tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19333970483580997652024-03-13T20:42:50.022-07:00The Mosslit PathFinding our way in an unruly world . . . seeing beauty in unlikely places.Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-84359986070357942812014-11-30T10:36:00.002-08:002014-11-30T10:58:01.717-08:00Now Blogging at a New Site<div style="text-align: center;">
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Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-91603109318266593232014-01-12T12:26:00.000-08:002014-01-12T21:05:38.468-08:00The Sound of Light<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtTR5JPffP4PzXr7runEuhruxYT_f55wu6IOJxO8dJWObx0KPbMVV0YNmI3F9sTO73pZZiIuEkdG0WLsGzMI-6FBacglQzfXmBsLFbFDX71bCbr-jJGnqPZWhpnRCosrTv6vWLtuYJtzyl/s1600/Big+Lagoon+in+fog1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtTR5JPffP4PzXr7runEuhruxYT_f55wu6IOJxO8dJWObx0KPbMVV0YNmI3F9sTO73pZZiIuEkdG0WLsGzMI-6FBacglQzfXmBsLFbFDX71bCbr-jJGnqPZWhpnRCosrTv6vWLtuYJtzyl/s1600/Big+Lagoon+in+fog1.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
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<i>Photo: KPS </i></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Sonido de la Luz<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> <i>Remembering
Pablo<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">He understood. Each of us is a pulse <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">of sound, scrap of cadence, shaky rhythm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">doubting itself, random song sputtering along <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">in the redwood duff. What he did was<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">listen to himself. Who does that? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">He rapped and rattled, playing it all out,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">sending himself ahead of himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Among the waves glittering, chewing away <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">cliffs off Trinidad, a thrumming, a ringing, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">currents of sound, water, light. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">If you close your eyes, someone might hear<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">you singing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK15eLGoZJq1a3d-ui4CDe0NrG6_tZXh5Wt-wae_qMHvqgLOqDTNcbKxMcI0lSnA4r3wge-MTyx8kSTQJiwYkdLKYm7VzyRJV3tof7lxAs3WG0FoYvoZk_pJHzlW5A_xu1LV6xs0m194kh/s1600/Pablo+on+the+pans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK15eLGoZJq1a3d-ui4CDe0NrG6_tZXh5Wt-wae_qMHvqgLOqDTNcbKxMcI0lSnA4r3wge-MTyx8kSTQJiwYkdLKYm7VzyRJV3tof7lxAs3WG0FoYvoZk_pJHzlW5A_xu1LV6xs0m194kh/s1600/Pablo+on+the+pans.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Pablo Rotter <br />Playing with HSU's Calypso Band <br /><br />A Scholarship in celebration of Pablo's life is being established with <br /><a href="http://www.humboldt.edu/hma/" target="_blank">The Humboldt Music Academy</a>, a program of Humboldt State University,<br />to engage young people in music. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Pablo was a charter member <br />of the the program, and music remained a passion.</span></td></tr>
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Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-23010323911919119832014-01-01T12:26:00.000-08:002014-01-12T12:05:40.152-08:00New Year's Day, Alone on Big Lagoon<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“everything
here / seems to need us” — Rainer Maria Rilke<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzsnlDGK-bXPgCLwJ-X8YLh8dpNcA1rLhVWcBBp6yna6v3tAGZLs-477jN5uY4w8KM7D5zqPTuFfJA619-2bCFxeGHDOb9onXsiuNcG1DF2R-Oo1rVEmcHwF5gJRQKidT5z_vwEnpA-2u3/s1600/Big+Lagoon+in+fog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzsnlDGK-bXPgCLwJ-X8YLh8dpNcA1rLhVWcBBp6yna6v3tAGZLs-477jN5uY4w8KM7D5zqPTuFfJA619-2bCFxeGHDOb9onXsiuNcG1DF2R-Oo1rVEmcHwF5gJRQKidT5z_vwEnpA-2u3/s1600/Big+Lagoon+in+fog.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo: KPS (unedited from iPhone).<br />Kayaking Big Lagoon in Fog.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large; line-height: 115%;">P</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">addling in fog this morning, I think, </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">is this what Pablo entered or what he left behind? </i></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can see barely to either end of my kayak, but I keep
gliding forward—this fog making the visible world small, but also the unseeable
oddly palpable and more real. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m not quite in the center of the lagoon. From above, I’d
appear off kilter, tracking slightly seaward. The bar of sand between me and
open ocean is a tawny smudge at the corner of my eye, allowing me the
comfortable illusion that I’m contained within boundaries, my body being the
first. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">New Year’s Day. I’m here. Pablo is not. No, he is, by the
mere recalling of his name. <i>Pablo</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dense, the fog moves little, behaves like another ocean,
murky and dim. Somewhere, scientists say, are entire planets covered in ocean. Kepler-22b,
a lousy name for a planet, may be a watery earth orbiting its own sun, floating
along in the Milky Way, in the constellation Cyngus, that is, The Swan. But
would such a world need wings, or only fins, tentacles, a single sticky foot? How
is it to never know land? What if you lived so deeply you never saw your own
sun?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A loon lets loose his eerie song, a tangled arc of shrill tones.
He’s invisible. He exists now only as music. I don’t need to see him to believe
in him. He calls again, as if expecting an answer that doesn’t come. <i>Namaste</i>, I whisper, wondering if he hears
me. The word comes out as fog blending with fog.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Tiny beads of water hang from my eye lashes, and if I look
straight up, they become strange lenses. A bright white stain spreads radially in
one spot of the sky. The sun, muted. It’s good to know it’s out there doing its
fusion, 600 billion tons of hydrogen turned helium every half a breath or so. Atoms colliding, rearranging, giving light and
heat. Walt Whitman said, “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to
you.” <i>Who invited him here? </i>I’ll add,
every human, and all that is not human, is a sack of recycled stuff. <i>We not only belong to each other, Walt, we
are each other.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Earlier, at the put-in, one river otter waited. A dripping
comma on the bank, she paused to watch me launch my gaudy, orange ‘yak, then
back to grooming tail and flanks. As I drifted away, she stood up in the mud
and golden stubble, slipping to water like a sliver of time, all silk and
glitter, quick and gone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wKwlkwDHeo1CCT5zwG_xO5_rUsS0q4NQ2hbkG3Uh_MevAf4ieUqZsT-a-vcGvCbfojnitBsbeSrqHq-FZn2Fp7TqtoAv4Zd4gjIuz4iMklHgRUUs6i8r4pmNMxuI5HfjHoqxKkkCvkjY/s1600/otter+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wKwlkwDHeo1CCT5zwG_xO5_rUsS0q4NQ2hbkG3Uh_MevAf4ieUqZsT-a-vcGvCbfojnitBsbeSrqHq-FZn2Fp7TqtoAv4Zd4gjIuz4iMklHgRUUs6i8r4pmNMxuI5HfjHoqxKkkCvkjY/s1600/otter+cropped.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Now enveloped in mist, I see a subtle waking of the water
toward me, a bubbling, then stillness. </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">She’s
followed me and moved on. </i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">I look hard through the grey for her, but there
is no seeing beyond a few yards, and the water is a near-perfect reflection of
what’s above—more grey, a cormorant skimming by, a colorful knit hat, my eyes a
blue iridescence, blinking.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It dawns on me that I knew Pablo only a bit better than
this otter. <i>How often do we look at ‘other’
and see the impenetrable, or worse, only ourselves?</i> Young and the son of friends,<i> </i>he’s been gone less than a week.<i> </i>I try to conjure his face, but beyond a
lighter version of his father’s curly hair, I can’t. Instead, I hear his voice
talking about his two little dogs and his fiancé who sings opera, how far she
travels and how he waits for her to come home. Held by a plastic boat, in no
one’s sight, absent, I get it. I barely knew Pablo, but feel how much he loved
his opera singer and those two little dogs. Perhaps we never know people, but feel
them, like another form of gravity, a tidal force shifting inside us, through
us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I sit for a long time in the quiet of a pied-billed grebe
diving and bobbing up, buffleheads running on water to lift away from me, occasional
traffic on the hidden highway, ocean grinding shore with its stamping and
applause, and the synthetic rubbing of my life jacket as it follows my
breathing in and out.</span></span></div>
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<i><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Time
to move on.</span></span></i><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> To propel this kayak across Big Lagoon, is to
push and pull simultaneously—one paddle edge coaxed through water while the
other vaults through air. <i>Now the dark depth
of loss, now the bright aether of living. </i>Each time, just before I tip the
paddle to break the surface, there is a subtle pause, and for a moment, I’m suspended
between wet earth and wet sky.</span></span></div>
Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-29784406937085806612013-12-10T21:12:00.000-08:002013-12-17T12:47:12.134-08:00Journey to Sierra Leone & Liberia<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>“</b></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><b>I am what I am because of who we all are.</b></i></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>”</b></span><i><b style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">- <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leymah_Gbowee" target="_blank">Leymah Gbowee</a>, Liberian peace activist, whose leadership of a women's peace movement helped end Liberia's second civil war in 2003: She is describing the concept of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ubuntu_(philosophy)" target="_blank">Ubuntu</a>.</span></i></blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJM4U2H0rr2PBf8PGAXskfL8V2d6xcINYPwml0yXdvFUE-LDY3rWTqdPU2H7m0X9hUIyfuj-i-qkt-cBcLoAIKwPVioYOrCDEBlaAuEiJBJDkrtLcqt9XnFcnTVfnC4lP3PyZ9Aw385ejA/s400/Salone+Photobook+Cover.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="http://books.milkbooks.com/projects/fe518648-112e-4853-8028-1ee6306734a1/165140/1022866/pages_1022866.pdf" target="_blank"><b>Click Here</b></a></span><br />
<b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><i>Allow a few moments to load </i></span><span style="color: #990000;"><i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">–</span></i><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"> Flipbook </i></span><i style="color: #990000; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;">Best Viewed on an iPad or tablet.</i></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Click above to view a photo flipbook, highlighting a September 2013</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Journey to <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-13729504" target="_blank">Liberia </a>& <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-14094194" target="_blank">Sierra Leone</a>.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkpfTbFu1oqF4m5v5AFQX2_Ol6dd3ltGLJi6oKIyx1rZ2-QwIWGPjMmiKVQzNTBgNUsgj2iLyybEV7oQe-3xllmj2v-sj9s-OwrG3oxjA6EhE7NjyBCi18VIN0wUd8gPBdSLaJs73h_ZJb/s1600/IMG_3115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkpfTbFu1oqF4m5v5AFQX2_Ol6dd3ltGLJi6oKIyx1rZ2-QwIWGPjMmiKVQzNTBgNUsgj2iLyybEV7oQe-3xllmj2v-sj9s-OwrG3oxjA6EhE7NjyBCi18VIN0wUd8gPBdSLaJs73h_ZJb/s400/IMG_3115.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In time, the experiences with the people, cultures & landscapes of Liberia & Sierra Leone </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">will find their way into my writing.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b>Click below for a few, brief clips . . . .</b></span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw0P-u5wDwrIKDdBFPzlR668qFa5vRd0LnVbOIrVRZX5FTl2FneFDMWv85hLKaUeTazXsqCRjPoKYvgkQFwkw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<i>Entering Nagbema Community School - Kailahun District, Sierra Leone</i><br />
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<br /><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/WKK_Y3g0zcU/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/WKK_Y3g0zcU?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/WKK_Y3g0zcU?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Devil Dancers - Kailahun District</span></i></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzGtzgI2234i9zvi7ceVSXZ2MgH4pW-1vSLpw8KxGiNDzBvIA9S8e4R7ZFZR3E66ubI1tFLZGOoKm05UakImQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sierra Leone Roads <span style="color: #181818;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">- Frequently Getting Out of Mud</span></span></span></i></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz3--fJk8syP-l975IOCFYmFFCwjlK5X2yCGODsikg2viFzFcsoNtvVqW3VwdQ0C4Oi6oQPK5CNLWxZvtvSPQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Welcoming to Bandakoro Community School - Bombali District, Sierra Leone</span></i></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dymb3_uqLgOeUvpIjRj8Yq2JHfpsY6Fnk1k7EqAkFr8crSog5iG9IAPt1bUAdNGnPPx_bzO8-ZHF-Jr9YBzvg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<i>Village Dancer - Bombali District, Sierra Leone</i></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxHyB7NaCaIdHJK9KsudM7U-DqYvN122IxBVTgsb2O09K8m6Ku30aBFx0tMZGEg7y2_QSOcN5whw2kzsOnE4Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<i>Nightly Lightning in Kabala - Koinadugu District, Sierra Leone</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Village Performers - Koinadugu District, Sierra Leone</i></span></div>
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<br /><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/Hie_aKeb05k/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Hie_aKeb05k?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Hie_aKeb05k?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
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<i>Driving from 'Up Country' to Freetown, Sierra Leone</i></div>
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<i>Lumley Beach - Freetown, Sierra Leone</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLqEe-62U1kWAwGTcBvkcXuftyKcqfTkPlK-m3hdu2aa0krG4Xwn-ivat_hB3LppHUL9x_s0g325JclUrBQvOcWCLgd0mw0buOpxmu9tlxHKrPaw8xtAu-M8Hp62yy0Ph-lZXq1_Aw78H/s1600/IMG_2649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLqEe-62U1kWAwGTcBvkcXuftyKcqfTkPlK-m3hdu2aa0krG4Xwn-ivat_hB3LppHUL9x_s0g325JclUrBQvOcWCLgd0mw0buOpxmu9tlxHKrPaw8xtAu-M8Hp62yy0Ph-lZXq1_Aw78H/s400/IMG_2649.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Wherever I went, children ran to greet our Toyota 4x4. </i></div>
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<i>We spent hours on red-mud roads to reach some very remote communities.</i></div>
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<i>Many had never seen, as my sponsored boy, Alie, put it, </i><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;">“</span><i>a woman of white color.</i><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;">”</span></div>
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<i>Crowds of children clustered around the vehicle also made it difficult to leave a village literally & emotionally.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><u>Special thanks to</u></b>: <a href="http://blog.childfund.org/tag/liberia/" target="_blank">ChildFund Liberia</a> and <a href="http://blog.childfund.org/tag/sierra-leone/" target="_blank">ChildFund Sierra Leone</a> staff, program partners and countless village leaders & community members for hosting my visit to many <a href="http://www.childfund.org/" target="_blank">ChildFund International </a>program areas in September 2013. I especially thank Godfrey Mwelwa, Acting National Director, and Shannoh Kandoh, Acting Program Manager, with ChildFund Liberia; and Billy Abimbilla, National Director, and Yusufu Kamara, Program Manager, with ChildFund Sierra Leone. <b>My most special gratitude goes to my Sierra Leone colleagues, </b></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Fataba Babawo, Sponsor Relations Coordinator, and Osman Kargbo, Logistics Officer,</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> who spent many days with me on the roads and within villages ... thank you, my friends, thank you.</span></b></div>
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<br />Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-6283211725253344472013-11-28T07:11:00.000-08:002013-12-11T10:55:27.801-08:00A Little Hiatus . . . <div class="MsoNormal">
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<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." - Maya Angelou</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKcF5PAsSmH3VMIW13rAcgwH-LE5JaVJ2YVksPqYMNqZhGv5paeJ-hynA2mZNYDC0DLEv2SymGWbEo3vJzs2s-tMxYZLgGKuMnVxx16ZrE7Hu3k_XX-GjfG-KexjchyphenhyphenlthATlNvzVPaYFs/s1600/kps+cat+thinking.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKcF5PAsSmH3VMIW13rAcgwH-LE5JaVJ2YVksPqYMNqZhGv5paeJ-hynA2mZNYDC0DLEv2SymGWbEo3vJzs2s-tMxYZLgGKuMnVxx16ZrE7Hu3k_XX-GjfG-KexjchyphenhyphenlthATlNvzVPaYFs/s320/kps+cat+thinking.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"><b>Y</b></span>es, it's true. I let my blog and my writing take a hiatus. I haven't liked it, but it was a conscious decision about which I may someday ... write. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For now, Happy Thanksgiving and welcome to the rush of an abbreviated holiday season.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Stay Tuned ... in December, this Blog will be resuscitated.</span>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-59606063919983447442013-02-12T22:55:00.000-08:002013-02-13T14:55:22.335-08:00Splintered Hearts: The Women of Rural Ecuador — Notes from a Field Visit<br />
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 15.833333015441895px; line-height: 17.5px;">“</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>It is the greatest of all mistakes to do nothing because you can only do a little.</i></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 15.833333015441895px; line-height: 17.5px;">”</span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 15.833333015441895px; line-height: 17.5px;"><i> — Sydney Smith, writer & cleric, 1771-1845</i></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Taita Imbabura (photo:kps)</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">D</span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">riving, we are held by huge peaks. North of Quito, we stop
in the verdant farmland of rural Ecuador for </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">baños</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">fotos</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, and some </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">maté de coca</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—that is, bathrooms, photos,
and coca tea to temper our high-altitude headaches. There is a series of faint
gasps, complete awe, as we step, one-by-one, from the little bus and face what
the locals call <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imbabura_Volcano" target="_blank">Taita Imbabura</a>, “Papa” Imbabura, a 15,000-foot volcanic
mountain. He’s resting now, but you can see how he blew off a lot of stone and
steam 14,000 years ago.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How easy it is to feel small, vulnerable, insignificant in
size and time, yet also embraced, never quite alone in this landscape where
mountains follow you everywhere. In Spanish, a range of mountains is called <i>cordillera</i> from the root for ‘cord.’
This chain of volcanic peaks is ultimately part of the sprawling <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Cordillera" target="_blank">American Cordillera</a> that runs all the way to the Brooks range of Alaska, branching out
to push forth the Rockies, the Cascades, the Sierras, and my own Coastal range,
the Trinity Alps, hemming fog along a narrow strip of Pacific, keeping my
redwood home green and wet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Looking at Taita Imbabura, protective and tacitly potent,
reminds me that I once lived 40 miles as the crow flies from Mount St. Helens.
From my mailbox, I could watch her sputter and breathe, coughing up ash, the
old girl staining a bib of snow all winter. She’s resting now, too. <i>Cordillera</i>, cord, yes, the mountains are
connected in some deep, enduring way. I think, <i>umbilical</i>. I think, <i>all
people emerge from a common thread</i>. There are many names for the
thread—some say, mother<i> </i>or<i> </i>mother earth, others god<i> </i>or<i>
</i>the father, others atom<i> </i>or<i> </i>cell<i>,</i>
dark<i> </i>energy or pure magic. Doesn’t
matter the name, the thread is there and we all cling to it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGP-zmvs9pxnijyEaAKTueWEiN5Hc9aCDhucVgdCGsWyMiv-SRzT7Z1QjLzEL-rGVre_CBHry8ZskRoiZD2RDkiM11NOv2g94ga0a8vl3S619aghK65hAfoRsAPdni-5hhbT6TGG_b4f7-/s1600/Boy+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGP-zmvs9pxnijyEaAKTueWEiN5Hc9aCDhucVgdCGsWyMiv-SRzT7Z1QjLzEL-rGVre_CBHry8ZskRoiZD2RDkiM11NOv2g94ga0a8vl3S619aghK65hAfoRsAPdni-5hhbT6TGG_b4f7-/s200/Boy+cropped.jpg" width="169" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Checking out the visitors<br />with all of their <br />cameras & gadgets<br />(photo: kps)</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Distant, watching us arrive, each child is smaller than my
thumb, my camera a tiny window through which they enter my life and grow large.
The bus stops, and several sets of eyes, like flecks of polished mahogany, peer
up at us. We’re at a pale terracotta building at the heart of this village. The
children dissolve into side streets, and we’re led through 12-foot high, carved
wooden doors that suggest <i>something
important waits inside</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We enter a classroom where 6 women sit in a row. Unexpectedly, my mind flashes an image of cormorants
lined on a half-sunken limb, bronze faces angled in the air, reflecting little
shafts of sunlight—the storms, the adversities they’ve flown through,
transformed to radiance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD99QdRyxT3cGLQPBgl-XeRihTL91sLfXMnPJHfgRLzTsJ8D5VWN82qg1WAe00QjcA9SmbGTbPfs5CO3QhmN0i5qZCXhCCWffnOX54MlBKYhb6vrUBE4tcLP9vHbOmiMYmJFs9MGEu0PJq/s1600/Women+of+Carchi+polaroid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD99QdRyxT3cGLQPBgl-XeRihTL91sLfXMnPJHfgRLzTsJ8D5VWN82qg1WAe00QjcA9SmbGTbPfs5CO3QhmN0i5qZCXhCCWffnOX54MlBKYhb6vrUBE4tcLP9vHbOmiMYmJFs9MGEu0PJq/s320/Women+of+Carchi+polaroid.jpg" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Trainer-Mothers<br />of a Carchi Village<br />(photo: kps)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Who are these women?
We’re told they are <i>indígenas</i>,
mostly indigenous women of this village in the northern province of <a href="https://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&q=carchi+province+ecuador&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=0x8e2968bae7d5eb4d:0x3622c04bee3de471,Carchi,+Ecuador&gl=us&ei=pI8aUfntDevFiwLypYDQCA&ved=0CKgBELYD" target="_blank">Carchi,Ecuador</a>. All have been touched by violence, discrimination, or economic
despair—but that’s not what defines them. As we talk through our translator, we
understand they are wives and mothers who began as almost invisible girls, now
turned social architects building a new community that their children will one
day lead. I’m not exaggerating. The poetry isn’t in what I’m saying but in what
they are doing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Today each woman will share her <i>testimonio</i>, her private story. We’re colleagues, mostly US natives,
with <a href="http://www.childfund.org/" target="_blank">ChildFund International</a>, and we’ve come to see our Early Childhood
Development (ECD) program in action, to learn from these local women. We want
to understand if our initiatives really are transforming the lives of children
and families. We want to gauge the impact of our donors’ charitable gifts in
the field so we can collaborate with our donors when we’re back home to expand
the program’s reach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XekUN35md-ARXIPOQx_3LQajkl5GwI96jDXqjbXbwRGllB_3OSIF2_6GlpxneHp2otvNpF7uZMM28vvBDPSxz0plNKp2DahaJFn7u3D6gewvW48-WyZ9BD0VWSNOs47w022jkCHATo6D/s1600/Carchi+toddler+yellow+wpuzzle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XekUN35md-ARXIPOQx_3LQajkl5GwI96jDXqjbXbwRGllB_3OSIF2_6GlpxneHp2otvNpF7uZMM28vvBDPSxz0plNKp2DahaJFn7u3D6gewvW48-WyZ9BD0VWSNOs47w022jkCHATo6D/s200/Carchi+toddler+yellow+wpuzzle.jpg" width="146" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Curious Toddler <br />(photo: kps)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Waiting for our dialogue to begin, I consider the mountains
far beyond us, propping up the sky and listening. <i>How many human voices have they heard over millennia, and what did the
voices speak of?</i> A saying comes to me, <i>“Women
hold up half the sky,”</i> the best sentence Mao Zedong ever uttered. In truth,
some women hold up all of the sky for their families. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the doorway, other ears listen—a toddler in a monochrome
jumpsuit and khaki cap flashes us his round, red cheeks and small, serious
mouth, looking more Chinese comrade that tiny Ecuadorian. He sways in the
massive threshold, his balance on two feet a tenuous effort, before his <i>abuelita</i>, his grandma, takes his hand
and leads him away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Children. The good news about decades of humanitarian
efforts to reduce child mortality around the world is that, yes, more children
today are surviving. The new challenge is that about a third of the world’s children
are <i>only</i> <i>surviving</i>, not thriving, so we’re at a critical juncture. As a
world community, if we don’t help families raise healthy children—physically,
intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually—we’ll have a planet with more
problems and fewer sources for solutions. Worse, more than 200 million young children
today won’t have a chance to discover their own potential. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My parents drilled into me that I could be whatever I want
to be with hard work and high sights. Unfortunately, that’s not true for
countless children, particularly those living in poverty. A child can’t set her life loose and fly if
she lacks nutritious food, clean water, a safe environment, effective
parenting, quality education, opportunities to play and explore her capabilities,
and other basics that we take for granted. No, a child can’t fly if he starts
life in hole so deep and narrow that he can’t unfurl his wings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sitting in a row, the women are a study in contrast. Some
faces seem pure Inca, others more defined by Spanish features, and a few are
reminiscent of the native people of my California redwood coast and could pass
for Yurok or Hoopa. Their clothing is a confluence of traditional and
contemporary, alpaca sweaters with blue jeans, native skirts with button-up
shirts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVYzQ35abwqoS_W7-bBUsvg3ClDxqTuU7SltOXe11dghZHC70PEe3GmNGHCB5-ruKz94Pc7GyHwLP2tC_98f9CSA1UjPMXiXfC_80_Aj-dFxm_bfmQ1Ud0_zNcPy0POL2PU8E5Fm3lUBn-/s1600/Carchi+woman+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVYzQ35abwqoS_W7-bBUsvg3ClDxqTuU7SltOXe11dghZHC70PEe3GmNGHCB5-ruKz94Pc7GyHwLP2tC_98f9CSA1UjPMXiXfC_80_Aj-dFxm_bfmQ1Ud0_zNcPy0POL2PU8E5Fm3lUBn-/s320/Carchi+woman+1.jpg" width="169" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Trainer-Mother shares<br />her story (photo: kps)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Once women who struggled alone, now they are friends,
collaborators. They’ve been trained to understand ECD concepts, they’re raising
healthy children, and they’ve volunteered to be ‘trainer-mothers,’ teaching
other mothers and mothers-to-be what they have learned. This pass-it-forward
approach is what makes ECD initiatives cost-efficient and sustainable over
time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My wireless headset sputters static into my ears, waiting
for their words through our translator, Marcos. It’s odd, as these women’s stories will
pour into me in a male voice. The women huddle, exchange glances and a few
words in whispered Spanish. One woman agrees to begin. She’s perhaps 40. She
perches on the edge of her chair, adjusts a jacket around her full body, tucks
an ebony strand of hair behind her ear, and speaks low and calm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I was hurt as a girl by my mother and then by my husband.
This I thought was normal,” she says. “Also, my mother, I saw her abused many
times by my father. So my first two children, I hit them. I worked long days,
then came home, and they would not behave how I wanted, so I abused them.” This
mother looks away, brushes a knuckle at the corner of her eye, composes
herself, and faces us again. “Another woman came to my house and said ‘you
abuse your children—it is wrong.’ At first, I was angry, but then I could see
her children were more happy. She told me about meetings that <a href="http://www.childfund.org/" target="_blank">ChildFund</a> offers
here, so I came, and there were these other women, and I learned.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After she finishes speaking, another woman begins. She has
short hair and wears a white cardigan, her hands interlaced in her lap. She is
unmarried and childless. She became involved in the ECD program because she was
concerned about her nieces and nephews—they were very small and thin. “I
thought I could learn and teach the women in my family.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A third woman with deep, ruddy skin and a silky pony tail
follows with her story. She is a mother and a grandmother. Her husband
threatened her if she kept coming to the ECD program meetings, but she persisted.
She eventually left her husband, and now helps her daughter raise her
granddaughter. “Violence never helps a child,” she explains, “violence only
takes the child’s spirit away.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Listening to the women, I remember the slender book of
poems in my backpack, a certain line by poet <a href="http://www.elanabell.com/" target="_blank">Elana Bell</a> that goes, “We are
inside the dream of a God who’s forgotten us.” I search each face and wonder if
these women have felt that way. It's a farming region here, so long days are
spent on others’ land until they return home to their first jobs as wives and
mothers, a few hours of sleep, then gone again in chilled darkness. Among their
hands, so many fingers are darkened by sun and soil, little arcs of dirt under
nails, the land always with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqBLx88hJ97lGiHR-s1rFmbhxrENMehOezHEezc2gYewS-nxG61_47RkGFzbMYolaJvcevPGJ5J546oyoSC2UOEc2nRU6kt_7TktKPddIluvHkCPtJQKJ5JL6odV8EqZ7uRDbHpgC3et2/s1600/Mother+w+child+in+pink+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqBLx88hJ97lGiHR-s1rFmbhxrENMehOezHEezc2gYewS-nxG61_47RkGFzbMYolaJvcevPGJ5J546oyoSC2UOEc2nRU6kt_7TktKPddIluvHkCPtJQKJ5JL6odV8EqZ7uRDbHpgC3et2/s200/Mother+w+child+in+pink+2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A toddler during an<br />ECD training session (photo: kps)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">More women speak, projecting a quiet grace—their Spanish a
kind of simmering, a warm rhythm, filling the room. We bob our heads, affirming
what we hear. I scribble sentences from the various <i>testimonios</i>:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I didn’t know to talk to my children when they were
little, since they could not talk to me. I thought children should be quiet.
Now you see this boy, he’s my youngest, 4 years, see how he talks and talks. I
think he is very happy talking.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “My husband said it
was a waste for me, a woman, to learn. I thought I was being a bad wife, but no.
Our children began to grow healthy and strong. My husband, he can see the
difference. Now he comes to some meetings also.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I always loved my children, but I didn’t understand that
that some ways of loving are better than others. Giving proper foods, for
example, is important for the child’s mind to open. Healthy food is one way to
love your child.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSlqGckibEXMe_5Gw2-eJ3IPnVz-bWobPLdRYYOMJ5K1ut9Axc4ysgFRvw8VBrvKcUphYZh92z5HLPAn6cPzT2HnH1g_LFnLcnG14JKTzTNpHkH44iqJZf1HBF0-_GteMQxvQwiC0pR9Y/s1600/woman's+hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSlqGckibEXMe_5Gw2-eJ3IPnVz-bWobPLdRYYOMJ5K1ut9Axc4ysgFRvw8VBrvKcUphYZh92z5HLPAn6cPzT2HnH1g_LFnLcnG14JKTzTNpHkH44iqJZf1HBF0-_GteMQxvQwiC0pR9Y/s1600/woman's+hands.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sharing one's 'testimonio' ... a tissue helps.<br />(photo: kps)</i><br />
<i><br /></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“My heart is full of splinters, but I learned it is strong,
it can love beyond pain.” <i>Ah, her pain
has turned her poet!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I learned that to play is how children learn to use their
hands and eyes and bodies. To play is also good to make the bond between a
mother and child strong. You see, it is not a waste of time to play.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Did you know that watching your mother be abused by your
father can affect the way you grow when you are a child? I did not know that;
now I do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I never thought about being happy. Life is meant to be
hard, I thought. But no. Life is very short, and to be happy is important. I
cannot always be happy, but I try to be less sad so that my children can be
more happy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s better to lose a day’s work to take your child to the
clinic. Some illness may not kill a child, but it may secretly harm his brain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “We forgot our
songs, how to sing to our children. I needed to learn to sing to my children,
and now I also sing for me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I admit I locked my children in our house while I worked. Sometimes
they hurt themselves. I saw my daughters were growing old and sad without their
mother.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I feel blessed. This program, these women, I know so much
love. My life, I feel it is blessed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As each woman talks—one tipping her head to the side and
leaning forward, another flashing her eyes from faces to floor to faces to
floor, still another crossing her arms over her midriff as if to protect her
vulnerability—I watch my colleagues. We’re cocking heads and leaning in, we’re
looking and looking away, we’re crossing our arms. Unconsciously we’re
mimicking the women’s bodies, gestures, the physical reality of what they are
saying. Our bodies don’t need a translator to understand each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The women tell us that all their children are ‘registered,’
grandchildren too. Two days ago, I wouldn’t have understood the significance. Yesterday
we learned that a man in another community refuses to register his girls, ages
2 and 4. Unlike our own country, where a birth certificate is automatically
generated and a new life is made real on paper, here parents need to register
their children’s birth for them to legally exist. It’s usually men who avoid
the process, who, we’re told, may not want to incur financial responsibility
for the children. It’s often girls who go unregistered, though sometimes boys,
too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4ChtBMabjkFXBAEuVaYScwUnKxp9OZrUuFMS0wVmmJEaE3DsmjQpr3m7up7WnFenCU4m6QEALDW9MCYsMQiDqk8VAg_3B_GAMWo7lEn7fKiW8VnBmZpXlO_VRFtv4QKwdke9_O6iEeA-/s1600/mother+with+children+warm2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4ChtBMabjkFXBAEuVaYScwUnKxp9OZrUuFMS0wVmmJEaE3DsmjQpr3m7up7WnFenCU4m6QEALDW9MCYsMQiDqk8VAg_3B_GAMWo7lEn7fKiW8VnBmZpXlO_VRFtv4QKwdke9_O6iEeA-/s320/mother+with+children+warm2.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A mother with her children in the<br />Early Childhood Development (ECD) Program<br />(photo: kps)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I never considered the need to <i>legally exist</i>. I thought the sheer presence of my body taking up
space, displacing water in the bathtub, making cloud-breaths on cold mornings, and
leaving rosy lip prints on a tea cup were sufficient to confirm, <i>‘Yes, hello, I’m here!’</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I think of children having innate rights, I never
expected that the most basic right of all, the right to exist, in one’s own
community and country, is one that would need to be passionately asserted. The
woman sharing this story yesterday curled her hands into fists that she softly
pounded in her lap, explaining, “ I told this man, if you do not register your
girls there will be no school for them, no medical care, no extra food from the
government, because, you see, this family is having hard times since the man does
not work, only the wife.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A program consultant with our group explained to us that
without the birth certificate created through the registration process,
children are also vulnerable to abduction for the purposes of foreign adoptions
or child trafficking for forced labor and the sex trade. The translator
converted her information to Spanish. It was news to us, but the women nodded,
knowingly. The soft-fisted woman, her hands finally open as if two cups she’d
emptied, finished with, “I told the man if he loves his girls he must give them
a name and register them.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s when I understood the deeper twist to this dilemma:
children who go unregistered often also go unnamed. <i>What? A nameless child?</i> I asked for clarification through the
interpreter because it seemed impossible that a parent wouldn’t assign a name
to his child. At the very least, there had to be a name so the parent can get a
child’s attention or have some way to speak about the child to others or even to
think about the child. Human beings are
not only defined by opposable thumbs but by our penchant for wanting to give everything
a name. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPoaWqwakdaQj5Y2cyCX39eATCe442mYOMZZmlRDlJcHkOWsNDoeA7qlUWlKGBvWqV3q5Ro52x5mHibzulrMsQmKVfiqCdhtizTeEbZL3RyMgadI__xJVr4qwDQdYViVoBYrkdFkBu3neC/s1600/baby+foot+prints+colorful+istock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPoaWqwakdaQj5Y2cyCX39eATCe442mYOMZZmlRDlJcHkOWsNDoeA7qlUWlKGBvWqV3q5Ro52x5mHibzulrMsQmKVfiqCdhtizTeEbZL3RyMgadI__xJVr4qwDQdYViVoBYrkdFkBu3neC/s200/baby+foot+prints+colorful+istock.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We name places and things, we name animals and birds, we
name the kinds of rocks we skim on a lake that may have different names
depending upon our language and culture. Right now I think, </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Lago Sandoval</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, Sandoval Lake in the
upper Amazon of Peru. The name summons the lake, brings back to me a rich
memory of a rainforest, steamy air, scent of sweat, the constant buzz of
cicadas, and the surprise of palm-sized Blue Morpho butterflies, opening and
closing their luminous wings. Wow, all of this out of a name while I sit thinking
in a classroom in rural Ecuador.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Every word we utter is ultimately a name: wind, cloud, volcano,
sorrow, love, which could be <i>amor</i> or <i>cariño</i> in Spanish and in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quechua_people" target="_blank">Quechua</a>, <i>munay</i>, though <i>munay</i> describes a range of emotion broader than what we call <i>love</i>. I try to imagine myself without
the name my parents gave me. <i>Would I be
someone else without a name, or with a different name, say, Elizabeth or
Soledad? </i>There’s the paradox about naming: words—names—<i>open</i> the world to us while simultaneously forming a lens that <i>limits. </i>Maybe being nameless has more
possibilities? No, I’m certain, children need names even more than birth
certificates. To hear your name called is to have your life affirmed, to know
you matter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A small face appears in the doorway. The toddler again. His
mouth is now agape, in a perfect ‘O,’ as if paused in mid-thought. He surely hasn’t
learned the words <i>gringos</i> or <i>Americanos</i>, so doesn’t know how to name
our little group of visitors taking photos with electronic gadgets, though he’s
probably already heard <i>iPhone</i>. Our necks
are craned to look into the screens of our phones and cameras, checking the
images we’re capturing. The boy probably assumes we are a permanently
hunched-over people with hyper-active thumbs. I smile, others see him and
smile, and he wobbles back out of sight. When I see him again, I’ll say, <i>como se llama</i>, what’s your name, and
hope that he or his abuelita will have an answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrjzs8UB9nRC2afBmBnpXxqtKKn1z6Dmw2aHlSOpUSenMd5FZSrU-uxFlXMXeIcFjNqUZy0_T67WgS_GhvxxSrHV9uAGXbxXwipcY2F8igVZeXTP2dVpWSA_AR9zedg7YW9B_7Ctv8XtIH/s1600/Rufous_collared_sparrow+wiki+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrjzs8UB9nRC2afBmBnpXxqtKKn1z6Dmw2aHlSOpUSenMd5FZSrU-uxFlXMXeIcFjNqUZy0_T67WgS_GhvxxSrHV9uAGXbxXwipcY2F8igVZeXTP2dVpWSA_AR9zedg7YW9B_7Ctv8XtIH/s200/Rufous_collared_sparrow+wiki+crop.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rufous-collared sparrow ...<br />a common bird of the Andes<br />with a lovely song<br />(photo: S. Listengart)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the courtyard, waiting to leave, there’s another toddler
in a pink alpaca cap, her body bent over as she focuses intensely on a piece of
string by her foot. A grey poodle trots along a wall lost in the dog-world of
smells. A <a href="http://neotropical.birds.cornell.edu/portal/species/overview?p_p_spp=657516" target="_blank">Rufous-collared sparrow</a> pecks then scratches at a crack in the
pavement. Sunlight through a railing falls in a complex pattern over the child,
the dog, the bird, as if to make a wholeness out of these three loose parts.
Perhaps the wholeness is only in how I will remember this moment—this peace,
the ease of these three, fully absorbed in the same yet individually separate
moment. Suddenly the toddler topples onto her bottom, deciding whether to cry.
The dog’s head pops up and turns to the child. The bird bursts straight up on
brown wings and becomes sky. We are all changed by the child. Briefly we are in
<i>her</i> moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We travel and stop, travel and stop. Right now we’re
stopped on a mystery road off of the Pan American highway. I scan distant trees
for birds, and notice shaken limbs and lurching silhouettes. As I lift
binoculars, I see the trees edge a school and an empty field. Panning the foliage,
there are children in school uniforms, navy and white, climbing into dense,
green crowns. From the top of their world, they are releasing white birds, one
after another, that swoop and dive to ground … no, paper airplanes! Immediately I’m launched into a memory of my
younger self, the sensation of shaping paper into a plane, scraping my small
crooked fingernails along the folds to form sharp creases. I’m smiling: so many
engineering efforts, failed designs and paper cuts, daring climbs up other
trees, such joy in a flimsy flyer that for a little while stayed aloft. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLiiS9Oxb5wd1nhbTBDk4jNQcyQl33IYZcJ8ugavnNy9PmqdAAZkKZalbXNd9xhcXDg6Jra6CaqQkTi63esVIyDQJgjLEtWD3iEgmcELRvhoemKOnXmP7t22nsiMN67kzTMuKCoCdihrn/s1600/paper+airplane+in+motion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLiiS9Oxb5wd1nhbTBDk4jNQcyQl33IYZcJ8ugavnNy9PmqdAAZkKZalbXNd9xhcXDg6Jra6CaqQkTi63esVIyDQJgjLEtWD3iEgmcELRvhoemKOnXmP7t22nsiMN67kzTMuKCoCdihrn/s200/paper+airplane+in+motion.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Slowly, the little gods of paper, mostly boys but a few
girls, clamber down, bouncing on branches, then jumping free, landing with a
roll, human origami unraveling. Small children wait below, running in circles around
the trunks with their arms outstretched, heads tipped back, eyes aimed <i>up</i>. These little ones <i>are</i> flying. Above, Black vultures glide
on invisible thermals then tip sideways, flashing their silver fingers over the
children, their shadows combing leaves and hair. This is not a dark image, the vultures
spiraling low, this is an image of lightness, buoyancy, possibility. A vulture
can fly for six hours without flapping her wings. Children can fly on imagined wings
until the teacher comes to call them in, until someone tells them they’re
rooted in the earth, and they turn to paper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Being so close to the equator, when we stop at a house
nestled in a sprawling patchwork of crops, I’m not surprised how maize, beans, sunflowers,
and a few bougainvilleas are thriving. I’m a light-lover. I need brightness in
my home, my office, even if it’s the diffused glow of a sun I can’t see pushing
through fog. So, when one of the trainer-mothers, Renata, welcomes us into her
home, though I feel honored to enter into such intimacy with her, I also feel
as if I’m entering a cave. Her green and white house is a string of rooms
without many windows. I realize immediately why I’ve seen so many people
spinning, cooking, carving, washing, or standing in doorways looking out—they
need that threshold of light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFPmRGq8tJO-9tdilH5bRZ0OwMQUCSv2JOhdndJFfsy48CEJS_Pcy2_o1XhTQg6Dsd7k-cOEMPn2F6xkQa2qxPgroAhUNGSZ_oyNOM8o_FE0xI19oGDCvgzW8hqL-0fMRnMAtd0kp51MV/s1600/Monica+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFPmRGq8tJO-9tdilH5bRZ0OwMQUCSv2JOhdndJFfsy48CEJS_Pcy2_o1XhTQg6Dsd7k-cOEMPn2F6xkQa2qxPgroAhUNGSZ_oyNOM8o_FE0xI19oGDCvgzW8hqL-0fMRnMAtd0kp51MV/s320/Monica+cropped.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In the home of one </i><br />
<i>ECD Trainer-Mother </i><i> with youngest son. </i><br />
<i>(photo: kps)</i><br />
<i><br /></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Renata has arranged white, plastic chairs in circle in her living
room, and our group settles in, eyes scanning the room curious and awkward. She
sits in an easy chair with her son, Elias, age 4, on her lap. Above her is a
sign that reads, <i>“Dios es paz,”</i> which
even with my limited Spanish I recognize as “God is peace.” Walls hold a mix of children’s cut-outs that
include a pink baby and a smiling yellow cat, a calendar, a framed document
with photos, and a small crucifix. Her
ceiling is covered with a green tarp, her floor is cool cement, a ruffled
cotton curtain is the ‘door’ to the room behind her, which is dark. A plant on
a shelf bears a single red blossom, and a puppy occasionally wanders by to
sniff in the scent of foreigners. It’s a simple home with two surprises, a new
washing machine in the corner and a CD player that plays children’s songs for Elias.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Welcome to my home,” Renata begins, pausing to ensure the translator
is following. “Thank you for coming from so far away and thank you for the
<a href="http://www.childfund.org/" target="_blank">ChildFund</a> program for mothers, which has changed my life and the lives of my
children.” For the next twenty minutes, she tells us about her life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Renata has four children. Her husband left her awhile ago,
and though he sometimes was ‘aggressive’ with her, it is hard without him. She
takes classes and hopes to complete her high school education. She’s proud to
have graduated from our ECD program and nods toward the certificate on the wall.
She cares for an aging father. Her mother died, but shouldn’t have, because the
proper medical care was in another community that they didn’t reach in time.
She leaves home before 5 a.m. to work at someone else’s farm, then comes home
to tend her own crops and feed her family. She was abusive to two older
children, verbally and physically. One is a mother now, a good mother, she
emphasizes, also in the ECD program. Tears shimmer on her high cheekbones. She’s
being specific, detailed about her actions, and I pick out the words for ‘hit’
and ‘hurt,’ and then “<i>palabras terribles</i>,”
terrible words. Twice she refers to herself as <i>ignorante</i>, and cries harder when she says, “<i>pero ahora sé, entiendo</i>,” that is, “but now I know, I understand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wonder if I would invite a group of travelling
Ecuadorians into my home. I feel invasive, a bit of a gawker, but also
empathic, somehow meant to be here. <i>How
healing for me would it be to share, out loud with strangers, what has hurt me,
how I have hurt others, what I have learned, and what gives me hope? </i> So my responsibility, what I must do, <i>want</i> to do, in this sparsely lit room
for Renata, is listen and witness. What I feel as Renata speaks is the
double-edge of knowledge, the freedom and the burden it bears. Knowledge is a
burnished feather that lifts a body up, but the gravity of what’s been done in
the past, the awareness of how awful each of us can be at times, tries to bring
the spirit back down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPNvz6-1QiJx4vCZJ3_D4N03YL1j5Pc8Qf8gOiYFqBL6xmkla-1YH9bL-VYQ4ZIE_SKRW03-raanGUhEPQhcvV4XlZJ1IRhVvQqyHE65fD5cns6OHnjwVEe5HGD-DKb3Na_ok3M9-5-Eb/s1600/Monica's+dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPNvz6-1QiJx4vCZJ3_D4N03YL1j5Pc8Qf8gOiYFqBL6xmkla-1YH9bL-VYQ4ZIE_SKRW03-raanGUhEPQhcvV4XlZJ1IRhVvQqyHE65fD5cns6OHnjwVEe5HGD-DKb3Na_ok3M9-5-Eb/s200/Monica's+dog.jpg" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Renata's puppy<br />(photo: kps)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Elias grabs a colorful, illustrated pamphlet, part of the
materials that Renata uses as a trainer-mother to mentor other women out of a
cycle of poverty-driven inexperience, illiteracy, neglect, and likely,
depression. Several times, patiently, she slips the pamphlet from his hands and
sets it on a table, rubbing his back with her palm while she speaks. Feeling
watched by so many eyes, Elias gives up and buries his face in his mother’s
shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Renata explains how she now uses a <a href="http://www.childfund.org/" target="_blank">ChildFund</a> development scale,
a guide that defines the parameters of a healthy child at specific ages and
stages of growth. She measures how well Elias is growing intellectually and
physically, in terms of cognitive abilities and motor skills. She says, the real
measure is “he is a happy little boy, and I am a happy mother.” She invites us
to ask questions, and we do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes, she would like to marry again. No, there are limited
employment opportunities, just the farm work, but she is exploring with other
women the possibility of starting handicraft businesses so they can work at
home with their children near. Yes, she has become closer with her older
children. No, she doesn’t have help with her father, but she prays for him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally, someone asks what the most important thing is that
she has learned from the ECD program and from being a trainer-mother. She
closes her eyes for a moment, nodding, then opens them, her lashes glistening
with emotion, saying, “I learned how to love my children better. That is the
most important thing. Sometimes, with Elias, I sit on the floor and watch him
play. I’m so happy then. I did not do that with my older children. I have many
regrets. But I know it is better to look to the future.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvO-6DknOyzY7TwAEcfxmlIgaREtNb9f3qRvCd5nPi6m8NSaf1XNPgHPuplDRAvIh0TsrL2WmzUEBHWmeCbSRsxSRX794OTxSAScsHGergXK1f1l2cqBoQj_gzLkUwJdc07jAm3Y4hyphenhyphenzD/s1600/Monica+waving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvO-6DknOyzY7TwAEcfxmlIgaREtNb9f3qRvCd5nPi6m8NSaf1XNPgHPuplDRAvIh0TsrL2WmzUEBHWmeCbSRsxSRX794OTxSAScsHGergXK1f1l2cqBoQj_gzLkUwJdc07jAm3Y4hyphenhyphenzD/s200/Monica+waving.jpg" width="188" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A smile and a wave ...<br />(photo: kps)</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Renata sprinkles her story with certain phrases: <i>con la ayuda de Dios</i>, with God’s help,
and <i>salvación</i>. I recall from my Latin
that salvation comes from <i>salvus</i>,
which is further rooted in an older word, <i>sol</i>,
meaning <i>whole</i>. I scan my colleagues.
We’re all tilted forward, tissues in hand, sitting in an imperfect circle that
reaches around and is completed by Renata and Elias. <i>Whole</i>. Alone, we are broken pieces of something larger. Gathered
together, we share this momentary wholeness. <i>Sol</i>,
as a Spanish word, is <i>sun</i>, which comes
from other roots related to <i>shine</i> and
<i>peace</i>. Leaving Renata’s home, I turn
and look back to see her smile and wave, shining and peaceful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Late afternoon, we pause to explore a lake, a bowl of dark,
hazel water surrounded by green parcels that roll for miles into dry hills,
then jagged, grey ridges, and finally bright clouds. Two Pied-bill grebes glide
away from the edge as I approach; they dive then pop up mid-lake, the black
stripes on their stubby bills, gleaming. I track one cormorant across the
surface to a limb jutting up on the opposite bank where about a dozen
cormorants perch in a line. <a href="http://neotropical.birds.cornell.edu/portal/species/overview?p_p_spp=109276" target="_blank">Neotropical cormorants</a>, they are mostly bronzy
females and a few dark-pewter males, one of whom outstretches his wings,
casting the shadow of a cross angling the water. Suddenly the women come back to me, all of
them sitting in a row along the white-washed wall. <i>Yes, radiance takes many forms.</i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjx825A_cnWu_7ZMFNbV9f0CdjmraA5VO-gZnHs616ZlrxTDhOkXmiLxOwqRw9B_Um7ZZEjo5cgYw6jGyHltPdzOtYrZTNiZQgMn3ym5PgabTI3auwcyxaJiWL8-HQ_noTKyCGyb-5dyq/s1600/068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjx825A_cnWu_7ZMFNbV9f0CdjmraA5VO-gZnHs616ZlrxTDhOkXmiLxOwqRw9B_Um7ZZEjo5cgYw6jGyHltPdzOtYrZTNiZQgMn3ym5PgabTI3auwcyxaJiWL8-HQ_noTKyCGyb-5dyq/s320/068.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A calm, afternoon lake in the Ecuadorian Andes (photo: kps)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Evening comes as we go. Rumbling through little towns, we
notice how the people live as much outside as behind walls. Up narrow streets,
metal grills puff smoke as women roast potatoes, corn, bits of pork or </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>pollo</i></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, their mantas pinned to leave
their hands free and shoulders warm in the waning daylight. Dogs pace and fidget,
excited by the smells—shooed away with wooden spoons, they keep skulking back.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWWSJakdqL4nXQFFAVJeFlJo3IFXQ4nx5tploDvCvXMY7QPN5wSALMVcl4r6ms5XUwcst3v4dNhNrbho8AclgSFP7n0MHQz3rs1wyraR74U1P7kAfDp4yj7ADtWGuoBehqivd_MM07A_7/s1600/Dog+ecuador+Shelly+Perry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWWSJakdqL4nXQFFAVJeFlJo3IFXQ4nx5tploDvCvXMY7QPN5wSALMVcl4r6ms5XUwcst3v4dNhNrbho8AclgSFP7n0MHQz3rs1wyraR74U1P7kAfDp4yj7ADtWGuoBehqivd_MM07A_7/s200/Dog+ecuador+Shelly+Perry.jpg" width="134" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Road-side dog of<br />rural Ecuador<br />(photo: Shelly Perry)</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dogs, all types, wander throughout the Andean plateau, the villages
and cities, the farms and hedgerows, streets full of people and cobbled
nighttime roads where careening trucks won’t bother to stop. Like a parallel
culture, the dogs live among the people as if other people, poorer but, in some
ways, freer. Many in our group are animal lovers, and when we see matted terriers
and emaciated labs, we’re brought close to tears. Yet seeing how so many people
struggle and suffer, it seems a luxury to grieve so easily for dogs. It’s not
that the poor don’t have animals that they love and mourn—empathy has nothing
to do with income—but there must be a limit to how much despair anyone can
witness and absorb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">♦</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s three flights from Quito to my foggy, cliff-side
airport on California’s far north coast. The first plane follows a string of
volcanoes toward Central America, then plunges into pure white. I doze and wake,
my porthole turned blue. The sky, embracing the plane, and the Pacific swelling
below are one. Air, ocean, my open eyes—all a unified blue. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Back in the States, a seven-hour lay-over in Houston is a
delicious opportunity to read, though the jolt of English speaking—televisions
and people bickering on cell phones—is a distraction. The Andes seem far away
in distance, time, and reality. </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I was
there, wasn’t I?</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Donde estan las
mujeres y los hijos? </i><br />
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0xvHpg86vY4ixiZDdg19oO4LqKNK7xiFfJTCu9Q06DuTAjhH49Dc0APwX8U_qkjlHhqDsiD4LL0xGpom4NJZjNvb7IQ1M2Jm3PQmrOkolNOLkJPX94bUqfzW2RjcLxqmapDUFfoRDdpQW/s1600/Training+session+2+long.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0xvHpg86vY4ixiZDdg19oO4LqKNK7xiFfJTCu9Q06DuTAjhH49Dc0APwX8U_qkjlHhqDsiD4LL0xGpom4NJZjNvb7IQ1M2Jm3PQmrOkolNOLkJPX94bUqfzW2RjcLxqmapDUFfoRDdpQW/s320/Training+session+2+long.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Remembering an ECD training session in Carchi, Ecuador</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The day drifts by in the huge, airport windows, until
the sun dips toward the Gulf. The sky turns dazzling and surreal, an evolving
spectrum: bronze, salmon, pale pink then lavender to periwinkle to grey, heaven
airbrushed to earth. A faint green blush appears, then a green flash, as the
sun sets into the last scrim of clouds. Lasting only seconds, the green
dissolves to dusk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve only witnessed such a flash a few times, so I open my
iPad and search:<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_flash" target="_blank"> ‘green ray.’</a> The first links emphasize <i>rare</i>, a mirage of photons, dust, and horizon. I start to
second-guess myself—<i>I’m tired, maybe I
didn’t see it</i>—until another source says the phenomena isn’t rare at
all. Green rays may be visible most days
in many places. What’s rare is <i>seeing</i>
the phenomenon, stepping out of one’s private universe to pay attention, to
look at the world and see it as it really exists.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KrbMxURuwEPwZWhT9j0MV3hsKMcNVLlSye1tLaO9Qzz5u3p7OazxWdqWbMFcIyX10ovnlfVPkwhjyjmEXN26EwpP7SA5Njz2NGVqMsftJMlHd2LeC4bdbwxDZIheesY3DoBS3XKkra62/s1600/woman+and+child+soft+focus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KrbMxURuwEPwZWhT9j0MV3hsKMcNVLlSye1tLaO9Qzz5u3p7OazxWdqWbMFcIyX10ovnlfVPkwhjyjmEXN26EwpP7SA5Njz2NGVqMsftJMlHd2LeC4bdbwxDZIheesY3DoBS3XKkra62/s320/woman+and+child+soft+focus.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Changing the future for our world's youngest children,<br />usually starts with mothers ... it helps if the rest of us<br />see their resilience and join with them.<br />(photo: kps)</i></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><b>Note: A special thank-you to the many women my colleagues and I met in the provinces of Carchi, Pichincha, and Imbabura, Ecuador. </b>They opened their lives and homes to us to build understanding. They showed us how they are transforming their children's lives ... and along the way, their own. All names have been omitted or changed for some measure of privacy. <b>The ECD programs in which these women are involved are made possible through charitable contributions from individuals & families, foundations & corporations, and others in the US and around the world. </b></i></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><b>Thank you</b> also to <a href="http://www.childfundecuador.org/" target="_blank"><b>ChildFund Ecuador</b></a> and to our program partners working with us in the field who welcomed us to their Andean landscape and facilitated our dialogues directly with the women, men, and young people who are creating sustainable change in their communities. <b>To learn more about <a href="http://www.childfund.org/" target="_blank">ChildFund International's</a> work, touching 17.5 million children and family members in 31 countries (including the US) visit the website at: <a href="http://www.childfund.org/" target="_blank">www.childfund.org. </a></b></i></span></div>
Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-58515740117473440042013-02-02T14:02:00.000-08:002013-02-13T15:00:05.157-08:00One Birthday, Remembering Another<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";"> </span><i style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">“I just can’t comprehend</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">Whether it is the end of the
day, the end of the world,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">Or the mystery of mysteries in
me again.” — Anna Akhamatova</span></i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3cGyptX6T67T-lIZIaKYMd7DNj2tgWPzmt9NCQX5pG49YBfinxNHGHkBZeNcJ0vICl0ZEVsXthRvkbxtLjNpEjg5HTzMWa7VW-rmC1NwhF6CikgkdPwvWVCoL2uRng_dj3fJJovnE8py/s1600/IMG_5833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3cGyptX6T67T-lIZIaKYMd7DNj2tgWPzmt9NCQX5pG49YBfinxNHGHkBZeNcJ0vICl0ZEVsXthRvkbxtLjNpEjg5HTzMWa7VW-rmC1NwhF6CikgkdPwvWVCoL2uRng_dj3fJJovnE8py/s320/IMG_5833.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Evening comes to Luna Lodge, near <br />Parque Nacional Corcovado, Oso Peninsula, Costa Rica<br />(photo: Terry Schulz, 2/2/12)</i></td></tr>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"> Sun Setting</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Go now. The day’s done. Let me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> open my body and see what flows out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Remember the ocean’s edge at Corcovado,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> where rainforest collapsed to beach and sea?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Each time the tide pulled away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> hundreds of tiny fish silvered the sand,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> gasping, flailing, the shimmering Pacific
slivered,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> such beautiful desperation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-4936860653310239182013-01-01T19:11:00.000-08:002013-02-12T22:28:28.257-08:00Sanderlings Making Their Own Poem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">“Let yourself be silently drawn
by the strange pull of what you really love.”
— Jalaluddin Rumi<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', serif;">Happy
New Year from the Redwood Coast …. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #660000; font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', serif;">To see Sanderlings Making a Poem click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=nL2jJFNpxv4" target="_blank">here </a></span><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sand Making It's Own Art at Clam Beach - kps</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kayaking Big Lagoon ... calm now, but later swells - kps</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sun warm ... water cold - kps</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Temporary architecture - kps</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Waiting for the Anna's hummingbird <br />to find the late blossoms - kps</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A little sports, a little napping, a good start to the year - kps</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Forget sports ... a nice nap in a quilt - kps</i></td></tr>
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Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-13800277904645922882012-12-31T05:42:00.000-08:002013-01-11T07:18:03.260-08:00New Year's Eve: What I Found in My Notebook<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “And no, we don’t know where it will lead. We
just know there’s something much bigger than any of us here.” — Steve Jobs<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">December 21, 2012 <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmThqFiZJcZaYrslG7jmaUkWT7VrX3KJbA4XF3MvtRDf5Ye3y_vqYZj07aMmz7he7ssQkORLRas5J8-0Nzg-a462yQ9Y0dA6TuAeRCCmcxem4Fp1RF7JudE2eJdL7_GtjRHk_OG2hoKLQV/s1600/tea+cup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmThqFiZJcZaYrslG7jmaUkWT7VrX3KJbA4XF3MvtRDf5Ye3y_vqYZj07aMmz7he7ssQkORLRas5J8-0Nzg-a462yQ9Y0dA6TuAeRCCmcxem4Fp1RF7JudE2eJdL7_GtjRHk_OG2hoKLQV/s200/tea+cup.JPG" width="195" /></a><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13;">H</span>ello, we’re here. Hmmm, who’s we? We’re always at least
two people. One is visible through the lamp-lit window, scribbling, audible,
whispering these words as dust motes fall slowly like lazy shooting stars. The
other one is some relentless tyrant of thought. <i>New era</i>, she reminds. No, just another winter solstice. What? <i>Just</i> a winter solstice? Less than 100 winter solstices in a typical lifetime,
and this one, your 53</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;">rd<span style="font-size: medium;">. </span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Tomorrow there will be 18 seconds more of daylight,
this solstice, this moment, gone. It’s always a new era.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There was cat fur in my tea, and I just swallowed it … so
that is how ritual begins. And for many years, she celebrated the solstice by
drinking a little cat fur with her tea at 5:42 a.m., a certain Ceylon from Fiji
or green jasmine from the sacred source, Amazon (dot com). I am writing in
dust, on a piece of dead tree. The tyrant chides, <i>pay attention</i>. Sometimes when a fleck of dust hits the coiled bulb,
it sparks, a tiny explosion, and you can almost hear out of the florescent
buzz, <i>I was here, look, I was here.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-65612131503120668712012-12-20T00:20:00.001-08:002013-01-05T14:14:48.381-08:00Waiting for the New Era<br />
<h1 style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-weight: normal;"><i>“The end is where we start from.”
— T. S. Eliot</i></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></h1>
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<i><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">If I Could See the End Coming</span></span></i></h1>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcTaVBC3vlOJCvductTEtjIM5IpfjCgpEXn0P6hpigX1K3RMOfUW0cGep6Xh6iSoP9ZRQJXXBYl9RLkbB8Lj2-_Tjb8h7CX2EtCE5CgfZuiWXZ7kqIa2lXrVUNtiQ-PuLzVuHMBfVUZYA/s1600/Mayan-calendar+75%2525.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcTaVBC3vlOJCvductTEtjIM5IpfjCgpEXn0P6hpigX1K3RMOfUW0cGep6Xh6iSoP9ZRQJXXBYl9RLkbB8Lj2-_Tjb8h7CX2EtCE5CgfZuiWXZ7kqIa2lXrVUNtiQ-PuLzVuHMBfVUZYA/s200/Mayan-calendar+75%2525.jpg" width="199" /></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">I</span>
would wait for it. Where?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Beside
the sumacs, under the beech</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> where
the animals I’ve grieved</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> are
a trellis of bones. I’d ask</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> the
Carolina wren to spill out</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> her
song, and as the world condensed,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> hyacinths,
peonies, stargazing lilies</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> would
bloom together, bathing everything</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> in
their thick, sweet scents.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I
wouldn’t expect a sudden white light<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">or
a familiar crowd on the horizon<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">waving
me forward—just trees hiking <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">down
the mountainside, winter creek <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">softening
at the edges, filling with snowmelt, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">tumbling
toward me. My husband, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">a
river-runner, would be holding a trout <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">he
carved from redwood burl, curved grain <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">giving
momentum to fins, his voice <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">only
in my head. <i>“If you’re swept away, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">point your feet
downstream.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Beyond
me, there’d be leaping, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> the
sporadic glimpse of deer, squirrels <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> threading
understory. I’d nod <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> to
a single black bear up on two legs, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> the
last wild man, savoring the air <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> above
his face. I’d watch the low moon <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> step
down from a locust branch, pause <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> at
another, and slip away. All would be, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> or
seem, a slow process, like falling <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> in
and out of love, again and again, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> with the same person for years.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Many thanks to <a href="http://www.northcoastjournal.com/arts/2013/01/03/if-i-could-see-the-end/" target="_blank">The North Coast Journal for publishing this poem in its</a> </i></span><br />
<i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://www.northcoastjournal.com/arts/2013/01/03/if-i-could-see-the-end/" target="_blank">January 3, 2013 Issue</a>. Hurray, we made it into the New Era ... now let's</span></i><br />
<i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">hope </span></i><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">for a global community where enlightened & empathetic actions </span></i><br />
<i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">lead the way.</span></i></div>
Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-6693031867561666362012-11-22T10:55:00.000-08:002012-11-22T10:55:39.752-08:00Another Thanksgiving Day ... Thank You<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1y6-ZwYIcUPkmhLGiZFPH5pxYZs4_XLZFvrt8l45584_FKnrJamk1KHH8BqzVhz13IVhps59ncx1DENRPfadjZJHW1Hc0EeAJdWy9msVl1zR3o_M6VOBA28cXbNTa3MqjC2j2cD1vgpU0/s1600/autumn+leaf+112012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1y6-ZwYIcUPkmhLGiZFPH5pxYZs4_XLZFvrt8l45584_FKnrJamk1KHH8BqzVhz13IVhps59ncx1DENRPfadjZJHW1Hc0EeAJdWy9msVl1zR3o_M6VOBA28cXbNTa3MqjC2j2cD1vgpU0/s320/autumn+leaf+112012.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo: kps, autumn comes to our pond's edge</i></td></tr>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“I
thank you God for this most<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">amazing
day, for the leaping greenly<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">spirits
of trees, and for the blue<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">dream
of sky and for everything </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">which </span></i><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">is
natural, which is infinite, </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">which is </span></i><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">yes.”</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">—e.
e. cummings, poet</span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Thanksgivings</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">—<i>remembering
Rosie<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">For years, it was like this:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">a terrier through the window, barking,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">the steps leading up, weathering grey,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">all of them, arriving, as fog dissolved <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">to a wreath of ravens’ wings in blue
sky,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">and for awhile there’d be 25, maybe 40, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">familiar bodies, crowding, as if another
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">cluster of mums on the deck, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">ruddy faces, round and open, taking in<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">each other’s light, the gates <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">to her little yard, sagging further <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">on their hinges.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-60969259110011886752012-10-29T07:40:00.000-07:002012-10-30T16:47:28.228-07:00Every Child a Caroline & Other Possibilities<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“A baby is God’s opinion that the world should go on.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> —<span style="font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Carl Sandburg, poet<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;">W</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">hen I first meet Caroline it’s as if looking into the moon—a bright pool of light at the end of a long day in a darkened room. Eight hours of meeting chatter and PowerPoint presentations distill into this wordless babble, this round baby face, this orb of luminous mewing and gurgling followed by a squawk. Caroline’s hands are fists, pink-knuckled buds that open toward the approaching form she recognizes as </span><i style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">mother</i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That her mother is named Sarah, that we passed a row-house yard where a single viburnum bush flamed red and orange in late October light, puts me in a biblical miracle kind of mood. I’m a bit wonky from jet lag and lack of sleep and lots of listening and thinking. I’m in Richmond, Virginia, two days into a four-day quarterly gathering of fund-raisers working on behalf of children under the umbrella of <a href="http://www.childfund.org/" target="_blank">ChildFund International</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Wonky, yes, and suddenly anything seems <i>possible</i>. I look around the baby room, one chamber in a stately old home turned daycare center. The room is vintage but full of color, toys awaiting play, the murmuring voices of caregivers tending to their pint-sized clients. There are tall, old windows and small, new faces to look through them. A micro-world nested within a macro-world. The toddler in the corner watches dust motes in a sunbeam, and it seems <i>plausible</i> that she is working out her own theory of relativity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Beauty flickers from the edges of everything, weedy and persistent, this moment a crack in the sidewalk, a pause in the day, which always wants to move you forward to something else. It seems <i>reasonable</i> to expect flowers, purple lupine or orange poppies, to sprout from a toppled toy truck or the stray baby shoe abandoned in the middle of a rug. Okay, maybe we’re not talking world peace by midnight or the abolishment of political ads, but it does seem <i>possible</i> that happiness is the natural order of things, that if you extend your awkward hands into air, you’ll discover how incredible they are, how <i>enough</i> you are. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s approaching 6 p.m., so only a few babies and toddlers remain to be retrieved by parents. There’s an infant cradled in a half-donut-shaped beanbag, safe yet with the illusion of independence—babies like that—and he, or is it she?, is studying the ceiling with grey-blue glossy eyes. Infant eyes always remind me how otherworldly we are in the beginning, aliens landed, dazzled by the ordinary. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One drooly little guy, a tiny drunken sailor, staggers and lurches my way. He grabs my trouser leg for balance, looking up at me, smiling, all wet gums and nubs of new teeth. He tips his head back and lets his mouth fall open, stringy globs of drool landing on my shoe, as he stares way up. He’s heard, perhaps, I’m from redwood country. To him, I’m a redwood full of ravens he’s trying to spot without binoculars. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Caroline examines Sarah’s face, considering her options: <i>Do I give my Mum my dumbfounded, merry, you-are-the-love-of-my-brief-life face, </i><b>or</b><i> do I squeal and scowl at my caregiver dressing my bottom? </i>I realize this is the decision on which the world always hangs: to smile or to snarl? How any of us answer that question is a tipping point—away from or toward—war, divorce, a lousy day or a good one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sarah, my colleague whom I only slightly know, talks coo-y—not baby talk, which babies find annoying, yet not the professional tone she used during our meetings today. She leans her face into the milky perfume of Caroline’s breath, “Hel-lo Car-o-line!” Sarah’s voice is reassuring and vulnerable at the same time, a blend of <i>I-want-everything-for-you</i> <b>and </b><i>I-know-I-can’t-protect-you-from-life</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_Jwhd6IpccPPRYnt7OiB1Y63TTBeF-8TLwISrF0z-bE14HgkzW82Mw8LiXpdMqs3bDlnTJiFcny1Ve__jpgjjXQ6m1X49pppFL0Fqx387Y8dZKjEFXhCZH4q3flzCRMfo066YL6BxqsN/s1600/baby+shoe+with+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_Jwhd6IpccPPRYnt7OiB1Y63TTBeF-8TLwISrF0z-bE14HgkzW82Mw8LiXpdMqs3bDlnTJiFcny1Ve__jpgjjXQ6m1X49pppFL0Fqx387Y8dZKjEFXhCZH4q3flzCRMfo066YL6BxqsN/s200/baby+shoe+with+flowers.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For some reason, I whistle at Caroline. She gapes and grins. She thinks I am a musical genius, another Wynton Marsalis, or one of Lady Gaga’s back-up singers. She’s teething, though, so maybe she’s only estimating whether she can fit some part of me into her mouth, my nose or earlobe, a bit of cheekbone to gnaw.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This feeling keeps washing over me, <i>sublime possibility</i>. Autumn light floats through the windows at a low angle, the room glowing amber, the day not yet done. Then this thought: <i>Caroline is a sample. </i>One of her own hands now stuffed in her jaws, feet kicking with joy to be lifted into her mother’s arms, her moony face finding the singular curve of Sarah’s neck, it hits me:<i> Caroline is how it’s supposed to be for all children</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s an accident that I am here in the baby room with Sarah and Caroline and my sailor buddy still hanging on to me and a few other crawly humans. I missed a ride with another colleague to dinner so Sarah invited me to tag along with her, if I didn’t mind stopping to pick up Miss Caroline. The reward is a free shoe shine—baby drool really brings out the luster of leather—and this unexpected wave of possibility. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s been four months since I returned to <a href="http://www.childfund.org/" target="_blank">ChildFund </a>to work with Sarah and others in building the fund-raising program. It’s about relationships, finding and connecting with people who want to change the lives of children as much as we do. Among our priorities is enabling ChildFund to expand its early childhood development programs that already touch millions of children in 31 countries. The good news is that the humanitarian field and my organization are indeed saving the lives of children and their mothers in some of the poorest, once-ignored places. Now it’s time to move more children beyond surviving to thriving. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtYr1E0IOfy5TVUzuySIMvFhwzuoCHjk2WUBiuFxfjwywAkorsm10jFmxCjePWcpyEWqp7NxunE-sfwTNq6-ETQX9zxbVFNBufAYmvv7BqGCQ5iMl6PsSpixHtdrytMiKt_wPxetPHG7y/s1600/Elvira+%2526+Abuelita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtYr1E0IOfy5TVUzuySIMvFhwzuoCHjk2WUBiuFxfjwywAkorsm10jFmxCjePWcpyEWqp7NxunE-sfwTNq6-ETQX9zxbVFNBufAYmvv7BqGCQ5iMl6PsSpixHtdrytMiKt_wPxetPHG7y/s200/Elvira+%2526+Abuelita.jpg" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>My first sponsored child,</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Elivra, </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>with her</i></span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> abuelita (grandma)</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>in the Bolivian altiplano</i></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I close my eyes for a moment, still wonky but getting my second wind. I recall the photos in my bookcase at home of the children I sponsor in Bolivia, Sierra Leone, and India. They are where I began my effort to somehow make a difference, and I can only imagine the challenges they faced just to survive their first five years. I open my eyes, and there is Caroline aloft in Sarah’s embrace, that moon of a face flush with options she’ll surely explore. If I frame my work the way business writer Stephen Covey suggests—begin with the end in mind—then my goal is: <i>Every child a Caroline</i>.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s time to go. Caroline is simultaneously fingering Sarah’s hair while cocking her head to listen as I fawn over her, tell her how smart she is, ask her if she’s hungry. She replies in her baby Slavic, “Nyaat!” The tiny sailor below, losing his battle with gravity, lets go of my calf and plops down on the floor to sit and hold his foot. I can tell by his serene focus that his foot is utterly fascinating.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the car, I want to curl up on the back seat, lay my cheek near Caroline, and just watch her be <i>happy baby</i>, and take a nap together. But I stick to the script and assume my role as a proper adult in the front passenger seat. As house after house blurs by as we drive, I consider the more than 7 billion people who now inhabit our planet, how lots of them are babies, children, vulnerable young people whose lives are lived mostly in anonymity. It’s easier to feel hopeless than to believe in possibility, but then, easy is overrated.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Out of the blue, I’m homesick for my cats. I decide its completely <i>doable</i> that I’ll teach them to catch Frisbees at Clam Beach when I return, my mid-life body turning to muscle instead of bread dough as I fling the plastic disc over sand, marveling at their feline leaping, the nice hook my boy will put on the return toss. I glance back at Caroline. She’s asleep in her car seat, her head bent to shoulder as if a swan resting beak to wing. <i>Every child a Caroline.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It <i>could</i> happen, right?</span><span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD55ZuLv0jig838Qnz6AnCD85ExMBNqgsztyHft6GEFm6vtRjmdn0NgwCTa1QpNw88wMw67H1qVtov31iW9HaNOVUsNiauMQuPqMwJaR2odqRKPyZ0tLoyTS2wT5UTstdFHXPKEmjnBlU-/s1600/Kitties+in+love+best.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD55ZuLv0jig838Qnz6AnCD85ExMBNqgsztyHft6GEFm6vtRjmdn0NgwCTa1QpNw88wMw67H1qVtov31iW9HaNOVUsNiauMQuPqMwJaR2odqRKPyZ0tLoyTS2wT5UTstdFHXPKEmjnBlU-/s200/Kitties+in+love+best.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
</div>
Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-17844316214615187742012-06-17T08:43:00.000-07:002012-06-17T08:43:00.794-07:00After Walking Clam Beach<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I was like a boy playing on the
sea-shore, and diverting myself now and then finding a smoother pebble or a
prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all
undiscovered before me.” </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> — Isaac Newton<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13;">Beachcombing</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">for
Terry<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">First
a scallop shell for holding<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">in
your pocket, what lived in its <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">mineral
shine, a tongue without words. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You
finger its stories. <i>I oozed. I was a dab<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">of muscle, a heart with a hundred eyes,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">artist, alchemist, pilot of tides. Can you
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">leave this? </span></i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Shoes
filling with sand, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">you
set your feet free. Now salt water, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">amber
foam, part of a pier with rusted nails, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">a surf
scoter washed with kelp, her eye paring <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">sky to
a pale blue point. It’s time for you <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">to
start leaning into the sea. I snap photos,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">digital
images, mix of math and memory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ahead
of me, framed in spray and the jut <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">of
Trinidad Head, you become simply<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">the
shape of a man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpkt04MmRxsyeF67ybQcEJiCcB_ik6NN4Ei4h6CmeY84v4KuL0yysoc2c5dtznrhTFNvKJffXgmI3Q9D0VnVJgCJ6zpLW8eB7M5Ddgh2JHA5F7m84tlZYCLTV9zqYZFPkz5bzlj0rMZXH/s1600/Terry+&+Trinidad+Head.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpkt04MmRxsyeF67ybQcEJiCcB_ik6NN4Ei4h6CmeY84v4KuL0yysoc2c5dtznrhTFNvKJffXgmI3Q9D0VnVJgCJ6zpLW8eB7M5Ddgh2JHA5F7m84tlZYCLTV9zqYZFPkz5bzlj0rMZXH/s400/Terry+&+Trinidad+Head.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #073763;">Terry Schulz at Clam Beach, photo: kps</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-30121745439582343582012-05-27T21:11:00.000-07:002012-06-09T10:02:58.582-07:00Another Memorial Day Weekend<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Your
absence has gone through me <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Like thread through a needle<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Everything I do is stitched with its
color.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;"><i> </i>—<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">W. S.
Merwin</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;">Sundog</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;">T</span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">he Sanderlings are gone, north, with the marbled godwits
whose feathers always make me think <i>bark,
grain, wood on the wing</i>. I miss the Sanderlings, their wheeling feet, their
foam-dodging and sand-pricking, their constant hunger. We’re halfway through a
Memorial Day weekend, Sunday, and the sun is on its way home from morning
worship, somber clouds giving way to that ringing blue. I smile, <i>to miss, is to remember</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiearc5auKwkxjQBdMak-DHtYZKjoEwC1PzLkW_KInWkHh6U9I7Q18lqqFCPQXs0wLSNImOmdWzuf8rid0S4-WLq0JcijyJYKu5LTTCYGGiDg3u9qfGWDi4CHSbCDdE6URUwRWdlAdBhC-e/s1600/029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiearc5auKwkxjQBdMak-DHtYZKjoEwC1PzLkW_KInWkHh6U9I7Q18lqqFCPQXs0wLSNImOmdWzuf8rid0S4-WLq0JcijyJYKu5LTTCYGGiDg3u9qfGWDi4CHSbCDdE6URUwRWdlAdBhC-e/s320/029.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Clam Beach, photo: KPS</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Walking with my husband, we’re beyond the teenagers tossing
Frisbees to dogs and the women on horses now lost in the spray of distance. We have
the shore all to ourselves. We’re surrounded by <i>open</i> and <i>far</i>, the horizon
stretching west into some stranger’s sleep. <i>Ni
hao ma?</i>, I whisper, my little bit of Mandarin, <i>how are you today? </i>We thrive
in<i> </i>our temporary solitude, my husband
down by the water, and I, barefoot in the wrack. <i>Vast</i> is easy to be in, if someone you love is nearby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We arrived at slack tide, and now the surf is slipping
closer. The beach is a wet mirror. The Pacific curls soft and slow, a tongue
sliding cool over a lip, again and again. Some days the world watches itself,
pleased, and this is one of those days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My gait is clumsy, feet unsteadied by sand and piles of
driftwood. A halo of dirt arcs each toenail, a dark crescent beneath the pale
keratin, <i>ah,</i> <i>a reverse eclipse</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtT-yFkZmsmZSMAe0fuPOuI1pbgLRKCcrKW-ZgqeShFQEhLS3sXEDrszPDcPESmb1AtMcaVNIXCRlSq-WZXgTtR-NP7ee3UmMcIIEYq6Tc3_9E1erIbZHth9qp9b4y_pQRgiypj60UvEE7/s1600/eclipse+through+pin-hole+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtT-yFkZmsmZSMAe0fuPOuI1pbgLRKCcrKW-ZgqeShFQEhLS3sXEDrszPDcPESmb1AtMcaVNIXCRlSq-WZXgTtR-NP7ee3UmMcIIEYq6Tc3_9E1erIbZHth9qp9b4y_pQRgiypj60UvEE7/s200/eclipse+through+pin-hole+cropped.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Annular eclipse <br />via pin-hole on cardboard</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My mind flashes back to last Sunday. I stood on
my deck around dinnertime with a sheet of white paper bearing a single,
pencil-sized hole in the center, focusing the crude image of a near-full
eclipse onto the back of a cardboard, cat-food box. A fledgling physicist, I
was trying to glimpse an annular eclipse. Through the doorway, I asked my
tiger-tailed cat, <i>is this how Einstein
started?</i> He rumbled and rubbed the screen. The faint scent of tuna spiced the
air, my clothing static, alive, with cat hair. A Stellar’s jay landed on the
box, squawking, before veering away, realizing <i>cat!</i> As the day lost its luster, and despite encroaching fog, for a
few moments there it was: the black plate, the toenail of light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Kicking away a knot of dried eel grass, I glance down at my
feet, count the ten ridged nails. If I were another animal, they’d be hooves or
claws. Then I lift my binoculars to scan for Sanderlings. <i>The spring has sprung and the grass riz, oh lost Bronx poet, I wonder
where them birdies is.</i> <i>Long gone</i>.
After months of scuttling this stretch of beach on their toes, a blur, now
they’ve flown to the Arctic, to some avian memory of romance on the tundra. How
like the moon they are, feathers of white light, migrating around the globe,
then the darkening plumage, breeding, their own new phase. At the right angle,
one wing could blot out the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWmLhrt9v_Mh-kHuyjgbvK5RdI1pVkt19xjCTw_faI7Ug2sh0FUQr9Lu2Osx446OOgTmkF2bR9Mva3K8krsNpGIB0MLGf5phoG0epYFU_-B4iQ_ZIDfUTS91g1MzIZRFQcXamEOmuTT3ET/s1600/COMU+wings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWmLhrt9v_Mh-kHuyjgbvK5RdI1pVkt19xjCTw_faI7Ug2sh0FUQr9Lu2Osx446OOgTmkF2bR9Mva3K8krsNpGIB0MLGf5phoG0epYFU_-B4iQ_ZIDfUTS91g1MzIZRFQcXamEOmuTT3ET/s320/COMU+wings.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Common murre wings, photo: kps</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My husband whistles, pointing at the ground. When I reach
him, it is a pair of wings still holding to a breastbone—what’s left of a Common
murre. He lifts the wings into the air, spreads them, and for a moment, I see
the murre floating in the surf, then diving, those wings flying through liquid
blue, pumping the bird 150 feet deep after fish. <i>The bird was on the wing, the wing was on the bird, now absurd, only
wings and no bird. </i>We nestle the wings back in the sand, measure them, tag
them, write about them on a data sheet for a seabird research project (<a href="http://depts.washington.edu/coasst/" target="_blank">COASST</a>) that we
are a part of. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What are wings without a bird? What is a silver box of ash,
shards of bone, without a voice—that box at home on my dresser? Sensory input
to stimulate our synapses. <i>This was a
murre, that my mother-in-law</i>. Moments pass, a lifetime, in increments of
memory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We head for the mouth of the Mad River, which has been
eating its way North again, when I notice a patch of color shimmering in wet
sand, reflecting <i>what?</i> I look up,
find among random clouds something I’ve never seen. One ledge of sky is layered
in a full spectrum of colors then brushed, smudged. Red, orange, yellow, green,
turquoise, blue, purple. Not a rainbow, not an aurora borealis. <i>What?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxlMowLEkT_uo1Ke_HmXIcSmY6djKmDU2qtlCVHkuhHQ-WH6NO8T1bY0jqdRFnfuVsIGBkrJ6i7-YmIGMxaoyVLxwUThYVuhTEgHQWFrftP_fLGeXmMdVVbEI42MO8tYTUkYJQZZ2v76Oz/s1600/Sundog+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxlMowLEkT_uo1Ke_HmXIcSmY6djKmDU2qtlCVHkuhHQ-WH6NO8T1bY0jqdRFnfuVsIGBkrJ6i7-YmIGMxaoyVLxwUThYVuhTEgHQWFrftP_fLGeXmMdVVbEI42MO8tYTUkYJQZZ2v76Oz/s320/Sundog+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo: Terry Schulz</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Have you ever walked completely in wonder, eyes up, feet
navigating brainlessly? I have to keep looking; surely this elegant mirage will
suddenly drain away. The colors float, clouds slink by, and still the lovely
abstraction above me. Mouth no doubt hanging open, I sit on the temporary bank
of the Mad, and let all that light in. </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My
cones, those color-seekers, must be ecstatic.</i></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuWUmMwIP-VLqVjlfGDB7uFFkbZ_aSxCHFH06_NAwrNEkATID7Kv15LjZ8bLW7U0zU6vLMcT8GB4H_if5dXtQAYuWr9deFwy2sn-hi8AVYWlCrQx-GKz6ZCUt5_NXX_IpNxVlPaFJjMbsj/s1600/Sundog+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuWUmMwIP-VLqVjlfGDB7uFFkbZ_aSxCHFH06_NAwrNEkATID7Kv15LjZ8bLW7U0zU6vLMcT8GB4H_if5dXtQAYuWr9deFwy2sn-hi8AVYWlCrQx-GKz6ZCUt5_NXX_IpNxVlPaFJjMbsj/s320/Sundog+7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo: Terry Schulz</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Let’s head back,” my husband says. We splash along in the
tide, glancing down for dazzling stones to pilfer, then up until the colors
finally fade, just the sea’s usual ceiling of cirrostratus and an incoming clot
of fog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Ahead of us are our friends, Gary and Lauren and their shiny,
black dog, Enzo. They volunteer with the same seabird research program, and
today Enzo is practicing his skill at finding dead birds. He trots along in a
zig-zag—nose, eyes, ears all competing for his attention—until scent, a
protrusion of feathers and bone in a hump of sand, send him in a new direction.
When he finds the bird, he settles down beside it, and waits for Lauren with
her pocket of treats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> “A sundog,” Gary
offers, “at least that’s what I call it.”
I look down at Enzo, who perpetually smiles, a drape of tongue dangling
to one side. <i>Enzo you are a sundog
indeed. </i>But it’s not Enzo that Gary means; it’s that wing of color that had
spread over us. A quick Google on my iPhone, which I rarely do on the beach,
and I read ‘sundog’ and its scientific equivalent, ‘parhelion,’ Greek for
‘beside the sun.’ The colors are the magic of ice, clouds, and photons all at a
certain angle to the earth, appearing beside the sun. The color patch is a
companion at the sun’s side, a sundog. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OvYF0wFtfVgerLiWoaim1OviBtL67qXSi-uuMrhNTa2iZDUuM4nsWnO3nNUPmqhIey3McEOrsA8WmrPhQncOX9toG7xQ8RPu8CWCJyksSbngKSXCKzxlZM7ahR_wZjCZ_zU6GekANXoc/s1600/Beach+sunglow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OvYF0wFtfVgerLiWoaim1OviBtL67qXSi-uuMrhNTa2iZDUuM4nsWnO3nNUPmqhIey3McEOrsA8WmrPhQncOX9toG7xQ8RPu8CWCJyksSbngKSXCKzxlZM7ahR_wZjCZ_zU6GekANXoc/s320/Beach+sunglow.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Clam Beach sunglow on sand, photo: kps</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Enzo finds another bird, a murre again—wings, a foot, a
head that has to be untwisted from inside its neck so we can stretch the
caliper atop its bill. We examine it, photograph it, record it. My husband and
Gary chat and walk. I tag along with Lauren, talking and tossing balls for
Enzo. I keep peeking up for that sundog, still vivid in my mind, <i>where did you go?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-12111461326041232152012-03-18T19:11:00.003-07:002012-03-19T17:51:50.705-07:00The Road to Carate<i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“If we spoke a different language, we would perceive a somewhat different world.” </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> – Ludwig Wittgenstein, Austrian-British Philosopher</span></i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcwOiX0fR3Nr1xPpjsPwU8lnJI0z0z2k6FYIleSyhvs6vfe1T5bc92M0fPyhkpNU2U1urnHqjF-_lLTeY3yJ-OTE9-ujI5Nmtom4qpjbmPb-RgHKNi2JDT1_mD4Pf0h-cmU7-9w723-7Ht/s1600/Scarlet+Macaw+cropped.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcwOiX0fR3Nr1xPpjsPwU8lnJI0z0z2k6FYIleSyhvs6vfe1T5bc92M0fPyhkpNU2U1urnHqjF-_lLTeY3yJ-OTE9-ujI5Nmtom4qpjbmPb-RgHKNi2JDT1_mD4Pf0h-cmU7-9w723-7Ht/s200/Scarlet+Macaw+cropped.JPG" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Scarlet Macaw<br />
Photo: </i> <i style="text-indent: 57px;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px; text-indent: 0.5in;">© </span></i><i>Terry Schulz</i><i><br />
</i></td></tr>
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<tr> <td align="left" style="padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 31.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 2; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; page-break-after: avoid; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 39pt;">I<o:p></o:p></span></div></td> </tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">t is two hours during dry season from Puerto Jimenez around the tip of Costa Rica’s Oso Peninsula to the village of Carate. There the road ends into a green wall, leaves and fronds pouring down a hidden steepness. Above, pairs of Scarlet Macaws are the only traffic. To the left, just past a short, narrow airstrip, the Pacific is truly pacific, a blue plate offering chips of light. To the right, a wild, stony incline leads to <a href="http://www.lunalodge.com/" target="_blank">Luna Lodge</a> and our thatched hut deep in rainforest.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lunalodge.com/images/lunamap.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.lunalodge.com/images/lunamap.gif" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> But first, you must traverse this 43-kilometer road. The road is a chain of rocks and craters and free-flowing streams. Olman, our driver, knows it intimately. “Tres veces,” he says, holding up three fingers, his eyes talking to us in the rear-view mirror—many days he makes three round-trips, “a veces cuatro,” sometimes four. I imagine navigating this road in its utterly rural darkness, hoping for a near-full moon to cast shadows behind the outrcrops or let the holes be black enough to avoid, jolting through a maze of moonlight back to a sleeping family. As if reading my mind, Olman adds, “it’s okay,” followed by more Spanish, which I understand to mean, the night drives are a good time to look for pumas and pauraques (nightjars, road-loving birds). <i>Yes</i>, I think, <i>but the long hours then the waking up to do it all again.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> I remember why I’m here. It’s more than wanderlust. Tell me, every night don’t you hope, consciously or not, for another morning, only to find yourself by mid-day staring at dust on the windowsill? <i>All again, all again.</i> When you are a child, every day a new word swells in your mouth, ripening into an idea, a concept, a lens that sharpens some corner of awareness. By mid-life, there are long quiet days, a hollow behind your teeth, the eyes wander past computer and papers, looking for <i>new</i>, but the mouth fills only with <i>dust, </i>and you refuse to say it. You need a new lens. That’s when you must go, somewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Sharing our ride is a young, Chilean researcher involved in developing a fair trade cooperative for farmers and artisans in Central American. His clothes give him away as a non-native, with his button-up, collared shirt and brand-name hiking boots. “I was in your country once,” he tells my husband, “Nuevo Yersey.” I hate the thought that his entire impression of the United States is based on New Jersey. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My mind flashes back to the several winter months I spent as a kid living in a trailer in Moonachie, New Jersey. The trailer park was an ice pit edged in frost-stiff candy wrappers and bits of trash, and once a frozen muskrat. I spent hours alone at a nearby marsh, watching water and bubbles of air lurching arrhythmically under inches of ice, hoping to see a live muskrat pop out of her earthen bunker. I sensed a she, and whispered to her through the glassy slab. <i>Come out, let me see you, it’s okay, are you cold, do you have babies, it’s okay, let me see you.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I try to explain the frozen muskrat to our Chilean friend, but my Spanish is poor and muddled. He listens, nodding, “I only know the summertime in Yersey.” He talks fast, hands and face animated in his 20-something ebullience, Spanish and English swirling together. He believes he can help “the struggling people” with all the time he still has ahead of him. I manage to pick out <font-family: 115%;"="" 12pt;="" font-size:="" garamond,="" line-height:="" serif;="">artesanías</font-family:></span>, café, piscicultura<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—handicrafts, coffee, fish farming—and concepts such as getting products to the right markets, poor people don’t understand their worth, and obtaining a fair price, but I don’t fully understand what he’s telling me. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSw9W5ZCap9sPG1WtV95ix8N8QNlztenrBJmUD3SJKnK4mpWmZquCu84LtsSyOyE9n_BnrTHxk62psKR87u-yyC8Jmhh0_7NsVFbfriFU-DkN0FHzLWJ1qEl5Hdj6pGFcBWr2xbhEG8xb/s1600/Handpainted+tiles+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSw9W5ZCap9sPG1WtV95ix8N8QNlztenrBJmUD3SJKnK4mpWmZquCu84LtsSyOyE9n_BnrTHxk62psKR87u-yyC8Jmhh0_7NsVFbfriFU-DkN0FHzLWJ1qEl5Hdj6pGFcBWr2xbhEG8xb/s400/Handpainted+tiles+cropped.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hand-painted tiles by Mariela Zeled</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>ó</i></span><i>n</i> <span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</span><i> (her grandfather wrote the words for Costa Rica's National Anthem)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">We end up talking about dialects, the sounds of language. He tells us that he has a hard time understanding Olman’s Spanish. “You notice people here drop their s’s.” Actually, I had noticed. “Guatemala people talk the most slow,” he points out, “like the people of your American south, yes? They speak slow, yes? Chileans, we speak the most fast, like the people of your Nuevo Yersey.” We laugh.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then he explains that not all words can be translated because not all cultures have the same ideas. “That is why to travel is good. Your eyes see new things. Your mind gets bigger, yes?” I was about his age when I discovered <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ludwig_Wittgenstein" target="_blank">Ludwig Wittgenstein</a>’s book, <i>Philosophical Investigations</i>, on language and meaning. “If a lion could talk, we could not understand him,” I offer, “it’s from an Austrian philosopher.” “Yes, yes, it’s correct,” he beams, “I love this saying.” He repeats the quote to Olman in Spanish. Olman grins politely to us in the mirror, then brakes as he blurts, “Cara Blancas!” followed by “Monos!”</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAoa4yDbr7R-CWCKqDUR6xVEyHIQSXUwUDBH4SR85q9L-zeDfi2Cq-y-0mkE06zOw41CDvJ744ezo0ak70WvJE2fJYFZWY9iy7hT1bZiFgAWs0JInTcXal7ExqUv8P1gzdTCmOZSDCxL_X/s1600/White-faced+monkey+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAoa4yDbr7R-CWCKqDUR6xVEyHIQSXUwUDBH4SR85q9L-zeDfi2Cq-y-0mkE06zOw41CDvJ744ezo0ak70WvJE2fJYFZWY9iy7hT1bZiFgAWs0JInTcXal7ExqUv8P1gzdTCmOZSDCxL_X/s320/White-faced+monkey+cropped.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>White-faced, or Capuchin, Monkey aka Cara Blanca<br />
Photo: </i> <i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px; text-indent: 0.5in;">© </span></i><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Terry Schulz</i><i><br />
</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">We roll our windows all the way down surprised to find not only a family of White-faced (Capuchin) monkeys, but the loud thrumming of the rainforest itself. For long minutes, we watch the Caras Blancas watching us, as they meticulously separate hairs, picking insects and other edibles from each other’s backs and bellies. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglT5SDVDKoWpCle9sfVv5aM7YwTCge3a_2XHcQX6Zkr54oYtqvNRDTiwqxSsM69DE0qbY5zrOqkXmGXsqU5Ws6XJQE6v83ZEJn8yYX5zwaKXebz4q0vHQy07SdNxZoiNws_U8o3m9AwXwa/s1600/White-faced+monkey+swinging+flipped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglT5SDVDKoWpCle9sfVv5aM7YwTCge3a_2XHcQX6Zkr54oYtqvNRDTiwqxSsM69DE0qbY5zrOqkXmGXsqU5Ws6XJQE6v83ZEJn8yYX5zwaKXebz4q0vHQy07SdNxZoiNws_U8o3m9AwXwa/s200/White-faced+monkey+swinging+flipped.jpg" width="188" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo: </i> <i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px; text-indent: 0.5in;">© </span></i><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Terry Schulz</i><i><br />
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</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Two young males approach each other on a wide tree limb. One opens his mouth while the other looks inside, then they both stick out their tongues, shake their pink and white faces, their black tails twined around a smaller branch for balance as they tip sideways and drop, suddenly upside down, pendulous, tongues still wagging. We spot a single spider monkey, bigger, with rufous fur and darker face, at the edge of the group. He prefers to hang sideways, stretched like a soft hammock full of dappled sun, swaying.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Blue Costa Rican Cicada photo: <span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">© Melissa Levan, "Mel"</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><i><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/melissalevan/3051675878/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/melissalevan/3051675878/</a> </i></td></tr>
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</span></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But it is the sound of thousands, perhaps millions, of <a href="http://www.cicadamania.com/" target="_blank">cicadas </a>cloaked in the lushness of leaves that captures me. We step out of Olman’s jeep-like ‘taxi,’ my husband clicking ‘mono’ photos, me listening with my whole body. Within, a rattling, ribs vibrating. I remember: <i>males sing, females answer with their wings</i>. </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">The sound is physical, palpable as the humid air with its wet mouth, its damp longing. Then a realization: </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">All my life I’ve understood myself as something solid, animal-vegetable-mineral, soft-stone-that-breathes. Wrong</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">. In this sound I become porous, another opening in the leaves, a gap filled with light, a portal through which the buzzing, humming, thunder of insect song pours.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s okay?” Olman asks. I don’t want to answer with words. I nod. We both smile, which requires no translation. Turning, we all climb back into our seats. We’re quiet, bumping along, chugging slowly through streams, warm wet air lurching through the windows into our faces.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvCCl-rh8MgjxBZ_hW5qaTv8PARepEx7r96kiMuvzpTF2cNMkGmHm7hyiDgXjTQ-6PaHS0JpsfCqJXyOJhjW5m7EoZzcBhtqvXPda3ifYrWsunykuA8WCiTG4UXibBOJz7I_lGCdbLng3/s1600/gold+seekers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvCCl-rh8MgjxBZ_hW5qaTv8PARepEx7r96kiMuvzpTF2cNMkGmHm7hyiDgXjTQ-6PaHS0JpsfCqJXyOJhjW5m7EoZzcBhtqvXPda3ifYrWsunykuA8WCiTG4UXibBOJz7I_lGCdbLng3/s320/gold+seekers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Gold seekers of the Oso Peninsula<br />
Photo: </i> <i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px; text-indent: 0.5in;">© </span></i><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Terry Schulz</i><i><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We begin to see an occasional tarp, stray cots with rumpled blankets, corrugated metal lean-tos, buckets, and crooked stools made of raw sticks. Our Chilean friend tells us that the region is home to many “gold seekers” who pan the streams. “No machines, only by hand is allowed. Most gold is gone, but when a guy gets enough in his palm, he goes to Puerto Jimenez for a good time, food, drink, maybe a girlfriend, until he is broke again, then he comes back here.” Just then we pass two men in rubber boots and soiled tee-shirts, bent over the edge of a stream. One of them stands up, stretches his back, and waves. Two dogs appear out of the forest, a shiny black lab and a matted mottled terrier, trotting around the panner, nosing his hands until he leans down to let them lick his cheeks. Olman catches our eyes in the mirror, “Its, okay. Son buena gente aquí,” they are good people here. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Just before Carate, an exchange in Spanish up front, and Olman stops. Our Chilean friend steps out of the car. “This is me. Tonight I will sleep under stars with some gold seekers.” We watch him disappear into an opening in banana leaves with his backpack and some mangoes. <i>Gone, absorbed into the rainforest.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Let me tell you about this road: it takes your body, away. Your hips rock with each dip and roll of the wheels—your waist, a spring—while your shoulders level like water, a surface your face floats above. The air smells of hot horses and bony-hipped cows (though you left them miles ago), mixed with sea thermals, the incense of strange trees simmering under a high sun, sweaty human skin pulsing on gusts of air. A few other four-wheel-drives wobble and scrape by, dust puffing into your eyes, nose, mouth, tangled hair. You can’t help drinking it all in, tasting the local dirt. <i>It’s okay, yes, okay</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUO_IBnX393OOEr9Ys5XTSYo4VWQFKCMn0n5KZNnOH_KUw_8PIzSJTEGitxdA6XAFV4daQKHeKIygsWFFFcFxe9N05hx1Jbj_eN-kQzm20dIkdSgKkeNj0E1wcjafOoasrUC-cuFbpCLEW/s1600/Butterfly+on+blossom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUO_IBnX393OOEr9Ys5XTSYo4VWQFKCMn0n5KZNnOH_KUw_8PIzSJTEGitxdA6XAFV4daQKHeKIygsWFFFcFxe9N05hx1Jbj_eN-kQzm20dIkdSgKkeNj0E1wcjafOoasrUC-cuFbpCLEW/s320/Butterfly+on+blossom.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo: </i> <i style="text-indent: 57px;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px; text-indent: 0.5in;">© </span></i><i>Terry Schulz</i><i><br />
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</tbody></table>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-55955519759498143322012-02-02T02:02:00.000-08:002012-02-02T02:02:00.940-08:00Back Around<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">Happiness is the longing for repetition.</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">” — </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"> Milan Kundera </i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;">Birthday Again<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Rain’s back, redwood stumps sliding<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">further into duff.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Always this flow of getting older, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">shirt clinging to skin, skin clinging as much <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">to the surface of wet air as chilled muscle.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">All morning the rain vacillates<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">between downpour and a slow tapping.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Afternoon arrives, and the sun<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">is a bright bruising in the swell of clouds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At dusk, limbs on a slope: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">bare alders, bald cascaras, my arms <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">pulling in blueness, some starshine.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Outside, fallen water cutting ruts<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">awash in darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-8169027138910447842012-01-22T14:39:00.000-08:002012-01-22T14:39:27.594-08:00A Story About Poems<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">If I speak for the dead . . . I must write the same poem over and over . . . .</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">” </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">— <i>Illya Kaminsky, poet</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;"><b>A Possibly True Story</b></span></i></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMCY90CWmE5KZtHEto6oRbYgB1hRrGLbrIB5OISuclQc1mA0w1W8DwEIB6sRz7piFTZ7nsDwq4zK8F-O75rCutNfo0Suan4ZuYv9Po0XlQtqKNUVfTTwBrDULp_4KV-UfRYXX0CgZ5Fjl/s1600/Muir+in+Trinidad+cropped+12012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMCY90CWmE5KZtHEto6oRbYgB1hRrGLbrIB5OISuclQc1mA0w1W8DwEIB6sRz7piFTZ7nsDwq4zK8F-O75rCutNfo0Suan4ZuYv9Po0XlQtqKNUVfTTwBrDULp_4KV-UfRYXX0CgZ5Fjl/s320/Muir+in+Trinidad+cropped+12012.jpg" width="168" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Possibly one of the cats . . .</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 2in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;"><b>O</b></span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">nce there was a woman speaking poems, whispering really, as she wrote them, only her cats in that bookish room. Two cats. They licked in her words, licked in her solitary voice, licked in the rhythmic rise and fall and pausing, licked in subtle quivers in her breathing, as they licked in soft slivers of their own fur. Soon each cat became a poem. They were good poems, quiet and clean, their meaning a pulse, a muffled rumbling at her touch, as if buried in such dazzling pelts, some animal motor churned, perpetually out of reach. For long moments, the woman held the cats, stroked them, sometimes their claws kneading into her belly, wounding and comforting. She loved the mystery of them, the drift and sway of their tails, sensuous, through air, or gone limp, curled into question marks asleep in her lap. No matter how many poems she spoke, whispered usually, there were only those two cats in the room, </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">love</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> she thought and </span><i style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">death,</i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> oh they were beautiful, wild things, leaping about, oblivious to names.</span></div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-42938479784331702492012-01-05T06:37:00.000-08:002012-01-22T13:36:47.517-08:002012: Humming Along<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Poetry and Hums aren’t things which you get, they’re things which get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you.” — Winnie the Pooh</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;">January Morning, Her Quilt</span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She sleeps<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">in a row of stitches,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">a prick of blood<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">dried to stain.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I wake<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">in this flash of magenta throats,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">hummingbirds sipping <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">at the window.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Frost webs the feeder.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She is the quilt, I am <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">the body warmed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We were one mind once, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">not dust, more a soft oozing,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">she and I, you too. Sometimes<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">the earth is so hot and liquid<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">it comes alive. Don’t call it <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">a beginning, call it muddy palm, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">little zephyr, invisible pulse <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">of light, call it nothing <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">but more than nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Who knew there’d be wings, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">tongues, shimmering skins, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">fingers swimming cotton <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">with a needle? No, don’t call it <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">anything. She is before words, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">under poems, she is this mouth <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">happy to be a cave of echoes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Think <i>humming</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Who knew the song <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">in her throat is the same, listen, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">as this cord of feathers <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">blurred in flight? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember <i>aw</i>, then <i>damn it</i>, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">the tiny puncture, her blood <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">wicked loose, spreading open <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">as a rose into the fabric. It wasn’t <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">the pain that made her mad, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">it was the ruin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-88878539942237497912011-12-31T12:00:00.000-08:002011-12-31T12:38:10.782-08:00New Year's Eve — Looking Back<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">“There are a hundred paths through the world that are easier than loving. But, who wants easier?” </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> – Mary Oliver, poet<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt;">December<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Cold, but no snow—frost collapsing <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">the last brown stalks of goldenrod<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">and cosmos into the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Some mammal has come scratching<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">at crusted leaves, marbles of black dirt<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">scattered in a clearing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">We let our faith dwell in small successes—<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">wood splitting cleanly, potatoes heaped in the cellar, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">day breaking once more out of the mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">The first tree sparrow arrives in alders<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">near the river, then comes the snow<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">like feathers loosed from a white wing.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span></div><i><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Looking back over the last 10 years . . . . and here, this the poem written at year-end 2001 while living in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. I remember that day, those stalks of frosted goldenrod, the marbles of black dirt because the ground was mostly frozen and the earth wouldn’t give way to that secretive, nighttime scavenger.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #274e13;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: #274e13;">This I believe: To see whatever is before us, around us, is to love this world</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">–</span></i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: #274e13;">its strange and lonesome beauty</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">–</span></i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: #274e13;">to care about a sparse, nameless moment that would otherwise be lost except for that conscious looking.</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-81619684751248271272011-11-23T15:44:00.000-08:002011-11-23T16:01:23.846-08:00A Thanksgiving Story<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">“We are a way for the cosmos to know itself . . . we are star stuff harvesting star light . . . Our loyalties are to the species and to the planet. We speak for earth. Our obligation is to survive . . . .”</span></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p></o:p></i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> — Carl Sagan, astrophysicist</span></i></div><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;">One in Billions</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;">A</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">muffled sighing or singing caught my attention. A whispering. It was in the pauses, when my husband Terry stopped speaking, staving off a sob with a deep swallow. There, a high-pitched chattering.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Rubbing a tear into his grey beard, Terry grappled with scraps of paper, the draft eulogy for his mother Rose. I knew what he was thinking: <i>Why this much emotion, this depth of loss?</i> <i>It was time, she was ready, we saw it coming, she was 94</i> . . . and a half, she would have added (bits of time matter when you’re very young or very old). I stroked the hair at his temple, hugged his arm. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He begin reading the eulogy again, practicing, until a swell of grief forced another pause. There, again, the high-pitched chattering. Our big male cat inched his way into the kitchen, crouching to stare at a baseboard.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Even in the midst of grief, neither of us could ignore the curious call of something living in our kitchen. On hands and knees, we crawled along the baseboard, listening. Naturally, silence. We watched cat ears navigate like separate satellite dishes, honing in on any sound. Then, above the range of my husband’s hearing, but audible to mine, a squeaking. Striped tail whipping, the cat pawed at a low drawer, and Terry pulled it out, sitting it on the floor. While the cat rattled through the serving dishes and pie tins looking for a good chase, we peered into the cabinet to find a deer mouse, surprised against the back wall, her soft white belly almost luminous, the liquid specks of her eyes shining out of the darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyGT11tOyDDjvFRNXqU65aXAB8Pr4S3FDg28sJhZaunkzadsL8Qrtuz8TlBrhl0LeX4_c1IC6ALIJNBTfmPx9jIdyE4szGjlwGClMyJecLPKNiJ5fA-IPDTr_iDEzXAdD091DLnFuwivmo/s1600/deermouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyGT11tOyDDjvFRNXqU65aXAB8Pr4S3FDg28sJhZaunkzadsL8Qrtuz8TlBrhl0LeX4_c1IC6ALIJNBTfmPx9jIdyE4szGjlwGClMyJecLPKNiJ5fA-IPDTr_iDEzXAdD091DLnFuwivmo/s320/deermouse.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Terry coaxed her into a handkerchief, <i>hello peromyscus</i>, admiring the length of her tail. He saw the crease of worry across my brow, and nodded, heading for the door, that tail dangling from his cupped hands. Into the brisk air, he released her to the dense shelter of salal below a redwood out back. After cleaning the drawer, its contents, the cabinet, we returned to the eulogy, the scent of bleach lingering in each breath. Terry began again, his voice deep and comforting, an occasional tremble when it was time to say, <i>my mother</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On the counter, above the mouse drawer, a headline on the cover of <i>The Economist</i> announced, “Now we are seven billion.” <i>Seven billion minus one</i>, it occurred to me. The year Rose was born human beings numbered less than two billion, and in the years immediately following her arrival on earth, about 3% of the human population was killed by the first H1N1 (swine) flu pandemic. But human beings don’t give up easily. “Now we are seven billion” and growing. Now, against such a massive collection of people, each death, it seems, is that much less noticeable, more inconsequential. “We float like a moat of dust in the morning sky,” scientist Carl Sagan said before he dissolved into his cosmos. Sadly, it’s true, our smallness—there are so many people we’ll never even know exist. Who <i>are</i> they? Happily, it’s also true: we’re large in at least a few lives. One in 7 billion matters. Yesterday I felt that fact, picking up the phone, out of habit, then setting it down quietly to stare out of a window.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Terry reached nearly the end of his tribute before he had to pause, swallow, glance up from his handwriting. Then, surprise, that high-pitched chattering again. The cat sat in front of the drawer, green eyes pleading up at us, and moaned.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Out came the drawer, but no one there. Then I noticed a faint trail of iridescence inside the cabinet—a residue, perhaps the subtle oils of the mouse’s fur—leading to the upper drawer. We slowly opened it, stuffed with summer table cloths, embroidered napkins, velour tea towels, other gifts we rarely use, and a suddenly more urgent squealing that sent the cat leaping, tongue rattling, onto my husband’s back, ready to lunge. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Terry pulled back the tea towels, and a basket of grey fur came to life, whiskered noses probing into the fresh air, black-pearl eyes catching their first glimpses of human faces. Miss mouse was a mother. We both felt a surge of joy, strange and welcomed, that sent us laughing and crying, and hugging the cat close out of gratitude . . . and to keep him from pouncing on the moving mass of fully fledged mice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDDSFxKTOTHY6uTBZPRBjDxzloaf4ARsa9cVvXyTFGr0D6sqNw-L3aPOtNlMEBQ7Z3bfP6IERGh8ej_rS4W-uZ3QrWK0qYoRfaRh5dvR8kbiyAeLaFfdEnhMQYyV0WuWpx-bFjxMhyyUhb/s1600/deermouse+baby.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/AVvXsEgDDSFxKTOTHY6uTBZPRBjDxzloaf4ARsa9cVvXyTFGr0D6sqNw-L3aPOtNlMEBQ7Z3bfP6IERGh8ej_rS4W-uZ3QrWK0qYoRfaRh5dvR8kbiyAeLaFfdEnhMQYyV0WuWpx-bFjxMhyyUhb/s320/deermouse+baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Each mouse was perhaps a half ounce or less. We both thought: <i>they want their mother</i>. Then wondered if we were being anthropomorphic. “Well at least they have each other,” I whispered as my husband, an only child, counted the siblings. I once read that there are 36 rats for each person in new York City. <i>Does that ratio apply to deer mice and non-New Yorkers?</i> I multiplied 36 times 7 billion. We were admiring 7 of the 252 billion possible deer mice nesting around the globe. If human beings are anonymous, deer mice live in oblivion.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Namaste,” I said seven times, looking into each nearly identical simmering face, trying hard to see them as individuals. “Well, some hungry screech owl is going to get lucky tonight,” Terry quipped to the cat, now squirming in his arms. Grief at bay, Terry shifted into to his owl biologist self. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I frowned and offered a box. Terry herded the mice in, and I held the box while he searched for possible escapees. I listened to 28 delicately clawed feet in confused motion, scrambling and scratching the cardboard. The room filled with their downy will to make sense of their suddenly changed circumstances.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Through the window, I watched Terry step into the night with his box of brand-new mice. Only a few stars were strong enough to pulse against the glare of a gibbous moon. Salal leaves shimmered, already dewy, when he bent and tilted the box into the understory. The seven soft forms slipped into the shadows, quick as an exhalation. Terry spoke something, rose and looked into the sky for the next several minutes, then turned back to the house.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Were you talking to the mice?” I asked. Terry smiled, “I just said ‘you’re on your own, guys’.” We remained at the window, watching below the redwood for movement, but there was only a light breeze low to the ground stirring leaves. “So what were you looking at?” I continued. Both of our cats crowded into the box at our feet, sniffing every corner, side and flap. “I was thinking about calling in an owl,” Terry answered, “but decided not to.” </span>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-29976649599702924022011-10-05T11:11:00.000-07:002011-11-05T20:59:28.642-07:00Awakening & Surrender<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“We live between the act of awakening and the act of surrender. Each morning we awaken to the </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">light . . . each night we surrender to the dark . . . .At birth we were awakened and emerged to become </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">visible in the world. At death we will surrender again to the dark to become invisible. Awakening </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">and surrender: they frame each day and each life; between them the journey where anything can happen, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">the beauty and the frailty.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> — John O’Donohue, Beauty: The Invisible Embrace<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">The Call</span></span></i></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;">for Rosie & Terry</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Wake up, wake up.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The sky is endless white.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Your eyes leap, blue and wild<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">as dazed fish burning in air, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">then focus—the familiar sheen <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">of ceiling. <i>Still here.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You glance at bedside table<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">for the pool of oatmeal, a corner <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">of bitten toast. <i>What time<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">is it?</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Mid-morning, but could be <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">noon, night. Sleep is the stream <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">you drift in now, mind amphibious,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">body plotting to cast its<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">carapace away. A wave <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">of color breaks over you, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">a smock, your nurse, her face, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">garbled voice, hand pressing<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">a phone to your ear. You listen, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">whisper, <i>love you too</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The sky is endless white. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Wake up, wake up</span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieExqb_sh9tVd8k2n9FNNgYQpL5akNXHsAWmDS3m3-uCoSEyoAs5QCWvNe_FQX2GMA474zdW_SXUlTvMfshUlNt8Y2uXSVan0oF1Ey5L3ClDfL7lhpcn06LFMb6_MwOjNTBZgZv014E7-M/s1600/Rose+Young+Retouched.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieExqb_sh9tVd8k2n9FNNgYQpL5akNXHsAWmDS3m3-uCoSEyoAs5QCWvNe_FQX2GMA474zdW_SXUlTvMfshUlNt8Y2uXSVan0oF1Ey5L3ClDfL7lhpcn06LFMb6_MwOjNTBZgZv014E7-M/s200/Rose+Young+Retouched.jpg" width="153" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Note:</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Rose Lark Schulz, 1917-2011, my mother-in-law, </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">left us this October. While the visible Rosie we knew and loved </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">has moved on to whatever comes next, the invisible Rosie remains, </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">like a drop in a pond, rippling outward, outward, outward. </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">Shalom, Rosie.</span></i></span></div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-34833702772555174722011-09-25T20:05:00.000-07:002011-11-05T20:32:09.895-07:00A Language Larger Than Words<div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="display: inline !important;"><i><span class="body"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“And this, our life . . . finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing.</span></i></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span></i></span></i></div><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> — Shakespeare </span></i></span></span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></i></b><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZUzq2veiiKMZtx7igTiwzyL0zu3vVm1n59QrwZg4MGTPzU632BgTrEbwB-f414FjE7St8DJsf5rupodIO_0AmvepxPi6Vv0UtLasdKPYRnI1CxVE5S17Be2ZtFgK_0AphfG5f27RKdMZ/s1600/Maya+on+redwood+log+CROPPED2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZUzq2veiiKMZtx7igTiwzyL0zu3vVm1n59QrwZg4MGTPzU632BgTrEbwB-f414FjE7St8DJsf5rupodIO_0AmvepxPi6Vv0UtLasdKPYRnI1CxVE5S17Be2ZtFgK_0AphfG5f27RKdMZ/s320/Maya+on+redwood+log+CROPPED2.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Redwood nurse log, moss & Calico</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Nurse Log</span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Steam floats up from a prone body,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">an old log, mossy and damp.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I go, lie beside it, whisper,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">let’s be organic together.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Out of the lichened wood, deer ferns <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">and the thumb of a coyote bush take root. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Fox scat in the shape of a cross<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">marks a passage.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There is a language larger<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">than words, the way breath rising<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">licks everything on its way up<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">and won’t be contained.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A varied thrush thuds to ground, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">his voice a wooden whistling.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Red mud stains robe hem,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">rumpled cuff, exposed wrist bone,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">palm to redwood corpse.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Quiet again—just this<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">scuttling of cool air through weeds,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">my fingers flushed with touching.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">— from <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mosslight-Kimberley-Pittman-Schulz/dp/098286129X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1316989917&sr=8-1">Mosslight</a></i></b></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><a href="http://www.futurecycle.org/FutureCyclePoetry.aspx">FutureCycle Press</a>, 2011</i></span></span></div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-88920082063812819472011-08-25T21:52:00.000-07:002011-08-25T21:54:35.571-07:00After the Good News, The Raven<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;"><i></i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“At the end of the glacier</span></i></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> two ravens . . .</span></i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> At the end of the ice age<o:p></o:p></span></i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> show me the way . . .<o:p></o:p></span></i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Flying off alone<o:p></o:p></span></i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> flying off alone<o:p></o:p></span></i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> flying off alone<o:p></o:p></span></i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Off alone”<o:p></o:p></span></i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><i><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> – from Gary Snyders’ “Raven’s Beak River: At the End”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></i></i></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;">Highway 101, On the Way to Dinner</span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"><b>H</b></span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">er black body cartwheels high in the air, her black wings useless as my voice, its reflexive <i>no, no</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Driving. My head is full of good news and the sky is scattered with blue petals drifting in a current of cumulus clouds. For miles, following a big rig, pulled along in its slipstream. Then at road’s edge, some clump of fur, blood staining pavement, and this raven, the black shell of her beak tearing at the fresh death, her own good news.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqr64vzGIUfoXMXhBM9ynNPYUsESvL08wWDHQnpe0frwMdBeC6ovmmP_p0975t92kRKZwglaiwUZeCHhiLp_jQI4sPbynlNZXvNlaQOEb3dYJNSPEKuylVq7POh_rfbM7eEOw6JxIJIpp/s1600/ravenflight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqr64vzGIUfoXMXhBM9ynNPYUsESvL08wWDHQnpe0frwMdBeC6ovmmP_p0975t92kRKZwglaiwUZeCHhiLp_jQI4sPbynlNZXvNlaQOEb3dYJNSPEKuylVq7POh_rfbM7eEOw6JxIJIpp/s200/ravenflight.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Suddenly her black body spins up, up, stark against the pale blue, the brilliant white. Time slows; the brain clicks its camera. Flung wide, she is a permanent smudged ‘x’ on the horizon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Moments before, her feathers thrashed like black weeds in the exhaust of cars rushing by as she hunched over her meat. We all take risks to satisfy some hunger. She looked up, a scrap dangling from her shiny mandibles, and her black eyes found me. <i>Yes, I see you</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Suddenly her body is a black rag tumbling, and her wings, black sails shredding. My mouth, mindless, already knows the red wine waiting won’t taste easy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Punched loose, a flurry of black plumes and downy fragments arc and spiral, <i>oh, as if one raven splintered into many</i>. She lands as a black pile in the lane beside me. Her wings fall open—long black palms, saucers of black air, puddles of iridescent black light—as another car flies over her. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There is a moment when joy and defeat coexist. I am this white skin hugged to my own arrhythmic pulse, hungry, thinking <i>celebration</i>, and I am the black body of this raven, belly half full, suddenly lifted into the path of a massive truck.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Nothing to do but keep driving. One black feather is a strange smile pressed to the windshield.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-27218102492985542842011-06-30T07:00:00.000-07:002011-06-30T07:00:50.917-07:00Every New Day, The Best Day<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;">“On my way home I remember only good days. / On my way home I remember all the best days. / I'm on my way home I can remember every new day.</span>” — Enya, Irish singer and composer</span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A Good Day<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dawn<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The day lifts like a perfect body <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">pulled from water, dripping.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tree frogs, red-legged frogs all<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">start singing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The sound is a hundred hinges,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">the body entering and entering.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Getting Clean<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Both cats lap at my ankles as I step<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">from a shower, then they turn<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">to each other, licking and nipping.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The deer mouse hunted room to room<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">three nights running, sits preening<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">in the corner of my eye, tucked<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">behind a basket of books, tiny hands<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">scrubbing cheeks, crown, opaque ear.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Through the window, one sky, wild hair <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">of cirrus clouds washed with blue.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Morning Walk</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The old fire trail, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">walking, walking, walking,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">redwoods leaning over both shoulders,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">below each sole, millennia of crushed needles.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A hermit thrush scurries forward, pauses, tilting back<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">his head, opening throat, a gilded pink well,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ethereal music, as if the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">birdness</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">has flown out of the bird. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Off to Work<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Driving, immersed in jazz, this road<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">black tinsel through heavy leaves<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">of colt’s foot and spent trillium,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">the landscape ridges and valleys. Suddenly<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">deep in a gulch the jazz breaks,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">a baritone voice says, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">consider only<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">the best</span></i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">, the jazz just as suddenly back <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">topping a hill, the universe<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">momentarily un-encrypted. Driving,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">no not god, but more than hawker. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I turn up the dial.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On Campus</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Three starlings, plumage flashing <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">copper, purple, oiled green in thin fog,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">climb a ravaged trunk, talking like hawks <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">then trilling, looking into openings, yellow beaks <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">honeyed with cool emptiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I crouch to a poppy, a gaudy ornamental <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">among the native orange. Under my breath, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">and mist slick, the blossom bursts. All morning <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I walk halls, skim carpets, trousers cuffed <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">in red petals that won’t let go.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A Meeting</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Many voices at once, then calm. Cups lift <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">and each face sees itself tremble.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Beside me a woman talks intensely, her hands <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">tethered birds pulling into the air.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I focus on one thumbnail, a little arc of dirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What has that thumb been up to?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cradling muddy shoots, scraping up shiny stones,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">cleaning a dog’s foot, the crevices between pads?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Her hands flutter and bank, that thumb<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">with its own crescent of dark moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Falling in love with those hands, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">that thumb, their mysterious lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Clam Beach, Pretending</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sanderlings wheel over damp sand,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">legs a blur. As if pushed by wind,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">they float North. Sparks fill their footsteps. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Godwits, whimbrels, sandpipers land <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">in an applause of wings, picking <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">at the glistening.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What if, in the next world,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">we could be birds, more sanderlings,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">trundling beside ocean on six toes,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">black beak stabbing shore, prying open<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">the wet edge, poking into the salt darkness <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">for some succulent morsel?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At the Theatre, Kodo Drummers</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Kodo, heartbeat. A room of battered skins <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">becomes something else.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My collarbone floats<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">in the sound of bees, a swarming,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">the skinny bones in my chest<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">a ladder climbing down, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">my body flushes, sweetness returning,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">rhythm thick, pouring in, out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Garamond; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Late Night</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now a fox is yapping and whistling.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I feel his teeth grab my heart<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">soft as shrew with her own teeth <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">chewing roots, hungry too. I’ve eaten moss, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">breathed river, touched death, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it’s so still,</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">and seen how a single great-blue heron <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">is a form of light. The heavens have a saying, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">but I don’t know what it is. Awake, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">and soon again sleep<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1933397048358099765.post-91957566445765501932011-06-26T13:08:00.000-07:002011-07-02T07:48:30.333-07:00Launching<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="body"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.”</span></i></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> — Don Marquis, 1878-1937, journalist, novelist, humorist and poet, best known for creating Archy, an imagined cockroach who had been a poet in a previous life and left poems on Marquis’ typewriter by jumping on the keys</span></i></span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Long-Awaited News</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-large;">A</span>s a young child, my favorite book was <b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=cPdcfYHxHzcC&printsec=frontcover&dq=the+carrot+seed#v=onepage&q&f=false">The Carrot Seed</a></i></b>, by Ruth Krauss. It’s a simple little book—sparse illustrations colored only in orange, brown, and golden-yellow with just a line or two of text per page in large print. It’s a story about a little boy, Ms. Krause doesn’t give him a name, who plants a carrot seed and tends it every day with care, with faith. Everyone around him tells him the seed won’t grow, but every day the little boy waters his seed, pulls any weeds around it, believing against all odds in his little seed’s potential to sprout. The last page is an illustration of the boy carting away a huge carrot in a wheel barrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK_GppnD9URRaoZcusbx6RFRSb8an2Licr9QaiO-jM37ys_J5HMlaZd_kygqSLVyU-2f7WxKHkEb63sac3OFu0-IvUWgIfnVRfm-COdqGgqaLE4Cvr3UHGC-qO0neUSzmnoEn82DjSELuz/s1600/Carrot6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK_GppnD9URRaoZcusbx6RFRSb8an2Licr9QaiO-jM37ys_J5HMlaZd_kygqSLVyU-2f7WxKHkEb63sac3OFu0-IvUWgIfnVRfm-COdqGgqaLE4Cvr3UHGC-qO0neUSzmnoEn82DjSELuz/s200/Carrot6.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The Carrot Seed</i></b>,<i> illust. Crockett Johnson</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">Earlier this month, I landed my own carrot. After years of working on a first book of poetry, sending my book manuscript out to publishers, shaping and reshaping the manuscript, swapping in and out poems, having faith—if faltering at times—that a collection of my poems could have value in the world, I received news that my manuscript has been selected as the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.futurecycle.org/2011PrizeAnnouncement.aspx">2011 FutureCycle Press Poetry Book Prize Winner</a></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">In addition to a monetary award, my book, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mosslight</i></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">, will be published this fall. I don’t know how long the little boy had to wait for that big carrot, but getting the phone call from FutureCycle Press Publisher Robert King took a lifetime of scribbling in notebooks and 8 or 9 years (I’ve lost track) of trying to get a book publisher to say, “Yes!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I haven’t yet opened the drawer where I’ve kept lists of all the poetry book competitions I’ve submitted to over the years. In the world of literary poetry publishing, book competitions are almost the only way to turn a collection of poems into a first book of poetry. I have a fat file comprising dozens of ways to say ‘nope, you’re not the winner this time.’ I also have a slender file of letters and, more recently, printed-out emails announcing my manuscript as a finalist or semi-finalist. As anyone who knows me will tell you, at first it’s exciting to be a finalist; it’s an affirmation that something good is going on in the poems, and I’m grateful to make the cut. But after a while, you feel like you’re always the bridesmaid and never the bride. Usually only one or two books see publication out of anywhere from a couple of hundred to over a thousand manuscripts submitted to any one poetry book competition. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some people play the lottery. I’ve been gambling on my poetry book, and the odds may actually be tougher. We won’t talk about how much money I’ve invested in ‘reading fees’ to enter my poetry book manuscript in competition after competition. Good thing I have a day job that allows me to be more than a starving artist. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxP0R-CHIDchIvmBPV3Zn2SUmfxSkz_gnbLXk_QVh2mkzV4GRzur5KMK0S13Ur59mvqUzSOzhHFPQl796vAXMlim8A_4rhocawdzxO5aNrAdY79DcTST-k8TT1oHZefGlS0qVdKEGiJys/s1600/Kayak+Calypso+CROPPED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="45" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxP0R-CHIDchIvmBPV3Zn2SUmfxSkz_gnbLXk_QVh2mkzV4GRzur5KMK0S13Ur59mvqUzSOzhHFPQl796vAXMlim8A_4rhocawdzxO5aNrAdY79DcTST-k8TT1oHZefGlS0qVdKEGiJys/s320/Kayak+Calypso+CROPPED.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">When people ask me how I’m spending the prize money, I like to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pretend</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> I’ve bought my first kayak, a lightweight touring ‘yak, 14-feet and a bit too orange, for getting out on all the water that swells and trickles here on the redwood coast—bays, lagoons, coves, sloughs, rivers, lakes, and open ocean. For years I promised myself that when my book is accepted for publication, I’ll get my own kayak—rather like my mother saying she’d take a trip to Santa Fe to study with Navaho artists when her ship came in. (Sadly, her ship never arrived.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In truth, my husband bought the kayak. He believes fiercely in my work, but I think we both worried that I might be 90 before my book reached publication, and, well, I might be too arthritic to get in and out of my wetsuit. So he went online, placed the order, and we waited for my skinny ship to arrive. Engineered for a female paddler and shipped cross country from LL Bean, my kayak arrived two days before I got the news about <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mosslight</i></b> being selected for publication. Ah, if I’d only realized that I needed to buy the ‘yak first and then the book publication would come. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSV3D_izk7ekAx1t23zNHbfY4qTWqwVDuU4WT0PsLavEDSkHDDz5pMqWVUz1tIJUfr2LeiAUw2iW2xc1fOwJyPuJHoW4spIJukrX-W9nC7FpO5qakkIHuV27xtg8xpci7BdoQHblanl1TR/s1600/Bookshelf.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSV3D_izk7ekAx1t23zNHbfY4qTWqwVDuU4WT0PsLavEDSkHDDz5pMqWVUz1tIJUfr2LeiAUw2iW2xc1fOwJyPuJHoW4spIJukrX-W9nC7FpO5qakkIHuV27xtg8xpci7BdoQHblanl1TR/s320/Bookshelf.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One of my bookshelves . . . hmmm, running out of shelves.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> when people ask about the prize money is that it seems like a partial reimbursement for all those reading fees. It’s almost an award for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> publishing the poetry books of so many other poets over the years, since ultimately that is what my reading fees accomplished. Honestly, I’m happy to have supported other poets in launching their books as well as a host of small, under-funded nonprofit presses. We have to support each other because there is so much incredible poetry that never gets to find its audience, that doesn’t get to touch people—and we really do need more “touch” than “tech,” more that’s visceral than virtual in this FaceBook vs. face-to-face era.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Right now I’m still just looking at the check in disbelief, and I guess I do need to get around to cashing it. But forever my little book of poems and my sleek roto-molded kayak are joined. I was under the weather when the long LL Bean box arrived. After my husband removed the cardboard and bubble wrap, all I could do was sit in my new, orange boat in our driveway, glaring orange PFD snug around my chest, paddle cool against my palms atop the cockpit, looking up at the dense afternoon-blue of the sky. Wind gusted up the ridge, making the goldfinches lurch and struggle. My hair whipped my cheek, my ears flooded with humming. A small flock of wild band-tailed pigeons swirled, landing awkwardly into the crown of a redwood while my calico mewed through a screen, puzzled. Five miles from the ocean, I could hear the surf as if a distant voice saying, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ahhhhhhh</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASRarWf52qxF1gpVpee_9IeM7dpF8C5RnrH5orDJovkybXrP6lIQb314s5LYB7Gh0uKO6ys3MbkNs7GMRd9ksZPB-Hzets1_4LerLhHvOIPJxt7TpvYPOX4l6eXYpJcPNZXYOi2g8apEx/s1600/Black-crowned+night+heron+CROPPED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASRarWf52qxF1gpVpee_9IeM7dpF8C5RnrH5orDJovkybXrP6lIQb314s5LYB7Gh0uKO6ys3MbkNs7GMRd9ksZPB-Hzets1_4LerLhHvOIPJxt7TpvYPOX4l6eXYpJcPNZXYOi2g8apEx/s200/Black-crowned+night+heron+CROPPED.jpg" width="127" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Black-crowned night heron<br />
Photo: Terry Schulz</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Three days later, still feeling a bit spent but buoyed by that phone call from Mr. King the day before, I took my boat out for her maiden voyage, a leisurely paddle on the Mad River just above its mouth to the Pacific. I paddled almost silently under the limb where a black-crowned night heron perched staring into an eddy, then watching me cautiously with his dazzling red eyes. Three cormorants hunkered down on a mud flat, a black curtain of wings spread wide. Mist lifted off of the water, became fog for a while, then dissipated into grey clouds. The ‘yak cut easily through the skin of the river’s surface. Along one bank, moss collected among stones, glistening, wet in the muted morning light. I smiled. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mosslight</i></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><i> gets to go live in the world now.</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> I looked down at my audaciously orange kayak. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><i>My big, bright carrot—it’s real.</i></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J0EBG5MCRoXRRND2awtqKKPAlmOQ3IKv3Hpnn4ianiuE3ed-cQSPKmoFZwKtsDCpQb1eh0CHaKzrRYk-sPFa43xeDbzRfzh7n6yNU44bbdUQcYHFSvnO7QVOA7J10MfYCT_H8bXLWu6D/s1600/Kayaking+Mad+River.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J0EBG5MCRoXRRND2awtqKKPAlmOQ3IKv3Hpnn4ianiuE3ed-cQSPKmoFZwKtsDCpQb1eh0CHaKzrRYk-sPFa43xeDbzRfzh7n6yNU44bbdUQcYHFSvnO7QVOA7J10MfYCT_H8bXLWu6D/s400/Kayaking+Mad+River.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mad River on a calm June morning.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thank you to Publisher Robert S. King and Editor/Designer Diane Kistner and the various internal and external editors and readers of <a href="http://www.futurecycle.org/">FutureCycle </a>Press who believe in my work enough to publish <b>Mosslight </b>this fall. </span></i></span></div>Kimberley Pittman-Schulzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12880649802003356761noreply@blogger.com4