tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25187939818810853932024-02-22T08:09:54.242-08:00Honoring Those You LoveWriter in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.comBlogger134125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-11663775946808470182019-10-30T15:44:00.000-07:002019-10-30T15:44:23.586-07:00The Unconditional Love We Receive<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Calm Morning on Rainy Lake by Gary Alan Nelson</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s the unconditional love we receive<br />which is our grounding, even when</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">we believe it leaves;<br /><br />Far different the counterfeit: with fits and starts, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">impure motives,<br />or confused heart;<br /><br />Freedom, our own evolution, is our journey</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">to protect our authenticity;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We need the purist water, a steady stroke,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">the soul of waters' ripples as if God Himself spoke;<br /><br />Compassion, our lake or ocean, is self acceptance</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">in the open; then, arms & affirmation to love our very self - </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Unconditional love is within ourselves;<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Divine, the Divine, shines, shines</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">in Light, in Light, as</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Christ or Buddha Consciousness, like a prayer,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">evolves inside;<br /><br />Unconditional love, I believe, nestles, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">supports our body and never leaves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Connie Nelson Ahlberg</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">All Rights Reserved.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-80481420750175508362019-09-24T18:44:00.000-07:002019-09-24T18:44:06.816-07:00I Am Honoring You, Dad!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">My father, Willard Charles Nelson,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">pouring over a page in A History of Lutsen</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Gateway to the Wilderness </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">by </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Robert Mc Dowell</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;">When I last saw my father in </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;">January of last year, he was so dear, so present, and the Dad I've always known. Little did I realize, the runny nose, which was beginning to be a great bother, was to precede his final days. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br />In the course of our visit, I told Willard when he arrived in heaven--that I wanted him to tell me he reached his celestial home. He smiled softly and tapped his left temple as if to say: I will try to remember. This past Sunday morning, he did.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br />I wasn't sound asleep, but somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. This scene came before me: a moment of wonderment. My arms were outstretched and I was walking </span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; font-size: 18pt;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;">toward someone--yet, I knew not who it was to be. But suddenly I see my dad's face with a soft smile on his lips. </span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;">My joy leapt within this cosmic mystery.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;">I hugged him fiercely. </span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;">By now, I was as electrically charged as a thunderbolt. It was the affirmation I have been seeking. The dear communication my heart sought. </span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br />Today, Tuesday, September 24, 2019, I admittedly have wiped tears, but I also feel rejuvenated to lean into all the notes I have on my dad who lived to be 103.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18pt;"><br />And Willard? He's alive and spiritually well. </span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-30322122947508016152018-01-02T12:09:00.000-08:002018-01-02T12:09:00.059-08:00Friends, Family and Bears: <span style="font-size: large;">I Never Met A Bear I Didn't Love</span><br />
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<b> Pardon me if in the attic I reminisce</b></div>
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<b>About each bear I once hugged and kissed;</b></div>
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<b>They may have lost a seam--</b></div>
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<b>A bit of stitch, where once I dragged them,</b></div>
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<b>Or forgotten--ditched;</b></div>
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<b>Whether lost buttons or worn out paws,</b></div>
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<b>My bears never met a heart they couldn't thaw;</b></div>
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<b>But some bears can become overextended:</b></div>
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<b>When they see a broken heart, they mend it;</b></div>
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<b>Yet, age seems to bless tattered bears</b></div>
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<b>Who may have lost their style on the stairs;</b></div>
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<b>Like friends and family, bears, you see,</b></div>
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<b>Leave us love as their legacy.</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "monotype corsiva";"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">©1996 All Rights Reserved</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">
Connie Nelson Ahlberg</span></div>
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<br />Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-69823761342379746722017-02-20T16:49:00.000-08:002017-02-20T16:49:01.817-08:00Trump Basher<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsCqV0xapPNUE1dN5gKU_lHB2RQW8YHEK8-VFYt3xYpjOG9Y7Cuq4fqv_KhjqrcBmbhkHEPCsCQylFNoxeJ79DZ1DNCmYPE7o6rZgvcc-mP68p6kkHiJVKoY52vzncPwNdTURWwCllFCP/s1600/PenitientGirl_Rotari.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsCqV0xapPNUE1dN5gKU_lHB2RQW8YHEK8-VFYt3xYpjOG9Y7Cuq4fqv_KhjqrcBmbhkHEPCsCQylFNoxeJ79DZ1DNCmYPE7o6rZgvcc-mP68p6kkHiJVKoY52vzncPwNdTURWwCllFCP/s320/PenitientGirl_Rotari.JPG" width="259" /></a></div>
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<span class="mw-mmv-title"><i>La Penitente </i></span><br />By Pietro Rotari </div>
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On a precise day in time several months ago, I was startled to find I had been added to a list on Twitter, a list not to my liking.<br />
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The List: Trump Basher<br />
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As Pema Chodron has written, whatever your next lesson: it's going to pop right up.<br />
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And so it did. I'm stressed just revealing this to the world. Would it help to say I've prayed for 45POTUS twice? Or, I have never been profane in my Tweets? There is room for improvement--obviously.<br />
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When I come home to my core beliefs, I am grounded in Christ Consciousness. <br />
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At the same time, I can lose ground with all the wars, conflicts, terrorist attacks, reveals from whistle blowers, and certainly my candidate losing in the last election.<br />
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I was never able to be an advocate for Donald Trump in the primaries due to how he chose to run for the Presidency. It took my beliefs and turned them on it's head.<br />
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I feel we are here to honor each other vs berate, shame, or bully. Indeed, in seeking to help the planet earth evolve, it is only the former which I believe will get us there. <br />
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I confess if I was back at St. Richard's Parish in Richfield, Minnesota, I can envision waiting in line for the light to go off outside the confessional and a penitent pushing through the curtain, showing I could confess next. <br />
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Today while shopped with a dear friend, I apologized for being in someone's way. It was actually a pre-apology as no violation had transpired. I said to the shopper: Catholics like to apologize BEFORE the sin as been committed!<br />
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As my old and now deceased priest revealed in a station wagon on a basketball game day: Hell isn't going to be any better because your friends are there. Wow.<br />
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Those are statements that burn through your brain - and called forward at will 57 years later.<br />
<br />
It turns out: I believe in social justice, the Beatitudes, and honoring all. So it is quite a quandary for me. Do I remain silent and pray only? Or do I over-Tweet as I'm now doing as a daughter raised on the news?<br />
<br />
I do know this: even if, boy, this IS a HUGE even if--Even if Hillary Clinton had won the last election, we have massive problems to solve, many of which are being kept secret and revealed only through whistle blowers. Some of these truth tellers have been killed <i>because</i> they spoke out.<br />
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These issues are beyond party affiliation. They are about our survival. Good vs Evil.<br />
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As I pray, I hope someday--I am taken off the Trump Basher List. I care about us all. My apologies to you. <br />
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<br />Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-20567232588228137612016-12-11T07:57:00.001-08:002016-12-11T09:09:54.929-08:00Like a Tulip Resting<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Like a <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Resting Tulip</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Under the wintered grass o<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">f</span> the finest, fall<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">en</span> snow;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Like a resting tulip, tulip resting<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">: </span> I'm</span> buried way below;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sleeping bu<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">lbs <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">are held li<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ke </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">seemingly</span> dormant, </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">human souls;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dissent <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">is s<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ilent <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">under</span> the inches I know;</span></span></span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just say<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I'm<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">taking, taking a </span></span>natural pause to again<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>regrow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Connie Nelson Ahlberg</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">All <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Rights Reserved.</span></span> </span><br />
<br />Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-10528764924020466812016-10-24T11:37:00.000-07:002016-10-25T19:22:53.939-07:00The Dream that Came True: Loving and Laughing Now<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZtXhPr-ggNPoCZtI2F7LTJmy07FyLddI1dgbu7ktKKpe-NJajKHTEidkkVk2DoZjT3OturNWByu4giR2BhRHS8u1VKCFud-B-Pc0-B6LpfZGI8dA9SUUrJ6nUG1_h6ULhlK4V5OB9wRS/s1600/Dad%2527s+Dream+Come+True.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZtXhPr-ggNPoCZtI2F7LTJmy07FyLddI1dgbu7ktKKpe-NJajKHTEidkkVk2DoZjT3OturNWByu4giR2BhRHS8u1VKCFud-B-Pc0-B6LpfZGI8dA9SUUrJ6nUG1_h6ULhlK4V5OB9wRS/s400/Dad%2527s+Dream+Come+True.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Last
week offered what became a joyous, eternally sweet</span><span style="font-family: "courier new"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> afternoon. It came about because I found the Swedish newspaper article I was looking for.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
fits and starts since I humbly began, I resumed my effort to make my parents' trip to </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Norrköping, Sweden come alive thirty-six years after it took flight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">.</span><span style="font-family: "courier new"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The actual publication is the
Norrköping Times dated September 12, 1980. The long article is about my parents
trip to Norrköping, Sweden to research my father's paternal Swedish roots.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On that same trip to the continent,
my mother and father visited Kongsberg, Norway, as well. My mother stood on the
hill where her mother's family had lived with but a dirt floor under their
feet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Because translating has been so
arduous for someone who doesn't speak Swedish, I have only a page or two
completed and certainly not honed to perfection.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Yet the sweetest part of this endeavor
is that I am a privileged daughter: my father is still living and loving at
close to 102 years of age.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
I called my dad and read a paragraph from the newspaper I'd just translated. It
was in a rough form. At first he wasn't sure what word he was hearing which was
"Swedish." I had to explain several times what I was reading
and that he was quoted in the article.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
The words I read were:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Finally I
found the house my grandfather lived in before he emigrated to America,” said
Swedish-American Willard Nelson. “Thanks to the Norrköping Times, on Wednesday
I heard Lars Gunnar Jonsson himself, tell the newspaper that the house has been
in his possession. They use it for summertime fun.”</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Willard
was delighted! </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> "You
deserve a pat on the shoulder and another on the top of your head."</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We both
laughed with glee--love flowing up the road as I often tell him. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We have a
birthday to celebrate on November 11, his lucky number. And I'm his lucky
daughter born on the 13<sup>th</sup> of April--cherishing the loving and
laughter now.</span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "" serif "" , "serif"; font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span>Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-85891349948806417952016-05-14T09:14:00.001-07:002016-05-15T09:02:39.717-07:00Sisters are Like a Summer's Day<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-JrwmUcCS7ARROBdpYyDs7bIPgNNuVin3NAEHb6x0DAdoFgOuTBlM1CmmwLPVX6p-g4mq031TRSssF45TWvL5MpnLTOZ73euMMQGtYPQAEWY5fIUWnXBVohvbTFgshJahf0roIPdaG3-X/s1600/Canova-Three_Graces_340_degree_view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-JrwmUcCS7ARROBdpYyDs7bIPgNNuVin3NAEHb6x0DAdoFgOuTBlM1CmmwLPVX6p-g4mq031TRSssF45TWvL5MpnLTOZ73euMMQGtYPQAEWY5fIUWnXBVohvbTFgshJahf0roIPdaG3-X/s320/Canova-Three_Graces_340_degree_view.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Canova: The Three Graces</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photographer, Mik Thorpe 1999</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Sisters are like a summer's day</b><br />
<b>you wouldn't dream of changing;</b><br />
<b>then suddenly, thunderstorms at 3:00</b><br />
<b>leaving twigs and branches strewn about,</b><br />
<b>but flowers exquisitely fresher, taller,</b><br />
<b>more vibrant because of the rain; then</b><br />
<b>the perfection of late afternoon and twilight when</b><br />
<b>the sun sinks low and gold and mauve change the </b><br />
<b>sky again so that you could cry over such a </b><br />
<b>wondrous, changing, beautiful day which leaves</b><br />
<b>you aching for another day just like it.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Connie Nelson Ahlberg - All Rights Reserved</b></span><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br /></blockquote>
Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-20200279981152142382016-05-05T11:55:00.001-07:002016-05-14T08:39:53.536-07:00It All Started with a Ball of Yarn<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"I've never met an alien, but I have met an extraterrestrial." Dan Burisch, microbiologist</b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>It all started innocently enough, listening to a speaker (I knew not who) answer questions I've long wanted to know. I asked Google, a bit like asking God--what is the truth about Roswell, New Mexico? </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Up popped some images. There stood a stately gentlemen saying he grew up in the area and decided to ask the Roswell community what happened.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>This is where my ball of yarn bounced off my lap. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I learned the man speaking without superlatives, was Dr. Edgar D. Mitchell, former Apollo 14 astronaut who journeyed to the moon in 1971. I began to read about a man who possessed both integrity and brilliance. Mitchell writes of experiencing what the Hindu's call samadhi, the mystical awareness</b></span><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> that everything is one, </b><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">as his space craft </b><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">returned to earth from all it's splendor in space. </b><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> </b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>He came home changed and spent the rest of his life studying consciousness, founding the Institute of Noetic Sciences. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I read about this man, ordered three books, and was a bit saddened that I had missed his life! He died three weeks before I heard his voice. Yet I felt honored and thrilled to learn about his incredible intellect and his achievements. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>With plain speaking, Edgar Mitchell told of listening to the towns-people describe small coffins delivered to the crash site at Roswell. The early headlines of a flying saucer having crash landed near the White Sands Missile testing grounds--was quickly changed. The story became a weather balloon, not a flying saucer, had landed. I never quite believed it.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>In reality several extraterrestrials had died, but one lived. And <i>Everyone </i>was sworn to secrecy. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>What a long time to smother the truth--was my first reaction. If we round the number off--it's been approximately 70 years of being in the dark. We can say secrecy, to some extent, has been maintained. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Over the years many have sought to learn the truth, thankfully learning from whistleblowers and their own research. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I've read, searched, and followed the threads. They led me to what transpired at the close of WWII with both our government & the Russians wishing to covet the technology the Germans secretly had of black, saucer-shaped aircraft, (and more) along with the minds that created this technology. Operation Paperclip was launched--the project to attract the best minds for the United States. The names included Wernher von Braun, Ludwig Roth, and Arthur Rudolph. (On Wikipedia, you can have the faces below magnified and identified.)</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Operation Paperclip - 104 German Rocket Scientists - 1946</b></span></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There were times, I became overwhelmed and shut down completely. I"ve remained seeped in narrations: the stunning reveals of whistleblowers. They are blowing whistles for a reason, even when their life and family are threatened.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A lot can happen when you stumble following a ball of yard around. </span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> At this writing, with all the stunning images and words from the whistleblowers, I've had great concerns. This area of total secrecy can use it's people, putting many in an ethical box of non-disclosure and fear. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>So many have given decades to this closed system. Bob Lazar, space scientist felt he lived in two centuries: the 19th and 20th. Finally despite threats, he left. Frequently you are punished by having all your career data wiped off the planet. Lazar panicked as he worried even is birth certificate had been deleted. His truth was undermined by his entire educational and scientific employment record destroyed. (Even now on wikipedia, one can see how is scientific background was destroyed. It is chilling. I seriously doubt darker charges against him. He spoke, he left--no mercy for you.)</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Others have lost their retirement of 30 + years and pension, forced to live in poverty,</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I've spent first weeks, then months reading on what has felt like true paths, occasional detours, and dead ends. But the truth rings true. Researchers are seeking and have sought to verify as much as they can. Most whistleblowers are true heroes. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I am fearful of what our "shadow government" has become. If we don't have allegiance to the people, or to simply the truth, are we a democracy at all?
I've listened to a former CIA member close to death. I learned Area 51 and 51s4--were off-limits, housing spaceships of aliens having come to earth. Repeatedly I read President Eisenhower met with aliens in California (on the pretext of a having a dental appointment to fix a tooth) asking groups of aliens for their technology. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Scientists, military personale, & business people were part of the group who met with the extraterrestials. (There is a documentation of that meeting and reaction one attendee felt.) The initial contact with extraterrestrials was made through mental telepathy. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>It's fascinating to hear that some extraterrestrials refused to agree to the demands, telling the group we lacked the ability to handle more sophisticated technology because we were not devoted to peace--but to war. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>The Nordics, it's said, refused to comply with our demands. But those that agreed--wanted something in return. The extraterrestrials called Grays wanted to study our bodies and abduct just a limited number of us. So the agreement was made--according to online sources, and we got help with the technology we asked for. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>But it's said the Grays were dishonest and huge numbers were abducted. I imagine, this is <i>one</i> of the truths they don't want revealed. Two sources have said the technology is fifty years ahead of where "the general public," thinks it is. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>The consequences to whistleblowers speaking out are threats, intimidation and death. </b></span><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">It is frightening to contemplate--in this darkness, just WHO is accountable? Where are the moral leaders? Where are the women? It's been said we're as sick as we are secret.</b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>There is a secret group (of essentially white males) from the military, scientific & industrial communities making far-reaching decisions for us and the world. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>The late Ron Gardner told two men connected to the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) amazing stories about extra-terrestrial Biological entities EBEs.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Gardner was asked about one warmongering, former office holder, and he shook his head.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"Not nice," he said and told about this individual walking away from Area 51-s4 with a patch of skin from one of the EBE who was more a space-time traveler: 15 light-years ahead of us. A being from earth--us! His name was J-Rod (who crashed with several other beings in 1953), and was held captive for over 50 years. He came for help with his genome as he had a disease known as neuropathy that is troubling his community. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Those who tended to him called him names--totally lacking the awareness that the enlightened being was quantum leaps ahead of where we are on earth. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>It's told peace-minded extraterrestials have disarmed multiple missile tests around the world--in an attempt to keep us from blowing the planet and each other apart. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Yet we still want to make sure we can obliterate enemy extraterrestrials should they threaten us. It's pretty disgraceful that evolved, benign extraterrestrial beings off our planet are wiser than the war-dedicated leaders hidden in the dark. (Take another look at 9/11--perhaps start with Building 7.)</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>*Ron Gardner, who has now passed away, said the future can be seen with some of this technology which I have also read. He said Hitler worked with extraterrestials and got his idea of an Aryan nation from them as well as technology. This fits. (You'll be amazed to see the black flying the Germans had developed.)</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>If we want to avoid catastrophe, said Gardner, who practiced Transcendental Meditation TM, we need to be more spiritual, focused on helping each other, vs the principles of war and destruction. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Exposure with the truth, Gardner said, can take us away from leaning toward World War III to a distinctly different world view. "Extraterrestrials are not happy with us."</b></span><br />
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<b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Per Ron Gardner--our agreements with extraterrestrials demand that the truth is shared with the public. Gardner felt John Podesta, campaign chair for the Hillary Clinton campaign, is pushing for it to happen. </b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"The military-industrial complex is in control big time." Ron Gardner </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"We can have all the water we want, all the electricity we want, but the cabal is in control." </b></span><br />
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<b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">The Citizens Series on Disclosure was</b><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> produced by Ron Gardner. </b><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>See www.citizenhearing.org</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I pray more expansively now. I ask the Communion of Saints to help us and good extraterrestrials to intervene to the extent they can.</span> I'm also turning activist. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>We have to end the darkness. People--YOU--are infinitely more loving and wondrous that the malevolent greed and control-minded group/s bent on war and our destruction. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Ron Gardner had hope.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b></span><span style="font-size: large;"><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Th</b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>e </b></span><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">beautiful yarn? The Beautiful yarn is all of us. </b></span><br />
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Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-28725948995322074082016-02-15T12:20:00.000-08:002016-02-23T18:11:28.920-08:00An Iowa Caucus Story<b><br /></b>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>By Citizen - Wikipedia 2008</b></span></div>
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<b>This is a true story of the Iowa caucus in the gymnasium we all saw on election night.</b><br />
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<b>Mary, not her true name, had various duties assigned to her in support of Hillary Clinton's campaign. </b><br />
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<b>She was asked to bring sandwiches and water for 250 people. </b><br />
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<b>Prior to caucus night, Mary called the principal and asked to reserve a particular corner in the gym. She was given the instructions that all would have to wait until the basketball game was finished before gathering on the floor.</b><br />
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<b>The Sanders caucus members ignored that guideline and gathered on the floor before the game was over. Mary went up to them and told them she had reserved the corner they were occupying.</b><br />
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<b>"Do you really care," was the response? Mary refused to defer and insisted she did indeed care. She prevailed. </b><br />
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<b>She had a tussel with yet another Sanders volunteer who said: "I'm going to steal one of these bottles of water."</b><br />
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<b>"No, you're not," said Mary. "That's my water: I paid for it and you can't have it."</b><br />
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<b>A high school math teacher was asked to be in charge of the numbers. The Bernie people were throwing their names into a hat. But they had 73 more votes in the hat than the number who had signed the register. The teacher got them to recount and take off the 73 people who weren't there.</b><br />
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<b>Hillary won at Mary's caucus.</b><br />
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<b>Granted it's a microcosm of the Iowa caucus, but I know it's a true one.</b><br />
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<b>An Update:</b><br />
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<b>According to Mary, Ed (the math teacher) attended a democratic caucus meeting to discuss improvements. The man in charge of their caucus said he had heard from a Bernie supporter that Bernie people were definitely stuffing the ballot box.</b><br />
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<b>Mary was glad they got a recount but she wondered about the other caucus groups. </b><br />
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<b>She indicated many attendees, often times were young men who had never caucused before. Some became overly aggressive. </b><br />
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<b>There was a problem knowing the sheer number who would show up. Generally the numbers fall way below the 900 she said came to some precincts. </b><br />
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<b>Let's support our candidates and VOTE! </b><br />
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<br />Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-36710890123678497242016-01-01T14:37:00.004-08:002016-01-07T15:21:39.036-08:00Thoughts on Fifty-Seven Women Some thoughts have been nagging me: Thoughts on the 57 women who have come forth about improprieties at the hands of comedian Bill Cosby.<br />
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I wish to borrow from the wisdom of Psychologist, Social Activist & Author of the healing 16 Steps for Empowerment, Women Sex and Addiction, Many Roads, One Journey, and If the Buddha Got Stuck, Charlotte Kasl, PhD. Her work is pivotal in the world of addiction. Without it, we miss the essential background for these times and decades past.<br />
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When we began hearing one by one from women who were standing for their truth regarding incidences of impropriety, groping, drugging, sexual assault and rape, against Bill Cosby--I often heard a certain refrain.<br />
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The refrain frequently was--: Why didn't she come forth sooner?<br />
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Here is the backdrop. Let's say you were violated by a socially establish, prominent figure on the world scene. Let's also add the person was male.<br />
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Here is the harsh truth for many of the women who have reported being violated by Bill Cosby.<br />
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Following (the alleged event) you are aware, as you put your reality together, that things are not as they should be. You lost consciousness. Your clothing is apart from your body, (apart also the dreams you held in your heart).<br />
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As spokeswomen have said: what do you want? You are horrified as you put the inconceivable together. You want OUT of there. You want to leave. And you are afraid to speak for you feel responsible for what has just happened to you. You feel immense shame. You may say--nothing.<br />
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In the Sixteen Steps for Discovery & Recovery which Kasl put together, her fourth step is:<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> "We examine our beliefs, addictions and dependent behavior in the context of living in a hierarchical, patriarchal culture."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
EVERY entity, every institution, you need to seek is male dominated from police to healthcare.<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I have heard many a glib or dismissal tone about the women who did not report the sexual assault.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Obviously, the women doubted they would be believed. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Even now, we know there was a backlog of over 400,000 untested rape kits nationwide. While the number has been reduced, there still are untested rape kits sitting on shelves. Some of these go back 20+ years. This is today. This is a women's reality. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sexual assault is on the rise. To me it is essential to stand with these women, who overall have had </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">nothing to gain by speaking out. The statute of limitations had run out for nearly all of the assaults. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The Huffington Post has written that Cosby had a segment on a record called "Spanish Fly" from "It's True, It's True." Here he talks of putting drugs into women's drinks. It is beyond chilling to read. </span><br />
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Cosby himself must have felt impenetrable, as he appeared on Larry King and happily chatted about<br />
drugs added to drinks: as in the "Spanish Fly." In the mood of the words on his recording: Cosby's narration is full of joy, giddy even. It's like he had a powerful secret.<br />
<br />
That is how safe Cosby felt. This is how unsafe the women who have come forward were.<br />
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Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-21106547110630861182015-12-28T18:43:00.001-08:002015-12-28T21:43:49.490-08:00An Exquisite NightIt's a wonderful night. Snow began falling imperceptibly hours ago. I thought it was over, but the mounds of white blanketing the hoods of cars grew and grew.<br />
<br />
My iPhone played a 2006 concert of Pink Martini in Portland. As it neared the end: the brass and percussion played out their crescendo. Intoxicating. You felt as if you were--nearly there.<br />
<br />
I've my son to thank for this Dec 28 reverie: he has gifted two, rocking tickets to hear Pink Martini live, in concert at Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis, April 29, 2016. I may live in bliss until then and thereafter.<br />
<br />
Unexpectedly, I put Donald Trump on mute and had the "peace which passeth understanding," in the words of T.S. Eliot.<br />
<br />
Then as if to register these very words in print: I heard strains of Sammy Davis Jr.'s "What kind of Fool Am I?" playing in my head for not having done this sooner. The only answer I can think of is I've been too Catholic to think of it. Perhaps recovery is in play!<br />
<br />
Yet in the midst of buying groceries based on a 6-10" snow forecast, once home I looked up:<br />
<br />
Why, Why, had the world lost the remarkable Angeles Arrien last year at only 73 years of age? Yet even learning she died suddenly from walking pneumonia, doesn't blunt my inner sadness at losing a woman I so admire!<br />
<br />
Angeles Arrien was an anthropologist, author, educator and magical weaver of bridges tying psychology, comparative religions, cultural anthropology and indigenous wisdoms together.<br />
<br />
I hope she will forgive me for quoting a poem in her brilliant The Four-Fold Way - Walking the Paths of the Warrior, Teacher, Healer and Visionary.<br />
<br />
It carries my heart's cry over her loss, yet my awe of all the books of hers I possess.<br />
In yes, this exquisite night, I love you, Angeles Arrien.<br />
<br />
each of us carries<br />
in our chest<br />
a song<br />
so old<br />
we don't know<br />
if we learned it<br />
<br />
some night<br />
between the murmurs<br />
of fallen kisses<br />
<br />
our lips<br />
surprise us<br />
when we utter<br />
<br />
this song<br />
that is singing<br />
and crying at once<br />
<br />
---Francisco X Alarcon, Body in FlamesWriter in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-17181310147459094412015-12-22T12:54:00.000-08:002015-12-22T12:54:33.090-08:00For You and Your Family: Cradling Christmas <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnBRMiq7ulEDyxudKhHrBBC9xbEFG_QKPvrJ1vmo9w63G7rcLiB0dFU6zYT3FGMTSNQ9zAkERLa5R5svcCbf9SsOC40JKJh4Y4wRmcfLwCXy_CuXXlQhr22dD6laHt7kO7TmBs-I6xUfF/s1600/IMG_3972-TWINKLE.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnBRMiq7ulEDyxudKhHrBBC9xbEFG_QKPvrJ1vmo9w63G7rcLiB0dFU6zYT3FGMTSNQ9zAkERLa5R5svcCbf9SsOC40JKJh4Y4wRmcfLwCXy_CuXXlQhr22dD6laHt7kO7TmBs-I6xUfF/s400/IMG_3972-TWINKLE.gif" width="300" /></a></div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">A Tree Upside Down</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Cradle yourself this Christmas</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">More than any other time in your life;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Soften your days with lit candles and love;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Let embraces come from where they will; </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Allow the tears to flow--for how can they not?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hang on to every Cherished Good;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Do you know, can you even begin to imagine</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Or possibly remember, the million moments</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Love was exchanged by the gifts</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Of your hands, heart and soul?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">All the love you gave! The Love</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Received! Let the myriad moments</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Cradle this Christmas;</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And as the months</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And years go by</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">More, more</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Will be </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Revealed--</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Million </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Moments</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Shining</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Like</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Stars.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Written Dec. 5, 1998</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By Connie Nelson Ahlberg - All Rights Reserved</span></div>
Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-5939259444350165312015-12-22T12:24:00.000-08:002015-12-22T12:24:52.002-08:00Taking Christmas As It Comes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUGQaJZHHXo4JROkohxRr9AG0lyG3b3lOmvYK1xBYSLFr8MuR_LWU011gKHHhZgbIGjmMhVVopOt8QmtQ9DCVyUnS7XThTDCo5VA7fvy7vLc48teAarMUI-fB7u3BIFn2FYNp-dOKzvlV/s1600/Magnificatio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUGQaJZHHXo4JROkohxRr9AG0lyG3b3lOmvYK1xBYSLFr8MuR_LWU011gKHHhZgbIGjmMhVVopOt8QmtQ9DCVyUnS7XThTDCo5VA7fvy7vLc48teAarMUI-fB7u3BIFn2FYNp-dOKzvlV/s320/Magnificatio.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Taking Christmas As It Comes</span><br />
<br />
<br />
You have to take your Christmas as it comes--<br />
Even if you've had losses.<br />
In letting go you can embrace:<br />
Your friends, Your angels;<br />
Your family, Your tree,<br />
<br />
For the New Year comes<br />
in time for healing:<br />
and wisdom the gifts of hard times.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">©</span>1995 Connie Nelson AhlbergWriter in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-75705142526791531002015-11-22T11:58:00.000-08:002015-11-22T11:58:38.853-08:00And May All the Heavens Bless<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSvPqTr7n3lGXZ6B9Zf1cPtbeW_StRCCJMyi6g7-iNTkL9JnkAXToM3tDMID7ZZ2Ixk7BzR6nXBJd0i-88JRnzd-RhclhXVUTdqJsqzbFaCpTaNQd_x_7ZKYF8jHwESYaTRTt36nBtxUE-/s1600/Freedom_from_Want.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSvPqTr7n3lGXZ6B9Zf1cPtbeW_StRCCJMyi6g7-iNTkL9JnkAXToM3tDMID7ZZ2Ixk7BzR6nXBJd0i-88JRnzd-RhclhXVUTdqJsqzbFaCpTaNQd_x_7ZKYF8jHwESYaTRTt36nBtxUE-/s320/Freedom_from_Want.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Freedom From Want</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Norman Rockwell</span></div>
<br />
<br />
If you don't have a turkey too often,<br />
It's pretty nice on that Thursday<br />
late in November<br />
<br />
To bow your head<br />
While Mom rests her legs,<br />
And thank for the little things,<br />
Like the carving knife,<br />
And the big things,<br />
Like each other.<br />
<br />
©<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Connie Nelson Ahlberg 1996</span><br />
<br />
<br />Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-90558181400094499562015-09-30T21:24:00.001-07:002015-10-03T14:12:44.110-07:00Pray, Who Is Missing?<div style="text-align: center;">
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A Nun Ironing Cardinals Vestments</div>
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Vatican 1967 - Eve Arnold </div>
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Magnum Photos @Pinterest</div>
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The roll of men in the Catholic Church is so broad, so inclusive of <i>them, of patriarchy, </i>that it seems those in power are unable to see the half of us that are missing. </div>
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I'll never forget Pope John Paul II's funeral. By the time all the Cardinals paraded out, esteemed priests, deacons, and altar men or boys, the view was so overwhelmingly male (draped in red and white) that it was stunning. The scene was a sea of red matching the slippers the departed Pope wore on his feet.</div>
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I took notes on the first Mass said while the Pope was in the United States. We had a female soloist, one woman reading a responsorial psalm, a choir with women--but not on the altar. </div>
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Even the beloved Virgin Mary was off to the side. The image of the nun above is such a striking pose which depicted the times--but for women, the crux has not changed. Maureen Down is right. The Church protects the old guard. </div>
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In 1969 MS Magazine had it's first preview issue. That was 46 years ago. </div>
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This is the unanswered issue of <i>our times</i>. Essentially women are still ironing vestments in the basement of the Vatican. Even now the Catholic Church nearest to me, Mary Mother of the Church (coined Mary Mother of the Mortgage by a nun ) decided, no, little girls could NOT serve at the Mass: a fact which saddened even traditional women in the parish.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I have listened to MSNBC'S Chris Matthews say that here in the States and elsewhere, it is <i>women</i> who are aware of the school setting, who is teaching, what the needs of the children are, along with the needs/& care of the home. Some of these same women, of course, have their own careers. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Years ago I said the Church will turn to women when they run out of men. I was wrong. Even in listening to comments the night before the Pope departed, I heard very closed minds about women in the Church--one of them being a bishop. The resistance regarding women as equals seems so monumentally foreign to the patriarchy that they can't even engage about it. So it's double-speak. They can't connect in meaningful ways.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We are told all the roles women are playing in the Church today. But the laity isn't seeing it. It seems we can be close to missionaries to Guatemala or Haiti, but heaven help us, we cannot be a deacon or say Mass. Years ago at St. Joan of Arc in Minneapolis, a deacon introduced his wife, who was allowed to become a deacon only because he was.<br />
<br />
He said, "You will hear how profoundly more eloquent and able she is than I."<br />
<br />
She was given a standing ovation.<br />
<br />
I am now grasping once again, why my former teacher and mentor in grades 6-8th grades, so Italian her father and uncle were from Italy--has left the Church.<br />
<br />
When John Paul II said he didn't want "cafeteria Catholics," it angered my brilliant friend. She left the Church and is now a Episcopal Eucharist minister. She has even stood in white robes near stairs to the subway train and administered ashes on Ash Wednesday. It's an insult to offer a women with a Ph.D. anything but equality.<br />
<br />
She hopes she will see inclusion and family planning in her lifetime in the Catholic Church. Now I'm pondering if I'll see it.<br />
<br />
And it isn't as if celibacy, hierarchy, patriarchy and secrecy have been a resounding success.<br />
<br />
I'm always praying that someone opens the windows! Airs the place out! Is magnanimous to all: Welcome everyone! There are women giants who have the calling, the brilliance and grace to serve the Church in outstanding ways.<br />
<br />
I am pulling for Pope Francis, but I am painfully aware--he is but two years short of 80 years of age.<br />
<br />
A Franciscan Laity group I saw pictured in Rome within the last two years--were predominantly gray, or capped with white hair. Young, educated, Hispanic women aren't attending the Church of their mothers.<br />
<br />
Recently a dear friend who has served her Church for decades in major ways asked herself: What has the Church done for me?<br />
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Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-77556359191991807192015-09-26T10:43:00.002-07:002015-09-27T11:24:26.436-07:00Pope of Mercy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pope Francis at Youth Day </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">at Haimi Castle in Korea 2014 /</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Closing Mass for Asian youth</span></div>
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Pope Francis is a comforter, a teacher, a Model of Mercy. This is what he wants for us in our own interaction with the world. </div>
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It has been impossible for me to watch several days of Pope Francis' trip to the United States with a dry eye. Indeed, I have wept twice.</div>
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Though I have <i>issues</i> with the Church of my youth--who, who cannot be taken with the compassion of this man? </div>
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As we've witnessed Pope Francis weave through his incredible days here---there the <i>little ones</i> are, at rest and waiting, with their devoted parents, those with special and debilitating diseases and handicaps in the hopes Francis might, just might stop and touch their heads and hearts. </div>
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All the youth the Pope has touched are actually not victims though the Church has the term "victim saints," and they may well be on that road of grace. </div>
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Here is the truth that turns everything on its head.</div>
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What I would lift the parents with is the knowledge that:</div>
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We <i>choose</i> our parents and siblings and thus time and place on the soul level <i>before</i> we arrive here.</div>
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Therefore, these beyond challenged children the Pope has blessed and kissed are on a holy mission. They have accepted, they have chosen--a limited body for all the lessons they will experience within it. </div>
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One can certainly grasp that <i>our</i> spiritual evolution or <i>theirs</i> would be sped by such a life of sacrifice. </div>
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The Pope keeps highlighting those of us without, those of us "on the margins," forgotten, hungry and in need of outstretched arms. As a simple yet complex man of grace, Francis models how to live Christ in the world. </div>
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We can ignite our own lives by observing, by seeing, his flame: visiting the incarcerated, seeing the elderly, reaching to console the homeless, and honoring peace and foregiveness within our own families.</div>
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At first I cried when Francis entered St. Patrick's in New York City. Just one of my thoughts was: He may never come again. We simply don't know. So every moment is precious and never to be repeated. </div>
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A goal I have is to read through all St. Francis' speeches at each venue. I want to wrap myself in his illuminated words. This Pope is a gift for our times. The Catholic Church has been in such a spiritual black hole. And then up pops Francis, having his own darker days when he was forced into seclusion by his own Jesuits.</div>
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Yet everything he has endured on his path to the Papacy, though he never sought it, has become who he is today.</div>
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I have prayed to my "Heavy Hitter" Saints to protect Pope Francis and allow him to <i>Be With Us</i>...modeling mercy, transforming souls.</div>
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<br />Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-59889770454478710472015-08-30T11:02:00.001-07:002015-08-30T16:55:49.171-07:00Our Stories of Love<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Lou, Master Gardener</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Letting Go: Life's Lessons </b></span></div>
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<b>"Our personal stories of loss</b></div>
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<b>Are really our stories of love;</b></div>
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<b>If we hadn't had our years </b><br />
<b>of love and bonding,</b></div>
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<b>If the riches weren't there...</b></div>
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<b>How could our tears fall over our warmed hearts?</b></div>
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<b>Truly loss is a cycle of love within life."</b></div>
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<b>When I moved into what was my father's condominium, I wasn't fixated on my new neighbors because I was healing from a near-fatal car accident. </b></div>
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<b>But when I did take in my fellow residents, I felt far younger than most who lived here. I was startled to see so many walkers and canes. But that has been changing. With so many long-time residents having lived at Woodhurst West for decades, one by one they begin, or continue to, "fly up." </b></div>
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<b>I realize it's the flow of life, but I've never had it so under my nose, or down the hall but a few yards, or cross the hall by a few feet. </b></div>
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<b>Angels have been active...all around me. In a previous post, I wrote about My Saints in the Corner: Joyce and Ed Stevens who spent a life in the ministry. When we lost them...I was so hit by the grace of who they were, and who they still are, that I memorized their favorite scripture and saved their memorials. </b><br />
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<b>Then the escorting angels moved one door to the right. My neighbor Frank in precarious health: COPD, conjestive heart failure, diabetes and more went to the hospital. Then he was diagnosed with cancer, entering hospice shortly thereafter. His journey was lovingly managed right where he and his wife Joan have lived right next to the Stevens. And right next to me.</b></div>
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<b>At the family funeral for Frank, I saw all the pictures of he and his wife Joan's pictures from their wedding and dear posing at Niagra Falls. For the first time, I saw Frank as a younger man. I stood and stood by their honeymoon faces. I could see the noses and the chins, the soft smiles. I saw Frank's life in its entirety. </b></div>
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<b>It seemed only weeks ago I had delivered chicken soup from Valley Natural Foods and witnessed changes in trust documents, signing my name on various pages in their home.</b></div>
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<b>I got holy water from Lourdes from the closest Catholic shop and prayed my heart out; but the miracles were not to be.</b></div>
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<b>Then the escorting angels moved onto the next door where our master gardener, Lou, lives, my dear friend. I tried to do "distance healing" for her. I focused so hard on her lymph nodes and total healing. I admit I was crushed when the report following her round of chemo treatments wasn't good. I felt I had failed. </b></div>
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<b>Lou is battling pancreatic cancer; and I've been devastated to see her suffering and her face becoming so pale. I slip notes and cards under her door from "Connie Across-the-Hall." Now that's what she calls me: Connie Across the Hall. </b></div>
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<b>So you can see, if I needed to learn about letting go...I'm in a perfect place for it. </b></div>
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<b>A cousin in-law told me after our beloved family healer flew up, You don't want people to die.</b></div>
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<b>I said: I wouldn't go <i>that</i> far. Secretly I know he's right. It's more that I feel, well, not so soon. Later. </b></div>
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<b>Last summer Lou managed the huge project of contractors removing our rotting, wooden logs that supported our retaining wall. Stone was voted on and with her brother's master garden in California in her head, Lou and other gardeners mapped out a flowering field at the summit of our hill and all the flowers potted behind our pool. It's a huge span of flowers. </b></div>
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<b>We never dreamt last summer when Lou put in hour upon hour on the hill digging, planting that she'd be moving on to other gardens so soon. </b><br />
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<b>She is in transition now. I'm trying desperately to find quotes and images to lift her. Yesterday I slipped a postcard from the Minneapolis Institute of Art under her door. It was a painting of the Christ taken down from the cross. I had been saving it. </b><br />
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<b>Stupidly I said: This is our ace in the hole, Lou: a treasure that must be shared. Put it on your pillow. </b><br />
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<b>I know how deep her faith. I was hoping to lift her past her pain. </b><br />
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<b>Two weeks ago, I called 911 after another neighbor banged on my door. She nearly or did collapse in my arms. She said I'm so dizzy; could this be the flu? She was perspiring heavily, getting sick in the hall. I grabbed a metal planter inside my door to help her. Then I called for help. Her blood pressure was at 200. </b><br />
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<b>Molly went off her medications from a decade ago because she couldn't afford her medications. After a night in the hospital after which I picked her up, she said: Now don't worry about me. </b><br />
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<b>As I type, two doors down, Bill, brilliant, old and bent over, is in the hospital. Joan, mentioned above, knocked at my door with Bill's wife Ann (who has dementia) saying Bill was in the hospital with a blood clot and cellulities. I hugged them both...precious elderly.</b><br />
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<b>I never knew how sweet Ann was until I hugged her. Why did it take me so long?</b><br />
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Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-46735353188416983752015-08-23T09:53:00.000-07:002016-01-13T10:39:48.735-08:00When Hillary was Hurting--A Prayer<div style="text-align: center;">
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"CircaetusGallicus" by Juan lacruz - Own work. </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';">A Prayer
for Strength</span><span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><span style="font-size: x-large;">and Healing</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva'; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';">When Bill and hence, Hillary, were
pilloried during their worst times in the White House, my heart went out to
their suffering. My concern went to not only the President and his dreams
but also to Hillary and Chelsea for what they were forced to endure. </span><span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva'; text-align: center;">I wrote a prayer called: </span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva'; font-size: 10pt;">For Hillary
and Chelsea</span><span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva'; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">A Prayer
for Strength <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> and Healing</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">May all the
heavens<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Above thee
kneeling,<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Give you
Grace<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Through
Peace<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And
Healing:<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">May all
kind hearts<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">In
supportive love<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Lighten
your shoulders &<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Strengthen--Your
Resolve.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva'; font-size: 10pt;"><b>All Rights
Reserved. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva'; font-size: 10pt;"><b>Connie
Nelson Ahlberg<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">In recent days, my prayer, never
received, came to mind. <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b><span style="font-size: large;">It's time I shared it. <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"><b>Something pure must clear the air,
something said in earnest to take a campaign beyond </b></span><b style="font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';">where it is today. I believe Washington
Post opinion writer, Eugene Robinson, is right: Hillary needs to clear her path
with an apology. I understand the rationale but time to rise out of it...like an eagle.</b></span></div>
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Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-73143053114318401522015-05-18T16:20:00.000-07:002015-05-18T16:22:57.890-07:00George W. Bush on Religious Liberty<div style="text-align: center;">
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Japanese symbol for Unconditional love</div>
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Pinterest</div>
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It is both curious and not curious at all that former President George W. Bush chose to speak a few words on religious liberty in his commencement address at Southern Methodist University on May 16.<br />
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However since our freedom of religion is protected in the United States--I wish to take a look at the meaning of the words he chose to speak.<br />
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<i>And finally, you can be hopeful because there is a loving God. Whether you agree with that statement or not is your choice. It is not your government's choice. It is essential (applause). It is essential to this nation's future that we remember that the freedom to worship who we want and how we want--or not worship at all--is a core belief of our founding.</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Read more at http://www.inquisitr.com/2095753/george-w-bush-calls-himself-c-student-president-at-smu-commencement-speech-defends-religious-liberty/#s63j7BH2UPhKmhW5.99</span><br />
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The words freedom of religion "is not your government's choice," stand out. By in large, our beliefs <i>aren't</i> controlled by Washington D.C. nor state houses of government. So what could the President have meant by his remarks--on freedoms we already have?<br />
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Having been raised Christian, I feel I have an idea. Of course he was speaking at a Christian-affiliated university. One could say he was honoring their beliefs (and his own).<br />
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The more Conservative Right, however, isn't so vitally concerned about ALL religious freedom. They are fixated on their own. To some, the United States is for the Christians and by the Christians. And they feel they've lost ground. But this isn't a theocracy. The structure of our government lies in the separation of church and state.<br />
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Many hold, no matter that your faith may celebrate a different prophet than the Christ, that manger scenes should be allowed, still be seen on government property. And prayer should still be in public schools.<br />
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But not Muslim prayer, Buddhist chants, or Hindi offerings, but say, the Our Father.<br />
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The ills of our country, some vehemently protest, are due to our lack of prayer in the schools.<br />
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They point to our currency with the words: In God We Trust.<br />
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Many lament it is now Happy Holidays vs Merry Christmas and that Christmas trees are not emphasized. Respectfully the very word Christ is in the name of the tree and Christians holy holiday. Kwanzaa, the week-long celebration in December of African American culture, has not necessarily been embraced.<br />
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It isn't that I don't believe, but because I do. I believe I need respect you: whether Christian or atheist, agnostic, of the Jewish faith and traditions, Hindu practices, Morman, Islamic, or Buddhist. We also have Native American spirituality (which is more evolved than the faith which ignored an entire people who came after them from European shores.) Christianity shouldn't be considered thee faith of the United States, but one of many: all faiths and non-faiths deserving mutual respect.<br />
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The Baha'i faith is one of inclusion of all peoples; I marvel at the oneness in their belief.<br />
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The close of the President's speech I can do nothing but applaud for he spoke on unconditional love. We need keep returning to mutual respect--so all, <i>all</i> are honored in peace--and not conflict.<br />
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We are not diminished with arms open wide in inclusion.<br />
Rather we expand our own hearts and the earth's evolution when we live it.Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-47213278174473668212015-04-22T15:12:00.001-07:002015-04-22T15:12:33.470-07:00Precious Moments with My Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Lake Superior, Grand Marais, MN</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Grand Marais Chamber of Commerce</b></span></div>
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<b>On April 13th I drove five hours to see my dad. I had the glee of a child. It was my 68th birthday and I'm rich enough to still <i>have</i> my dad. The miles from the Twin Cities to northern MN flew by. </b></div>
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<b>On May 11, one day after my mother's birthday on the celestial level, my dad turns 100.5. There will be a cake and humble celebration. If you think I can comprehend the span of time in which he's lived--you would be wrong because I can't.</b></div>
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<b>Since my dad sleeps a lot--he wasn't up when I got there. It was after 4:00 in the afternoon, and he was resting. Willard was asleep. I went in and started to sing my own birthday song to our party of two. He awoke happily; he was instantly elated to see me and joined into the silliness of the moment. (It reminds me of a day over twenty years ago when I ran into my mother at our local K-Mart. Her face was radiant. It was like she more than won the Blue Light Special. No, she had won the lottery.)</b></div>
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<b>There aren't a long line of people who want to join you in a dance on the day you were born. But I knew we'd make music together: this was my dad. </b></div>
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<b>I said we had to celebrate and would he come with me! He was game, after all he spent a life in sales, and he knew a sales pitch when he heard one. </b></div>
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<b>The Blue Water Cafe was closed so we made the stairs at the Gunflint Tavern. He ordered a gyro sandwich because I told him mother loved them. But he didn't know what to do with the Greek-wrapped sandwich on his plate when it was placed in front of him. Still, he ate it as best he could. The tooth pic holding it together puzzled him. </b></div>
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<b>We had a fruit cobbler as I felt I didn't need all the sugar in their no doubt, man-sized carrot cake. (Indeed, I felt my dad would faint over the price.) </b></div>
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<b>Over my few days on the Shore as we call it (short for North Shore), the list of happiness was a list of little things. He loved seeing his old '99 Buick Century; even more, he was delirious to sit in it. It was like seeing and being with an old friend. His old polka tapes still sat in the console he'd purchased to hold coffee and change. </b></div>
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<b>Every day was a love-fest as I didn't drive north in the winter months. We would talk often, sometimes even he calling me. But nothing could match the promised "forehead kisses" given in person.</b></div>
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<b>On perhaps the most outstanding day of my short visit, we did make it to the Blue Water Cafe for the blueberry pancakes he loves so much. It used to be a stack of three, but now it's one blueberry pancake, three strips of bacon, and syrup (warmed, thank you). You are special at 100!</b></div>
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<b>The topper after our brunch was taking my brother's suggestion to swing into the Dairy Queen. He didn't like how I pulled in, but that's all right--shades of years ago. I ran inside and purchased two small vanilla ice cream cones. I delivered it to him as if I was on skates at a car-hop through his lowered window.</b></div>
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<b>Then we drove to where the Coast Guard station is situated and looked at the idyllic Grand Marais harbor. He was out of his mind. He insisted he hadn't had a cone in YEARS, while I know my brother has taken him there in recent times.</b></div>
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<b>I cautioned him to keep licking the cone or it could get the best of him. Then he expressed his joy as only he could: </b></div>
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<b>See what a simple cone can do?</b></div>
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<br />Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-10450953483337878722015-04-19T11:04:00.000-07:002015-04-19T11:04:11.536-07:00Song of the Sage<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgnfe9qbrrvdudNOTtmFffyAycDlyXsXErEYjO7161zgqcOJNcRTDS1APl903kFYdKP8ZyfJzx98vfwkyAhDYREe_Wcyy0K-eizQkB4lUE6ACHXA1PSsezsGwFjCQ7RCwtT2x1SsrOorE/s1600/Grace_Elvina,_Marchioness_Curzon_of_Kedleston.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgnfe9qbrrvdudNOTtmFffyAycDlyXsXErEYjO7161zgqcOJNcRTDS1APl903kFYdKP8ZyfJzx98vfwkyAhDYREe_Wcyy0K-eizQkB4lUE6ACHXA1PSsezsGwFjCQ7RCwtT2x1SsrOorE/s1600/Grace_Elvina,_Marchioness_Curzon_of_Kedleston.jpg" height="320" width="232" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>"Grace Elvina, Marchioness Curzon of Kedleston" </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>by John Singer Sargent - Wikimedia Commons</b></span></div>
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<b>O Keeper of Wisdom! O Giver of Gifts!</b><br />
<b>You gave so softly with Thy lips,</b><br />
<b>You gave so softly I never knew--that</b><br />
<b>Ever softly wisdom grew;</b><br />
<b>For my calendar turned a page,</b><br />
<b>On the softest day I ever knew!</b><br />
<b>The calendar of my days</b><br />
<b>Turned into You--</b><br />
<b>So softly as sage my age turned</b><br />
<b>Wisdom's truth--;</b><br />
<b>So now they come both broken</b><br />
<b>And whole, telling</b><br />
<b>Scattered secrets of their soul;</b><br />
<b>And I full of wonder open wide;</b><br />
<b>Listening, all my wisdom seemingly tied</b><br />
<b>To Yours alone, with my experience sown,</b><br />
<b>So softly into my words no one heard!</b><br />
<b>So softly spoken, in mystical ways,</b><br />
<b>You blessed me with wisdom</b><br />
<b>And I turned--Sage!</b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">©</span>1995 Connie Nelson Ahlberg - All Rights Reserved.<br />
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<br />Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-20637866091805630122015-04-09T11:29:00.000-07:002015-04-09T11:29:42.853-07:00Rising / My Saints in the Corner<br />
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The Last Supper by Salvador Dali<br />
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To save the world, starting and staying with our own breath,<br />
we need to continually open to our prophet as ego falls away<br />
like a coat too cumbersome to wear.<br />
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Our spiritual life isn't dependent on the retail calendar. Indeed we are better off by ignoring it.<br />
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If everything is part of our path as Buddhists teach, then it truly is an Earth School here.<br />
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I have a theory that one of my missions is to learn to: let go. Currently I am living in what was my parents' condominium called Woodhurst West surrounded by tenents who may have moved into Woodhurst in the '70's or '80's. Simple math tells you their lives would be drawing to a close.<br />
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Yet I've found I'm rarely ready for my neighbors to "fly up," as I say. I am perpetually startled. What Buddhists plan for in their daily mindful meditation, Christians seek to ignore. "I'll think about that tomorrow," in the tradition of Scarlet O'Hara sums up many of us.<br />
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I feel I get to know and appreciate residents belatedly if at all. I find myself mourning, in one case, a retired minister and his wife who died five months from each other. I call them my "Saints in the Corner." First Joyce Stevens died unexpectedly from a blood clot following knee surgery. I bought a garden angel to honor her. To keep the pottery angel free from blemish, it rests on my white carpet.<br />
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"I lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my strength," Psalm 121. Now the scriptural quote on Joyce Steven's memorial is my favorite as were the voluminous cream roses on her casket. Their petals were as exquisite as the life they honored.<br />
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After Joyce Stevens died, I saw her husband's light all the more. I found him remarkable. I was crestfallen that I had been so late to discern the humility, grace, and intelligence of Ed Stevens and his wife. Ed was always smiling, somewhat whimsical, and toward the end, forgetful and unsteady.<br />
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Once I happened to be in the garage with him and saw he was on route to dispose of his light bag of trash. As we walked side-by-side, Ed started to lean too far over; and I grabbed his sleeve with a gentle tug.<br />
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Catch me if I'm falling.<br />
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Their unit hasn't sold so I still see their nameplate near their door. They should be inside I tell myself, still living the decorum we all saw. They were private. And we all respected their privacy. After two lives in religious service to various church communities, they <i>deserved</i> just the green trees, hostas, family and friends gathering around. </div>
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Ed Stevens</div>
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Joyce Stevens</div>
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Joyce told me once that either she or her daughter had a poem of mine. I can only say, I have their lives. </div>
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Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-81826228369924888052015-02-19T10:58:00.001-08:002015-02-21T11:49:15.188-08:00Siding with Pope Francis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Pope Francis </b></span></div>
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The Pope recently commented that were you to dishonor his mother, you could get</div>
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This comparison arose in answer to the Charlie Hebdo attacks on January 7, 2015 after the publication of images of Mohammad. </div>
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It was interesting to me that a co-founder of Charlie Hebdo newspaper, Henri Roussel, felt his editor, Stephane Charbonnier, went too far in inflaming and offending Muslims around the world. Roussel described Charbonnier as "brilliant, but stubborn." (<i>CNN</i>)</div>
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When the attack upon Charlie Hebdo occurred, the civilized world was shocked and gathered en masse to proclaim: JESUIS CHARLIE (I am Charlie.) And Henri Roussel was condemned by Richard Malka, Charlie Hebdo's attorney, as "polemical and venemous."</div>
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But protests by Muslims erupted in Karachi, Pakistan, Jordan, Alger, Niger, Mali, Somalia, Senegal, and Mauritania. (<i>Sophia Saifi Pakistan)</i></div>
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Are all these hearts and passions to be dismissed? </div>
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What I find disturbing is the challengers to the Muslim faith are from a cartoonist, Charbonnier, and artist, Lars Vilks. Lars' cartoon showed Mohammed on the body of a dog. Each felt it was their right under free speech to "poke the bear," as a benign, elder friend of mine expressed.</div>
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Charbonnier was "an athesist and a pacifist." The irony is profound.</div>
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Lars Vilks says he is an "equal opportunity offender." He not only has drawn Mohammed on the body of a dog in a roundabout, but also Jesus as a pedophile.</div>
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Provoking is what Vilks does well. In his youth he placed his artist "installations" in a protected nature preserve. </div>
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Here is my agrument: Is it up to non-religious individuals to confront Islam on their sacred beliefs? Isn't it more appropriate the evolution of a faith lies within the spiritual leaders and the faithful vs outsiders who seek to defy it?</div>
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The actions of Vilks and editor Stephane Charbonnier offend. They also garner little respect by many who believe in Christian tenets or Jewish beliefs. </div>
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Why insult a religion in which the devout kneel and pray with greater consistency than many believers of other faiths?</div>
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Vilks, who hasn't found acclaim through his art, has sought attention in any way he can--like defying religious beliefs of Muslims to not depict their spiritual leader on paper, in print--at all. </div>
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Violence against human beings is a horrific path. </div>
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But I feel there is no honor in what Vilks is trying to do. I do not defend him. </div>
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And the fact that Charbonnier was a pacifist yet believed in defiance against Islam which caused harm and violence in believers doesn't compute either. How praiseworthy is it?</div>
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These words are not in defense of terrorists. </div>
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I side with the ower of Charles Hebdo who said--the actions of the newspaper were pushed too far. Insanely too far. Thus the pacifist invited death. </div>
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I can't support individuals who disrespect the beliefs held by others. Why are they</div>
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the arbitors of what is right? </div>
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Thich Nhat Hanh has taught us that Peace is Every Step. We are here to <i>honor each other.</i> I think this is what the Pope was saying. Dear Francis, with few words he said it all. </div>
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<br />Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-67323250221746617072015-02-13T15:26:00.000-08:002015-02-13T15:26:42.560-08:00Prayer of the Soulmate<div style="text-align: center;">
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St. Guenole</div>
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Chapel at Prigny (Loire-Atlantique)</div>
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Single girls place a needle into the foot of the Saint</div>
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So they may find their soulmate.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">True friendship is a road to God;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And, yes, Lord, I am Your soulmate</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Inseparable from You</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On all the paths to my friends;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yet some, Lord, take me to a higher road</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Where each nuance, laugh, and lift of the head</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Towards the heavens is hardly spoken</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The silence not broken yet everything understood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My road has breathless curves on all sides;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Views unseen before</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I traveled with You.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We laugh bent over</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And know it is Good.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The road on which we never stood</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Becomes a precious place! Joy in the moment!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That human face more intricate than treasured lace,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This road to my friend</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Which ends in You.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Amen.</span></div>
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Written about a best friend many years ago. </div>
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Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2518793981881085393.post-67335432585450330542014-12-22T14:14:00.002-08:002014-12-22T14:14:34.251-08:00Dear Beloved Dad<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>A Real Letter</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCsNIxBlOWPUgy8GZOb6ichwX6RknRhnW2xPPOd5pfWmUIJZer6Nb-OkJfvTvDbxKeHYM3J9Bhq4BZjejSzTUeM3N4_II5SnnuOV5x9qwhxYXiIWX0bLl_a71XKvXlL1uoHX3ZFCH5Hng/s1600/IMG_1293.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCsNIxBlOWPUgy8GZOb6ichwX6RknRhnW2xPPOd5pfWmUIJZer6Nb-OkJfvTvDbxKeHYM3J9Bhq4BZjejSzTUeM3N4_II5SnnuOV5x9qwhxYXiIWX0bLl_a71XKvXlL1uoHX3ZFCH5Hng/s1600/IMG_1293.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Dad's favorite: A Blueberry Pie</b></div>
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<b>(With fresh blueberries he picked himself without </b></div>
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<b>eating one.)</b></div>
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<b>Dear Beloved Dad, </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>I don't know how I can keep our secret any longer. I've kept the secret that you're the real Santa Claus for 67 years!</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>But now I'm about to POP, Pop!</b></div>
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<b>Not many daughters or sons have Santa for a Dad. If I do tell, however, there could be some sort of a revolt. After all, a few may feel I've received preferential treatment because we're kin and all.</b></div>
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<b>And I cannot tell a lie being raised Catholic (as you know, because you paid for it).</b></div>
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<b>If I'm asked if I've received preferential treatment, I would have to give a most affirmative "Yes!"</b></div>
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<b>From my doll house days when I snuck out and caught you assembling on Christmas when I was five, to my little, mint green, Nash Rambler you bought for me in my freshman year in college--I've wanted for nothing.</b></div>
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<b>When I messed up, there you were. When the starving artist wasn't just on a diet, you paid back taxes (which would have broken any ordinary back, I must say).</b></div>
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<b>When mother flew up we stayed strong together; our most serious fight was over that damn diamond broach mom buried in dried beans to throw thieves off their trail. But it was you who came with flowers and a enclosure card which read: We must keep our love for your mother above all things."</b></div>
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<b>I saved it, but not as perfectly as I should have. It's a little blotched.</b></div>
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<b>I guess Hill Haven Assisted Living won't be too surprised if word leaks out that one of their long-term residents is the real St. Nick. Because you hadn't been there a week, when the co-owner told me: He's a <i>treasure</i>.</b></div>
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<b>And being moral and upright, from my heart I say: You are beyond a treasure.</b></div>
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<b>It's said you pick your parents, so at this point I figure: I'm a genius!</b></div>
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<b>Anyone with a heart as big as yours normally doesn't live to be 100. But God has granted you a special dispensation because of all your unselfish acts.</b></div>
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<b>You're a Peach; You're the Berries. You're the most perfect blueberry pie that you and a bear picked from the same patch. </b></div>
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<b>How God has blessed me, blessed my brother and I--for giving us our Santa who gifts all year every year into our tomorrows. </b></div>
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<b>Here's a forehead kiss and my undying love. </b></div>
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<b>Merry Christmas, Pie</b></div>
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Writer in Residencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548985774790601074noreply@blogger.com1