tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49253887209317185862024-03-13T02:35:27.953-07:00Hand of Bela Peck Folk Artist. Writer. Wanderer.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-2554578099249976592017-10-17T06:11:00.002-07:002017-10-17T06:11:48.485-07:00Me Too- A few Chosen Words on the Trend<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQXszfDadH0OnaDmjjwNUiCjp90oeJyylUXZ5XSLQMM4IDB_zs1CTThUcl7K41bKRaIFHE2CDDPqVv_nEXwaliuVwhpAfeNY2IbwFNjdUix0fgV7ldvAx2vazVFHMUOXvRNSVfS4Srj0/s1600/moongirl+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="501" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQXszfDadH0OnaDmjjwNUiCjp90oeJyylUXZ5XSLQMM4IDB_zs1CTThUcl7K41bKRaIFHE2CDDPqVv_nEXwaliuVwhpAfeNY2IbwFNjdUix0fgV7ldvAx2vazVFHMUOXvRNSVfS4Srj0/s320/moongirl+blog.jpg" width="244" /></a>Me too. Two simple words with infinite meaning depending on the inflection, depending on where we have bookmarked ourselves on the journey of recovery. <br />
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Some scream loud with warrior intention: ME TOO!!<br />
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Softer voices claim with a sorrowful sigh: me too.<br />
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Some type the words into their status: #metoo...... but then delete it. The shame is just too much.<br />
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Then there are those among our ranks who see #metoo in their social media feeds and give a silent nod of recognition not having experienced the pain personally but knowing those who have. We envy you and thank you for the support.<br />
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And there are those who are overwhelmed by those two words, not yet ready to acknowledge their own personal pain. To these women, and men, I say we are here for you.<br />
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If you are ready then share your story. Drop that plate of shame feast someone left you holding. There is infinite power in our stories. Every time we share a memory, tell a trusted friend we are suffering, name our abusers; we take back the power stolen from us. With every word of truth the self-blame veil lifts higher and higher to reveal a cult of silence from which all predators draw their strength. <br />
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I say "Me Too" with confidence and a tinge of self righteousness. With 10 years of therapy under my belt, I've earned it. It was the hardest walk to take but I've learned to shine in the light and not hide in the dark cobwebbed corners. In 1995, I joined a survivors' support group at a local church. There were five of us. I was the youngest. The oldest was 76. It was her first meeting. The first moment she publicly stated in the weakest inflection, "Me too." And she wept as if she were 7 again asking her grandfather to please stop. It is for her generation, my mother's generation, my generation, and all the keep silent culture that I declare #metoo. <br />
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Rise up. Reclaim your power. Be gentle to those who are not ready. Be kind to those who criticize for they know not our struggle, or they deny their own. Praise the male victims who come forward~ this is their fight as well. And to those who are unsure whether your stories qualify~ then your answer is to stand up, choose your inflection, and know we too support you. Our time has come.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-27805264237001238642016-07-17T08:28:00.000-07:002016-07-17T08:31:28.811-07:00The Accidental Crazy Cat Lady<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5CgMG8fk9GqPrASXREFu7RsVUXu-6cLEggy-p9JUuSVxt0odk3REIvRjDIug8KnCgwDtmVyO6SgpYzHOPTgj5w3wl5jS0cQtSV-AOkZ-OCsG3dzQIy355yT1BYrIuyHaDhDM8Ug6Oqdc/s1600/cat.cashmere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5CgMG8fk9GqPrASXREFu7RsVUXu-6cLEggy-p9JUuSVxt0odk3REIvRjDIug8KnCgwDtmVyO6SgpYzHOPTgj5w3wl5jS0cQtSV-AOkZ-OCsG3dzQIy355yT1BYrIuyHaDhDM8Ug6Oqdc/s320/cat.cashmere.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I don't know how I got to this point. I suppose I sound like all crazy <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/HandOfBelaPeck?ref=hdr_shop_menu">cat</a> ladies. It was innocent at first......just one wee fluff ball. Oh how cute! Such simple happiness in those tiny eyes staring up at me. Love in an instant inspiring deep heart felt chuckles at all those silly cat antics. Falling off tables, rolling along the floor, snoozing on sunlit windowsills late in the afternoon.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXwPJRjqNglP8IltQ04-KbcrFSxvO4NLDgkXWCRJ_aKxj9MWAiOpKBAcTMVTjeebCMjB1rlNcdyBVoS6WgGtq409K9n3BSHAIkrncEupnAkDODR2Fcyj37q6ZFvf-rtM5VjGS8ZdJ7FEQ/s1600/cat.stuffed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXwPJRjqNglP8IltQ04-KbcrFSxvO4NLDgkXWCRJ_aKxj9MWAiOpKBAcTMVTjeebCMjB1rlNcdyBVoS6WgGtq409K9n3BSHAIkrncEupnAkDODR2Fcyj37q6ZFvf-rtM5VjGS8ZdJ7FEQ/s320/cat.stuffed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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So where one is good, two must be better. And how can anyone deny another creature a companion of its own kind? It's only right to add a second cat to the mix. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJhVoBQlUlzftJT9Pu_Ur1r3gllY33XhlooaonTRxNXTE0yEOFPTjGYjc7p8Qs1wx8chaATMtwirBrQlHZnGIQaPO2jfWzfpBI6mgOpzyciY-4ALvfGaU1sZ18AMqyPzsLEvHE92SeeU/s1600/cat.tabby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJhVoBQlUlzftJT9Pu_Ur1r3gllY33XhlooaonTRxNXTE0yEOFPTjGYjc7p8Qs1wx8chaATMtwirBrQlHZnGIQaPO2jfWzfpBI6mgOpzyciY-4ALvfGaU1sZ18AMqyPzsLEvHE92SeeU/s320/cat.tabby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And then another.....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7eknzn1ZYokYy7ZJ0hDcoOOd4AuC4W2criRtSfH7nkhGoi4w-mvFJ4zJKYGzoWuatGawcZ3j70u9Aa3-DQ1MoqtwcHn-5MO_nNq2yhJceGu7b35gasY8IF5JXECxzcueuU7B1MB_Npc/s1600/cat.wool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7eknzn1ZYokYy7ZJ0hDcoOOd4AuC4W2criRtSfH7nkhGoi4w-mvFJ4zJKYGzoWuatGawcZ3j70u9Aa3-DQ1MoqtwcHn-5MO_nNq2yhJceGu7b35gasY8IF5JXECxzcueuU7B1MB_Npc/s320/cat.wool.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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and another...... two...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-mwyrwMg5ceprDZV-qWb9RIpDDfmOE6ZoRjXrf0D95yx5pCSSI4JAdxbcKFrFsNfuAdsKTyJC1eEPXivomBUchDIhcC4oNa8nd_H2e9AMixJ52sn-WjTE3NIZMXjm0zJ0jRf4DNNmJT0/s1600/cat.crazy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-mwyrwMg5ceprDZV-qWb9RIpDDfmOE6ZoRjXrf0D95yx5pCSSI4JAdxbcKFrFsNfuAdsKTyJC1eEPXivomBUchDIhcC4oNa8nd_H2e9AMixJ52sn-WjTE3NIZMXjm0zJ0jRf4DNNmJT0/s320/cat.crazy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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and another..... until.......</div>
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And soon I wonder what life was like before the cats. Was there this much laughter? This much adoration? This same silly type of love and purring affection?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VWEc94WDREJXCQXY3_cS8QuOb91yMXGn1YVc75bfFG9YnD1LP9FUH8rITRmFXrtl71sBvFurTLalTX-Od5Dx3hHjh_OY4WjjJIGlr4oSjsZwpkge8UEZy2BdoFKMWjrFvwAlAAfudQ4/s1600/IMG_3569.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VWEc94WDREJXCQXY3_cS8QuOb91yMXGn1YVc75bfFG9YnD1LP9FUH8rITRmFXrtl71sBvFurTLalTX-Od5Dx3hHjh_OY4WjjJIGlr4oSjsZwpkge8UEZy2BdoFKMWjrFvwAlAAfudQ4/s320/IMG_3569.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I think not. </div>
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And so I, along with my three studio dogs, remain dedicated to the cause and proudly announce my membership in the<a href="https://www.pinterest.com/kittycan/crazy-cat-lady-club/"> Crazy Cat Lady Club</a>. And yes, there is an official <a href="https://catladybox.com/">club</a>, just in case you're looking for one.</div>
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LOVE & PURRRRRRR</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-70091375868875923512015-02-19T16:08:00.000-08:002015-02-19T16:08:31.669-08:00Gravel, God, and Gratitude; One Year Later<div align="center">
Today marks one year since the day my husband and his <a href="http://handofbelapeck1759.blogspot.com/2014/02/snippets.html">Ducati</a> went down on Houston's 610/59 interchange. During the past year I thanked God for every angel who helped my family heal. But one angel in particular stands out, and I have no idea whether or not she was real. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfGd2auazLxxqxzLW33cGsN82pJGZgpopilAXUJZXZZ8xGKYN-ubd28-Vrrch4c-EiQCbkgGVlCK283kXZ1x7UX8ZQf6tvBThigqZ-voVEvPhDaRpSuSXR9_y4RlEGynhUGJyufhn_Ck/s1600/1394548843507.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfGd2auazLxxqxzLW33cGsN82pJGZgpopilAXUJZXZZ8xGKYN-ubd28-Vrrch4c-EiQCbkgGVlCK283kXZ1x7UX8ZQf6tvBThigqZ-voVEvPhDaRpSuSXR9_y4RlEGynhUGJyufhn_Ck/s1600/1394548843507.jpg" height="186" width="200" /></a></div>
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If my February 19, 2014, were a movie, it would open to a grainy graphite blur, muffled movements, the crackle of gravel under rubber soles. From just outside my right ear would be a woman's voice. Loud. Strong. A firm, sturdy, Southern woman . Conviction booming with every syllable running like a rapid river with no punctuation. </div>
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"LORD hear me send Your angels to this soul usher them forth to carry his spirit hold this man up lay your hands upon him dear Jesus HEEEEALL this man Lord hear me send Your angels now to his side Jesus we pray...."</div>
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Like waking from a dream in a foreign church trying to pray in a manner unfamiliar to my own but knowing that the spirits and Gods are all of one universal understanding in this precise moment. Gasoline, tar, reinforced steel blends as I am squinting into focus. My husband's helmeted head under my hands so careful not to move him an inch and to keep him stable. He is as motionless as I am breathless as this woman continues overhead, eclipsing the morning sun, the only movement on a dead stopped highway. Where the hell is the ambulance!? </div>
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"Heal this man Jesus do not take him home send your angels to his side Lord I pray that you are here with us today..."</div>
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Life or death moments move so painfully slow in a dreamlike state where the words I scream don't make a sound.</div>
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"Tell her...." my husband utters and I am electric with surprise! He is conscious! He is alive under all that leather road gear! I lean closer to hear him because his breath is strained, uneasy. "Tell her to shut up........ I can't think."</div>
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I turn to ask her to be quiet and though I still hear her voice tapering off, she is gone. As if she were never there. The noise of her voice replaced by approaching sirens and I am abruptly aware of bystanders, motorcycle debris in the road, a rush of activity closing in, forcing me out. Scanning the crowd, I look for the praying woman over this bridge of cars jammed to a halt in jagged angles to avoid crashing themselves. I've lost her without being able to thank her.<br />
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As weeks of recovery went by and my husband began to remember his own February 19, 2014, movie, the first thing he recalled was the endless spinning of his body as it careened down the highway. The second memory was hearing the praying woman. A memory always accompanied by a regretful cringe of speaking to someone so harshly. Especially someone who wanted only to help. But in that moment of sudden consciousness, he had forgotten how to breathe. Through the chaos and pain the brightest light was this woman praying to her God on my husband's behalf.<br />
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Now, one year later, as we look back on that day we don't remember the hospital, the injuries, the lack of justice. We simply rejoice in the many miracles that started with one woman's fearless voice to pray to God for strangers on the road before her. A simple act of kindness that changed my life forever.<br />
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LOVE & ANGELS</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-26012519471118686362015-02-11T06:04:00.001-08:002015-02-11T17:12:49.117-08:00Sew What You Reap<div align="center">
I am a relentless thrifter.<br />
My daily studio breaks find me in Goodwill, Salvation Army, and Thrift Outlet, loading my basket with myriad of small wonders. Thrifting has always been my release; the cathartic meandering frees my mind, interrupted only by the subtle radar bleeping of a gem in close proximity. I thrift to calm my creative chaos. I also believe that up-cycling is the purest form of working in the primitive tradition. And as a generally good human being, I like that the money I spend on my supplies goes right back to my community charities.</div>
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If I am not careful I can amass a hoarder's share of fabric, notions, and trinkets in record time. I am addicted to vintage Pendleton wools and a good tooled leather belt will find me genuflecting in the aisles. To say I buy a lot of fabric would be the textbook version of lying. I buy an obscene amount of fabric because I take pity on cashmere sweaters and woolens tossed for wounds inflicted by rogue gangs of moths. I know how easily each piece can be up-cycled into purrfect pets, wee mousels, and primitive projects. But even after crafting day and night, there remains more fabric in need of a good home. After all, an up-cycler rarely wastes a thing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKAkUNHBVbN2H0CKUckfkf2z2-g8mej893RMrpt4-nXSeRIOfq2XXKh5dJuT5DzQhQAIHiTzgDg2hln9gqboZpVCnlkw_Aq6eXU9b2EwBMpsvUGCEt8I-OF06URShhFu57_6_1d5tv44o/s1600/blog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKAkUNHBVbN2H0CKUckfkf2z2-g8mej893RMrpt4-nXSeRIOfq2XXKh5dJuT5DzQhQAIHiTzgDg2hln9gqboZpVCnlkw_Aq6eXU9b2EwBMpsvUGCEt8I-OF06URShhFu57_6_1d5tv44o/s1600/blog1.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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Introducing Bela Peck Home! My latest Etsy shop offers all that I cannot use but know others can. More than the thrill of the bargain hunt, I love to share a good find so my prices are low and the quality is top notch! <br />
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The three pillars of Bela Peck Home are: </div>
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Love and bargains make this world go 'round. </div>
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Life is too short to pay retail. </div>
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Pay it forward, always.<br />
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<a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/BelaPeckHome">https://www.etsy.com/shop/BelaPeckHome</a><br />
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<a href="http://instagram.com/sew_what_you_reap/">http://instagram.com/sew_what_you_reap/</a></div>
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So swing by to say hello, browse for something needful, and always sew what you reap or send it on.</div>
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LOVE & NEW ETSY SHOP!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-9804180227531075002015-01-21T07:34:00.001-08:002015-01-21T07:34:39.928-08:00Coming Clean<div style="text-align: center;">
Hi. </div>
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My name is Jacquie. I am a sporadic blogger.</div>
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It has been almost 3 months since my last fix..... I mean.... uh, since my last blog post..... </div>
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Wow! Time has really gotten buried under a lot of cashmere cats, fabulous Christmas customers, and the quiet hush of another year's sand slipping its last granules through the hourglass. In retrospect, 2014, was one beast of a year! Apparently, the Fates wanted to see how much I could handle. The pained details of 2014 had taken center blog stage but the year ended as it started: my family together and strong.<br />
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I'd love to say I am committed to blogging weekly in 2015, but I am powerless over my wanderlust. I have tried to get a grip on it but just when I think I am stable footed, I see another tempting hill in the distance and I'm off chasing footholds and fossils. I'm okay with that. It's who I've always been and it's what keeps me jumping out of bed one morning to the next: the infinite creative possibilities in each day ahead. <br />
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I can promise to take blogging one step at a time. I will practice consistency. I will try to stay focused but let's be real: I'm a creative soul. This is a blog about the ingredients of a creative life. Every adventure goes in the bowl alongside creations great and small. And with loving hands, all is blended with the drama of life until a smooth, creamy batter sweetens the pan. <br />
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So bring it on 2015! I'm stronger than I've ever been. <br />
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LOVE & 2015<br />
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*Photos are property of Hand of Bela Peck, snapped in the great state parks of Texas<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-21871808960636031462014-10-04T05:02:00.000-07:002014-10-04T05:09:19.287-07:00A Few Words On Forgiveness<div style="text-align: justify;">
Forgiveness is a heavy load. Let's be honest. Long before forgiveness occurs the burden has been hauled around for months, if not years, probably decades. It piles up like mold under walls, lingers like smoke accumulating in a small town bar. It can't be washed out in just one super soak. The stench roots in the fibers, deep with the fabric's weave where it sits closest to the skin. Even if forgiveness is the next necessary step, pulling the proverbial trigger is not a simple act. It leads to a devilish debate of who is worthy, who has weathered the fight, who is willing to let go of pride.</div>
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I've had to do a lot soul searching this year. Do I forgive the hit and run driver who nearly killed my husband? What if the aortic aneurism had taken my Dad's life when so much had been left unsaid? And reconciling with God over the loss of a grandchild while watching my daughter suffer through yet another tragic event in a year full of insanity. Some would say this past year was horrible for my family, but I would say it has been full of blessings. Three amazing people are doing well today and I can tell them every day how much I appreciate having them in my life; a feeling so amazing that granting forgiveness was an easy decision to reach in the preceding cases. But when forgiveness reaches deep into past transgressions, the ones so vile they've taken on a life of their own, well those are a bit more tricky.</div>
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With so many life and death struggles taking center stage in my year I was struck with a sudden fearful realization: What if the people I need to forgive die before I can release them? Seems rather ego-centric, I suppose, but the reality of forgiving is that it is a gift one gives to oneself. Holding back forgiveness is like holding your breath in a childish contest of endurance. You are the one who cannot breathe. You are the one turning purple. You are the one putting yourself on hold while others breathe easy. To forgive is to live without anything to prove to someone who's not watching anyway. It's that first big rush of air taken in once you realize the contest is a ridiculous waste of time and decide to breathe again. I know this because today I forgave someone whose acts have held me captive in my own soul. </div>
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Today, I released this person from the hold I gave him on my life, and in doing so found a peace unlike anything I've ever known. My greatest fear in forgiving was the possibility this person would minimize my battle. After all, I had emotionally granted this person unlimited power over my emotions, decisions, and my opinions. If he were to say that all I feared was unreal, or to deny his part in my hurt, I would be left with a bag full of ghosts. Moving forward without closure is the risk in forgiving. But the reward outweighs this risk. And sometimes the unthinkable happens: the other person needs this resolution as well.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGWhVuuf8qqVZeZNVKdFvKesQ6HRPgYuvxMn8LQX_4VuaeINp41Yjgu8UsmC29EdGvwqxk0yj-sfQVaRUiFsOEaO2Iq6P85WQnWpAK9zI8buxNIHC12LhM0opIteh-cXIBJYUiHzWTG4/s1600/moongirl+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGWhVuuf8qqVZeZNVKdFvKesQ6HRPgYuvxMn8LQX_4VuaeINp41Yjgu8UsmC29EdGvwqxk0yj-sfQVaRUiFsOEaO2Iq6P85WQnWpAK9zI8buxNIHC12LhM0opIteh-cXIBJYUiHzWTG4/s1600/moongirl+blog.jpg" height="200" width="152" /></a></div>
With great anxiety, I sent my forgiveness and proudly accepted my bag of ghosts, never expecting a reply. Surprisingly, I received an immediate response. This person accepted responsibility and wanted my forgiveness. In that moment, I felt my soul break free of its cage. I felt a rush of air in my lungs that knocked me off my chair. I cried as if making up for years of stuffed tears. And, as my life pattern has been throughout this year, I found peace in the most unlikely of places. So if you're holding on to pain, try forgiveness. It's not easy. It doesn't mean you've given up. It means, finally, you are willing to set yourself free. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-32908321598692652792014-08-27T06:02:00.000-07:002014-08-27T06:02:02.866-07:00Inner Moonlight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFZKD5H5GmGilQCgMwDb0d_3wI9_LSZ22RMXUoLEfz5K3LFFKWTZXDfK3jk8Qvf_G-mCdgaYH1jRpH1TLQD0M_KMwGMh0KRWABqwuW0SGbtOWZs8kXc0gqrmpKkPyQLDnKWxt-Kc_Uzw/s1600/montin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFZKD5H5GmGilQCgMwDb0d_3wI9_LSZ22RMXUoLEfz5K3LFFKWTZXDfK3jk8Qvf_G-mCdgaYH1jRpH1TLQD0M_KMwGMh0KRWABqwuW0SGbtOWZs8kXc0gqrmpKkPyQLDnKWxt-Kc_Uzw/s1600/montin.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a> August 2013- August 2014, has been a grand slam of life altering events. But, and I say this in a hushed breath so the fates don't overhear: life is back on track. I find my studio work is on course for Halloween and I am free to return to earlier projects halted. For one particular creation, I am not so much "going back to" as I am bringing that work into the present and reassessing with a fresh perspective. That is, of course, the elusive <em>Secret Project</em>. </div>
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<em>The Secret Project</em> is the fuel in my creative tank. It's the idea, the flame, that has burned longest and brightest among all my musings. Often, it burned so brightly I was often blinded by it, scorched even, and forced to put it away. For many years I tried to wrangle this project the way animal control attempts to cage a roaming fox. One way or another things are going to get ugly and little will be accomplished. Inspiration ebbs and flows, flooding sketchbooks that span decades. It is my inner moonlight that often feels like madness. A delicious flirt with the looney side.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOADnH0MTR2ssyvA-3lzlyKY1xiUewTP8Mae9Xb2OIvGAZbZYF_q3BuB8FzF8XX_9mtmUJBAyYXtA7MvwYpv2O8omTgVt91kEO6WIbfg-QBhx0p9uUDTAyGtgiTdx7DWDFKJvzKPxlgkA/s1600/moongirl+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOADnH0MTR2ssyvA-3lzlyKY1xiUewTP8Mae9Xb2OIvGAZbZYF_q3BuB8FzF8XX_9mtmUJBAyYXtA7MvwYpv2O8omTgVt91kEO6WIbfg-QBhx0p9uUDTAyGtgiTdx7DWDFKJvzKPxlgkA/s1600/moongirl+blog.jpg" height="200" width="152" /></a>Sitting with the Secret Project now feels like an amicable truce. After all, the last twelve months have been a surreal parade. Frequent pleading with God and Death over the past year has mellowed my harsh self-imposed requirements that held me back from real progress on the project. As humans we foolishly believe every day is a guarantee. We leave unsaid what we truly want to say. We leave unfinished what needs completion. We believe perfection is the triumph when it's the journey that reveals how triumphant we are. The Secret Project has been a work in progress since my late teens. The roaming fox, once suspected to be rabid, has calmed with age, experience, and softened by fear of loss. Finally I understand that inner moonlight is not madness; it is just truth waiting to be told.</div>
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LOVE & INNER MOONLIGHT</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-82075934406705712082014-08-19T13:55:00.001-07:002014-08-19T18:22:01.676-07:00Six Months of Healing<div align="center">
Woooooooooot!!! We have reached the six month milestone!! Six whole months, 180 days and however many minutes of recovery tick and tocked off the clock! Yet February 19, will forever be linked with the day the <a href="http://handofbelapeck1759.blogspot.com/2014/02/snippets.html">Ducati</a> went down..... the day I nearly lost my husband. The day I screamed like a banshee over Kevin's body where he landed crumpled and unresponsive in the middle of Houston's 610/59 interchange. At that moment time froze solid and I couldn't see even 6 seconds into the future.</div>
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Wow! Really? Six months already!!? Six months is just a measure of time, the distance from point A to point where we want to B. At day one, six months is nothing more than passing hour by hour until day two. At day five, each consecutive day in the hospital feels like a prison sentence without having committed a crime. At day 180, time seems to have flown by leaving little trace of the days in between. But there were days: long days, difficult days, and fearful days. But mostly there were days of gratitude.</div>
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It's rare to get a second chance at life. The generous gift is not one to be taken lightly. We had to let go of anger and frustration that there is no one to hold accountable for the hit and run. We learned to put our stock in the slow process of healing both physically and emotionally without becoming bitter. We slowed down, readjusted, and strengthened the bond that cemented him and me as WE. </div>
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We are forever grateful to the February 19 angels on the highway, the Ben Taub Trauma Center staff, and all our friends and family who have cheered us on for the past six months. We love you!</div>
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LOVE & HEALING</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-17391659420616037392014-08-13T06:11:00.000-07:002014-08-13T06:11:03.867-07:00Summer Skeletons<div style="text-align: center;">
It is a little known fact that Halloween skeletons spend their off season basking in the sizzling sun, bleaching out their bones and getting that much needed R&R prior to the busy fright season. Here in Galveston, the skellies gather to share laughter and hone their scary skills. </div>
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These summer skellies are always the first of my Halloween prep projects. They have morphed over the years from their Halloween-only status. The original artist, Stacey Meade, aka <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/thegoodewife?ref=related-shop-5&ga_search_query=skeleton+pattern&ga_order=most_relevant&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=handmade&ga_view_type=gallery">The Goode Wife of Washington County</a>, is a dear friend who has allowed me playful liberties in using this guy's head on a variety of bodies and costume. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30UrydDduow7L99WlxQOxpKF3bDJhSuJf8iYHwpVIIz50aMSWTsPYzwB7VVSloFxRYxw_rFvmBqMm69DU0PMYaJHAXLQVcJY2AA-0db6KPMSV3IUtkDiS_hAOtdT_T28u53KFtnvSoTk/s1600/skellie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30UrydDduow7L99WlxQOxpKF3bDJhSuJf8iYHwpVIIz50aMSWTsPYzwB7VVSloFxRYxw_rFvmBqMm69DU0PMYaJHAXLQVcJY2AA-0db6KPMSV3IUtkDiS_hAOtdT_T28u53KFtnvSoTk/s1600/skellie.jpg" height="225" width="320" /></a></div>
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Soon these swim trunks will be replaced with winter woolies and the old bones will be rattling with festive frights. But for the few months remaining, under the scorching Texas sun, these boney bums will be basking on the beach.</div>
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LOVE & SILLY SKELLIES!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-8828922544297812962014-07-30T05:31:00.000-07:002014-07-30T05:31:21.975-07:00The Business At Hand<div align="center">
This past week has been difficult, at best, reluctantly walking an altered path divergent of the planned road. Long nights passed with family comforting loss. Trying to find reason in the unreasonable. Redefining purpose in every day. Normal life and routines halting; the overdone theme of my 2014. I have become familiar with carrying on in chaos and so studio business must go on as well.<br />
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While prepping for Baby I learned that I loved creating functional toys. I have the privilege of working at Hendley Market in Galveston where we receive a daily crowd of tourists with children in tow. We pride ourselves on being a child-friendly destination where parents can browse while nostalgic toys keep the kiddos busy The cashmere kitties (aka the Purrrrrrrrrrrfect Pet) have been a huge hit this summer. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LiVKasEi5hje-ZbtS5G9o-ccJSA6sTSiXskeq-GlOPice1NoQmvsiZYCt1VQI8mbmdBJfZuHAzANhlF2YVOswZ6PIjlDJcGh1dDb7r0ujIcSfpyybzHnOnXeOId6lVpNUi8y8Ubdkoc/s1600/hobp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LiVKasEi5hje-ZbtS5G9o-ccJSA6sTSiXskeq-GlOPice1NoQmvsiZYCt1VQI8mbmdBJfZuHAzANhlF2YVOswZ6PIjlDJcGh1dDb7r0ujIcSfpyybzHnOnXeOId6lVpNUi8y8Ubdkoc/s1600/hobp.jpg" height="209" width="320" /></a></div>
Watching wee ones delight in the silly cats and carry armfuls around the store, tending to each one with loving coos, just melts my heart! The studio mice crave the same attention and in honor of our lost wee one, Hand of Bela Peck will continue with a full line of affordable simple sweet toys.<br />
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As for my daughter, she is taking life day by day and doing well. She helps out in the studio from time to time and in those small stitches and patterns we will mourn what we have lost and celebrate what lies ahead. In the hours we pass together I can keep my watchful eye on her, hugs and tissues at the ready. <br />
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I was touched by the number of friends who shared their stories and shocked by the number of women I know who have suffered in silence with miscarriage. It is a deeply personal form of loss kept between the closest of confidences. As I continue to create, to help my daughter heal, I will carry all of their stories with me. <br />
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LOVE & HOPE</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-6272817816697267992014-07-23T06:09:00.000-07:002014-07-23T06:09:31.446-07:00And Then There Is Silence<div align="center">
Silence. That defeating distance between what should be and the reality of what is unfolding. I've experienced this silent mystery too often this year- the slow motion dizziness of life as it turns upside down like a laundry basket emptying its contents tip-toppling to the end of a long staircase tumble. There is no real remarkable noise. It happens in hyper-speed and leaves only blurry utterances of actors adlibbing their way through the fall.</div>
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Two days ago family gathered for the excitement of my daughter's 12 week sonogram. Even though there were only four of us waiting to hear the heartbeat, we were too much of a crowd for the tiny room and had to wait turns. I went in first with my daughter and her boyfriend, all of us making our humorous cases for the boy or girl debate.<br />
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The grainy image cleared into full view of the expected wee one. As the tiny picture flashed on the screen I saw my daughter's face. Where I expected joy, I saw confusion. There were a few questions, grasps for a different understanding, but like I said- the actors were stumbling; their voices nearing inaudible as the room filled with the white noise of fear, desperate sadness, and loss. She knew in that instant that life had slipped away</div>
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There are no words to comfort a mother losing a child. The doctor's droll, "I see this all the time" and "don't blame yourself" evaporate in thoughts of a sweet cuddled bundle already filled with a mother's, a father's, a grandmother's, dreams and hopes. And as my daughter pulled a brave face out of her pocket, I felt my knees buckle as I pleaded with the doctor to give me hope where no hope could be offered.<br />
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In my last post I wrote how some had thought my daughter too young to have a child. She is 19. She has been to college. She has been across the US and Canada on a motorcycle with her Dad. She has played with tigers in a Thailand jungle. She spent her high school junior year summer recovering from open heart surgery. Usually shy and quiet, she initiated a media campaign earlier this year to try finding the hit and run driver who nearly killed her father. She has mourned the loss of more than a few key people in her life. She has the kindest, most gentle humanitarian spirit and her soul is an old one that will rise from this loss as well.<br />
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As I wrote in my last post; we do not choose when life is to come and go. Life opened the door in May, 2014. On July 21, 2014, life left, closing the door as it went. <br />
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~Rest in peace precious wee one. You are loved. Always ~<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-84794414561525631672014-07-18T06:08:00.001-07:002014-07-18T06:08:56.502-07:00And Then There Is Life<div align="center">
2014 has been full of the unexpected, the unforeseen, the unpredictable, the slow healing of time, the redefinition of priorities, and a necessary slowing of life lived in full speed. Studio doors have been closed, production reduced to bare minimum leaving nothing but the dull hum of stunted creativity. And then, without warning.... suddenly, there is life.</div>
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I am going to be a grandmother!<br />
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A new wee soul to brighten this uncertain world. A tiny face to smile, a brand new person to hug and hold tight. All the possibilities of hope and love just 7 months away! <br />
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The studio doors have flung open with a softer feel; up-cycled cashmere and tiny whimsical cotton prints drape the work table. There is laughter and excitement among the studio mice and the necessary rethinking of traditional patterns is taking place.<br />
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The studio mice will become larger for easier grasp in wee hands. <br />
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Small parts will give way to embroidered features to avoid choking hazards. And time will be spent in the whimsical fabric stacks of childhood themes. Nearly 2 decades have passed since I needed baby themed prints and WOW!! There are so many brilliant designers out there! I'm not certain I can buy enough! <br />
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I'd forgotten the love of small stitches in simple lines to create the necessities of welcoming new life into this world; soft blankies, diaper covers, rattles and bibs. The splendid repetition of snipping corners, turning and pressing, all the while dreaming how this baby will impact our world. <br />
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Some have said we are too young to be grandparents, that our daughter is not yet ready to be a mother. All I can say after the year we have had is that we do not tell life when we wish it to come and go. That door opens and closes often without our consent. Ready or not, life is coming. We are simply blessed to be here to embrace it together.<br />
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As for those with inquiring minds: we are sooooo ready!<br />
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LOVE & NEW LIFE!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-29422162858200520502014-06-04T05:02:00.000-07:002014-06-04T05:02:10.672-07:00Back Road Healing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Healing has finally reached full speed and we know no better way to celebrate than to get back out on the roads less travelled. Both my husband and his Ducati have been through rehab and are now reunited. But to err on the side of caution, Kevin is taking the road back on 4 wheels for another two months. At least for the long rides. </div>
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A soul needs to wander, to explore, and breathe in what the modern world deems outdated. On our first road trip since Kevin's motorcycle accident we headed from Houston to Fort Worth on what I like to call the "rural express". Texas Farm to Market roads are the best medicine for the newly healed. Curvy rural blacktop goodness between pastures, small churches, and long-dried-up gas stations provide therapy not available anywhere else in the world. Fields of wildflowers ignite the countryside in bright orange, purple, and red under a crystal blue cloudless sky. If FM 339 could be bottled, the intoxication level would be 100 proof euphoria.</div>
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To our surprise, we rediscovered a farm we explored years ago and though we forgot its exact location it has been ever present in our minds. A simple white farmhouse. Small, but with high ceilings and a wide front porch with a sweeping view of endless green fields of corn. Two massive red barns hug the corner of the country road. Five years ago the property was for sale but being in such a rural location made it out of our geographical reach. Apparently it was never purchased and when we turned the corner and saw the tell tale barn our hearts soared, then sank. Mother Nature had our barn in a choke hold, having already reclaimed the house. </div>
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We took our time exploring the dilapidated structures, listening to the busy hum of bee colonies nesting in the walls, cautiously stepping to avoid hidden snakes, and romped through the broken house undaunted by a cranky screech owl nesting in the rafters. An old piano sat vacated in the living room, yellow sheet music scattered by years of wind through the walls. I imagined the soft keyed notes on the prairie air as I looked through the poured glass window panes. </div>
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There is magic in this place. I knew it the first time I saw her. I've never shed the belief that one day I will rebuild her sister on my own land. Often I've drawn her from memory trying to relay to others this mythical house I crave. </div>
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Having to get to Fort Worth, I said a lengthy farewell to my muse. From between the front porch columns, under the wary eye of the owl, I silently thanked God for the peace of this place and the gift He has sent me in keeping Kevin safe. I understand the owl and her staunch need to defend what she sees as hers, her kingdom of peace, for I have done the same.</div>
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LOVE & WANDER</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-61016352452664485582014-03-30T09:04:00.000-07:002014-03-30T09:04:38.705-07:00Healing Week 5<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Five weeks of recovery is now under our belt. We have learned to adjust to life in the slow lane- to linger over coffee, read magazines cover to cover, and put away the alarm clocks. Our home is like a time capsule. Kev's briefcase leans against his dresser- still unpacked from his flight home the night before the accident. That sofa I was reupholstering is frozen, mid-room, ghostly draped in muslin. My studio door remains closed while healing takes top priority. </div>
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The final toll was heavy: 8 broken ribs, smashed scapula, dislocated clavicle, punctured and collapsed lung, pneumothorax, hemothorax, and the crushing blow of two pulmonary emboli. The discovery of the emboli was nothing less than divine intervention. Had it not been for the tenacity of a student doctor to stand up to his supervising physician and push for c-scans Kevin would've been released with two time bombs in his lungs.</div>
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I have never not known this man. We grew up across the street from one another, raided each others' forts, spent summer nights in homemade tents, and shared a first kiss playing spin the bottle in his garage. The past two weeks at home have felt like those nights in the backyard tent- not sleeping close, but wishing we could. Talking about dreams and childish wants until we fall asleep. Words filling darkness, chasing away fears of mythical beasts, erasing uncertainty.</div>
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At times in the hospital I would see that 10 year old boy with eyes green as early spring moss blinking awake in an unfamiliar room. Through the night he woke often, sometimes believing he was in Thailand, other times in Dhaka, and he wondered why the airline let us linger so long in this hallway. His days blended, confused in hydrocodone mists and blinding fury of pain. Those days are memories now and despite the trauma, Kevin has little recollection of just how much danger he was in. For while he hallucinated, I hung tightly to the precipice of every breath, every lab result, every unmade memory for which I foolishly believed we had time.</div>
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What unfolds in these moments is the realization that life was getting the best of us. Before the accident, days were planned according to outdated goals. We endured weeks apart for the few days together between work, travel, and jet lag. We became normalized to love in fragmented time.</div>
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Slowly we are reclaiming what routine has a bad habit of burying. Perhaps we're that half full type of folk who see the positive shining brighter than the bad. Maybe it's the scare of nearly losing life that sharpens one's focus and blurs out the frivolous.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ41SQvXeCGQquxEljmHVOxpe1Ep6cvg6r4hZfZyzy6I-AAV-mtlsN7P1lU6Fm6oBHMhbPDPLslklctULeIc3CHknfYrKvmcIYUOz62kgDYpRwRi8oGz0CCsjxhObL6RfnBt7sHXy5JKk/s1600/IMAG0173.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
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Now as we reconnect, we see the disconnect and are not content to resume that mode. In many ways the accident brought us closer than ever before. Words left unsaid have been spoken and roads we've wanted to explore will now be traveled. What lies ahead will be greeted together, with one voice, and hands clasped with the strength of every life past life we lived together. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ41SQvXeCGQquxEljmHVOxpe1Ep6cvg6r4hZfZyzy6I-AAV-mtlsN7P1lU6Fm6oBHMhbPDPLslklctULeIc3CHknfYrKvmcIYUOz62kgDYpRwRi8oGz0CCsjxhObL6RfnBt7sHXy5JKk/s1600/IMAG0173.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ41SQvXeCGQquxEljmHVOxpe1Ep6cvg6r4hZfZyzy6I-AAV-mtlsN7P1lU6Fm6oBHMhbPDPLslklctULeIc3CHknfYrKvmcIYUOz62kgDYpRwRi8oGz0CCsjxhObL6RfnBt7sHXy5JKk/s1600/IMAG0173.jpg" height="320" width="282" /></a></div>
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LOVE & RECOVERY</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-61096982237908459202014-03-06T04:49:00.000-08:002014-03-06T04:49:29.380-08:00Comfort in Trauma<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>You never know how it feels to be alive until you know how it feels to die.</i> </div>
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I've sang these lines a thousand times while listening to <a href="http://noahandthewhale.com/">Noah and the Whale</a> in my studio. Until two weeks ago these were just words. The moment I saw my husband hit the highway pavement, his motorcycle still spinning ahead of his limp body, those lyrics became my greatest fear. </div>
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Today is day 16 of my husband's recovery at <a href="http://www.houstonmedcenter.com/hospitals/Ben_Taub_Hospital.php">Ben Taub Trauma Center</a> in Houston. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9EMuSGt9Dz7So2axU-O5EQe_Ggl6BLujRTrOQ9s5IlaSmrFujfPPjH_fiIFCze2zXIGjXE3k7KPBhCWAlck_7Svty4eWpI5M9gM9ZoRWICTZXR1AcM9bk5XezV1FohpxGcHhve5Z6mDw/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9EMuSGt9Dz7So2axU-O5EQe_Ggl6BLujRTrOQ9s5IlaSmrFujfPPjH_fiIFCze2zXIGjXE3k7KPBhCWAlck_7Svty4eWpI5M9gM9ZoRWICTZXR1AcM9bk5XezV1FohpxGcHhve5Z6mDw/s1600/1.jpg" height="129" width="320" /></a></div>
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Time is amorphous in the hospital. Foggy days, mixed up nights, stripped of every normal human routine. Our section of a room shared with three other patients has no window. Minutes dissolve into hours and drain away the days. Progress is measured in tubes in and out, x-ray results, and ambulatory devices. We have watched many roommates arrive and go home while we remain. Bunking with people with whom our paths would least likely cross, we all ride the roller coaster together. And perhaps most of us are better because of it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvTTFquUuz0ZOLnN2jIgnNAs-cDQGP9zp0cUpw0MH1mE0eIqBu_MJ0O5Co7Yaj-l1m4wqgZFBg_mpZpPMbuwZ6CT1cEKFTI3ENsbSTsmLtWX13qXBDhRjHRVeX3GJqKicZe16X34O022I/s1600/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvTTFquUuz0ZOLnN2jIgnNAs-cDQGP9zp0cUpw0MH1mE0eIqBu_MJ0O5Co7Yaj-l1m4wqgZFBg_mpZpPMbuwZ6CT1cEKFTI3ENsbSTsmLtWX13qXBDhRjHRVeX3GJqKicZe16X34O022I/s1600/12.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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In a trauma hospital there are few illness patients. Our roommates have been shot, run over, stabbed and involved in horrific accidents. Police officers sit outside many rooms waiting for the accused to heal and to take victim statements. There are those in grave condition and those with mere wounds requiring a one night stay. Some we have befriended through the curtains, others we couldn't wait to see discharged. Though we are a truly diverse group, we share common bonds of pain and healing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40ElU3O1Ip2FQHrAONVLkuyuK02MX50U_gxcbESCT6dIBVbXM0iaqUipSimmTHcSsFo56cVf5__VfNHz41Isn6WwjQr2eOmIniaxrxAwyCWoxsBBg8BtDddanbYTtg9KechmD-gp88Ms/s1600/13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40ElU3O1Ip2FQHrAONVLkuyuK02MX50U_gxcbESCT6dIBVbXM0iaqUipSimmTHcSsFo56cVf5__VfNHz41Isn6WwjQr2eOmIniaxrxAwyCWoxsBBg8BtDddanbYTtg9KechmD-gp88Ms/s1600/13.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have met two other women tending their husbands, remaining at the bedside to give comfort: one Asian, one Hispanic. We don't speak the same language but we communicate through our expressions. Looks of fear, worry, relief and sadness are universal and within these facial cues we lend one another support. Through the curtain we hear each other's cries, the sighs of relief, and laughter. I know these women are like me refusing to leave the loves of our lives. Over the weeks we have learned basic greetings in each other's dialect. We offer awkward hugs sometimes misread between cultures but in our need to not be alone we have found each other. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_cBIvvxJ9hdgQ5iqkp5uPEngsxFYHRTHxMBiA8seaROHQijqQq50fK1k-B2tiLdzuFL_IOi2kh3f9oGMsGxaXX3vX8gon34If0nPs4BVXS2ws8dDlsCwRoeM7yM2gWs8NMM_t917vqE/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_cBIvvxJ9hdgQ5iqkp5uPEngsxFYHRTHxMBiA8seaROHQijqQq50fK1k-B2tiLdzuFL_IOi2kh3f9oGMsGxaXX3vX8gon34If0nPs4BVXS2ws8dDlsCwRoeM7yM2gWs8NMM_t917vqE/s1600/14.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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Life changed without warning two weeks ago. I feel I've lived a lifetime in between then and now. My husband is healing and soon we hope to go home, to regain a sense of truly living, to feel the sun escort the true hours of each day. Life will never be the same. In fact I believe it will be a more authentic, more tolerant, more understanding, more loving life.</div>
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LOVE & HEALING</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-34497952032948507012014-02-27T05:44:00.001-08:002014-02-27T05:44:29.808-08:00Snippets<div style="text-align: center;">
Accidents like this are recalled in snippets. Sudden flashes that remind me it's all real. Images that greet me before I even open my eyes in the morning, waking into another day of getting up, splashing water on my face, and getting to the hospital. As I drive I remember what day it is and what the original plan was before the crash. Hotel reservations never cancelled, road trip dates passed, and daily routines slammed to a halt. It's all a blur as I make it from League City to <a href="https://www.harrishealth.org/en/services/locations/pages/ben-taub.aspx">Ben Taub Hospital</a> in downtown Houston. Though the days are long I carry on. My husband is alive. Everything else is insignificant. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGi9Xn2giGaRfLtOX9tcml-0DWVLa4NEigJIADJY-lF2J17bVStJ_YLT3VP1Aztpa5Fc0jTXv4QS5w3uSij3c79ch_7Tn-cGNXPV3-o1jjVAi9dBlrls0hqqHlEDWCy13ZrznHZNZCYlw/s1600/0acc20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGi9Xn2giGaRfLtOX9tcml-0DWVLa4NEigJIADJY-lF2J17bVStJ_YLT3VP1Aztpa5Fc0jTXv4QS5w3uSij3c79ch_7Tn-cGNXPV3-o1jjVAi9dBlrls0hqqHlEDWCy13ZrznHZNZCYlw/s1600/0acc20.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTbY4fOH-s-3ky3bXWmMjUQEHVcTi-GyG5Spwdj9Hl0Ir5_tmFHRjGTmTHbZo32dtF5cbhcRobZthezJdEl4gttPYpeuVpgxNSwBshQa9oH_bmM0n657CnbUcNQzxEycvqInoK-nQnoU/s1600/acc50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
On February 19, 2014, Kevin was riding his motorcycle to<a href="http://www.teammancusopowersports.com/Default.asp"> Mancuso Power Sports</a> to check out some bags for his new Ducati Mutistrada. He just returned from Singapore the day before and in three weeks he would be riding a motorcycle through the back roads around Cape Town, South Africa. It was a good day. I followed behind him so we could grab some lunch while we left the bike at the shop for a routine check. Merging on to 59 South from 610 North in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bellaire,_Texas">Belaire</a>, my husband was blind sided by an SUV that made a crazy last minute, illegal lane change. That snippet plays over and over. I see a car beginning to change lanes. One car separates me from my husband. Though I can't see my husband's bike I know there isn't room for that vehicle coming over. And then I see something like a ragdoll go up in the air and back down out of my sight. I know he's down.</div>
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There are other snippets that endlessly loop: my frantic screams, my husband unresponsive on the road, the stillness of traffic halted, the deafening fear in the silence of knowing this is life or death.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJRIESOVcZhJDyB7QSH4ED0Oh8RFO-NDVvEZ3w1KeSMDIySCXT8c-L1u1nhnMXk_DlE-BOcvz-9EV2KYrUGRgViONBmx0VfB01dD_q4z2S9vFeWPRet9EpV1-zF0gZQ_YKTdEoZtKYV4/s1600/acc40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJRIESOVcZhJDyB7QSH4ED0Oh8RFO-NDVvEZ3w1KeSMDIySCXT8c-L1u1nhnMXk_DlE-BOcvz-9EV2KYrUGRgViONBmx0VfB01dD_q4z2S9vFeWPRet9EpV1-zF0gZQ_YKTdEoZtKYV4/s1600/acc40.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a> </div>
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Angels also come in snippets. It's amazing how many people stay in their cars and watch but then there are the few that come to help. The man who sees everything and is first to call 911. A complete stranger who prays over my husband and in that moment he wakes. A man who reminds my husband to breathe. The neurosurgeon just ahead of the scene who runs back to assess Kevin while we wait for first responders to make their way through snarled traffic. Every driver who pulled aside to let the ambulance through. The woman who gave me a hug. I'll never know who these people are in their everyday lives but in their moments of stopping for strangers and doing whatever they could, they will always be angels in my heart.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhriuCcDCP0X8JiXo1533bL1MYDuWvvXGa4zyAq_XGvW9EdfNjGU82skLY47MhvfEBWDCng7doLSgTqgpW2oKJn1Oxe_mgXwaPVcRaWeSygs7ssNt7NQNOsr0mFaCxy5_4kSMqWByFC5pU/s1600/acc10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhriuCcDCP0X8JiXo1533bL1MYDuWvvXGa4zyAq_XGvW9EdfNjGU82skLY47MhvfEBWDCng7doLSgTqgpW2oKJn1Oxe_mgXwaPVcRaWeSygs7ssNt7NQNOsr0mFaCxy5_4kSMqWByFC5pU/s1600/acc10.jpg" height="286" width="320" /></a> </div>
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Today is day 8 in the hospital. These hours also play out in snippets though they feel like one uninterrupted sequence of lightless days. Emily, our daughter, and I take our comfort here. We pass the moments with quiet pursuits waiting for the day we remember the healing journey in distant snippets.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTbY4fOH-s-3ky3bXWmMjUQEHVcTi-GyG5Spwdj9Hl0Ir5_tmFHRjGTmTHbZo32dtF5cbhcRobZthezJdEl4gttPYpeuVpgxNSwBshQa9oH_bmM0n657CnbUcNQzxEycvqInoK-nQnoU/s1600/acc50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTbY4fOH-s-3ky3bXWmMjUQEHVcTi-GyG5Spwdj9Hl0Ir5_tmFHRjGTmTHbZo32dtF5cbhcRobZthezJdEl4gttPYpeuVpgxNSwBshQa9oH_bmM0n657CnbUcNQzxEycvqInoK-nQnoU/s1600/acc50.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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LOVE & HEALING</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-44405649167587175332014-02-08T06:08:00.003-08:002014-02-08T06:08:56.161-08:00A Bunny Returns To Bangladesh<div style="text-align: center;">
Funny how full circles go. It is the nature of up-cycling: reusing, repurposing, reinventing to reduce waste. In the case of this wee bunny- his full circle brings him back to Bangladesh. Back to where the cashmere sweater used to make him was made.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWUUvPxv4S9Crf_GB3zGRpEScuMBjcdtG7u1ZtQuH6KFzEGld2zanTZWSoaWehI3nFZOUAbnnTu1VxdcY1ju-oK6zTWLXvbCWCLqN-0dX_UGGvUv_5WG3uefUXgxPT1wBwdL2_BbXFi8/s1600/bunny21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWUUvPxv4S9Crf_GB3zGRpEScuMBjcdtG7u1ZtQuH6KFzEGld2zanTZWSoaWehI3nFZOUAbnnTu1VxdcY1ju-oK6zTWLXvbCWCLqN-0dX_UGGvUv_5WG3uefUXgxPT1wBwdL2_BbXFi8/s1600/bunny21.jpg" height="232" width="320" /></a></div>
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So many items sold in America are made in Bangladesh. Search any closet, store rack or boutique and inside the manufacturing tag Bangladesh surely makes a showing. I never gave this much thought until my husband began spending a lot of time in Bangladesh. His job brings him to Dhaka several weeks out of the year- so often in fact that the hotel welcomes him "home to his second home". That's probably not a good thing. There's no tourism in such a poor city so any repeat guest is highly appreciated.</div>
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After Kev's first trip to Dhaka he swore he would never return. He was appalled by the poverty and desperation. Now on his eighth return trip, he has an understanding of the culture and a curiosity for how people can be so friendly in a place of poverty unimaginable by American standards. He has been followed several blocks by small children looking for food. He sees people bathing in the same water where sewage runs. Dhaka's smog and filth eclipse most sunlight. The air constantly muffled by an assault of car horns as makeshift vehicles clog roads. But yet he finds color, beauty and vibrancy in this city.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXtmlVsxTDgSMjBCsyHwUvNkf2c8KVUHz6X6hhmUtK_Lg8gEcN-dctZyORy5GKIfj1OB1-pIp20DrFAG9SZQMTK0-orE0fH5U7Wgclk2IrjBJPkOJOe9x_wEVLbVbe5BW-Xci1g9ss5o/s1600/bunny1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
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As for bunny, she was born from an up-cycled cashmere sweater made in Bangladesh (most likely in one of the many clothing factories in Dhaka), sold in America, and cast aside after a moth made a meal of it. She will be a gift to the new baby of my husband's co-worker who lives in Dhaka. This bunny will be in a safe home. But this got me thinking about the many children of Dhaka who will sleep on the streets, often fending for themselves for food, shelter and safety. Could a bunny make a difference in a child's life? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXtmlVsxTDgSMjBCsyHwUvNkf2c8KVUHz6X6hhmUtK_Lg8gEcN-dctZyORy5GKIfj1OB1-pIp20DrFAG9SZQMTK0-orE0fH5U7Wgclk2IrjBJPkOJOe9x_wEVLbVbe5BW-Xci1g9ss5o/s1600/bunny1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXtmlVsxTDgSMjBCsyHwUvNkf2c8KVUHz6X6hhmUtK_Lg8gEcN-dctZyORy5GKIfj1OB1-pIp20DrFAG9SZQMTK0-orE0fH5U7Wgclk2IrjBJPkOJOe9x_wEVLbVbe5BW-Xci1g9ss5o/s1600/bunny1.jpg" height="302" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Some ideas are fleeting. We get a notion to do something bigger than ourselves- feel like there's a spiritual nod in this direction or cause but we get overwhelmed by how to transfer a belief into action. This is where I am- stuck between seeing signs and trusting the direction. So for now this bunny returns to her roots to bring smiles to a newborn girl as she grows. And who knows; maybe one day both this wee girl and her bunny will make a difference in this world. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
LOVE & MAKE A DIFFERENCE</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-35056454715350933462014-02-04T06:11:00.000-08:002014-02-04T06:11:34.341-08:00Studio Mice Stealing Hearts<div style="text-align: center;">
January went by faster than a startled cat! It was a month of studio changes, refocus, and wake up calls- but more on that later. Today is a light and fluffy kind of return to my blogging side. Today is a day to introduce the studio mice of 2014. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2hk4cWAfu8ASwwO1g4yNJPNjJerbyXWQbGqdUj1U1Ja3wtgobbZ9apy3weY1fj7GJkd89B3Xj1-kK1BvMYvgkyzlkAQcJNqsCbYNnGrZu4G6i0oqUzwKPdx0yK3p07k-ZkYUn2IjU3tg/s1600/how+do+i+love+thee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2hk4cWAfu8ASwwO1g4yNJPNjJerbyXWQbGqdUj1U1Ja3wtgobbZ9apy3weY1fj7GJkd89B3Xj1-kK1BvMYvgkyzlkAQcJNqsCbYNnGrZu4G6i0oqUzwKPdx0yK3p07k-ZkYUn2IjU3tg/s1600/how+do+i+love+thee.jpg" height="319" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center">
The new studio mice are made of up-cycled wool and cashmere.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm7pmBuB98FvB-60ZKu8mEbPwf1LGrDhFyjQ2P3cZJCUMVZ2u7LZuiizf-tjr9RNwwKkykG4s_Y5sdr8FPUz-GM241YT7nc_GcIjTvvld17QmhDNQP-4inBtgYaqMnCGTwiLgGo_WYWNY/s1600/be+mine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm7pmBuB98FvB-60ZKu8mEbPwf1LGrDhFyjQ2P3cZJCUMVZ2u7LZuiizf-tjr9RNwwKkykG4s_Y5sdr8FPUz-GM241YT7nc_GcIjTvvld17QmhDNQP-4inBtgYaqMnCGTwiLgGo_WYWNY/s1600/be+mine.jpg" height="320" width="222" /></a></div>
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They are simple critters with big hearts.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJu0EZB8vd30yN4Rw8UN7YKfr9NwG4E-MqSNEpWLT0Q8eqxE9MfEvxengILDq8RenjCQ74ZxxJ7r72h5f5FYJD94mVPwUEliygS5CgQqk6rP63b6344SmguReRzkbfWBM-2ka6jSPH24/s1600/1etsy+feb+3+007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6zQozphSGwWMJnbYQVYz1ALdUwxjBqtxmL0fA_5Jm6UU1Wnz8CQJIxtAZPykappGsJus-FoCXXiLlP1mXIP-72xvr1M2zCfNoGCC83EhqvoqeClLx8E_1L6QUKQ_c5ugsFTJdzUFLfw4/s1600/thief+of+hearts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6zQozphSGwWMJnbYQVYz1ALdUwxjBqtxmL0fA_5Jm6UU1Wnz8CQJIxtAZPykappGsJus-FoCXXiLlP1mXIP-72xvr1M2zCfNoGCC83EhqvoqeClLx8E_1L6QUKQ_c5ugsFTJdzUFLfw4/s1600/thief+of+hearts.jpg" height="309" width="320" /></a></div>
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Though they are quiet and relatively unobtrusive, they do tend to multiply quickly.</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbS1cBFPsXcGZwOii8TQoFcwKoAS7xnum4pobHCc7HGWMr7upUl2i4DDKi-HUK0UIcRvFJFO6O702rbnqzqgK8935gb8cuo19Sd7x3rh7_BvhX8xnnIGuqdnor-YaMJcXwe4c2FCxPxSw/s1600/Early+Work+Mercantile+0021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbS1cBFPsXcGZwOii8TQoFcwKoAS7xnum4pobHCc7HGWMr7upUl2i4DDKi-HUK0UIcRvFJFO6O702rbnqzqgK8935gb8cuo19Sd7x3rh7_BvhX8xnnIGuqdnor-YaMJcXwe4c2FCxPxSw/s1600/Early+Work+Mercantile+0021.jpg" height="320" width="297" /></a></div>
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To see more studio mice, check out where they dwell on <a href="http://earlywork-handofbelapeck.blogspot.com/">Early Work Mercantile</a>, <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/HandOfBelaPeck?ref=si_shop">Etsy</a>, and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hendleymarket">Hendley Market</a>.</div>
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</div>
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LOVE & STUDIO MICE</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJu0EZB8vd30yN4Rw8UN7YKfr9NwG4E-MqSNEpWLT0Q8eqxE9MfEvxengILDq8RenjCQ74ZxxJ7r72h5f5FYJD94mVPwUEliygS5CgQqk6rP63b6344SmguReRzkbfWBM-2ka6jSPH24/s1600/1etsy+feb+3+007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-63198460952312187092014-01-07T06:49:00.003-08:002014-01-07T06:49:54.255-08:00Heirloom Ornaments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em>This article was scheduled to be published in FOLK Magazine Christmas 2013. I have no idea what the publication status is and have cut ties with the magazine. I came across this ornament as I was taking down my tree over the weekend, and I felt the need to share my Grandmother's story even though Christmas 2013 is now behind us.</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1OYlh7cmcsvzV750dzha-3SgV3vR9rNlQ2BqQqAuT1wY3kpCLlQUcoaUp6rM5iYvyyspcU-ejVdpEIXEFjL-7jMTpbvM90M7b2ykVgypWr41s9MugBP9MdD8VxMnsclL-SrFBmwogqU/s1600/1heirloom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_1OYlh7cmcsvzV750dzha-3SgV3vR9rNlQ2BqQqAuT1wY3kpCLlQUcoaUp6rM5iYvyyspcU-ejVdpEIXEFjL-7jMTpbvM90M7b2ykVgypWr41s9MugBP9MdD8VxMnsclL-SrFBmwogqU/s1600/1heirloom.jpg" height="305" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If we are lucky as adults, we have ornaments from our
childhood to pass on to our children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
we are extra lucky, we have at least one ornament from our parents’ childhood
to covet as our own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is in these
small holiday tokens that live legacies of love and triumph.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
My grandmother loved color.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pink and teal particularly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Style
gurus of 1950’s homemakers had nothing on her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She raised my mother in a Cape Cod style house my Grandfather built high
on a hill overlooking the Shetucket River in Eastern Connecticut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her kitchen was done in teal tile, she served
simple meals on bright Fiesta dishes, and baked the finest éclairs in New
England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A silver tinsel tree was her
signature Christmas centerpiece and upon it were hung the sweetest pink
ornaments Woolworths offered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mingled in
were blown glass ornaments my Great Grandparents brought with them from Czechoslovakia.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in my Grandmother’s driveway a mammoth
1955 turquoise Buick was the envy of the neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would have to learn to drive it after my
Grandfather’s sudden death when my Mom was only ten. Though years of
transitioning from a homemaking queen to a single parent would bring
difficulty, financial strife and resilience, that silver tree was finely
decorated every Christmas as a testament to my Grandmother’s, and my Mother’s,
strength to thrive.</div>
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every December, I unwrap an ornament that once hung on my
Grandmother’s tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have only
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hold it to the sun as the light
shines through the mercury glass and shadows tiny hand-painted blue flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I snuck it away from my Mother’s collection
one Christmas when I was home from college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These were the precious bulbs stored in a tattered box with edges
secured so many times the box was pretty much tape and dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside, the vintage ornaments looked like creamy
curved marzipan treats peeking through time-thinned tissue paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Grandmother passed away when I was a
high school sophomore, before I had a chance to appreciate the lessons she
often shared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This ornament is feather
light, delicate, ornate in its simplicity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just like my Grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four
feet ten inches and maybe 90 pounds after a hearty meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Grandmother went to work in the Ponemah velvet
mills after my Grandfather died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
never complained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never cried where anyone
could see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never gave the impression
that a woman needed a man for anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always
preached love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always practiced determination.
Always shone with bright color when most other women would have faded to black.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the years I have collected vintage ornaments to
simulate my Grandmother’s collection, to hold dear the memories my Mother
guards with old boxes in cedar chests. To share in the silent strengths that
hang in the remains of love snuffed out too early. Pink ornaments now cover my
own silver tinsel<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tree. And as my
daughter joins me in decorating, I share stories of my Grandmother, my Mother,
and the Grandfather I never knew in hopes their legacies will fuel generations
yet to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">LOVE & HEIRLOOMS OF LOVE</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-63834974609398796792014-01-02T06:43:00.001-08:002014-01-02T06:43:24.917-08:002014 Vision<div style="text-align: center;">
2014 is my year of <em>vision</em>. The year of open eyes, big dreams and making the ideas of 2013 the reality of 2014. It is the year of not backing down just because I am new to the game. In 2014, I will be fearless.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16w5c0dvk386pDwt3krwIR6MhHpfWsCABsWrcsXDtMjyJBW5zeo6E3RoChVDu-Sl1L0HzhxcLe659E_17XDGwfzhHMDgvg7AnwbNtFnjaAfnvau4afHwhv6pSjFUT23hzdh5Gv6LFLo4/s1600/ahny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16w5c0dvk386pDwt3krwIR6MhHpfWsCABsWrcsXDtMjyJBW5zeo6E3RoChVDu-Sl1L0HzhxcLe659E_17XDGwfzhHMDgvg7AnwbNtFnjaAfnvau4afHwhv6pSjFUT23hzdh5Gv6LFLo4/s320/ahny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0BJO6gUD9GL6HmbUHWDFXsv-4lESrq7fQfkAtmRoq7feRgudHl6-Amjfdmgtn3RDa30z_26n0hIbRUVRQzSBoPgkgpMzM-JpfenI75ZOQfRpLv_Xu6DfQSBdC0QR9YgUlFSAZ7tMPE8/s1600/avision.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In 2013, my word was <em>listen</em>. I paid attention to other artists' and writers' experiences. I listened to how they grew their businesses and saw parallels to my own journey. At the start of 2013, I was overwhelmed with stunted growth, dead ends, and a story that seemed doomed to remain unwritten. I stopped forcing creativity and let the universe guide me. Everything I needed was within reach, I just needed the patience to hear the vital cues. By October 2013, I was in high gear and ended the year not tired, but renewed.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVO-gLz7JwoWWXqsUcFQf0Jopt7B4xyQ7zGKTbhdSceiioRAMPQPl9lrLyKWyonA7h3XUDw1FHNg-T2zsMwc1Cw4mcBkdDJYYsHV8ep9oy9fkFmQ9t1hp3mAbnY_DQE-xZ8Pks3p0DWg/s1600/2014hobp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVO-gLz7JwoWWXqsUcFQf0Jopt7B4xyQ7zGKTbhdSceiioRAMPQPl9lrLyKWyonA7h3XUDw1FHNg-T2zsMwc1Cw4mcBkdDJYYsHV8ep9oy9fkFmQ9t1hp3mAbnY_DQE-xZ8Pks3p0DWg/s320/2014hobp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
One of the biggest shifts over the past year has been shedding my identity as a primitive folk artist and morphing into a softer, whimsical up-cycler. I adore prims, but the genre became my cage. I felt I had to create a certain way, with a defined look that was at odds with my creative vision. It was as if the universe was nudging change by dropping old cashmere sweaters in my lap at every turn and whispering,<em> "Go ahead... a few cheerful softies wouldn't hurt!"</em> And so I listened. And how my heart sang! The first time I saw a child light up at my creation, I was a believer. It was time to grow with the change.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0BJO6gUD9GL6HmbUHWDFXsv-4lESrq7fQfkAtmRoq7feRgudHl6-Amjfdmgtn3RDa30z_26n0hIbRUVRQzSBoPgkgpMzM-JpfenI75ZOQfRpLv_Xu6DfQSBdC0QR9YgUlFSAZ7tMPE8/s1600/avision.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0BJO6gUD9GL6HmbUHWDFXsv-4lESrq7fQfkAtmRoq7feRgudHl6-Amjfdmgtn3RDa30z_26n0hIbRUVRQzSBoPgkgpMzM-JpfenI75ZOQfRpLv_Xu6DfQSBdC0QR9YgUlFSAZ7tMPE8/s320/avision.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And so I greet 2014 with a fond hello, a firm handshake and a confident look in the eye. The journey ahead will require continued hard work and tireless hours, but oh the places we will go!<br />
LOVE & 2014!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-13125963278109296802013-12-26T06:12:00.000-08:002013-12-26T06:12:44.204-08:00Gratitude <div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8EFAremDmvy3a3LAuQVev4QeTw9fEllgEEVrqysSYgn323s3XRBT6HcHTrLtlrgO4u4xBAWAyEKZrdYULcX9FhWqtVGjiDV7F8V-qYYDeTOcbeo0Ztba4536iH7xM2v5g-iK9qPUOUU/s1600/1gratitude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8EFAremDmvy3a3LAuQVev4QeTw9fEllgEEVrqysSYgn323s3XRBT6HcHTrLtlrgO4u4xBAWAyEKZrdYULcX9FhWqtVGjiDV7F8V-qYYDeTOcbeo0Ztba4536iH7xM2v5g-iK9qPUOUU/s1600/1gratitude.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Christmas is a time of reflection, appreciation, family, and love. This year my wee family decided to stay home; not to make the usual 1200 mile journey east or north to be with extended family that seems to scatter in more directions as the years go on. Though I miss my parents, my in-laws and the familiar traditions of home, this year I am so happy to be spending these holidays with my two biggest supporters. My husband and daughter have taken this handmade business journey with me for the past two years and I couldn't be more grateful.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihDORPsmYX_Zp7_D167UDiLrk4S-74pQaoWzlYFkzIQ3eE0TOpcSf4qlUU4BJ3YqViyDoaOPwkTqHnK5m9MViRH-W79lWEFEsS-lv94SNGZcss89GOVApc0S948alcpIQgtc61JoFRZN4/s1600/1team.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihDORPsmYX_Zp7_D167UDiLrk4S-74pQaoWzlYFkzIQ3eE0TOpcSf4qlUU4BJ3YqViyDoaOPwkTqHnK5m9MViRH-W79lWEFEsS-lv94SNGZcss89GOVApc0S948alcpIQgtc61JoFRZN4/s320/1team.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Living with a crafter, artist, or creative type has many hazards. Kevin and Emily seldom criticize or condemn. So in honor of their fortitude I am confessing my creative sins that they have so faithfully endured</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For each of these aggressions, I love you all the more :)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<ul>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>For every stray sewing needle you've found with your feet or as you sit on the couch</em></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>For every household appliance I've turned into a studio purposed machine</em></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>For every "in-process" creation that has cluttered the living room</em></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>For the tower of storage bins that blocked a clear path to the bathroom</em></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>For the wool lint cloud that blanketed every surface on felting days</em></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>For every meal I forgot to cook because I was cranking out orders</em><em> </em></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>For each road trip I spent in the back seat stitching away the miles</em></div>
</li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoR776BrC-FRN-DJm5wCx-ve61C7cFYUhBM8AjhoEwGYPRbjAKnDdumyOeDze8FEizvh5frEO-tkguny99RiZ5LYh9J0QBQ6rwtY3LXA1ES90FDhBH5uX-nTZmhUvymA5b33UyVWSVVM/s1600/opp+Lydia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoR776BrC-FRN-DJm5wCx-ve61C7cFYUhBM8AjhoEwGYPRbjAKnDdumyOeDze8FEizvh5frEO-tkguny99RiZ5LYh9J0QBQ6rwtY3LXA1ES90FDhBH5uX-nTZmhUvymA5b33UyVWSVVM/s320/opp+Lydia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Thank you for believing in my abilities, loving me through my bad days, and never doubting I can reach my dreams. To be supported on this journey is the best Christmas gift of all.</div>
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LOVE & FAMILY</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-15247194215155851482013-12-11T05:00:00.001-08:002013-12-11T05:00:18.034-08:00Show Prep Truths<div style="text-align: center;">
My first art show is now under my proverbial belt and I am now hopelessly addicted to show life. The merriment, customers and artist camaraderie are my new drugs of choice (in addition to Starbucks, vintage wool, and thrifting).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMLoyQcWCDFuTR77va9nSu2fdFrXB0bAqIUHwUts090LwZxCkYDTQrcJLI-P9vsAFQj5266DLqrALe1GFx-IJ3eqoJZqbtswDT-oLQ7s5IGIJiG3o7A1VB6jWi4eVetEYnPsW1gtfGf8/s1600/1hend2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMLoyQcWCDFuTR77va9nSu2fdFrXB0bAqIUHwUts090LwZxCkYDTQrcJLI-P9vsAFQj5266DLqrALe1GFx-IJ3eqoJZqbtswDT-oLQ7s5IGIJiG3o7A1VB6jWi4eVetEYnPsW1gtfGf8/s320/1hend2.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Amongst the lessons I learned about timing, planning, and budgeting while prepping for an art show, many truths revealed themselves. I wrote these down to save my sanity for the next show prep.</div>
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1. No one is going to take over your chores. Buy a biohazard suit because that crap is going to pile up!</div>
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2. Kitchen counters make better worktables than studio tables.</div>
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3. The dogs will eat at least three creations carelessly left out during emergency Hobby Lobby runs.</div>
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4. One creation will meet its end by iron scorching in the final step.</div>
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5. My laptop and I will live in a constant antagonistic battle for domination.</div>
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6. For every imperfection I see in my work, every one else sees only perfection.</div>
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7. I can live on a diet of bananas, Triscuits and Starbucks.</div>
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8. One teaspoon of glitter can create weeks worth of sparkle cheeks.</div>
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9. Laughter is the best side effect of exhaustion.</div>
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10. I have the best family and friends in the world~ who believed in me every step of the way. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdE4hFY7VNDj_0XOeRdYZ-y2zEQuU92ZEkYbjSaM5LSGeSHBCA2zjpDNmrgLrcx6pLicyajIY1uVRFYObDwRCg-Bw0l-EvEDRXHJQLZ-JF8CKwzOhPMS_QXybeQXpN1FoiVDTO91hu7Ak/s1600/hend3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdE4hFY7VNDj_0XOeRdYZ-y2zEQuU92ZEkYbjSaM5LSGeSHBCA2zjpDNmrgLrcx6pLicyajIY1uVRFYObDwRCg-Bw0l-EvEDRXHJQLZ-JF8CKwzOhPMS_QXybeQXpN1FoiVDTO91hu7Ak/s320/hend3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
LOVE & TRUTHS</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-2834487875695898732013-11-25T06:31:00.001-08:002013-11-25T06:31:50.754-08:00The Leaf Pile<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUFxmq9-5-h-galsiYSdSwYUAgjePHW2TcN4_MKhIRHHlifdEpcDv1otdICpNuLaeGdjXPqy2r_Jy_fmLKHL1Q67oD446yAGZNK5n_bj8nXYVcMZ3R3ZQUvdBlOE2mVyaRpyAtObMa2mE/s1600/1folk1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NDBCOopc6K4YtSSHOqvd5ea12p5azQBedA3UFdqfnaEi8M4yUS7E-bvconn6bfINOLc95nEXDsMvCeoKmu91CfzhWmIkEXzV89w5Yp8MU0fdHZRNay0D2iyxWC0u8K2uoRzXoGqpWZI/s1600/1folk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NDBCOopc6K4YtSSHOqvd5ea12p5azQBedA3UFdqfnaEi8M4yUS7E-bvconn6bfINOLc95nEXDsMvCeoKmu91CfzhWmIkEXzV89w5Yp8MU0fdHZRNay0D2iyxWC0u8K2uoRzXoGqpWZI/s320/1folk.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em> The Leaf Pile</em></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">Article appears in the current issue of <a href="http://www.folklifestyle.com/">FOLK Magazine</a>, Fall 2013.</span></em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; tab-stops: 207.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Autumn is pure
excitement!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As an adult it means cable
knit sweaters and well heeled boots can come out of summer slumber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fall means sipping hot spiced cider while
browsing quaint Main Street shops as holiday goods make their debut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as a child, autumn meant a new season of
magic as nature’s leafy curtain fell open to reveal bone like branches, fiery
colors falling from the sky, the grandest sight of all: the leaf pile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To kids in the
Northeast, autumn officially arrived with the first fleck of orange on the
maple tree, regardless of the calendar date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It would be only a matter of weeks before the ground was covered in
crunchy oranges, reds, and browns- the perfect blend for leaf piling!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neighborhood kids would assemble with rakes
and hoodies prepared to work hills of fun in fallen foliage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of us were content with a medium sized
pile, about waist high, close to a wooden swing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first jumps were slow, just a few gentle
swings to test our bravery and be sure the rocks sifted to the bottom. Before
long we were pumping our legs to go higher and smiling wide as we leapt from
safety to land leaf covered, laughing at the awkward <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">whooooosh</i>! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A quick raking to
reform the pile and it was time to launch again.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUFxmq9-5-h-galsiYSdSwYUAgjePHW2TcN4_MKhIRHHlifdEpcDv1otdICpNuLaeGdjXPqy2r_Jy_fmLKHL1Q67oD446yAGZNK5n_bj8nXYVcMZ3R3ZQUvdBlOE2mVyaRpyAtObMa2mE/s1600/1folk1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUFxmq9-5-h-galsiYSdSwYUAgjePHW2TcN4_MKhIRHHlifdEpcDv1otdICpNuLaeGdjXPqy2r_Jy_fmLKHL1Q67oD446yAGZNK5n_bj8nXYVcMZ3R3ZQUvdBlOE2mVyaRpyAtObMa2mE/s200/1folk1.jpg" width="155" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But there were some among us who pushed the limits of the pile and toppled wheelbarrows full from deck edges to create a monster pile!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; tab-stops: 207.5pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the rake’s
gritty scratching, we could hear <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They</i>
were there, again, just like the years before! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could hear their triple dog dare taunting
and hoots and hollers. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">middle-schoolers</i>!
They were more experienced, had already broken bones, and were massing a
mountain-high pile granted by the largest oaks on the block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We couldn’t help but be lured in by the
promise of danger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends and I
would line up along the white picket fence separating the street from the
twelve foot drop to the yard below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There it was: the mammoth leaf pile of doom! It was higher than the
garage door and centered eight feet out from the second story deck railing: the
ledge of legends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One by one, the older
boys would perch atop the wooden railing and pitch themselves into the pile,
burying themselves completely and emerging from the pile base with a victorious
“Yeeeeeeeeehaaaawwww!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The leaf pile so
well constructed it needed no re-raking. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One boy, a tall scrawny blond with a bicycle
mishap scar down one arm, launched off the railing followed, without warning,
by another boy who landed right on top of the blonde head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A howl escaped as the boys tumbled down the
side of the pile in mock fist fighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brushing
themselves off with laughter they headed back up the deck steps for more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My friends and
I stared on in awe, boasting we would swan dive that pile if only they would
let us….. secure in the knowledge we wouldn’t get the chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be years until we were in middle
school; until we were cool like that. In those days we were content with our
mini leaf pile under the swing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we
were done jumping we sat in the pile eating sunflower seeds, boasting about our
Halloween costumes and promising to be the best of friends forever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-76219053550364652592013-11-20T05:46:00.000-08:002013-11-20T05:46:05.097-08:00Show Prep!<div style="text-align: center;">
Snip, stitch, stuff, paint, latte...... repeat. <br />
My wee hands are busy with preparations for the Artifacts Show November 30th, in Galveston. This is my first official show, coming on the heels of many firsts for me this year- and I have no idea what to expect, or how much to create. So I am in turbo studio mode, just in case.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswKlWIetu3v1aoiluD-el3CUuyGE4VMVqALGjqQLrOAtoR33yta5tpXG7biPCpfAmNJtooI8WdBehj7DbOV3X5bR7WOjtBfIdIwjC0TT86w1NH8D71gchJdfrb0N7qXjhw4BGSChYGJ4/s1600/1blog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswKlWIetu3v1aoiluD-el3CUuyGE4VMVqALGjqQLrOAtoR33yta5tpXG7biPCpfAmNJtooI8WdBehj7DbOV3X5bR7WOjtBfIdIwjC0TT86w1NH8D71gchJdfrb0N7qXjhw4BGSChYGJ4/s320/1blog1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My studio runneth over! Stuffing is flung from one corner of my house to the other. My kitchen counters are full of painted figures in a variety of coat progressions. Cinnamon and vanilla wafts from the oven as prim figures are baked to grungy perfection. Coffee tables topple with half stuffed rodents and my dining room table has become stocking central as the washing machine spins old sweaters into felted wool. If ever I've made a strong case for an out of home studio, it would be this past month.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN14Jhk80zcaxz1ljyqQIXOusUPsHnqpaXaTFpowimM6H-UNEkP-yJreR_cXEKstWUbzzrM_Zfb2N36lW0ztaZoblWEZXu3Cyrhiw8ZG3mUFaYheHns55rHJNwmyiyWH9XJUV_uq3HfdM/s1600/1blog2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN14Jhk80zcaxz1ljyqQIXOusUPsHnqpaXaTFpowimM6H-UNEkP-yJreR_cXEKstWUbzzrM_Zfb2N36lW0ztaZoblWEZXu3Cyrhiw8ZG3mUFaYheHns55rHJNwmyiyWH9XJUV_uq3HfdM/s320/1blog2.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
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Ten days to go until show time! I will be in good company alongside fellow artists <a href="http://www.robertdampier.com/assemblage.html">Robert Dampier</a>, <a href="http://theislandermagazine.com/?cat=3971">Rachel Montemayor</a>, and many others taking part in Galveston's Art Walk. It will be a festive evening of art, wine, and good cheer. Stop in at <a href="http://www.hendleymarket.com/">Hendley Market</a> on the <a href="http://www.galveston.com/downtowntour/">Strand</a>, November 30th, between 6-9 pm, to meet the artists! If you're not local to the Houston-Galveston area, check your local art scene for similar Holiday events and support your community by shopping local.</div>
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LOVE & ART WALK</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4925388720931718586.post-25199598548532469042013-11-12T05:17:00.000-08:002013-11-12T05:17:32.769-08:00Tigers Big and Small<div style="text-align: justify;">
The rooms that carry children through high school are obsolete after college whether it's been one semester or four years. No matter the time away, the lessons learned change our children. What was important, previously essential, has been rearranged. There is a new independence, a certain seriousness about life. Perhaps the realization that the real world awaits truly settles in.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-XYiiQEiwxbjqeFho180yNn9pxmz3KIEd5YSmDrFmXYQA_GNFkhFMJ3oA2sfFTvL76hOHYziTf0xUkkGsivCod7MiWntN4ooPxfhSMPugxN99r93xAUJHurlZKKJZn0LRMBMB7lD8F0/s1600/1tiger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-XYiiQEiwxbjqeFho180yNn9pxmz3KIEd5YSmDrFmXYQA_GNFkhFMJ3oA2sfFTvL76hOHYziTf0xUkkGsivCod7MiWntN4ooPxfhSMPugxN99r93xAUJHurlZKKJZn0LRMBMB7lD8F0/s320/1tiger.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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As Emily gets older, I see the excitement in her eyes, coupled with a nervous wariness. She wants to travel, wants to save every lost animal, wants to make a difference somewhere, somehow. She is only 18 but has travelled across the US and Canada and has been to the jungles of Thailand. She has seen more than most do in a lifetime. But right now, she wants to be home.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3-FUqpstsD3IAtoGF1BEFRZlIkTM0VhYyanaR8KPRe41IDVnfaUO_avbk_lV0kx7Cyz03z-kEwrWMCC6H-_heQ4TZb2Cd7d55-daNwrnbA0o1PAzxpD85_zPuyifekzVF0D91L3LvvU/s1600/1tiger2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3-FUqpstsD3IAtoGF1BEFRZlIkTM0VhYyanaR8KPRe41IDVnfaUO_avbk_lV0kx7Cyz03z-kEwrWMCC6H-_heQ4TZb2Cd7d55-daNwrnbA0o1PAzxpD85_zPuyifekzVF0D91L3LvvU/s320/1tiger2.jpg" width="304" /></a></div>
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With Emily's decision to return home and pursue school locally, it was time to update her room in preparation. Gone are the bright pink walls, the high school mementoes, and homecoming mums. Old furniture has been moved out and a spa blue pallet now serves as a backdrop to house her one true love: tigers, big and small. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtb_qo-dQ_1v2eXMqLuNA-oFkSNXfyOZD1p0biBk_4IGm5cvU-_bKfW7hSii9ZmUCV_JA1nbLLZ9a_Y_y82R1CFuFps6VHgsAj1dH0yjLuL2PuJ_oCbpHBffurDgOKcCtRuIps9yPxINY/s1600/1tiger1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtb_qo-dQ_1v2eXMqLuNA-oFkSNXfyOZD1p0biBk_4IGm5cvU-_bKfW7hSii9ZmUCV_JA1nbLLZ9a_Y_y82R1CFuFps6VHgsAj1dH0yjLuL2PuJ_oCbpHBffurDgOKcCtRuIps9yPxINY/s320/1tiger1.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>
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I was going to make the bed before taking this picture but Emily's neurotic cat wouldn't let me near the bed. It's as if he knows she is away at school and he guards her bed until she returns. He thinks he's a tiger, as if the painting on the wall is his self-portrait. He believes if he acts fierce no one will know how much he misses Emily. He doesn't understand we've all been doing that for months.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
LOVE & SMALL TIGERS</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00732207735989828055noreply@blogger.com2