tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-322470612024-03-12T18:34:55.579-05:00They Call Me the Oracle!It almost embarrasses me to say it out loud, but my friends call me The Oracle. I suspect it's because I'm older than most of them. When I was young, my parents seemed to know everything! I wanted to emulate them, so learning and translating information became important. Since I have opinions on nearly everything, I share!Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.comBlogger853125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-11324967375082871232013-10-30T22:24:00.003-05:002013-10-30T22:24:48.357-05:00More Change - New BlogI'd like to say I hate change, but I'd be lying. I love it. Change always brings something new into play and I love playing with new toys.<br />
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I'd like to say that I can do it all, but I can't. Sometimes it's just too easy to spread ourselves so thin we can't do anything.<br />
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I'd like to invite you to join me at nammynools.com for continued conversations ... probably even moreso than have been happening here at this location.<br />
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I might post something here every once in a while, but more than likely I won't. <br />
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Find my new blog at nammynools.com. Join in the conversations and play along. There will always be words to read.Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-61477219330639418232013-09-09T14:56:00.001-05:002013-09-09T14:56:21.594-05:00My Wonderful FriendsThe title of this post is a little sappy ... the content might be even worse. Here ... read it and see.<br />
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Last week I spent a lot of time thinking about Diana Nyad's amazing swim from Cuba to Key West. The woman blows me away. I love her passion for and dedication to a dream. If we all spent more time focusing on things like that and less time worrying about minutiae we'd be happier.<br />
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Anyway ... the mantra she used over and over throughout the swim was "Find a Way." That process of focusing her mind on moving around and through obstacles kept her swimming for 53+ hours. She wouldn't give up.<br />
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For the last several weeks I've been thinking about the people I have known throughout my life. One of the greatest joys of Facebook has been the opportunity to reconnect with so many of them and discover that they have been living lives that are interesting and wonderful. They have successes and setbacks, they love and they play. They find joy in so many different things. They have fears and make stupid mistakes. They do great big things and they do small things that might impact just one person. They've raised children and are intimately involved with their grandkids. They are normal ... just like me.<br />
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There are people who I knew only as acquaintances when I was younger and I find that I missed so much of who they were because I was so self-involved. I have met friends online through other friends and discover amazing connections and relationships, even though I may never meet these people in person. They are creative ... they are gorgeous ... they are funny ... they are tender ... they are talented ... they are amazing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaWA48peCIRtl4YwmOL1kyP8UUtlRHqf43a3M9E4N2fDNz696B0H8gQQfNcEfGmGm9GeJKqne3qywSSDx8NGb8XVS-II9LUb6ozDeOzA2GTeigJNpFcbwkEVaRVLCk_T0mLiLFQ/s1600/IMG-20111124-00124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmaWA48peCIRtl4YwmOL1kyP8UUtlRHqf43a3M9E4N2fDNz696B0H8gQQfNcEfGmGm9GeJKqne3qywSSDx8NGb8XVS-II9LUb6ozDeOzA2GTeigJNpFcbwkEVaRVLCk_T0mLiLFQ/s320/IMG-20111124-00124.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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(Obligatory friendship picture - TB as a kitten & Leica. Too cute!)</div>
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They love animals and explore places in the world I will never see in person. Some of their beliefs are different than mine and some of them make me wonder if they've lost their minds. They obsess over the craziest things and are as vulnerable to hoaxes and lies as the next person. They are normal ... just like me.<br />
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But the thing I've discovered is how much I love these people. I laugh with them when they share their crazy antics, I get emotional when they share their successes and I cry with them when they feel loss and pain. I am terrified that because I have opened myself up to so many more people, I am going to have to experience that many more deaths and painful outcomes. However, my love for my friends tells me I can't do anything else. I don't want to ever lose these connections again. In many cases, it took me over 25 years to find my friends and I won't give that up without a fight. Even if I have to be here, watching as they go through pain.<br />
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One of the things I've discovered as I watch this is that Diana Nyad's mantra - "Find A Way" - is more than just a mantra. It's a way of life for most of us. We might whine and complain when confronted with a struggle, but we find a way through it. I have seen extraordinary love and joy, support and encouragement come to people in their darkest days. These connections help us find a way.<br />
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Most of all, though, I find that I am so stinking proud of the people I know who have found their way through a life that is filled with twists and turns, pain and struggle. My heart thrills with them as their kids graduate or succeed ... as they find new outlets for their creativity ... or move mountains that seemed immovable. They start new businesses, try new avocations, complete big projects, move on to new careers. They find ways to make their dreams come true, they meet new people, reach beyond themselves to new heights, they encourage others to do the same.<br />
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I am in love with the people who surround me, whether in person or online. I am constantly made aware of how wonderful they are ... how wonderful we all are.Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-88324080881838887812013-09-02T20:09:00.001-05:002013-09-02T20:09:16.760-05:00Really Random - Trust Me!It was a good weekend ... and I should be back to work right now because I have a book to finish. But, all of these images are floating around in my head and then I put them in my camera and now they're on my desktop, so next I think they should be in a blogpost.<br />
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Friday night, Max and I went out to dinner with best friends ... at my favorite restaurant ... well, one of them. I watched Fran wrestle a heavy gift bag from the back seat of her Jeep and wondered what in the world she was doing. She looked at me as if I was nuts. My birthday? Oh, holy moley ... I hadn't even thought about that. Granted, it's next week, but she knows I'll be head-down in writing mode at the cabin and this was their chance to help me celebrate. Whoops. This getting old thing does wonders for remembering things like birth dates. When my family and friends surprised me at my 50th birthday, I thought it might be a great time to just start ignoring that date on the calendar. They think I'm facetious in my protests. I'm not. All those numbers do is annoy me. They try to remind me that age is more important than life. I have to tell you that every single year after that 50th birthday has been a great year. Between getting my Master's Degree and starting to write (and publish ... whee!) books, I haven't had this much fun at any other time in my life ... and I had a lot of fun in those previous 50 years.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VamgSDPXEESqnTudOPbN5fW5Zd0tovnWX5Qm6SWnAU5mXPiXQ-Fux1gIam1a1JxNREYm4gxS-dY1FxkT_DZaCZYmj96-RANNzBM5wgkwZ8G5C_318LPkhwfE01Gkd7uAvT0m_g/s1600/IMG_1334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VamgSDPXEESqnTudOPbN5fW5Zd0tovnWX5Qm6SWnAU5mXPiXQ-Fux1gIam1a1JxNREYm4gxS-dY1FxkT_DZaCZYmj96-RANNzBM5wgkwZ8G5C_318LPkhwfE01Gkd7uAvT0m_g/s320/IMG_1334.JPG" width="320" /></a>Anyway ... Fran and Leonard gave me this:<br />
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I love Lodge cast iron. Given any opportunity, I will prefer to use cast iron. Now, I'm probably not going to put this dutch oven into a pile of coals and cook a peach cobbler, but I can think of a million things to make on my stove top. Mom went through a cast iron phase and there is one skillet left over from that. I remember her having a corn cake pan, but have no idea where it ended up.<br />
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And then she gave me these:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhEM6N7I2e4dsZ3fncfRYJ7SgHWaHprVC5bxycufZXqzNreqfSeGlcZaIYrhuyjkAEQH8_jciUsfPykOeal0ySJP13j1dKQ6lv_CLBG9Zs7rk-fgPMODghuL41GOIFKMtV1r-pA/s1600/IMG_1335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhEM6N7I2e4dsZ3fncfRYJ7SgHWaHprVC5bxycufZXqzNreqfSeGlcZaIYrhuyjkAEQH8_jciUsfPykOeal0ySJP13j1dKQ6lv_CLBG9Zs7rk-fgPMODghuL41GOIFKMtV1r-pA/s320/IMG_1335.JPG" width="320" /></a>Amigurumi Crochet - STAR WARS!!! I'm going to have some fun with that! I was telling Fran that my mother thought she could teach me how to knit. Oh, it was a complete failure. But, at some point I decided I had to learn and found a wonderful woman who owned a little yarn shop. I took class after class from her until I finally figured it all out. Her best advice: it isn't that difficult, you can do this. She was right.<br />
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Saturday morning Max and I got up and headed out to run errands. We began at the laundromat. When he changed the laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, he came out with a Bic lighter and handed it to me - question in his eyes. I didn't recognize it. He asked if I was doing anything fun ... like weed. And if I was - I should be sharing. I continued to protest that it wasn't mine, but I'm not sure if he believed me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwuUW2aNLK78wLDJqxLSFlDzYwFf6kDHpRLp0CpOjz6vwnlSOtoJDs3T8iBSj64-gDvBUx9q_i2V1ovZhN1EV9OXy8gwO0RLSs86v8b28VuAUl_OPm36QZyJdLQ_q-LJgMDxXRg/s1600/Laundry+Thong-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwuUW2aNLK78wLDJqxLSFlDzYwFf6kDHpRLp0CpOjz6vwnlSOtoJDs3T8iBSj64-gDvBUx9q_i2V1ovZhN1EV9OXy8gwO0RLSs86v8b28VuAUl_OPm36QZyJdLQ_q-LJgMDxXRg/s320/Laundry+Thong-1.jpg" width="320" /></a>However, when we got back home and I was folding the laundry, I pulled THIS out of the pile. Yeah. It's not mine either, but it was good for a really hearty laugh. I tossed it in the trash, and then when I was driving back up here to the cabin yesterday afternoon, I called him and asked if he wouldn't pull it out and take a picture for me for this blogpost. I told him he didn't need to make the shot too 'arty,' and he thought dressing the poor teddy bear up would be a good idea. Ummm, no. No, it wouldn't. He decided that the lighter and the thong had probably belonged to the same person. This has happened to him before. I remember folding a bunch of laundry several years ago and pulled out another thong. That time, though, I asked if he knew who the owner was. The poor guy's 'deer in the headlights' response made me laugh. I'm a mean wife.<br />
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A week or so ago, Max got a new smart phone. I was rather excited, since that meant that I could take his Android. I've been using a Blackberry and was looking forward to something a little more up to date. Yep. A 2-year-old Android phone is what I was looking for. I spent most of the weekend getting it adjusted to my personal usage habits. Someday I'll get it all figured out. I love gadgets and toys and don't have nearly enough money to spend on all the things I believe would make my life more fun. That's a good thing because I really don't have a place to put all those things.<br />
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I love my new phone, but as I cleared the photos off my old phone, I realized that I was looking at the earliest pictures of TB in my life. Oh good heavens he was so small and adorable.<br />
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Now, the tiny little kitty cat that came inside pleading for his life, begs me to let him back outside as often as possible and stays out as long as I will let him stay there!<br />
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The culmination of this great weekend occurred today - <a href="http://www.diananyad.com/" target="_blank">Diana Nyad</a> finished her fifth and final attempt to swim the 103 miles between Cuba and Key West. She did it. Our family paid attention to her incredible feats in the 1970s and I have been following her through her last three attempts. I was so shocked in 2011 to discover that a 62 year old woman was ready to attempt something no one else on earth had accomplished ... and now, two years later she has gone all the way.<br />
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I woke up at 1:15 this morning to check her progress and realized that she had at least another eight hours. There was no sign or threat that she was in trouble, so my confidence level raised and I went back to sleep. At 6:15, though, I was up to watch the end of the swim. There has never been an event this exciting or a person this inspiring for me. She has reminded me that grit and determination continue to be important. A dream can be realized.<br />
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Now ... I have a novel to finish! That's my dream.Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-71063509819485943262013-08-24T14:27:00.005-05:002013-08-24T16:56:43.266-05:00Your World View - Optimist / Pessimist?I have a friend with an extremely negative worldview. If there are five different interpretations of a someone's actions or words, he will choose the most negative of them and then react according to his interpretation, rather than the actual behavior. There is also no learning curve with this person. No matter how many times someone proves they can be trusted or that they will follow through or that they will always behave in a way that is supportive, the negative interpretation happens first and there is no acknowledgment that he might have been wrong. The cycle repeats ad nauseum and it becomes difficult to believe anything he says about anyone. No one in this person's life is trustworthy. He is always skeptical.<br />
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On the other hand, there is my sister. It has taken years and years of beatings and slapdowns for her to finally accept the fact that there are mean people in the world. She gets hijacked by friends and family alike because her first instinct is to trust their motives and actions. I used to go out of my mind when we owned a business together because salesmen could walk in and she would get sucked into their spiel. The next thing I knew we were listening to long drawn out sales pitches until I'd finally had enough and made them go away. She is the best of us in the world and even though I know it is dangerous, I'd like to be more like her in this regard.<br />
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I consider myself to be a fairly positive / optimistic person and all of a sudden this morning it occurred to me that this dichotomy is why there are such interesting comments about my books.<br />
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I get crushed by the negative reviews that show up. They suck the life out of me and no matter what anyone says to me, I internalize them until they actually stop me from writing. It's as if there are people who believe I should never write another word because what I've put out there is so awful. Consequently, I'm under strict orders to go nowhere near my reviews. As long as I'm obedient, the joy returns to my writing. <br />
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It was hard to realize that when I began writing the Bellingwood series I had the most fun I'd ever had in my life ... doing anything! I'd finally found it ... you know ... that thing that completes you. Then, the reviews came in and all of that was replaced with a feeling that I had no business intruding on these people's lives with my words. What was I thinking?<br />
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I can talk a little bit about this now, because I'm way on the other side of it. As long as I don't pay attention to the 'haters' (who are gonna hate), I am back to having more fun than anyone deserves to have. (Please don't let this part of the blogpost become your focus.)<br />
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There is something about optimists and pessimists though, and the difference in their worldviews that is triggered by my books. Originally I set out to write something fun and show the world how much I loved the folks in rural Iowa. All of a sudden, people were saying terrible things about my characters and the story itself (comments about my writing ... well, damn ... those hurt, but okay). <br />
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The women who befriend the main character, Polly, were looked at with suspicion and derision. I wrote them as women who extended themselves to others and easily made friends, building relationships and friendships. The sweet stories that are told in the books drew extremely negative reactions - people said they couldn't believe that this was even possible. <br />
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Then it occurred to me that I could probably identify those who believed there were horrors behind every tree and those who believed the best about people based on how they reacted to my stories. If someone lives with a pessimistic world view and believes the worst about people, they will hate what I write and call every action into question. They don't see hope easily and for them, joy comes with a price. Their first reaction is to criticize and to assert themselves as an authority so they don't get stuck in situations they can't handle.<br />
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On the other hand (and thankfully these people are more numerous than you can believe), there are those who have weathered pain and struggles and still believe in the goodness of others. They know what it is like to encounter genuinely friendly people because they are that type of person. It is easy to be around my readers because they like folks and will trust them first and allow others to be real and make mistakes. Judgment doesn't occur because they recognize that they've been there before themselves.<br />
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These things make me consider my own behavior. I want people to recognize me as one of those wonderful women in Bellingwood who are open and ready to bring new friends into their lives. And I want to be Polly Giller (the protagonist of the Bellingwood series), who sees the best in others, no matter what their background.<br />
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I want to trust first and learn whether or not I've made the right decision - rather than mistrust at the outset and discover that I was right all along.<br />
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See, that's the thing with negative reactions to the world. If we begin by being mistrustful, it only takes one time to justify our behavior - even if one thousand other interactions disprove us. But, if we believe that it happens only once in a thousand times, we see the world through eyes of joy and happiness and others will be more ready to respond to us with the same behavior.<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-38488106379856585352013-08-23T14:43:00.000-05:002013-08-23T14:48:51.070-05:00Could you change your brand of toilet paper?Last year I got tired of buying toilet paper all the time and hauling it around, so I checked out Amazon's 'Subscribe and Save' and discovered that not only could I have the UPS guy deliver it right to my front door, but I would also end up saving some money. They didn't have the type of toilet paper I was used to, but I went ahead and placed an order. When it showed up, I did NOT like it. At all.<br />
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The only problem was that I had forty-eight rolls of toilet paper. I was committed to this new stuff, whether I liked it or not. Five months passed and the second shipment showed up. I didn't think a thing about it.<br />
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Five more months ... almost ... passed and I realized I wasn't going to make it until the next shipment arrived, so I purchased a four-pack from the grocery store. It was the stuff I'd always used up until my big decision to shop from Amazon. I couldn't believe it. Now I didn't like the old stuff. The toilet paper I had been using for years and years was no longer my favorite. I couldn't wait to finish the package and get back to what I was now used to using.<br />
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As I thought about this, I giggled because first of all, I knew it would probably end up as a blog post. But secondly, it occurred to me that change isn't always about leaping into something new, it's about leaving behind something that we are comfortable with - that we are familiar with.<br />
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The 'old' may not be better than the new, but we hate the idea that change is involved.<br />
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It really bothers me to discover areas of my life where I am so averse to change. That's not the way I was raised. Because my father was an itinerant United Methodist pastor, we moved pretty regularly. We packed up everything we owned, moved into a new community and a new house. We made new friends, got used to new shops, discovered new ways to get from our house to the schools and fell into new routines. It didn't occur to us to complain or whine about it because both Mom and Dad made sure that they expressed excitement over what was inevitable. They talked about how much fun we would have meeting new people. They always took a couple of road trips so we could see the new town and get excited about our new school and the new parsonage and the new church. They would pick out one thing or another that would be fun for us to know about our new home. Even packing up the house for a move became opportunities for them to encourage us to look forward to the new home. Mom would muse about how her furniture would look in the new place and get us involved in thinking about what we might do with our new room.<br />
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For us, moving and change meant that something exciting was in store for us. <br />
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I've changed colleges, jobs and homes several times throughout my life and have always approached them with a sense of joyous anticipation. When we closed our business, I looked forward to the next adventure. When I transferred from Asbury to Grand Canyon University, I could hardly wait to dive into a new program.<br />
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There is nothing I love more than changing my living space around. I don't do it as much any more because it seems that I have way too much stuff in my life, but one of these days I'll grow uncomfortable with my writing area and everything will be unplugged and pulled away from where it currently resides and shuffled to make a better work space. It happens every six months or so whether it needs to or not. I really look forward to changing things.<br />
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Most things ... because when it comes to changing my brand of toilet paper, I guess I prefer the comfortable and familiar.<br />
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The funny thing is - it doesn't really take long for something new to be comfortable and familiar.Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-49565968005711341422013-08-20T15:55:00.001-05:002013-08-20T15:55:28.444-05:00Inflammatory ConversationsI'm beginning to see rapid re-posts of <a href="http://www.inquisitr.com/912380/autistic-boys-hate-letter-euthanize-him-demands-neighbor/" target="_blank">this horrid letter</a> delivered to a woman who was babysitting her autistic grandson. It is shocking and disgusting. Many comments I see in response to this letter are just as shocking and disgusting, though. People call for terrible things to happen to the woman and it makes me realize that so often we do not understand how to perpetuate love and kindness - we are more likely to bring more vile behavior to the table because we are so offended.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I was waiting for my laundry to finish when a woman walked in to begin hers. She was chatting on the phone and since there was no one other than myself there, I listened to what she was saying to her friend - she was speaking loudly and clearly within three feet of me.<br />
<br />
However, I wanted to hug her and tell her that she was exactly right. Apparently, the friend wanted to verbally destroy someone who had hurt her, but this gal went on and on about how that would only add fuel to a fire that needed to be put out. When the friend said something about how her feelings were hurt, the woman told her that feelings were temporary, but the lessons she taught her children would be life-long and she must want to teach them to be kind and loving, not mean and hurtful.<br />
<br />
The woman talked of her ex-husband and how it would have been easy for her to say terrible things about him because of what he'd done, but she wanted her own kids to grow up understanding forgiveness, love, and kindness. She made a choice to treat him with respect and encourage her kids to do so as well even though he must have done awful things to her when they were together.<br />
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The conversation went on and on as she listened to her friend and attempted to calm her down, reiterating a call to be sensible, if nothing else, for the sake of teaching children the right way to interact with others.<br />
<br />
Even in our response to awful behavior, we must remember to not lower ourselves to another's level. We can't justify their actions by behaving as badly as they do.<br />
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My father told of a man who came in to his office once a month, like clockwork. As soon as he got into the office he began to curse and swear, verbally destroying everything that was happening around him. Rather than getting upset with him and making things worse, Dad calmly listened, expressed his disagreement and thanked the man for taking the time to come in. After a while, those visits began to become more random until he no longer had anything awful to swear and curse about.<br />
<br />
I have a tendency to react quickly with my mouth and so I often walk away from a situation rather than respond to it. My response won't help the situation and I won't win anything by reacting, so a quick retreat is generally more appropriate. I have to ask myself if my words will change anything. If the answer is no, I don't need to encourage any continuation of a bad moment in time.<br />
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I have also found that publicly telling someone about their poor choices inflames the situations as well ... unless of course you are in the first grade and don't know any better.<br />
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When I did my student teaching in an elementary school in Cedar Rapids, I had a music classroom filled with first graders. The back of the piano faced the class and I was seated so I could look over it, see the children, and still play. One little boy came up behind the piano, got up close to me and said, "I wet my pants and need to go to the office." Apparently, they were prepared for this and had fresh clothes for him to wear. So far no one else in the room had seen what he had done and I knew that all he needed to do was leave by the door right behind me and still be saved the embarrassment of wet khaki pants in a class full of peers. I told him that it was fine and he could leave. I didn't want to inflame the situation by making this public.<br />
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He chose, instead, to walk back over to the side of the piano and stand in front of everyone. Why? I have no idea. Then he took off running out the door and down to the office.<br />
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Sometimes you can't help but make something public, I guess ... and after reading this awful story about a woman who needs more help than the autistic child she is degrading ... I thought you needed a story of an adorable child who still makes me giggle. It occurs to me that he is at least 30 years old now. He'll never know how much he's made me smile over the years.<br />
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Instead of calling for this woman's head, avoid inflaming the discussion. Be that kindness and love to those around you.<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-76249703891556932322013-07-19T12:42:00.002-05:002013-07-19T12:42:13.139-05:00Am I Good Enough?This post has been a long time coming. I'm not much of a complainer or whiner, but sometimes it just gets overwhelming. So ... here's my heart.<br />
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The thing about putting yourself out there is that you expose yourself to criticism and ridicule.<br />
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I'll be honest with you. That is NOT something I choose to do easily. I've always been much more comfortable in the support role; encouraging and building up my friends. I know just what it means to be told that you aren't good enough and it is important that those around me always here me telling them they are doing a great job.<br />
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As much as I loved my father, one thing he did poorly was telling his kids how great they were. Dad wanted perfection from us. When I brought home a report card with straight A's, he asked if there had been an opportunity for A+'s. I despised having him attend any of my performances because the first thing he did when we got in the car after a really exciting evening was say, "That was a very nice performance, but ..." and then he would begin listing all of the mistakes and problems he had seen. It was as if nothing was good enough for him. He couldn't focus on the great moments of the performance; only the mistakes. There were some very long rides in the car from the high school to our home. <br />
<br />
When I finally got up the courage to confront him with his behavior after a particularly grueling session of "here's what you did wrong and here's what everyone else did wrong," he was surprised. It was never his intention to tell me I wasn't good enough; he was very proud of me. He had simply recognized the mistakes and was talking about them. <br />
<br />
Maybe he didn't understand that every single one of the mistakes I'd made had already resonated so deeply within me that I was feeding into his criticism of me and absorbing it, making it more than what he meant it to be. What I needed from him was affirmation that my mistakes didn't define me.<br />
<br />
Artists, composers, musicians, authors ... anyone who creates ... warily places their creation out into the world and waits with bated breath to see what the world will do with it.<br />
<br />
<i>When it is ignored, we might be a little shocked. So much time had been spent in creation and so much attention had been paid to this that it is surprising to find no one else really cares. But, we move past that and look for those who might share the same interest.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>When it is accepted, we feel a little glee that others understand those moments we have invested, but we are still wary.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>When it is celebrated, our hearts fill. It's as if the most precious part of who we are is now a welcome part of the world.</i><br />
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<i>But, when we are criticized, everything good we believed about ourself is set aside and all of the negative comments we've ever heard begin cycling through our minds. We aren't good enough. We shouldn't even try. We gather our creation back in, hold it close and swear to never let anyone see it again so neither of us can be hurt.</i><br />
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I didn't understand my father's need to criticize our performances and when I told him that it was hurtful, he was surprised and then began to adjust his behavior. He was MUCH better as we grew older, understanding that his job was to support and encourage rather than to criticize and thus shut our creative sides down.<br />
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Mediocre and bad reviews suck the life out of me. The first thing I do is question whether or not I should even continue writing, because apparently someone thinks my work isn't worth the time I've invested in it.<br />
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It takes everything in me to overcome those words and move forward. And then I tell myself that I had the courage to put myself out there. I hear my sister and friends reminding me that there are a great many others who love what I've done. Little by little, bit by bit, I return to normal. It doesn't take long ... sometimes just a couple of hours, but those two hours can be a killer.<br />
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The question for you is - are you an encourager, or would you rather point out errors and things you disagree with? <br />
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I'm an encourager because I know that the artist always finds their own mistakes and if I disagree with their interpretation that's on me ... not them.<br />
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There, I'm better now.Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-64754231860999931912013-07-12T12:22:00.002-05:002013-07-12T12:22:34.862-05:00Another book ... published.Well, that feels strange. My third book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Treasure-Uncovered-Bellingwood-Diane-Greenwood/dp/1490939288/ref=sr_1_3" target="_blank">Treasure Uncovered</a>, is live on Amazon. Last summer, I was doing everything I could think of to figure out how to make writing ... well ... real.<br />
<br />
I had started and stopped so many different novels over the years that I had absolutely no confidence I would ever finish one, much less find a way for people to read it. I didn't say too much to anyone, it was a dream that I just held tightly to myself. When random thoughts would occur, I wrote them out, hoping to finally break through the barrier between beginning aproject and finishing it. <br />
<br />
So, I took hold of a great book - Julia Cameron's "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Artists-Way-Julia-Cameron/dp/1585421472/ref=sr_1_2" target="_blank">Artist's Way</a>" and began writing every single day. There wasn't anything specific that I was writing, it was just words on paper (well, screen). I was still in the middle of my Master's Degree, so I didn't stress over it, but I did begin writing a novel again (not the Bellingwood series). And then, I set that book aside one more time. I was so disappointed in myself, but too busy in class to think about it any more than absolutely necessary.<br />
<br />
One night, in the middle of November, I was reading a self-published novel and was absolutely in love with the characters and plot lines. It hit me. I had been writing something that was too big for me to write rapidly. But, there was something I could write about ... people I know and love. Just like the author of the books I was reading had uncovered wonderful characters, I had a ready source of them ... my friends and former church members, people who lived in the many small communities where I had grown up, stories of people my friends knew in their lives. I had more stories than I knew what to do with!<br />
<br />
My friends always told me I should write a book with my stories and I realized that I could turn those into the backgrounds for my fictional characters. I started writing ... and writing ... and writing. Characters came alive under my fingers. Within one month I had a full-blown novel ... written! I had actually finished it! The few people I allowed to read it and swore to secrecy (because if it sucked, I wasn't telling anyone) assured me that I should move forward and keep growing with this. I did exactly that.<br />
<br />
From the time I was a child, I wanted to be a writer. I would sit at my desk in my room with a blank sheet of paper and a pen or pencil poised over it, hovering while I waited for my mind to release the words. Some days, that pencil would hover there indefinitely until I gave up, threw it down and picked up a book to read. Other days, I would begin stories and then of course, never finish the entirety of them.<br />
<br />
My confidence has returned, so I will go back to some of those plot lines, pick up the stories and do my best to find their conclusion.<br />
<br />
Polly Giller arrived in Bellingwood and began to stir the community's imagination, allowing many to look at their dreams differently. Polly Giller gave me back my dream.<br />
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<div>
Check out the whole series (wow, it's a series, I've written a series!).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Book 1 - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/All-Roads-Lead-Home-Bellingwood/dp/1482021803/ref=sr_1_1" target="_blank">All Roads Lead Home</a></div>
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Book 2 - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Big-Life-Small-Town-Bellingwood/dp/1483907031/ref=sr_1_2" target="_blank">A Big Life in a Small Town</a></div>
<div>
Book 3 - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Treasure-Uncovered-Bellingwood-Diane-Greenwood/dp/1490939288/ref=sr_1_3" target="_blank">Treasure Uncovered</a></div>
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THEN, go "LIKE" the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pollygiller" target="_blank">Bellingwood </a>page on Facebook and join me as Book 4 is written and published.</div>
Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-22439799360294480422013-06-19T10:30:00.000-05:002013-06-19T10:30:00.589-05:00Terror and ExcitementI am sitting here at my desk in abject terror. Enough so that tears are pressing against my eyes, threatening to erupt at any moment.<br />
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At the same time, my soul is filled with excitement at what is about to happen next.<br />
<br />
Concurrently, my mind knows that the only way to move forward is to leave the past behind and grab hold of the next goal.<br />
<br />
All of these things are swirling through my being and it occurs to me that when I was 25 years old, I would never have imagined having the same sensations twenty-five (cough) years later. At that time, I was leaving everything I thought I had planned for my life, about to leap into running a business with my mother and sister. I had quit my job as a Christian Education and Music Director and was moving out of my wonderful little apartment and planning to live at home with my family until there was enough money in the business to pay me a real salary. I was terrified, excited and ready to go.<br />
<br />
I have a tendency to make huge changes in my life ... all of a sudden. Some of them are thrust on me, some are because I radically react to a situation I am in and others happen because I can see great potential in that change.<br />
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When I was in high school, I was an avid letter writer. I had many long distance friends all over the place and would write four or five letters a week. I remember writing some of those letters though - when all I could say to my friends was that nothing much had changed in my life. There were so many times when I believed that nothing ever would; that I would be doing the same things in the same manner for the rest of my life.<br />
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Scores of years later, I recognize that though it often seems as if not much changes, in actuality, life is filled with transformations. These changes are both large and small and even though it seems much safer to avoid them, it's not near as much fun. I like to have fun, even when it is tossing my life up in the air and seeing what shakes out as it returns to reality.<br />
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For the last seven or eight months, I have been looking forward to this date, attempting to do my best to prepare for the moment when I was no longer responsible to a professor or fellow students, when I had no more papers to write, textbooks to read or grades with which I needed to be concerned. <br />
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Today it has arrived ... well, officially I am finished at midnight tonight, but I have submitted my final paper and unless my professor comes up with more questions, I have written my last response on a classroom wall. It will take a couple of months for the university to process all of the paperwork and deliver the piece of paper that tells the world I have an advanced degree, but right now, I own this moment.<br />
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And in the next moment, I am already preparing for what will follow. I have a rather large list of things that need to happen as I forge ahead. Some are piddly little items which will be checked off as quickly as I can get to them, others will require as much concentration and learning as I've put into several of my classes these last three years; but all will continue to propel me into a different life.<br />
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Now, I'm kind of looking forward to a couple of days of not thinking about much of anything, but more than that, I'm looking forward to not fracturing my concentration into many different areas. I have stories to tell and it's going to be fun focusing on one thing at a time.<br />
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I'm terrified and excited all at the same time. I want to cry, I want to bury my head in the sand and I want to scream in fear. Change is here today and I guess the best option is just to keep moving into it and realize that it's up to me as to whether or not it is a good thing. Since I already told you that I like to have fun, it seems like a great idea to decide that it's not only a good thing, it's going to be extraordinary!<br />
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It's nice to have an adorable companion on the journey.<br />
<br />Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-6393774413154868692013-06-17T20:07:00.002-05:002013-06-17T20:07:30.904-05:00Outdoorsy? Not So Much.I'm not outdoorsy, but I love being outside on my screened in porch. I'd like to tell you I'm much more productive, but that would be a lie. I get so distracted by the birds flitting about and the trees moving in the wind, the sunlight sprinkling the meadow and the farm traffic that passes, I lose all sense of time some days.<br />
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This afternoon, I realized that, though I have very little experience with and understanding of ornithology, I love watching these birds. From the glowing crimson of the cardinal to the bright blue of the jay; from the hooting of the owls in the wood to the hammering of the woodpecker, from the sweet and too numerous to count sparrows (thank goodness God does that and not me) to the robins who show up every spring as well as the glorious goldfinches and fluttering hummingbirds, I have a beautiful bird's sanctuary outside these screened windows.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYZNMSTn_HK0Q4WT97Z4Zi1zypLCI4YutOHC7oQ74hAsjVegBH2t0-4V8ay-5JqUdxDfIAUprWfwY9GGn6mrSzg0Za9f3rDx9CNMJlcYFTP2WdjWJMKyGMH2pFl7t_-d6bk5PhQ/s1600/IMG_0891.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYZNMSTn_HK0Q4WT97Z4Zi1zypLCI4YutOHC7oQ74hAsjVegBH2t0-4V8ay-5JqUdxDfIAUprWfwY9GGn6mrSzg0Za9f3rDx9CNMJlcYFTP2WdjWJMKyGMH2pFl7t_-d6bk5PhQ/s320/IMG_0891.JPG" width="320" /></a>TB can hardly wait for me to open the main door in the morning. If I don't do it as soon as I come out of the bathroom, he follows me around, meowing until it happens. Then, if I don't make my way out to the porch with the laptop and my coffee which means I open the screen doors for him to roam around; he comes back in to find me and remind me that I need to breathe fresh air and see the sun shine.<br />
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When we were growing up, we spent much more time outside than I do now. I loved camping with Dad and I do realize that Mom probably ensured we loved being outside so that she could relax inside with a good book. In junior high we moved to Sigourney with a community pool and during the summer, we took off on our bikes to be there when it opened.<br />
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Without Dad around, though, I've turned into a lousy camper. I finally realized that it just wasn't as much fun now because he loved it so much, he made it easy for all of us to have a good time. He spent months preparing for camping trips, making lists of all the things he would need, ensuring that everything was in good shape for a trip and packing so we could take things and never be without. When we were very young, he worked with a tent maker and designed the perfect tent for our family. It is heavy as hell, but still works and is in great shape. That was always the first thing he would pack into the van and I loved helping him set it up once we arrived at our destination.<br />
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Notice I said that I loved helping him set it up. As I grew older, I realized quickly that he had done all of the work and allowed me to place stakes for him, even though I didn't do all that much.<br />
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We traveled to South Dakota one year and met my brother and his family up there for a short vacation. Jim thought it would be a great idea for us to all go tent-camping one night rather than spend money on hotel rooms. I agreed, remembering all the fun we'd had as kids.<br />
<br />
Well, that night torrential rains poured down. Max and I huddled in the tent trying to avoid the water streaming underneath us and doing our best to not touch any part of the tent so we didn't get dripping water. We failed completely and I tried to sleep that night, laying on top of a rock, wondering why in the hell I had made such a strange choice. Because of the weather, there was no bonfire and no laughing together as a family. We were soaked and miserable the next morning as we met for breakfast and quickly made the choice to not repeat that event another night. Since then, I have set aside all thoughts of being an outdoorswoman and choose to stay where there are bathrooms within the same structure where I sleep and screens to stand between me and nature while I relax.<br />
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That being said, I love watching the leaves glitter in the sunlight and hearing the multiple bird songs, smelling the scents on the breezes that float past, cooling me in their wake. God has created an amazing world and even though I sometimes like a little separation between me and its glory, I still love it.<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-87247614515587928042013-06-13T14:09:00.005-05:002013-06-13T14:12:24.452-05:00Advice?I have spent the last few weeks thinking about freely given, unsolicited advice. It annoys me.<br />
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<b>Advice:</b> <i>an opinion about what could or should be done about a situation or a problem.</i><br />
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<b>Synonyms:</b> guidance, help, input, instruction, judgment, lesson, persuasion, recommendation, suggestion, two cents' worth, warning, view, word to the wise.<br />
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Several weeks ago, around the end of school, I read a blog post by a well-known blogger that sent me into hysterical giggling. I laughed and laughed; then I laughed some more as I read follow-up comments from others who had as many ridiculous experiences as the original writer. Then I quit laughing as I read comments from those whose only intent was to ensure the entire world knew how the author had misused words, obviously didn't know how to raise children correctly and had disappointed the universe. They told her over and over how to change her life so she could meet their standards.<br />
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I finally had to quit reading because I no longer read the hilarious comments with joy, but trepidation because I knew that soon there would be another 'oh-so-helpful' person giving advice ... quite freely.<br />
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The other day, I caught myself doing something a bit like that. <br />
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A friend had fallen into a deep, blue funk and had the courage to tell me about it, knowing that I would encourage her. But, I couldn't stop after I had written those words; I had to keep going. I wrote it all out, sent the email and then cringed. She hadn't asked me to give her advice on how to fix the situation, but I was more than willing to offer it; I spewed hundreds of words all over the page.<br />
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I immediately sent an apology and her reply was gracious - telling me that she knew my advice was not only freely given, but also came with no strings. She's right, I have no problem with a person choosing not to use what I say. And at that point, I relaxed.<br />
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What is our deal?<br />
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Is it because we need others to know we're the smartest person in the room? Oh, I'm certain in many cases, that's a great part of it.<br />
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Maybe it's because we've been down a certain path ourselves and want to make sure that no one else has to face the same issues we did. But, that's assuming they're on the exact same path we've been on and will make the same choices we made along the way. Heaven forbid they walk that path and make better choices all on their own.<br />
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Some of it has to do with the fact that we like to homogenize everything to our own limited viewpoint and standards. <br />
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In many cases, it's just because we're opinionated and can't imagine that anyone with a different opinion could be correct.<br />
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If you look at the title of this blog, I've been called "The Oracle," because I give advice quite freely. Sometimes I really do think I'm the smartest person in the room; sometimes I know what I've been through and simply don't want to watch someone else deal with it; sometimes I'm seriously opinionated.<br />
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But, I need to watch my words. <br />
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- Is it the right time to say (or write) something?<br />
- Will they receive it in the spirit with which I offer it?<br />
- Have they really even asked for my advice?<br />
- Do we have a relationship in which I have permission to offer advice?<br />
- Am I simply sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong?<br />
- Will my words affect this person positively or am I being judgmental?<br />
- If I do give advice, am I fine with it being ignored?<br />
- Is my opinion simply that and nothing more?<br />
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There's advice and then there's telling people what to do. It's not an easy line to walk.<br />
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And for something a little more fuzzy - here's a picture of TB: <br />
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<br />Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-9170021716611673002013-02-01T15:11:00.001-06:002013-02-01T15:11:08.406-06:00Scared Senseless<br />
Do you have anything in your life that scares you out of your mind? Some of you will tell me that raising children does that for you, and though I agree with you, I'm talking about something that is yours and yours alone. Something that challenges you to become more and different, that taps into all of your creativity. If you are still trying to tell me that raising children does this, that's alright. This post probably won't apply to you, because I want to talk about your personal growth, not growing your children up to be great people. That's absolutely a challenge and I'm awfully glad you've chosen to take it on. From here on out, though ... that's no longer the topic.<br />
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What about personal risks? Stepping outside your own box and doing something that makes your heart race and your palms sweat, that terrifies you and excites you all at the same time.<br />
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Too often we become complacent and satisfied with our own excellence. We've come to a point in our lives where we've done all we need to do and that's enough. We no longer think about growing in our lives, we simply look out a few years to retirement and hope that we can just live to see that day come. That's enough of a commitment to risk for us.<br />
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It is said that if you take no risks and only accomplish the things you can do alone, you are missing out on a big part of your relationship with God. If you need Him for nothing in your life, then why do you need Him at all, except for bailing you out of bad situations (sickness, screwups, loss, etc.). We risk nothing if we do things we can accomplish on our own. We don't exercise our trust in God, we don't bother attempting to see if we could be better than we are right now, we don't grow. In other words, we stay stagnant, like a dirty little pool of water beside a rushing river. When the drought comes, we dry up and fade away.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0-JCK8wNjZb02kOIF1wbwwMAIrNiQPD2TrE6dkLdLO5IZgvSdSK9fySEy1S3ynzgC2YTV93SPUfjfqX9KGe6gdHT5R0RxQWLxGfDhYdUTT0os5wainOX9wXm94iwKE3d-Q5AQw/s1600/door-closed-w-little-boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0-JCK8wNjZb02kOIF1wbwwMAIrNiQPD2TrE6dkLdLO5IZgvSdSK9fySEy1S3ynzgC2YTV93SPUfjfqX9KGe6gdHT5R0RxQWLxGfDhYdUTT0os5wainOX9wXm94iwKE3d-Q5AQw/s320/door-closed-w-little-boy.jpg" width="320" /></a>In 1980, our family moved to a new community and Mom discovered an interesting new facet of her life. We were close enough to the University of Iowa for her to begin taking classes consistently in pursuit of the degree she'd put off for a couple of decades. While she was attending classes, she also discovered that she had a passion for teaching people how to incorporate themselves into the American culture. The town had many illegal immigrants who desperately wanted to learn how to become Americans, as well as legal immigrants who had poor language skills. Mom became very involved with an English as a Second Language (ESL) program and spent hours on lesson plans as well as learning to speak Spanish so she could more easily communicate with her new friends. She added Spanish courses to her class schedule at the University and even wrangled me in the year I lived at home after college (don't ask), to help teach ESL and GED classes to students. The next thing we knew she had immersed herself into the culture and opened our home to some of the women who would come over and spend days cooking up dishes to freeze and store.<br />
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Then, came the big question. How far was she willing to go to learn the language?The University offered a one-month immersion course in Mexico. I know I've written about this before, but Mom's fears were legendary. She talked friends into taking classes with her so they would open closed doors to the buildings and classrooms. She made my sister open the door to a classroom at the University the first time. Now, once the door was opened, she was fine with going in and out of it from that point forward, she just became catatonic at the thought of opening a door to something unknown. Mom wasn't terribly friendly. People frightened her. What a hideous thing to have to face as a pastor's wife. The most amazing things she had done in her life thus far, and she had done some pretty wild and wonderful things, had been with either Dad or one of us kids at her side. As long as she wasn't alone, she could do a lot of things, albeit sometimes not without kicking and screaming.<br />
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Mom cried a lot about the decision to go to Mexico alone. She would be alone in a culture she knew nothing about and speaking a language in which she had very little fluency and she wasn't comfortable leaving her family for a month. But she decided to go. A friend went with her, but they didn't live in the same community while there. She was on her own.<br />
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The next summer, her life changed again and we moved to the Omaha area where she opened a business, having never run a business in her life. Something happened when Mom chose to step out on her own into a world very different from the one she knew well. My mother was absolutely, stinking brilliant and excelled at everything she chose to attempt. She was an amazing writer and poet, impressing the heck out of any professor who read her stuff, painted beautiful paintings, sculpted awesome sculptures, wrote and taught Bible studies, published youth curriculum, organized events and raised a pretty terrific family. But, those were things she could do on her own, with a little help from friends and family to get her past her stumbling blocks. <br />
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She didn't find her passion, though, until she reached beyond the things she knew she could accomplish and had to trust God to bridge the gap for her. Once she learned to rely on Him for the big things, she no longer needed people to open doors. She knew He was on the other side of the door before she got there.<br />
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If you don't take the big risks, you will never find out what you can accomplish after you've put that risk in God's hands. He doesn't ask us to do it alone, using our own strength. Philippians 4:13 says "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." There really are no limits once we realize we aren't alone.<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-30737432775424238332013-01-27T12:36:00.001-06:002013-01-27T12:37:20.911-06:00WordsI lay in bed early this morning waiting for the cat to settle down and crawl back under the covers. Five thirty was much too early for me to do anything productive, so I took the time to let my mind wander. The next thing I knew I was thinking about how much I love words. If you don't already "Like" the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MarvelousWords" target="_blank">Marvelous Words</a> page on Facebook, you should click through right now. Every day I come up with a word that fascinates me. I learn something and you could as well.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuxNPvL6Eo4QM1R2xi-DCkWoF-MsUdQyjKnN9S6FvImUApEEB0eNirnYAOtyRamqXq_282cvADL4L7lk_Kki4vYrHhU0cY18YrgOGcIOCXAmI6fXrN4bLBKCcvf8K0Om4_4fpNUQ/s1600/Words+Blog+wordle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuxNPvL6Eo4QM1R2xi-DCkWoF-MsUdQyjKnN9S6FvImUApEEB0eNirnYAOtyRamqXq_282cvADL4L7lk_Kki4vYrHhU0cY18YrgOGcIOCXAmI6fXrN4bLBKCcvf8K0Om4_4fpNUQ/s320/Words+Blog+wordle.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
The game "Balderdash" is something I rarely play with friends, because words intimidate so many of us. If we don't know their meaning, we feel left out of conversations or feel as if we are less than others who might have that word in their repertoire. In actuality, balderdash is more about lying and bluffing, than it is about knowing the true meaning of words. If you can convince enough people that your word is close to the meaning, you win. Because my vocabulary is rather voluminous, it's not an onerous task for me to intimidate others.<br />
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Well, anyway ... words ...<br />
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I grew up with two parents who loved words. I could walk in on a very heated discussion about something - and when I say 'very heated,' I mean a full-fledged argument - and upon asking what the problem was, it would simply be the definition and implied meaning of a word Mom and Dad might have read or heard that day. They loved talking about words. My mother was a walking dictionary. Her vocabulary was like nothing I've ever known or experienced since. Dad's was pretty profound, there's not doubt about that. Mom loved to write and some of her most joyous years were when she was taking correspondence courses in English literature from the University of Iowa. She would spend hours writing those papers and when the A+'s began rolling in, she would smile and then quietly leave them around for us to discover. They both read voraciously. My family thinks I consume books, but again, nothing like Mom. Dad was always intimidated by how quickly both she and I read, but every evening he had a book in his hands when he was able to be home and in his comfortable chair. He read during the day as he prepared for sermons and then he spent every week writing something that would be heard by his congregation. He had to ensure his words were correctly used and took great care to craft a piece he would accept as excellent. Because, heaven help him if he made a mistake. Mom would wait until he was home for lunch and in the safety of our house, but she would let him have it. And they would be off again on another search for the true meaning behind a word.<br />
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Mom was so comfortable with words that she made them up or twisted them to suit her purposes. Because of her vocabulary, the three of us kids never felt safe when using a word we didn't see in print or hear from others. I often embarrassed myself when using one of her words in public. <br />
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I was in second grade when I used one of our family's words in public. I had never heard the word 'fart.' In our house it was called a 'foo-foo.' I used the word with my classmates and after the initial shock and attempt to understand what it was I was saying, laughter and finger-pointing was the next exercise in embarrassing me. It hadn't occurred to me that my parents would do something like that to us, but of course they didn't want us saying something as crass as 'fart.'<br />
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Mom liked to pronounce the silent 'k' in words. A knife - was 'kuh-nife,' and Fletcher Kneble, the author, was pronounced with a hard 'k.' It didn't even occur to me to correct myself one night in front of a handbell choir I was directing. I wanted to sound intelligent as we were talking about books we had been reading and out it slipped. The ladies looked at me and one had the temerity to say, "did you mean Neeble?" Oh yeah. That. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-W8WjyfYNOAYqMfK20FJLWVpJvENO_MNsdodTa52usMkutCIajA36L0XcT-jw4r74NJ1vr05FEClSPyiNRL70cxJvJJzFnj3WdF6toaEdgGPfhudC78Q6gepXGS37yGVWJcegvw/s1600/Black+Rhinoceros2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-W8WjyfYNOAYqMfK20FJLWVpJvENO_MNsdodTa52usMkutCIajA36L0XcT-jw4r74NJ1vr05FEClSPyiNRL70cxJvJJzFnj3WdF6toaEdgGPfhudC78Q6gepXGS37yGVWJcegvw/s320/Black+Rhinoceros2.jpg" width="320" /></a>Think about the word rhinoceros. If you are like most people, you immediately recognize that the accent is on the second syllable: rhi-no'-cer-os. However, if you use the condensed version of the word - rhino, the accent is on the first syllable: rhi'-no. Well, of course Mom thought it was funny to twist the word up a little bit and when saying the entire word, she would pronounce it with the accent on the THIRD syllable: rhi-no-sor'-us. Or ... as we got used to saying - rhi-no-sore'-ass. To this day, if you ask me about that horned mammal, I will have to take a moment before I pronounce the word because of her influence.<br />
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Several years ago, I was working as the Communications Director for a church and shared an office space with a friend. One day, we were discussing how impossible it was to get some program or some person or whatever to move forward. I mentioned that we were 'stall-foundered.' He looked at me in confusion. Now, he is a bright young man with a pretty good vocabulary as well and felt confident that he could challenge me in my word usage. He asked what I had said and I repeated it. We were stallfoundered. "Diane, that's not a word." <br />
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Of course it's a word! It's a word that Mom used over and over. It was a very familiar word ... to me. Oh no. She'd gotten me more than twenty years after she died, hadn't she! And yes, to be sure, there is no such word. There are two words she combined to create emphasis, but that word doesn't exist in any dictionary. I will still use it, but at least now I won't insist that it is real.<br />
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She twisted words and combined others, sometimes just making up entirely new words. The word 'nammynools' was one she created when we were children and she got tired of listing through every animal's name in the house, then each child until she got to the right one. Every living being in her care was one of her nammynools ... a complete twist on the word animal. I liked that one and trust me, I never believed it might be in the dictionary. But, it's mine now.<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-34356496193082449172013-01-18T12:30:00.001-06:002013-01-18T12:30:57.608-06:00My First NovelThe day has finally arrived. It's one of those days I thought would never get here, but it has. I've published my first novel - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Roads-Lead-Home-Bellingwood-ebook/dp/B00B2FOHNS/ref=sr_1_1" target="_blank">All Roads Lead Home</a>.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Roads-Lead-Home-Bellingwood-ebook/dp/B00B2FOHNS/ref=sr_1_1" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLPNXtPGFSNSLTucCypOE2an3FPImalJ4vwj8VY8hh9CEksCCRrkycWcRYc9KnVcIeM3ou2EaTh9bgkhkZNNypjnU-W3CfQsx4G4PLMqW0OVMAFhC6el7nt48iJvn9dhVixwUzw/s320/All+Roads+Lead+Home+(Twitter).jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
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The characters are no longer simply wandering around in my mind and the words aren't sitting in a digital file on my computer. They're out there ... in the real world ... waiting to be read by you!<br />
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It's a fun story about a girl who returns to Iowa after living in Boston for fourteen years. She finds out how much she missed the good life that can be found in the Midwest.<br />
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Polly Giller purchases an old schoolhouse in a small town named Bellingwood with her inheritance and in the midst of renovating it, meets wonderful people and makes new friends. But, that's not all. A fake ceiling gives way and two sets of bones come crashing to the floor, a hidden root cellar reveals a huge stash of pop culture paraphernalia from the years the school was open and she comes face to face with the reason she ended up leaving Boston in the first place. <br />
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In all of the overwhelming stress of these events, as well as trying to get work done on the old schoolhouse, Polly's new friends show love and compassion in ways she'd forgotten existed.<br />
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Lydia Merritt shows up with three other women to welcome Polly to Bellingwood and into their hearts. She is a woman filled with great love and passion. Beryl Watson is a wild and outspoken woman who is a renowned artist. Andy Saner is a quiet woman who used to teach in the old school and Sylvie Donovan is a young, single mom raising two boys.<br />
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Henry Sturtz, the contractor who has been hired by Polly might have a bit of a crush on his boss, her two young Jedi Knights, Doug Randall and Billy Endicott will do anything for her, while Sheriff Aaron Merritt, Lydia's husband, is a solid force who believes in doing the right thing.<br />
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These characters have found a place in my heart and I've fallen in love with them. There are more stories to tell and more books to come (Book Two in April 2013).<br />
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Join <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pollygiller" target="_blank">Polly's Facebook page</a>, buy the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Roads-Lead-Home-Bellingwood-ebook/dp/B00B2FOHNS/ref=sr_1_1" target="_blank">book </a>(there's a bonus short story at the end), and have fun reading about real Iowa people who love to be with each other and find ways to take care of each other.<br />
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I'm excited! I hope you are as well!Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-39461535655455700352013-01-13T09:22:00.001-06:002013-01-13T09:22:42.687-06:00Differences<br />
This morning, as I lay in bed moving between sleep and wakefulness, my mind wandered to APA standards for writing academic papers. They annoy me. Well, what really annoys me is that there are so many different ways of doing things and I don't particularly like this style. Why has the development of writing styles come to a point where we have multitudes of ways to do things? Why is it, in a citation, for instance, we have the option (in language - not APA ... there are no options in APA only their way) to write pp. or pg. or p. when contracting the word page?<br />
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Then I laughed at myself. Because that's a strange thought to have before seven o'clock in the morning and because I'm kind of a nut. <br />
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I wasn't finished thinking about the whole thing, though. My mind tracked back to a discussion we'd had on the Marvelous Words Facebook page about language and words and how it was all sometimes so confusing and difficult to grasp. Why can't language be more organized?<br />
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At that point, my mind decided it needed to be more fully awake because it began barreling down various tangents of thought ... all revolving around the beauty found in differences.<br />
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We have style guides because our language is filled with so many differences and those differences are what make our language useful as well as glorious. Without them, the language would be stilted and would only represent a means of expression for a limited number of people. American English is filled with bits and pieces of words from all over the world, allowing a depth of insight into ourselves that would be missed if we had limited its development to one original source.<br />
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But, difference in language was only one of the tangents my thoughts took as I celebrated the freedom with which we are able to be different. Can you imagine living in a country where vehicles were one color, one size, one shape? Have you ever seen pictures of East Germany before the wall came down in 1989? Can you imagine not being allowed to try different tastes in the food you eat, or different textures and colors in the clothes you wear, being able to choose whether you want a cat or a dog, and then which breed would fit your life? <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DtUZ9zG6EYr2rXpAgBGa7D9Yiov1fDtzK7FN5f0FUf8T-OONEN36-jvFpUrGm_SDOvuwILqV_GkRdAq9-s97h4hjFetCYQcPrBy9bSJmJ4EM7WD2sZXuCtTD7NShomu2rR4l3w/s1600/different.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DtUZ9zG6EYr2rXpAgBGa7D9Yiov1fDtzK7FN5f0FUf8T-OONEN36-jvFpUrGm_SDOvuwILqV_GkRdAq9-s97h4hjFetCYQcPrBy9bSJmJ4EM7WD2sZXuCtTD7NShomu2rR4l3w/s320/different.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
The funny thing is, we do attempt to homogenize our lives. It's awfully convenient for us to enter nearly any medium to large size community in the United States and find a Walgreens. When we walk in the front door of that store, we see nothing of the local flavor, only those things which have made themselves familiar to the population. We prefer eating a restaurant chains we can find in our own home town because the experience of exploring new and different has already overwhelmed us just by being away from our comfortable, safe house.<br />
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Our kids attempt to homogenize their lives. Expectations for kids' clothing and behavior is one of the things which causes bullying and poor self esteem. Everyone is supposed to look like and act like the preferred 'type' of kid and anyone who doesn't fit in is ignored.<br />
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We are comfortable in the 'same,' but we are surrounded by the 'different.'<br />
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I was never one of the 'same.' When I was in elementary school, we lived in a very small community in southeast Iowa. My graduating class there would have had only 23 students in it. We moved into town the summer before my second grade year. Because I was the minister's daughter, I was already an attraction. In a town that size, the new minister showing up was a big deal ... everyone paid attention. Over the summer, I got to know a few of the children my age because their families went to our church, but it became apparent, I hadn't gotten to know enough of them. It didn't occur to me that I should act like a stupid girl in class to gain friends, or to not show my enthusiasm for music or reading, or to not treat adults with respect. We didn't have much money, so my clothes were made by mom or were handed down from cousins or friends. But, each of those things marked me as different. Pretty soon, I was lumped with the outcasts in the class, ridiculed and taunted. The next year I spent time in the hospital for a heart problem, one that scared teachers because they were certain I might die on them. I was quite different by that point and the popular girls in my class ignored me at best, tried to destroy me at their worst.<br />
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Fortunately, I had a mother who believed that 'unique' was these best way to be. When I would come home in tears, she made sure I knew that my uniqueness was a good thing. She never once said bad things about the other girls in my class, but began showing me how being different and unique made me worthwhile to the world. She helped me see the long view of life, looking beyond the small, petty world of the school room to the larger world outside. I had to deal with those girls during the day, but when I came home at 3:00, my world exploded. There was unconditional love, acceptance and encouragement; she put books in front of me which blew my little world apart; she took me to the library and put me in the capable hands of an older woman who loved books; she sent me outside to play with my brother and sister, where we created worlds in our imaginations. Every morning I went back to school filled with thoughts bigger than those of petty classroom jealousies. When I came home from school beaten down by the girls one more time, the process began again so the next morning I would once again be prepared.<br />
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I appreciate a hamburger from McDonald's (the king of homogenization) or a quick meal with friends at Applebees and I shop at Walgreens. But, this morning my thoughts revolved around differences and how much more exciting they make my world.<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-43419055365263100002013-01-05T13:25:00.000-06:002013-01-05T13:25:12.266-06:00Saturday Observations<br />
Things have been flying through my mind this morning. Nothing terribly profound, but I have to write them down so they'll leave my mind. I want to fill that brain up with other things!<br />
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1. I watch television shows on Hulu. Advertising is highly repetitive. At this point, I can hardly wait for Tuesday, so the new show with Snooki has finally aired and I no longer have to see advertising for it. I understand people watch this show or it wouldn't be on the air, but really? I'm actually not that easily offended, but the ad makes me want to throw things at my screen. And Double Divas? Good for them, but for heaven's sake, I'm done with that ad. On the other hand, the Toyota ads make me giggle every time I see them. I love the ads with the receptionist. Nothing better than showing an employee having fun at their job.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIqALkUHyihzmJOcv8ICWRRD0sr0RDFrsfMjOb8udzMTCAkFg6_Fs9mPuxysy-OG23sR9TTJk-3ywqFfHChl5hXXdcyNfODzHLJKbKa-h3lzHT4EjsnEhS4f5S-WbQIMQZabId0Q/s1600/TB+in+printer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIqALkUHyihzmJOcv8ICWRRD0sr0RDFrsfMjOb8udzMTCAkFg6_Fs9mPuxysy-OG23sR9TTJk-3ywqFfHChl5hXXdcyNfODzHLJKbKa-h3lzHT4EjsnEhS4f5S-WbQIMQZabId0Q/s320/TB+in+printer.jpg" width="320" /></a>2. Curiosity killed the cat. It's a proverb I'd never really paid a lot of attention to. When Howard and Ichabod lived in my life, they were pretty tame. TB is curious about everything ... especially if I'm involved. He wants to taste things, he wants to smell things, he wants to know things. Everything is new and fascinating. I love that ... and I want to be more like that. He drives me absolutely nuts when he thinks he needs to be involved, but it is also wonderful to watch. As I made pumpkin bars yesterday, TB had to taste the pumpkin, it was a riot. He went right for the emptied can of pumpkin. His curiosity is a riot.<br />
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3. I wonder about people who have no one in their lives to tell them to think twice about the things they say or do. I have plenty of people who will tell me when I'm being an idiot and I base my responses on whether or not they will find it necessary to correct my behavior. But, when I come into contact with those who have no such 'stop' in their lives, I am reminded why rage moves people to violence.<br />
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I will never understand why it's easier for people to criticize and be negative than to offer encouragement and support, but wow. AND, the other thing that makes me nuts is those narcissists who find it more important to justify their errors rather than admit to being wrong. <br />
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4. I can only take my own filth for so long. The week and a half between Christmas and New Year's, I had no other commitments in my life, so I took the time to work through a creative process that required a great deal of thought and intense time. By the time I was finished Thursday evening, the house was a wreck. Dishes needed to be washed, tables cleared off, bed made ... things were strewn everywhere. I'd tolerated it while working, but the closer and closer I came to being finished with the task, the more aware I was of the mess I had created. Fortunately I had a day to recuperate. Things are back in order and I'm ready to get started on the next thing in my life. Whew! <br />
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5. One of the things I love the most about Facebook is knowing what goes on in the lives of my friends. My heart aches when they hurt and thrills when they are having fun. I love knowing about their interests and continuing to find things we have in common. There were things about so many of them that I didn't know when we were spending time together because we were focused on those things we were doing in common. My friends lead exciting and wonderful lives! <br />
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You know how you get Christmas letters and in your cynical mind, you believe that no one can be as successful as those parents make their kids seem? Well, honestly, that's not true. There is room in this big 'ole world for us to all find success in the things we do and to celebrate those successes. I'm proud of my friends and the things they love in their lives!<br />
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Alright, now it's time for me to go back to work.<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-75793670881765055712012-12-31T11:58:00.000-06:002012-12-31T11:58:06.853-06:00Happy New Year<br />
I've been thinking about this blog post for a few days, because, well ... I'm not much for resolutions. I spend a great deal of time reflecting and rearranging my life throughout the year in an attempt to be a better person; consequently, writing down a few quick resolutions which I will certainly break in the first two weeks of the year seems like I set myself up for failure from the get-go. However, I do like to take the time to look back over the last year and look forward into the next. It gives me perspective. <br />
<br />
Isn't it wonderful that on January 1, 2012 we didn't see all of the crazy things that would happen to us throughout the next year? How many of us would have simply pulled the blankets up over our heads and begged to sleep through it? Some of them were absolutely amazing, some were stressful; some brought sorrow, some brought joy. I wouldn't have missed a single one of them, but if I'd known they were coming, I might have run away rather than deal with the growing up that occurred.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMp1osy3-ids7cuAwSKHnOpUf9xTwLpFkBYD4kWwxQZ5K0h7DZhbO_523Z4uoT-C-rKF2lBbo5Rjy0zZJDgphQrtNEAUNDongrP8nIiZbo07Fvtpj-qE_HTxXp61kk7Qc9rHABzQ/s1600/TB+New+Year.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMp1osy3-ids7cuAwSKHnOpUf9xTwLpFkBYD4kWwxQZ5K0h7DZhbO_523Z4uoT-C-rKF2lBbo5Rjy0zZJDgphQrtNEAUNDongrP8nIiZbo07Fvtpj-qE_HTxXp61kk7Qc9rHABzQ/s320/TB+New+Year.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This next year has the potential to be a lot of fun for me and I look forward with excited anticipation. I know there will be all of those struggles and sorrows along the way, but I also know that as I face them and release them, they slide away, leaving me with good memories. <br />
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Over the last year, I've built some wonderful relationships, rediscovered and re-anchored old friendships; I've uncovered some wells of creativity which I was afraid had been lost and made decisions which will allow me to close books and open others. It's been a pretty good year. The next year promises to bring finality to some things and open doors of possibilities in other areas of my life. What wonderful things to have happening!<br />
<br />
I have learned that it is never to late to live a dream and make it real. I have learned that friends are always friends, no matter how much time you have together. I have learned that people really don't change all that much, but what changes is how you accept them and love them either in spite of or because of who they are. I have learned that life cycles. What was important in the past might not be now, but might again be in the future.<br />
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I have learned that tomorrow holds enormous potential, today is the time to fulfill that potential, while yesterday was the motivation to find that potential.<br />
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What will I learn next year?<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-73202004287166344142012-12-25T17:04:00.002-06:002012-12-25T17:04:15.612-06:00It's a Christmas Tired<br />
The good thing about starting Christmas late in the morning is that complete exhaustion shows up later as well. <br />
<br />
I'm tired and I had a pretty mild Christmas compared to some of my friends. Honestly, I think 'tired' is a really good way to spend the end of Christmas Day. I'll bet Mary and Joseph were tired after the delivery of the baby, God's Son. I suspect the shepherds were pretty tired after spending the night watching their flocks and then all the excitement that surrounded the announcement of the angels. The baby Jesus? Of course he was tired. Every baby alternates between activity and sleep. He spent a lot of that first day on earth sleeping.<br />
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Pastors are tired. They've been doing church for a lot of hours in the last few days. Musicians are tired. They've been playing Christmas music over and over. Shop owners are tired from keeping their stores open so people could buy last minute gifts. After all of the insanity, at the end of this day, we're going to be tired.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvLDJlWL6-mwLYN_Xtyh26CNpliYtnC4DkEmWwbn7bSehrDc_eH8o3QKJckI944PIYvGKZU-gtzSkqmRIPGNaIyB8xJjzB5rhce4iSnq4Iamiq98LLF5erBVSiy-FRK4uaPC92Q/s1600/puppies+santa+napping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvLDJlWL6-mwLYN_Xtyh26CNpliYtnC4DkEmWwbn7bSehrDc_eH8o3QKJckI944PIYvGKZU-gtzSkqmRIPGNaIyB8xJjzB5rhce4iSnq4Iamiq98LLF5erBVSiy-FRK4uaPC92Q/s320/puppies+santa+napping.jpg" width="320" /></a>Yep, tired is a good place to be at the end of a Christmas Day. A few naps throughout the day, a good long sleep after everyone has returned to their own homes and before we know it, tomorrow has arrived.<br />
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With all the anticipation for Christmas, we are never really prepared for the day after. For some of us, the Christmas tree and all of the decorations come down immediately. There are no more brightly wrapped gifts under the tree, the wrapping paper has been relegated to the recycling bin. Christmas cookies and treats have been pawed through and only the worst of the best are left on the plates. Christmas carols are finished for the year, with just a few people attempting to draw out the epiphany carols and help us keep the spirit of Christmas going. When I was growing up, that next day seemed like such a let down.<br />
<br />
I see posts begging us to keep the Christmas spirit all year long. We do everything possible to draw the feelings of peace and joy out beyond the twenty-fifth of December. <br />
<br />
But, I see something very special about the 'tired' that happens after all the gifts have been opened, the meal has been eaten, the songs have been sung and day is nearly over. <br />
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We rest. We rest in the knowledge that Jesus Christ was born over two thousand years ago. We celebrate the day of his birth, but he has not only been born, died and risen again; he lives within us so that we have that something to celebrate.<br />
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We will all sleep tonight and in the morning when we wake up, absolutely nothing has changed. We still celebrate living our lives with the Prince of Peace, the Wonderful Counselor. We might not talk about the nativity, the shepherds and angels or how Joseph and Mary walked to Bethlehem, but we talk about Jesus Christ, who is alive and living within our hearts. None of that changed with the celebration of his birth. We still have that wonderful anchor to hold on to.<br />
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So, I've quit feeling let down on December 26th, because I know that from that morning until next year on the morning of December 25th, I live with the knowledge that Jesus Christ lived and died, and rose to live again just for me. He did it for you. He even did all of that for those who don't believe. Even if Christmas is nothing more to them than a chance to gather family together and exchange gifts, Jesus Christ came from heaven to earth for everyone. It's the same as it has been for these last two thousand years.<br />
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For the rest of the day I will be tired and then tonight I will sleep. Tomorrow, I will wake up and look out at the next year and see that it is filled with opportunities for me to celebrate Christ's life in my own life and to tell others what that life means to me!<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-57670720029589478102012-12-17T12:03:00.001-06:002012-12-17T15:29:12.464-06:00Love<br />
Love<br />
<br />
This last weekend has been filled with stories of love and caring as well as hate and anger. After hearing about the terrible tragedy in a Connecticut elementary school, everyone has quite varied reactions to it. Some hug their children closer and have found it difficult to send them off to school. Others have reacted with vitriol, hate and anger against all sorts of people. I read an article this morning by a man who was attacked simply because Ryan Lanza (not the shooter, the brother of the shooter) was his friend on Facebook. The guy didn't know Ryan, but assumed he had requested to be friends because Ryan appreciated his art. There were plenty of people ready to spew their hate-filled ugliness all over a random person because he was linked on social media to someone associated with an act of craziness. <br />
<br />
There are arguments about gun control all over the internet; these come up every time there is a shooting. There are actually no good answers to that issue and as long as there are humans on earth, this issue will not be fully settled. There is talk about how autism is the problem; but that isn't a full and complete conversation either because we understand so little of it. We read about mental illness and though we all know that it is a problem, we don't have a good way to manage our way through it. <br />
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Schools try to erect protections for their children and install metal detectors; but those aren't going to stop someone intent on destruction. You can't legislate your way around problems like this and build enough lines of protection between us and trouble that happens in the world. It will just never happen. <br />
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There are no good answers, no matter how many pundits speak on news channels, legislators try to come up with rules for society to follow or people condemn the actions of those associated with great crimes. There are no good answers because we live in a world with people. People who are different and who think differently. People who were raised differently than we were or have different physical chemistry which may or may not disrupt what we deem to be acceptable thinking. We will never be free of other people and we will never know what might trigger anger or rage or fury in another person. There are no good answers.<br />
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And while it might not be the only answer to heal the pain of families who face loss, whether in a school tragedy such as the one in Connecticut, or senseless shootings in Omaha, child or spousal abuse, or any other loss that many of us have faced in our lifetimes, we must love and forgive.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2HtkQEx_ZARAQDh6kwU50eOBAO1fW8nAFEYjQaDDvTULMRJoYi9bWwbGPWMB7q9VMWVXnaFuw8iQjcXE7LuFnFI16BCzI9L4tRPYWTyElN1iHxQ5qCcmuUhC9F4Le6VquX69vog/s1600/Forgiveness-1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2HtkQEx_ZARAQDh6kwU50eOBAO1fW8nAFEYjQaDDvTULMRJoYi9bWwbGPWMB7q9VMWVXnaFuw8iQjcXE7LuFnFI16BCzI9L4tRPYWTyElN1iHxQ5qCcmuUhC9F4Le6VquX69vog/s320/Forgiveness-1024x768.jpg" width="320" /></a>Every expression of love that you offer touches someone's life. Every time you forgive, you remove pain from both your own heart and the person who has harmed you. <br />
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We can do these things. We must do these things. We must teach them to our children and live them out in our communities. We must share love with everyone we encounter, from the driver who cut you off at the intersection, to the harried clerk in a grocery store; from the annoying pest in our workplace to the boss who seems intent on making us miserable; from the neighbor who is much too snoopy to the woman at church who thinks she knows it all; from the person who shot up an elementary school in Newtowne, CT to the people we love the most. We must show love and we have got to learn to constantly and consistently offer forgiveness. It isn't fair, it doesn't seem right, it makes no sense when we're angry and in pain, but these are the only ways in which we can overcome hate and anger.<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-78834843946369339832012-12-03T09:30:00.002-06:002012-12-03T09:30:51.069-06:00Lines On a Map<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKxpS9IXcTeU3Gi8AibHMSyWhw8JYewrApwiUtnk_2p-KHEzY3XfPrVXvOidV6z8ZaBlZuJr6DfwPjR2jUHcd8y2bQxywt-vOmovYSPcFpWX4plb7MEfwRwr4KlfzP7RNPK23fLw/s1600/Gravity,+IA.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKxpS9IXcTeU3Gi8AibHMSyWhw8JYewrApwiUtnk_2p-KHEzY3XfPrVXvOidV6z8ZaBlZuJr6DfwPjR2jUHcd8y2bQxywt-vOmovYSPcFpWX4plb7MEfwRwr4KlfzP7RNPK23fLw/s320/Gravity,+IA.JPG" width="201" /></a>I've been looking at how towns are laid out for a project I'm working on. In doing so, I went back to look at the layouts for some of the towns I lived in over the years. I have lived in some great communities. Most of my early years were spent in very small towns in Iowa until I moved to the Omaha area in 1984. <br />
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One thing that struck me as I looked at these layouts was how finite they were. There are only a few streets in these little towns. But, they seemed infinite and immense to a little girl. My world was pretty small in those days. I could walk to a friend's house and all of the activity for us seemed to center around the church, which was often right next door. It was usually only a couple of blocks to school and I could land at anyone's house between there and home and they would know who I was. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM9YOlNdabCmlMeY7q2Gj9COmvHx6yGof2xGehQdtQ72wL0ll9rt0oQKwreNy5CGXiF0JCjYrukM8F1BE2rMkqT0xf_qqOon27wYBHqM1l5SGUedLaVkIj2Aim4b7LHpc66ma3GQ/s1600/Sigourney,+IA.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM9YOlNdabCmlMeY7q2Gj9COmvHx6yGof2xGehQdtQ72wL0ll9rt0oQKwreNy5CGXiF0JCjYrukM8F1BE2rMkqT0xf_qqOon27wYBHqM1l5SGUedLaVkIj2Aim4b7LHpc66ma3GQ/s320/Sigourney,+IA.JPG" width="268" /></a>There may have only been a few streets in town, but I never felt like my world was small. There were so many interesting people and so many things to do within the limitations set by a map. A creek, a tree stump, the dog behind the fence, the strange old lady who stared at everyone from her porch and never spoke, the elderly woman who lived next door and invited me in to look at her immense collection of salt and pepper shakers, the banker who lived down the street and was the only person in town with color television, the woman with way too many cats, the old guy with mowers on his front lawn.<br />
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The older I got, the bigger my world became. I could walk farther or maybe even ride my bicycle. This opened up any number of possibilities to me. I could get to friends who were a little further away and I found parks and abandoned buildings; I spent more time with interesting people who lived in the community: Old Doc Hensley who raised chickens, another woman who lived in a very small home, but probably had more money than nearly anyone else in town, there was always someone saying hello to me because they knew my family, I was never alone. <br />
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There was always something going on, something to see, something to do, something to experience. I took it all in and I grew up.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVeiucOrjvPFNmiCqQxQT7q5YmsnuaHsXK1aDGpq2rulGd4gSJoaXF5U4CGsYKqGm4sqhuW9QYWGbR1B7GftYJ2hjyAN552BW-77Y2OQeUzWDafnZBxv-3Ie_-T_hSEGxcL8btg/s1600/Spencer,+IA.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVeiucOrjvPFNmiCqQxQT7q5YmsnuaHsXK1aDGpq2rulGd4gSJoaXF5U4CGsYKqGm4sqhuW9QYWGbR1B7GftYJ2hjyAN552BW-77Y2OQeUzWDafnZBxv-3Ie_-T_hSEGxcL8btg/s320/Spencer,+IA.JPG" width="306" /></a>By the time I graduated from high school, I was itching to get out of the small town. Finally, I felt the limitations of those few numbers of streets. I was tired of everyone watching me and being able to tell my parents where I was all the time. I wanted more anonymity than that. I wanted to be able to live in a place where there were limitless streets. I went to college and Mom & Dad moved again. The town wasn't much bigger, but it was close enough to a small city that I didn't care. I had room to expand my horizons. I moved out and into a community that was bigger than anything I'd ever lived in. I didn't know anyone. I met my neighbors, but since I didn't go to school with them and they didn't attend my church, I never really knew them. My world got bigger and smaller all at the same time. <br />
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Then, we moved to Omaha. I had access to everything. I could go for days without running into someone I knew. There were still a million things to explore, but now those things were all found in buildings. I could go to the museum or the zoo, I could go shopping or out to eat, there was always somewhere to go and something to do or see. I could fly out of Omaha and go to New York City or San Francisco. I could drive to Kansas City or Minneapolis. There seemed to be no limits to what I could do. The city streets went on for miles and miles. A person could get lost in Omaha trying to find their way from one point to another. My life had gotten immense!<br />
<br />
Or so I thought. <br />
<br />
I didn't know my neighbors ... at all. I knew the people I worked with and the people from church. That was it. I didn't know their connections to other people in the community or who their families were or how they had grown up or why they were in the business they were in. I didn't know what made them happy or about the enormous sadness they carried because they might have lost a child. I had no relationship with these people other than the very tenuous connections we built in limited conversations. I dug in with a few people here and there and we became close enough for me to know about their lives and I am thankful for that, but it occurs to me that as immense as my life seemed to be, it really had more limitations than ever before.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKnDvOohzjlUAZ2a9U4-ukUKkqKe51jPCuoruWmBVwssbYvCclZzrfJvqlU3EEph6oCA2W42UMAclN-NSI4MZ6XsCfDnyS5Cd4ofk-SzUkTXmGf1EqBgN6cUhVxHYiCoVQIp82g/s1600/Omaha,+NE.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKnDvOohzjlUAZ2a9U4-ukUKkqKe51jPCuoruWmBVwssbYvCclZzrfJvqlU3EEph6oCA2W42UMAclN-NSI4MZ6XsCfDnyS5Cd4ofk-SzUkTXmGf1EqBgN6cUhVxHYiCoVQIp82g/s320/Omaha,+NE.JPG" width="320" /></a>I couldn't walk to see my friends or even ride a bicycle to their homes; I had to get in a car and fly past all of the interesting things I might have seen along the way. The woman who spends every waking moment of her day working with the plants around her home - I don't know her. The man who walks everywhere - I don't know where he is going. The wealthy man who lives several blocks from me - I'll never be in his home. I will never wander through Omaha and know for sure that 3 doors down lives someone who cares for me simply because I'm alive.<br />
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Those few streets in the towns in which I grew up may look small on a map, but they are filled with treasures I can never find anywhere else. It's taken me 30 years to recognize that my world never really got bigger when I left them.<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-23004481675757223552012-11-26T12:33:00.003-06:002012-11-26T12:33:46.298-06:00Fear in the Country? Nope.<br />
I spend a great deal of time in our family's cabin in Iowa. There are people who live within a mile or so of me, in fact, some friends live just up the hill, but for the most part I feel pretty isolated down in this valley. There isn't much traffic on the gravel road that goes past our land, I have a river just to the west of me and hills to the east and south of me. The sounds are very different here than they are in Omaha, where I am constantly distracted by sirens and tires screeching on the street outside our house. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPQ86CqQfpfgErhQ5-fUfbZl_DYyhq7RGdhAjk-7A6R_FAbTODsGRSEr7wIvEcuQo8_20lXSAOQs7G0GDUCc8udD1usAgJxN-1SOluWwqnMHTMUUbG4na2JRf5AyVmCmba5YoWA/s1600/IMG_2687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPQ86CqQfpfgErhQ5-fUfbZl_DYyhq7RGdhAjk-7A6R_FAbTODsGRSEr7wIvEcuQo8_20lXSAOQs7G0GDUCc8udD1usAgJxN-1SOluWwqnMHTMUUbG4na2JRf5AyVmCmba5YoWA/s320/IMG_2687.JPG" width="320" /></a>My nights here the last several weeks have been interrupted by yelling and howling. Coyotes must be in the middle of mating season or something. The first night, I woke up and had no idea what was happening. I had to open the window so that I could make out the sounds. I was glad to be able to close it quickly and feel safe again. The next night, there was more noise and a lot of howling happening. I opened the main front door and the sounds were coming from the meadow, maybe two hundred yards from me. I listened for a few moments, got myself totally creeped out, slammed the door and crawled back under the covers. The third night, I was coming back after dark, drove in the lane, turned my car lights into the meadow and the coyotes were in the wood pile, right there in my meadow. Sigh. I had to think really hard about whether my laundry was going in with me then or if I was going to get it out of the Jeep in the morning. Sanity reigned and I opened the back seat car door, grabbed the laundry basket and ran for the cabin. <br />
<br />
Coyotes aren't the only things that make noise around here. There are several hoot owls up in the hill and when they are calling to each other, it is seriously spooky. One morning in the early dawn, I heard deer making noises in the meadow. It took me a while to be able to identify that sound. Another night, in the middle of the night, I was awakened by dogs (probably coyotes, but who knows), screaming and barking up in the hills. It sounded as if they had something treed and were trying to get to it. <br />
<br />
Several people have asked how I can be out here by myself. I guess I'm a lot like my father. He loved being alone and fear of the outside world just isn't going to mess with that. At the same time, I know that Dad built this place and once I am inside, it is solid and safe. Dad didn't build things to fall apart. We used to laughingly tell him that the things he built would withstand a nuclear holocaust. The man used nails and screws and if there was the smallest concern, he would use more nails and screws. He built a loft for Carol's college dorm room. It was stronger and heavier than anything you can imagine. I still don't know how they got that thing up to her floor and then back down again. It's now here at the cabin. He used a lot of lumber while building it. His construction may not have been perfect, but it was solid.<br />
<br />
Fear of this world just isn't something I can let control me, though. Carol and I lived on Park Avenue in Omaha for several years. It wasn't in the best part of town, but the apartment was beautiful. We loved it, but always said we would move out the first time we heard gun fire. Well, we moved to a much nicer part of town and one Sunday we came back from church and Carol went into her closet to get something different to wear. She brought several items of clothing out to me and said, "What do you suppose did this?" There was a hole through them. We tried to brainstorm anything. We had problems with mice, maybe one of them had gotten into her clothes. Snakes? Who knew? Then, she found the bullet hole in her closet window and we followed its path through the clothing into the wall. It had finally exited in the closet on the other side of the wall, in our neighbor's apartment.<br />
<br />
Carol had heard a car backfiring the night before and didn't think anything of it. We called the police and they were asking us questions about people that might hate us. Are you kidding? We'd never been in those types of relationships and didn't encounter people like that in our business either. We were completely freaked out. Fortunately, a couple of days later, the police department called us back. Two brothers down the street about three blocks (we were at the top of a "T"), got into an argument and started shooting. A stray bullet had come that far to our place. But, Carol and I didn't move out of there. Fear wasn't going to reign.<br />
<br />
Max came home one day and found the back door standing open with the window broken out. His first worry was the animals in the house and then he saw that we'd been robbed. Joy. The fear from that experience lasted for a while, but at some point, I quit worrying, even though we were sure it was just kids breaking in and taking what they could. <br />
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Several years ago, a young clerk at the convenient store which is located a half block from our house was murdered after the end of her shift. I woke up to lights flashing and when I looked out the window, there was police tape everywhere. It hadn't gotten as far as our house, but was strung through our neighbor's yard.<br />
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Living in the city, with its noise and craziness is much more frightening to me than living in the country with loud animals. I know what their reactions will be ... to light, to sound, to me and I know that I'm safe from them when I close the doors and shut the windows. I'm not scared of these animals ... much. I wouldn't want to be in the meadow in the dark and startle one of them. I willingly admit to jolts of fear that send me tearing inside and slamming doors shut behind me. But, I wake up in the morning and they've all returned to their dens and nests. It's a good equilibrium we've found.<br />
Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-39410418786649813882012-11-19T11:19:00.000-06:002012-11-19T11:19:00.155-06:00This is Thanksgiving Week<br />
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Many college kids are already home, having started their break last Friday. School teachers are looking forward to Wednesday evening and cessation from kids, grading, testing and everything else. Business people are desperately trying to get everything done before the long weekend, families are planning to travel, people are planning big meals and yet others are preparing for the big shopping day that happens on Friday. It's one of those crazy weeks that is a holiday for practically everyone. How can you not enjoy a holiday that simply requires you to say Thank You!<br />
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When I was growing up, Thanksgiving was one of the few big holidays that didn't require us to be at church. Dad generally planned his Thanksgiving service for Sunday evenings and everything else was canceled for the week. By the time Wednesday evening rolled around, everyone just relaxed because for the next twenty-four hours, there was absolutely nothing going on<br />
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Living in a Pastor's house at Christmas and Easter isn't necessarily the best place to be holy. Prior to those holidays, Dad turned into a bear and Mom wasn't much better. There were programs to prepare, choirs to rehearse, extra services to design, volunteers to wrangle, then don't forget all of the family things that had to happen. Christmas was always stressful because Dad knew money was going to flow out as quickly as he could bring it in and so he would fight and spit with Mom over every little thing. She was quite frugal and there were many years she spent hours creating wonderful gifts for us rather than spending money in the stores. And honestly, I'll tell you that those gifts are the ones we three kids remember the most. By the time we got to the Christmas Eve service our nerves were all frazzled and we acknowledged there was one more Christmas in the books and it was time to move on. Christmas Day would come and go and everyone relaxed because we had some time before the Easter craziness kicked off. That week was nuts with Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter sunrise and then two regular services. Once again, tempers were frayed and we just waited for it to be over.<br />
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Thanksgiving was just not like that. We didn't travel anywhere, we just stayed home and relaxed and enjoyed the day. Dad wasn't stressed out because Mom had spent money on gifts, He didn't have to talk to people or manage services. Mom wasn't upset about anything, it was just a nice day.<br />
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Because legend had it that the Pilgrims had five kernels of corn that first Thanksgiving in the New World, Dad began a tradition of giving thanks for five things. He would get five kernels of seed corn and place those on our plates. Then, we went around the table; each giving thanks for one thing and eating a kernel. Mom began serving cooked sweet corn and he would put five kernels of that on our plates, that was much better. Then, all of a sudden, Dad's sweet tooth kicked in and we got five pieces of candy corn on our plates. Those were the good years. But, each year, before the meal started, we sat down to a plate with five kernels of corn and we remembered that we had a great deal to be thankful for in our lives.<br />
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We still have a great deal to be thankful for. <br />
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<i>I'm thankful for my family. They love me.</i><br />
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<i>I'm thankful for friends. Those whom have known me for decades and those whom have known me for just a short time. They all bring color and depth to my life.</i><br />
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<i>I'm thankful for a mind that allows me to learn and find joy in learning.</i><br />
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<i>I'm thankful for the opportunity to live in a country where I am free to be who I am, to worship the God I love, to associate with people I care for and to express my thoughts without fear of reprisal.</i><br />
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<i>I'm thankful for a life lived knowing Jesus Christ personally. There are so many other choices I could have made and I'm grateful that He continually drew me close.</i><br />
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Can you come up with five things to be thankful for this Thanksgiving?<br />
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Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-80152900591290864472012-11-12T10:33:00.000-06:002012-11-12T10:33:00.375-06:00Hands<br />
I love hands. One of the first thing I look at on people is their hands. They tell me so much about a person. Strong hands, delicate hands, wrinkles and lines, callouses, arthritis, manicures, scars. There are so many stories that can be told by looking at a person's hands. <br />
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My father's hands were strong and even when he had to manage with Parkinson's, he continued to work with his hands to keep any flexibility possible. I see those hands gripping a pulpit on Sunday morning as he preached, or pulling a hook out of the mouth of a fish. They strum a guitar or grasp a hammer. In small ways, they can be seen in my hands.<br />
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My mother's hands were beautiful. She never had manicures or did anything special with them, but they were always feminine with strength and beauty. She used her hands to spank my bottom and wash my hair. I remember her hands flying across a typewriter or covered in clay at her potter's wheel. She held paintbrushes in those hands and sewed late into the night. Her hands were everywhere in my life.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4-ycG5gntaKLZirzNv9MiD1XezpzDtocBLrO6ZzwFX4np9Jry6eybkCcsCriZxypLaFSYJ2nI8yJM7V9QyHM-qz2BfHbSajqR-nM76Dvn82Z2nZlwX0GBrT7ZThg8yQR6Dmr3w/s1600/world_in_god__s_hand_by_code_scythe1+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4-ycG5gntaKLZirzNv9MiD1XezpzDtocBLrO6ZzwFX4np9Jry6eybkCcsCriZxypLaFSYJ2nI8yJM7V9QyHM-qz2BfHbSajqR-nM76Dvn82Z2nZlwX0GBrT7ZThg8yQR6Dmr3w/s320/world_in_god__s_hand_by_code_scythe1+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a>I remember my Grandma Greenwood's hands, as she washed dishes, kneaded bread, put clothes out on the line, played games with me or held my little hand in hers. I remember the hands of my friends, while they age, they never change. I would recognize their hands in a heartbeat.<br />
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Last week, I used a picture of hands holding the world in one of my <a href="http://pouroutablessing.blogspot.com/2012/11/november-9-cheth-psalm-11957-64.html" target="_blank">Pour Out a Blessing blogposts</a>. I had actually found many different images, but the one I used struck me because of the hands. These aren't perfectly manicured, but are strong, hard-working hands. The type of hands I believe God has. His hands would be rough and worn from the work they do, they would be gentle and strong so He can touch our hearts.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyN0HfHzDexU5XagZFTRcx-oyLKRdUAOXdrtdI4zNd5esPPou0ar5FG0_26_QjQXBLWSRoMT2JXnZblA72s1TLAvn5DRTyZl1_4nWTGKpos2zfleXmM-QHhlQTHVG3xCH_F_evwQ/s1600/durerhands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyN0HfHzDexU5XagZFTRcx-oyLKRdUAOXdrtdI4zNd5esPPou0ar5FG0_26_QjQXBLWSRoMT2JXnZblA72s1TLAvn5DRTyZl1_4nWTGKpos2zfleXmM-QHhlQTHVG3xCH_F_evwQ/s320/durerhands.jpg" width="223" /></a>I've always loved the image of gnarled hands clasped in prayer. Albrecht Durer's "Praying Hands" drawing is one of my favorites and there is a beautiful story that has been told around this image. The story is told of Durer and his brother. They came from a family of eighteen. Both brothers were talented artists, but the family could only afford to send one to Nuremberg to study. The two, after many discussions, worked out a pact. A coin toss would settle which one went first, while the other worked in the mines to support him. After four years, the brother would return. Either sales of his art or work in the mines would support the second brother in his studies. Albrecht Durer won the coin toss and left for Nuremberg while Albert spend four years in the mines, ensuring payment of his brother's education.<br />
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After the four years had passed, a celebration was held to celebrate Albrecht's return. At dinner, he told his brother that it was now his turn to pursue his dream, but Albert began to cry. It was too late. Work in the mines had smashed every one of the bones in his hands, some more than once. He could barely hold a glass, much less draw with a pen or brush. It was too late. In honor, Albrecht Durer drew those damaged hands as he regularly saw them, in prayer.<br />
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Whether the story is true, the beauty of this drawing remains for me. <br />
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I've watched my own hands age. They are no longer smooth, but are now filled with lines and scars. My nails are always kept short, so I don't spend a lot of time with manicures. Sometimes they ache, but they continue to be my link to the world, whether I am playing the piano, writing letters to friends, working on classwork or writing a story. You know, my father always told me I was never going to be allowed to own a power saw. He made his entire body shudder at the idea that I might hurt my hands. He loved listening to me play the piano and the thought that I couldn't do that any longer scared him. My fingers aren't quite as beautiful or as limber as they were when I was seventeen, but they have their own strength.<br />
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I am thankful for all the hands that have been part of my life.<br />
Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-73047535975719424522012-11-05T12:50:00.001-06:002012-11-05T12:50:12.177-06:00Happy Birthday, Frank!<br />
Today would have been my father's 79th birthday. That just seems crazy. Time goes by much too quickly!<br />
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Dad and I had a tough relationship. I actually look at him from two separate angles. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOfopb0UNDJBb16gaKOsMyNu9yrfkPFG2u1ePbqc0WcKIjDNppYSX-lztpC8xXyVin-txVqhYGzzxTZNQ4JFdDsqjiFklYcUyyx08aR3vRS_tCFGoDr7WBiXL9xuEq5gztxk1fQ/s1600/Frank+Bells+Dell+1979.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOfopb0UNDJBb16gaKOsMyNu9yrfkPFG2u1ePbqc0WcKIjDNppYSX-lztpC8xXyVin-txVqhYGzzxTZNQ4JFdDsqjiFklYcUyyx08aR3vRS_tCFGoDr7WBiXL9xuEq5gztxk1fQ/s320/Frank+Bells+Dell+1979.jpg" width="320" /></a>First of all, there is the Dad I am so proud of I can hardly stand it. He was one of the most amazing pastors I've known in my life. He delivered good, strong messages on Sunday mornings, but that wasn't what made him such a good pastor. It was everything else that he did. Dad was smart ... wicked smart. He loved to read, even though he complained that he was terribly slow at it. He'd watch Mom or me tear through a book and just snarl at us in envy. But, he read a lot and he remembered what he read. Dad was an athlete, so physical things didn't scare him. He started taking kids on adventure trips early on in his ministry. For a while he was involved with Boy Scouts and took those kids all over the place, but then he realized that the youth groups in his churches could enjoy trips and all he had to do was make sure everyone was safe. He could do that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHaCWgL3Nqr0ghWWwtbJ5KrsAP4lS3J-xsrMCQ3Q0eCkTGEAyZA5oOC-qMlA-1rUYWtnA8Eyw_kvuAnK9_xq_1wm5-IB4R2IIhvV517nf9Z1waInRD4aI03kdPSt7_2mq0kP2Dg/s1600/Looking+rough%252C+Dad%252C+Drew+Ballensky%252C+Lindy+Jemison+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHaCWgL3Nqr0ghWWwtbJ5KrsAP4lS3J-xsrMCQ3Q0eCkTGEAyZA5oOC-qMlA-1rUYWtnA8Eyw_kvuAnK9_xq_1wm5-IB4R2IIhvV517nf9Z1waInRD4aI03kdPSt7_2mq0kP2Dg/s320/Looking+rough%252C+Dad%252C+Drew+Ballensky%252C+Lindy+Jemison+-+Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a>There were things our family did that I would never consider doing now ... because Dad made them seem easy and if they weren't easy for anyone else, he just took care of them. I thought I loved to go fishing, but what I discovered was that my love of fishing came about because Dad did all the hard work. We'd walk the river at the cabin fishing, he'd set out trot lines and wake me up several times throughout the night to walk them with him. But, he cleaned all the fish and then told everyone how much work I'd done. We went on fishing trips into Canada. Every morning at 4 am, he'd knock on my window and I'd crawl out of bed, bleary-eyed and wander down to the dock so that we could get out on the lake where he just KNEW there would be a school of walleye. I'd try to drag myself awake for 45 minutes while he quietly motored out to a location he'd spotted. Then, when I was nearly awake, he'd hand me a fishing pole and let me go. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsZnOr3Kl1V67nOAapG025LhiDcKBDD1-pREsT7uj80LFWuRAGeJt9gZYpxB2QpS0NL9ZEQ5uL1ackbGjegjPF0mJV33uxzsR43csTDv0W7C2V8e1jhoK4rd14XnX0YMPoKz1xg/s1600/1965+Spring%252C+Woody+Spoor%2527s+Pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsZnOr3Kl1V67nOAapG025LhiDcKBDD1-pREsT7uj80LFWuRAGeJt9gZYpxB2QpS0NL9ZEQ5uL1ackbGjegjPF0mJV33uxzsR43csTDv0W7C2V8e1jhoK4rd14XnX0YMPoKz1xg/s320/1965+Spring%252C+Woody+Spoor%2527s+Pond.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
The first time we went, he knew I might be squeamish about baiting the hook (he believed in minnows), so he did it for me. Then, when I caught a fish, he'd take it off for me. Well, the lasted for a very short time. I have fairly sensitive fingertips and once he taught me how to feel the fish hit and then set the line, I was hauling them in, one after another. He wasn't getting any good time for fishing himself. Finally, he asked if I would learn how to either bait the hook or remove the fish from the hook. I just laughed. "I'll learn them both!" I said and so I did. When we got back to the camp, he still told everyone how I out-fished him. That was a pretty big deal, because Dad was an amazing fisherman. He cleaned all the fish and let me go back to the cabin and take a shower. I can't imagine fishing with anyone else. No one would take care of me the way he did out there on that lake.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkR_O7Lai5y-ofU8Fwj0D4bnhvepgZy1Su_QnY8hdj_J9IxLK6Zl_7OD13ii7Gkl3ZBSYGEOKtaTlbMYFsw3VuptFFOw1yxZRkoNqf29_N8SyiY6Bn6TaP7L1qYfyy7li4xPuAhw/s1600/Jim+and+Dad%2527s+%2527Big+Catch%2527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkR_O7Lai5y-ofU8Fwj0D4bnhvepgZy1Su_QnY8hdj_J9IxLK6Zl_7OD13ii7Gkl3ZBSYGEOKtaTlbMYFsw3VuptFFOw1yxZRkoNqf29_N8SyiY6Bn6TaP7L1qYfyy7li4xPuAhw/s320/Jim+and+Dad%2527s+%2527Big+Catch%2527.jpg" width="320" /></a>Camping? Dad was a master at camping. We didn't have a motor home, he had designed a tent when he was very young and commissioned a tent maker to create it. It's heavier than sin. In 1982, Dad, Mom, my brother and I traveled into Canada. Dad's plan was to drive as far as the road would take us. He'd looked at the map and found a camping spot on a beautiful lake. He was pretty sure no one else would be around. He was right. We drove our van, with a canoe on top all through the night. All four of us changed seats and kept that trip moving. Dad had packed the back of the van so that two people could sleep on 8" foam mattresses which were held off the floor by crates filled with every single thing we would need during that trip. He had packed the food in coolers and crates, had all of the tools necessary and when we arrived at the campsite, he began setting things up immediately. The tent went up, a tarp was strung between trees to keep our table clear and protected from most rain, a toilet seat came out from under the beds and he dug a pit between two downed trees, then set the seat up far enough away that we had privacy and were still safe. He turned that campsite into a home for the next week and we had a blast. He and Jim stayed in the tent. Mom and I didn't like the noise wolves made around the campsite and slept in the safety of the van. I tried sleeping in a tent one more time in my adult life and realized that without Dad there to think of every little thing and ensure that his family was safe and comfortable, it wasn't very much fun.<br />
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He did the same thing in his churches. He made it safe for people to attend. There is so much garbage that happens in a church, but Dad deflected it all ... or as much as he possibly could ... knowing that if it was on his shoulders, no one else would miss the good things that God had for them. If there was conflict, Dad waded right into the middle of it with no fear and made sure that everyone recognized that right was right and wrong was wrong and right was going to win. He believed in the power of prayer and spent hours on his knees. Every Sunday morning before worship service, Dad walked to the altar to kneel and pray. Worship wasn't going to begin without prayer. He invited others to join him and every single Sunday, there were always people who were willing to be visible in prayer because he was so open about it. <br />
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Dad was an introvert, but no one would have ever known that. It was God's love that flowed through Dad to other people. He was just a conduit and he acknowledged that. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzOHNvZyVRwE-_EFtvDvXdl-T7EeEV4IzwpIbI4ljv4jr43eGNKPv1q3fLKW9tfp7qHmrIAxdOmnRWK7pZNjPS_IPDNv6ZVmJ8MH4WwJzv_Rj7Hw1spGjACrmMb7a1ghtgCHI-jA/s1600/1965+Summer+-+Frank+in+tree%252C+Bussey%252C+cutting+the+big+limb+off.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzOHNvZyVRwE-_EFtvDvXdl-T7EeEV4IzwpIbI4ljv4jr43eGNKPv1q3fLKW9tfp7qHmrIAxdOmnRWK7pZNjPS_IPDNv6ZVmJ8MH4WwJzv_Rj7Hw1spGjACrmMb7a1ghtgCHI-jA/s320/1965+Summer+-+Frank+in+tree%252C+Bussey%252C+cutting+the+big+limb+off.jpg" width="320" /></a>Dad wasn't afraid of hard work. From painting a very high steeple at his first church in Gravity, Iowa (a story that people told for a long time because he scared them to death), to making sure that the Board of Trustees didn't have to show up at the house every time an appliance broke down or a window was broken; Dad was always first on the line to do the hard work which came from owning property. We continually heard from people that they were always surprised to see Dad already working on a problem when they showed up. They were used to the pastor just calling a repairman and submitting the bill. If Dad needed extra help, he called on the people he knew could do the work and then they dug in and did it.<br />
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He took every church that was in the red into the black within a year. He knew how to cut back on expenses and tighten up the budget until he had encouraged people to support the ministry of God in their midst. He was the first to tithe from his salary and though he never said a word about it, people recognized that when his generosity far outpaced theirs, they could be a little more generous with their church. <br />
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I've been in a lot of different churches under a lot of different ministers since Dad moved away from the Omaha area. I've experienced both amazing and horrid pastors. But, I don't believe that there are any who had more integrity and compassion, dedication and commitment to leadership as my father. He was never going to be a mega-church pastor, but for the lives he touched, he was the best pastor people would ever know. He's the best pastor I've ever known.<br />
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The rest of the story? Well, he was as human as they come. Thank goodness he had my mother around to temper his behavior with his family. He could be strident and unforgiving, legalistic and forceful. She balanced him and the two of them managed to have a home with kids who grew up pretty well. My problem was, I was very much like him (but do not think for a moment I accepted that when I was young). I quit talking to him in high school at some point. He just pissed me off every single time I approached him at home. The man needed to just loosen up and let us live a little bit. I suspect that all three of us kids had our issues with him. It wasn't easy being Frank Greenwood's kid.<br />
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I have a lot of funny stories about my life during those years with him ... one of these days I'll let you in on some of them!<br />
Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32247061.post-4367036617038078752012-10-29T14:02:00.001-05:002012-10-29T14:02:33.282-05:00Nothing to Say?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiCOwiK4AaffL7WTeoWBXaG97Ytv5BUw81J7xZDzZFOf2_iZl9IvqZr6IQBEcHk3LC5Fszvey1HGhPsF3vOKYA7beYFnxTxg-Qj0SVo6GfShYNosFSNZS1oggdKczLunITd1v8w/s1600/News100610Words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiCOwiK4AaffL7WTeoWBXaG97Ytv5BUw81J7xZDzZFOf2_iZl9IvqZr6IQBEcHk3LC5Fszvey1HGhPsF3vOKYA7beYFnxTxg-Qj0SVo6GfShYNosFSNZS1oggdKczLunITd1v8w/s320/News100610Words.jpg" width="320" /></a>Sometimes I feel as if I have run out of words. For those of you who know me fairly well, you would be quite surprised by that statement. I seem to always have an opinion and there isn't really that much that stops me from stating it out loud. Ok, I take that back. I do try to temper my vocalizing of opinions based on how much it will change the situation (if it's not going to change anything and will probably make someone feel bad, I shut up) or the level of importance my opinion will hold in that situation. <br />
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There are days, however, when it seems as if there is nothing left in my brain to say.<br />
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I have spent the last five months restructuring how I spend my days. It's been a wonderful exercise in understanding what it is that I want to do, what it is that I actually do and how to bring those two things together so that I can achieve some goals that I've had in front of me for what seems to be a lifetime. I started out by creating a list of all the things I wanted to do in the next several years. That list included everything, from crazy-dream goals to practical things that just need to happen. Every time I think about that list, I come up with several more things to add to it. It has become a very scary list.<br />
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Once the list was in place, I built a daily schedule out for two weeks. I figured that I should be able to hit nearly everything in that list over a two week period. I committed to writing one thousand words in a journal every day ... no matter what. For the last 126 days, I've done exactly that. I look forward to the time I spend writing and since technology is so amazing, I can tell how much more I need to write in order to achieve the minimum and I can tell when it is ok to finally stop writing. I refuse to write one word less than one thousand words. Just this last Friday, I lost control of the day and when I woke up on Saturday and realized I hadn't written in my journal, I realized I was going to have to write two entries ... one for Friday and one for Saturday. I did it and felt great about it.<br />
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There are several random classes that I am taking online. Everything from learning new techniques in Photoshop and Illustrator to learning Excel tips, Wordpress and then my favorite is an Ancient Greek History lecture series by an amazing Yale University professor. It's the course he teaches at Yale. I've spaced these courses out across the two weeks so that I can keep learning. <br />
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Along with those courses, I've also committed to reading several motivational and encouraging books. I don't read them through like I read other books; I take my time and work through creative exercises that are assigned to me. I hope to be reading these books and others like them over the course of the next year. Books such as: The Complete Artist's Way by Julia Cameron or Eat that Frog by Brian Tracy, The War of Art by Steven Pressfield or Writing Your Way by Julie Smith. By slowing down while reading these, I allow myself to be continuously energized by their words, finding motivation each week that keeps me excited about meeting my goals.<br />
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There are several other little things that have to happen every day. I write my Pour Out a Blessing blogpost each day and if I know there is a day coming when I won't have time to write, I ensure that it is written early and posted so that I stay consistent. It is a commitment I have made to myself and to those who read the blog. Though there have been times when I've had to drop away from it for a period of time or days when I've missed and had to catch up; this is one thing I've really tried to stay committed to doing. I almost ended that sentence by adding the words 'without fail,' but since I've obviously failed several times in the past couple of years with it, I won't be that bold. Let's just say that this is one commitment I never forget and always try to accomplish. There are plenty of days when I open my Bible, read the passage I've selected for the day and realize that I have nothing to say about it. I stare at the verse or passage and wonder if it is worth it for me to continue. Terrible moments of failure fly through my mind. Then, I settle down, pray about it and after a while the words come. The words always come.<br />
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Finally, it has become quite clear that for me to accomplish the massive writing goals I've set before me, I need to write in those areas much more regularly, so I've set a goal of three thousand words per day, at least four days a week. <br />
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I generally have a paper due for my class every Wednesday. Those put me in a panic, so I won't expect myself to write for my goals on that day. Weekends are nuts. Since I stick my head in the computer all week, there is always something that has to be cleaned, washed, cooked, baked or straightened up. If I travel, it happens on weekends. So ... rather than feel like a failure, I refuse to set the three thousand word writing goal on one of those days.<br />
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The great thing is that if I can't write one of the other days of the week due to something going on, I can pick my word count back up on a weekend day. Flexibility has to be primary or I'll go insane.<br />
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So ... every week, thousands of words pour out of my fingers onto the screen and some days I wonder if I'll be able to fill up the tank enough for more to come out the next day. So far, they come and sometimes it is quite a struggle for me to find them. I think they run away and hide when they know I'm looking.<br />
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There's always something to say, which means the title of this blog is a fallacy. I just need to get started. Now that I've told you about it, I guess it's time to quit babbling and get started on today's next batch of words. (Huh, this post has ended up being over eleven hundred words ... I hope I don't run out before I get started!)<br />
Diane Muirhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03600455886027626547noreply@blogger.com0