Egads. It’s been months. MONTHS.

Good morning from the frigid side of our mountain. Living on the side of a mountain, north side to be exact, has benefits and not-so-much-benefits.  Very little sun during the winter months is one of the not-so-much-benefits.  Interesting and intriguing visitors is one of the best benefits.

In the past few weeks we’ve been visited by foxes, a resident moose (not our Matilda, but the man of the house thinks it may be Matilda’s 3 year old daughter—it’s always best not to question these assertions, but instead, to just let them hang out there in the air…)—-where was I?  Oh yes, our visitors also included two (2) male bighorn sheep!  I kid you not.  Aengus got all hot and bothered, running to the front window, the back door, barking up a storm and just generally trying to get our attention.  When the munchkin-who-no-longer-really-qualifes-as-a-munchkin that I live with decided to find out what the hullabaloo was about, she excitedly exclaimed “MOM!!!  Get in here!!!”  The photos are fuzzy I do apologize and only of the second as the first had already jumped the fence and headed up the hill.  The deer were gorgeous and looked healthy.  The next day we saw 7 up on the hill as we drove out, including a buck with a magnificent rack.  We are entertained daily by two squirrels who chase each other away from the ground below the bird feeders, though one day they had a face-off.

So in general, winter here may not bring the warmth and the blessing of the sun, but instead if offers a smorgasbord of nature.  It’s difficult to get a lot done as we find ourselves watching the myriad birds flitting about, the antics of the squirrels or the beauty of the hooved ones as they pick their way through the snow.

My blog has been through a few iterations over the last many years.  Posts about the ridiculous situations I have found myself in while living on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, the beauty of our surroundings, the revolving seasons that seem to be felt more keenly here.  When I read back through the archives I find I repeat myself at certain times of year, especially at the changing of the seasons.  I specifically didn’t write about it this fall as I felt like a broken record.  At least I’m consistent, eh?

And then there are all the political posts.  I’m certainly not one to keep my opinions to myself and I’ve made sure to type them out from time to time.  I was with some family last Friday and the subject of Michelle Obama and her comments on “leaning in” came up.  Boy did I unload on that one.  I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it here.  Certainly it is a hot topic.  Women in the workforce.  I call hogwash, bullpucky, malarkey on that whole “Lean In” thing.  Ms. Sandberg doesn’t know a thing about raising a child and attempting to work  outside the home.  Oh sure, she may do it.  But with a full-time nanny parked adjacent to her office and a cadre of help at home. I feel I am allowed to speak on this issue with some authority as I possess not just one, but two professional degrees.  I am also a full-time homeschooling mother. I work outside the home.  I gave up my veterinary career to raise my daughter.  I knew there was no way, NO WAY, I could do both and do them well.  I give 1000% of me to whatever endeavor I am engaged in.  That 1000% could not be split and either my daughter (and thus my husband and home) would suffer or my veterinary patients would suffer.  Instead I work as a physical therapist in human medicine (the ICK factor is off the charts),still trying to wear all the other hats I’m supposed to, here at home.  Lean In my patootie.

Whew, that was a rant.  What I was going to write was that my political voice has been screaming at me on the inside but I’m afraid to put the words down in black on the white.  The last two years have been tumultuous.  They’ve been a seriously long bad dream.  I was aware of the insanity of it all this weekend, when, working with a patient, after I was asking questions trying to determine cognitive status, he blurted out “the president is Trump.”  The last questioner (not sure how many hours before me) had used the question “who is the president” as a marker for helping to determine how oriented this person was.  Normally, I simply mute the television when it’s blaring Fox News and I steer FAR away from anything political when I’m in a patient’s room.  This time I said “Nope. I’m not talking about Trump.”  I realize this is not a big statement and it’s not really political by any means, but to me it was huge.  For one, I said his damn name out loud in the hospital, away from here, my safe haven.  I acknowledged, in a way, that he is the president. (damn it)  And I was forceful and I moved on.  Baby steps.  Meaning, I’m tired of being silent.  I’m tired of the insanity.  I walked away from that room sort of shaking my head at the reality of the situation.  That man is our president.  Still.  It has been 2 long years of absolute insanity.   And I cannot believe this is where we’re at.  My daughter grew up knowing our Republic was in good hands with a sane administration and Barack Obama at the helm.  My daughter fell asleep on the couch on November 8, 2016 with tears in her eyes, hoping against hope that what she knew to be happening wasn’t happening.  She has now spent formative years of her life listening to the blabbering, blathering idiot in the Oval Office.  Every time he comes on the radio, it’s a race to see who can turn the station faster…her or me.  After which she exclaims something akin to “I know more words than he does” or “doesn’t he even know x, y or z???”  Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

An education for her I guess.  We’ve been to more marches than I can count.  We’re well versed in all things political here and certainly know more than our esteemed president about the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, the Congress, the history of our nation.  Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

And yet, what has that gained us? A mother (me) who swears A LOT.  I had to promise that when he is finally gone and dear Goddess of the Universe erased from our brains, I will stop swearing.  It’s gained us an education I guess.  It’s increased our civic contributions.  My daughter can draw a mean caricature of the orange buffoon in the Oval.  I’ll share it here.  You’ll see what I mean.

So many words.  So little time.  We must get started on Chemistry, Logic, Math (algebra).  With time out for watching the birds and the squirrel games.

Blessed be.

(I, gasp, deleted the photos of the beautiful deer. BUT! Stop the presses.  Aengus is going nuts right now!!  Coyote.  Big, fluffy coyote.  Too fast for me to get a photo.)

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The absence of words

Those who know me know that me with an absence of words is, well, odd.  To say the least.

I have so many words, so much of the time.  And I rarely fail to use them.  With the dear husband (you remember him right?  Mr. Man’s Man/Woman’s Man/Everyman/Superman that I live with) when I pepper him with phone calls all day every day.  Or bombard him when he comes in the door at the end of a long day, seeking peace and quiet and the asylum of his serene (HA!) home.

Or my poor patients at the hospital, wondering who this damn, cheery person in blue scrubs is that has the temerity to waltz into their room and suggest exercise?!?!  To whom I then launch into a stream of words that surely has them wondering what dimension they’ve entered.

Or my daughter, during another history lesson, when I wax poetic (I love this phrase, but in all seriousness, what does it mean???) about some part of our shared existence.  There are so many things to teach her and share with her and tell her so that she can venture forth into this world and make informed decisions.

Just the other day, at drop-off for summer camp, I talked with another mom for over an hour!!!  Standing in the hot sun, in the street next to our parked vehicles.  We covered a lot of ground.  But oddly, she avoided me the rest of the week.  Not enough hours in the day for my rambling loquaciousness I think.

My sister will call and two hours later we end the conversation.  But then there is radio silence for awhile.

It’s like I’m bubbling over with chatter, jargon, utterances that threaten to overwhelm those who come into close contact with me.  I should wear a warning sign:

“Enter into conversation with at your own risk.  You have been warned.  Danger, chance of losing hours of your time listening to WORDS.”

I don’t mean to be so voluminous with the verbiage.  I really don’t.  There are just so many things I can contain in my cranium without them coming hurling out in some form or fashion.

Except lately.  Yes, there was the drop-off this last week.  But I am finding that the voices in my head, shouting to be let out, shouting to get the words down in some way onto the paper, or the computer aren’t coalescing into coherent thoughts.  And they seem to be receding.  Which, some might say, would be a good thing.  To not walk around with drums banging around inside your cabeza on a minutely basis.  To not be constantly distracted by WORDS.

But my words have always been comforting.  My voices are comforting.  They’re a way for me to organize my thoughts, to help find a way to communicate my feelings.  My voices are  an avenue for my expression.  And my expression is the essence of me.

I am losing touch with that essence of me.  My voices are growing silent.  My words are not banging the drums. I don’t know exactly why, but I suspect that my spirit is breaking.  The daily onslaught of the news has begun to create in me the necessity of putting up walls.  I am walling off my words because the enormity of what is happening is simply too much to comprehend, too much to organize into those coherent thoughts, too much to deal with.

When I look inside, I am not seeing the tapestry of my WORDS, but instead blank, whiteness.  And that is frightening.  I force myself to think about something….the children standing by, crying, unable to speak the language, wondering why their mother and father are being taken away, left to fend on their own, noone to console them…or the mothers who don’t know where their children are…

…my heart starts beating faster, my respirations increase, I begin to feel a sort of panic welling up inside of me.  Centered in the middle of my chest, like a little, swirling tornado that threatens to erupt.  This is why people speak about “heartache.”  Because it actually feels uncomfortable right there where my heart lies.  I worked with a homeopath for a long time on identifying what was happening inside my body, during a time of extreme stress in my life.  Stress that was threatening to pull me under.  We worked for a long time on naming what I was physically feeling and then finding ways to get past it.

I feel as if I’m back there again.  I do not know how to not be affected by what is happening in our country.  Forget the entire world, the starving polar bears, the melting in Antarctica, the erupting volcanoes and complete destruction of islands due to hurricanes, the massive wildfires. That’s enough on any given day to cause a migraine to arrive and visit me with its wrath.

The destruction in our country, in America, is becoming more than I can bear.  It is beginning to affect me physically.  And I know I am not alone in this.  I am erecting walls against my words as a protection mechanism.  Because the words will unleash a torrent of pain and suffering for those being irreparably damaged by the void of leadership in this country.  The words that I am walling off will open a window into the devastation of lives and I am so very afraid of being sucked under and not being able to surface.

That is my fear.  I do not think I can handle another photograph of another crying child, or read another story of another woman who has had her child pulled from her arms.  I cannot read another story about the island of Puerto Rico without power and people dying because there were not able to get to dialysis.  My heart is overwhelmed.  And I am beginning to feel it physically.

America, what have we become that the president can use children as bargaining chips?  Where is the conscience of the leaders of this country?  Why is this happening?

The children are suffering.  This cannot be who we are.

Because I have closed off my words, I will end this with some which are comforting, if only for a fraction of a second:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 

by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm –

That could abash the little Bird-

That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –

And on the strangest Sea –

Yet – never – in Extremity,

It asked a crumb – of me.

Blessed be.
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A hole in my soul tonight.


~2000 to 2018

It is with a heavy yet grateful heart that I sit at my computer to write.
Our dearest, toughest, bestest canine friend left this Earthly world for the next chapter in his journey.
Buck came to us in July 2009.  He was walking in the Saratoga 4th of July parade with his human helper, Cheryl Bressler.  She was trying to find him a forever home as he had been living in the Casper shelter for more than a year.  Gracelyn was in the BOB (our version of a jogging stroller) waving her flag, and I was peering up at the hot late morning sun wondering if I’d put enough sunscreen on her face and mine.  I glanced back at the parade and there was a chocolate Labrador Retriever staring intently right at me.  AT. ME.  The Saratoga parade is not huge, but it is a community gathering so there are always many, many people lined up on both sides of the street.
Buck stared at me.  And kept staring as his human, Cheryl, walked on down the street.  I couldn’t get the look from him out of my mind.  He had keen, brown eyes that seemed to be trying to get something across to me.
We left the parade, walked home (because in Saratoga you can do that) and I called Greg to tell him about the chocolate Labrador with the intense eyes.  Then I called Cheryl to find out details.  She said he was staying at the small shelter in Saratoga, by the police station.  We could certainly go pick him up and see how he did with us for a day or two.
Gracelyn and I headed over.  Buck was beside himself!  He jumped as high as the gate latch, all four feet off the ground at the same time.  Briefly, I wondered what I’d gotten us into.  But his exuberance at being with humans was, well, charming.  We got him into the car and home and into the yard where he could meet Timmy, our aged Springer Spaniel.  They got along famously.  Greg drove up to meet him and we both decided that night Buck was not going back to the shelter.
And so began our life with Buck.  He was nine or 10 years old, per the shelter papers, and had been surrendered because he “ran away.”  Hmmm…we had a fenced yard, what could go wrong?  He was positive for Giardia and weighed only 57 lbs with raging diarrhea.  Again, what could go wrong?
Many, many breakouts later (including being picked up by the Saratoga policeman that Greg subsequently sweet-talked into giving him back to us) and over a year of ground hamburger and baked sweet potatoes and Buck was well on the way to health.
We left Saratoga and moved down to the ranch where Buck quickly set up a morning routine: scout the fence line for break-ins from the coyotes, head up the mountain to do Lord knows what and eventually sun himself in the yard.
He became a foster parent to our missing Max.  They were best buddies and Buck taught him everything…including how to roam up the mountain and across the river.  Not such a great lesson and Max didn’t come home one day.
Buck became a foster parent once again when we brought home Aengus, a sort of step-brother to Max (same mom, a year later).  He dutifully taught him how to lift his leg and to roughhouse.  All within a fenced yard so no checking the fence line down by the barn or heading up the mountain.
The last few winters have been pretty hard on our Buck as his hips have protested the cold and ice.  Each winter I thought was going to be the last, but by some miracle, Buck would make it, the snow would melt, the sun would warm the ground and he’d be out there laying in the grass that was trying to sprout.  And we’d go through the summer, then the fall and I’d dread the winter coming, knowing it would be so difficult for him to manage on the snow and ice.  But he just kept going, our own Energizer Bunny.  Never complaining, always with the wagging tail.
No matter how cold or how much snow, every time I’d return home from a weekend of work, he’d come to greet me on the path to the door.
The last month though Buck seemed to not be Buck anymore.  Sort of a shell of his former self.  Old age does that, shrinking the physical body, clouding the senses.  He slept a lot, but was also uncomfortable a lot.
I procrastinated.  I did not want my rescued chocolate Labrador with the intense brown eyes to leave me.
I know about death of beloved canine companions.  I have lost several.  Each one left an indelible mark on my soul.   And a hole in my heart when their Earthly journey was through.
To me it seemed that Buck was hanging on, holding on with what strength he could muster.  I just couldn’t figure out why.  I wondered if maybe he was waiting until our missing Max came home.  I wondered if he was waiting for us to find another little buddy for Aengus.
I never wondered if he was holding on for me.
It finally came to me last night, that maybe, just maybe, he WAS holding on for me.  For me to be alright with him leaving.  For me to be OK with him moving on.  For me to accept the Circle of Life and understand that he had been on this earth 18 or 19 years, much longer than normal for Labrador Retrievers, and that it was simply time for him to go.  That his body couldn’t handle much more…he would do it for me…and he had been doing it for me, but it was costing him.
So, with a heavy heart yet a so very grateful heart, I gave him the gift of death today.  At 3:00 pm, Buck left his physical body.  And left a hole in my soul.
My chocolate Labrador with the intense brown eyes was a spiritual being having a canine experience.  And wasn’t I the lucky one to be able to share it with him.
Thank you Buck for your time here with us.  Thank you Great Spirit/Great Mystery/the Universe for the gift of his life.
Blessed Be.
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Time for happy thoughts.

Happy thoughts like the kind that make you laugh so hard you float up to the ceiling for a tea party with Mary Poppins and Bert and the kids.

Or happy thoughts that make you fly again like Peter Banning when he remembers how to be a Lost Boy in Never Never Land.  Bang-a-rang!  (I miss Robin Williams. He was a perfect Peter Pan who forgot he was Peter Pan and then remembered again. Oops…not so happy.  Bang-a-rang Robin Williams wherever your beautiful spirit is flying today!)

Happy thoughts like when you look outside all of a sudden and see nothing but big, fat, white flakes falling from the heavens, blanketing the trees and the hills and the Jungle Fort out back.

Happy thoughts like the first sip of the first cup of coffee in the morning.  Ahhhh, nirvana.

I have found it so easy to feel like I’m drowning in the ugliness and the chaos and the inhumanity of the current state of affairs in this country.

My last post spoke to the jumbled-up-ness of my psyche as it tries to digest the news of the past week, let alone the past one and a half years.  Putting a misogynistic, sexual predator who defends domestic abusers in the White House will likely be remembered as one of America’s absolute worst acts ever.  Ever.  The psychic trauma of this last year and a half for those of us who don’t subscribe to the beliefs of the xenophobic, racist, sexist bully’s regime is great and may take years to recover from.

It’s been a delicate dance since November 2016.  Too much news and politics and I yell at the radio and say bad words and feel knots in my stomach.  Not enough news and politics and I feel that I’ll miss something that will be the turning point, the coup de grace, the final blow to this national nightmare.  From which we can all wake up and resume being civilized humans in a civilized society again.  (Nota bene:  dearest daughter Gracelyn won’t let me change the station too often, asking me if I remember what happened the last time I consciously did that?  She’ll answer me in her sweet, sing-song voice:  “Comey was fired.”  And so we leave it on the news station.  I think we’re both just waiting for words that will make us have faith again.)

I published the last post (My “And So I Stayed” story) on another site on Sunday morning and was overwhelmed by the responses.  Affirmations of what I’d written, stories of others’ experiences, kindnesses, love, gratitude, appreciation…just generally the best part of our collective humanity.  It was truly humbling.

And so freeing.  I have felt a bit lighter since initially getting the words out.  Sunshine truly is Nature’s best disinfectant.

Sunshine.  That’s a happy thought.  Usually in the middle of winter, I’m content for gray days with snow and blustery winds and freezing temperatures.  Perfect for sledding or skiing or drinking hot cocoa (for her) and hot coffee (for me).  Or snowball fights, or making forts, or throwing snowballs.  But this winter hasn’t turned out to be much of a winter, with a paltry amount of snow on the ground and bare spots every where you turn.  We had mud in the drive already.  Mud.  And exposed grass in the front.  It’s only the middle of February.  I don’t care what that groundhog said.  I don’t see much winter left.  So when it gets like this, I think my Spring Fever sets in and I’d just rather get to the sunshine.  And the sprouting grass and the buds on the aspen trees.  And the sun rising higher, not hidden behind the mountain on its shallow arc across the sky.  Instead, blazing a path right overhead.

So sunshine is my happy thought today.

“You’ll never know dear, how much I love you….please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Blessings be.

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And so I stayed…

The first bloody nose happened not long after we started dating.  But he was sincerely sorry. So I stayed.

The yelling and the name-calling started not long after we became engaged.  But he was, always, sincerely sorry.  So I stayed.

The second bloody nose happened after we were happily married.  But again, he was sincerely sorry.  So I stayed.

The bruises, both physical and emotional, were sprinkled throughout the relationship.  The fault was always mine.  Or that’s how he made it seem.  So I stayed.

Because how could anyone else ever put up with me? How could anyone else ever love me as much as he did?  Tolerating my hysterical outbursts, my neediness, my emotional swings (hormones anyone?).  Who else would stick around, if not him?  So I stayed.

One time I fought back.  My open hand connected with his face.  He took to the bed, gave me the cold shoulder, wouldn’t respond to my pleading, my begging for forgiveness.  Finally, after much groveling on my part, he said “how could you hit me?  I can’t believe you hit me.”  I had no words to say except “I’m so sorry.”  Over and over and over.  And I stayed.

I was ashamed.  I was embarrassed.  I was humiliated.  Me, the smart one.  Me, the feminist.  Me, the one who seemed to have it all together.  How could I possibly have let this happen to me?  I began to internalize the emotional abuse, began to turn on myself, began to doubt myself.  Maybe all the things he said to me, about me, were true.  Maybe I was a lunatic, a crazy bitch, a nutcase.  Maybe I did deserve to be pushed around, to be bullied by his size and his strength.  Maybe I was worthless.  So I stayed.

I never found the words that would have stood up for my battered self.  I never found the courage to stand my ground, to say “NO MORE.”  I never found the love for myself that would have enabled me to feel I was worth so much more than what I was getting.

In retrospect, the end of the marriage was a mutual parting of ways, after time spent apart, for reasons due to school, residencies, jobs.  Once again, though, I was a coward.    My best friend ever, my beloved Golden Retriever Calvin was diagnosed with lymphoma and died within weeks.  I was devastated.  Two weeks later, he called to say he was filing the divorce papers.  Not “Happy Birthday. How are you?  Do you miss Calvin?”  Emotionally abusive, in his way, to the end.  I never confronted him.  I hid behind the age-worn excuse of “we both want different things out of life, so we should go our separate ways.”  It seemed easier to not say anything.  Just like it had been easier not to say anything during the ten years we were together.

I thought by signing the papers, by taking back my name, I would be shedding that part of me that had been abused.  That by walking away, the scars would disappear and I could pretend as if none of it had happened.

Funny thing about scar tissue though…it doesn’t lay down in nice, neat, straight, parallel lines that fit perfectly into the lanes of life.  Scar tissue forms in clumps that can knot up and disrupt the best laid plans.  Scar tissue can form and lay low for a while, not causing any problems.  Until one day, life tries to travel down that path and WHAMMO! BAM! Road block.  Cause there’s no moving smoothly over ginormous balled-up adhesions.  There are triggers, I will be honest.  I have a personal space now that if I feel is being invaded, I will defend mightily.  I can’t watch movies that have even the slightest hint of domestic physical abuse without my heart rate accelerating and my respirations increasing.  I have been angry of late.  At the bullies in our world…the men in positions of power, the stories that are coming out, the ones not told, the ones not believed.

The stigma of being “one who stayed” rears its head often in my life.  The father of my daughter, my second husband, has said countless times over the years that he just cannot understand how a woman would go back for more abuse.  We have this conversation a lot. I used to get pretty worked up when I was trying to explain it to him.  I’m far enough away from it now that I have the ability to dial down the emotion so that I don’t explode out of my skin. He has a hard time reconciling the knowledge of me, his wife who is a passionate feminist, who has two professional medical degrees, who is a successful parent/homeschool teacher/employee outside the home, as ever being “one who stayed.”  I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve tried to explain it.  But to be honest, it’s as if I’m speaking ancient Greek and he’s speaking Cherokee (which is in his family tree, so I can say that without being disrespectful).  To him, it is unfathomable that a woman would stay in a relationship with a man who is physically abusive.  To him, that woman is simply stupid.

And therein lies the stigma.  And the dichotomy.  I stayed.  I am not stupid.  I am actually a pretty smart person.  But. I. Stayed.

I anticipate running into another clump of scar tissue soon.  Our daughter is 11 years old now.  She is strong, in every sense of the word.  She is physically strong, but she is also emotionally strong.  Strong-willed and strongly opinionated.  She is passionate and intelligent and has a fine sense of right and wrong. How do I tell her that her mother was “one who stayed?”

And dear Goddess of the Universe, how can I help her be one who won’t?


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noun: legacy; plural noun: legacies
  1. 1.
    an amount of money or property left to someone in a will.
    synonyms: bequestinheritanceheritageendowmentgiftpatrimonysettlementbirthright;

    “a legacy from a great aunt”
    • a thing handed down by a predecessor.
      “the legacy of centuries of neglect”
      synonyms: consequenceeffectupshotspin-offrepercussionaftermath, by-product, result

      “a legacy of the wars”

      (Thank you Google for the above.)

 Legacy:  a thing handed down by a predecessor

Something to think about this MLKJr Day, am I right?  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr certainly left a legacy.  He handed down to us words, dreams, thoughts, calls to action.

He would have been 89 years young this year.  What would he think about this country today? Would he take a knee, bow his head and speak his big words of “love…together…peace?”  Would he link arms with John Lewis, Michelle and Barack and the rest of us hurting at this time of strife in our country?  What would he tell us if we could stand and listen to his fiery oration?  Would he still have a dream?

Would he think we had squandered all of what has come before us–the suffering and the sacrifices that he and his brethren made for the rights of all?  Would he be angry that we hadn’t done more, that we had wasted time, that we are all still not sitting at the same table?

Or would he clasp hands with each and every one of us, wrap us in a hug, and tell us that “Love is the key to the problems of the world?”  Would he tell us to stay strong, to believe in the movement, to not give up, to keep marching?

I heard this on the night that Barack Obama was elected President in 2008:

“Rosa Parks sat so that Martin Luther King could walk.

Martin Luther King, Jr walked so that Barack Obama could run.

Barack Obama ran so that our children could fly.”

The above was reworded by Jay-Z from the original wording uttered by Cleo Fields, former Congressman and State Senator from Louisiana:

“W.E.B. Dubois taught so that Rosa Parks could take a seat. Rosa took a seat so we all could take a stand. We all took a stand so that Martin Luther King Jr. could march. Martin marched so Jesse Jackson could run. Jesse ran so Obama could WIN.”

Either way the words are a testament to the giants who have come before us.  We must carry on their legacy.  We must remember Martin’s big words: love, peace, together, dreams.

We must stand and march and run and dream and fly.  This country is depending on us.

Again, I quote Joseph Kennedy:

“To those who have been given much, much is expected in return.”

It is time for us to give.


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Musings by Grace (guest post)


December night,

warm and bright inside.

Fresh arroz on the table,

Peas, so delicious, make it


Baked pollo, spicy shrimp,

outside the snowflakes


A large white cake, sprinkled

with snowy sugar and


A happy family birthday.




Silence Has a Sound

Though you don’t notice for all the

noise around,

Silence has a sound.

The whisper-roaring you hear,

Every time you put a shell to your ear.

The Hush-shush of skis on snow,

The shifting of an ice flow.

Marching ant feet,

making something, to them, so sweet.

The pop, pop, pop of an octopus underwater.

The clip-clop , clip-clop of a relentless

horse trotter.

The crash-clang-bang of a fight with


The power of a few words.

The scritch-scratch of a pen,

Telling not where but when.

Silence is made up of all the

sounds in the world,


In on its self.

Silence has a sound.

Silence has a sound,

the world ’round.

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