tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68595166952284814842024-03-13T09:32:49.672-07:00Wren's WitchHouseAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16578525996848547798noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6859516695228481484.post-33061610088571689452013-09-11T12:11:00.001-07:002013-09-11T12:16:46.486-07:00back for more...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In April 2012, I bundled up my then 84-year
old mother, bought her a ticket for her first plane ride ever (it went
surprisingly well) and whisked her down to Florida. We moved our office into
the small guest room and set up the suite for her. All the comforts of home...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .5pt; tab-stops: 7.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .5pt; tab-stops: 7.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A New Englander, born and bred, she had some
(quite understandable) adjustment issues. For one, it's hot here. For seven
months out of the year, it is either hot (humid) or hot (dry). She needed a
wardrobe. She needed a pair of sunglasses. She needed a new doctor. Check,
check and Checkver.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like many people at her age, Mom has what they
call 'multiple morbidities'. She has a lot of things in her body that don't
work as well as they used to. She's hard of hearing. She needs help walking.
She has a massive hiatal hernia. And one day it almost killed her.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzBnQX3_F9CSd-DWzI3BapW-9-_9cmx6442ND99ZHwrpWnSXxM3rw3FpIaH8lfdQ46rmpWfl7oaKRccHEKv6jnlJL00f24oeoq7MqC2pZFpgk_R45UROIkpsT6W9iBbdqXmIPOk1FNWJl/s1600/IMG_4670.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzBnQX3_F9CSd-DWzI3BapW-9-_9cmx6442ND99ZHwrpWnSXxM3rw3FpIaH8lfdQ46rmpWfl7oaKRccHEKv6jnlJL00f24oeoq7MqC2pZFpgk_R45UROIkpsT6W9iBbdqXmIPOk1FNWJl/s320/IMG_4670.jpg" width="280" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Mom and I (Nov. 2012)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .5pt; tab-stops: 7.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was at the hospital to pick her up. Mom had
gone into the emergency room over the weekend (three days after her 85th
birthday) with a little pneumonia. Not uncommon for her. A clash of
morbidities. Couple days on antibiotics and she can go home on Monday. It was
Monday. But she didn't look like she was ready to go home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There was a lot of back and forth talk between
the nurses and myself. Then it was me and the doctors. Then the doctors and the
surgeons. An endoscopic test confirmed that the hernia had strangulated. It was
twisted around her esophagus. She was bleeding internally. Without surgery, she
would die. With surgery, at her age, she had a slim chance. I could tell that
the doctors were hesitant but whatcha gonna do? It's my momma; we went for door
number two: emergency surgery.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The surgeons basically untwined her stomach,
pulled it down and pegged it in place via a gastrostomy tube that exited
through her abdomen. (Too much information? Yeah, tell me about it.) She
survived that day. It was the next five months when things got dicey. She
almost died four more times. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNpzTnrv0jRNxEpCLqhqFTFRQhXZgwc0FhzH7LRxSEWqzjZ0WUR6P9QLetzYnv-_kR0zHLsWQR3Aeo__lcLPUTsBeQhJLu_pXLbpNcUF0e7QraPsQLZL2Mn5s9e4FTeQGAfwRNZQ3bIns/s1600/IMG_0939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNpzTnrv0jRNxEpCLqhqFTFRQhXZgwc0FhzH7LRxSEWqzjZ0WUR6P9QLetzYnv-_kR0zHLsWQR3Aeo__lcLPUTsBeQhJLu_pXLbpNcUF0e7QraPsQLZL2Mn5s9e4FTeQGAfwRNZQ3bIns/s320/IMG_0939.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two old gals: Mom loved Ruby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .5pt; tab-stops: 7.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I'll keep it brief.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">February 2013: After surgery, Mom was
transferred to ICU. She came off the ventilator like a champ. Then fluid built
up in her lungs. Eight decades of antibiotic treatments... she is allergic now
to most of them. But the infectious disease specialist managed to find a good
one. She stabilized. They sent her down the hall to 'progressive care'. She was
in pain. She couldn't take anything by mouth. She contracted MRSA.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After a few days, Mom was transferred to an
acute care facility. Her stomach would not accept anything, so she was put on a
PICC line and TPN (liquid nutrition via a vein). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">March 2013: The doctors operated again,
converting her G-tube (Oh, how quickly one adapts to the lingo. It's rather
frightening.) to a G-J tube. Now she has a port that goes into her stomach and
one that goes into her intestine. Meds go in the stomach line; liquid nutrition
goes in the jejunostomy tube. She contracts c-diff. Not good.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .5pt; tab-stops: 7.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .5pt; tab-stops: 7.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Mom begins to bleed internally. The docs can't
find it, test after test after blood transfusion after test. Up to ICU again.
They put her on blood clotting drugs. That worked. She developed blood clots in
both of her legs. So they put her on blood thinners. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Swell. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">April 2013: Mom has a UTI, a blood clot in her
lung and MDRO. But she is no longer 'acute enough' for the center, so she is
transferred to a 'skilled nursing facility' where she spends most of her time
waiting for her next pain medication dose. This place is around the corner from
our house, so Fritz and I can visit and check on her progress several times
each day. By the middle of...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I did a lot of crossword puzzles</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">May 2013: There is something seriously wrong.
Mom is transferred back to a hospital. She is anemic. She has internal
bleeding, MDRO (again), pneumonia, severe nausea, a urinary tract infection and
...<i><b>sepsis</b></i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">ICU: a really good place to be when your
condition is really, really bad... except she developed ICU psychosis. She
pulled her stomach tubes out. When she was stable, the surgeon replaced her g-j
tube.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Still in ICU psychosis, Mom developed severe
edema throughout her body. She had blood clots in both legs and one arm. The
infectious disease doctor again pulled a magic antibiotic out of his bag and
she stabilized. Down the hall into a ward for a few days and then transferred
to a different 'long term care' hospital. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Whew!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxA45LGE0BjpAFz6gX1QDGbaj3nXvPqrJAVmrs-5hS-rudd8WIhXXVHUkJZuyN3GOj-EyShR1MxJFSqHKN7cyeGnQCfgtoq87QmSW9WDpilMgDIgoOT4xJyuhhkfwLDYipWXmNb2UkNdR/s1600/IMG_3090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxA45LGE0BjpAFz6gX1QDGbaj3nXvPqrJAVmrs-5hS-rudd8WIhXXVHUkJZuyN3GOj-EyShR1MxJFSqHKN7cyeGnQCfgtoq87QmSW9WDpilMgDIgoOT4xJyuhhkfwLDYipWXmNb2UkNdR/s200/IMG_3090.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">June 2013: Mom is up and down. Got c-diff
again. She still has trouble with the liquid tube feedings. They get her
stabilized. We want her home. At the end of June, we finally bring her back to
her own sweet suite...at 8pm and with no medications whatsoever. It was a very
long night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .5pt; tab-stops: 7.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The next day, the home feeding equipment was
delivered. I got a ten-minute lesson from the home nurse. Finally got her meds straightened out
--I have come to realize that many doctors (and/or their staffs) make crazy
mistakes on scripts: no date, no amount, no dosage, no signature...we had one
of each in that first batch. Mercury retrograde, of course. Argh! Ten days,
later...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">July 2013: Back to the ER with another urinary
tract infection. They admit her. But they don't feed her. The doctor orders an
antibiotic on her 'allergy' list. The pharmacy catches it and doesn't fill the
order. Yay! But nothing else is ordered to replace it. For two days. Finally, I
threw a hissy fit with the charge nurse and the infectious disease doc is
called in. He pulled another rabbit. (That man is amazing) but after all of
this, we want her and the rabbit back at home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .5pt; tab-stops: 7.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In fact, we <i>insist.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We had the backing of the nursing staff
(bless' em!) that pressured the doctoring staff and so, we brought her home.
Mom paid hundreds out-of-pocket for that privilege since Medicare won't pay for
an IV antibiotic to be given outside of a hospital setting. The home nurse came
in every day for a half hour and administered the treatment.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ayIeJ5AD_HC316q5BL6JPY1imbzNe61y8d1pQMYKX7Zvi0Op4VJDEx8GtZutpYPnkvuWbMmr0iYIVjeIRDnSLhaf7KqcQsnox7_YoG21c8f0fu1NCthV4zYMZkUB-gWmcR83pmKz-UGu/s1600/IMG_1182.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ayIeJ5AD_HC316q5BL6JPY1imbzNe61y8d1pQMYKX7Zvi0Op4VJDEx8GtZutpYPnkvuWbMmr0iYIVjeIRDnSLhaf7KqcQsnox7_YoG21c8f0fu1NCthV4zYMZkUB-gWmcR83pmKz-UGu/s320/IMG_1182.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">August 2013: Somehow, we made it. And we
continue to make that magic happen every day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is almost 1 a.m. I just gave Mom her last
pill and checked her feeding pump. Tomorrow, she wants to try to use the walker
to exercise her legs. Sure, we can do that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, that brings you pretty much
up-to-date. That's where I've been. I'm a caretaker now. I'm sure the topic will come up in future
postings. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">###</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16578525996848547798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6859516695228481484.post-15820578968959334712013-09-02T21:04:00.000-07:002013-09-02T21:07:22.465-07:00Didn't see that coming... <br />
<br />
Wow! That was a rather long and dramatic pause now, wasn't it?<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNuZOrwO7OPc_fYORCn5Fif6D5iRaX18wdqeYaEeXkLg06rLBzyXQdXKkkpd3H226DvwhPm1_vsmmXW0lTvnKbWeJdVCeTz-DVHFDtbLct8LxvmRGRDjpoqi5oN_T5VQPWTWMLCFVwwQn/s1600/IMG_3472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNuZOrwO7OPc_fYORCn5Fif6D5iRaX18wdqeYaEeXkLg06rLBzyXQdXKkkpd3H226DvwhPm1_vsmmXW0lTvnKbWeJdVCeTz-DVHFDtbLct8LxvmRGRDjpoqi5oN_T5VQPWTWMLCFVwwQn/s320/IMG_3472.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
More on that soon....Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16578525996848547798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6859516695228481484.post-47865633381502321032013-02-04T10:06:00.002-08:002013-02-04T11:00:09.849-08:00Ace of Cones...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-12ARN9d8LOqC4BUSf8TL57qAWN7R5kYtVo1l6CfZ-mpuYIn70M46WMn33Yk4PfOlp3L3Ew5dyd8-FzvUzd1Y3wjVtX_22lK4aTgWVOeiXNEoK3SpmEJWbBuhUHN61-I9gBwhAljwF33/s1600/IMG_5984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-12ARN9d8LOqC4BUSf8TL57qAWN7R5kYtVo1l6CfZ-mpuYIn70M46WMn33Yk4PfOlp3L3Ew5dyd8-FzvUzd1Y3wjVtX_22lK4aTgWVOeiXNEoK3SpmEJWbBuhUHN61-I9gBwhAljwF33/s200/IMG_5984.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Fritz, Pine Cone Rescue League)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In the seven years following my daughter
Skye’s death*, I suffered from a deep and debilitating case of writer’s block.
She was my corporeal muse. I wrote for her and to her. For me, she <i>was</i> the
future Pagan generation. Skye was my skin in the game.<br />
<br />
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I’m done then, I thought. I guess that I’m retired
now. Over the years with <a href="http://www.witchvox.com/" target="_blank">The Witches’ Voice</a>, I had acted as my Gods directed
and as the many glorious Pagans/Wiccans/Heathens/Witches who I met along the way inspired. Now it was time
for me to move aside. I accepted that.</div>
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I don’t really understand why the toggle now suddenly switched to ‘on’ again. Interesting.</div>
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I write what I know. Just that. I am not an
academic, barely a writer. I draw from personal experience, spiritual insight
and life lessons. Simple. That’s my gig. Always was. </div>
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So I wasn’t sure that I should even start this
blog. Times have changed. I don’t know if what I write will resonant with
anyone anymore. But these darn words had to go somewhere, so I thought, okay
then, let’s see how it goes. And, well…</div>
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Yesterday, Fritz called me on his way home
from a cycling jaunt with his wheel buddy, Jim. “I have a present for you”, he
said. “I found something on the trail.” </div>
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After assuring him that, yes, there indeed
would be garlic barbeque chicken wings, I went back to chopping and garlicing. I’d
fill him in over dinner that I spent those hours he was gone writing about
magic, those evil creepy metal stairs and resilient pine trees. Ten minutes
later, the door opened and he popped his head in, then his hand…</div>
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“Surprise!”</div>
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It was a pinecone. A big, big, big pinecone.
Very Jungian.</div>
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I guess I’m back.</div>
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###</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio80UZPMk343CZ_KrZMa9gynMrjDe-bAbjrVllh1_TSh9Y08qsjxOEM43ypjquRzlS2Ofi80rN-xb55qeWERbYc-2A5X8ZfXrK5rOu5G7kLPdtH6pkIJxzXho8X0NDDzoyfGl2JrtSkevZ/s1600/skye333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio80UZPMk343CZ_KrZMa9gynMrjDe-bAbjrVllh1_TSh9Y08qsjxOEM43ypjquRzlS2Ofi80rN-xb55qeWERbYc-2A5X8ZfXrK5rOu5G7kLPdtH6pkIJxzXho8X0NDDzoyfGl2JrtSkevZ/s200/skye333.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: -webkit-auto;">* </span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Skye (1971-1995). I love you forever.</span></span></td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16578525996848547798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6859516695228481484.post-57165009441015646982013-02-03T13:37:00.000-08:002013-02-03T14:03:45.072-08:00On Standing Tall...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</div>
It still stands there, up on the hill, one of
three all planted on the same day, decades before I was born. Along the edge of
the pressed sand driveway, my father dug the small grove of red pine seedlings
into the ground to hold back the soil and to keep the gravel bed stable. During
lean times, his mother, my grandmother, sold gravel from the pit to the city as
fill for road projects, a monetary necessity that left an essentially scalped
quarter acre of Ice Age ground granite on the property. Over the years that
followed, some lupine moved into that space, followed by calf shredding black
and red raspberry canes and wild sumac. To everyone in our extended family,
this plot on the Hill was always called the Gravel Pit.</div>
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Those sorts of now ‘quaint-ish’ things, the
naming of houses and of certain physically unique portions of whole properties,
are becoming things of the past in many locales. People move out and away from
the places they were raised. Families don’t keep homesteads anymore, but sell
them off because their lives are now established elsewhere or they need to pay
off accrued debts. Some simply cannot afford to keep a land legacy. It is part
of the fragmentation of our era.</div>
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When I speak of The Farm, this is the house in
which I grew up. In my family for 100 years, my dad, his two brothers and four
sisters were raised in it. It is my mother’s house now. Besides the Gravel Pit,
within the boundaries of The Farm are the Barn, the Garden, the Grapevine, the
Ditch, the Hill, the Pantry, and the Porch (although Grammy always called this,
the Piazza). There once was a Coop and a two-seater Outhouse. We used to also
own the Swamp until the state of New Hampshire took it by eminent domain to
build a highway. It looks silly in print, I know, but old neighborhoods have
landmarks that don’t include drive-up windows.</div>
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That’s a bit of rural life that I miss living
here in Florida where the Ocean Breeze Condominiums are not on the ocean, or
even on the Gulf, and we live in a Village that is really a collection of similar
houses crammed as closely together as the county code allows. The only ‘village
commons’ in our development is the strip of turf struggling to support the now
thirty-foot oak trees planted between the sidewalks and the street. It all
probably sounded very picturesque and ‘Southernly’ on deed paper before thirsty
roots started tearing up concrete driveways and water lines.</div>
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Last year when my mother was ill, I traveled
back to The Farm for a few weeks. It was cold and bleak and January in New England.
The house just looked old to me, old in a world weary way. The paint was
peeling; the side yard was riddled with groundhog holes. The heirloom apples*
were gone. Due to a freak and devastating October ice storm, many trees were
snapped off at the base, root balls heaved from the ground; broken branches of
white birch lay scattered everywhere. But the pines my dad planted on the Hill
were still there. Red pines can live for 500 years.</div>
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Walking up the driveway, the paved part gave
way to gravel that made that sharp frigid air crunching noise beneath my
sneakers. (I’m a Floridian now; I don’t own boots.) The few squirrels brave
enough to live in such proximity to the feral cat colony flickered tails in
displeasure. Somewhere a woodpecker rat-tat-tatted for his dinner. I looked up.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNv8VJe3pomfvI9QGit_HJEjvKyWHrN-IDnPQfwe82sQt4zi0PGNPS9kNHf6qV0Z_7CFO8ntIrfnqbUELefm326AQTWD6u6aDGCO0neHmHdSFXJHe-Q7ffCktkiBWIjAbzJEhiarW6ZJj/s1600/480px-Pinus_resinosa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNv8VJe3pomfvI9QGit_HJEjvKyWHrN-IDnPQfwe82sQt4zi0PGNPS9kNHf6qV0Z_7CFO8ntIrfnqbUELefm326AQTWD6u6aDGCO0neHmHdSFXJHe-Q7ffCktkiBWIjAbzJEhiarW6ZJj/s320/480px-Pinus_resinosa.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span><i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">(tree photo, GHS, public domain)</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The second pine on the Hill was my Sky Tree.
Standing beneath its spreading branches, I remembered every hand grab, each toehold,
the doubled branches that made the seat I perched upon. I rubbed off a bit of
frozen pine tar from a healing gash and recalled all of the times I scrubbed my
hands raw with borax grit to get off that sap. I love that tree.</div>
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I am not so good with things in high places.
(Those who know me will get the pun here.) But one day, when I was around five
years old, I decided to climb that tree. Going up was fairly easy because the
branches grew in a certain way, like a spiral staircase. Sitting high above the
ground, short legs swinging on my pitchy throne, was pure joy. I surveyed my
domain. I peeped into birds’ nests. I felt the tree sway and I swayed with it.
We were one living thing, waving at the clouds, singing to our gods, sending
love out into the world. I was completely hidden and as silent as owl feathers
when my mother called me to come to the Pantry and help Grammy shuck peas.</div>
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Evenings creep in, little girls get hungry and
mothers’ voices develop certain shrill tones after thirty minutes, so it was
time to scramble on back to the clapboard farmhouse where air princesses live
when they aren’t riding in treetops. …But going down the pine was a bit more
complicated than the going up…</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuHQJx-HJZJv2eqgbN8bzMTr4Oy_mXiSp4jokieZDj53SCtzbBFRF3hi2ppJuNHFMzAwUTXPr4GPW6n9cL5bTuIIgcxGDauSnzdUF0FmBDgAyqtP9UMhj7hT0oQTUjiQDg5BAz8S3LZpvi/s1600/IMG_0740.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuHQJx-HJZJv2eqgbN8bzMTr4Oy_mXiSp4jokieZDj53SCtzbBFRF3hi2ppJuNHFMzAwUTXPr4GPW6n9cL5bTuIIgcxGDauSnzdUF0FmBDgAyqtP9UMhj7hT0oQTUjiQDg5BAz8S3LZpvi/s320/IMG_0740.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">the beast that stairs</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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There was a black metal spiral staircase in
the last pre-house place that Fritz and I rented out. We thought the beast
‘wicked cool’ for about two hours, a time frame that came to an abrupt end the
first time I smacked into it on the way to the bedroom. I swear the thing had a
cloaking device. The steps were quite narrow and it clenched its rivets every
time we hiked up to the office. It tried to murder us during at least three
descents.</div>
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Yes, it is a tricky business… this going back,
this uncoiling of stairs and of trees, of vows and of magics…</div>
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There are many types of vows, of course, and
probably all formalized traditions or well-trod paths have their ritualized
versions. I myself once belonged to a group wherein we did swear certain vows
of loyalty and secrecy and yet, I did indeed leave that group in the end. The
vows I swore in that instance were conditional; these were not based upon
‘perfect love and perfect trust forever’, but were to the traditions and lore
and hierarchy of this certain group. Everyone goes into these things with the
best of intentions but after several years, we came to a crossroads. I chose to
resign, to return all physical vestiges and titles, and to exit the group. Yes,
as a small-p priestess, I essentially banished myself.</div>
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That the vow of loyalty to the group was
undone did not however give me free license to blab around the world of the
secret workings of a benign group. My promises to the tradition may no longer
include the future tense, but does not personal integrity require that I don't unravel the threads of the past magics we worked together, braided in
love and hope and healing? How could I justify to my Gods the undoing of a
healing, a ritual or a sacrifice simply because that group and I chose to
follow different paths forward? One does not simply unmake the past in fits and piques.</div>
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The way down, the way back, must be carefully
considered and exquisitely maneuvered. For my part, there will always be
something of our group magic out there that has my fingerprints all over it. It
is a reality that I gladly accept because the good work that we did together
was indeed, very, very good. When it comes right down to it, I respect my own
magic. I know what I did and I know why I did it and I know where it went.</div>
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My altar faces the North, my ancestral
homestead. That is where I learned to speak with chipmunks, count in cricket and ride on trees. Up on the Hill, red pines, their ancient songs recorded in sap, wrap their roots even deeper into the gravel and hold on. </div>
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Over the years and through the storms, the magic
still stands. </div>
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<o:p>### </o:p></div>
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*Years and years and years ago, long before
the belching saws bit into its pithy heart, Skye and I wassailed one small twig
from my favorite apple tree behind the Barn. It is on my altar.</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16578525996848547798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6859516695228481484.post-8877396594697687492013-01-21T13:52:00.000-08:002013-01-21T16:52:12.796-08:00In the Thicket With Things ...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk7x54wia72zNA-8FoMK0q5j-_vEOlKfiS0CD2O7SRp-R0O9hZ6qFfEW6mb_cfYMXrs9jWWWOf-9hVDrBwhikfBuGDZ4Nv83vFtXxjkLcf5K7mlGhEJp6xGnrJZH1jgbkNLokKCKOhzUkA/s1600/IMG_6654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk7x54wia72zNA-8FoMK0q5j-_vEOlKfiS0CD2O7SRp-R0O9hZ6qFfEW6mb_cfYMXrs9jWWWOf-9hVDrBwhikfBuGDZ4Nv83vFtXxjkLcf5K7mlGhEJp6xGnrJZH1jgbkNLokKCKOhzUkA/s320/IMG_6654.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .5pt; tab-stops: 7.5in;">
My husband, Fritz, is an avid cyclist. During
the long summer hours, he can’t wait to get home and jump on his Orca. While
there are some very nice bike trails in our area, he also takes his bike out on
the street… “sharing the road” with all of the big cars and trucks and things
that go… oh dear, I try not to think about it. And it was there on such a day
and on such a street where he met Rodney.</div>
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As Fritz cruised past one of the local high schools
on his ride, he kept watch ahead of his front wheel. He knew from previous
trips that there was broken glass in that area and no cyclist
likes to hear that “pop” sound. A flash of color prompted him to squeeze the
brakes. He looked back…and there was Rodney. Alone. Lost. Purple.</div>
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While out on his cycling jaunts, Fritz takes
photos of interesting things and locales to share with the “balance-impaired”
(that’s me) and to post on his Facebook page. Well, Rodney certainly fit the
criterion. You don’t almost run over a monster every day of the week. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrhrh_ans49a0PcRYvjfNHajmbQApm_fbY30fJrlRZ8cBkBSDmdbw-l9I3NRi1SyH7sUmqwh0rdnL7ykdCJLsga0-sBUqccYEpPH7HoloAf9AWe-Z_2U8RnX8dhdEa3x0yuA_gp04HP9Xy/s1600/IMG_1502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrhrh_ans49a0PcRYvjfNHajmbQApm_fbY30fJrlRZ8cBkBSDmdbw-l9I3NRi1SyH7sUmqwh0rdnL7ykdCJLsga0-sBUqccYEpPH7HoloAf9AWe-Z_2U8RnX8dhdEa3x0yuA_gp04HP9Xy/s200/IMG_1502.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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So Fritz took a few iPhone shots, got back on
his bike and rode off. Then stopped. Looked back. Rodney sat just far enough
out into the road that Fritz knew it was simply a matter of time before a car
wheel turned the plastic purple guy into monster mash. Fritz just couldn’t do
it. Leave him, that is. And that is how Rodney came to live with us.</div>
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When he got home, my adorable husband was a
bit unsure as to how I might react. He hummed and hawed a bit. “Hum, well…I
don’t know how you are going to feel about this. I mean, I think he’s pretty
cool. But he isn’t cute in the traditional sense of the word. (Yes, he really
talks like that. I love it.) He was just out there on his own… and I almost
left him but I then couldn’t … and so I turned around and got him… and here he
is!” </div>
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Plop. There he was. It was love at first roar.
</div>
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Rodney now sits on our kitchen counter over
the Black Cat Bar with the other lost toys and Chowdah-leena, a lobster magnet
from the Boston Airport. He rarely wanders. He’s safe here. And he has become
one of the guardians of the WitchHouse.</div>
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As a Witch, I view this current seasonal turn
as a Time of Vulnerability. It is the season when the traditional animals of my
Ancestors, cattle and sheep*, become heavy with child. Pregnant females, sides
bulging with another generation, cannot easily run away if danger approaches. As
the birthing time grows ever near, they lie down in hidden thickets and wait
out the rest of the gestation. They have to trust in their natural instincts
and in the guardians (both animal and human) of their herds. It is a dangerous
time.</div>
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In the cold weather climes, animals may need a
bit of special care during this period. The Eastern Gray Squirrel first brood
babies, for instance, are born in February/March and their chatty parents appreciate
some scattered nuts under the trees. If your oaks had a better than average
fall, store some acorns for later in the season when deep snow cover and ice
can make foraging a bit more difficult. (Double your good libation karma!) And,
alas, in the Southern Hemisphere, many areas have been plagued with drought and
wildfires. </div>
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Native birds that usually fare pretty well in normal
cycles have been greatly affected by the strange weather patterns of the past
years. Some habitats and many nesting areas have been completely decimated.
Watering holes are polluted; landmarks on flight routes may be unavailable,
nesting spots gone. Fields and plants and trees remain susceptible to sudden
changes in temperature.</div>
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This is a time when protection is necessary
and diligence is required. If you tune in to the seasonal tides, you may indeed
feel vulnerable during this part of the cycle. (See? You weren’t just being
paranoid!) Now you can take measures to protect yourself. Fill your string jar.
Set some wards. Work protection magic. Hold your loved ones close. Do not be
embarrassed to ask for some extra help or reassurance. Watch over little ones. Reach
out to those who are ill or frail or alone. Resources can still be a bit scarce
before we reach the full lushness of spring or the plenty of the harvest. </div>
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These same energy patterns also may ripple
through societies and nations during this time. Here in the U.S., we are at the
beginning of a new political session. People could be a little jumpy and a lot
defensive. Everyone has expectations but concrete plans are not yet manifest. Bide this time well. </div>
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Whenever we feel vulnerable, we can withdraw
into our protective magical thickets. From a vantage point of safety, we can
strengthen the timid legs of our newborn plans and dreams. The wolves of the
world will pass us by without notice. Sometimes, as we wait, an unexpected guardian or teacher may emerge to guide us on our way to a new field, a new path and a
renewed sense of purpose. </div>
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Witches are the folks of another way… not ‘the
other’ way as in ‘the enemy without”, but of ‘another way’. We see things through a different prism. We look beneath the surface. We follow the roots
of a matter. We gaze beyond the stars. We are the ones who spin the ordinary
into magic. We assign a value to -- and purpose for -- things that others may not.
Just because we are the people of the earth and sea and sky does not restrict
us to using only those forms in our workings.</div>
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Neither does any of the above mean that we are
better, wiser or more spiritual than anyone else sharing this world and sphere of
humanity. It simply means that we have the opportunity to bring ‘another’
perspective into discussions of sociology and ecology and philosophy. Now is a good time to reflect on how we can better communicate our visions and share them with others.</div>
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There is always an opportunity to begin anew. Let the stub of the umbilical cord tying you to past loves, past failures and past regrets shrivel up and drop away. Nibble the promises of the seasons to come. Drink the milk of fresh resolve. Help a beastie cross the road.</div>
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Anyway, this is the tale of how we came to have a warty plastic toothasaurus keeping vigil in our witchin’ kitchen. We are still not
sure just what sort of creature Rodney actually is. After living with him for a
while I feel that he embodies the attributes of the Boar -- a totem with an
exceptionally robust gastrointestinal system** -- and so I run all my new
recipes by him. He does seem to really enjoy the shrimp.</div>
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*<a href="http://www.visithebrides.com/wildlife/environment/">http://www.visithebrides.com/wildlife/environment/</a></div>
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**For more on Boar, check out “<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Neolithic-Shamanism-Spirit-Norse-Tradition/dp/1594774900/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1358799436&sr=1-1&keywords=neolithic+shamanism" target="_blank">Neolithic Shamanism: Spirit Work in the Norse Tradition</a>” by Raven Kaldera and Galina
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16578525996848547798noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6859516695228481484.post-31018874226891470982013-01-17T12:37:00.002-08:002013-01-17T12:53:07.327-08:00The Daghda Waffle <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1G_NUk8vhcEkZcFOwoZL2TecbVQAIUs49m34dtrSGxkH3SdmKqk4Y0GzpuqEyndWCjDeF3jtIbq90K5l58N9rMJYWAUZ5RfCpUhx_SeK0EEqJT3HcGzDWzdDlmQ62EiTftpZWZUdUnYZ/s1600/IMG_2509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1G_NUk8vhcEkZcFOwoZL2TecbVQAIUs49m34dtrSGxkH3SdmKqk4Y0GzpuqEyndWCjDeF3jtIbq90K5l58N9rMJYWAUZ5RfCpUhx_SeK0EEqJT3HcGzDWzdDlmQ62EiTftpZWZUdUnYZ/s320/IMG_2509.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">One of my domestic duties as Head House Witch is to read the household signs and portents each morning. No need to get out the tarot cards or wipe off the scrying mirror for this one. I have a fresh-from-the-toaster oracle right here on the counter. "Use what you use" is the WitchHouse Way. No noxious fumes with this one either.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">So I take an earnest (if somewhat bleary-eyed) look at the gluten-free, dairy-free, soy-free spread spilling over the side of my waffle. Tune in to my spirit guides. Clear my mind. "What will this new day bring?" Okay, let's scry this dish*:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Does that condiment look like a thick river of gold? Why, yes! Yes, it does! It could be a sign that money is on the way into the house coffers today. I'm feeling very positive about how my day is going so far and... </span><span style="font-size: large;">I try to hold that upbeat vibe as I step back into a fresh deposit of cat barf. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">No can do. Warm feeling gone. Well, not quite; it is seeping between my toes now. Hey, is that waffle mocking me?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, settle down. There is no great cosmic plot afoot to ruin my day. (Although, just between us, I still think that the troll in the freezer throws ice cubes at me whenever I open the door.) Sometimes, we simply get what we get. It's not personal. Barf happens to good people. But how we deal with the upchucks of life can make a difference in how the rest of the day works out. So I may drop a little something into the Universal Suggestion Box each morning. Today, it went like this:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Dearest Daghda**, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I really like your ideas regarding food supply availability and greatly admire your ability to regulate the seasons (and while on the topic of seasons, do you have a favorite dry rub recipe for that pork?). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Although I sometimes find it difficult to maintain a cheerful and open-minded attitude throughout the entire day, You have inspired me to fire up my inner cauldron so that I may produce spiritual foodstuffs of love and joy and health. I will share your gifts with others. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Thank You, All-father of earth and sun.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">With deepest gratitude, Wren"</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Share your blessings. Leave a pat of real butter or a drop of good fruit jam for the Land Keepers. Put a grin on your toast and a smile on your face. Don't let the barfs get you down. Cuz damn, that stuff is slippery and before you know it, everyone around you is sitting on the bottom of the slope, too. And that's not Good. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* I think I just channeled <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Nadia-G/9684485652?fref=ts">Nadia G</a>. here.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">** </span> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dagda">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dagda</a>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16578525996848547798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6859516695228481484.post-37307315882611622172013-01-15T17:02:00.003-08:002013-01-15T17:08:30.642-08:00Welcome to Wren's WitchHouse!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 13pt;">When your desk sits in front of a window, words tap at the panes.</span></i></div>
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