tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38767821566083644232024-03-12T19:26:57.238-04:00Soaring and Stillness: Life with the ChickadeesSeeking out the extraordinary in the ordinary rhythm of life, friendship, identity, and motherhoodShannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-91560046715010173662022-10-26T14:54:00.005-04:002022-10-26T15:09:10.161-04:00On Being A Root Giver<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’ve deeply wrestled lately with identity and purpose. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I believe I’m prepared for the road. I’ve diligently studied the map. But then, BAM, there is an unexpected turn or I encounter brambles that pull and tear at my clothing. Here, in the unknown, I turn into a frazzled, frustrated mess questioning each inch of the cartography. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Why am I doing this?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Is it even worth it to continue?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Why is no one here to help me?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Where am I actually headed?”</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3--6akv5cnuxgT0TSS9akvaSU3qKH9e2qijVVKdZiaFDHwCeLoGJHhbl3ZH3Tv5OVUjAZ8c1EfEHZNXqoVkx4SJFG2hXaH33aG2OMMn1RFjg0aeQ1x682Jnvm0wlIx-G-vmzlAzJ9AiDZAiA_pVuTpov9AsDhqUD04eLymzVsdjSGtkUrtFg1VT8/s533/6167EE11-E7FA-4BFB-BB89-721855930F6C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="533" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3--6akv5cnuxgT0TSS9akvaSU3qKH9e2qijVVKdZiaFDHwCeLoGJHhbl3ZH3Tv5OVUjAZ8c1EfEHZNXqoVkx4SJFG2hXaH33aG2OMMn1RFjg0aeQ1x682Jnvm0wlIx-G-vmzlAzJ9AiDZAiA_pVuTpov9AsDhqUD04eLymzVsdjSGtkUrtFg1VT8/s320/6167EE11-E7FA-4BFB-BB89-721855930F6C.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>I’ve long sought to teach the chickadees that there is a great difference between desire and purpose and that is normal and acceptable to question. Doing what we </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">want </i><span style="font-family: georgia;">to do </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">is incredibly different than doing what we are </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">called </i><span style="font-family: georgia;">to do. For small humans, it is remarkably easy to redirect the want for the should. It might have taken some extra persuasion, but generally those beautiful, big, soulful eyes showed agreement and little hands slipped inside of mine and we fairly easily continued down a path. They grew, and heels dug in more firmly as want and purpose seemed a murkier combination. Then they both left the nest so early, staggered, but </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">so very early</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">, and I was left to wonder if I’d done enough to show them that they were enough, so much more than enough that purpose would outshine </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">-or at least compete with- </i><span style="font-family: georgia;">the wants of this big, wonderful, broken, glorious world. I made it my daily prayer that they’d each enter their next chapters as influencers for good. Old souls in young bodies that were light bearers and not flickering, sputtering flames. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2my7S2j_GLN8R2cgN3XAuQq244CwoPbk1diFXMNBlHeY4EVfCNO5z-xCmfgg4cqbEf0czQ5z6y9Z_c-r1ELPZ-xDFMoclYJITWPdPhu-8rPndLRyxHEdRB7wmwg2nyebPl9t8Ca8OOX1pXA3Z3NvxWI2muoo1GCPAYg-AwuYpAQL6lgkphefEmIF3/s1037/B538C62C-0267-492A-86D3-2A36EBB1F59E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="835" data-original-width="1037" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2my7S2j_GLN8R2cgN3XAuQq244CwoPbk1diFXMNBlHeY4EVfCNO5z-xCmfgg4cqbEf0czQ5z6y9Z_c-r1ELPZ-xDFMoclYJITWPdPhu-8rPndLRyxHEdRB7wmwg2nyebPl9t8Ca8OOX1pXA3Z3NvxWI2muoo1GCPAYg-AwuYpAQL6lgkphefEmIF3/s320/B538C62C-0267-492A-86D3-2A36EBB1F59E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">For more than two decades of motherhood I’ve worked diligently to follow the path. I am so grateful for where and how I was raised; I also hope not to pass it all along. As we humans age, we tend to wear those beautiful rose colored glasses that make everything glow in afternoon light. I’m an enneagram 1 who sees everything just as it is, not rosy or stark or in shadows…not how I want it or in the worst possible scenario…just as it <i>is.</i> Not bad, not good, but potentially ready to be tweaked and edited or expanded if necessary. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Recently, I was introduced to beautiful image that we are the echoes of all of the voices which came before us. We are tasked to create new vocabulary and banish the harsh tones for the generations which follow. The sheet music I came from wasn’t straight melody, nor was it a totally cacophony. It was the blend that shaped <i>me; </i>some of which I keep and parts which should be left boxed, tabled, and shelved. The echos still make their voices heard in both the good (the sounds of crunching through the first fall leaves or the gentle flip of a bedtime story and Brahms’ lullaby) and in the not-as-admirable (the warning bells of a danger switch or the sound of steam releasing when push past limits). I am learning, slowing and surely, how to grow and use the sounds and voices of my childhood to lead me down unfamiliar roads. I desperately desire the same for the humans sharing 50% of my DNA and all of my heart. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Purpose. Identity.</span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">My purpose. My identity.</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">For years the two have been inexorably intertwined with those sweet, tender humans I was given to nurture and grow. I worked the soil to create roots that would go deeper than the day is long. I tended, pulled overgrowth, removed pests, and watered. They grew; they bloomed, sprouted, and inched toward the sky. As it goes, the closer they came to the clouds the further they were from ground.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mamas (& all who let go of those tender hearts that reside outside of their own physical bodies), I know you will understand. For decades, those curious beings were as much a part of me as any appendage. I, too, was a part of each of them. Much of my daily purpose lay in the in betweens of their rising up and lying down. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">and then….</span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">They flew.</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The wildly free, deeply open hearted, fiercely passionate, independent, brave, beautiful souls with deeply planted roots decided that it was time to soar. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>There is stillness</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">It is glorious. It is terrifying.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So I start with a clean page and new lines, listening to the echoes and grateful both for garden and the sky. In all things, I am so very grateful for those glorious in between moments I was granted. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Deeper</i> than the seas that separates us. <i>Higher</i> than the skies over our heads. <i>Wider </i>than this great amazing terrible lovely perfectly imperfect world.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6aTfhO96QiuRYtsJpf_TFF2X-HO3ZhtpwR6--GFalUFotTF38yy3cnUmfT2ZrhVCHOq2qR2hKSTzQxgPsncavo-COH6mY4bkhHN6vZqzxLrX6sut9nZ71f4LGxQ1bSJ7nOVF97Gc_4Q-Z2tMp-EFGHrfTtLAqXJQduY1VAZKSZbRI87lg5H_zsmFF/s1111/9A852331-ABEF-42F7-892E-C16F10083FE1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="1111" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6aTfhO96QiuRYtsJpf_TFF2X-HO3ZhtpwR6--GFalUFotTF38yy3cnUmfT2ZrhVCHOq2qR2hKSTzQxgPsncavo-COH6mY4bkhHN6vZqzxLrX6sut9nZ71f4LGxQ1bSJ7nOVF97Gc_4Q-Z2tMp-EFGHrfTtLAqXJQduY1VAZKSZbRI87lg5H_zsmFF/s320/9A852331-ABEF-42F7-892E-C16F10083FE1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Someday, sweet chickadees, you’ll read this and realize just how much I love you.</span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Higher. Deeper. Wider. </span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Always.</span></i></p>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-57914698453432250132022-10-17T12:16:00.002-04:002022-10-17T12:16:13.882-04:00Just Hit Accept<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsAa7rT9obVll8JTAHOaReRt1cmNDdh9SewL618YVZpN8CEHmYZ4vttBxmpLGMo0fjpKfJc7hJMbNBo9UouRwGDrhwpL9tca25S8-C7yystRLoU1dim7NcrWV4W599IgsEzYFUtK7Du6nSe6HOPaVK3hMVzgXBrOxGbwq8Tn2ch2q2gHqaLUN-h9FP/s590/D8BDFD93-7C43-4684-910D-FCC08532F9FF.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="590" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsAa7rT9obVll8JTAHOaReRt1cmNDdh9SewL618YVZpN8CEHmYZ4vttBxmpLGMo0fjpKfJc7hJMbNBo9UouRwGDrhwpL9tca25S8-C7yystRLoU1dim7NcrWV4W599IgsEzYFUtK7Du6nSe6HOPaVK3hMVzgXBrOxGbwq8Tn2ch2q2gHqaLUN-h9FP/w400-h268/D8BDFD93-7C43-4684-910D-FCC08532F9FF.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Last night, something miraculous occurred.</span></div><p>The phone rang.</p><p>I answered.</p><p>In the scope of the everyday ordinary it doesn’t sound like much, the act of seeing a call and accepting it instead of sending it to voicemail.</p><p>She didn’t want to do anything but talk. Have conversation. Fellowship with me over cellular airwaves. </p><p>I answered because outside of immediate family, hers is the number set to bypass do not disturb. The phone knows that outside of regular hours, I’ve let her in. </p><p>I think she knows it too.</p><p>She didn’t call for anything in particular; she was on her way home with an occupied babe in the backseat and had an hour. </p><p>She called me.</p><p>I answered.</p><p>We talked for the remainder of her trip. The big chick and the professor tried to find a movie to watch and wandered in wondering where I was and when I was coming back. Her little bit was occupied in the car seat and didn’t make a peep.</p><p>I told them to go ahead without me. She let the golden haired angel watch the coveted tablet.</p><p>For the first time in eleven years, I didn’t fly of the phone. I paced back and forth as we shared stories and life and thoughts without the interruptions that come when you have smallish (or big) people who naturally need you.</p><p>The humans she made? They are incredible. They are bright and kind and full of life and joy and love. She pours into them on the daily and is one of the best mamas I’ve ever known. Mine love hers and hers adore mine.</p><p>It all sounds so normal and regular and ordinary, this talking on the phone.</p><p>It wasn’t. </p><p>It was holy and miraculous. Monumental. It was the first call I’ve received from a friend, just to talk, since that crazy, amazing, beautiful soul that was “framily” used to phone.</p><p>Grief is. It just is. Pieces of you change in ways you never anticipate and try desperately to ignore. Sheltered spaces lay dormant for days, months, years, decades. </p><p>I answered expecting a need that I may willing fill. I hit end and immediately was blown away by the enormity of the gift.</p><p>Accepting the call and not letting it ring through was huge. If I’m being fully transparent, she’s been a big step for me, this in real life relationship that requires vulnerability and trust, and the requirement of showing up. I’ve failed more than once as I’ve taken two steps and retreated three. She is all of the things I love and look for in a friend. She’s bright and kind and honest and she loves fiercely. She is beautiful, inside and out. She is intentional. She loves Jesus. She has no idea how meticulously God created her and the immense care He took in the package that makes her up.</p><p>I’m an all in or nothing at all girl, mostly, but then so is she. For my 300% she’s at 350. It’s been a decade since I met someone close in age that matches my fierce intensity in friendship. Maybe that’s not true. I’m sure I’ve met humans that would do the same…I just finally let one in.</p><p>In letting her in, I see more Jesus.</p><p>In letting her in, I let her see me and am honest.</p><p>In letting her in, I play. I laugh and wonder a bit more.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhAOpK-h3mbvE9hlo_TdFdNJOzIecqngNAmsjIk1THPPSGCUN1okcjOwqS-q6PFz0SENYKQGkxlxXcRuhH95py676EI4m_gOZeAsctZbuDo3W4zjuLpKs4CsGAwLQSgQMuwTrEEVAUHEItvBXV_Pxpz-PM1jqgtmazva_4OOhrROmfehQo4rKio8r/s723/090B49A2-F12D-4FF7-8EBC-572045030DF7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="723" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhAOpK-h3mbvE9hlo_TdFdNJOzIecqngNAmsjIk1THPPSGCUN1okcjOwqS-q6PFz0SENYKQGkxlxXcRuhH95py676EI4m_gOZeAsctZbuDo3W4zjuLpKs4CsGAwLQSgQMuwTrEEVAUHEItvBXV_Pxpz-PM1jqgtmazva_4OOhrROmfehQo4rKio8r/s320/090B49A2-F12D-4FF7-8EBC-572045030DF7.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>In letting her in, I stop and look at clouds and chase small people on playgrounds, and go for walks that don’t close exercise rings. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Every single day we are “called” to do things that feel uncomfortable. I do a million hard things a day and I’m sure you do too. Things that require you to give of your time and energy and talents. Things that are scary and feel impossible. Things that you don’t feel yet equipped to handle. No less than ten times a day I fully doubt my capabilities and purpose. I’m in a season where all I’ve done is new and it’s hard. Really hard. So very, very hard. I doubt and wonder and second guess and feel unequipped and alone 90% of the time. </span></div><p>But those thoughts last night were a little less loud because I didn’t send a call to voicemail. I answered. </p><p>Everyday ordinary miracles often show up unannounced and unexpectedly. They may be the voice on the other end of the line, or setting aside the “should” for the “could” in the day. If you’re not looking, you let them slip away. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqiu_cxXfs-gt5gBVP4DZaohQtiOnxRtVQPV2iSGRZ8sY95iB9GFVZ_cIA3xex95aBqjnF7BsuWZ2VCXeunKxMCRtc_f_7CqY_IbtmQmTZGOHNuFRzQdell4vOVZuOfSZlbHgrDVFVbhjITTirGkylZBXLVaRj-mevgDvWTdQ64hGgRuE7sk5ECNID/s443/EB1E109B-97A4-40A7-88FC-AA84AFB24389.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="283" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqiu_cxXfs-gt5gBVP4DZaohQtiOnxRtVQPV2iSGRZ8sY95iB9GFVZ_cIA3xex95aBqjnF7BsuWZ2VCXeunKxMCRtc_f_7CqY_IbtmQmTZGOHNuFRzQdell4vOVZuOfSZlbHgrDVFVbhjITTirGkylZBXLVaRj-mevgDvWTdQ64hGgRuE7sk5ECNID/s320/EB1E109B-97A4-40A7-88FC-AA84AFB24389.jpeg" width="204" /></a></div><br /><p>Today, I’m grateful I answered the call. </p><p>I’m grateful for friendship.</p><p>I’m grateful for eyes that allow me to see and for being given a heart that is expansive.</p><p>I’m grateful for making room and opening doors.</p><p>I pray you will allow yourself grace in the spaces. That you’ll believe in wonder and accept new possibilities even when you believe the book is written and your chapters have a period. I pray you’ll be brave enough to try the new and go back to the old if it brings you passion and joy. I pray you’ll see yourself as wonderfully made and enough. I pray you have strength to simply answer. Not to give a yes or no, but just to be open to the incoming, whatever it may be. You’ll never know what’s ahead and waiting for you unless you take a breath and say hello.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-34567652829574201812018-09-27T12:27:00.000-04:002018-09-27T12:53:38.321-04:00All Will Be WellI have a dear friend who closes with <i><a href="http://thewestraworld.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">all shall be well</a></i>. It's a battle cry and motto, but it's also a deep seeded belief. A series of words that she holds to when the sand passes through her fingers or there is no foothold in the wall. She's beautiful and kind and full of Jesus. She loves her family and her community. She brings awareness to what is important to her. She's also not long for this world.<br />
<br />
It makes my heart squeeze in a manner I'm only too familiar with.<br />
<br />
Growing up, September was about the roar of that big stadium in Ann Arbor, the crisp bite of a breeze, the cheer in the air. It was back-to-school clothes and waiting at the bus stop and the first hint of the brilliance of the trees. I met new teachers, lost teeth, found a routine, and loved every minute of all of it. Fall was my favorite, and September brought about all of the things that made it so, for she was the promise of all that was to come.<br />
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Promises are interesting beasts. As kids, we pinky-swore, crossed-our-hearts, and made pacts. I believed in the power of promise, much like I believed in magical creatures and fairy tales. Those letters strung together held power, the "I promise I'll be your friend forever" or "I pinky-swear you can spend the night at my house". In that era the words were simpler, but no less genuine. They were the deals that we thought would last forever in those days that went from long to short. They were the vocabulary of childhood.<br />
<br />
As I've grown older promise doesn't hold any less weight, but I approach her with care. It's not that she's failed me, but rather that I view her with caution. We think, as kids, that we'll have <i>all the things</i> as we age. The friends and the life and the career and the dreams and none of it will be transitory. As adults, we come to learn that we do have all the things, but in different measure and time than what we imagined them to be. <i>All shall be well </i>is too a promise of sorts, in different nature. These are not words that assure us our lives will be easy or perfect, but that they will be full. That they will hold weight and matter. That it will be according to what is intended for us, not for what we hope and dream and plan for ourselves. It will not be <i>good</i>. It will be <i>well.</i><br />
<br />
Which is why I ache.<br />
<br />
Sweet September was always a promise of what I held dear and treasured. Now she's a reminder of it. In the leaves I see a million variations and colors. I watch them start to fall and reminded of how quickly they move from vibrant to fading, and the beauty that occurs in the transition. It's in the in-between that we see that <i>all will be well</i>. Even as each brilliant leaf begins her trajectory toward the ground, toward home, she's stunning. Ablaze in color she dances through the air, fulfilling the promise of change.<br />
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-54813526689706005292017-05-12T12:31:00.000-04:002017-05-12T12:42:58.795-04:00Cha-Cha-ChangesIn a year of uncertainty, we've stood together, arms linked both literally and figuratively. But in the spot we're currently in? I'm ready to let go and get all schlumpy.<br />
<br />
My gracegirl has flown the coop for extended periods, little bit took on the responsibility of a new puppy, and we changed nest locations. Phew. Too many life events in the span of five months.<br />
<br />
I'm. Exhausted.<br />
<br />
Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Worn. Out.<br />
<br />
I'm not a woman who stops. It's one of my great features and also one of my almost fatal flaws. I go and go and go. Until I'm no good to myself or anyone around me, unless the "around me" includes the public. Then, I'm peachy. I'm "fine". You've heard what that stands for...right? Yep. I'm that. The problem being, that when I'm <i>that</i> I don't like <i>me</i>.<br />
<br />
I'm a rare bird. I usually like myself. I don't worry about what others think. I believe that stems from riding the short bus, being in a wheelchair and basically having no friends for most of my preteen years. You learn to not care what others think of you when no one speaks to you. You learn to be okay with the body you've got when it works better than it did almost three decades ago. You appreciate life in a myriad of ways when it's not from the confines of a vantage point where you're usually looking at people's pockets or gimping around with a heart-stickered cane. It's all about perspective and gratitude. So this whole <i>unsure-not-okay-with-myself</i> thing has thrown me for a complete loop.<br />
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I'm not a complainer, but I've caught myself doing it lately. I despise that feature in myself. I work on joy and love and graciousness and meeting people where they are at, despite my ridiculously high standards for myself. I would surmise that this stems from my worn-outedness. I don't cope tired. Although I play it off well, my tank is never actually full. I liken having a chronic autoimmune disease to having a newborn while being struck by the flu. Yep. For real. Most of the time you wake up tired, go to bed tired, and are tired all day in-between. I've stopped saying I'm tired. I figure the chicks and the professor accept it as part of our daily life by now. I add in the whole "flu" thing because most days with disease mean weird fevers, joint pain, or rashes, or even the general feeling of fighting-something. Fighting yourself? It's a bitch.<br />
<br />
Yep, that brings us to my other new flaw. Cussing. Not ladylike. I'm not saying I didn't do it before, but it wasn't a regular part of my vernacular. This has to change. In the whole scheme of things, it's currently one of my less fatal flaws, but a flaw nonetheless. <i>Has. To. Go.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So here I stand at the crossroads of <i>What The Heck</i> and <i>Where Am I Going</i>. I would <i>LOVE</i> to actually find a place with those street names and linger there for awhile. But it's real life and <i>ain't nobody got time for that</i>. Which leads me back to how I might attempt to find <i>me</i> in the crazy that is our life stage right now. I'm thinking hiding under a rock is frowned upon and generally socially unacceptable, so the other option shall be to learn to say no.<br />
<br />
That is a post for a later day, as it may require me to get my hyperventilating head out of bag. Because <i>no </i>is lately the only thing I'm worse at than stopping than <i>go</i>. Funny that they rhyme and both end with o...Which is where I'm at if I don't learn to stop both. A big, fat, 0, as in life = 1, me = 0.<br />
<br />
Thank God I can still spell, am good at math (I know one is greater than zero), have a rockin' haircut, and maintain my sense of humor.<br />
<br />
<i>see, i'm still counting a joy list...it's short, but it's still a list...and a good one at that </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-25037030297565055332016-05-08T12:00:00.001-04:002022-10-17T12:34:58.829-04:00Always, AlwaysMotherhood.<br />
<br />
It's surprising and joyous and painful all at once.<br />
<br />
It stretches you to elastigirl lengths. Mostly in your heart where no one else can see the bending and twisting that occurs as one comes to grips with the raising of these small (that become big) humans.<br />
<br />
To My Dearest Chickadees,<br />
<br />
I've watched you this year, my loves, leaping and soaring and standing precariously close to the edges of cliffs, both physical and metaphorical. I've watched you journey, with abandon. You're both so very very brave and strong and beautiful and kind. I'm not just saying this because I'm your momma and I have to, I'm saying it because truth words deserve to be spoken. I speak truth.<br />
<br />
Grace Girl, we've had such a year of firsts and lasts. So many, in fact, that I'm downright worn out. I've heard teenagers do that to a soul. But despite it all you are so worth the loving. Worth every second of it. Remember the days when you were smaller than me? Now I have to tip-toe to fix your hair or help you with make-up. Let's be real...I actually have to ask you to sit to be able to reach you. Your poise? It surprises me again and again. You've gone for the near impossible and dealt with the no. I mean, who flies across the county to tryout for Julliard when they only take 22 students for their summer program and then says she'll do it all again next year? YOU DO. We don't come from big dance and all I desire is to give you the training you so deserve, but you've stayed here and worked your hardest. You go to every single class and you try. It's all I could ever ask of you. You care more about hearts than you do about fame and glory and you've taught your smallish sister to do the same. You love so big, even when you don't want people to know that you do. Your heart? It's so much more beautiful than anything else. It eclipses all of the sass and teenagerhood we deal with in our house. You're sixteen. You're not perfect. Nor am I. You're learning to be all grown up, and it takes my breath away. Covers of catalogs and modeling shoots and texts from amazing choreographers haven't changed who you are on the inside. Lately, you've surprised me with your intellect (I mean, we've always known you were smart...but THIS SMART???) and honestly scared me with the possibilities of all that you are truly capable of academically. My love, the sky is truly your limit. Whatever you decide to do I'll be here to cheer you on, pick you up, and send care packages filled with rice cakes and cookies and reminders of home. We're in our last year of high school early, because, like everything else, you've done it at your speed. You waited a year and got your driver's permit at the age where everyone else was getting a license. It wasn't because you didn't want it, but because you were busy pursuing things that were more important to you. When you're dancing 30 hours a week is there really time to learn to drive? May you always have priorities and may you never care to fit in with the crowd. Those people don't really count anyhow, and I'm grateful that you've learned this early. Do what you do at your own pace. I've watched you live this, both in your schooling and dancing, and it makes my heart swell. YOU, Hannah banana, are the real deal. The one that people want to be when they grow-up. You're all of the lovely things in this world wrapped into one unique package. When that new friend told you he'd never met anyone like you? He spoke truth. There is no one like you in this world. The mix of your determination, fiery spirit, beauty, kindness, gentleness, honesty, wit, worldview and wicked sense of humor are unique. As you prepare to head out from here don't let anyone take those things from you. I'm learning, bit by bit, to let you go. I know it is coming and I'm so proud of you. I'm also so sad for me. I've been raising you to fly, to have roots and wings, and in moments where the days are long but the years are short it's abundantly clear that you are so much bigger than where we are right now. I accept this, dear one, but oh how it will break my heart into a million pieces when you leave. If I've done my job, my heart should break. It will tell me that I did all I could to raise and prepare you before you left and that we've given you all of the tools to feel equipped to leave. That's what motherhood is...roots and wings. Just remember, as you head into all of the last lasts that lead to firsts, that until you find the one that makes your heart soar I'll be your last goodbye as you leave and your first hello hug back.<br />
<br />
Little Bit, you are growing up before my eyes. Your maturity and poise have skyrocketed this year (if it was even possible for you to be more grown-up than you actually are...). You, my love, are so incredibly special. There is a light about you that radiates for all to see. It's magical. Like your sister, you're kind, intelligent, witty, interesting and beautiful. But you are so much more than all of that. When you were a baby and we told people that you were the Mary Poppins of small children I never expected you to keep that quality. You draw people to you, Eliana. You create joy wherever you go without even trying. You, too, are the real deal. There is nothing fake or fabricated about either you or your sister, and I'm so proud of you for never caring what anyone else thinks or says. We've had a few hiccups this year as you've tried to make a path for yourself that does not include Han. Having you talk, with a thirty year old's wisdom, about her growing up and leaving broke my heart in two. Your grace in the situation and foreknowledge astounded me. Trying new groups because she won't always be here to do things with is so, so brave. Especially when you're still so physically small and people mistake you for someone half a decade younger until you open your mouth. Thank you for being my child that never gives up. Ever. The one that will try until she gets a skill or concept or even a friend. Thank you for the ways you grow and teach me. Thank you for always loving me as your mama and as a person. You have no idea what your sweet joy does for my soul. Traveling with you and getting to know you better both as a person and as an artist has been a gift. What 10 year old (who turned 11 this year) gets a lifetime appointment to something? YOU. You're just that unique. You are worth investing in, and watching you pour yourself into it has been something I cannot quite put words to. I'd go to the ends of the earth to watch you learn and stretch yourself and do what you love. Your growth in all areas has been exponential, and so has your heart for those around you. Nah-Nah, you truly are a future star. You're light and joy and life. You have so much ahead of you that I'm already thankful for. The ordinary that you make extraordinary is just around the corner. Breathe in these moments, my sweet girl, because your path is one of flight, too. You'll soar like your big sister. I'm just so so thankful I get you here with me for a bit longer. But, when the time comes, I'll be ready to let you go too, knowing we've raised you to be true to yourself and to share with the world beauty that you are daily becoming.<br />
<br />
Girls, being your mama is my most favorite job. It's my hardest too. Do you know what it's like to raise two golden haired beauties with minds and hearts of their own? Exhausting...mostly because I know that loving and leaving go hand-in-hand. I love the ways you're in our world but not of it. I love the compassion you have for others. I love watching you grow, and I love the way your circle is constantly increasing in diameter. I love both of you for who you are, were, and will someday be.<br />
<br />
For always and forever I thank you for allowing me to be called your mama. It's my hardest, best, most worth-it title outside of being your daddy's wife and daughter of our King. You make my days so very very full and amazing. Continue to let your light shine. Be you. Don't worry about what anyone else thinks. Choose the joy. Speak truth. Love well. Be strong and brave and bold and unique.<br />
<br />
I'll always love you higher, deeper, and wider.<br />
<br />
Always Always,<br />
<br />
MamaShannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-75961517037200473482016-01-13T11:56:00.000-05:002016-01-13T12:01:48.927-05:00Choosing<div>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Choose-Joy-Finding-Purpose-Hurts/dp/1455562815/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1452702872&sr=8-1&keywords=choose+joy" target="_blank"><i>Choose Joy</i></a>. </div>
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Joy? It's a <i>choice...</i></div>
<div>
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...<i>Choosing</i> Joy.<br />
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It's how she <i>chose</i> to live her live. It's how everyone is <i>choosing</i> to remember her as she's partying in Heaven. </div>
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<i>Lucky. Duck. She's partying in Heaven...</i></div>
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Because as the book that Mary Carver penned from Sara's blog (linked above) discusses, it wasn't all sunshine and roses. Or even mostly sunshine and roses. It was real life gritty and uncomfortable. It was painful and messy and downright awful <strike>at times</strike> most of the time. Sara <i>chose.</i></div>
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She focused on the joy and the laughter and the family and friendships and community. She picked it. Just think...in the middle of all of it she <i>picked</i> to focus on the good and beautiful. She made a life for herself when others might have wallowed. She did that occasionally, but always came back from it because she never wanted to be "that person". She never was.</div>
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In the book from the blog, Mary does an excellent job of choosing posts which highlight Sara's keep on keeping on attitude and heart. From tv on Friday nights with her "sisters" to time out on the porch with her parents or shopping in her closet with Laura, <i>Choose Joy</i> highlights the ways that Sara was able to live. She <i>chose life</i> in the middle of her chronic disease. She <i>chose</i> to savor moments and memories and relationships. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Yesterday the chicks and I were in the middle of real life. Real life is hard. It makes you feel all of the feelings and <i>choose</i>. It asks you to try. If you never try you can never choose...and if you never choose then you never grow. You don't feel the feelings. You never step out and change your circumstances. It's a very complicated circle. It's messy. It's <i>life. </i>You must <i>choose </i>to begin to try. Growth comes from <i>choice</i>. </div>
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We've been given the opportunity to <i>choose</i>. </div>
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What are you choosing today?</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-85051797284325887602016-01-08T11:22:00.001-05:002016-01-08T11:31:58.041-05:00Stepping In<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been forever and a day since I last checked in (when I logged into this account it said two years and one day, to be exact). I’ve
been preparing the girls to someday take flight, which has consumed minutes and hours and days and
weeks and months and, apparently, years. It’s a process that is full of perspective and
breathing and growing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll share more
about the chickadees and their process in the future, but these next few posts
will focus on different topics entirely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be honest, I’ve found it difficult to be in an online
space without friend requests and boundaries. It’s vulnerable and open and
real. I’ve been all of these things, but on a much smaller scale and with a
limited audience, so please bear with me as I take baby-steps back here.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I am honored to be part of the <u>Choose Joy</u> launch team. I am.
But honestly? This is hard. <a href="http://momastery.com/blog/about-glennon/" target="_blank">Glennon</a> says all the time “we can do hard
things”. I hard core adopted that mantra as I geared up to read. The hard is
in no way based upon the writing or the promotion or any of it. It’s the topic,
which just happens to be my dead friend. The one who made plans with me for the
“highlight of our twilight” and had a wicked sense of snark and uncontrollable curly
frizz. The one who didn’t make it to forty. Yep. Her. Our <a href="http://gitzengirl.blogspot.ca/2008/09/it-all-good.html" target="_blank">Sara</a> (I'm linking to a post YOU MUST IMMEDIATELY GO READ where she discusses her snark along with her philosophy of it being "all good" and also uses the term "freaking kidding me" which was ALL HER). The game she discusses? The one she played with Mama Jane in the waiting rooms at Mayo? We often play it in airports. So. Many. People. In. Airports. Yes, the girls and I share Sara's snark. As I review and share the book I'm going to guide you back to her blog. It was many of the best parts of her, the ones she put out for everyone to see, but it was honest and raw and real. She was real. Rereading the post I linked made me laugh and cry at the same time. True definition of sappy that she and NieNie discussed often. So, dear ones, we can do hard things. I proved
it. I picked up the darn book and read it in a single sitting. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The book arrived for me to review and it sat under my
Christmas tree for three weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three. Weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Side note: A friend, <a href="http://www.gritandglory.com/" target="_blank">Alece</a>, refers to this,
2016, as her year of “<i>badassery</i>”. It’s not my word, but for all intents and
purposes, I’m borrowing it here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
reaching deep down into that word to rejoin this online community and review a
book that was difficult for me to read. Laura Pederson and Mary Carver spent countless
hours launching (Laura) and writing (Mary) <u>Choose Joy</u>. It took me that much
time to gather the strength to read it. I'll be sharing parts of it here in the coming days. Welcome back, friends, I'm harnessing strength and rejoining this crazy wonderful word world.<o:p></o:p></div>
Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-66680180772562709972014-01-06T20:31:00.000-05:002014-01-06T20:31:01.551-05:00800 Miles<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrote this as the girls were at an intensive a few weeks ago and it didn't publish. It still holds true, despite the passage of time, so I'm hitting post. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
……...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I watch them walk into the building, 800 miles from their
beds and books. No hesitation, no stutter in their steps. Confident. It’s what
I dream for them, this peace. Completely assurance in who they are as people. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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At home she’s different. Quiet, not in a crowd. Here, she
shines. From one set of arms to another she goes, swallowed in embrace after
embrace. I see her whole heart in her eyes, and mine teeters between bursting
and breaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, she is home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Never out shadowed, my little immediately finds a set of
arms and dives into them. When she’s hugged she comes straight off of the
floor. Home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The warmth of this place isn’t limited to the girls. I feel
it all around me. Wishing we had this in more spots but grateful for it’s
presence here. I’m then kissed and hugged and all filled up too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few years ago Christmas was in a cozy condo in snowy Iowa.
Today it’s here in these studio spaces in MA. As the girls have grown we’ve
learned that home isn’t about where you are, it’s who you’re with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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We’ve had adventures galore in the last twelve months, but
the concept that home is wherever we find those we love and in the pursuit of
our joy? That lesson we’ll hold close for this lifetime.<o:p></o:p></div>
Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-5477588928179101822013-08-09T11:26:00.000-04:002013-08-09T11:26:06.650-04:00FullWe've had a summer of full.<br />
<br />
Five weeks away, two weeks home and countless moments in between.<br />
<br />
Moments that have caught us by surprise, taken our breath away, and made us pause.<br />
<br />
<i>Full.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Thankful</i>.<br />
<br />
All I can think about is how we grow when we're poured into. When love and interest and time mix and fill us up. When we pursue life and chase it and <i>live big.</i><br />
<br />
If we all just poured more and took less, what would our world look like?<br />
<br />
I think I'll try it and find out...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-88557400302503653852013-05-06T08:00:00.000-04:002013-05-06T08:00:15.230-04:00Picking up PiecesShe's quiet and unassuming, talented and beautiful, intelligent and sarcastic. She instructs with her actions, movements, words. She leads by example.<br />
<br />
Her demeanor is one of discipline and her craft is taught with passion.<br />
<br />
As all good teachers are, she can be loved and feared by her students. To them, she's given a good portion of her life and her heart.<br />
<br />
It's her second job; she makes it seem like her first priority.<br />
<br />
She's a part of our hearts and our family...she spends almost as much time growing the chicks as I do.<br />
<br />
She's leaving.<br />
<br />
It's heart pain in beauty at it's finest.<br />
<br />
To us, she's not just a dance teacher. She's a friend and confidant, physical and massage therapist and dream encourager. She's a cheerleader and disciplinarian and a shoulder to lean on. She stretches the chicks physically and emotionally. With her, they take flight.<br />
<br />
Our hearts? Broken.<br />
<br />
We are beyond excited for the opportunities that await her and cannot wait to see what adventures God has for her as she moves forward. We are so very proud of how very hard she works and all she's accomplished. Simply put, she is <i>amazing</i>.<br />
<br />
I watched, in awe, as she picked up the pieces this weekend when my Little Bit was affected by unkind words before her solo went onstage to compete. From the other side of the balcony they drilled on steps and landings and technique. Piece by piece she put her back together. In a way only she could, the nerves were calmed and confidence restored. She took her by the shoulder and wrapped her up and bustled her backstage. Nothing and no one would be allowed to distract her; she made sure of it.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4zDW1xtM0lI9shQjrKAeVCUXWkHhyphenhyphen-A2sfBRpOyf9mY1niFNyJ80ImgIYrLygYbsHL1rFCrdq_dlSJDVGXc_BEFuOEvzTBiU7wraKleMkTIo_f_YzDFWo88Tnp58SntSWL7eLWpi3c0/s1600/photo-4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4zDW1xtM0lI9shQjrKAeVCUXWkHhyphenhyphen-A2sfBRpOyf9mY1niFNyJ80ImgIYrLygYbsHL1rFCrdq_dlSJDVGXc_BEFuOEvzTBiU7wraKleMkTIo_f_YzDFWo88Tnp58SntSWL7eLWpi3c0/s320/photo-4.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
What she doesn't realize is that she's been putting us back together for the last year and a half. We came to her after we lost another piece of our hearts, and she's done a good portion of the mending. She welcomed us in last January and gave the Grace Girl a competition team and home when there was chaos in our dance world. She challenged, pushed, encouraged. Little Bit wasn't yet competitive at that point, but she saw her potential. Encouragement and weekly demonstrations of skill after class grew her as well. The week my Joy Girl grabbed her hand and held it as they walked to the door? I think that sealed the deal.<br />
<br />
From the moment she had the Grace Girl do a difficult turn combination in her first tryout, she's helped me put their hearts backs together. She's picked up and pieced alongside me. She's loved, taught, and encouraged them as they've channelled all of the pain into beauty.<br />
<br />
So how do I thank the woman who loves my chicks? How do I thank her for offering friendship when I thought I might never get back to a place where it was doable? How do I extend gratitude for love given?<br />
<br />
Simply put, we'll let her go. We'll support and hug and encourage in the same ways she has for us. We'll know it's not forever and comfort will be taken in the fact that she's only a few short hours away. Tears will be shed and hugs exchanged, but it's not truly goodbye. It never is for those who take up residence in our hearts. I'm quite sure this extraordinary woman will be at their graduations and weddings and the big performances of their lives. It's who she is.<br />
<br />
For all of this and more? Gratitude.<br />
<br />
Thank you, my friend, for loving us so well.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-41513767691966279682013-02-25T06:00:00.000-05:002013-02-25T06:00:08.064-05:00Proud<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLibJ2Yuee25dQuuUYEST-0se__jKp9P6BGdT8Zw1gXJzvoLjY7Y4oNK-rW8yky6T1r_2z5VTIdpU5aKfSqwZJgmDMS7wm93sfLnVhjA8jsuHe44sZ3TximZZW3vmaJWJtUXcC_bu9pWk/s1600/IMG_3823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLibJ2Yuee25dQuuUYEST-0se__jKp9P6BGdT8Zw1gXJzvoLjY7Y4oNK-rW8yky6T1r_2z5VTIdpU5aKfSqwZJgmDMS7wm93sfLnVhjA8jsuHe44sZ3TximZZW3vmaJWJtUXcC_bu9pWk/s320/IMG_3823.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: small;">Us on Friday night in the elevator</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"<i>You're so proud of her</i>." </div>
<br />
He said it as a statement, no judgement, a bit of wonder in his voice. Speaking the her in a plural, for both of them.<br />
<br />
Another long day, long night, long weekend. He's a man who loves his chicks; he brings a laptop and reading material and sits at desks in hotel rooms instead of at home. He watches ever single routine. This man of ours hugs. He grabs bags of ice and rubs muscles taxed by hours of dancing on concrete in convention ballrooms. He kisses them goodnight and curbs giggling in foreign beds when tired turns to silly and I'm too spent to do more. When the weekend is over, her puts luggage in the car and drives and allows me to shut my eyes as a city disappears behind us.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBGIFK-bjMZmaTcgo8yW6qnLMqoQdqnsPTICUt7M4PFEBTjQ5rMv1r0DDKnBVCtoZfPpigJ2xftwX-5lwaDxtmnYR3FuaALmsffyt7TKfLZkvyO6OeAxqwfqiGFs5rZcIUvmcDwtnNCs/s1600/IMG_3857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBGIFK-bjMZmaTcgo8yW6qnLMqoQdqnsPTICUt7M4PFEBTjQ5rMv1r0DDKnBVCtoZfPpigJ2xftwX-5lwaDxtmnYR3FuaALmsffyt7TKfLZkvyO6OeAxqwfqiGFs5rZcIUvmcDwtnNCs/s320/IMG_3857.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>How it's done...</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DFBLwKboAN64r-Fx2Bs-cxKtzT6O83i_lRXBVh6Ld9-SAPmzfT1g7NpUi-00lxVu0gITeWz7S4DcMi5kPJEaOzYJarps1JLzgKUorkeoZA8VD0SMPaACNvcj1Ovj7hzp8ZqcMpTo9nw/s1600/IMG_3860.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DFBLwKboAN64r-Fx2Bs-cxKtzT6O83i_lRXBVh6Ld9-SAPmzfT1g7NpUi-00lxVu0gITeWz7S4DcMi5kPJEaOzYJarps1JLzgKUorkeoZA8VD0SMPaACNvcj1Ovj7hzp8ZqcMpTo9nw/s320/IMG_3860.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dad's attempt during a break at ASH</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Never once has he said he wishes they were basketball players, or volleyball or baseball or....<br />
<br />
<i><b>or anything other than who they were made to be</b></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I do the preparation. Packing the food, vitamins, clothing, makeup and shoes. I get them up before the sun rises and form perfect buns that will stay in all day and pin numbers to tops so that they stay put. I sit in ballrooms for endless hours and observe, because they are still small. The Grace Girl is at the age I might leave until lunch, but Little Bit is still a smidge over four feet. <i>Still small.</i> For this season <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>her first in the competitive world</i></span> I've gone back and forth between their rooms, wearing a band which denotes me as an observer and watched them grow in their passion.<br />
<br />
<b><i>we love them and he loves me</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
When I'm repacking all of our luggage at midnight so he may simply check-out, tired and cross, I need to remember that most girls are not so loved. Fathers are a rare sight in this world of ours. He is present. I am thankful.<br />
<br />
I was taken off-guard by his passing comment last night. I responded defensively. I wanted him to see that my proud was of their hearts, the way she gives glory to her maker and reflects Him...<br />
<br />
My proud comes from the same place my tears do. It's the spot I love <i>him</i> from.<br />
<br />
<i>Lord, let me show that the proud I have for them carries over tenfold for him. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><i>how I love them all</i></b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw47HwNC7_TxZFuGxBbBbM2zVIPirLUxk7x4AWbvUh5BeNvBbZG17YtYd5yML5P8CXVen9GMVoP8wbOdmuyrsItBVrIRbTmwu9KQo8dsXju2AJLUBX9sEGdg1e3jhjWlFWy7U5VDSsqgg/s1600/IMG_3496.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw47HwNC7_TxZFuGxBbBbM2zVIPirLUxk7x4AWbvUh5BeNvBbZG17YtYd5yML5P8CXVen9GMVoP8wbOdmuyrsItBVrIRbTmwu9KQo8dsXju2AJLUBX9sEGdg1e3jhjWlFWy7U5VDSsqgg/s320/IMG_3496.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>After solos and duet at NUVO in Orlando</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><br /></i>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-76942830252100691652013-02-07T14:46:00.001-05:002013-02-07T18:15:01.094-05:00A Do Over<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4wx-T6KYx6Kzh9evDLNY04mNZ58sZoNlNRWaWiMgRlRdiYiof2APKfIe1B70X_XAhr0SCp4lGvqjkmI8WDcMmsQU2Tem2ev7bmy-seBqTwus2LZaYrtqlmTHvo5HWQz5VonOOlzdhVs/s1600/photo-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4wx-T6KYx6Kzh9evDLNY04mNZ58sZoNlNRWaWiMgRlRdiYiof2APKfIe1B70X_XAhr0SCp4lGvqjkmI8WDcMmsQU2Tem2ev7bmy-seBqTwus2LZaYrtqlmTHvo5HWQz5VonOOlzdhVs/s320/photo-3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(<i><b>sometimes it's best to hold hands and keep on keeping on)</b></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
It's Thursday, and the social media sites I frequent all feature various videos and photos with a # and the letters TBT. <br />
<br />
<i>Throw back Thursday</i>.<br />
<br />
A day to reminisce and recall a previous sweetness. Not a bad concept in a culture always set on moving full throttle toward something new. <br />
<br />
Most Thursdays I enjoy looking at old videos of dance routines or of my friends as smallish people.<br />
<br />
Not today.<br />
<br />
Today I would love for it to be "Do over Thursday."<br />
<br />
If I was being honest, I think I'd prefer for it to be "do over" week. That would make it do over month...at that rate let's make it do over year. <br />
<br />
<i>I need a do over</i>.<br />
<br />
One with more energy and patience and less tears. A day (<span style="font-size: x-small;">or week or month</span>) filled with waking up feeling rested and capable and like I'm not failing at something. I'm not whining or down in the dumps, I'm just keeping it real. Raising and homeschooling girls is a challenge. They try to grow up faster than necessary. It's the way the world is and while they are in it, as a mother I work to keep them not of it.<br />
<br />
"<i>Not of it</i>..." a sentence on repeat around here as my eldest reaches her thirteenth birthday.<br />
<br />
Motherhood is the hardest job I've ever had. It is not one that I can put aside when I run low on time or fuel or peace. I've chosen it, and desire to do it with excellence. It is a gift, pure and simple.<br />
<br />
But, sometimes gifts are difficult to recognize. Situations leave you drained and doubting and without fight.<br />
<br />
In those moments, remember you are not alone. <i>You</i> can do this. <i>You </i>were created for this. <i>Chosen</i>. You are the <i>perfect Mama</i> for your family. You work in the world's toughest office space and you make it out <i>mostly</i> alive every day.<br />
<br />
Some days will be easier than others. For me, this is not one of those days, and I'm okay with that.<br />
<br />
<i>Do you want to know why</i>?<br />
<br />
Because tomorrow I'll get a "<i>do over</i>"... And if you need one you'll get one too. <br />
<br />
<i>Sigh</i>. It doesn't get better than that.<br />
<br />
Here's to you, sweet mothers reading this. <b>You are priceless. Incredible. Perfectly created for what lies ahead of you. </b><i><b> (</b>I put this in bold because it's an important truth you need to hold to, to put on repeat when the hours seem endless.<b>)</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>...perfectly created for what lies ahead...</b></i><br />
<br />
For the days when the going gets tough? Take a breath and call a do over. I'm here to listen and offer support if you need me...and He is too.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"<i>His mercies are new new every morning; great is your faithfulness.</i>" ~ Lamentations 3:23</div>
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-85046930765600168672013-02-01T12:55:00.002-05:002013-02-07T15:15:50.258-05:00Dreaming DoubleOne spot to another, always in flight. These chicks keep me on my toes.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lately, we've done quite a bit of travel with dance. The professor is busy with work and so the legs he was helping with driving have fallen to me. It means a whole lot more time away from the nest. Today, we left at noon and will arrive home sometime after 9:30 p.m. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>LONG</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Long for them and for me. Driving to our distance ballet, taking Little Bit to the library to finish up schooling and then trekking to the other studio for assisting and classes for both of them all night. I sit bundled in my jacket and <a href="http://www.gitzengirl.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">her</a> scarf, earbuds in and the girls doing jetes in the other room. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Classes change. My sweet babe moves into her company hour with a sharp jazz routine and the Grace Girl works on changing a solo from pointe to ballet, just in case the pointe component is not ready for another competition in two weeks. I think it will be, but she's not sure...always the perfectionist in her dancing, she's her own harshest critic.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've moved in to the small studio to listen, a background of soft beats as she and her sweet, sweet teacher adjust slight movements "just in case". Her necklace jingles and proclaims her initial and "beautiful", a gift from me for her eleventh birthday. A reminder of how I see her and how I hope she sees herself. Jingles combine with turns as movement ensues.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How I love her tenacity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Her grace.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Her determination.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What she has to teach me about dreaming is endless...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>It's not only for childhood</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Don't do it small</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Pursue passion</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Go God sized </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
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. . . .</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
The group of moms that is waiting to pick the littles up from class is congregated in the waiting room. Bundled under coats and in them and chatting away. I'm thankful for them, for their kindness and warmth and inclusion. The dance world is made up of mothers that are competitive <i>for</i> their children. These women? They are different. They laugh and talk and fill this place. We're invited in to watch the routine for the company level that Little Bit is a part of; for most, this will be their first convention and competition in a few weeks. They all think that every part of dance is fun, and that is how it should be. Grace Girl tapes the piece for review and I simply watch. Motion and smiles and pointed toes all making it spectacular. A lift takes place, and I think about how far ahead she is of where her big sister was at the same age. She does not take for granted the example that lives in the bedroom next to hers, and all of the watching is now paying off in her dancing.</div>
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The same qualities that I value in her big sister I embrace in her as well; double dreaming takes place within our walls.</div>
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<i>Double and God sized</i>.</div>
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I cannot wait to see what the future holds, but for now I'm learning to savor the long days. </div>
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<i>Because lately? Lately, they provided glimpses into the lovely ones ahead of us.</i></div>
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<i>"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future." Jer 29:11</i></div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-59302680095671956932012-11-30T18:35:00.000-05:002012-11-30T18:35:43.037-05:00Five Minute Friday: WonderI'm linking up with Lisa-Jo for the last Five Minute Friday of 2012. Five minutes to write without editing, backtracking, overthinking...Five minutes of word freedom.<br />
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Today's topic? <i>Wonder.</i><br />
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Ready. Set. GO!<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">WONDER</span></i><br />
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The season where everything is aglow...where eyes, big and small, are filled with wonder.<br />
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Trees that fill busy city centers, movement everywhere.<br />
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A small hand nestled in mine as we look at the twinkle and her sweet, soft voice fills the aisles of the hardware store.<br />
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<i>Wonder</i>.<br />
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In this most holy of seasons, I search for it. In her eyes, in the stories, the songs, the hymns and the carols, in His Word.<br />
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<i>I find it in the moments when I'm least expecting it.</i><br />
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In the cherished books at bedtime she's pulling out to read <i>maybe for the last season</i> and in the willowy figure that is turning from girl to young woman before my eyes. In the way he wakes and begins to try to rub the sore out of my stubborn hip and spine, even before he opens his eyes.<br />
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The wonder is in the grace of it all in this life. It's in seeing days in moments and giving thanks in the hard.<br />
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<i>Wonder in the details.</i><br />
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It's in the tears, the laughter, the captured frame. In the tentative steps and the big leaps. In the grieving and the rejoicing I allow it to find me.<br />
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It's in the you + me.<br />
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<i>Wonder is all about fresh eyes.</i><br />
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<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-89260141095990045922012-11-05T08:00:00.000-05:002012-11-05T08:00:16.100-05:00Beautiful FeetI sit here as the rain spatters the windshield, tucked in a fleece, dreaming of a warm fire at home.<br />
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I'd know those legs anywhere, but I've never quite studied them as I'm doing now. Slender, tiny, able to reach great heights; feet that seem unnaturally flexible in form. Tonight, in the silence, I'm taken aback by how small they look next to everyone else's--black jazz pants in a sea of pink tights. Much like her wardrobe, those legs set her apart.<br />
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How long has it been since I've simply watched her feet? Forced to see from a new perspective, I gain a sense of the reasons they peel, bruise, ache; with heels on releve, arches formed, toes perfectly pointed she puts them through their paces.<br />
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I briefly catch a glimpse of a face in concentration as she stretches deeply. After almost eight straight hours she must be ready to finish. Never does she slow or falter,in each movement completed she offers nothing but precision. Her work ethic astounds me. <br />
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A text comes in from the grace girl's friend. A picture message of my other babe in motion. Legs split and in a spin. Captured in a whirl. Simultaneous movement forty miles apart.<br />
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Soon she'll come to the car, we'll recount her day as I drive west toward her sister. Normal conversation, wrapped and carried from front seat to back. She's still too light to join me in the front seat. A reminder, for now, that she's not yet all grown up.<br />
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I'll hear of how the toenail is bruised and that the pointe shoes were excruciating today. She'll tell me that the Russians that I just finished showing three weeks ago are going soft in the shank and will need to be replaced sooner than I'd hoped.<br />
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We pull into our other studio to grab my Little Bit, whose coming from her company class and is full of chatter and smiles after three hours engaged in her passion.<br />
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I wet-wipe off the grime and dirt before they put on their street shoes, gently wiping in-between toes and around calloused heels; cleaning, checking and watching for wear and tear. Toes without polish, no longer unblemished.<br />
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I'm hit by it...<br />
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<i>How beautiful are the feet...</i><br />
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In using our gifts, we get dirty.<br />
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Bruised.<br />
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Torn.<br />
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Limping until we find our stride.<br />
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Beautiful feet, carrying us toward the goal.<br />
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-47534928279393255062012-10-15T20:57:00.001-04:002012-10-15T20:57:33.638-04:00In the WaitingFall with the chicks is in full swing. Geometry followed by arabesques...our life moving full throttle.<br />
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<i>We wouldn't have it any other way</i>.<br />
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It's a season of solos being prepared for competition and a new duet partnership formed. The girls? They are in full flight. I'm on a slight autopilot, moving from place to place with a sewing basket, costumes, computer and lesson plans in hand. I know it will go all too quickly, so I'm working to cherish the conversations from the backseat and the bedtime cuddles in the midst of doing dinner planning a week in advance with fingers wrapped in band aids from one too many needle attacks.<br />
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As I write, Little Bit sits next to me sipping a slush and reading the novel she's soon to finish. The Grace Girl's math book lies between us, from when she jumped out of the car to head into class after her younger sister's finished. The iPod plays and traffic from the highway near us causes white noise in the distance. Parked under a tree for shade, it's finally cool enough to think fall might actually come to stay. <br />
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These are the moments I'm thankful for. The ones that seem insignificant now but will be what I remember in the years to come. A car that gets emptied every night from all we've brought with us, washing little pink tights, sewing pointe shoes, the sheepish pat of her hand on the bed next to her so I'll lay and hug her goodnight...<i>this</i> is what I'll choose to recall.<br />
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For now, I'll teach, drive, cuddle, correct, love, clean, give kisses, discipline, observe, hug, wait, wait, and then wait some more.<br />
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<i>Because this waiting</i>? <br />
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<i>When it ends</i>?<br />
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It will mean that the growing up has as well. A part of life that although necessary and beautiful, I'm not yet looking forward too. <br />
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So today? <br />
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<i>I'll put all else aside and treasure the gift of waiting</i>.<br />
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-17973510053937875832012-09-24T08:00:00.000-04:002012-09-24T08:00:00.565-04:00One Year<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">One year.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;">"Five hundred twenty-five thousand<br />Six hundred minutes,<br />Five hundred twenty-five thousand<br />Moments so dear.<br />Five hundred twenty-five thousand<br />Six hundred minutes<br />How do you measure, measure a year?<br /><br />In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights<br />In cups of coffee<br />In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.<br /><br />In five hundred twenty-five thousand<br />Six hundred minutes<br />How do you measure<br />A year in the life?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;"> -Rent Soundtrack</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;">A year <a href="http://www.gitzengirl.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Sara</a> has been in heaven and we've continued here on earth without her. Some days measured in moments, others in miles travelled without her. Not one of those without noticing the lack of her <i>here</i>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;">Gratitude pours out for the way she lived...for the way she died. <i>For the story she shared along the way. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">Like most who loved Sara, we've spent the better part of the last twelve months learning to live without the fullness of her in our days. Her laughter, rich and warm<i>, </i>that resonated from deep within her. That smile...even through her pain it took your breath away. The <i>gift</i> of her in our days...a gift that not a one of us would trade for all the riches in the world. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">It's been five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes that I've worked on seeing the world through her eyes even though she's no longer in it. It's a whole lot harder than you'd think. Far easier is it to view it once again through my own. But, in not eyeing it as she would, this place isn't as beautiful. As rich and full and loud. Sara? She saw our world as a <i>lovely place</i>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">It's been a year of the chicks growing and learning and changing without her beside me through it....I think that is what I've missed most. Her watching along <i>with</i> me. I think, as a mother, you grieve differently when you have children still at home. I don't cry unless I'm alone <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>and when does that ever happen</i></span> or I cannot be seen. You put their pain before your own. For the last month, I've quietly been measuring the year without her in it. The last this and the last that...breathing and continuing and giving thanks for all that we've had and all we've been given. Days measured in moments...in life...in love. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">Loving you from here, sweet girl. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">Always...</span></div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-88898477544364349612012-08-28T18:38:00.000-04:002012-08-28T18:42:41.597-04:00Coming Back...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">We have no idea the power that our words hold.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">A few months ago, in the whirlwind of our dance recital/piano/academic testing/prep for NYC we had house guests. Neither my head nor my heart was prepared for the conversations that would occur during what I anticipated would be a visit of laughter and easy-with-you moments. It was <i>not</i> that visit.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Life is like that though, isn't it? Vastly different then we sometimes expect. Stretching and growing us. Bringing laughter and, in an instant, breaking our hearts.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">In a year when it constantly felt like <b>brave</b> was the word of the week, I allowed myself to exhale when that car pulled into the driveway. I thought I was safe. My guard went down and my heart opened.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I refuse to say that allowing people in is wrong. Loving others is one of the greatest gifts we've been given. I hold fast to this. I must.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">You should too.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Learning to love others without judgement grants us an opportunity to share our stories...our hearts.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">It can also wound us deeply.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I've not been online much since May. I could blame this on our schedule, chronic disease, even travel. I could say that we were out living. All of that would be truth.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Honestly though? I've been offline mostly because I allowed myself to fall prey to one's words. Words delivered as truth, not with humility but rather quite the opposite. Words I've responded to in the long days of summer.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Subjects nestled in my heart. Ones I carry with me, pray over, count as not just friends but as pieces of me.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Predicates that <b>do</b> in our world. <i>Our world</i>.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I was told that bloggers are online only to talk about themselves. That they are the most narcissistic of peoples. I was shocked and almost without words. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">My best friend was a blogger. Although she'd sarcastically quip that it was about her, the life she lived proclaimed the opposite. It was always about Him, about everyone <i>but</i> her. That girl had the biggest heart for people...As I sat there, almost without words, my heart screaming in protest, what escaped my mouth was quiet. I'm positive my face didn't betray me. "As a whole, we're a selfish people." It was all I could utter.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>Yes</i>, narcissistic bloggers exist.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i>Yes</i>, we live in a selfish world, full of <i>me</i> and <i>I</i> and so very little of <i>you</i>.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">But these women and men that I read, follow, text with, sometimes even hug? They are REAL.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Flawed? Yes. But they would be the first ones to proclaim as much.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">The bloggers I know do so to reach out, to connect, unite, encourage. They help others to learn and grow and to feel less alone. Their blogs are as varied as their lives; from food to motherhood, with religion and disease mixed in.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">These brave souls share their stories. Without embellishment, with as much of the chaos as order. Lives lived wide open, without apology. I don't see selfish, I see honest. Hearts opened as living gets processed, shared.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I can see how, from an inexperienced viewpoint, this blogging world may contain elements of narcissism. But, from the inside I see are lives coming together, healing taking place, friendships being forged. I see sisters lifting each other up in word and deed when one falls to her knees.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I know that our words can make us immortal. When we've gone, they are the reminder of the weight we have in this world. A piece of us others can hold to in the moments when our voices no longer fill the silence.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Our words, our thoughts and musing and memories are reminders of the life we've been given...the person we were and who we hope to be. The family we love and the ways they grow. A scrapbook, of sorts, for a life lived, snapshots of moments we would rather forget, or those we'd cling to forever. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Our stories? <i>They matter. </i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-5688834756619950242012-07-04T19:25:00.001-04:002012-07-04T19:25:18.863-04:00Five Minute Friday:DanceI've been mostly offline this summer, save for instagram and a bit of twitter. We've been full out living. With two dance studios and eight total recitals in the month of May plus standardized testing, finishing up curriculum and a piano recital on top of all of it...sigh. I needed another me.<br />
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June held more of the same. Solo prepping for NYC Nationals, tweaking, changing, storytelling. Daily Zumba classes for the eldest rounded out the weeks so that she would stay in top physical condition.<br />
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In our home? We DANCE. We don't just twirl. It is not a hobby but a passion. One chased with sweat, tears, and full hearts. We're currently in NYC, where the Grace Girl Was accepted to dance at the Joffrey Ballet School. From eight to six she's worked on a perfection only found in the discipline of ballet. After hours? We've "cleaned" her solo for The Dance Awards, which begins the 4th and go through the 11th. She will compete for a Best Dancer title on the 5th and go on to participate in the Dance Awards Nationals and workshops. I'll go back and forth between the mini and junior rooms this year, as my Little Bit will be dancing too. <br />
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Dance. It's what we're doing most of the summer. Dancing holes in our shoes. Moving until we just cannot go any further. But really? We're sharing stories from our hearts that come out only when we're in flight. As my eldest leaps and turns and pounds the floor, she shares her year, her grief, her choice. She's putting it all out there on the dance floor...the missing, the tears...all of her will be out there for everyone to see.<br />
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Dance is how she shows Him. In a puddle a few weeks ago she stated,"I'm not YOU. I'm not fantastic painting a picture with words. Dance is how I communicate." Her desire? For others to see the Gift Giver in her. To shine for Him, to communicate her difference because of her relationship with Him, through the story she tells.<br />
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Staggering aspirations for my little "big" girl. Am I behind her? <br />
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Every step of the way.<br />
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Dance your story, Nie Nie, with your heart (as Aunt Sara always called you on her blog). No second guessing, firm in what you believe. Because your story? It is one I will always follow.<br />
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*I took more than the allotted five minutes, but made sure to adhere to no editing or second guessing*Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-49156828048793845622012-05-25T18:15:00.000-04:002012-05-25T22:09:43.613-04:00Five Minute Friday: Opportunity<a href="http://thegypsymama.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/5-minute-friday-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="alignleft" height="180" src="http://thegypsymama.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/5-minute-friday-1.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="5 minute friday (1)" width="179" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Today I'm joining my friend </span></span><a href="http://thegypsymama.com/" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">The Gypsy Mama</a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> for five minutes where I'll write without editing, backtracking, or second guessing. Because in the writing? We see the blessings.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Today's topic? <b><i>Opportunity.</i></b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Ready, Set, Go....</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"> </span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-large; line-height: 24px;">. . . . .</b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><b><i>"Learn everything you can, anytime you can, from anyone you can - there will always come a time when you will be grateful you did." -Sarah Caldwell</i></b></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvFZOm_-DHJopIEXd02OuWibiLO-Dkzki7gXccNT5uvxpCyvJKyZdXqASpccubdiK_hRpxC8lmEC4Ep1BSH22RxPzdHg7sqHVostpSoqrveG1CzCYiq5emOgeCEWCEhnwoCWsUGW3gqI/s1600/IMG_1764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvFZOm_-DHJopIEXd02OuWibiLO-Dkzki7gXccNT5uvxpCyvJKyZdXqASpccubdiK_hRpxC8lmEC4Ep1BSH22RxPzdHg7sqHVostpSoqrveG1CzCYiq5emOgeCEWCEhnwoCWsUGW3gqI/s400/IMG_1764.JPG" title="July 2010" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 2010</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">She taught me many things, that sweet sister who best described our relationship as <i><a href="http://gitzengirl.blogspot.com/2011/01/sparkle.html">familyship</a>...</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>Listen far more than you speak</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>Hear with your heart</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>Cherish</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>Dream big dreams</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>What is frustrating in the moment may serve one well in the long haul</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i><b>See everything in life as an opportunity</b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">When you live your life as though everything is an opportunity, nothing becomes a true disappointment. I don't mean that disappointment does not occur...I just mean that it won't shatter you into a place that you cannot recover from. Ungluing happens. It is what we do when given the opportunity to be pieced back together that counts.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">By seeing the beauty in the opportunities </span><i style="line-height: 24px;">even the failed ones</i><span style="line-height: 24px;"> we come to see beauty in ourselves. In the broken. The messy. The mistakes and the triumphs alike....by seeing opportunity as a space where we can learn, we will never truly fail.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">I am thankful for </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> ...her perspective.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> ...her friendship.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> ...her laughter.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"> ....her beauty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">It seems hard to fathom that it's only been twelve months. <i>Twelve impossibly long-feeling months...</i>Of knowing she was preparing to leave, letting her go and then striving to pick up the pieces of us she'd left behind. Throughout all of it, I've heard her strong voice...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>See the blessing</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>Seek the beauty</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>Be gentle with yourself</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i><b>Don't miss your moments</b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">What she was saying?<i> Really saying</i>? She was reminding us that every moment is an opportunity.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>Today I'm thankful for every single moment.</i></span></span></div>
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<i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"><b>STOP</b></i></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-46560361115493367062012-05-16T18:52:00.001-04:002012-05-16T18:53:26.090-04:00Piano Peace<br />
My Little Joy feels music deeply. As a baby she would often sing what she was saying instead of actually speaking it.<br />
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When we purchased a piano for the chicks and began lessons two years ago, little did we know where music would transport her.<br />
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Our Grace Girl plays because it is required. She enjoys the keys and fingering and sound.<i> But</i>...she would rather be twirling.<br />
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For Little Bit, it's an entirely different ball game. Yes, she adores and chases in her leaping sister's footsteps, but her heart is equally attached to the ivories.<br />
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Two weeks ago she picked up "Fur Elise" and played it perfectly in her first sitting. <i>No joke</i>. I recorded it for posterity and for her teacher. She's since memorized it and has added some of her own flair.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/fdUvsrN0tFA?rel=0" width="420"></iframe></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-86339421505180320412012-05-11T12:40:00.001-04:002012-05-11T12:40:46.617-04:00Five Minute Friday: Identity<a href="http://thegypsymama.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/5-minute-friday-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="alignleft" height="180" src="http://thegypsymama.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/5-minute-friday-1.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="5 minute friday (1)" width="179" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Today I'm joining my friend </span></span><a href="http://thegypsymama.com/" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">The Gypsy Mama</a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> for five minutes where I'll write without editing, backtracking, or second guessing. Because in the writing? We work to find and see with the heart and not the mind.</span></span></span><br />
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<i style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ready, Set, Go.....</span></b></i><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 24px;"><i>IDENTITY</i></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">I watch you, standing there in the midst of </span><strike style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">girls</strike><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"> women-children that you consider your peers. Their ages eclipse yours, most by half a decade. </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">These are your friends</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">. Their height and weight make you appear waif-like, but you keep up with them all the same. Some even come to learn from you; you teach willingly and with a ready heart. Acceptance is what you seek in this place of yours that you've fought to create for yourself. Your passion lies here, in the leaping and twirling and rhythm of eight counts. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX8_7Pazep89W2oK5AjVGCecs7cD0rzJk5fEFfrYHi5eUHDHYjdSeJTYoiv2Zx7MddDjXrVjTSqEBRgRBQ7jjpkmZFB3yWY1fW4B8a7TBnYJ1Yycgz3M_73MesPHGb6vEp0cqj6-tcpNw/s1600/IMG_0329.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX8_7Pazep89W2oK5AjVGCecs7cD0rzJk5fEFfrYHi5eUHDHYjdSeJTYoiv2Zx7MddDjXrVjTSqEBRgRBQ7jjpkmZFB3yWY1fW4B8a7TBnYJ1Yycgz3M_73MesPHGb6vEp0cqj6-tcpNw/s400/IMG_0329.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">Here you feel at home</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">I whisper to you as you sleep and repeat again and again while you are in the waking moments that <i>this is not who you are</i>...<i>it's what you are gifted at. </i>Yes, you use your body and spirit to create beauty in motion, but you? Well, you are our daughter; one created by the King to do and be and dream. I remind you that your <i>identity</i> lies in Him.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>I hope you hear me. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Growing up is a series of steps and leaps, much like your dancing. Learning choreography that is in tune with the world while using your artistic flair to sparkle. </span><i style="line-height: 24px;">YOU are beautiful, just as you were created. Please, in this place we live in, don't lose sight of the lovely that is imprinted within you. </i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChOtEZ23KPZvxKjnvmal_afgnr2-pNQr427VQWHU2f6NA6LbpUVY_g0Gf8BiTbOUtqOCiC6PbNXcqo7xjvEMZlCzCRkEvoQEb3leEUgLStTYyNFpOc65Tn08Hok1oLpmE00_SkMbdkyQ/s1600/IMG_0732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChOtEZ23KPZvxKjnvmal_afgnr2-pNQr427VQWHU2f6NA6LbpUVY_g0Gf8BiTbOUtqOCiC6PbNXcqo7xjvEMZlCzCRkEvoQEb3leEUgLStTYyNFpOc65Tn08Hok1oLpmE00_SkMbdkyQ/s400/IMG_0732.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">Your identity is unique, set-apart, as rare as the numbered stars in the heavens. </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">Make it yours</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">. Don't rely on others to create it for you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><i>Be you.</i> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLn0UC3y4lpIrxb_OhKdTevJ2JxKzMXHoxY0qst5jHcrCbZenU5avwx8fHo32G_qF3TpZ7p33B_8eqEoyy7SaBiiyWKIiPoGaDyO6z8l3FdRMvj_QT6Z9wv_SQIGejlNNoSLcpnzUYBHk/s1600/IMG_0287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLn0UC3y4lpIrxb_OhKdTevJ2JxKzMXHoxY0qst5jHcrCbZenU5avwx8fHo32G_qF3TpZ7p33B_8eqEoyy7SaBiiyWKIiPoGaDyO6z8l3FdRMvj_QT6Z9wv_SQIGejlNNoSLcpnzUYBHk/s400/IMG_0287.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">From the inside out.</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><b><i>STOP</i></b></span></span></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-26296816521638586732012-05-08T17:47:00.000-04:002012-05-11T11:15:58.082-04:00A Bit of SilenceConfession: I started this post on Thursday. It us now Tuesday eve and i am sitting here in the car at dance (with a pup on my lap) attempting to finish it from the iPad. It's how most of the last few weeks has gone...so I'm rolling with it.<br />
. . . . . <br />
<br />
My voice has been silent for the better part of the last few hours.<br />
<br />
(Insert wide eyes and gaping mouth expression here)<br />
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In the whirlwind of the drop offs and pick ups and more drop offs and pick ups I've chosen silence. <br />
<br />
It has been glorious<br />
<br />
The chicks have been busy with end-of the-year rehearsals and performances and even a competition for the Grace Girl. I've been sewing costumes and pointe shoes and putting hundreds of miles on the vehicle. The professor? He's been illin' with pneumonia. A quarantine was issued and much cleaning done. After eleven days and an antibiotic he's finally at 50%. We've missed him. With a compromised immune system and two lives who depend on my cape-wearing antics, me getting sick isn't optional. So, hugging (or being in the same room for that matter) wasn't happening either. I'm thankful that the cleaning and disinfection procedures are just about over.<br />
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Note to self: Add obsessive hand washing/sanitizing/disinfecting to the list of things the girls will need to "get over" when they are older...SIGH<br />
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So, that's where I've been lately...surrounded by noise and activity and craving stillness. In the seeking of peace during the chaos, I've been able to give thanks for the blessing of activity in my days. In the acceptance of the now, I find gratitude. <br />
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A gratitude that fills me up<br />
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The sound of the breeze rustling in the tree above the car doesn't hurt either...<br />
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Stillness. <br />
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"For you alone my soul in silence waits." Psalm 62:1<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAHEb-hYcoKSkwNLHIBGKN5j-i1X72bzxhT4pCwXgIwrFme-rG3MXP8Qk9DxOCv5muCUQ6uuESz1asdvw6heVe4IUU1Q6aC4ZFxNPQyr3KvT8rvQFwMXplC8S1OW6mNP1MwuaBic9pvIw/s640/blogger-image--1513227698.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAHEb-hYcoKSkwNLHIBGKN5j-i1X72bzxhT4pCwXgIwrFme-rG3MXP8Qk9DxOCv5muCUQ6uuESz1asdvw6heVe4IUU1Q6aC4ZFxNPQyr3KvT8rvQFwMXplC8S1OW6mNP1MwuaBic9pvIw/s640/blogger-image--1513227698.jpg" /></a></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-7950125955254892802012-05-04T13:18:00.000-04:002012-05-04T13:18:40.176-04:00Five Minute Friday: REAL<a href="http://thegypsymama.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/5-minute-friday-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="alignleft" height="180" src="http://thegypsymama.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/5-minute-friday-1.jpg" style="margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="5 minute friday (1)" width="179" /></a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Today I'm joining my friend </span></span><a href="http://thegypsymama.com/" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">The Gypsy Mama</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> for five minutes where I'll write without editing, backtracking, or second guessing. Because in the writing? We find pieces of ourselves that have gone missing, that we're looking to unearth...even if only for five minutes.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">We find the </span><i style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">REAL.</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"><br /></i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Ready, Set, Go.....</span></b></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 24px;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>REAL</i></span></b></span><br />
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It's what we are <i>sometimes</i> when no one is looking.<br />
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<i>No one but the One who created us. He's always looking. He knew what He was doing when He made you...an echo I plant for myself in my head and my heart.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
It's hard.<br />
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It's messy.<br />
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It's full of tear stains...of "you're better than me" moments...of awkward, uncomfortable silences. It is a place where we generally run from, breathless, hoping that no one has actually seen us.<br />
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Real can hurt.<br />
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<i>But...</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
It is <i><b>only</b></i> in the real that we can find <b><i>each other</i></b>, find <i><b>ourselves</b></i>, find <i><b>Him</b></i>. In the acceptance of what we are and what we were and what we might never be, or in, perhaps, the dream of what we hope to become...<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
In <i><b>those things</b></i>?<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>We see the real.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
Much like a flower before blooms appear, or the sky as rain passes through, there is a bit of bare before the beauty.<br />
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And in that bare?<br />
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<i>Real becomes visible...</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
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<i>...It is where the lovely hides.</i></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876782156608364423.post-6754832414159971502012-04-25T12:09:00.000-04:002012-04-25T12:09:18.457-04:00A Distinct SqueezeAn unknown author once wrote, "You can't wrap a hug in a box, but you can wrap a person in your arms."<div>
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<i>A statement which was proven false just a few weeks ago.</i></div>
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A package arrived, ferried over seas, over islands, thousands of miles from it's origin.</div>
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<i>Destination? </i>A southern front porch. </div>
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<i>Sender?</i> One sweet friend and her adorable daughter.</div>
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In favorite hues it came, with love exploding...delicate practice embroidery done by a hand that not long ago learned to form letters. Pastels abounded. Gifts fit for princesses. The chicks were floored, in awe. As was I, working to control the tears that this box brought to my throat; whelmed with the pure generosity of it all.</div>
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As it always goes, the Mama was last into the box. There, I found nestled gently, a beautiful note, tied with ribbon and specific instructions...</div>
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Always one to obey, I promptly did as instructed by my heart-filled friend. Handing the camera to the eldest, I unwrapped my "hug-in-a-bag".</div>
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The girls desired a squeeze from afar as well, so I gently removed it from my shoulders and placed it 'round theirs...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Warmth...Security...Friendship...Love...</i></div>
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<i>COMMUNITY</i></div>
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It's what arrived on a warm April day, completely unexpected, from the other side of the world. A friendship, beautiful, which blossoms despite miles and the seemingly small fact that we've never spoken or met face to face.</div>
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<i>A friendship of words, of the heart....from the One who created us to be in relationship with each other.</i></div>
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<i><b>A friend loves at all times. </b></i></div>
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Which brings me back to boxes..<b>.</b></div>
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Which do, indeed, wrap and carry hugs.</div>
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</div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03742928359599504806noreply@blogger.com0