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Just Some Inspiring Readings

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......Just some Inspiring Readings

We All Have A Unique Voice . . . You Just Have to Find Yours

BY J.L. GREEN


My mother was always timid and shy, having grown up with a father and sister who drummed into her head that she was stupid and unattractive, that she had nothing worthwhile to say, and even if she did, she wouldn't know how to say it. So for too many years, she buttoned up.

It didn't help that her husband (who would become her ex) was much like her father, reinforcing her fears of lacking anything of note to contribute.

But something happened when my mother turned 50. One day at work, my mother piped up about a movie she'd just watched again, the popular "Close Encounters of the First Kind," or was it "The Wizard of Odd." And something happened when her fellow secretaries heard this. They laughed. Not at her but with her. And it wasn't the last time that would happen.

The waitresses at her neighborhood diner made sure her cup of decapitated coffee was always full because in return they got a laugh. And my mother got a life. She wasn't humiliated, she wasn't humbled—she was human and humorous and in demand! She was playing her own circuit, from the workplace to the auto repair shop, from the dry cleaners to the dinner engagements she now accepted.

Her malapropisms did not diminish, but they no longer defined her in a negative way. They were uniquely hers. Her confidence grew. We all have a voice, she learned, we just have to find it—and embrace it.
 
The waitresses at her neighborhood diner made sure her cup of decapitated coffee was always full because in return they got a laugh.

I always read and love these readings.. but.. I just roared on this one...

What does a cup of decapitated coffee look like? How does one decapitate coffee?? LMAO...

Sorry goofy I know.. but hell it made me laugh!

bec
 
Bec, I'm glad it made you LYAO.

I too find humor in goofy, funny things and during these times, I get some of my best laughs. And, sometimes my laughing continues and continues when it's expecially goofy, bc then I crack myself up, LMAO prolonged.

......Oh', ....., the things and concepts we can find much humor in, in the course of our day, is always a suprise treat.

My son has a way about him that truly evokes some really good belly-laughs from me. Just last night was one such time, and oh' what a treat this was.

Anyhow, I'm glad you do enjoy these readings too, as much as I do.

...(Decapitated coffee, h'mmm, I don't yet know how to make that happen. Perhaps this is the route I need to take when buying coffee out, as it seems it ought to cost less.

And, I've heard it said, "Less is more.")

Gee' I've almost lost myself in this one. Guess it's my turn to feel goofy, but still share none-the-less.


Hope
 
......Just some Inspiring Readings

You Never Know What is Hidden Inside

LARA NAUGHTON


The moment had come for the students in my creative arts class to choose their animal assignments. And Anthony was worried.

Ever since a professional symphony had invited our class to accompany their performance of Saint-Saen's "Carnival of the Animals" with original poetry and dance, Anthony had set his mind on being the elephant. After all, he reasoned, elephants are strong and mighty. They rule the animal world—and Anthony certainly wanted to rule third grade. But the parts for the performance would be chosen randomly from a hat.

He tried to make deals and bribe his fellow third-graders into giving him the part—to no avail. When we had a class discussion about the equal value of all animals, Anthony agreed in theory. But as sweet, quiet Esperanza stepped up to the hat, reached in, and chose the elephant, Anthony let out a moan and theatrically fell out of his chair.

Now it was his turn. As Anthony dragged himself to the hat, he rubbed his hands together and coaxed, "Come on, lion." If he couldn't have the elephant, at least he could choose something fast or strong. But when he read his pick, I knew the challenge for him and me had just increased exponentially.

Anthony was the swan. He couldn't imagine an animal less mighty. Swans are gentle and elegant. Swans don't rule anything. How could he possibly be a swan? He was crushed.

Once he recovered from the letdown, I knew deep down he could be a magnificent swan. But the recovery would have to come first, and I wasn't quite sure how to help him.

The next day I showed him a video of "Swan Lake," and we watched how the dancers moved with strength and ease. He saw the dancers jump high, like basketball players, and spin around several times without stopping. He thought maybe he could move like that. Maybe the swan wasn't so bad after all. Maybe.

So I cajoled Anthony to practice jumping and twirling. He started to get into the spirit, adding a cartwheel to his choreography. He ran and leaped and flew through the air. Elephants couldn't do that, I told him. Swans have something special that even elephants don't have. Swans have grace.

Anthony always knew he could be strong and forceful, but suddenly he had discovered that he also had ease and grace. By the time the class performed with the symphony, Anthony had become the swan. And Esperanza, usually shy, had discovered her elephant power.
 
......Just some Inspiring Readings

If You Jump, the Net Just Might Appear

MARISKA VAN AAL


The seed was planted during my college wanderings around Italy, Germany, and France. Hitting the highlights, my friend and I hadn't seen much beyond the well-worn path between the railway station and the cheapest youth hostel.

Then, on a particularly long train ride from Venice to Rome, I watched a spry young woman with frizzy pigtails and a well-worn T-shirt climb down from the luggage rack, stretching after her satisfying nap. We chatted, and learned that she'd been on the road for 18 months with no plans of returning to "real" life anytime soon.

Awestruck by her total freedom, I asked, "How do you do it? How do you keep on going?"

She shrugged. "It's much easier than you think," she said. "You just get on the next train, and something always falls in your lap."

She showed me the doctored ticket that she'd milked for three weeks of free train travel. She told me about picking tomatoes in Spain and bussing tables in Greece, anything to stay on the road. When the work dried up or the place got boring, she'd head to the train station. After all, everywhere was only a train—or a boat or a plane ride from somewhere else.

I knew I wasn't one to falsify documents or sleep in luggage racks, but I envied her confidence. She just knew that around a turn of train track lay her next sun-drenched adventure. I resolved that one day I would do the same.

The seed she'd planted didn't sprout until I teetered on the edge of turning 30. Ensconced in a "real" but unrewarding job, putting money in my 401K, I was planning my wedding. My life looked good on paper, but I was miserable. I realized my only shot at contentment was, as Eleanor Roosevelt had commanded, to do the thing I thought I could not do.

So I made a decision: In six months, no matter what, I would leave to travel around the world. I talked to my fiancé and his own seed started to sprout.

As soon as we made the decision, the wind shifted in our favor. A major loan came from one family member. An offer of plane tickets from another. People dug gear out of closets, pressed guidebooks into our hands, told us of secret hideaways where we could live like royalty for pennies. The universe was rewarding us for listening to our dreams.

But even with these generous gifts, I began to realize that the net that had suddenly appeared was primarily composed of our own resolve. We would do anything to make it happen—quit our jobs, empty our savings, skip the big wedding, sell all of our possessions whithout a backward glance. Because it was our jump, and our choice, each sacrifice felt like a gift to ourselves.

Our rootless year quenched my wanderlust, and I returned home with a taste for something vastly more satisfying: the freedom and power of big risks. Whenever I wonder about taking another leap—a new job, a big move, a first child—I think back to that first sense of determination and total surrender. I know it's just that easy: Jump, I tell myself. You'll find a way.
 
......Just some Inspiring Readings

You Can't Fail Unless You Stop Trying

JULIA VAN TINE-REICHARDT


I was 40 years old, with a beautiful seven-year-old son and a husband I adored. But I was disgusted with myself.

I'd quit smoking when I learned that my little boy was on the way...only to start again when he was a year old. When he was five, I quit for almost a year. After that, I managed to stop for a few days or weeks here and there. But mostly, I smoked.

I lit up in the house and in the car, even at my son's soccer games under other mothers' accusing eyes. Craving nicotine, I snuck out of his birthday parties and school functions, and once stole out of a family member's funeral to smoke outside the church.

I was disgusted with myself, but I was also afraid. Emphysema, lung cancer, heart attack, stroke...they could happen to me. I smoked, quit, and started again. After each failure, I was more ashamed and frightened, and fell further into despair.

But always, a voice inside whispered that I couldn't stop trying; my son depended on me. My life was precious—I was precious. Fight, the voice whispered. So after each failed attempt, I quit again. And again.

I knew that this voice was God's and that He would not give up on me as long as I didn't give up on myself. But sometimes, that was difficult to believe.

One night, breathless from too many cigarettes, I dropped to my knees and called upon God. "Help me," I begged.

From deep inside me, His voice rang clear and strong.

"Do you love this life?" He asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Are you willing to let me help you?"

"Yes," I said.

"Try again. Your faith will be rewarded," He said.

Peace dropped over me, thick and warm as a quilt, and I knew that I would stop smoking for the last time. And I have—one day at a time.

Of course, it hasn't been an easy road—to be accurate, it's been a 20-year battle. I've even slipped a few times. But always, I allow Him to step in and get me back on track. After all, failure is an illusion. Faith is our greatest weapon against adversity; and with faith comes persistence. When we embrace the struggle instead of giving in to it, we reaffirm that life is precious, worth fighting for.

Once I realized this, failure—and the faith that came from it—became a gift, a larger triumph.
 
......Just some Inspiring Readings

It Pays to Approach New Things With An Open Mind

LAURA QUAGLIO


When I was 36, my doctor recommended that I get my first mammogram. As a writer specializing in health-related topics, I'm a big fan of regular screenings, so I nodded vigorously and scheduled one right away. I can't say I particularly looked forward to it, but I didn't dread it either. It was a rite of passage. A fact of life. Something I would be proud to say I had done—if only to encourage others to do the same.

When female friends and family would ask what's new, my upcoming mammogram was on the list of things I'd mention—along with my new hip-hop dance class and my recent passion for scrapbooking. Then the horror stories started flooding in, including a particularly disturbing meant-to-be-funny E-mail poem about the pain, pressure, and personal humiliation associated with a mammogram.

As I lay in bed the night before my test, I wondered if I should be more anxious about the whole thing. Would it really be as bad as other women said? Would it be worse? Then I had a flashback to when I was pregnant with my first child and was similarly inundated with lurid tales of epidurals-gone-wrong and excruciating back labor. I'm happy to say that although my daughter's birth wasn't as pleasant as downing a carton of Ben & Jerry's, it wasn't as awful as some births...nor as easy as others. But it was uniquely my own and undeniably worth every twinge. My mammogram experience, I told myself, would be the same.

Having sufficiently calmed myself, I decided to try to be open-minded and work with my technician to have the best experience possible. And I think I did. The technician was pleasant and kind. The facility was clean and offered free coffee. I was kidless for the hour, so I even got to read a magazine in peace for a few minutes. And after the mammogram was over, I treated myself by purchasing a delicate handmade butterfly pin from the gift shop downstairs.

The mammogram itself wasn't great. It wasn't awful. But the experience was uniquely my own and undeniably worth every twinge.

Now if only I can approach my next high school reunion with the same positive attitude.
 
......Just some Inspiring Readings

The Grass is Greener on the Other Side of the Fence...So?

TONY FARRELL


All the houses on my street have beautiful green lawns, and all their grass is greener than mine. Down at Steve's a top-of-the-line sprinkler arcs back and forth nearly round the clock, keeping the soil moist, the yard cool and lush. Next door, I always see Brian laying down heaps of new seed every fall. And leave it to Rick across the street to outdo all of us each spring. He's a professional landscaper with enough know-how to push every shrub, tree, and blade of grass to its peak.

Me, I love to get out and cut, dig, rake, plant, and seed. I've nursed my lawn along with gas-powered aerators, calibrated fertilizer spreaders, self-propelled mulching lawn mowers, and electric fish-line brush whackers. I've even stretched out on the ground and pulled up the most stubborn weeds by hand. In my dirtiest, sweatiest moments, I am reduced to frontier simplicity: A man must work the land he's been given, I'll say solemnly to myself, even if it's only a quarter acre of suburban patch.

But these days, my yard is slouching—the grass competing with chickweed and clover, its green luster gone pale. This is what can happen when you become a dad.

Lucy is four years old, Will is about to turn two, and all the time I used to spend caring for my grass now goes into caring for two toddlers. Once upon a time, I'd spend an entire solitary morning raking autumn leaves into tidy piles. Now we all rake leaves together, just to make a huge pile to jump in. Before Lucy and Will, the afternoon air would be filled with the buzz and chop of hedge trimmers making perfect curves and angles of my bushes. Today, the bushes have grown long and fuzzy, and instead you'll likely hear a child sounding out the chugga, chugga, chugga of "the little engine that could" on the front step. Next week, I know I should mow at a transverse angle to maintain my fescue's sturdy health. But I'm sure I'll just roar back and forth past the front door again and again, waving as I go, and making the children scream with delight as they press their noses against the glass.

Sure, sometimes I miss working the land like I used to. But back then, the land was all I had. Now, on the lawn of my dreams, a whole family throws leaves, digs dirt, and makes the lonely sprinkler the ringleader in a circus of drenched, frolicking kids. Next door, down the way, and across the street, the grass always looks greener. But my yard has never looked better.
 
......Just some Inspiring Readings

Pets are Part of the Family

ELLEN PHILLIPS


Pets have been part of my family for as long as I can remember. In fact, I had pets even before I was born—Philomelia, the Elegant Fowl, and the two Afghan hounds, Cleo and Robespierre. These were followed by Fon-Fon the Tulip (a poodle), Linus T. Aquinas (a parakeet), and Homer Hapilus (the first dog I was allowed to choose, a cocker/springer spaniel mix). My brother had a succession of guinea pigs and an evil-minded parrot named Plug John. And, my sister had her own cocker spaniel, but she really wanted a cat.

Our pets gave us access to unlimited physical affection. They were always up for a game. They loved us even when our clothes were dirty or we were in disgrace for some ill-timed fight. We could tell what they were thinking—their emotions were always there for the world to see—and at dinnertime, especially, there was no mistaking what was on their minds!

We also knew that they could tell what we were feeling—if we'd been hurt or humiliated at school, if we were sad or angry, if we just needed a hug. If our sister had pinched us, the dog would comfort us. If no one would talk to us, the parakeet would sing for us. Childhood was never lonely for me, as animals were always there.

It also wasn't boring! We never knew what any of those characters would be up to next. There was the time my pet anoles, the Borgias, Cesare, and Rodrigo, escaped from their tank. I was convinced my reptile-hating mother would evict both them and me if she found out about it. I was in despair until I saw that the little lizards were so excited by their adventure that they'd turned bright green, a dead giveaway on the brown chair leg they had chosen for their escape route. And the time my dog Hapilus had a field day eating the fermented pears that had dropped from our tree in late August—he reeled around grinning from ear to ear for a week.

Pets are a family's love made visible. They make it easy to learn to display affection, receive affection, return affection. And they are the best teachers. They teach us true family values—love for its own sake, loyalty, fidelity, friendship, trust, and playfulness. Through them, we grow to be better people, because they take us to their hearts and show us what really matters. As my dog Molly reminds me daily, a warm, dry place to sleep, a nourishing bowl of food, and unwavering love is really as good as it gets.
 
......Just some Inspiring Readings

GET UP AND GO


by, PETE SEEGER


How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get up and go has got up and went.
But in spite of it all, I'm able to grin
And think of the places my get up has been.

Old age is golden, so I've heard said.
But sometimes I wonder as I crawl into bed
With my ears in a drawer and my teeth in a cup
My eyes on the table until I wake up.

As sleep dims my vision, I say to myself,
"Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?"
But though nations are warring and business is vexed
I'll still stick around to see what happens next.

How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get up and go has got up and went.
But in spite of it all, I'm able to grin
And think of the places my get up has been.

When I was young, my slippers were red,
I could kick up my heels right overy my head.
When I was older, my slippers were blue,
But still I could dance the whole night through.

Now I am older, my slippers are black.
I huff to the store, and I puff my way back.
But never you laugh; I don't mind at all.
I'd rather be huffing than not puff at all.

How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get up and go has got up and went.
But in spite of it all, I'm able to grin
And think of the places my get up has been.

I get up each morning and dust off my wits,
Open the paper and read the obits.
If I'm not there, I know I'm not dead,
So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed.

How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get up and go has got up and went.
But in spite of it all, I'm able to grin
And think of the places my get up has been.
 
......Just some Inspiring Readings

You Can Live Richly, and Money has Nothing to do with it

RACHEL MARUSAK


Forty sketches were due at the end of the week. As I put my things together, I lingered over my sketchbook. The cover was bright blue and spiral-bound; the pages were thick, blank, and full of possibility.

It was midterms at the American University Center of Provence, where I was studying abroad for my junior year in college. In lieu of classes, we had a day to study. Outside my host family's home, I pulled the gate closed and felt especially relaxed as I set out on my usual route to school. Every day, I passed the same fruit and vegetable vendor, where I would sometimes stop in for a tomato or an apple and practice my grocery vocabulary, I passed the same café with the floor-to-ceiling windows where I would see the same old men sidled up to the bar with their little espressos and morning cigarettes.

With the 40 sketches in the back of my mind, I noticed a wrought-iron gate that gave entrance through a cement wall I had always taken for granted on the other side of the street. Feeling like I had some stolen time, I wandered across the street. The gate was unlocked and led to stairs that immediately descended into an artfully designed courtyard. Sidewalks divided the park into equal parts and joined to form a circle around the fountain in the center.

The park was part of an art museum, which looked like it was just closing for the lunch hour. I set up shop on a bench facing the fountain. As the sun warmed my face, I took off my jacket and remembered reading in a travel book that you should always dress in layers during the fall in the south of France. I took my sketchbook out of my bag and assessed potential subjects. One child raced giddily around the fountain, another dangled her hand to test the water, and a couple was picnicking in a sunny corner.

Opening my book to a fresh page, I faced the fountain and started to outline the curves of the structure. I heard my painting teacher's reminder in my head, "Forget the intellect." She repeated the phrase to often it was more of a mantra. They were Cezanne's words, meaning: don't think about drawing something. Be open to your impression of the moment.

Birds brought movement to my page. I made lines until they took form, would flip without resignation to a new start, and shift position to a new composition. Deep lines. Splashing water. Fountain. Children. Birds, I remember looking up and feeling my good fortune and taking note. I wasn't in it for the grades, I didn't need to be anywhere. I didn't want for anything. I was just living—calmly, graciously.

I had wanted so badly to extend my stay in Aix-en-Provence, but there was no way. By the last week of the semester, I was literally living on soup and bread, and I traveled home without a dime. But I took that day, that moment in the park, with me. That moment—of wanting nothing—is my most cherished possession.
 
......Just some Inspiring Readings

Love is Bigger Than Squabbles

DOUG DONALDSON


Throughout the years, the dynamics of my family seemed sort of like plate tectonics. Sure, we'd all start from the same place, have the same origins, but different groups of us would split and drift away. Instead of seas and mountains separating family members, gulfs of silence and walls of stubbornness would divide us. And like many other families, such strife ran through generations.

The first time I'd realized there were such divisions was in my late teen years. As a child visiting relatives in Kentucky, one of my favorite stops was my Aunt Louise's house. I spent several summers there in my pre- and early teens helping her tend her garden and playing basketball with my cousin. Somewhere during that time, my mother and aunt stopped talking to each other over some now- forgotten dispute. When on vacation, we didn't visit my aunt, and if I ever questioned my mother, she'd brush it off, usually with a headshake and silence.

Once my brother and sister and I had graduated college and began our own little continents, my mother's personal tides moved her back to Kentucky. She renewed friendships and started a new life there. Yet, despite living just a few country miles from my aunt and passing her regularly in town, she still didn't speak to my aunt. The silence roared like waves for years.

Then came the diagnosis: My mother had advanced lung cancer. And the prognosis was poor.

She was proud and wanted to bear it herself, only telling a few people close to her. But it was a small town, and soon my aunt found out. Once Louise heard, she opened her house to my mother. My aunt went with my mother to treatments, helped by grilling doctors, and the two became close again. After a bad turn, my aunt set up a room in her house with a hospital bed and even assisted my mother in bathing and getting dressed. Throughout the final days of the illness, my mother and aunt reconnected, rehashed stories about growing up on a farm, and talked about their hopes for their children. When my mother died, my aunt was there, right beside her.

During the days surrounding the funeral, I too, became reacquainted with my aunt and introduced her to my children. She'd tell my kids embarrassing stories about me growing up, and we both flipped through picture books to catch up on too many years lost. Now my children and I regularly visit my aunt. There are calls, cards, and a connection that wasn't there before, but was simply waiting to be rediscovered.

Whenever a loved one dies, we seek out some purpose, some reason for why things happened. With my mother, it was clear: To reunite a world that had been divided.
 
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