tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71700519555157099462024-03-14T06:35:30.369-03:00WanderingsIn everything there is a bit of light...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-85413201175791773872016-11-25T21:04:00.000-04:002017-08-19T21:45:22.308-03:00I’m sorry, Phoebe! A cautionary tale about skinning a mouse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Four of the mice that were caught, skinned and
stuffed during</span></b><b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"></b><br />
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<b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Biota NB 2016.</span></b></b><b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"></b><br />
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I learned an important lesson while participating in Biota NB
2016: Do not name the mouse you are about to skin. And then stuff. And then pin
to a board. Do not.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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This was certainly not a lesson I ever expected to learn,
but on my second day of participating in Biota NB’s 2016 field season, I found
myself learning just that. And as lessons are so often revealed, I learned it
the hard way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had spent the better part of the day in the lab,
photographing the activities going on therein and pestering researchers with
questions. As most of the action was occurring at the small mammal table, under
the leadership of Biota’s small mammal researcher Karen Vanderwolf, I spent a
good chunk of my time there, happily taking photographs and observing from a
distance (emphasis on distance). <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-25cAtps_z5Y/WDiBLHbigEI/AAAAAAAACv8/OoX2XUMeiY4Dm1QZnWc5NM2bQ2sdMBS5gCLcB/s1600/DSCF1172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-25cAtps_z5Y/WDiBLHbigEI/AAAAAAAACv8/OoX2XUMeiY4Dm1QZnWc5NM2bQ2sdMBS5gCLcB/s400/DSCF1172.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Front to back: Karen Vanderwolf, Val Calvin and
Ron Pine hard at<br />work with some mice at the small mammal table.</span></b></td></tr>
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I thought I’d gotten away safe. It was nearing dinnertime
and I was wrapping up my notes for the day when, “How about you? Do you want to
skin a mouse?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>No no no no no no no
no no.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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“Yes, you do. Here, I’ll show you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Rats. </i>Or mice or
whatever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now this was definitely not the way I wanted to end the
afternoon, but I also didn’t want to look like a wimp by saying no. So I went
over to the skinning table and sat down. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For those who don’t know me, I’m a pretty soft-hearted
person. I feel bad if I see a loaf of bread lying desolately all by itself
after being knocked off a shelf at the grocery store. I apologize to trees if I
run into them when I walk by. The possibility of skinning a mouse was so far
off my bucket list that you would have needed the Hubble Telescope to see it.
But here I was, joining the Biota “sewing club.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I was handed a thawed deer mouse (<i>Peromyscus maniculatus</i>) in a clear plastic bag. It was so little
with its fur all spiky and cute. However, it was also cold and clammy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Maybe this won’t be so
bad after all. The mouse definitely seems dead,</i> I thought. But these
thoughts didn’t last for long when Karen explained to me that the mice we were
skinning and stuffing had been caught that morning. Somehow the thoughts of the
little mouse on the table in front of me blissfully running about just hours
before did little to relieve my already great misgivings about the entire
situation. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Skinning a mouse is a very delicate procedure. First you
have to find the skin under its fur and make a small cut. If you cut too deeply
you’ll just get a lot of blood. I let a little part of me die and made the
first cut. It took a few tries.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HVM13UY2KTo/WDiB7GwVGWI/AAAAAAAACwE/kNO21d5qVbEz_dUnJCRVuTkarS8z8YGJwCLcB/s1600/DSCF1173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HVM13UY2KTo/WDiB7GwVGWI/AAAAAAAACwE/kNO21d5qVbEz_dUnJCRVuTkarS8z8YGJwCLcB/s400/DSCF1173.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Making the first cut.</span></b></td></tr>
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This is where things took a turn for the worse. Karen took a
look at my mouse and informed me that it was a lactating female. She handed the
mouse back to me and I looked down at it and … <i>You look like a Phoebe. Hi Phoebe.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Uh-oh.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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An impossible task was just made infinitely more impossible.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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The skin of a mouse is separated from its flesh by turning
the skin inside out as it is pulled off the body, gently separating the
connecting tissues as you go along. Pull too hard and the delicate skin will
rip. Don’t pull hard enough and you won’t make any progress at all. I was left
foundering in the latter category.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Come on Phoebe, that’s
a girl. </i>I was having difficulty pushing Phoebe’s leg out of the skin.
For some reason I was scared of hurting her. (How was I supposed to skin
something that I kept saying sorry to?) The other difficulty was how sticky the
flesh was. Although there was no blood as long as you were careful (thank
goodness), we had to use corn flour to absorb the fat and any blood that might
be encountered accidentally. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aYDSK_uK1Dw/WDiCWQUmOLI/AAAAAAAACwM/fNlU_4izXKUR7POaJh7AkTG8Y-bgVbwFQCLcB/s1600/DSCF1175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aYDSK_uK1Dw/WDiCWQUmOLI/AAAAAAAACwM/fNlU_4izXKUR7POaJh7AkTG8Y-bgVbwFQCLcB/s400/DSCF1175.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<b style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To remove the skin from the rest of the mouse’s
body, </span></b><b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></b><br />
<div style="display: inline !important; text-align: left;">
<b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">the skin </span></b></span></b><b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">must be pulled inside out.</span></b></span></b></div>
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Phoebe’s limbs and face required extra attention. With a
mouse’s limbs, you have to push the limb out of the skin and then cut it at the
ankle/wrist bone. For the face, there are a lot more connecting tissues.
Special care must be taken around the jaw, ears, eyes and snout. I gave Phoebe
up to Karen’s expertise for this part. With a few careful snips, Phoebe’s skin went
over and off her snout and the task of skinning was complete.</div>
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Although Phoebe had started out cold and damp, as I worked
at her skin, it became warm and dry. If her skin had not been clearly separated
from her flesh, it would have been easy to mistake her warm skin as belonging to
a living, breathing creature. This is something I tried vainly not to think
about.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Phoebe’s carcass was another story. There it was lying on
the table in front of me. Her little beady black eyes, from which the skin had
been so carefully snipped away, stared up at me. I had to prepare the cotton
stuffing with this pitiful site at the fringes of my vision. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4xY0Fosv3ZE/WDjdTSjH6UI/AAAAAAAACwc/_KHRQknHotUlztytnFIkiuMbPb-pXZgYwCLcB/s1600/DSCF1190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4xY0Fosv3ZE/WDjdTSjH6UI/AAAAAAAACwc/_KHRQknHotUlztytnFIkiuMbPb-pXZgYwCLcB/s400/DSCF1190.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A skinned mouse. Samples of its flesh and organs </span></b><b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"></b><br />
<div style="display: inline !important; text-align: left;">
<b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">will be taken </span></b></b><b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">for further research.</span></b></b></div>
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Step two of my ordeal – let’s be honest, <i>Phoebe’s</i> ordeal – was to stuff Phoebe
with cotton. To do this you have to take a thin piece of cotton stuffing and
wrap it around a wire, trying to mimic the shape of the mouse’s body. This part
wasn’t so bad but I don’t think I did Phoebe much justice as she was left
looking a little emaciated. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hE0k9ip7PSk/WDjeUOkL_kI/AAAAAAAACwk/yaKIuKg_ZWs2UqQKPq9a0ozIdq4ewlqxACLcB/s1600/DSCF1186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hE0k9ip7PSk/WDjeUOkL_kI/AAAAAAAACwk/yaKIuKg_ZWs2UqQKPq9a0ozIdq4ewlqxACLcB/s400/DSCF1186.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Karen prepares the cotton stuffing in the shape
of her mouse.</span></b></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ie_g4RizqDc/WDjehddnu0I/AAAAAAAACwo/XleroZcSYeYBpCR1kEeXfze_R4cBzNP9gCLcB/s1600/DSCF1196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ie_g4RizqDc/WDjehddnu0I/AAAAAAAACwo/XleroZcSYeYBpCR1kEeXfze_R4cBzNP9gCLcB/s400/DSCF1196.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Once stuffed, the mouse is stitched up with
cotton thread.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The final stages of stuffing a mouse involve putting wires
in the limbs and tail. Once this is done, the mouse is stitched with cotton
thread. I carefully brushed off Phoebe’s skin until it shone again, but to add
insult to injury, I had to pin Phoebe to a board for the last step.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k224GqXV5m8/WDjexzSqNhI/AAAAAAAACws/wJvMx_IPVsM1fT2mW9pfCmuJ4dgCkDIegCLcB/s1600/20160813_085807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k224GqXV5m8/WDjexzSqNhI/AAAAAAAACws/wJvMx_IPVsM1fT2mW9pfCmuJ4dgCkDIegCLcB/s400/20160813_085807.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The finished product. Phoebe is in the middle,
now immortalized <br />for further research at the museum.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although skinning and stuffing Phoebe was definitely way out
of my comfort zone, looking back on the experience has left me with a positive
final impression (I’m sure being away from Phoebe’s remains helps). First of
all, Phoebe wasn’t trapped and stuffed for nothing. She, along with her body
and tissue and organ samples, will now be stored in the museum’s collection. Ultimately
she will contribute to our understanding of her own species as well as the
greater picture about the diversity of all species in the province. I also now
have a greater respect for the people who have to do things like this often.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The final note I took away from the experience is a personal
one. I will likely never skin another living thing for the rest of my life, but
now I can say that I can do something that I would never have done otherwise –
and I got a pretty cool tale (or should I say tail?) to tell out of it too.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-69505240545915197392014-05-13T00:16:00.000-03:002016-11-25T21:06:38.684-04:00Once Upon a Bus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6HTlQ57toeM/U3GM2BRkUBI/AAAAAAAABoI/B63v9mufMtc/s1600/SaintJohn-110617-02web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6HTlQ57toeM/U3GM2BRkUBI/AAAAAAAABoI/B63v9mufMtc/s1600/SaintJohn-110617-02web.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The oddest thing happened to me today, prompting me to dust the cobwebs from this blog and FINALLY write a new post. I'm not really sure what to make of it and, as I am wont to do in situations such as this one, I turned to the pen and page to sort out my thoughts.<br />
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Before I get to my story, there are a few background things to explain. First of all, I started taking the bus regularly this summer because, between work and summer courses, it seemed the easiest method of transportation. However, as someone who suffers with anxiety, city transit can be a pretty scary situation for me. After all, it involves being stuck in a relatively small space with a collection of strangers. Add to that the possibility of getting on the wrong bus or getting off at the wrong stop and *POOF* you get a panic-inducing shuttle straight to the hell of the darkest depths of your imagination. </div>
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Anyhow, today I was at King's Square waiting for bus #3 to take me to UNBSJ. No big deal. Or at least that was what I was trying to convince myself. I was most likely staring at the ground, willing myself to disappear. Then from what seemed like out of nowhere, I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up to see a girl around my age. She was wearing jeans and a faux-leather jacket. Her brown hair was held back in a ponytail and she had a purple book bag slung over one shoulder. I had never seen her before. My mind quickly turned to stranger-danger alert.</div>
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"Hey, do you know when the bus that goes to UNBSJ stops here?" she asked.</div>
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"8:30, I think. I'm going there too, actually," I replied.</div>
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"What time is it now?"</div>
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I took out my cell phone. "8:26 - should be here soon."</div>
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And lo and behold, the bus pulls up. The girl walked with me to the door, chattering about how convenient monthly bus passes are and did I have one? (I did.) We got on the bus. She went to the back while I balked at the sea of faces before me. I quickly sat down up front and tried to settle my anxiety-riddled brain for the ride ahead. As the bus started on its way, I heard someone sit down beside me. I looked up to see the girl again.</div>
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"Hey, I was thinking, we should get together for coffee sometime seeing as we both go to UNBSJ," she said.</div>
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"Um, sure," I said, thinking how I'd only just met her.</div>
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Then she started telling me a bit about herself (her name was Meghan) and the courses she was taking at university, occasionally asking me some questions about myself. She liked to talk and seemed quite friendly. I was just glad for the distraction from the bus ride and found it easy to talk to her (unusual for me). The drive passed quickly and soon we parted ways on campus. </div>
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I didn't really expect to see her again, truth be told. It's not that I didn't want to - despite how I am generally nervous around others, I do genuinely like people - the frailty of humanity sates my constant need to be compassionate. But it was such a fleeting encounter and, like the many individuals we meet for mere moments before drifting on in life upon our own changing currents, I didn't sense that there was anything that tied us together beyond that one bus ride among the hundreds I'm bound to take in my lifetime. </div>
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How wrong I often am.</div>
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Two-and-a-half hours of statistics later and the morning meeting had all but blown into the back corners of my memory. Class had ended a few minutes late and I knew I was going to miss the 11:52 bus that would take me back to King's Square, so of course I was panicking. That's probably why I completely forgot that there were two buses that stopped at the university, but only one that went uptown. So when a bus pulled up a few minutes later, I didn't think to check which one it was and boarded it without a second thought.</div>
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I'll pause here and emphasize the point that when I got on the bus, it was empty. Only one other woman got on when I did. I was sitting near the front of the bus and could see who got on and off as the ride progressed. No one boarded, to my knowledge, that I recognized.</div>
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As the bus drove along it's route, I still did not realize that anything was amiss because all the stops were the same. But when a man got on and inquired whether the bus was headed uptown and the driver said no that they were going west, I went into full-on panic mode. For me, full-on panic mode means that basically my brain shuts down and I have trouble with things like talking and breathing. So when I heard a voice behind me say, "Oh my gosh, you're not stopping uptown?" and turned around, I was not prepared to see Meghan. Her face mirrored my own.</div>
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Somehow I gathered myself together enough to say that I was in the same boat (er, bus). Everything else is a bit of a blur but somehow Meghan got us off the bus, over a wall, through a parking lot, and across a street to another bus stop where a bus eventually took us to King's Square. I got off but Meghan did not. </div>
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<div>
She called goodbye. I'm not sure if I'll ever see her again. I don't even know if I properly thanked her. What I do know though, is that if I hadn't met her this morning and if she hadn't somehow appeared on my bus later, today would have gone much worse. I realize that to many who read this, getting on the wrong bus is not a big deal. But for me, it's a nightmare and I'll forever be grateful to Meghan.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What I learned today is that we can never know the extent of how much someone may someday impact us - even if you've just met. In the same way, it is also impossible to tell how we may someday impact another. It's as easy as just looking up and smiling when you pass someone on the street. Or, like Meghan, take it a step further and ask for the time. It can make a world of difference. Heck, if enough people do it, I bet we can make a different world.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-21199318980233650652013-06-29T23:08:00.000-03:002013-07-01T19:37:00.581-03:00The Superhero Effect<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EwPeMT0QIzE/Uc-Si2zcneI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/fPtf1aBAKDs/s940/superman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EwPeMT0QIzE/Uc-Si2zcneI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/fPtf1aBAKDs/s400/superman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last year alone in only three movies, the super hero genre
grossed more than 1.3 billion dollars. This year is shaping up similarly. For a
world that seems to scoff at the mere mention of the word “saviour”, we are still
obsessed with the idea of someone rising against evil to save us all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, this is a world that is so confident of the fact
that we no longer need to be saved. What with our man-made laws, weapons,
scientific advances and other inventions, we seem to think that we are above
requiring a saviour. After all, we have pillars of democracy, knowledge and
military power upon which to found society. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So why is it that we idolize men (and women too) in tights
and capes, with money and big machines and with powers beyond normal human
abilities? Wouldn’t this hero worship contradict the entire movement of western
thought – an immigration from faith to reason? For as surely as we worship
money and science, we make gods out of the likes of Ironman and Batman. After
all this time, we are still looking to someone better, someone more than human,
to save the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess when it comes down to it, what these movies appear to
offer is a kind of hope. Indeed, there is assurance given with having evil
always lose and that what is bad in the world can be clearly distinguished and
eradicated. Or maybe it’s more than even that. Perhaps the heroes of the big
screen sate a secret yearning that someone will be able to make up for humanity’s
shortcomings. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the world’s not made like the movies. Right and wrong
are never straightforward. And the hero we expect only blinds us from the one
we never deserved. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-43202332782158452422013-04-16T22:26:00.000-03:002013-04-17T10:15:24.473-03:00Thoughts on Boston<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZVtl-8VkyG8/UW35FYHQFPI/AAAAAAAAAqk/bmOG2fFykgY/s1600/children-conflict-syria-refugee_66190_600x450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZVtl-8VkyG8/UW35FYHQFPI/AAAAAAAAAqk/bmOG2fFykgY/s400/children-conflict-syria-refugee_66190_600x450.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the aftermath of the bombing of the Boston Marathon, we
have read and heard stories of countless people offering aid and prayers to the
victims and families. In the wake of tragedy, we find hope and compassion in
humanity. But while a nation grieves,
while we in North America are shaken by an attack so close to home, there is
something I feel we are forgetting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, what happened yesterday in Boston is an everyday occurrence
for countless lives in other parts of the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t get me wrong – I am not in any way trying to downplay the
terrible events in Boston. My heart goes out to everyone affected and I have
certainly been praying. But it remains
to be said that there are a lot of people in the world who are all too familiar
with this sort of suffering.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take Syria for example. This is a broken nation where,
averaged out, there have been 6 children killed per day for over 2 years. That
number is staggering and it only gets worse. With a climbing death toll of over
70 000 (10 per cent of which are women and children), the horror to which our
eyes have only just been opened is a never-ending reality for over 2 million
children in Syria. These are the stories that aren’t widely circulated: of
torture and stolen education and rape that also deserve our attention. The
<a href="http://www.savethechildren.org/atf/cf/%7B9def2ebe-10ae-432c-9bd0-df91d2eba74a%7D/SYRIA-CHILDHOOD-UNDER-FIRE-REPORT-2013.PDF" target="_blank">first-hand accounts</a> are heart-rending. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, Twitter and other social networks were abuzz with
posts about praying for Boston. It’s heartening to know that we are willing to
rally behind victims and stand against hatred. I would only ask that we do not
leave out the rest of humanity’s sufferers. It would only take a little more of
our time to offer up a prayer to the rest of the world too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To finish, I would like to make a comment on the picture at
the top of this post. It is a photograph of a young Syrian boy in a refugee camp
in Jordan; but it could be a picture of a boy anywhere in the world.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, fear and pain are universal. Peace isn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s something that we take for granted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More info:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2013/04/pictures/130413-syria-lost-generation-war-pictures-children/#/children-conflict-syria-food_66188_600x450.jpg">http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2013/04/pictures/130413-syria-lost-generation-war-pictures-children/#/children-conflict-syria-food_66188_600x450.jpg</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.savethechildren.org/site/c.8rKLIXMGIpI4E/b.7998857/k.D075/Syria.htm?msource=weolpsrc4v12">http://www.savethechildren.org/site/c.8rKLIXMGIpI4E/b.7998857/k.D075/Syria.htm?msource=weolpsrc4v12</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.savethechildren.org/atf/cf/%7B9def2ebe-10ae-432c-9bd0-df91d2eba74a%7D/SYRIA-CHILDHOOD-UNDER-FIRE-REPORT-2013.PDF">http://www.savethechildren.org/atf/cf/%7B9def2ebe-10ae-432c-9bd0-df91d2eba74a%7D/SYRIA-CHILDHOOD-UNDER-FIRE-REPORT-2013.PDF</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-72226011250578845642013-04-04T23:35:00.001-03:002013-04-04T23:35:08.851-03:00From “Womb Mates” to Roommates<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">- A Tale of Two Twins</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was the
perfect set-up for a sit-com straight off the Family Channel: Inseparable (and
shall I say rather sheltered?) twin sisters find themselves experiencing the fun
and mishaps of university life together as roommates. Close your eyes and
imagine it for a minute. I know what you’re probably thinking: Bring out the
drama and cat-fights; this is going to be one heck of a year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cue the screeching halt.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, I wish
I had something that interesting to write about. The truth is, Room 317 saw about as much
action as a documentary on the art of crochet… minus the hooking. If you want
to talk about “fun”, does blasting gospel music while studying on Friday nights
count? Or how about the mishaps? Those amounted to running out of our daily fix
of pretzels and (dare I even mention it?) running out of hot chocolate on a
Saturday night. Probably the most adventurous we ever got was eating cereal
with a fork – and we were pretty proud to be so hard-core. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">---<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So maybe Johanna
and I didn’t experience the typical life of most university students living in
residence. Actually, I feel quite confident about that statement. For instance,
while my little sister will never hold a record for the most shots in one
night, she has pulled all-nighters without coffee (and went to all her classes
the next day no less). As for me, I’ve done Johanna’s laundry every week
without complaining – not even once! (That’s just one of the perks of living
with your sister.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I think the
most difficult thing Johanna and I discovered this year was how not to be
stereotypical twins. I’m pretty sure we creeped out a few people at meal hall
by always choosing the exact same meals… and eating them in the exact same way.
We tried to make sure we didn’t accidently wear the same clothes or go to the
washroom at the same time… because that’s just downright awkward. On the other
hand, the reactions of everyone else when these incidents did occur were always
amusing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This is
really all I have to write about LBR’s rather reclusive twins and their quaint
ways. I’d have more to say about Johanna but, then again, it’s not as if we’ll
part ways once summer begins. I’d rather avoid the possibility of revenge if I
can. I will tell you this though: her dirty socks stink.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cue the drama and cat-fights.</span></i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-16701071894262872352013-03-27T01:01:00.000-03:002013-03-27T13:01:28.055-03:00In Storm<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was a kid, I was told that life can give you sunny
days and rainy days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought they were talking about the weather.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought that by carrying an umbrella, I could shield myself
from any pain that would ever come my way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I didn’t know was that a lot of life can be like a
hurricane. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are times when the rushing currents sweep up and
overwhelm you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are days when the waves leave you battered and bruised<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
coughing up water<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on a sand bar<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
twenty miles from shore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t tell me there’s an umbrella strong enough to shield me
from that blast.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know better.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I know that sometimes life is like a race.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where you find yourself prepared to sprint to the finish
line.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except sometimes it’s not until the starting gun sounds that
you realize you’ve tied your shoelaces together<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you’re running into a nose dive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I’ve learned something from that too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, when else but when your arms are outstretched to
catch a fall are you able to fully embrace life?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bruises and all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’ve learned that sometimes you just have to take a minute
and breathe in the moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because how do you know how much air you will need to
breathe to take the plunge into that icy sea called life? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was a kid, I was told that it took both rain and sunlight
to make a rainbow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And while I know they were talking about the weather,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
True beauty is born of both as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-16368346831972074812013-03-19T19:24:00.000-03:002013-03-22T11:29:33.503-03:00Mom, I Forgot My Life Jacket<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mom, I forgot my life jacket.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know you were probably waving it out the door, calling
after me in my haste to leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sorry. I probably ignored you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I’m up to my neck in my own troubles, adrift in a life I
thought I could control.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember it raining when I was three? I held out my hands to
catch the raindrops, only to watch them slip through my fingers. My tears soon
followed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was the day you took a red bucket and scooped up the
rain. You gave it to me and told me not to spill it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But of course I did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was five and fell off my bicycle, I thought the world
was going to end.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that was when I was five and Band-Aids and kisses could
make everything better.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world never ended of course. It just kept going.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember when I was eight and you tried to explain the
multiplication table to me? You said it was easy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I didn’t know it then but things do multiply easily.
They tend to get out of control.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Mom, I’ve never forgotten that five times six equals
thirty. And as I’m quietly repeating those lessons to myself, I’m thanking God
that you are never more than a phone number away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How can I forget twelve? I thought I was so grown up then.
You always seemed so quick to tell me otherwise. I suppose, now, that you were
right. Thanks for always cleaning up my messes anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Skip a few years and I’m fifteen. That was when I <i>thought</i> a kiss would make everything
better. So I followed what I thought was love. And still it was you who were
always ready to patch a wounded heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But now I’m eighteen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m trying to navigate things by myself now. And I keep
knocking over that red bucket as I try to get away from the messes I’ve left
behind so that the floor is flooded with more than my tears and I feel like I’m
drowning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’m thinking about that life jacket.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m wondering now if I should pick up the phone and tell you
this myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But if I do I’ll probably just say everything is fine and
that will be that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m writing this instead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See Mom, what I’m trying to say is this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because now I’m trying to catch the sunlight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m bottling up the smiles and love you’ve always had for
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your little girl <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-66276043578436323112013-01-24T23:47:00.000-04:002013-10-11T23:25:17.871-03:00Masquerade <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s walking down the town’s main street. Not on the side
walk, but in the middle of the street,
hands out, balancing on the solid white line that keeps opposing traffic in its
proper place. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alone in her own world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sound of her feet skipping as she progresses down the
road is made louder by the emptiness of the usually bustling town centre. In fact, it echoes to me still as I gaze at
the photograph taken of myself when I was all but ten years of age. Carefree is
what it whispers to me, but I no longer know the meaning of that word.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been told that discovery is all about the journey. So
maybe that’s why I find myself back at my childhood home, trying to recreate
the portrait of my then care-free existence.
At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself. The more truthful
reason, whether I like to admit it or not, is that I am escaping from the looks
of forced sympathy and words of advice from people who think they have wisdom
about my “situation.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And to be honest, there wasn’t anything altogether wise
about telling my boss I would be leaving my job “indefinitely”, taking all my
savings and packing off to a place to which I have not been in decades. Though
even then, despite all my efforts to stop caring and forcing myself to take
things a day at a time, peace still eludes me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess in a way I am once more alone in my own world. I
choose solitude now, prize it above rubies. Memories of the looks I have
received from friends and co-workers over the past few months follow me still.
Their eyes were like fish-hooks, willing the tears from my eyes, each one
wanting for themselves the pride of being the shoulder I would cry on. But I
never gave anyone that satisfaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I find myself on the very same street of the distant
photograph. It is once again unnaturally still – most of the town’s inhabitants
having taken off as I had so many years ago. I see the street differently now, I realise.
The stores that line it no longer hold for me the alluring sense of mystery that
delighted my childhood eyes. Each one stands tall and proud, their
brightly-painted faces give off a false sense of self-righteousness. For behind
their painted facades hang dusty shelves of material desires – insubstantial
objects that feed the whims and careless fancies of passing times – filling up
the shells of each edifice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By now my thoughts have carried me to the end of the street.
For some weird reason I can’t quite explain, I find I am not able to face the
stores any longer. I decide to end my stroll early, so I turn my back on the
empty street and start trudging uphill. It only takes a few moments before I
find myself blinking. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it’s just the wind, but there are tears in my eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ItSePPMdxrc/UQIAGnMfcgI/AAAAAAAAAew/DRHdcElJzeY/s1600/writing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ItSePPMdxrc/UQIAGnMfcgI/AAAAAAAAAew/DRHdcElJzeY/s400/writing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-12898770454109591372013-01-19T01:25:00.001-04:002013-01-21T23:52:44.364-04:00When Idols Crumble <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wEhTs5I1eTY/UPotc5TdszI/AAAAAAAAAdM/pcF92bzJzjM/s1600/cn_image_size_oscar-statue-award.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wEhTs5I1eTY/UPotc5TdszI/AAAAAAAAAdM/pcF92bzJzjM/s400/cn_image_size_oscar-statue-award.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For a
society that is increasingly turning to the practice of scorning Faith, we are
very adept at constructing pedestals. The problem begins when we base our
ideals on those who are as flawed as ourselves. Actors, athletes and the many
others who may be grouped in the celebrity class are worshipped and adored by
millions of frantic fans who hold them at lofty positions. In fact, when it
comes down to it, Hollywood and the various sports industries have surely
garnered a cult-like following.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But there is
nothing solid about these idols. Though we flock from all over just for the
chance to shake their hands and express admiration, they will inevitably let us
down. Like us, they are vulnerable to poor choices and immoral desires. Fame
does not shield a person from the path of erring. Praise will not keep one from
falling.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As long as
we consider fellow humans as the standard for which to strive, we will never
cease to be disappointed. Instead we must ask ourselves this: Is it better to
look to someone placed upon a pedestal of our own creation or to turn our eyes
elsewhere and stand upon the firm foundation we had no hand in building?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #eaf1dd; font-family: "Bernard MT Condensed","serif"; font-size: 100pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-themecolor: accent3; mso-themetint: 51;">“</span><span style="font-family: "Bernard MT Condensed","serif"; font-size: 100pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing can ever
be made.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #eaf1dd; font-family: "Bernard MT Condensed","serif"; font-size: 100pt; mso-themecolor: accent3; mso-themetint: 51;">”</span><span style="font-family: "Bernard MT Condensed","serif"; font-size: 100pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 6;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">~ Immanuel
Kant<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-284979622486943632012-12-04T23:09:00.000-04:002012-12-05T20:31:36.624-04:00The Simple Act of Giving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KPN1jBoCzpY/UL66UR9HMaI/AAAAAAAAAWw/4WXv0mAwwQw/s1600/the-practice-of-generosity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KPN1jBoCzpY/UL66UR9HMaI/AAAAAAAAAWw/4WXv0mAwwQw/s400/the-practice-of-generosity.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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“To give” is often seen in a negative light. We’re told not to “give
up,” that to “give in” is to show weakness and when something finally “gives
out” it’s done for. It’s actually slightly depressing. How different these
meanings seem from the simple act of giving that is at the heart of compassion.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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This Christmas, I want to redefine the terms I have so often
held to be faults. Instead maybe it’s best to alter our outlook and “give up” our
worries to the One whose vision is ever far-seeing. To “give in” to the joy
that surrounded that first Christmas and to “give out’’ to others the love and
offer the hope that this season is all about. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Some might disagree and tell me that to do this IS weakness.
But, in all its simplicity, I have found strength in it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-20795729586831661012012-11-14T23:17:00.000-04:002012-11-22T00:10:28.705-04:00November Sky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Scene outside the window:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sweeping winds of desolate daydreams,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rattle knobbly branches;<o:p></o:p></div>
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Care-worn leaves limply lie.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s here that:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Memories of rosy summer,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Like rows of toppling toy soldiers,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Can’t stand against late-autumn’s breath.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Canvas of grey on grey:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rolling cloud’s face revealed<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brings rain upon the windowpane,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Drops of November sky.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-4123058851427008872012-11-11T22:26:00.003-04:002012-11-12T22:01:44.226-04:00Memory's Forgotten Burden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The blue-grey of the overcast sky
provides an appropriate backdrop for the somber ceremony. Everywhere people are flocking to the town cenotaph, bundled up in winter coats to shield against the
late-autumn chill. Children are laughing and bounding through leaves as their
parents hurry after them, keeping track of dropped hats and mittens while trying
to prevent dog leashes from becoming tangled in the crowd, not wanting to lose
sight of their children in the crush of individuals. The morning air rings with
laughter, shouting and barking. It is the 11<sup>th</sup> of November and the
eleventh hour is quickly approaching.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As I’m standing still, trying to
take it all in, my eyes fall upon an assembly of veterans gathering for the
service. It’s a patch-work group; some are leaning on canes and walkers, others
holding tightly to the arms of younger companions. Across the street from them,
another group is forming. This time however, it is many rows of young men and
women in uniform, and they are marching straight and tall. While to most both
groups could not be more different, I am quick to note that each individual was
similar in one way; they were all walking with their heads held high and determination
in their gait. It was a pride of sorts for their country and as I looked on
from my inconspicuous place in the crowd, I think I can feel it too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The ceremony begins as it does
every year, with speeches and readings and prayers. Everyone dutifully inclines
their heads and remains still for the moment of silence, but whether this was out
of respect or habit is difficult to discern. After the last wistful note of
the bagpipe echoes over the river, the service proceeds with the laying of the
wreaths. By this time, restlessness in
setting in and I can see people in front of me shifting their feet and looking
around. Names are read aloud and as each wreath is placed around the centre
monument, a cannon is fired. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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At the first crack of the cannon,
everyone jumps. I hear gasps, nervous laughter and hushed whispers, a child
behind me utters an excited “Cool!”. As
the next name is read, I prepare myself for the next thundering boom, thinking
to myself what hell it must have been for the soldiers to endure the sound everyday
never mind running towards the bombardment. More names are called, more wreaths
are laid and it is made evident that many around me do not share in my
ponderings. In fact, some are downright disrespectful. People are chatting
about the weather, the elections that had just ended in the States and the
price of gas. It seems they care about everything except what is right in front
of them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Another cannon shatters the
hushed murmurings and I look upward. A skein of Canada geese is flying
overhead, their V formation never wavering despite the cannon’s resounding
clap. I follow them with my eyes as they fly diligently on, freedom and stalwart
dedication encompassed in their very presence. The ceremony begins to draw to a
close and the crowd starts to disperse, hoping to make their escape before the
heavy traffic develops. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My eyes turn once more to the
gathering of veterans. They remain still, watching what is taking place in
front of them, for all the world oblivious to the restlessness that surrounds
them. To them, this day is something completely different. And though it’s
beyond my ability to comprehend, I remain standing, with my feet apart and eyes
ahead, trying to remember.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ke_3r_Jlrjc/UKBf4akq9RI/AAAAAAAAAVk/C8YnlPRdVdo/s1600/silhoutDM2301_468x259.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ke_3r_Jlrjc/UKBf4akq9RI/AAAAAAAAAVk/C8YnlPRdVdo/s400/silhoutDM2301_468x259.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-77551759009572077352012-11-10T16:52:00.001-04:002012-11-10T16:52:36.152-04:00Courage on the Line<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kRI57DQVFJ0/UJ6-J9_WNEI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/gSkLTXSGIts/s1600/remembrance-day1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kRI57DQVFJ0/UJ6-J9_WNEI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/gSkLTXSGIts/s400/remembrance-day1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
They marched; side by side, shoulder to shoulder.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pride in their eyes, this generation called to order.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Heads held high, readied to face the foe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Soldiers all, standing row on row.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They fought; side by side, hand meets hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hell reflected in their eyes, but the soul must withstand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Advancing through horror, guns’ blazing, constant roar<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brothers all, fighting someone else’s war.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They died; side by side, one thought shared by all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Eyes full of pain, the cries before the fall.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When it comes to the end, it’s not the power or the might,<o:p></o:p></div>
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But as humans all, small stars in war’s night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today we stand; side by side, shoulder to shoulder.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What do we see in our eyes as the years grow older?<o:p></o:p></div>
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We need to know it is not is vain that they fight.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Remembrance: our key to hope and dawn’s light.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-16200257357706827212012-10-27T19:43:00.000-03:002012-10-27T19:52:07.041-03:00Fragments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M0lUgNOR8U0/UIxjMHy_kiI/AAAAAAAAATo/UZwc__N1Tcs/s1600/reformed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M0lUgNOR8U0/UIxjMHy_kiI/AAAAAAAAATo/UZwc__N1Tcs/s400/reformed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I think everyone has
this deep-seeded fear of falling to pieces, as if by letting go we lose control
of everything we have worked for. I also believe that many of the things we
clench so tightly only hinder our abilities to move on in life. This terror of
tumbling apart can be paralyzing at times. But what we must do is drop these
pieces. For it is only through letting go of the shards of a past life that the
mold into which we have tried to fit will shatter and we can be reformed. In
fact, you may find that the pieces will “fall” together as if they were guided
by unseen hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I've discovered it to be like this: If you've never experienced
the process of picking up the pieces, you’ll never know the joy of being found. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-59026245950564113732012-10-14T23:15:00.000-03:002012-10-15T00:10:05.111-03:00Never Alone<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uxAC_KkAu1c/UHtxkGg28xI/AAAAAAAAASk/tI0GESUDMcU/s1600/the+climb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uxAC_KkAu1c/UHtxkGg28xI/AAAAAAAAASk/tI0GESUDMcU/s400/the+climb.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I think we
often trap ourselves into believing that we are alone. We want to solve our
problems by ourselves because we think it will make us “strong” and “independent”. Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but it
can get pretty lonely in this mindset. It’s as if we’re trying to leave our pit
of despair by constructing a staircase out of wayward pebbles while waving away
the rope someone is dangling in front of our faces. Needless to say, this has
the potential to become a futile effort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Look at it
this way, it takes real strength to grab onto that rope and hold on for the
whole climb. And true freedom comes in knowing we are never alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-14178728868587169372012-09-21T00:00:00.000-03:002012-09-21T00:00:03.575-03:00Diving Deep<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tjg4LLjlcjc/UFvUUqkG57I/AAAAAAAAAQM/CCRPmsJyioU/s1600/dive+deep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tjg4LLjlcjc/UFvUUqkG57I/AAAAAAAAAQM/CCRPmsJyioU/s400/dive+deep.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Have you ever felt like you are trying to keep everyone else afloat while you yourself are drowning but nobody notices? How often are we paralyzed by the fear of the next overwhelming wave that is coming, believing that it will be the one that finally consumes us? I know that I have found myself in this mindset at times and it shames me to admit it; for such thoughts only impede us and make things as simple as breathing an impossibility. But struggling on the surface isn't truly living.<br />
<br />
Sometimes in order to stop drowning in life, you need to let go and dive deep within it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-89104900418761773402012-09-16T23:35:00.000-03:002012-09-16T23:35:20.307-03:00Following Your Senses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rqgX3moL_ec/UFaLn0foDUI/AAAAAAAAANM/MsdtZdX6IPE/s1600/cliff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rqgX3moL_ec/UFaLn0foDUI/AAAAAAAAANM/MsdtZdX6IPE/s400/cliff.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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What gets you further in life: common sense or a sense of
adventure? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This is the type of question that sends me running around in
circles within my mind. (Actually, I’m usually pacing a room muttering to
myself, but that’s just weird.) Some may say that common sense only holds you
back and prevents you from trying new and exciting things; that only with a sense
of adventure will one stumble upon discovery. So while a sense of adventure
might compel you to BASE jump off a cliff, common sense may keep your feet from
going over the edge. But what discoveries lie in wait on an alternate route
down? Maybe the real fear we need to overcome is that of turning back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A sense of adventure will take you to all ends of the Earth,
but common sense will keep you alive throughout the journey, and possibly even slow
you down just enough to enjoy the sights along the way. So perhaps it is not
one or the other: In order to live life to the fullest, maybe you need a little
of both.<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-76687315225359073882012-09-01T07:12:00.000-03:002012-09-02T09:31:38.019-03:00Learning to Sing<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-P742KNH3zcs/UEHfLRVwuqI/AAAAAAAAAGs/C9xfONE18n0/s1600/a_new_beginning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-P742KNH3zcs/UEHfLRVwuqI/AAAAAAAAAGs/C9xfONE18n0/s400/a_new_beginning.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Sometimes I wonder why I think that waking up at 5:30 in the
morning will somehow help me be more prepared for the day. As if any amount of
worrying I can fit into the hour before I get up will benefit me in any way.
Today, as I’m about to embark on something new, I'm asking myself similar
questions. But I believe that it’s moments like these where it’s normal to stop
and ask myself what I’m getting into. Or at least that’s where I found
myself a few minutes ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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“Oh my gosh, Emma. What are you doing?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And I looked back on all the times that thought had crossed
my mind. Some of those answers I’m not really proud of, other instances I wish
I’d stopped a second to question further. But I’ve already lived those regrets.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So I ask myself another question. If that last part of my
life, with all its mistakes, regrets, memories, and accomplishments, was
finding my voice; where am I now? Where do I find myself at this start of
something new, with the million little thoughts running through my mind, hands
shaking, eyes looking ahead, brain always questioning, ears always listening?
As I take this all in, I think I feel more than hear the answer: In this moment
of doubt and worry and weakness, that’s where the next part begins. And that is
where I am at this moment: quavering and uncertain, but learning to sing.<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-31072896072534768882012-08-23T21:54:00.000-03:002012-12-23T22:07:53.527-04:00One Last Rose<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MmtMWm_-urQ/UDbPRZpPTVI/AAAAAAAAAGY/qMDxdkY0NFM/s1600/white+rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MmtMWm_-urQ/UDbPRZpPTVI/AAAAAAAAAGY/qMDxdkY0NFM/s320/white+rose.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="291" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Dreams may fade and wilt but </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Hope springs eternal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: start; text-indent: 48px;"> ~ Alexander Pope</span>
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<span style="color: #eaf1dd; font-family: "Bernard MT Condensed","serif"; font-size: 100.0pt; mso-themecolor: accent3; mso-themetint: 51;">”</span><span style="font-family: "Bernard MT Condensed","serif"; font-size: 100.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u>One Last Rose<o:p></o:p></u></div>
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White petals,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like softly falling snow:<o:p></o:p></div>
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shroud summer's blossoming dreams.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-613461527483727332012-08-22T22:18:00.000-03:002014-06-10T23:43:40.517-03:00A Stroke of Lightning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y5t2Qc3-Mfc/UDWEVRRYMEI/AAAAAAAAAGI/uDKfYQ4Ek70/s1600/lightning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y5t2Qc3-Mfc/UDWEVRRYMEI/AAAAAAAAAGI/uDKfYQ4Ek70/s400/lightning.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Wow. Every
now and then you really need to marvel at the awe-inspiring phenomena that
abound in this world. And sometimes it’s the incredible minutest of details, bringing
them about, that cause me to wonder. Take lightning for example. I am sure many
would agree that their power and intensity are something to be appreciated… or
even feared. We find ourselves many-a-time amazed at their spectacle when, in
fact, the true miracle is that they even strike at all. For, despite their high
voltages, “a bolt of lightning is not nearly strong enough to overcome the
insulating properties of air.”<sup>1</sup> Another factor needs to come into
play- something that is not based on the lightning’s power alone; and for all
the high-speed cameras that are continuously being improved, its cause remains elusive.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">This one
missing piece: the spark that starts it all. It is an unknown beyond one’s
comprehension- something we cannot see nor fully grasp. And that’s where the
light shines greatest in lightning. For if these tiny, unseen details are already
taken care of in this world, I wonder what changes are possible in me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><sup><span style="line-height: 115%;">1</span></sup><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Johnson,
George. "Chasing Lightning." <i>National Geographic</i>. August 2012:
106. </span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-28905934449375713632012-08-14T19:19:00.000-03:002014-02-27T01:35:07.664-04:00The Normal Conundrum <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AEhEJr_vjQc/UCrOUoCC9HI/AAAAAAAAAF4/2EBL6n6m_6c/s1600/jigsaw-puzzle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AEhEJr_vjQc/UCrOUoCC9HI/AAAAAAAAAF4/2EBL6n6m_6c/s400/jigsaw-puzzle.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I hate the word “normal”.
It can’t be defined and I think we just waste our time trying to reach
its elusive and treacherous ideal. The desire to be ordinary is perhaps one of
humanity’s greatest puzzles. And maybe “fitting” the pieces together isn’t the
way to solve it.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Normal is what we think everyone else thinks is normal;
there is no static definition of the word and, for that reason, it is an unattainable
standard to wish to achieve. But we all strive for a sense of normalcy and,
unfortunately, use it as a driving force in our lives. In our race to be like “everybody
else”, we leave our true selves trampled behind us. It seems impossible to
break free of this mindset because society impresses upon everyone at an early
age a desire to please others at all cost. It’s as if we have been set up for
failure. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the end, we either have to assimilate and be like what we
believe everyone else to be or find contentment in breaking apart and staying
true to ourselves. The latter is not easy because we feel pressured by the
world to merge with everyone else. However, theoretically speaking, if we truly
accept ourselves for who we are, than the acceptance of everyone else shouldn’t
matter at all. I don’t know of this is any more possible than reaching “normal’,
but at least it’s a constructive concept for which to strive.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-32565488261400346332012-08-13T01:55:00.000-03:002014-02-27T01:29:43.866-04:00Building Walls<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ePv6CaiGjT0/UCiH4JMWP4I/AAAAAAAAAFg/CXI6a2gYlQ0/s1600/wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ePv6CaiGjT0/UCiH4JMWP4I/AAAAAAAAAFg/CXI6a2gYlQ0/s400/wall.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Too many people waste their time trying to be someone else. I
wonder how many times we have walked into a room of pasted smiles and false
laughter; where we find ourselves as mere spectres going about life, each
ignorant in our own isolation. Somehow, we feel better when we are busy
constructing barriers; thinking we are protecting ourselves by keeping others
from catching a glimpse of the real person within. But problems arise from this
self-deception. Not expressing one’s
true feelings only results in anger and resentment. Moreover, hiding our true
selves is an exhausting undertaking and never really gives a sense of security.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As proven throughout history, walls are seldom able to
maintain their purpose indefinitely. The Berlin Wall fell, the Great Wall of
China, a symbol of power, still gave way to the Mongols and other invaders. In
the same way, we build walls of false images and spend all our energy trying to
sustain them. It is a fruitless effort for, in doing so, we miss out on much
and forget what’s important; like loving others or having loyal friends and
supportive families.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This begs the question of who are we really afraid of? For the
walls will eventually fall and then with whom are we left? Surely not those we
have blocked out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These mental strongholds: We try to hide behind them but all
we succeed in achieving is hiding from ourselves. For the real threat comes
from within and no matter how many outer defenses we mount, they won’t shield
us from the true person inside. And peace will only come through acceptance.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-47020996355408643852012-08-07T14:15:00.000-03:002012-11-12T22:02:02.102-04:00Saving Superman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
-A short story-<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
My best memories of childhood always began with a hunt
through the linen closet. I would be looking each time for the indispensable
superhero necessities: a rag to fashion a cape- an old towel would do
perfectly- and a strip of cloth for a mask. A few tucks here, a little
adjusting there, a poor attempt at forming a knot and, voila, I became a caped
hero, defending the world from the masked marauders of the night. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was always that anticipation of dressing up, that
delicious feeling of being someone else for a short period of time, where my
reality would slip away and I could escape from the confines of my small, childhood world. In those fantasy-filled moments, I fully believed I had become
one of them and that by defeating my imaginary villains, I was somehow
protecting the world from the horrors that plagued it. As if by simply wearing
a cape, I could take the burdens of the world upon my childish frame.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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But I was young and my sheltered eyes had seen little of
those horrors; my imagination unable to truly construct what held the world in
bondage. My war was of a fun sort, where the good guys always won and vengeance
always dealt without fail. When I look back upon that period of my existence,
it is easy to laugh at the ignorance of my childhood innocence. Because to me
then, the world was of a monochrome nature; where right and wrong were divided
as clearly as day and night. Not at all like the hazy twilight where I find
myself pondering such beliefs, now so many years in the future. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what is it that I believe now? For the difference
between adults and children is that we see the world through a different lens,
so that we often reject what is right before our eyes: the pure, the innocent,
all that is simple and good is lost in the shadows of cynicism. It is our
inability to clearly distinguish the difference between night and day that
sends us to the stumbling block of nations. Maybe if, for a moment, every
leader of every country were to lower himself to the eye level of a
five-year-old, the world would be a better place. But these are most likely the
mad ramblings of a delusional dreamer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So is that why today I once again yearn to see things
through the over-simplified worldview of youth? It’s morning once more and I’m
looking out the window. I hear laughter and soon see a boy appear from behind
the house across the street. He is wearing a mask, his eyes peering out from
its exaggerated features. I’m trying to discern whose face he is hiding behind,
almost frantically now because I think I already know. He is running and
jumping, twirling and bouncing through
the sun-dappled morning. And suddenly- might it be because of the angle of the
sun?- I can see it clearly. For here I am, in a cape once more, but trying to save
superman.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tyPfHT7GL0U/UCFMHf7wQVI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/BSu1AU0t-4Y/s1600/saving+superman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tyPfHT7GL0U/UCFMHf7wQVI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/BSu1AU0t-4Y/s320/saving+superman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-56144146656471052312012-07-29T15:16:00.000-03:002012-07-29T15:16:09.337-03:00In the Peace of Dormant Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6kDhaVIUjww/UBV84KEpnpI/AAAAAAAAAEw/aJY_y_ukmqs/s1600/misty+morning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6kDhaVIUjww/UBV84KEpnpI/AAAAAAAAAEw/aJY_y_ukmqs/s400/misty+morning.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sunday, July 29, 6:15 am</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought I was going to get to see the sun rise this
morning. There was a brief moment when all was calm and the sky was streaked
with red. The whole world was filled with anticipation it seemed; and I was
part of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then the clouds came and
covered the small, wavering rays of the new day. This happened slowly, the
clouds creeping over the horizon so that I didn’t notice it right away. Now two
birds are bickering outside. The moment of peace has passed and all is beginning
to awaken with a clatter to the hectic realism of life. There’s always tomorrow
I suppose. Maybe then I’ll be able to hold on to the ever-seeking sun for a
moment longer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is what I saw. It is also how I felt.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7170051955515709946.post-32933351507922786632012-07-25T00:31:00.000-03:002012-07-26T13:47:53.120-03:00Inner Beasts<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In everyone there is a beast trying to get out.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like poison;</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paralyzing inner spirit,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">it attacks: A roaring, clawing manticore,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">composed of lies and anger and pain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I tried to tame it by myself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the only one I was fooling was me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MhRZnXNqwjc/UA9k2Lrfe1I/AAAAAAAAAEc/BCLnMRGZr4k/s1600/manticore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="116" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MhRZnXNqwjc/UA9k2Lrfe1I/AAAAAAAAAEc/BCLnMRGZr4k/s200/manticore.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4