See You in Fall

Time for my summer break. I have enjoyed all of your kind comments and emails to me in this past year. You all have been gracious in visiting regularly and taking the time to comment to my sometimes overly long posts! It is astounding to me that people I have never met take the time out of their busy lives to drop by and say hello. That is what I love about the blogging community, you guys and gals.

Thank you also for the sweet awards you have left me. My time is so limited, I have done a very poor job of posting awards, but I have truly appreciated your kindness.

Have a great summer. See you all in fall!
A few last picts of this season....

Jane (on right side) with her dear friendJane and 2 gege (Mandarin for brother, sounds like guh guh) 2 and 4


Jane's soul sister :)

The ribbon dancer, Jane.

Feathers

Falling Slowly


(Am I the last person on the planet to hear this amazing song? In case not, I leave it here for you.)

- Lyrics
I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You'll make it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You've made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing along

Glen Hansard
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Feathers

We have met together, once a week, for over three years now. No matter how over scheduled, crazy, or rough life has gotten, we meet. We started in a neutral zone, a coffee shop. At the time none of us mentioned we did that on purpose. We all left a polite "out" for ourselves in case it was needed. We are all women. Sometimes an "out" is needed.

Women are complex in relationships. They can appear as sweet as fresh dripping molasses while just beneath the surface they may be as sharp as a straight edged razor. A boss of mine, who I deeply respected, once naively stated he thought two of the woman he knew should be put in a boxing ring to duke it out. He said to me, "I think that would solve this whole thing!" He laughed when he said it, but he meant it.

I laughed along with him, but for another reason. "Ah, Bill," I said, "here is the difference between men and women. Men can punch their anger out. Women use words. They tear one another up, bit by bit, with their mouths. They can be subtle. The men in the room will miss a verbal match that happened between two women right in front of them."

I have shared this story over the years with various gal pals of mine. They always nod affirmatively as I tell them of this conversation with one of the sharpest men I have ever met. Almost every woman has added this to that conversation, "Yes, women take each other down with their mouths...And their eyes. They can do things to each other with a glance that nobody else will note, but cuts another woman to the core."

Knowing this simple fact of women, we three met in a coffee shop. We started at 7:30 a.m. as that was the only time we could all get together. For nearly three years we kept that schedule. We came tired, we came rushed, we came when it was not convenient. Week after week we showed up, even at our very worst, and ironically each of was to be in a season of her very worst, at some point, during those years.

The years knit us together. The seasons knit us together. Our worst, strangely opposed to conventional wisdom, knit us together. These women are some of the dearest friends in my life. I have never once felt unfairly appraised by them, a sense of their competing with me, or an undercut in the words they have said at the surface. I hope they have sensed the same from me.

Recently we sat in Julie's living room (not her real name, of course) as we do nearly every week. Her home is darling, immaculately kept, and decorated simply with lots of candles and pictures of her children. She is a professional woman in every sense of the word. She is articulate, driven, and unbelievably sharp. She is also gracious, untypically kind, and as generous as any person I have ever known. She is a fabulous mother, a true friend, and responsible to a fault.

She sat wrapped in a large leather chair, that is always hers when we get together, she looked fragile. Her long, slim legs curled comfortably beneath her. Kate (not her real name, of course) and I sat across from her on the couch, as we always do.

Between us a tray of gourmet crackers, cheese, and fruit. The usual bottle of wine we share, had been opened in the kitchen and poured out into our glasses. The house was quiet, comforting around us as it listened without casting judgment, to our conversation.

Tears flowed freely down Julie's cheeks, like a stream, there was no telling where one tear stopped and another began. We allowed her to cry because she needed to and we know it is healing to grieve among friends. "I cried all night," she admitted softly. We ached for and with her. Her wine glass half full sat to her right. "It will get better," we each reassured her in our own words. "It will not always be like this."

She repeated her words, "I cried all night. I mean all night." Her shoulders racked as she spoke. We simply nodded. We want to pull her out of this valley. We do long with everything in us to do that for her. Yet, we see she is emerging, but she doesn't always see it yet. We know she must first see it with her own eyes, before she will believe. We have each known our own battles with The Valley of Grief.

She is, in some ways, undone, she believes. We know she will make it. We never doubt her outrageous tenacity. "My pillow was soaked this morning. I mean it was actually soaking wet!" She looks thoughtful for a moment. Then she says something typical of her, something that reminds me of why we love her so, something responsible and practical, but perhaps unique to her, "My pillow is ruined." She sighs deeply, "I will have to buy a new pillow."

Then, because we know each other so very well, we all feel a curve lifting the corners of our mouths. She begins to smile, a soft smile at first that stretches all the way up to her swollen eyes. She laughs, "I will have to buy pillows," she announces. We all begin to laugh. "Yes," we agree, "pillows are easy enough to replace."

"Leave it to you," I tell her, "in the midst of it all, you will keep your pillows fresh and clean. No matter how hard things become you must buy yourself good pillows. A cheap investment for your much deserved comfort, I would think."

Tears turn to laughter among us, as they have more than once through the years. "This is a blog post, these pillows must be written down and remembered!" I tell her. She agrees and so I write of her and of these pillows that have held her tears. I write to tell her, I believe in you. I see you rising from your bed of grief. There will be joy in the morning again. I see the light creeping in already.

We do not meet for coffee anymore. We meet for weekends, for movies, for dinner and holiday parties. We meet once a week and sometimes in between.

Gathering Words

When you are hurt, or feeling sad, let someone hold you awhile until you feel better.
Meredith Teagarden

Words

I arrived in the room a little too early, or perhaps I was, in actuality, too late. Glancing around it was not difficult to perceive most of the people there were safely seated at round tables with folks they already knew. I tasted, once again, the distinct flavor in my mouth of being a stranger in a room full of friends.

Because I am a person who enjoys learning, and I am too easily distracted, I chose a table in the center of the room, close to the front. It was awkward sitting there alone as people around me chatted with one another. I reminded myself I had made the choice of a seat at an empty table. I reminded myself it is good for human beings to recall the loneliness of being inside a group where one is an outsider. It made me wish, once again, to make sure I leave no person as an outsider who sits in my midst.

A stocky young man in his mid twenties came along and sat down beside me. His blond hair was sticking straight out in every possible direction, his clothes ultra casual and his red shirt proudly boasting a Target employee badge. His eyes were kind and his words simple. He was a simple minded man there to learn.

Next a medium height man in his early thirties sat down across from me. He was thoughtfully groomed, button downed in soft hued collared shirt, tightly tucked into his Docker style dark cotton slacks. His face and belly had the roundness of a man whose wife enjoys cooking and keeping her husband slightly fluffy in appearance.

Finally, a man well over six feet tall sat down to the left of me. He had a distinctively English face. I fully expected to hear a strong accent when he spoke. In his earliest seventies (I guessed), his eyes were a sharp, bright blue, not a hint of dullness resided there. His perfectly white hair, thick for a man of his age, was swept to one side of his careful part. He wore a powder blue button down shirt. He was elegant, well kept, apparently comfortable in his own skin. He wore no wedding ring.

I glanced around the room and sighed. I was the only woman at a table of men. This should be interesting, I thought to myself. No women here to get the conversation rolling. No women at my table to bounce ideas off of. None of us have anything in common, and I being a woman, have the least in common with all of the people at my table.

Two male teachers took turns teaching us the material. The men at my table settled right in, leaned forward, and payed close attention. Instantly I found I appreciated the lack of distraction with them. Women, including myself, often chat quietly or make comments with one another when they are seated at round tables and listening to a speaker. I like to call it interactive listening.

Discussion time came around and I dreaded the dragging silence I fully anticipated from my table mates. The simple young man to the right of me, deep in thought, shook his head to the sides and reiterated the group questions for discussion. The married man across from me sat softly in his chair and said he could not think of anything to say. I was not surprised. I suspected his dinner had digested to the point it was making him feel slightly sluggish and ready for cat nap.

So there we sat, four strangers with little to say. Then the elegant man to my left sat up and leaned in with purpose; his expression serious, and his posture open. We all turned, in relief, to listen. "I remember the throw away comments," he said. "They are the hardest to forget, to forgive. I replay them over and over."

"What do you mean by 'throw-away comments?'" I asked.

He was a man recalling the decades of his own life, days long gone. He was a man not inclined to speak too quickly. He took his time choosing his words like a tie for his shirt. I admired his style. "I had a good family," he said. "My parents were not bad. There were no traumatic things in my childhood. My dad just made those kind of comments that hit you right here." He pointed at his stomach as he spoke.

We knew what he meant. We recognized the position one takes when one has been punched in the abdomen. Everyone of us unconsciously leaned closer to him as he spoke. One of the teachers pulled a chair up to join us at our table.

"My dad could say things to me that he did not really mean. He was just talking. Maybe he was teasing. But those comments got me right here (again he gestured at his stomach). I shouldn't think of them and I should have let them go. They were just throw-away comments but I have played them over and over in my mind. They stayed with me."

The men around me nodded. I was surprised at their instant display of empathy. There was an appropriate silence. We digested his words before offering our own. My sons' faces drifted into my mind. I imagined them sitting as old men around a table. I imagined I was long gone and only my words remained. I imagined, for a wrenching moment, my children carrying all of their lives words I had carelessly thrown their way. Words they should have thrown away.

"As a parent, when I think of my words hurting one of my sons it just kills me," I told the man.

The men around me nodded. There was an appropriate silence. We thought of our families. We thought of our words. The teacher, who had joined us, said, "Yeah, I can't stand to think of my words hurting my son." It was obvious he meant it.

"Your father's words were not just throw away comments," I said softly.

The elegant man nodded. Then, in measured tones, he added, "I sometimes said the same kinds of things to my own children."

My heart tugged at my chest and a knot caught in my throat for the man. Again we all nodded. No accusation in our eyes as they met his sad ones. We all knew what he meant. We all remembered our human frailty and the need to be forgiven. We sat in appropriate silence holding him with no hands or words. We wished for him the same thing we each wished for ourselves. Forgiveness for throw-way words.

In The Moment She Laughs

She slips through my fingers
Like barred soap in the bath
She spins and she twirls and
Outrageously
She laughs!

Tired in morning
I dash up the stairs
I am impatient
I am grumpy
I am intolerant of the exuberance of
Her youth, sometimes


I call her name sternly
In my best I mean business voice
Giggling like a drunken sailor
She rounds the corner
Just out of my reach and
My sight

I feel old and creaky as
I enter the room
From the corner of her eye
She catches me
She scrambles up onto my bed
Ever so quickly she
Scampers across it
With the agility of a cat

I dive the width of the bed
Like a circus clown
She narrowly misses her escape
In that moment
She laughs
Hurry
I rush her

She attempts to
Slither away
I sigh, I disapprove, I remind her of
Time
Being short

I slip a dress over her head
At last I have captured my little bird
In her fanciful flight
She does not see
I am grouchy
I am cranky

Instead she sees
The dress!
She spins and she twirls
And slips once again
From my grasp

I watch her
In astounded wonder
She tilts her head back as
She bounces in circles around
My big bed

Her multicolored dress
Lifts delicately into the air
Like angel wings
Delighted
She announces
In her best
Grownup voice
I a princess!
This she believes

She is not
Self conscience
Nor would she boast
She is simply telling
That which she knows
She is transformed
By a dress!

I laugh along with her
Tears fill my eyes
She looks at me sideways
No holder of grudges
Her royal smile she casts
Then, I, too old, too grumpy
Catch my own
Sigh

She is a princess
She is!
She spins and she swirls
She reminds me
With no
Words

Time
Our time
Will be too short
How did I ever become
So lucky
To call her
Mine?

In a
Moment that
Slipped quietly away
Like soap
In the bath
Together we
Twirled
Together
We laughed...




(Jane and her brother, Eric, in May)

The Emerald City

One last post from the archives. Hopefully next week I will be back on track!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Emerald City

I took the train last week to see my daughter in the city. The city's residents boastfully call their home The Emerald City. It is somewhat amusing as it seems such a contradiction when one enters the heart of the place. But perhaps like all of us must do, if we wish to recognize the good things in life, the city's lush green color is what they have chosen to be known for and focus on, rather than the laundry list of gray that also characterizes so much of the place.

My daughter lives in an immaculate apartment building that is five minutes from one of the state's gorgeous architectural tourist attractions. You can see her building, from the freeway as you sit in traffic which is known to be some of the worst in our nation. When you take her exit there are homeless folks who spend their days harassing drivers as they finally exit freeways they have spent possibly hours in, and come to the obligatory halt at red lights and stop signs.

Harassing sounds like a strong, cruel word to describe street people until you have seen them with your own eyes. They dance madly, like crazed, wild eyed, raggedy men into the traffic, pouncing on hoods, pushing their lower lips out and refusing to move when the lights change colors. The vehicle's driver must remain stopped until the person on the hood decides to dismount.

They may choose to knock on a car's window or drink brazenly in front of the cars, no longer caring about open bottle laws that regular folks are governed by. What have they left to lose? It is a bit terrifying for women drivers to be among the population who has no hope and no more to be taken away. It is also a bit unraveling to the mothers of city women to know their own daughters will stop alone in a car each day, on multiple occasions, to be confronted with such insanity as that which has entered into the street dwellers of The Emerald City.

The street just outside my daughter's beautiful brick building with its wood planked floors, softly hued walls, roof top garden, with convenient and coveted on-premise parking garage, is littered with jackets, trash, and the odd shoe missing its former partner in the world. The garage's gridded security gate raises and closes much too slowly. The street corner, across the altogether too narrow street from the garage, is inhabited by the same sad, gray, washed out people that live on corners, nearby shrubs, and under building overhangs all over The Emerald City. These men dash under the gate as she pulls her car in and out each day. They are looking for temporary shelter from both the rain and the sun which beat them into desperation in any given season.

Yet the city has its unmistakable charms to lure those with an appreciation for beauty out into its markets, parks, busy and quiet streets at anytime of the day or evening. There are restaurants, one right after the next, perfuming the streets with spicy renditions of the world's flavors. From the sidewalks one can glance into restaurant windows and spy people of all ages and race siting at tables crowded into the tiny, brightly colored rented city spaces drinking wine, or sipping the city's renowned coffee, and eating tapas deep into the night. It is a sight worth beholding.

Morning brings the aroma of fresh baked breads, pastries, yeast and cinnamon spilling once again into the new day. Mothers walk briskly with children in carriers, uniforms, and heavily weighted cartooned back packs. Business folks dressed in the finery and fashion of The Emerald City dash importantly into the streets, ignoring the crosswalks, because their time is of the essence. Policemen ignore them in a kind, quiet recognition of their import and the lesser laws to which these busy, beautiful folks have not heeded.

Art is sprinkled into the very architecture of this grand city. Even in the most rundown neighborhoods, where graffiti artist wannabes have attempted to work, sits the predictable grand Victorian painted lady whose gingerbread facing has been left too long in disrepair. But, if one has eyes at all, one can imagine her in her glory with children in her yard, and lights glowing in her once loved windows, like welcoming eyes onto her tree lined street.

Musicians abound in a place such as this one. You may be serenaded by them in the streets, along the farmer's markets, and most especially near the sea where markets from around the world sell their wares.

As my daughter, Tiffanie, and I walked through a famous market, for which the city is known, and which seems to stretch out for several miles, suddenly a cheerful voice broke through The Emerald City's music and delightful market clattering. "Blond bomb shell," it announced heartily.

My blond daughter and I were the only ones walking close to the sound. Normally, I never would acknowledge such a proclamation. But the twinkling voice (if there is such a thing) had an unmistakable kindness in it: cheerful, almost musical in the tones. I needed to observe the owner of such a voice.

I halted and spun on my feet. In so doing, I caught my daughter's disapproving glance at me for allowing the speaker an ear. I had taught her better and she now expected me to rise to the lessons which I had taught. But there always exceptions to rules. My senses told me I had just heard one such exception.

Just over my right shoulder I saw him. He stood at about four foot eleven, several inches shorter than myself, an antique man leaning upon his dark, curved, walking cane. He was wearing, and I swear to you it is the truth, a top hat! He wore, with pride, a long buttoned down suit jacket with a striped tie peeking out just beneath. His sparse silver hair glistened under the unusually, outdated tall hat, which sat comfortably on his head, as if it had always been there.

His eyes sparkled at me brightly and a wide grin encompassed his face from ear to ear. He was harmless and disarming all at once. I laughed out loud at his words and nodded my head agreement, yes, my daughter is a bombshell, I told him with my eyes and unexpected laugh.

My daughter, too, burst into a happy smile and giggled at me, her silly mother, and a this overly dressed elegant stranger who seemed to pop out of an earlier, gentler, kinder time; a time when, perhaps, he was young, and handsome for his day, and a blond bombshell may have winked at him in return. I wondered if he was recalling those days of his youth in this remarkable place, The Emerald City.

I, of course, recounted the story to all who would listen. I was charmed by the sparking man. His well intentioned, jolly comment had made the city glisten for me once again. The city has a way about itself and its citizens, that can entice one to see beyond the cars, the gray, the wild, and somehow make one want to pull up a chair, or perhaps a horse and stay awhile.

The man reminded me of someone from my own child. A fictional character, that I have known so long, he almost seems real. The doorkeeper of that Emerald City Frank L. Baum created for his daughter who was dying of an incurable illness. You remember him? The man who was the Wizard of Oz.

As we walked away we laughed that day. My concern for my daughter's safety faded for a time, and I saw the lush green landscapes, multi-colored flowers lining the streets, and the people. The beautiful, everyday people of The Emerald City, scattered about like the flowers.

I caught the city's unmistakable charm in those moments. Street musicians were singing the blues just ahead of me. Starbucks sat like a welcoming auntie across the street to my right; I stood below its sign while my daughter snapped my picture. She knows I love coffee. I felt at home with the smell of my own kitchen mornings wafting through the open doors of Starbucks coffee shop.

Had I come to the Emerald City via the market route...If I would have been listening very, very hard somehow I feel sure I would have heard a large ring of keys jangle in the tiny man's pocket. He would have pulled one out, opened the doors, and said, "Now, that my dear, is horse of a different color!" I would have entered Oz dazzled by its unmistakable beauty and the storybook like wonder of its inhabitants.

Tobacco and Cheap Cologne

Thank you all for your thoughtful comments at my last post. One of the best parts of writing a blog is reading the comments. Many of you, some who claim you are not writers, leave me the loveliest words.

I would love to share the comment of Lola, a new friend here in blogland, "My thoughts, exactly every day when I am at work and unable to have my little 3 yr old eat sitting in my lap, feeling his little warm hands cupped around my cheeks, his serious "quanto sei bella" (how beautiful you are)..." Lola, having never met you, but hearing of your precious boy, convinces me he is absolutely correct in his assessment of you!

My schedule has been exceptionally busy, so here is a little something I wrote sometime ago about a man I once knew.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tobacco and Cheap Cologne

It was Christmas time. The roads were loaded with cars and the sidewalks abuzz with shoppers. Suddenly I spotted a man. Not tall, not short. Not thin, not chunky. Not handsome, not homely. Nothing to catch or hold one's attention existed in his outward appearance.

Below his waist level I noted two well bundled children. A girl and boy on each side of him skipped, at their own pace, grasping their daddy's hand. They looked as if they belonged to one another. The man's children were what drew my eyes to rest upon him and drink in his detail.

My mind rolled back, like a film strip, in time to over thirty years ago. A small boy emerged. Large, soft brown eyes, full lips, that used to quiver when he was sad. He was gentle in nature, timid even. I recalled his big sister, a lanky, round eyed girl with stick straight California brown hair and skinny legs that matched. A jean clad man wearing a white tee-shirt, sleeves rolled up at the arms, entered my thoughts along with the two children. A cigarette was tucked behind the man's right ear. The smell of cologne, beer, and tobacco accompanied him at all times. It seeped from his very pores.

Odors that would bring him to the little girl's mind over thirty years later, years when his features were blurry in her thoughts, but his scent remained. He disappeared one day after dropping her and the little boy, his children, off in front of a house they had never seen before that very day.

As he drove away they had sat on the scraggly lawn of the strange house waiting. They shivered with fear and the familiar pangs of waiting to see who would show up. Neither of them could have imagined they should have watched the man more closely as he drove away. They did not know they should have captured his image to save in their minds because sometimes father's drive away and do not come back.

It was for the better. But being only young children it would be years before they would fully grasp the gift of his loss. The boy, in fact, never did. It left a hollow place in his soul. The girl, however, grew up and remembered the dread of the man. She thought of him sometimes and shuttered.

But mostly he was as absent from her thoughts as he was from her life...Except on rare occasions when she was in a crowded train station, too close to a passenger on a plane, or pressed up against a stranger in a crowd briefly. She would catch the slightest hint of alcohol, cheap cologne, or cigarettes and he would float to her mind. Misty like his scent.

And then there was a particularly cold winter day. She was driving in the city, deep in traffic, her own daughter tucked warm and safe in a car seat at the rear of her car, when she glanced at the crowded sidewalks and her eyes caught sight of a man. She lingered there watching him for just a moment.

It was Christmas time. The roads were loaded with cars and the sidewalks abuzz with shoppers. Suddenly I spotted a man. Not tall, not short. Not thin, not chunky. Not handsome, not homely. Nothing to catch or hold one's attention existed in his outward appearance.

A Double Portion

(Photo by my son David)

We sit together in a tiny Korean style restaurant at a table near the back. No matter where we are she always chooses the seat next to mine and never one across from me. This time is no different than all the others. Even seated she does not slow down. "I want to sit by you," she suddenly announces. With no further words, permission always granted, she hops off her chair and climbs up into my lap, grasping my arms like primary school monkey bars. She wiggles around until she settles into a comfy, familiar position.

When the food comes, a meal we will share, she eats from my bowl with her spoon and takes the food from my fork on occasion. She does not do this in a greedy way, but in the most natural of ways. She is like a little bird. The back of her shiny hair tickles my chin, and her overly large hair bow brushes my cheek. I don't mind. She will only be three and a half for a few minutes and then she will be four, and five and the day will come when she will not sit on my lap nor eat from my bowl. Knowing this, I savor her more than the food at a table.

"I am so glad you want to sit with me," I tell her,"because I like to sit with you too."

"I nike you," she tells me with no fear of who might hear her. She makes me smile a thousand times a day with proclamations like this one. I love the notes of her voice, the pitch, and the missing letters in her words. There is not one thing about who she is that I would change.

She melts me, this tiny little girl, with her sentimental ways and sentences. She does not yet know about using words to manipulate emotions. She does not yet know about withholding emotion to manipulate words. She is authenticity at its most divine. She lives in each moment, as it appears on the surface, and rides it to shore like a wave, until the next minutes rush in.

She is a miracle. She is a beauty. She is of infinite worth. She has no idea about the meaning of any of these things and yet she is all of them and so much more. To spend time with her is to stop for ants crawling through bark chips and see them as if for the very first time. It is to laugh in delight when the rain turns to hail and taps on the windows in spring. It is to jump into puddles in blue velvet shoes because puddles are much more important than what covers our feet.

It is to bend down close to the earth and pick clover, leaf by leaf, and ask, What name is this? for a ladybug passing among the grasses. She still believes her mama has the answers to all of her questions.

While I hold her head in my hands and lather her hair with orange scented shampoo, she suddenly breaks into a song, "Mama washes my hair, washes my hair, washes my hair. My mama washes my hair!" I catch my breath at her words. When she first came into my arms she was afraid of water. I sang to her when she was scared as I washed her hair, and kissed her teary cheeks, in those early months of her homecoming. My songs go out and return to me through her. Astounding.

She likes to play nearby while I type. Sometimes, when the mood strikes, she stands on her tiptoes next to my chair and takes my cheeks in her little girl hands. "Nook at me," she says in her most serious, grown-up voice.

My hands stop clicking on the keys and I pause to gaze, once again, into the face I have memorized each and every line and curve of. The child I waited for almost all of my life. She has become as real as my own breath and I do not take her presence here, with me, for granted. She is a miracle. She is a beauty. She is of infinite worth. Because she knows the meaning of none of these things, I simply say to her as she holds my face in her hands, "You are my girl."

"Ohhh," she coos like a dove, "you are my girl too."


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(For those new to my blog, Jane was adopted from China two years ago. When I was growing up I dreamed of adopting a girl like me, a girl who was missing her mother. She is an answered prayer.)

Isaiah 61:7 Instead of their shame my people will receive a double portion, and instead of disgrace they will rejoice in their inheritance; and so they will inherit a double portion in their land, and everlasting joy will be theirs.



(Click to enlarge.)

Tagged

There’s a game of tag going on and I have been tagged by Pinkerbell from Ripples in a Small Pond. I am honored to play. Thanks, Pinkerbell! The game goes like this: tag 6 blogs to play along, and name six unimportant things which make me happy.

Instead of tagging blogs I am going to list six blogs I have recently discovered. If you have time, I hope you will give them a visit! If they have time, I hope they will play along. However, being that I am terrible at memes, award passing, and blogland games, I understand if anyone passes. No worries!

1. singing

2. painting ~ I don't have time to do it, but I love it!

3. my garden in bloom

4. a well written book, newly discovered author, good blogs, people who are articulate, writing

5. unexpected moments~ my daughter's sudden song in the car, a mountain, ocean, or rolling hills view around the bend in a road, a charming little house on well kept neighborhood street, wisteria wafting through open window

6. really good coffee with cream, red wine, homemade bread, Indian korma and chicken tandoori, Thai food, Chinese dim sum~ any of the above shared with a table of people I love, and plenty of time to enjoy each other

7. Yes, I MUST say SEVEN! Travel. It may be my single most favorite thing to do in the whole world. There is nothing like it for me.

8. Just in case my husband is reading, one of these may be the key to my ultimate happiness!


Now for the blogs I am recently devouring like chocolate:

1. Clouds and Silvery Lining~ Eddie has made me laugh like no other blogger! He is humorous, kind, talented, and generous with his words.

2. Sniffles and Smiles~ How I love Janine! This is a woman I would like to meet someday at a blogger conference. She is articulate, bright, and funny. I learn from her writing style anytime I visit her. She takes risks in her blog writing and I admire her courage.

3. The Girl From Cherry Blossom Street ~ Her blog is elegant, curvy, slender and stylish. She writes short posts filled with words and pictures good enough to eat!

4. Lakeviewer~ Her writing is intelligent, thoughtful, and insightful. I have seen her comments around blogland and her comments match her blog perfectly. Classy!

5. God of Another World C. Michael Cox writes a blog of fiction, truth, and photos. I never know what he will post, but I am sure to be glad I stopped by!

6. Nuts in May~ I admit her name is what caught my attention, Maggie May. Is it only me who thinks of the Rod Stewart classic? Maggie May of Rod Stewart's song always makes me wonder if there was a real Maggie in his life. Hence, I headed right over to Maggie May's Nuts in May. As it turns out, she does not seem to resemble the cougar of Rod's youth one little bit. She shares tidbits from her life and always leaves me looking forward to another post.

I also love these blogs: Dave King (The man is a brilliant writer.), Remaindered Random Musings (Frank's stories have given him a steady, devoted list of readers. His writing never disappoints!), One Big Love (Rick's poetry is an undiscovered gem in blogland. He far underestimates his own talent!), and Gumbo Writer (Angie posts recipes, wise tidbits, and humorous thoughts. To read her blog, is to wish you knew her better!). Rules are hard to follow when they limit me to naming too few things in any category. I hope you will pick a few new names and go visit their place on the Web.

Tuesday is my visiting day this week. See you all tomorrow!

P.S. My warmest thanks to Authorblog for his recognition at Post of the Day on my post Men in Black and White and Khaki.