here but, as I said, I'd be interested in your thoughts. Meanwhile, I'm going to bed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After I finish sweeping my stairs.</span></div><div><br />
</div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-76290783451973571012011-04-27T20:40:00.002-05:002011-04-27T21:13:39.009-05:00Reading<div><br /></div>So, I've been reading this week. Voraciously, in fact, and it feels SO NICE. It's been a really long time since I've been lost in a novel, and the experience is reminding me why it is that I like to write. Want to write. Need to write.<div><br /></div><div>Yes, I hear your question. The answer is, <i>Clockwork Angel</i> by Cassandra Clare. Young Adult Fantasy novel, if you're unfamiliar with Clare. <i>Angel</i> is the first of her <i>Infernal Devices</i> series. She became successful with her <i>Mortal Instruments</i> series, which I haven't read. True to my habit, I picked up the first of the prequel series, rather than the first of the series that's completed. (Or <i>was</i> completed--<i>Mortal Instruments</i> was a trilogy, but I understand the fourth book was just published...which makes it not a trilogy any more, of course.) The reason for this is that <i>Devices</i> is set in 1878 London, whereas <i>Instruments</i> is set in 2007 New York. If you don't know why this is an important distinction for me, you don't know enough about my literary interests. (We can fix that...)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway...<i>Clockwork Angel</i> was...amazing. Utterly fantastic. Cassandra Clare manages to write a strongly character-driven book, while simultaneously doing an excellent job of producing an engrossing plot. And, of course, absolutely gorgeously bloody fight scenes. Mmmm. The last time I felt this way about a book was <i>The Wizard Hunters</i> by Martha Wells. Ironically, both are steam-punk/fantasy books, but I don't <i>think</i> the steam-punk element has anything to do with how much I like them. Or maybe it does, and I haven't figure it out yet. I'll have to think about that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Either way, Reading <i>Angel</i> has taught me several things about myself, which I am shortly going to scuttle off to apply. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>1-I really, really, really like character driven books. (This is not new news.)</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>2-I <i>love</i> books where two young men play off each other well. This especially works when one of the guys has a sarcastic, or ironic sense of humor, and the other finds him a little ridiculous but is completely capable of matching him wit for wit, when necessary. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>3-I like books with a touch of romance. (Also not exactly new news...but the trick is that I really don't like books where the romance drives the plot. I like its use as an undercurrent stressor.)</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>4-Black leather, swords and blood-soaked long hair are awesome. And I need to be less careful of the blood in my writing. It's there, it belongs, I need to let the reader see it.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>5-The books I'm writing are YA Fantasy. <i>This</i> is a revelation to me. Last year, when I pitched my book to an agent (who was very interested in the premise), she asked me what my target audience was, and I didn't know how to answer. I almost said YA Fantasy, but then I thought about the content in some of it, and wasn't sure. I'm still not 100% sure if that will push it into the adult category, but I think YA really is what I'm writing for...and that's just fine. I <i>like</i> YA Fantasy, a lot. I like how it tends to be less pretentious than Adult Fantasy, how it tends to be a little more <i>fun</i>. I like how the worlds are a little easier to enter, often times, and the battles end up being a little more personal and a little less epic. I like how it's read, and enjoyed, by people from 10-40. (Obviously, none of that's true of <i>all </i>YA or <i>all</i> Adult, but I think in <i>general </i>it seems to be true.)</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Also, I <i>like</i> writing--and reading--about 16-25 year olds, especially the ones who've lived a lot of life before getting to their age. There's something intriguing about the age when one is crossing from childhood to adulthood; something magical about coming alive and <i>becoming</i>; something entrancing about the vitality and enthusiasm--the lack of self-preservation instinct, if you will--that runs high at that age. And something particularly tragic about a 17 year old who believes they've irreparably destroyed their life. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so, this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to write more blood. I'm going to figure out a way to infuse humor, and play Devyn and Obram off one another better. I'm going to be at peace with the romantic tension between Devyn and Tahira (like the blood, it's there and it belongs, and I need to let the readers see it). And I'm going to work on the intensity of my plot.</div><div><br /></div><div>So...bye! Off I go!</div><div><br /></div><div>Copyright 2011, by Tesi</div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-64418791904143746262011-03-19T13:10:00.005-05:002011-03-19T13:15:24.859-05:00Airport MusicBeen holding onto this picture for three months, trying to figure out how to write it. Realized yesterday that it's supposed to be a poem. Not sure how it works (poetry isn't my forté), but here it is for your enjoyment. Comments welcome.<div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">Airport Music<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">Walking with my head down,<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">carpet tiles rush toward me,<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">then disappear behind.<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">People part around me.<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">I am alone<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">with myself<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">not speaking.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">The music twines through them<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">past my invisible barrier<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">inviting itself in<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">without asking<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">it touches me<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">then dances away<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">unseen.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">I look up to see<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">only nameless<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">people<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">walking<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">with their heads down<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">too.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">The music reaches out<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">again<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">lifting my head<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">with teasing fingers.<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">It’s the soundtrack<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">of a beautiful European movie<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">where something<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">magical happens.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">I want it to be real.<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">More than I’ve wanted<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">anything<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">in days.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">I’m walking with my head up<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">looking for the magician<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">who could make such beautiful music,<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">afraid I’ll walk past a certain point<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">and the music will retreat<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">and I’ll will know it was electronic,<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">piped in and fake<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">all along.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">The people part like curtains<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">and the magician is revealed<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">(dressed in black<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">like all good magicians)<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">sitting on a stool<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">with a violin.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">I gave him money.<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">For bringing magic<br /></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">to my world.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;tab-stops:.25in .5in .75in 1.0in 1.25in 1.5in 1.75in 2.0in 2.25in 2.5in 2.75in 3.0in 3.25in 3.5in 3.75in 4.0in 4.25in 4.5in 4.75in 5.0in 5.25in 5.5in 5.75in 6.0in 6.25in 6.5in 6.75in 7.0in 7.25in 7.5in 7.75in 8.0in; mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">He winked at me.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">Portland, Oregon January 2011<br />Copyright March 19, 2011<br />by Tesi<o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-14612439731237889512010-12-18T01:59:00.003-06:002010-12-18T02:03:23.153-06:00Thank You!<div>A big "Thank you!" to everyone who's been reading, and especially those who're commenting!! I've opened the blog to allow anonymous comments, because some people don't have any of the required accounts, and I'd LOVE to hear from you whether you do or not...but that means I've been getting a lot of anonymous comments. </div><div><br /></div><div>So...if you're commenting, and not signing in, please be aware that your comments are coming up without a name, so I don't know who's reading, or what you think. If this is your goal...keep on doing it. I love to hear what you have to say either way!! </div><div><br /></div><div>But if you're someone I know, and would like to identify yourself...I'd love to know who you are! Just put your name (first is fine) in the body of your comment before posting it, ok? </div><div><br /></div><div>:-)</div><div><br /></div><div>Again...thanks!! I'm approaching done with Christmas-making (well...haven't started the Christmas BAKING yet...) and so hopefully will get a chance to finish some of the essays I have sitting in Word unfinished. Look for new posts soon!</div><div><br /></div><div>Tesi</div><div><br /></div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-61446753405110469082010-12-08T11:48:00.004-06:002010-12-08T11:52:30.313-06:00Risking<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "></span></i></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Another bit of non-fiction for those of you who've been liking my memoir work. This one is a bit more spiritually focused than the last one--would love to know what you think. --Tesi</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I believe the first truly independent, adult thing I ever did was offer hitch hikers a ride. I was maybe 23 and still living with my parents. It was a Sunday in the summer—church picnic day. In true Pentecostal style, we converged on the city park, crock pots in hand, all set for Wiffle Ball, sticky desserts and indistinguishable casseroles.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >An hour later, our appetites satiated, arguing politics and childrearing, I glanced up at the road in time to spot two travelers walking past. I knew they weren’t locals; Tiff and I had spotted them after church. It was impossible we wouldn’t have noticed them; the bright tie-dye shirt, the long dirty-blonde hair, the backpacks. They were walking through town, carefully not hitching but being hassled by the cops anyway. In our rural mid-west town, they were foreign.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“They’ve been walking all day,” someone remarked, gesturing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Saw them before church. Drove them across town. The one in tie dye has blisters on his feet.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Wonder where they’re going?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Cops told them not to hang around. They’re supposed to go right through town.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Yeah.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Glancing across the picnic table, I caught Tiffany’s eye. Hands flashing a few quick signs, she nodded in response to my silent message. Wish we could invite them to eat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I wondered if anyone else had thought of it. Here were two strangers, hungry, ragged, tired. They were walking past our picnic; tables of food left and all of us replete with our meal, cold drinks on a hot day, and a mass of Christians laughing and playing together. What better opportunity to follow Christ?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Should we ask them?</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > Signing again. Taking advantage of being surrounded by hearing people, unable to sign.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I don’t know—<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Would the pastor mind?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >It’s not really </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >our</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > picnic…</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > Tiffany grimaced.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But they’re probably hungry…we have plenty…<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I know…<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I wish…<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Me too…</span></span></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We sat and watched them walk by, wishing someone else would speak. Someone in charge. Someone less on the outskirts than us. Someone older, who was supposed to be modeling Christ-following to us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >No one did.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >They talked about them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >They pointed at them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >They wondered about them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But no one asked them to eat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >They didn’t belong. Who knew where they were from? And there were kids here, at the picnic…what kind of example would it be…?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And so they walked by.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Half an hour later, Tiff and I gathered up our contribution to the feast and headed for home, our minds buzzing with the scolding of opportunity missed. We should have been bold. We could have set an example. The parents might have been angry. They might have felt their safety violated. It’s a picnic—we’re on vacation. This is our time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Right?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We should have at least asked someone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We hadn’t made it two miles before we saw the bright tie dye ahead, trudging wearily along the shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Now, let me digress for just a moment, and tell you something about my parents.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My mom and dad were very, very careful parents. They heard stories, when we were young, about children being kidnapped. Terrible stories, about terrible things being done to innocent people. Rape. Murder. Injury. Theft. And they set about making sure that none of those things ever happened to us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Growing up, we lived on the end of eight miles of black top road. Our nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away. We knew everyone who lived within five miles of us, and they knew us. We all watched out for each other. As children, we were allowed to walk to the end of the driveway to check the mail. We were allowed to play in the woods. But never, ever, under any circumstances were we allowed to go onto the black top without a parent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >When I was seventeen, I asked permission to go on a camping trip alone with my best friend, another seventeen year old girl. We knew my parents would be hard to convince, so we made as reasonable of a plan as we could. We’d go in the evening, to the campground on the river. Three-quarters of a mile from my house, it was owned by good friends of my parents. They’d watch out for us. We were even willing to offer to stay in one of the camp sites nearest the campground office, where our friends lived, if my parents required it. I felt sure we had a fail-proof plan for Naomi’s birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My dad said no.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“You’re only seventeen! And there won’t be any adults!!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I had never, ever, ever considered picking up a hitchhiker before.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Never.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Hitchhikers kill people. I read it in Reader’s Digest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But there was that tie dye t-shirt. The one that was on the body of that man with blisters on his feet. The one I hadn’t offered a ride to, after Church. The one I hadn’t offered food or a cold drink to, at the picnic. The one I was being given a third chance to help.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My heart started hammering. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. Beside me, I could feel Tiffany tense, and knew she’d seen them. I had only a moment to decide.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I waited too long.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We flew past them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Um…” It wasn’t a word from Tiff; just a sound. But I knew what it meant. Because I knew she was right.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Should we offer them a ride?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Um…” only a momentary pause. “Yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“I thought so.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A mile past them by now, I pulled off and executed an illegal U-turn in on the highway. My first ever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >As I U-turned again and pulled up behind them, I looked at Tiff and she looked at me, the fear in our faces diluted by the certainty that we were doing the right thing. Beyond that, we were doing the thing God had told us to do. And HE was going to take care of us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Um…” I paused. The words came hard. I was unused to saying them. “Don’t tell mom, okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >An enthusiastic nod from Tiffany. “I won’t!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >As it turned out, they did want a ride. We offered them fruit salad. It was all we had left of the picnic. They liked it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And they didn’t kill us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >* * *<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I never told my mom we picked up hitchhikers on a hot summer afternoon and drove them for ten miles before dropping them on the side of the road. If she’s reading this now, it might be the first time she’s heard of it. I never told her of making our way home, hearts hammering with the fear of what we’d done and the dizzy ecstasy of having risked our own safety, even our lives, to follow what we both knew Christ had told us to do. I didn’t think she’d understand how important that moment was for us. I’m not completely sure we understood it, at the time. We just knew it was big.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Choosing to offer an air-conditioned ride to two tired travelers may not seem like a life-changing event. For us, it was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >That day was the first time, ever, I chose to do something those around me considered dangerous—unsafe—foolish—because I believed God had told me to do so. Because someone needed me to risk myself to show love to them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We didn’t tell those men about God. We didn’t explain the salvation message to them before we’d let them out of the car. But we did love them, more than we loved ourselves. And that was the beginning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Be fore-warned. When you let God know you’re willing to risk your own comfort, your own safety, your own stuff to follow him, He takes advantage. When Tiffany and I moved into our own place the summer after the hitchhikers, God started really working on us. We set up housekeeping in a little three bedroom house on the end of a street, happily arranging the third room as a sewing room/office, and looking forward to enjoying our new space.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Then we asked God to use our home in whatever way He chose.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Never do that if you aren’t ready for the answer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >There was the seventeen year old girl running away from drug dealers and trying to get clean. She’d done things in her short life that I’d only heard of, and could never imagine doing. After all, I’d gotten in trouble for bicycling two miles from my parents house, when I was seventeen. I certainly never imagined being an exotic dancer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And then there was the friend with Borderline Personality Disorder who had lost her apartment after the police had to break a window to get in during her last suicide attempt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And the friend who didn’t have anywhere to go but the bed in our basement, and couldn’t really ever manage to tell us she wasn’t okay until her bleeding arms made the fact very clear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The teenage boy who had an issue with stealing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The teenage girl who asked me to sit with her until she wouldn’t need to cut herself any more, after she got the call that her cousin had killed herself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The “wild child” whose overworked mother had trouble keeping track of him, and who needed somewhere to land. Who knew that he would become our brother and we would, eventually, be blessed to offer his mother somewhere to stay when she needed it?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >One by one they came. They’re still coming.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Have we been hurt? Not really. Our house was broken into once. They stole Tiff’s Swiss Army knife, my purity ring, and some tithe money. (We figure that, between the purity ring and the tithe money, it’sreally God’s to avenge, not ours.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We’ve lost $20 here or there. We’ve paid car insurance for roommates that have never paid it back. We’ve had our cars wrecked. We’ve lost sleep. We had to move the sewing machine into a corner of the living room. We’ve cried. We’ve had to learn how to love softly and how to love tough. We’ve had hard confrontations. We’ve learned a lot. And God has been with us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >That seventeen year old? She’s clean, sober and in a stable relationship with a good man, while showing the world just what a great mom she can be.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The teenage boy with the stealing problem? He popped in yesterday, all glowing and enthusiastic, to tell us how much he’s changing and how the “new me” is starting to emerge. He’s crediting the amount of time he’s been spending in prayer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The wild child? He’s taking the first step toward realizing his dream of becoming a counselor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And us? We’re just waiting for God to tell us where He wants us…and who He wants us with…next.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Oh—and the last time I was at a church picnic in the park, and there was food leftover? We invited the skater kids over to share in it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And we didn’t even ask anyone for permission first.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in; line-height: 24px; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>--Copyright 2010, Tesi</span></span></span></p></i></span><p></p>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-31541629814212882872010-11-23T23:35:00.004-06:002010-11-23T23:50:10.663-06:00Magical November Nights<div style="text-align: center;"><u><br /></u></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIsflObFktLacQE1WEq53Lo9XJSlzDmkrQyzHOBWZHjtzgVWG7J-7y6hQoFUDhA2sFBg6pWHocvosbc_pcbwN0-319GRuks-qVbFTPDdzsqKu54VtrRqNB0yqodFmd66lEgDYy5vYkZJW/s1600/1121102120-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIsflObFktLacQE1WEq53Lo9XJSlzDmkrQyzHOBWZHjtzgVWG7J-7y6hQoFUDhA2sFBg6pWHocvosbc_pcbwN0-319GRuks-qVbFTPDdzsqKu54VtrRqNB0yqodFmd66lEgDYy5vYkZJW/s320/1121102120-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542986458595607426" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">The world is so quiet, on a Sunday night before Thanksgiving. The full moon peeks out behind racing clouds, coy as a scarf dancer allowing only a glimpse of herself to be seen before the filmy fabric of clouds is whisked back in front of her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s so warm the trees think it’s spring; buds adorn the tips of branches that still haven’t lost this year’s leaves. They stand out against the back sky like so many little candles, lit by the orange glow of the streetlight. I sit cross-legged on the concrete, dead leaves at my feet, marveling at trees whose leaves are still green—and gold—and red—awed that branches which should be naked are instead bedecked with the hope of spring.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A gentle breeze rustles the remaining leaves, whisking away the sounds that try to intrude on the silence of this November night. It’s a night for magic. Not the showy make-an-elephant-appear-out-of-thin-air kind of magic; a quiet magic of the kind that takes your corner of the world and lifts it into somewhere you’ve been but can’t quite remember. It’s Venice on a dark night, threatening rain. It’s Cincinnati on Christmas Eve, with Belgian waffles and bitter lattes. It’s a cobbled plaza in Rome, a back street in Dublin, a secret corner of an old walled city in Spain. It’s that place where you stand still for a moment, feeling life and time part around you like a stream parting for a boulder as you just…watch. Silent. Listening. Not sure what you might hear.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhvaEx-FEwLzexu4MK4QK-Cs-hziG-6p44b0lFBeHv0mcbPekW6UmUx8SVWSldwUERqphqlLspTwAxlDzgbskY3FOr1gs8oz_8MZs_3Erwj08kyaC-h3rjYMHbiBrQEA_eeynaDBSLocoi/s320/1121102130-02.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542986478739633218" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;">The shop windows are all decorated for Christmas, each pane of glass revealing a snapshot of a world that only exists in children’s books and fairy tales. It whispers of steadfast tin soldiers and velveteen rabbits, of cats with bells around their necks and little engines that can. Lights sparkle off every shiny surface, carrying the magic of ten-thousand Christmases and the children who have fallen asleep beneath them, dreaming of the moment when they will wake to the most magical day of all. Christmas.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7V6NBuVm3bXa1w9yPbIxCKNXNO4pefON6kUrxMQSWZMdSIk9UNzEiesV0wXXT37u6l4B-QQtztpa45iDNlWLKtIKlaWNoL2lnY6PfBNTolbPQnnwU4mIQhCsqTKZm_1dtI3-xi2v9bENN/s320/1121102130-00.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's too beautiful to be indoors, yet not a single person is out. I could be in a ghost town or on the set of a Ronald Reagan movie after all the actors have gone home. Perhaps it’s too late in the year for anyone to think about walking the streets after dark; or perhaps they’ve all gone home for the holiday. Maybe they’ve all just…disappeared.</div> <p class="MsoNormal">Curtains are open, though; lighted rooms on display for anyone who cares to look. I stand on the corner for a long moment, watching the empty windows of the apartment I dream of living in someday. I wonder if it’s empty now, and think of asking before I remember that I’m a grown up, paying mortgage on a house with three roommates and a dozen animals. Never mind; it’s a night for dreaming and so I dream of living there, a floor above everyone below, windows open to the world, watching the comings and goings of lives comingling silently. Watching, not entering. Just watching and dreaming stories, writing them down by candle light as the wind whispers at my windows and a cat circles my ankles. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Someday</i>. I think to myself, then wonder if I mean it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Someday.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ZZjfj7zEPbkQPFFsM7Uhcga-cCGwUbyFPiDYIwBwtCPrEUdEqQDucgpNmbZ7un03b3DI6d5RI80fLmfnedD_gOXvQk5-JKs-zO-Nl8FyCUe_hVjLufzJww9l_Ky78rDb0Os7lG-k9D72/s320/1121102133-03.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542986463714120450" style="text-align: left; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; " /></i>Copyright 2010, Tesi</p> <span style="font-size:11.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri;mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:formulas> <v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"> <o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"> </o:lock></v:path></v:stroke></v:shapetype><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_1" spid="_x0000_i1028" type="#_x0000_t75" style="width:467.25pt;height:350.25pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Tessie\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.jpg" title="1121102120-01"> </v:imagedata></v:shape><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_2" spid="_x0000_i1027" type="#_x0000_t75" style="width:468pt;height:624pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Tessie\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg" title="1121102130-00"> </v:imagedata></v:shape><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_3" spid="_x0000_i1026" type="#_x0000_t75" style="width:467.25pt;height:350.25pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Tessie\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image003.jpg" title="1121102130-02"> </v:imagedata></v:shape><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_4" spid="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style="width:468pt;height:624pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Tessie\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image004.jpg" title="1121102133-03"> </v:imagedata></v:shape></span></p>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-25358611452861231982010-11-02T09:54:00.003-05:002010-11-02T09:56:03.028-05:00Being Poor<div><br /></div>And now a little bit of non-fiction for your reading pleasure. :-)<div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height: 150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">Being Poor<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">It’s funny how long it takes you to realize that things about your childhood were not normal. Or, really, just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">how</i> abnormal they were.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">I’m thirty years old</span><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"> and volunteering at a camp for Deaf kids in my home state. It’s my thirteenth year at this particular camp and I’m really here, at this point, just for the kids. Here to pray for them, to love on them, to hopefully show them a little glimpse of what a life built around God’s love can be like. It’s late, and I’m talking with one of the girls about her family. She’s an only child, product of a teen pregnancy that turned out well, and I ask her whether her parents have thought about having any more kids. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging through her signs, her purple sleeping bag lying wrinkled around her. “I keep telling them I want a brother or sister, and they say they’re thinking about it. But I want one NOW!” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">The emphatic nature of her signs pulls her up off the bed, until she’s almost sitting. I nod my understanding. I remember being eleven, and desperate to have a baby around. I remember my parents being so broke that they couldn’t afford a pregnancy test. A friend picked one up from the Crisis Pregnancy Center (never mind that my mom had three kids already, and this wouldn’t be a crisis even if it WAS a pregnancy), brought it to us in a brown paper bag. My mom couldn’t wait until we got home to find out, and wanted me to be the first to know, so when we stopped at the library (where the kids could entertain themselves in the children’s section for a few minutes), she called me with her to the bathroom. We walked down the long, dark hall, past the oil painting of ocean waves that shimmered as if the sun was lodged right in the midst of the ocean, past the book-repairing section, where abused books went to be given a second chance, and through the heavy metal door that housed the one-room bathroom. Toilet on the right, sink on the left. Big, clunky radiator to my back. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">Perhaps it’s telling that I didn’t really find it odd that mom wanted me to go into the bathroom with her, but I think I suspected what the bag might contain. I was a pretty smart kid, all things considered. Mom ripped open the bag, and there it was. A pregnancy test. And then I was sure. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">I turned my back while mom peed on the stick and then leaned over her shoulder as she washed her hands, watching the odd white cylinder resting on brown paper towels on the back of the toilet, bouncing in anticipation of what color it would turn. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">A pink cross! We’re having a BABY!! And we leapt into each other’s arms, jumping up and down and hugging there, in that tiny bathroom, celebrating the new life that was coming. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">I think a big part of the reason I never got pregnant, as a teen, was that my mom kept having babies, giving me an outlet for all those overwhelming teen mothering needs. I think about this, as I listen to this girl, who only yesterday told me she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">really</i> wants to get pregnant, even though she knows she’s too young.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">“The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">problem is</i>,” she goes on with another shrug, “that if we have another baby, we have to move.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">My face must be showing my confusion, because she goes on quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">“Well, our house is small; we only have two bedrooms, one for me and one for my parents. So there’s nowhere to put a brother or sister.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">“Really? “ I ask without thinking. “I never thought of that…I mean, babies are small, and you’ll be graduated by the time it’s two…I mean…kids can sleep anywhere…”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">I’m half way through telling her where I spent my childhood sleeping before the shock on her face registers, and I realize that here’s another thing about my childhood that is distinctly not normal. I’m almost embarrassed, telling her my story, about how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">poor</i> it makes my family sound. I want to stop and say “No, it wasn’t like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">that...</i>” but then I realize that it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">was</i> like that. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">I shared a bed with my parents until I was almost five. They had a twin bed wedged between their bed and the wall, where I would fall asleep at night with my mom curled around me, her cheek pressed against mine (“Cheek to cheek, mommy!” I would beg. “Cheek to cheek!”), or her hand in mine. Some time after I went to sleep, she must have rolled away, because I always woke up by myself in the bed, but my parents were never more than the length of my arm away. As an adult, now, I wonder <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">how</i> they e</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">ver managed to make my siblings</span><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"> and I have this wisp of paranoia, if I think too long about it, that I might have been sleeping soundly while, two feet away, my parents were having sex. I suspect this is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">not</i> the case, because I distinctly remember being put in a high chair in the living room with a tray full of carob chips and being told to sit there while mom and dad had “grown up time”, but I’ve never had the courage to ask either of my parents. I think I’m afraid of what I’ll find out. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">I really don’t remember <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">where</i> I slept after Tiffany was born, until I was seven, but I know that when my second sister came along, Tiffany and I got booted to the living room. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">Someone had given my family a really nice couch, with a hide-a-bed that I remember as being wonderfully comfortable, which we made out every night and slept on, giggling and whispering stories to each other, or playing the silent game if I was too tired and ready to go to sleep, waking in the morning all tangled in the sheets and happy. Eventually Julianna came along, the fourth girl, and Hannah was moved to our bed. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">The three of us shared the hide-a-bed for a while, but I was getting big enough to be uncomfortable and crowded, so I would take the couch cushions into the trailer and sleep on them, or the one-person futon my dad found somewhere. For a while I had an army cot, but it was uncomfortable and too much work to set up every night, so that didn’t last long. I had a light-weight aluminum camping cot that I really liked, but it wasn’t meant to be used every day, and it didn’t last as long as I would have liked it to.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">I was thirteen before I got my own bed. It was a roll-away, but we made room for it in the back of the trailer and set it up permanently, allowing me to finally have my own space—a couple of milk-crate and wood bookshelves, and a school desk, back by my bed. My clothes were still in a dresser in my parents’ room, though I had closet space near my bed. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">When my brother (the last) was born, Julianna was still nursing. Mom would bring her, at night, into my bed where she would nurse her to sleep while I held my brother, then she’d take him to her room, </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">nurse <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">him</i> to sleep</span><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"> and then </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">roll over to my </span><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">dad if she wasn’t so tired she fell asleep beside my brother. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">I loved sleeping with </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">Julianna</span><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">—we shared a bed until she was seven and I was twenty. At that time, we moved into a three bedroom trailer, and I had my own room for the first time in my life. It was nice, having my own space, but I always missed being curled up with my sister. I missed the late-night conversations, the giggling, the child-like questions about God, life, the devil and love. For years, even after I moved out, we shared a bed when I visited, or she came up to see me. Being together, so close for so many years, created a bond in us that I wouldn’t trade for anything.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">It’s funny, how whatever you experience as a child becomes your normal, and you don’t realize, until you’re thirty and telling a sixteen year old about how you made out a hide-a-bed every night before you could sleep, and didn’t get your own bed until you were thirteen, how truly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">abnormal</i> that is. How getting rid of your couch so you can put bunk beds in your living room is not the average person’s solution to crowding. How spending your entire life with rough-wood shelves in the kitchen, plastic on the walls, unfinished sheet-rock in the bedrooms and floors made of varnished plywood would make your average social worker shudder and start making notes. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">And it makes me understand, just a little, why people were confused about where to sit, when they came to visit. How the gift of an “extra” air conditioner when the summer heat was really too much for my nine-month pregnant mother would be an act of Christian charity, or why some people just didn’t come back to visit. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">But it also makes me realize just how committed my parents were, to their beliefs. To the things they chose to build their lives upon.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">My parents didn’t want to owe anyone anything. They built their house as they could afford to (the room-addition which would have doubled the size of the house <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">was</i> nearing finished, when the house burned just before my fifteenth birthday), gardened to keep us in good food, heated with wood because it saved money and was better for the world, and put their children before absolutely everything else in their lives. Whether we had enough space for another person was never a deciding factor in adding to the size of our family. Having enough money to support a child wasn’t argued about, or discussed. Children were a blessing, our family was the most important thing in life, and each of us felt like we were the reason our parents were together; loving and teaching and raising us was the reason they existed. It was what God had given them to do. And if a new baby meant even less meat in our diet, or fewer treats, well, I don’t think any of us would have traded. The richness of life and love that each of my siblings brought made the crowding easy, the laughter of the youngest was easily worth the loss of a frozen yogurt on a trip to town. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">We never felt poor. I remember Hannah, once when she was very small, saying she felt sorry for some friends of ours, because they were so poor. Confused (they made considerably more money than my dad did), we asked her why she thought that.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">“Because they can’t afford to paint their house!” she said, as if the answer was obvious. And that was what she saw, feeling sympathy for them, though they had a bed for each of their children, and a finished house, with raw wood siding. Poor or rich, to us, was never about where we lived, what we ate, or how new our clothes were. It was about love, about family, about people. I hope that I carry that attitude into my adult life. I know I mean to.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:.3in;line-height:150%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin">Copyright 2010<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>--Tesi, The Barefoot Author </span></p></div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-64389321128492178202010-11-02T09:54:00.001-05:002010-11-02T09:54:42.424-05:00Voice<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:115%;mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin; color:#333333">The voice was indecipherable. At first, she thought it belonged to a very ugly child, the type who beat things with sticks just to see them break, and repeat tales only if they will make the hearer cry. But as she listened, she began to wonder if it mightn’t be a woman, her voice rough with living yet lacking the maturity of someone who had really grown up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-70180540322755027992010-10-23T22:23:00.003-05:002010-10-23T22:29:27.070-05:00Characters (and Supernatural)<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">(I apologize if this post is poorly written. I’m in the throes of pneumonia, but really wanted to share this thought. Evidently pneumonia steals your brain’s ability to function and put words together cohesively. Ugh. Hope you enjoy anyway.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I just reached the end of the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Supernatural</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> (a CW show you should check out if you haven’t seen it) five year story arc, with great satisfaction. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">As I bask in the afterglow of a story well told, I’ve been thinking about what makes the show so engaging; what makes it work so extremely well. I’m sure everyone likes a show like this for different reasons, but the most compelling thing about it, for me, is the characters. All the characters have their strong points, but Sam and Dean (the main characters) are amazing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Looking at them from a writer’s perspective, recognizing how well they work together and how well that dynamic drives the story (even through the sticky bits), I’ve been wondering what I can learn from their character design and development, that I could put into my own writing. The question, really, is </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">What makes a character really, really good?<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The first</span></span></b><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> thing that I think makes Sam and Dean such dynamic characters is that we know what drives them. The writers of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Supernatural</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> make sure that we know very early on that Dean is motivated by loyalty to family, while Sam wants to do what’s right. Basic character motivations, perhaps, but a great foundation on which the creators then spend over a hundred episodes building. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The motivations are filled in, like colors within a coloring book outline and, while we always know </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">what</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> drives them, we don’t always know how it will play out. Does Sam’s desire to do what’s right make him decide that the ends justify the means? Will Dean’s loyalty to his family cause him to allow innocent people to die so his brother will survive? How far does loyalty go? How do you find right when all your options seem wrong? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Secondly,</span></span></b><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> Sam and Dean are very, very </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">real. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Their weaknesses are evident from the beginning (Dean’s especially), and their brokenness is never hidden. Their personalities and motivations are clearly understood by the writers, and their responses to shared experiences (often vastly different responses) make sense within their personalities and motivations. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The oldest of five children, I’ve had a lot of opportunities to see how a sibling’s age, personality and experiences can cause two people to come through the same experience with completely different baggage, something that recurs frequently through the episodes. And the beauty of these character’s development is just that—the writers put very real characters up against situations completely outside of our experience (</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I’ve</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> never fought a genie, or come head to head with a really pissed-off pagan god) and yet, in the midst of experiences we could never have, the characters have responses, struggles, weaknesses and strengths that we can understand—because we </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">have</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> experienced them. We celebrate Sam and Dean’s victories because we hope that we, in the same situation, would do as well as they do. We grieve their failures because we understand how easily we would make the same mistake. We have sympathy for their pain, because we recognize their brokenness in ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Third,</span></span></b><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> the characters are deeply consistent. Clearly defined motives and carefully crafted personalities mean that we, the “reader” if you will, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">know</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> what Sam is likely to do, in a particular situation. We know how Dean would respond when faced with a certain challenge. We know, because we know what </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">we</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> would do. We see ourselves in them, because they are so real. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And then, the writers keep their characters within the motives and personalities they have created so that we never find ourselves saying “Dean would never do </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">!!” Not only that, but because the characters are so believable—so real—we never even find ourselves saying “Well, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> would never do </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">that!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">” We know, because of how the characters are built, that if we </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">were</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> in that situation…with those experiences under our belt…we are </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">just</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> as likely to make exactly the same choice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So, I’ve been thinking about my own characters; their motivations, their personalities, the experiences through which they filter the world. I’m wondering if I’ve made these parts of them clear enough. I wonder if </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> understand them well enough myself. I wonder how I can make them even more real, more accessible, more…sympathetic. Because, when all’s said and done, I want my readers to close my book with a feeling of satisfaction because they hope that, if they had ended up in that place, facing that situation, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">they </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">would have been strong enough to make the same choice my character did. I want them to know their own weaknesses and brokenness through my characters, and I want them to conquer them with my characters. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">If I can accomplish that…I will feel I have succeeded.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">--Tesi</span></span></p>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-62861393944199668102010-09-05T00:54:00.002-05:002010-09-05T00:57:45.114-05:00Making bad writing better.<i><div><i><br /></i></div>"Swimming in a golden bath of its own making, the sun painted long shadows across the sandy surface of the plateau."</i><div><br /></div><div>This was the first line of my novel-in-progress, until very recently. Now, the first line is:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"People will die tonight."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I believe this constitutes an improvement. If nothing else, you now want to read the second sentence, instead of curling up for a nap. Right?</div><div><br /></div><div>(You can just smile and nod, if you like. Or pat me on the shoulder and say, "Of course, dear." I'm probably too sleepy to notice anyway.)</div><div><br /></div><div>--Tesi</div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-87800360025044804232010-08-17T23:06:00.003-05:002010-08-17T23:33:44.883-05:00Character Motivation<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm reading a book called </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Breathing Life into Your Characters </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">by Rachel Ballon, Ph. D. The general idea, as I understand it from the 55 pages I made it through while sitting at a job this morning, is that self-analysis and an understanding of psychology can make all the difference between writing a character who's so flat they can never make it off the pages of your novel and a character that is so convincing, so...real...that you can't get them out of your head. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">She's covering a lot of ground, and I've only just scratched the surface, but it was in the chapter on character motivation that I found the jewel which will make the whole book worthwhile for me, even if I learn nothing else from it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Discussing the different psychological theories on human motivations, she touched on Maslow's Hierarchy of needs, with which you may be familiar. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In a nutshell (and this is my understanding re-told as it applies to me, so please don't quote my psychology), </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Maslow's Hierarchy of needs says that needs take prioirty in the following order:</span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:medium;">1-Physiological Needs (Survival. Food, clothing, shelter. This is a physical need.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2-Safety and Security Needs (Self-Preservation. The need to be free from physical endangerment AND the perception that this is so. This is a psychological need.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3-Affiliation Needs (Belonging. Sharing physical closeness, acceptance by the group. A social need.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">4-Esteem Needs (To be recognized by the group as being outstanding for some reason. Self-Esteem drawn from this need.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">5-Self-Actualization (Concept of life and those things each individual feels are needed to mximize one's potential, whatever it may be. You know you are self-actualized when you're doing or accomplishing those things in your life that you feel you should be doing.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:medium;">Theoretically, a person (and thus a character) cannot move from level to level until the previous has been met. It's impossible to strive for affiliation if you don't feel safe, and you won't seek safety when you're starving.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:medium;">So, Rachel says, we should look at our characters to see which of these needs is motivating them. Determine where they are on Maslow's scale. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:medium;">"Sure, sure," I'm thinking, "that's interesting and all, but..."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:medium;">Then it hits me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:medium;">I've been struggling with a conflict between the two main characters of my WIP, Devyn and Tahira, knowing that they want different things, but not completely sure why. I've only recently even pinned down <i>that</i> they want different things, and <i>what</i> those things are (all of which has a lot to do with why the "editing" process is going to be longer than I thought), and I haven't been able to really figure out why. I know this happens, and it's fine sometimes, just knowing where your characters are, but the issue I've been struggling with is that at some point what Devyn <i>wants</i> changes, and I'm not sure why. Since it's the climactic scene of the book, it seemed like something I might need to figure out.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:medium;">And, low and behold, (...drum roll please...) Maslow's Hierarchy explains it!!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In the process of the story, Devyn (mostly because he's male, and the culture he's in is very male-dominated) moves past step two and three, and is firmly in step four through most of the book. He's "in", he can fight as well as anyone, doesn't have a lot to fear, and he really wants to make a name for himself, at this point. In some sense, I think he believes that if he can actually conquer step four, he'll be able to change the environment in which he lives, and help Tahira.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Tahira, of course, being female in a violently male society, is living in step two for the entire ten years she and Devyn have known one another. She's not big enough or strong enough or male enough to protect herself, and Devyn simply can't always be there. She's not safe, and she never feels safe, so all she wants is to run away. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Running away, though, throws up all sorts of dangers for Devyn, and in essence pushes him back to step one--he doesn't even know how to find food or shelter in that "other world"--and so what Tahira wants is, to him, impossible and dangerous.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I also, in the process of this mental rabbit trail, figured out why it is that the last chapter of the book pushes him over into being willing to do...what he does. I'd tell you all about it, but then you wouldn't need to read the story, so...I'd better stop while I'm ahead. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Thanks for riding along in this little trip into Tesi's brain, hope you find the idea of using Maslow's Hierarchy to be beneficial in your own writing, or...really...your own life. May you be self-actualized and happy. :-)</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:medium;">...off into the night...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:medium;">Tesi, The Barefoot Author </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><o:p></o:p></p>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-72613686794959572862010-07-31T21:48:00.004-05:002010-07-31T21:56:08.443-05:00Another flash of a dream...<div><br /></div>This is an image from a dream I had a few months ago. I woke when the pain started, rolled over and grabbed a notebook to start scribbling. <div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><br /></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">The rough hands grasped mine with painful force. Words that I couldn’t understand, growling in a voice I knew I would never hear again, and the man was pulling a blade. It was sharp. So sharp. I wondered if I would feel it, piercing my flesh. </span></span></i><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">I didn’t.</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">The blade slipped through the soft flesh of my wrist with beautiful grace. I stared, transfixed, as it buried itself deeper, opening the skin, slicing through muscle with a painless release. My insides recoiled, knowing the pain would come but not knowing when. How it would hit? With what force? Would it slide into my consciousness like the tide at sunset, slowly overwhelming the beach with its irresistible strength? Or would it bowl me over all at once; a wall of water roaring down a valley, released from the dam that had restrained it and sweeping away everything in its path? How long does it take, I wondered, for your nerves to recover from the shock of a steel violation and begin screaming in agony?</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">The hand released me, my arm falling away limply as if it were a separate creature, not the part of me from which my life would soon drain, one drop at a time. My wrist slipped open and I stared dumbly, watching as my blood found itself freed and spilled across my skin like slow kisses.</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">“Too slow.” The words may have been spoken, or I may have just known. It was too slow. Would leave me time to stem the tide. Time to survive.</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">The second cut was longer, the blade drawn slowly, as if savoring the feeling of my skin. It drew out reluctantly, twisting away and leaving a curving red line in the space where my wrist met my hand. </span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';">Deeper, blood was flowing from the wound before the blade was clear, and suddenly I was alone. People still poured around me, the cacophony that is war still sounded, but I was alone. Me, and my blood, and the pain which was just beginning to flow. </span></span></i></p> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"> </span></i></div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-43869813165879101322010-07-23T18:58:00.002-05:002010-07-23T19:00:13.727-05:00Beauty from AnotherToday's piece is by a good friend of mine. It's too beautiful not to share. To read more of his stuff, please go to his blog: <a href="http://port-evenus.com/">http://port-evenus.com/</a><div><br /></div><div>Hallways</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px; ">Ancient doors throw wide so easily<br />While faithful apathy falls at my feet<br />Did I bring three brothers atop an olive mountain<br />Just to dispense a promise I couldn’t keep?<br />Seeking the whispered word of Hope<br />Crawling razor-torn across hallowed ground<br />Begging just a taste of water from a prophet<br />Maybe I’ll get it right<br />Next time around.<br />Life is beauty built from chaos:<br />Balancing twelve spinning plates.<br />You’ll either die in the wreckage,<br />Or be applauded something great.<br />But I’m still learning about us,<br />Still scraping the ash from our wings.<br />And I wonder, To get the things we really want,<br />Will we kill the things we need?<br />Throw a noose around my fear of retribution,<br />Repel twilight’s unwanted company,<br />Then drift them gently in the wind<br />From the bough of the withered willow tree.<br />I must be reaching for the troubled pool,<br />Head and heart in dissonance.<br />Which of us will first walk this highway<br />Flowing further from another chance?<br />You’re still learning how to love --<br />I’m just learning how to cry alone.<br />Faith is not the words that we say:<br />It’s how we choose to respond.<br /><br /><br />copyright 2010 BPltd</span></div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144048133806741990.post-35992796682707507422010-07-21T21:07:00.003-05:002010-07-21T21:12:19.038-05:00heroes<div><br /></div>"We need to remember that heroes are generally not fearless people; they are fearful people, who act in spite of their fear. The opposite of cowardice is not the absence of fear. The opposite of cowardice is courage in the face of fear."<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>--Dave Andrews<div> </div><div><br /></div><div>A thought for those of us who are crafting heroes, and striving to make them real.</div><div><br /></div>Tesihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14076661015571223335noreply@blogger.com0