tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-175864122024-03-07T14:33:05.917-07:00Whirling WordsStorytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-45851739862342678062018-01-19T10:31:00.000-07:002018-01-19T10:31:01.517-07:00Capturing Moments
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">For me a new year is
an open, brand-new journal. A pretty one, because I like pretty. The prettier
my journal the harder I try to make each story or poem unique. At year ends, I
have a treasure house of my thoughts to read. Sadly, the more recent the
journals, the emptier the pages. Somehow, I’ve allowed myself to get off track.
My direction and discipline have packed up and left.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">I need a plan. One to keep
me on track. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I though back over the
previous year. My well-intended writing time had been crowded out by other
things. Feeling ashamed of myself for allowing this to happen, I asked God to
help me in these areas this year. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>An
element of peace crept into me.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Then, alas, life set in.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">The phone rang. My son
had suffered another medical episode. I grabbed my coat and keys and was out
the door in minutes. Hours later, I returned, totally exhausted. My laptop
remained on the ottoman right where I left it. The discipline and direction I’m
promised myself earlier shriveled up, and I flopped across my bed, only to be
woken up a few hours later. My son needed care. This went on for three days.
The next three days I flat-lined. Now, six days later, I retrieve my laptop
from the ottoman where I’d laid it all those days ago. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Prepared to continue
with my thoughts, I re-read what I’d written, but the discipline and direction
no longer felt so important or possible. I prayerfully stared at my screen
wondering if my writing days were withering. Self pity popped in to join me for
a cup of tea. The tea was delightful, and the conversation was all one-sided.
Mine. But, as the conversation moved on, little spots of light appeared and
grew. Self-pity excused herself for another appointment, and my mind kicked
into gear. </span></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPSuH9mKrBcz-3QXxc_KOqHjnxOjENsbj8iylqI6AlNHx_vvE5od5fEou7IAVn7BgmL2NYzfmLnTl1zbRunQl8FdvU7kvQY2LEmiwrILA1cLw283FXTwQr82QirF-kmhzviYLCA/s1600/DSC07518.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPSuH9mKrBcz-3QXxc_KOqHjnxOjENsbj8iylqI6AlNHx_vvE5od5fEou7IAVn7BgmL2NYzfmLnTl1zbRunQl8FdvU7kvQY2LEmiwrILA1cLw283FXTwQr82QirF-kmhzviYLCA/s200/DSC07518.JPG" width="200" /></span></i></a><span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">I have less control of
my life than most people, so direction and discipline can be no more than an
illusive dream. Or I can dwell on them and turn into an old hag. But I choose
not to. My prayer for this year has changed to, “Lord, help me recognize the
small openings in my life in which I can sit and write, and please enable my
mind to kick into its writing mode quickly.”</span></i></span></div>
<b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><i></i><span style="color: #741b47;"></span>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-66120786046363512662017-11-19T13:44:00.000-07:002017-11-19T13:44:18.990-07:00Word by word
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva"; margin: 0px;">Seek the
Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your
ways acknowledge him and he will direct your path. (Proverbs 3:6)</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKG69IdWBvKYZlZd6h5IOvuOO3-EOrrEdEPRkaR8Kh0RorlvmxkOwncsZHeUGg7GqqfGvGyB-neThZhDDLckLJ1PenAUK9io00gq8O1WD0dDWVLA8DTy_-z3YQHk97yK8dUro-Q/s1600/20171117_174116b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="760" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKG69IdWBvKYZlZd6h5IOvuOO3-EOrrEdEPRkaR8Kh0RorlvmxkOwncsZHeUGg7GqqfGvGyB-neThZhDDLckLJ1PenAUK9io00gq8O1WD0dDWVLA8DTy_-z3YQHk97yK8dUro-Q/s200/20171117_174116b.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva"; margin: 0px;">Prayer for me is a constant awareness of God in my day to day
life. When I sit at my desk to write, I know he is with me. Still, it is quite
normal for me to begin writing staring at a blank screen, especially if I
didn’t leave my latest project in the middle of a scene. When I quit my
previous project at such a point, it is easier to get my motor running.
Assignments like this, without a lightbulb moment, are very difficult. It takes
discipline. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva"; margin: 0px;">While I stare at the screen, I force my mind and heart to rest, and
listen. Although I don’t verbalize my words, I invite God to direct my
thoughts. Sometimes a fire erupts and thoughts tumble into my mind faster than
my fingers can type them. Thought upon thought, in an orderly manner. But that
is rare. Most of the time, a little spark ignites, and as I respond to that
thought, another one glows, inviting me to explore it. Other times my mind
remains as blank as my screen. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva"; margin: 0px;">At this point I will reread what others have written on the
subject, hoping something will awaken my slumbering brain. If nothing does, I try
to change the direction from which I approach the subject. Even doing that, quite
often, it is persevering, refusing to give up, squeezing out a thought, one
word at a time, all the while wondering if I’m ignorant on a subject I need to
write about. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #7030a0; font-family: "Monotype Corsiva"; margin: 0px;">But once I’m finished, and reread what I’ve written, I marvel at
how those squeezed out words actually say something. I am humbled, considering
how easy it would have been to quit, yet, my Heavenly Father led me down a path
on my blank screen I had no idea existed. </span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-45335878697013873102017-10-20T12:16:00.002-06:002017-10-20T12:16:38.119-06:00Lean or Anorexic <span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;"><b>In the last few years, I’ve noticed writing styles have changed. They are now like our society. Life is mad dash from morning to night with little time in between. Less is more, publishing houses insist. Tighten, tig<span style="color: purple;"></span><i></i></b><b>hten, tighten. As writers, we are forced to adapt. But is this a good thing?</b></span></i></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;"><b>As a reader, I’m not so sure. Perhaps it’s the countless books I’ve read, or had read to me, over the past sixty-nine years, but I struggle with these new guidelines. My latest peeve, the one that prompted me to write this post, was a book written by four of the most popular writers in Christian fiction. I was excited when I saw the book on Amazon and put it to the top of my reading list. The story had to rock. These authors are as popular as snowflakes in winter.</b></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;"><b>But shortly into the story, my snowball burst.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Except for the last section, written by an author who delighted me, it was one of the hardest to “keep reading” books I’ve ever read. In the first three sections I felt like I was dangling in that zone between sleep and awake. Nothing anchored me anything or anyone. I remember the characters only because they were the same as those in the final section. Which brings me to my pondering. Where does lean end and anorexic begin?</b></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;"><b>The first section, that should have anchored me into the story, read like an outline. Whoever’s pov I was in felt like a pine box. Try as I would, I could not find a comfy spot to curl up in and let the story take me to some far and distant land. Instead, I was in a world that sped past me faster than my surroundings when I’m riding the tilt-a-whirl at a local fair. </b></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;"><b>To be fair, some of the old classics can describe a flower in a field in so much detail, I’ve forgotten why I’m in the field by the time I see exactly what the author saw and felt. And who really cares if it’s a coffee or a tea stain on the white tablecloth, unless it’s a mystery you’re reading. But, fluff gives me an option. Over the years, I’ve become very good at skimming. But in this day and age, that’s not practical either.</b></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;"><b>What I need is something in between. I want to know my protagonist, where she lives, what she likes, what she doesn’t, and what she wants bad enough to write a book about. I want a subtle description of her that allows me to fill in the blanks with my own imagination. I don’t want a block of white houses described, but if one is brown with a red horseshoe on the door, my interest is peaked. </b></span></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;"><b>I understand how age and time can dictate writing styles, but for me, they have gone bi-polar. Older stories tweak my skimming abilities, while many newer ones leave me frustrated because I can’t find the link between the dots. When I find a story that flows like a river, ripple after ripple, around and over obstacles and finishes in a waterfall, my toes curl up in delight, right back to my heels. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></b></span></i></span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-50981006296099781792017-09-19T12:54:00.002-06:002017-09-19T12:54:31.280-06:00
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;">Every day, all around us, small insignificant events
take place. Most go unnoticed, <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>but others
are life changing. God moments, I call them. My interpretation of "be still and know that I am God." </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;">Ten years ago, my husband, Alex, was diagnosed
with cancer and given five months to live. Shock waves shot through our family,
neighborhood, and church. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;">Alex shared his time and resources with
everyone. He had a marvelous sense of humor that lightened even the heaviest
situations. So many people wanted to say goodbye and spend time with him. The
phone rang constantly. Our front entrance became a revolving door. Our daughter
came home to help me with Alex’s care. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;">One day, a month after his diagnosis, our
daughter left for the day to spend time with her brother. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>By mid afternoon, several friends dropped by,
and our daughter phoned, saying she was spending the night at her brother’s.
"Unusual," I thought, but realized siblings can comfort each other in a way no
one else can. I pushed the unusual
from my mind. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;">I was exhausted, and deep shadows on Alex’s
face bore witness to his weariness. With much effort, he pushed out of his
recliner saying, I’m going to lie down. Please come with me. I glanced at all
the dirty dishes in the kitchen, left behind by constant company, and opened my
mouth to ask for fifteen minutes. But my words stopped. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;">Since it was too painful for Alex to lie down,
I collected pillows from the beds around the house and made our bed into a
giant recliner. As we snuggled together, warmth flowed through us, much like an
electric blanket on a cold winter night, and nothing around us existed. Alex’s
pain ebbed. We talked about the fun things we’d done, the places we’d been, the
people we’d met, the mistakes we’d made. We laughed about the shenanigans our
children had done. The wonderful adults they’d grown to be. Evening turned into
night. Still we talked and laughed. With no warning Alex’s mind softened and he
returned to Bosnia, where he’d served as a military engineer years ago. I held
him until he calmed, then we drifted off to sleep.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;">The following day, Alex’s pain returned and he
was admitted to the hospital. Within hours he was gone, but stories pierced my
darkness. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;">The night before, Alex’s cousins were coming
from Edmonton to visit him, but a tire on their car went flat. By the time AMA
changed it, it was too late. Friends were coming from Calgary, but a sudden
blizzard closed the highway between Calgary and Red Deer. And our daughter
chose to spend the night at our son’s home.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: purple;">Wonderment filled me. God used blizzards and
flat tires and sibling love to give Alex and I that last evening by ourselves,
to lie down in green pastures. Even now, ten years later, when I find myself in
darkness and see no way out, I remember that night and am filled with hope for
tomorrow.</span></i></span></div>
<b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><i></i><span style="color: purple;"></span>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-40165620534870902212017-06-19T13:28:00.000-06:002017-06-19T13:28:01.569-06:00
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Spring is such a
lovely season, but along with all its loveliness comes a truckload of work.
Each year I do one major project beyond the normal planting and weeding. This
year, my major undertaking was painting the fence. </span></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6PBDZ_k4Et66xFnJLC-WtZC9gc7IO1P-WcZDXSk53Qf541Z8IPkYeYssdCY45-WMsqcjE3C2Adqtz9tgRMe0vx4BzZMEOcrgV4oKiGDhU7qGuPyBtbZUb5MbT2FYWyMdBJvVsQ/s1600/DSCN0978.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6PBDZ_k4Et66xFnJLC-WtZC9gc7IO1P-WcZDXSk53Qf541Z8IPkYeYssdCY45-WMsqcjE3C2Adqtz9tgRMe0vx4BzZMEOcrgV4oKiGDhU7qGuPyBtbZUb5MbT2FYWyMdBJvVsQ/s320/DSCN0978.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">As I evaluated the weathered
boards, my mind wandered to my writing projects that were weeks behind
schedule. From there, my thoughts zoomed into sentence structure and my
unpainted fence morphed into a sentence.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">There was absolutely
nothing wrong with the fence. It served its purpose by offering privacy,
keeping the neighbourhood dogs out, and most of the time, my cats in. But it
was drab. And boring. Just like a first draft sentence. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">I went to work pulling
out branches that had grown through the cracks between the boards much the same
way I slash goes without saying words
in a sentence. The fence appeared taller, but dry leaves and brittle pine
needles littered the two-by-fours to which the boards were nailed. As I brushed
away the dead foliage it reminded me of how the over use of fluffy words and words
ending with ing or ly cluttered a sentence, making it difficult to
comprehend.</span></i><span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"> </span></i></span><i><span style="color: #741b47;">This done, I checked all the
boards to make sure their nails were still holding them fast. It made me think
of how necessary conjunctions are to hold a sentence together.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Now, I’m ready for the
paint. But what kind of paint? Just as a sentence requires precise words, my
fence needs the right paint. The clerk in the local hardware store showed me exactly
what I needed. Then, dressed in old tube top and shorts, a can of paint in one
hand and a brush in the other, I began my task. Hours later, my arms ached, my
skin burned, but I’d finished one side of one side of my fence. I stepped back
to admire my handiwork. My throat throbbed. All my loving swishes had left
light spots all over the fence. </span></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaNzfBEsyYHhbBLPbZYPkUTA_oQe7Q2V7KGnNjbHLJaP4gvsTvKrDVnvP5IhlmbN1Mzc-tU91jokRsZsaBgSV3ZlxPBBXAvigHXUaZlUKYSkUxMGDHfhx2Du07U6yCjMad4VfjwQ/s1600/DSCN0979.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaNzfBEsyYHhbBLPbZYPkUTA_oQe7Q2V7KGnNjbHLJaP4gvsTvKrDVnvP5IhlmbN1Mzc-tU91jokRsZsaBgSV3ZlxPBBXAvigHXUaZlUKYSkUxMGDHfhx2Du07U6yCjMad4VfjwQ/s200/DSCN0979.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 19px;">
<i><span style="color: #741b47;">Just like your sentence crept into my thoughts. Those light spots are
weak words you allowed to remain in a sentence rather than taking time to
search for stronger ones. I took a deep breath and returned to the spot where I
started. Before laziness could overwhelm my thoughts, I dipped my brush into
the paint and applied another coat. </span></i></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;">In half the time it
took to apply the first coat, I’d completed the second. My arms ached twice as
much, and I think the sun had removed the top layer of my skin, but I’d
finished. Again. I stepped away, gingerly this time. But it wasn’t necessary. A
perfect fence section stood in front of me. Not one light spot. Not one knot
hole exposing naked wood. No loose boards or painted-over pine needle. My fence
sang. Just as well thought out and strategically placed words make a sentence
dance, properly applied paint to my weathered fence gave my whole yard a fresh,
new life. </span></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYId43F8Iji4Xs9tg1Hm0v_FLAJXuYnhwqCfXNRKkIuULMFVC3HcoMj3KRuRoiWhrYgJraaDbWwcWyFANPPcPvDxS6ccx2QKJe2GTTI6wCAzPPwPKU6MUrJOh4eYBhmsAW-Q5ABg/s1600/DSCN0980+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYId43F8Iji4Xs9tg1Hm0v_FLAJXuYnhwqCfXNRKkIuULMFVC3HcoMj3KRuRoiWhrYgJraaDbWwcWyFANPPcPvDxS6ccx2QKJe2GTTI6wCAzPPwPKU6MUrJOh4eYBhmsAW-Q5ABg/s320/DSCN0980+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><i></i><span style="color: #741b47;"></span>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-66884133345983642662017-03-19T15:18:00.002-06:002017-03-19T15:19:26.308-06:00Watch "Days" or Write<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
I’ll do it tomorrow. I cannot stop watching this movie or toss
my bowl of popcorn. Doing so would be wasting. </div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
In these words, finding time to sit and write is
over-the-top obvious, but in reality, it isn’t. Time has no boundaries. Yes, we
have timepieces that inform us as each hour, minute, or second passes, but
responsibilities and commitments do not adhere to a timeline. </div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
Before I enter my writing sanctuary in the morning, I have
routine chores needing to be completed. On a normal day, my domestic
engineering duties eat up the better part of an hour. Sounds good. Lots of time
left. Well, not quite. When I started, I didn’t notice a honking big hair ball
stuck to the hardwood floor in the corner of the living room. Twenty minutes
later, it’s cleaned up and disinfected, but I’m well over my assigned time. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Then, the phone rings. That wonderful piece of technology
that keeps us all connected. What would we do without it? I could ignore it,
but that grating voice coming through some part of the contraption is telling
me the caller is my daughter, whom I can’t ignore. She’s in a talkative mood,
and my last glance at my watch told me she’d been talkative for the last
sixty-five minutes. When we finally said our goodbyes, my morning was spent. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
I’m left with two options. My procrastinating personality
screams <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">turn on the television and watch
“Days of your lives.” Your day is messed up already. You’re never going to
climb into your writing frame of mind.</i> <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
I reach for the remote and my responsible personality
whispers <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you need to write</i>.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
And the battle is on. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Days
or write? Days or write?</i> My head doubles in size as my opposing
personalities duke it out. Slowly, my responsible side wins, and I head for my
desk. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
Before I do anything,
I ask God for help me calm my scattered brains. Once peace settles over me, I open
the document needing my attention and read what I’ve written. If it’s a novel,
I read the latest chapter. Before I’m half way through, I’m pulled into my
thought stream and my fingers itch to hit the keyboard. Most of the time.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Those times my brain remains stubborn, if it is summer, I
leave my desk and work in a flower bed. Something in handling the soil brings
my wayward thoughts back into focus. In winter, a brisk walk through
snow-covered trees and bushes have the same effect. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Temptation to procrastinate is a daily battle but it doesn’t
have to win. Recognizing it and making positive steps is the beginning of
defeating procrastination. If writing is a priority, there is always ways to
outsmart the pesky time gobblers. They just need to be found. </div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-90286393938960812592017-01-19T09:58:00.001-07:002017-01-19T09:58:13.197-07:00Praise in the Storm
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i>This morning I awoke to a
Neuralgia flare-up, a neurological condition that has taken up residence in my
brain for many years. My head throbbed, feeling like a giant pimple not quite
ready to be popped, but regardless, something or someone was squeezing it.
Waking up in this state is not new or surprising, but what makes today is a
trifle different is, I must write a blog post on thankfulness. </i></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i>As I stared at my screen trying
to gather my thoughts the letters and icons across the top turned into bright
stars doing a square dance all over the page. My eyes drifted closed and I leaned
back in my chair. Within seconds a beautiful old hymn floated into my thoughts—</i></span><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i>I see the stars—I hear the rolling
thunder—Thy power throughout the universe displayed. </i></span><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i>Immediately I was
reminded of how small and insignificant I am, yet my Heavenly Father took time
to nudge me into refocusing my mind. Gratitude overflowed from within and I
recalled a few of the many blessed moments in my life.</i></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i>It overwhelms me knowing that
our great and mighty God gave me the privilege of growing up in a home where
godliness was a way of life. Sunday School was not an option, and I am thankful
for those Sunday afternoons because it was in that small group I committed my
life to Christ. </i></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i>I am grateful for my
children and grandchildren, my brothers and sister, my church family and my
writing family. I am thankful I live in a country where freedom is a reality. It
may be cold at times, but I have a warm house and my cupboards and fridge are
always full. When I’m lonely, friends or entertainment are only a click away.
My eyes don’t work very good anymore, but I have an active imagination that can
fill in details I can not see. </i></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i> </i></span></span><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i>It would be nice to say that throughout my mini
praise the pain in my head lessened but that is not so. It hurts big time but it
no longer controls my feelings. For this I’m grateful because by changing the
direction of my thoughts I was able to complete this post. I am also grateful
for my soft comfy bed I’m about to curl up in until my head returns to normal. While
I’m being thankful for big things, I’m reminded of the small day to day
blessings I find myself taking for granted. For example, my four kitties,
Beebins, Oliver, Athena, and Bentlee who will curl up around me, their soft purrs
and unconditional love always bringing me comfort. </i></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i>Satisfied I’d done all I
could for this post, I clicked on the save icon and that beautiful old hymn once
again filled my thoughts. </i></span><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><i>Then sings my
soul—My Savior God to Thee—how great Thou art.</i></span></span></div>
<b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="color: #20124d;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><i></i>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-80019550670852732392012-11-27T12:24:00.001-07:002015-02-06T17:45:28.337-07:00<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A Chat with Janis Cox</span></h2>
<div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">What is the (working) title of your book?</span><span class="ecxapple-converted-space"><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Doubt in Eden</span></span></span></b></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Where did the idea come from for the book?</span></b></span><span class="ecxapple-converted-space"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> <span style="color: purple;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>From a news cast</b></span></span></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span class="ecxapple-converted-space"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">What genre does your book fall under?</span></b></span><span class="ecxapple-converted-space"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Suspense</b></span></span></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><br /></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> <b>What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?</b></span></span><span class="ecxapple-converted-space"><span lang="EN-US"><b><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Christian does not always mean safe</span></b></span></span><span lang="EN-US"><u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?</span></b></span><span class="ecxapple-converted-space"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Hopefully, represented by an agent</b></span></span></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> <b>How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?</b></span></span><span class="ecxapple-converted-space"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>I did the NaNoWritMoN so the very basic draft took a month, but more needs to be added and I'm sure lots will be cut in order to make it a draft to build on... </b></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span></span><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Who or What inspired you to write this book?</span><span class="ecxapple-converted-space"><span style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The novel is written for women over 60. It shows the difficulties widows face after their husband death. A widow myself, I use my own situations and have my protag. work through them.</span></span></span></b></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4e2800; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="color: purple;">I think I just answered that question.</span></span></b></li>
</ol>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <a href="http://www.janiscox.com/">www.janiscox.com</a><br />
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</div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-87079515950325555512009-06-28T19:45:00.023-06:002009-06-28T20:35:21.758-06:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZA8Hv_xtCDC0L56_PdACASOm6hjVZn5As2BnQRwaj0Q_3Y4qI0bo4U9wfxz8bHA_tCCcb5UzrTpcZZSMuYq-Qd7X1dGZa0yDulEILIr1OoKLG7X6-sqj0OiSeNKY9Tzd0HyKH7Q/s1600-h/Fallen+Tree.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 207px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 419px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352571879610050434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZA8Hv_xtCDC0L56_PdACASOm6hjVZn5As2BnQRwaj0Q_3Y4qI0bo4U9wfxz8bHA_tCCcb5UzrTpcZZSMuYq-Qd7X1dGZa0yDulEILIr1OoKLG7X6-sqj0OiSeNKY9Tzd0HyKH7Q/s320/Fallen+Tree.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong><em><span style="color:#003300;">A Life</span></em></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#003300;"><strong><em>Light flashes<br />streaks<br />disappears<br />before one breath is taken<br />As does life<br />in the eyes of our creator.<br />So many moments<br />experiences<br />loves<br />hates<br />touching lives<br />lives touching<br />all jammed<br />into<br />one breath<br />then it's gone<br />leaving nothing<br />to show<br />a soul ever lived.</em></strong></span></div></div>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-30284564725310508892009-01-02T18:59:00.008-07:002009-02-12T15:58:46.350-07:00<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZe1q8L4Q9WnjOZarBRE34ltxzdFGM-7fGRvFDa6GLVZAphKWvfHLK3rYImULCvHKkpayYuetkYU9ItS3BRH3tU2ncNCqemACRbn2m8WEEabuB1uhnvEmyQA5SVPwkmpsighckHQ/s1600-h/Summer+2008+072.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286883315977159330" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 254px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZe1q8L4Q9WnjOZarBRE34ltxzdFGM-7fGRvFDa6GLVZAphKWvfHLK3rYImULCvHKkpayYuetkYU9ItS3BRH3tU2ncNCqemACRbn2m8WEEabuB1uhnvEmyQA5SVPwkmpsighckHQ/s320/Summer+2008+072.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong><em><span style="font-family:arial;color:#003300;">Behind the Obvious </span></em></strong></div><strong><em><span style="font-family:arial;color:#003300;">My friend who had a brain tumor removed several weeks earlier sat across the table from me in our favorite <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">restaurant</span>. My excitement gushed out in inquiries about her recovery.<br />As nonsense poured out of her mouth, my eyes filled and my mouth dropped open in spite of my efforts to keep it closed. My throat swelled. This <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">couldn</span>’t be happening. Removing that tumour was supposed to restore her brain function.<br />Within hours, my friend was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ambulanced</span> to the closest intensive care hospital, and I was left behind to pace my home, trying to convince myself that all things do work together for the benefit of those who love the Lord. No way could I see how this fearful situation could benefit anyone.<br />A phone call came from my friend's grandson. Her head was filled with infection. She was already in surgery to clean it out. This procedure would restore her brain function.<br />I thanked him and hung up, hoping he was right, yet afraid to believe it would.<br />In due time, my friend returned to our local hospital. When I entered her room, she lay still on the bed, pale faced, with an angry candy cane-shaped incision on her temple.<br />Her eyes fluttered open and a smile lit her face. She reached for my hand. "I'm so glad to see you."<br />After returning her greeting I sat on a chair in the corner. "Why did this have to happen?" I mused to myself as much as her.<br />My friend leaned back into the pillows. "There's things we'll never understand as long as we are on earth, but this whole experience, as bad as it was, had a bright light."<br />I raised my eyebrow, inviting her to continue.<br />"As I lay on whatever I lay on in the intensive care unit, I heard a young man sobbing on the other side of the curtain that separated us. I did what all grandmothers do. I tried to console him. Accepting my friendship, he told me about the accident he'd been in, how his life was about to change, how scared he was.<br />As he admitted his fears to me, I realized I'd battled with the same thoughts, but I knew Jesus was nearby and I talked about my heartbreak with him. I shared this with the young man and his sobs stopped. He left the unit earlier than me, but before he left, he stopped by my bed and thanked me for my concern, and for reminding him that Jesus is our strength when our own is gone.<br />My friend stared out the window a bit, then turned back to me. "I'm not saying I went through this second surgery just to share God's love with that young man, but it certainly made the whole ordeal worthwhile."<br /><br /></span></em></strong><strong><em><span style="font-family:arial;color:#003300;"></span></em></strong>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-48725901825660290272008-04-20T13:12:00.003-06:002008-11-12T22:56:58.474-07:00<div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#333333;">Tenacity</span></em></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLebwh6VdtH4APCQBij70QYNlougCgOeYdux2MwE-rwAspvDSbdJuP8sCZtc1mkXnTx3DHhjGDMyjJ4-IkWzy0WBkLFcdqq4HCHB5i5SawM-DenpadPYy7CGQU7CbKMBGSyAW-Aw/s1600-h/Spring+3008+014.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191408040804379586" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 262px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 197px" height="166" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLebwh6VdtH4APCQBij70QYNlougCgOeYdux2MwE-rwAspvDSbdJuP8sCZtc1mkXnTx3DHhjGDMyjJ4-IkWzy0WBkLFcdqq4HCHB5i5SawM-DenpadPYy7CGQU7CbKMBGSyAW-Aw/s200/Spring+3008+014.JPG" width="242" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="left"><strong><em><span style="font-size:78%;color:#333333;">As I looked out my window this morning a sinking feeling swept through me. By the end of April I should be looking for the first dandelion poking through green grass. Not seeing a blizzard. </span></em></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><em><span style="font-size:78%;color:#333333;">Scratching and banging against my house caught my attention, and I ran to the back door. </span></em></strong></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:78%;"><strong><em><span style="color:#333333;">There, some lined up on the fence, and others clinging to a lilac skeleton, were </span></em></strong><strong><em><span style="color:#333333;">a dozen tiny robins shivering in the wind. As if responding to a command they all took flight, landing on the barren Virginia Creeper branches clinging to my house. Instantly the dried purple berries disappeared and once more the robins hoovered together as if sharing warmth. </span></em></strong></span></div><div align="left"><strong><em><span style="font-size:78%;color:#333333;">Their determination to survive regardless of overwhelming odds moved me to consider my own attitude and my head lowered in shame. Changed plans, procrastination, discouragement, were all reasons I can give, but to my little friends out my window, these are nothing but sounds they do not understand. </span></em></strong></div>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-61634347970894108852008-01-03T19:57:00.001-07:002008-11-12T22:56:58.559-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWN_sSBRlk08UsgUDRy6nfXMIaD6fj1hPrDU8RgnlbmJW8cMJUMStvRLrCN_cX-ZIWDqMeFYJYEPx0HhoPAM_VxK0Wgc7lzri0q0mM8BI6cfsyiSVlsd5dL8rlwiPxvOswh7esxw/s1600-h/P0000105.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151452642564118450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 207px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 176px" height="166" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWN_sSBRlk08UsgUDRy6nfXMIaD6fj1hPrDU8RgnlbmJW8cMJUMStvRLrCN_cX-ZIWDqMeFYJYEPx0HhoPAM_VxK0Wgc7lzri0q0mM8BI6cfsyiSVlsd5dL8rlwiPxvOswh7esxw/s200/P0000105.JPG" width="206" border="0" /></a> <span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; FONT-FAMILY: 'Times New Roman','serif'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-no-proof: yes; mso-fareast-: minor-latin"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#333300;"><strong><em>Three months ago, fortune favoured me. I was married to a wonderful, adventure loving husband. Our grown children were only a phone call away. Our greatest joy was taking our grandchildren exploring, then watching the wonderment cross their faces as they experienced new sights. In two years, he would retire. We planned to buy a camper, load up our dog and cat, and head into the sunrise, stopping when something caught our attention. Where we ended up, or when we returned, it didn’t matter. We would be together, laughing, exploring the continent hand in hand.<br />Then we heard that word no one wants to hear. Cancer. Twenty-one days later, I buried my husband.<br />Darkness came. Oppressing, fearful, darkness. Filled every nook of my being. Life whirled past me, just out of reach. I heard people talking, but the meaning of their words evaded me. I fought to connect with the person I used to be, but she remained a stranger. Her tenacity for life mocking me as I struggled to get out of bed each day. Questions bombarded my thoughts. Why did it happen? Why him and not me? An urgency to believe he’s with God arrived. Desperation to understand challenged my faith. Restlessness had me pacing, wringing my hands, clenching my fists. My life was no longer life.<br />When I thought I'd never laugh again, a pin prick appeared in the darkness . I inched toward it, terrified. Yet something prodded me on. As I neared the tiny hole, the oppression lifted a bit. The air changed. Became warm, inviting, and not at all fearful. My heart quickened. Perhaps life does go on beyond death.<br />Before I could change my mind, I dressed in my exercise clothes I hadn’t worn for weeks and headed to the gym. Every muscle in my body screamed as I conquered the machines one by one, but when I ended the session, tightness that gripped my head loosened. As I stepped outside, I paused at the brightness of the sun, felt the crisp winter breeze caressing my cheeks, and smelled the aroma of fresh doughnuts coming from the bakery across the street. Indefinable joy swept through me. I was still alive.<br />At home I turned on my computer and began to write. At first, only a few words made it to the screen, but slowly, ever so slowly, my thoughts rose above the grief and a story wormed its way into my heart. Tears flowed down my cheeks as the scenes linked together, but this time, they brought hope, a promise that maybe someday I would find myself again. </em></strong></span></span>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-23865321876182110222007-04-22T12:08:00.001-06:002008-11-12T22:56:58.771-07:00<span style="color:#330000;"><em><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;">The Runaway<br />Her heart pounded against her chest, begging for mercy, yet she presse</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPodqs1Lru6lubIGt5j62e6x-E-7f7bxqEvK0teClbEgPmGAHw3hZz6WnsdKIrivoQ_HKwZ4yyxOOTbXiSOlQWXVNdP2z3bGk3drbGqsAiv9wClZD6q1BarKhW4EipU3qA3hoxw/s1600-h/scenery+001.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056316650404150898" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 170px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 337px" height="195" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPodqs1Lru6lubIGt5j62e6x-E-7f7bxqEvK0teClbEgPmGAHw3hZz6WnsdKIrivoQ_HKwZ4yyxOOTbXiSOlQWXVNdP2z3bGk3drbGqsAiv9wClZD6q1BarKhW4EipU3qA3hoxw/s200/scenery+001.JPG" width="453" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;">d on, every so often casting an over the shoulder glance. He hadn’t caught up, but she couldn’t slow down. Distance meant freedom. Every breath came like a knife slicing its way down her throat, her brain hollowed and the surroundings tipped. She slowed to a walk. Within minutes, the meandering deer trail she followed widened into a clearing, and she quickened her step. It had to mean a home, people, and a telephone. Anticipation of freedom shot through her, and released itself in tears.<br />She’d given him the slip, and never again would she have to hear wind blowing through the sod roof, or look at the memorabilia of her predecessors, hanging on the rotting log walls. “Where are they?” She’d asked one day, and the glint in his cold brown eyes told her she’d find out soon enough.<br />She forced her trembling legs to move faster. Getting caught this close to freedom was not an option. The woods fell away with no transition. Thick wet fog clung to the air, but through it, she saw no buildings. She paused, her boding swaying to the beat of her pounding heart. Across the narrow clearing, another bank of trees rose into the misty air.<br />A biting wind blew in, shifting the fog, exposing a narrow gravel road. Pulling her thin hoodie tighter, she stepped onto the closest rut and looked both ways. Behind, a branch snapped, followed by profane muttering, then fast, determined footsteps. Without looking, she tore down the road, her feet slipping in the slick damp clay.<br />Soon the footsteps ebbed and she slowed to catch her breath. A road must lead somewhere. Clamping her teeth against the encroaching defeat, she pressed on. Chimney smoke drifted into the air, lifting her spirit. The road turned, and a cabin came into view.<br />Terror flooded through her, freezing her leg mid stride.<br />Steel fingers closed around her neck. Then nothing. </span></em></span>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-46111103010866472742007-04-20T16:20:00.001-06:002012-11-28T00:07:48.323-07:00<div align="center">
<em><span style="color: #660000; font-family: lucida grande;">BEHIND A FACE</span></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUluubBgHG0KC1YkulpuYXQa6TSrjGcXcbs_VlYFuqLE4UPeObplQVCowUDumCc20OdSy6xCLT7DpRu029JHCV5hMboAHcPes0M-8qFIjOI6DS7dCk_b672TlfKcqqsQIqpXSr-A/s1600-h/Jasper030.jpg"><span style="color: #330000; font-family: lucida grande;"><em><img alt="" border="0" height="181" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055639900997254738" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUluubBgHG0KC1YkulpuYXQa6TSrjGcXcbs_VlYFuqLE4UPeObplQVCowUDumCc20OdSy6xCLT7DpRu029JHCV5hMboAHcPes0M-8qFIjOI6DS7dCk_b672TlfKcqqsQIqpXSr-A/s200/Jasper030.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 185px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 182px;" width="220" /></em></span></a><span style="color: #330000; font-family: lucida grande;"><em><br /></em></span></div>
<em><span style="color: #660000; font-family: lucida grande;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 85%;">The tragedy this past week in Virginia Tech uncovered a vault of my own dormant emotions, driving me to consider “what if?” Beyond death, injury and mayhem, the despair I saw in the young man’s eyes reflected what had once been in mine. It kindled a need to understand, driving me to revisit a past I’ve refused to acknowledge.<br />My search landed me in my fifth grade, when my happy school experience turned into a brush with hell that lasted until I left the community. For days I pondered this year, trying to pinpoint the catalyst that started me on such a course, but no single incident stands out. Three realities, however, are fallow ground.<br />To describe my appearance as unique is an understatement. Being clinically blind, I needed glasses, but not the ones I was forced to wear that looked like pop bottle bottoms wired together. But their oddity matched my ringlets that went out of style years earlier. On top of such a fashion statement, my teacher didn’t like me much. Cliché, I know, but true. Without a cause, ten year-olds do not lose control of their bladder because they’re terrified of a teacher.<br />At home I was Cinderella without her looks. Being told I was stupid, and wouldn’t amount to a thing came close to being a daily ritual. I started believing it, and set the law of rejection breeds rejection into motion, thus thrusting me into a world of torment. A world where classmates taunted me, called me names that even today make my throat ache. A world with no escape because home hurt as much as school.<br />I swung from trying to prove I was acceptable to resigning myself to being the lowest of the lowest. Night after night I knelt by my bed, crying, begging God to help me not hurt so much, and to make my classmates stop. Begging Him to help me be someone my parents could love.<br />I felt deserted and betrayed by everyone, so anger became a faithful friend. I was sure even God turned his back on me, because nothing changed. I contemplated death. Not the death of my perpetrators, but my own, because it wasn’t their fault I was what I was, but mine.<br />Now, when I see children cowering in corners, scared to participate in the activity going on around them, my heart breaks. I feel their sadness, and if I can, I hold them, cry with them, and tell them as often as possible, you are special. You are good, and you can accomplish whatever you choose.<br />I think of the young man on the news again and my throat swells. His desperation, his anger at being ostracized is so familiar, but the hatred that drove him to such lengths, I struggle to fathom. My despair sent me to my knees, begging God for help, and running away when I thought he didn’t care. But over the years, He brought people into my life who rubbed salve into those old wounds until they healed. He taught me how to forgive and trust. To love and be loved.<br />For that young man, I wonder where it all went wrong. If his pain was so much deeper than mine. Or if God hadn’t heard me when I was sure He hadn’t, would I be here now, wondering why I am? Wondering what is the dividing line between contemplating your own demise and planning, then carrying out a massacre. Wondering if this young man and all his victims would still be here if someone had taken the time to show him God loves you, and so do I.</span> </span></em>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-64314312347446051532007-04-05T14:10:00.000-06:002008-11-12T22:56:59.189-07:00<div align="center"><em><span style="color:#000000;">Life is a Cone</span></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKPRRMpcxUgWfUIs5dxe0dqZDFuwDDj2Duj3QDZIow0c349wv1FENjQ6BkpQKvzLXbFPDJFgQEOMZRSBOie8C3ALTCuYBwrNPdROdtgpZTU8V0M-6KXQPZPPL_xkGOtlATC-8gg/s1600-h/P0000924.JPG"><span style="color:#000000;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050047017618111170" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 257px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 205px" height="227" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKPRRMpcxUgWfUIs5dxe0dqZDFuwDDj2Duj3QDZIow0c349wv1FENjQ6BkpQKvzLXbFPDJFgQEOMZRSBOie8C3ALTCuYBwrNPdROdtgpZTU8V0M-6KXQPZPPL_xkGOtlATC-8gg/s320/P0000924.JPG" width="282" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#000000;"><em>The calendar said fall, yet summer remained. Life along Prairie Creek is much like that. There’s no yes or no, black or white, beginning or ending. Things just flow together, one starting before the previous ends. Or that’s the way it was until last spring, when Doctor Ross diagnosed my lung cancer. Months later, it’s still difficult to fathom, because things like that never happen along Prairie Creek, especially to me.<br />Coffee in hand, I sauntered through the open French doors, onto our deck. A floral umbrella in the center of the burgundy patio table was already raised, and a paperweight rested on top of the Mountaineer to prevent it from blowing away. I flipped through the large, unruly pages until Recognize the Warning signs of Lung Cancer rose from the print like a rattler ready to strike.<br />“Thanks for nothing!” I slapped the pages shut and hurried down the steps to the lawn below, my emotions flapping like a flag in a windstorm. On the ground, I gazed into the peaceful autumn sky. “Why God, did it happen to me?”<br />No answer came. I meandered into the bush surrounding our farmyard and followed the narrow, winding sheep trail until it disappeared into a meadow. Feeling tired, I wilted onto a weathered, gray stump and looked around. Decaying leaves and brown, brittle grass covered the earth. Poplar and birch skeletons hid among the evergreens to conceal their nudity. A noisy “V” crossed overhead, and beside me, a chipmunk with bulging cheeks scurried up a gnarly gray poplar trunk. The sweet aroma from a harvested grain field, saturated the amiable July breeze still existing in mid October. Hot sun beams beat against my shoulders, but lacked the power to tan. In a strange sort of way, their incompetence comforted me.<br />My thoughts returned to the decaying leaves, and sadness dropped in like a faithful friend. Welcoming its intimacy, I encouraged it to embrace me tighter by reliving my doctor’s appointment yesterday.<br />“I’m sorry Lorne,” Dr. Ross said in his matter-of-fact way. “We’re going to have to extend Chemo. The cancer cells aren’t shrinking as I expected.”<br />I clutched the edge of his desk, my fingers turning white. “What are you saying?”<br />He smiled the smile of a doctor bearing unwelcome news. “Your cancer’s stubborn. It needs to be treated more aggressively.”<br />“But the treatment’s already bad enough. I don’t want any more.”<br />His eyebrows rose. “It’s your only hope.”<br />“But you sound like I have no hope.”<br />Dr. Ross reached across his desk, covering my cold shaking hand with his warm comforting one. “I wish there was an easier way.”<br />“That makes two of us.” I rose from my stump. The sheep stopped eating, eyeing me suspiciously. I called them by name, petting one’s head and scratching another’s chin as I made my way across the meadow. On the far side, my trail continued, and like a robot with no ability to make my own decisions, I followed it down the steep embankment of the big gully encasing Prairie Creek. At the bottom, I walked into the sharp wind that coexists with mountain streams, willing it to sweep the cancer from my lungs. I approached the creek bank where Tree grew, and looked up to greet my faithful friend, but no evergreen crown waved back, just blue sky, covered with wispy horsetails. “Oh God. Not Tree, too!” Dropping to my knees, I hugged the jagged edges of his broken trunk and sobbed as if I’d lost my last friend. In front of me, his handsome crown lay partly submerged in the restless water, impatient waves crashing into it, destroying it one needle at a time.<br />I glared at the waves, desiring them to feel my anger. Instead, their raw tenacity to remove such a huge obstacle sparked my own determination, and an elusive longing to survive brushed against my spirit. I leaned against Tree’s rough, damp stump and wonderful memories surfaced. I was a child again. Above me, Tree’s branches swayed in the breeze, cooling me and keeping the blazing sun off my delicate skin as I constructed make-believe castles from his brittle, cast-off needles. As we grew, each in our own worlds, and yet together, I leaned against his trunk, as I was doing now, and shared my hopes and dreams with him and our restless river. “It’s not fair. “We don’t deserve this!”<br />My husband lowered his lanky frame to the ground beside me and draped his arm across my shoulders. “The storm last night.”<br />I moved into his embrace, my tattered emotions finding refuge in the strength of his presence.<br />“You’re not Tree,” he whispered as if reading my thoughts. “Your life isn’t part of the balance of nature.”<br />“It might as well be.”<br />He shook his head. “There’s medicine. Will power. And God still heals.”<br />“Don’t even go there. We’ve been down that road too many times.”<br />His jaw set. “No, we haven’t. I have.”<br />“That’s not fair!”<br />“Maybe not, but it’s true.”<br />“It is not,” I lashed back. “And who made you an authority on my problems?”<br />Jeff rolled his eyes. “Nobody. But I’m bit tired of you getting all defensive, and acting as if your cancer doesn’t exist.”<br />My jaw dropped. A breath stopped, half inhaled. “How dare you make yourself my judge?” Distress swept across his face, but I needed him to hurt as I did, so I kept ranting. “Do you think this is fun for me? That the parasite in my lungs isn’t painful as it feeds on them one cell at a time?” I started to cough. “Then there’s this,” I said between gasps of air when the cough subsided. I threw him a disdainful look. “Isn’t life beautiful?”<br />Jeff stared at me, an expression of not knowing how to respond imprinted on his handsome face. “Is that it? You’re giving up.”<br />“Just thinking of more treatments makes me sick.” I stared at Tree’s crown. “When I know I’ll end up like Tree.”<br />“That’s absurd! It was a bad storm! Get it? A bad storm!”<br />“The how doesn’t matter. It’s about the message it brings.”<br />Jeff disappointment filled the air, and a need to comfort him seeped into me. To gather my thoughts, I watched the waves battering against Tree’s crown. Please God, take away my fear, and replace it with those waves’s tenacity to go on. I looked around, expecting the world to be different, but nothing changed. No hope burned in my spirit, no desire to go on shot through my veins. I bit my lip until a coppery taste filled my mouth.<br />Jeff smoothed his sandy hair against his head. “Nothing’s over until it’s over. Winter does come, but life returns with spring. Just look around.”<br />“Exactly. It’s fall. Everything, including me, is dying.”<br />“Take a closer look.”<br />I stared at Tree’s majestic crown. The waves still tore at his needles, and the urge to hate resurfaced. “He’s almost dead, yet the angry creek won’t let him die in peace.”<br />Jeff cupped his chin between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the bristly whiskers poking through his skin. “You’re right, but they’re also breaking off cones and washing them ashore.”<br />I glanced along the bank, and cones lay everywhere. Kicking my shoes off, I strolled onto the damp, wave-washed sand and retrieved a cone. Beside Tree’s stump, I dug a hole and dropped it in. “Part of him will grow again.”<br />“And you’ll still be around to see it,” Jeff promised, poking a stick into the ground beside the cone. He took me in his arms and pressed my head to his chest. “I love you.”<br />It felt good. My anger subsided, and I melted into him. Maybe he was right. Maybe, just maybe, spring would come for me.<br /><br /></em></span><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#330033;"><em></em></span>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1166224996052024562006-12-15T16:23:00.000-07:002007-04-19T09:23:05.870-06:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/2868/1698/1600/848571/Lance.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 230px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 244px" height="303" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/2868/1698/320/898394/Lance.jpg" width="283" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:arial;"><em><strong><span style="color:#996633;">On a set of steps, inside an unfinished building, a rugged young man leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. A vibrant sunbeam flooded through the open roof, giving him an angelic appearance. So deep his thoughts, they appeared to draw him into a world forbidden to all but him. A flicker, a promise of a smile, softened one corner of his lips and sparkle lit his eyes. Then as sudden as they happened, they disappeared. He leaned back, breaking the moment, lifted his cap and ran his fingers through his thick curly hair. The moment fled. The spell broke. He reached for a hammer as if his secret retreat never took place. </span></strong></em></span><span style="color:#996633;"></span>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1158696396299862582006-09-19T14:06:00.000-06:002007-04-19T09:24:07.985-06:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000071.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 235px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 184px" height="228" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/320/P0000071.1.jpg" width="309" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:arial;color:#666666;"><em><strong>Time came with the wind. Came with the rain and snow, the heat and cold. It battered against my log frame. It ate at the plaster that kept out the cold. As the ground beneath me shifted, my walls cracked with the strain, but I remained upright, a protection for my inhabitants.<br />With love, they painted my window frames and hung a strong door to keep out the elements. They filled me with the nicest furnishing they could afford. Then children came. Their laughter filled every nook and cranny within my walls, and I sang with them. Around me, cattle lowed and sheep bleated. Farm machinery hummed from spring to fall and rested through the snow.<br />Over the years, my first inhabitant’s hair turned gray. Their steps became a little feebler each day. The children grew and one by one went away. Then a day I hadn’t seen coming arrived. A yellow sign appeared in front of me, and shortly thereafter, the now old couple left and the sign came down.<br />Slowly, the hinges holding up my door pulled away from the frame, and eventually the door collapsed. Stones hit my windows, shattering them. Rain and snow hurled through my open doorway, rotting my foundation. But who is there to care? Will anyone bring laughter back to me? If you will, come right on in. Make me sing again, and I have a lifetime of stories I’ll share with you.</strong></em></span>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1146697213747311002006-05-03T16:51:00.000-06:002007-03-05T19:57:17.055-07:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000041.0.jpg"><span style="font-size:180%;"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 283px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 229px" height="236" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/320/P0000041.0.jpg" width="302" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:180%;"> <strong><em><span style="color:#663333;">Sometimes the biggest blessings are the smallest things.</span></em></strong></span><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:180%;color:#663333;">When my Scrappy died, I couldn't even think of getting another kitty, almost like I'd be betraying him.</span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:180%;color:#663333;">Then a couple weeks ago, several unusual events happened that caused strangers to bring me a precious gift. </span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:180%;color:#663333;">Sebastian just waltzed into my home and stole my heart. Now, I have a new best friend.</span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:180%;color:#663333;"></span></em></strong>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1142290448978918832006-03-13T15:54:00.000-07:002006-03-13T16:02:51.800-07:00The Old Lady<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P1020082.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 277px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 230px" height="233" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/320/P1020082.jpg" width="301" border="0" /></a><br /><em>The summer sun slipped behind the tall brown fence, taking away its warmth. The old lady looked off into the distance, wondering as she did every day at this time. Would the sun rise for her again tomorrow? If it did, what would it bring? More waiting? Waiting for someone to get her out of bed. Waiting to have done what she always did for herself. Waiting to eat. And begging. Begging drove her crazy. How had life come to this? Begging for a tissue to wipe her nose. Begging for a bit more sugar in her coffee. And begging to go outside, to one of her children’s homes. To hear the little ones scream with laughter, to watch the teenagers, shyly put their arms around each other.<br />She remembered her own first love and warmth flowed through her ancient, veins. Had it been that long? It seemed like yesterday. Her wedding, then the children coming, and growing up, the grandchildren, then the great grandchildren. They floated across her lifetime bringing her back to her wheelchair, a cup of coffee, a bowl of cookies and a dish of fresh, ripe raspberries. Treats she’d never get in the nursing home.<br />Soon she’d have them eaten, and it would be time to return to the begging and waiting. But she felt better now. The outing to her daughter’s home had rekindled her dreams. Maybe tomorrow, the sun wouldn't rise for her and she’d wake up in that promised land far beyond the clouds.<br /></em><blockquote></blockquote>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1138832268428558442006-02-01T15:09:00.001-07:002006-02-01T15:49:23.080-07:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000215.1.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/320/P0000215.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><table id="HB_Mail_Container" height="100%" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%" border="0" unselectable="on"><tbody><tr height="100%" unselectable="on" width="100%"><td id="HB_Focus_Element" valign="top" width="100%" background="" height="250" unselectable="off"><p align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#996633;">Tears stream down my cheeks forming in glistening puddles on the keys my keyboard. My grief escapes in hacking sobs. Why? I ask over and over again. Scrappy was a rare treasure, my friend, my comfort in trying situations, my baby after my children left. And now he is no more, because someone needed to prove they were big behind a steering wheel, and made him their target. Because of their need, emptiness haunts my home, reminding me my companion is gone forever.<br /></p></span></em></strong></td></tr><tr unselectable="on" hb_tag="1"><td style="FONT-SIZE: 1pt" height="1" unselectable="on"><div id="hotbar_promo"></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><blockquote></blockquote>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1137809594934459852006-01-20T19:05:00.000-07:002006-01-20T19:13:14.936-07:00<div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000179.2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 297px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 225px" height="191" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/200/P0000179.jpg" width="200" border="0" /></a> <em><strong><span style="font-family:times new roman;color:#330000;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Inevitable<br /></span><br />Cold, white, and blue, filled my world, freezing my breath and turning it into miniature clouds. Crisp, drifted snow crunched beneath my feet, and an indifferent sun shone down, reflecting off the winter blanket blinding me. Still, I trudged on.<br />At the edge of my vision, a lone wolf slunk into the trees. Hunger griped the mangy creature, shrinking it’s flanks. He’d reappear behind me, and pounce, extinguishing his remaining fuel. Only one would continue, victorious, the other, sinking into a warm, uninterrupted sleep.<br />A north wind arose and lifted my fur, exposing my tender pink skin. I leapt forward, landing beside a leafless willow. I took a moment to gnaw on the frozen bark, refueling my dwindling strength.<br />Refreshed, I moved on. An uprooted tree lay across my trail. Its heavy trunk felled smaller trees, creating a refuge. I hopped beneath the branches and needle-free bows, waiting, wondering if the sun would rise again.<br />The wolf approached, his sides heaving, saliva dripping from his open mouth. He sniffed the ground around my sanctuary, pawed at the snow, but the trees kept me safe. Exhausted, he crumpled to the frozen ground. Darkness drove the light away and I closed my eyes. I’d sleep a little and continue on when a new sun arose.<br />The seasons changed and a bright spring sun caressed the frozen land. Beside a pile of rotting trees, a lone gray wolf hid his nose beneath his flank and slept the eternal sleep. Under the rotting trees, huddled a snow-white jackrabbit, its eyes closed, its trembling nose stilled.<br />A thin, brown grizzly stretched his massive body, yawned, then, sluggishly, climbed from his lair beneath an uprooted tree. He glanced around in search of food. </span></strong></em></div>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1134429245812589272005-12-12T16:14:00.000-07:002006-01-20T18:41:13.630-07:00Metamorphosis<span style="font-size:100%;color:#666666;"><em>Cold gripped the ancient land. Vast, wind-driven snow banks clung to tree trunks and to the base of every rugged cliff. A silver moon shown through the winter-weary trees, transforming <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000054.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 192px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 254px" height="202" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/200/P0000054.0.jpg" width="200" border="0" /></a>the ground into a blanket of glittering stones. Tracks of animals in search of food crisscrossed the barren landscape.<br />Alongside the trail used by his people to go from their winter camps to their summer homes, Wolffang leaned against a poplar trunk to catch his breath, his own stomach reminding him it needed fuel. He glanced around, seeking shelter. A tree lay to his right, its roots ripped from the ground with soil still clinging to the fibrous appendages.<br />He hurried forward. The dirt packed roots would keep the wind from his back and a fire would warm his front. He sighed. The journey had been long, but in distance, it had just begun.<br />He dropped to his knees in front of the uprooted tree and pawed at the snow until he’d cleared an area large enough for a fire and a spot to sleep. Some thin branches, he snapped from a nearby tree. Dried grass and moss, he found in the section he’d cleared. He arranged them is a small pile and above it, he struck two pieces of flint. Several times the flint slipped from between his numbed fingers but eventually, a few sparks danced above the pile, then one touched a blade of grass and a small flame sprang to life.<br />His hunger pangs soothed by the strips of dried moose meat he’d consumed, he leaned against the tree roots and gazed into the unapproachable sky, contemplating the whereabouts of his family. They would have though him dead when he didn’t return with the braves after the summer hunt, because the braves, too, had given him up as dead.<br />He felt the tender spot on his side where the yearling moose had gouged him with its sharp antler. Even he could not fathom why he still lived. His wife and children reappeared in his thoughts. He caressed each one, and counted the days separating him from them.<br />Without warning, the ground shifted, throwing Wolffang to his side. He lunged for a nearby sapling to prevent the earth from swallowing him. The spirits were angry again. Demanding the human’s attention.<br />As sudden as the ground shook, it settled, and he looked to the sky at the shifting dancing lights, and a new star appeared, dulling the radiance of all others.<br />Wolffang stared at it. His mind told him Mother Earth had reached a new plateau. Life as he knew it would soon disappear. His spirit, soothed beyond his enchantment the night he and his wife first coupled, sought the victorious deity.<br />A wolf claw, given to him by his father, hung around his neck by a rawhide lace, burned his chest. He ripped his clothing apart and yanked off the amulet, then looked down at his exposed flesh. A stinging, fire-red claw mark stared back at him, twisting his thoughts, provoking him to explore the meaning of his shifting world.<br />A cold gust of air arose, its icy fingers annihilating the throbbing. Wolffang closed his buckskin coat to preserve his body heat. He returned his attention to the new star that paled the changing, dancing lights. The Ancient One had done something new, something significant, on this cold, desolate night.<br />Unable to penetrate the land of the sleep spirit, Wolffang stood, threw his pack over his shoulders and continued down the trail. He must reach his family, let them know he still lived, and warn them to seek the ways of the new spirit, while time remained. </em></span><br /><br /><blockquote></blockquote>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1131907497686671862005-11-13T11:44:00.000-07:002005-11-18T19:52:27.436-07:00Winter has arrived<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000016.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 269px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 210px" height="232" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/320/P0000016.0.jpg" width="310" border="0" /></a> <em><strong><span style="color:#000066;">This morning, the whir of a strong wind surrounded my house and it darkened noticeably. Then the shriek of hungry birds filled my ears. Scrappy, my big orange tomcat, leapt onto the back of a chair near the living room window, and imitated the bird’s chirping. I looked out, and hundreds of tiny, hyperactive snowbirds swarmed about the mountain ash. In minutes, all the bright red berries clinging to thin empty branches disappeared. Then the birds moved on, leaving behind one more assurance winter has arrived.<br /></span></strong></em>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1131561113173001572005-11-09T11:31:00.000-07:002005-11-13T09:47:29.590-07:00BEYOND THE PURPLE SKY<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000009.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/200/P0000009.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000019.jpg"></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;color:#663366;"><em><strong>BEYOND </strong></em></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;color:#663366;"><em><strong>THE </strong></em></span><br /><div align="center"><em><strong><span style="color:#663366;"><span style="font-size:180%;">PURPLE SKY<br /></span>Above the land of the two rivers, a dusky red sun slides silently and unheeded into the underworld, leaving behind a purple sky. In his bedchamber, the great king’s eyes flutter one last time and he too, slips away, ending a remarkable era.<br />Although impassable walls surround and protect BABYLON, wealth, intrigue, and murder fill her streets--until her sins reach heaven, setting her demise in motion.<br />Into this city and political upheaval, two princes are born.<br />Although his father is the Hebrew Prince of Captivity, Zerubbabel is educated as a Babylonian. A vision of golden scepter, crowned with a charging lion, appears to him as a boy, taunting him. After a supernatural journey to the temple in Jerusalem, he connects these appearances to a birthmark resembling a lion’s claw above his temple, and accepts them as symbols of his destiny.<br />PRINCE BELSHAZZAR is plagued with insecurities, but grows to be a fair and wise ruler.<br />The destinies of these two princes intertwine until Belshazzar disregards Zerubbabel’s warning, and a strand breaks.<br />YAHWEH, the Hebrew God, places Zerubbabel in strategic positions within Babylonian society, that enables him to obtain the wisdom of kings. Then a snare he does not recognize entraps him, almost changing history.<br />PRINCESS BELSHALTI-NANNER, Belshazzar’s sister, captures Zerubbabel’s heart. She eclipses his pursuit of the golden lion until Yahweh intervenes, setting back into place the divine order of things.<br />Resuming the quest of his destiny, Zerubbabel leads his people across a dangerous, scorching desert to Jerusalem, to rebuild a temple and a nation. Discouragement, complacency, and irritability are daily obstacles. The Samaritans hinder the progress in every way, but the faithful shun defeat.<br />Although miles and gods separate them, Zerubbabel and Belshalti-Nanner pour out their love on scrolls and clay tablets, hoping someday an unrelenting God will reconsider. Then King Cyrus betroths Belshalti-Nanner to his son. Zerubbabel refuses to extinguish his love, although he knows he can never act on it.<br />Bit by bit the new temple rises in the centre of Jerusalem, proclaiming the Hebrews are again a nation in their own land. Then Zerubbabel meets Mary. He is cleansed of Babylon, set free from a forbidden love to claim his own destiny--and a wife the Almighty selected for him. </span></strong></em></div>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17586412.post-1131498981230618732005-11-08T17:57:00.000-07:002005-11-11T11:35:24.283-07:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000106.5.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/200/P0000106.5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/1600/P0000073.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2868/1698/200/P0000073.1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong><em><span style="color:#000066;">Determination</span> </em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="color:#000066;">Arriving at the finish line uncontested or writing a colorless story merits no distinction, but persevering through all odds seperates winners from dreamers.</span></em></strong><br /><div align="center"></div>Storytellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06295470328598962497noreply@blogger.com2