tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78098013137163464982024-03-14T08:42:31.811-05:00WOMANKIND: Connection & Wisdom Around the WorldNorm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-19278541971394741902013-08-22T14:23:00.001-05:002013-11-18T15:12:38.787-06:00Haiku for Signs of Fall<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir-Z49PlYfk4efNTgfFmE7rT2RrfAl9nR5lp7NiSYTDLHqYcimF4p1KMV0u0D7pwgNr8BNvFPc_CE_QTdmT7u0qHlXaTcfSIKA3EhMJq9sTgF02wjIRb72GLUF6GkAlr4BaW12RauPcEq9/s1600/GEESE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir-Z49PlYfk4efNTgfFmE7rT2RrfAl9nR5lp7NiSYTDLHqYcimF4p1KMV0u0D7pwgNr8BNvFPc_CE_QTdmT7u0qHlXaTcfSIKA3EhMJq9sTgF02wjIRb72GLUF6GkAlr4BaW12RauPcEq9/s320/GEESE.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><em><strong>Skein squawking discourse</strong></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><em><strong>Up wash wingtip vortices</strong></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><em><strong>Nature’s synergy</strong></em></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-23710386084390313272013-03-28T11:07:00.000-05:002013-04-12T09:05:43.684-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWbQ2u0Te82UxfkF0RkFSmND1tW7sUx0iO-6Req8WvOAftoYJLA6paKLsVfXmlDUsllEVgLIgFohlWFMXW_8e83nVn5H0XVWMJbAnifRYC5z0mVtTwsHWyK6iyOaCCtR_PWt5LGBz2Nsfr/s1600/YELLOW+CROCUS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWbQ2u0Te82UxfkF0RkFSmND1tW7sUx0iO-6Req8WvOAftoYJLA6paKLsVfXmlDUsllEVgLIgFohlWFMXW_8e83nVn5H0XVWMJbAnifRYC5z0mVtTwsHWyK6iyOaCCtR_PWt5LGBz2Nsfr/s320/YELLOW+CROCUS.jpg" width="301" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Crocus Child</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">As
you dance through your seasons<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of life, do not go unnoticed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Run!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></em></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">Skip!<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">Hop!<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><em>And,
turn cartwheels.</em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Garner
your crocus courage:<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></em></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">Be
daring. Be audacious.<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Stretch
</span><span class="textexposedhide2"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">your
neck out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="textexposedhide2"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">B</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">urst </span><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">through<span class="textexposedhide2"> ice
covered earth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></em></div>
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<span class="textexposedhide2"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">Welcome
the sun burning brightly<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></span></span></div>
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<span class="textexposedhide2"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">against
winter’s last snow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></span></span></div>
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<span class="textexposedhide2"><span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><em> </em></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="textexposedhide2"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><span class="textexposedhide2"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">But most
importantly of all, believe in<o:p></o:p></span></span></em></span></span></div>
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<span class="textexposedhide2"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><span style="color: black;">the
blessing of new beginnings.<o:p></o:p></span></em></span></span></span></div>
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Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-52375420441865251732011-05-30T12:27:00.000-05:002011-05-30T12:27:23.172-05:00Remembering….Two Lost BoysHe was just a little boy<br />
wearing clothes way too big, <br />
probably donated by some well meaning church in America.<br />
He and his friends played in the schoolyard <br />
happily kicking the ball in a game of soccer. <br />
<br />
"Hey! NATO”, he called out<br />
to the soldiers stopped in the road near the school. <br />
He waved; shot them a wide grin,<br />
and hitched his falling pants back up to his waist, <br />
then turned to continue his game. <br />
<br />
The soldiers, from all the countries,<br />
had become great friends with the children.<br />
Often I saw two or three uniformed men <br />
surrounded by a group of laughing children,<br />
sharing their gum and chocolates or kicking a soccer ball.<br />
<br />
I think it's something soldiers have done throughout time.<br />
Make friends with the children, that is.<br />
I recall a picture of my own father <br />
with children in an Asian country,<br />
in another place, another time, another war.<br />
<br />
I believe it helps fight the loneliness <br />
the young soldiers feel themselves,<br />
so far away from home <br />
and everything they love,<br />
so far away from their own families.<br />
<br />
He was just a boy himself,<br />
not yet able to buy himself a drink.<br />
He stood straight and tall in his dusty green fatigues,<br />
the required machine gun slung<br />
casually over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
He waved to the group of children <br />
playing soccer in the schoolyard.<br />
Some stopped their play and ran to join him<br />
and the other soldiers standing on the roadside,<br />
hugging their peace protecting weapons.<br />
<br />
The details were foggy. <br />
Rumors abounded.<br />
No one knew what really happened. <br />
Everyone had an opinion, but<br />
no one could say for certain.<br />
<br />
Whatever actually did happen on<br />
that Tuesday afternoon in the village Sllatina,<br />
while the children played happily in the schoolyard,<br />
profoundly affected two lives <br />
and the lives of their families forever.<br />
<br />
A shot was heard. <br />
The little boy in the baggy britches fell. <br />
A pool of blood appeared almost instantly<br />
staining his shapeless shirt<br />
A dark and viscid crimson. <br />
<br />
The soldiers ran toward the fallen boy <br />
and swept him away immediately<br />
rushed him to the medical base.<br />
But the child was gone already. <br />
Instantly, they said, from the moment he fell.<br />
<br />
And two family’s lives forever changed --<br />
the family of the little soccer player, <br />
and the family of the young soldier <br />
who will never be able to forget <br />
that day the shots rang out.<br />
<br />
When they told me the story, I recalled that little boy,<br />
his wide smile, his baggy britches.<br />
His bright and cheerful wave.<br />
He called me “NATO” too,<br />
just like all the other Americans.<br />
Such a poignant country, Kosovo.<br />
Touched by tragedy even in peacetime.<br />
And today I wear a scar deep, in my center,<br />
where my own heart cracked open and spilled to the ground<br />
on a Tuesday, in the village Sllatina.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em>Nancy Leigh Harless</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em>Written on a Tuesday 2000</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br />
<em></em></span>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-67309288207802328622011-05-17T23:04:00.003-05:002011-05-17T23:32:41.118-05:00Joe Taylor Creek in the Night<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WtaU6Oe-fzegUT9Q5y4ZtsWVEoxdzHGVhW1Sjm6tTgnRS1jV_lRyCJrqWPbB30OBYE3H6HwwO-5kRKulBMUAC8AxaVA8-3p6_nSpgUpGy60IyyL_61BaMLlwdCL6aes_ZpRAqQlJIHMB/s1600/IMG_0768.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WtaU6Oe-fzegUT9Q5y4ZtsWVEoxdzHGVhW1Sjm6tTgnRS1jV_lRyCJrqWPbB30OBYE3H6HwwO-5kRKulBMUAC8AxaVA8-3p6_nSpgUpGy60IyyL_61BaMLlwdCL6aes_ZpRAqQlJIHMB/s320/IMG_0768.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: 0% 50%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">We came to see the bio-phosphorescence -- that amazing phenomena of light producing plankton in the brackish water where salt and fresh water mix. We dragged our kayaks through the fetid mud of the mangrove. To me it smelled foul, but Anne, my friend and guide, assured me that was just the odor of a working Mangrove doing it’s job of breaking down organic material. But wait a minute, I thought to myself, isn’t that precisely what a septic tank does?</span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">Joe Taylor Creek was small – only 50 feet wide at the start, soon narrowing to only 15 feet -- barely room to do a turn around with our kayaks. As we paddled up-creek, the lush rainforest closed in, around, and above us like a think green cocoon. The ropelike vines hung high above and dropped into the water beside us like something out of a Tarzan movie. On the creek bank, tiny pencil thin roots pushed up out of the ground packed together tightly as warp on a carpet. This was the “White” mangrove. Roots from the trees along both banks come out of the water forming cage-like structures with little crabs scurrying up and down the roots. This was the “Red” mangrove. I found myself hoping that one of those little crabs wouldn’t fall into my kayak. </span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">Night was falling and the mosquitoes and other attacking bugs had come out in full force, buzzing and dive-bombing looking for fresh white meat. Night sounds began – the crickets, the frogs, the birds and those indistinguishable sounds of night of something there in the brush, just outside my field of vision. </span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">I was in Punta Gorda as a volunteer. With more than a half of a century of life experience, I was realizing a lifelong dream of opening a clinic in a third world country. However, the sweltering weather and primitive living conditions coupled with the disparities of Belize time versus North American time as a daily source of frustration had stolen my sense of wonder of the beauty of the country, not to mention my sense of humor. It had almost stolen my dream.</span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">But, this night Anne promised spectacular phenomena we could not see when we return to our Midwestern home, so we put work aside and came to partake in the phosphorescent light show. She guaranteed a display I wouldn’t easily forget. She was absolutely right.</span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">As darkness settled around us, we paddled by the light of the stars and the crescent moon that could hold water. At first I could see only a few sparkles as I moved my kayak through the water. Stirring the water by hand brought a few more flickers. I was disappointed. I came expecting fireworks. “It’s not yet dark enough, Anne explained, be patient.” </span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">Just as promised, later, when night grew pitch-black night around us, the spectacle began. Brilliant fluorescent balls of fire rolled off my paddle as I stroked. When I dipped my hand into the water, sparkling droplets fell like diamonds from my fingers. Leaning over the side of my kayak and looking deep into the water below I saw twinkling beads of light glittering as if a miniature Milky Way were beneath me. </span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">As I stroked my paddle though the water a magical ripple of light followed the stroke like a wave in slow motion. My perception was altered. I was another dimension. Time stood still. There was a miracle happening in the water right under my kayak. I was mesmerized by the sensual quality to the movement of the lights. As I drew circles in the water with my finger, a ring of fire appeared. B</span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">But all too soon, sadly, it was time to go. I reluctantly paddled back down the creek to the place where it meets the sea. We crossed the Bay of Honduras. The sea rocked me gently as I paddled in silence, breathing to the rhythm of the rise and the fall of the gentle ancient Caribbean.</span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">The magic was over, but I was awestruck. I had witnessed a miracle. From that night forward I have known with great certainty, that whenever I feel annoyed with life’s little discomforts or frustrations, whether I am in a village in Belize, or in my own Midwestern home, I can simply close my eyes, let my spirit soar and remember that night when time stood still, as I played with the glittering, glistening, Saint Elmo’s fire of Joe Taylor Creek in the night. </span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><strong><span style="color: #38761d;">It puts everything into perspective.</span></strong></em><br />
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<strong><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: xx-small;">by Nancy Leigh Harless</span></em></strong></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><br />
<strong><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></strong></em></div></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-49480376727582504112011-05-15T17:55:00.001-05:002011-05-15T17:57:50.500-05:00Sun Worshippers<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMT9UZ9dSV4Ye7SZzYlBI0sZ_neA3iaYdapwipUCxNyHLesVaK0pHHXv7aeoV2q-aNFcuk7gsPEIuDOwAN3Sdg9KOxFCzLTRlyKioiFvGjvHc1IiYCVGhD4Kqm17mpwq87XA18Fi9_3xid/s1600/Turtle+Log.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMT9UZ9dSV4Ye7SZzYlBI0sZ_neA3iaYdapwipUCxNyHLesVaK0pHHXv7aeoV2q-aNFcuk7gsPEIuDOwAN3Sdg9KOxFCzLTRlyKioiFvGjvHc1IiYCVGhD4Kqm17mpwq87XA18Fi9_3xid/s320/Turtle+Log.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: 0% 50%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></a><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">A row of sleepy-eyed sun worshippers,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">like vain old women, draped</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">across Adirondack lounges,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">necks craned to avoid wrinkling,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">or getting a tan line.</span></em><br />
<em><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">Noses slightly upturned,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">all superior and snotty,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">leather-skinned turtles</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">stretch across a craggy log,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #274e13;">and work on their tans</span></em>.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">by Nancy Leigh Harless</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-92071448302528012552011-05-11T15:36:00.001-05:002011-05-11T15:38:38.544-05:00By Dawn's Early Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2KhyphenhyphengfrNenmhyphenhyphenhrVIL7g2Fr9dVzBi5sJaeFFeXTbpvBVnqG_fliUZh8BxlTcxLCHWrtbm8RZKvY_sdidUnlLEnU6zcUwIymdCv54HpwLS5pIy8anAAN6Btz3zw6x7hclx6z8cQpfwQ_8/s1600/IMGP8029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2KhyphenhyphengfrNenmhyphenhyphenhrVIL7g2Fr9dVzBi5sJaeFFeXTbpvBVnqG_fliUZh8BxlTcxLCHWrtbm8RZKvY_sdidUnlLEnU6zcUwIymdCv54HpwLS5pIy8anAAN6Btz3zw6x7hclx6z8cQpfwQ_8/s320/IMGP8029.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><br />
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<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Awaken to the sound of silence</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">enveloping dull brown fields, natal</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">with the green down of next Fall’s harvest.</span></em><br />
<em><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">A lemon orb breaks over the black</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">skeletons of leafless hardwood trees.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">The sky waters silk a thousand shades</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> orcherous</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> amesthyine</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> sanguine.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">And in that single moment,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">more significant than the day itself,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">you are gifted with Knowing…</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Courier New;"> and your cup overflows.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">By Nancy Leigh Harless</span>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-67363099853109963402010-12-18T20:38:00.006-06:002010-12-18T20:59:34.161-06:00Little Andu<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBDWpQsONCgaiKb3jgilAGWzbWNQSvF2nQ8STgJpvFmwk4Sr9NFC_Bv_bbiUxLioPYvxnObTn32keUfpPkJWP7KVC14cuWbBC1N1T0YLLpGy-uCuDoZWeL6wr2bRee2i4Stcmf1FWlvvq/s1600/China+%2526+Tibet+2007-169.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBDWpQsONCgaiKb3jgilAGWzbWNQSvF2nQ8STgJpvFmwk4Sr9NFC_Bv_bbiUxLioPYvxnObTn32keUfpPkJWP7KVC14cuWbBC1N1T0YLLpGy-uCuDoZWeL6wr2bRee2i4Stcmf1FWlvvq/s320/China+%2526+Tibet+2007-169.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: 0% 50%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">On Meeting Andu at the Dichee Orphanage</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Little Andu with smile so wide,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">ruddy cheeks hint of a happy child,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">but your dark almond eyes own a sorrow</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">no child should understand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Count to ten on fingers</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">bitten to the quick.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Recite your ABC’s.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Lead me by your tiny hand</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">to a musky sweet kitchen.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Rice boils on the black wood stove.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Take me to the room filled</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">with rows of metal beds,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">your own shared with yet another</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">lice-infected, head-shorn little girl.</span><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">You stand so tall against the yardstick, taped</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">to the rough wooden door.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Your shaved scalp tickles my hand</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">as I measure, announce, ‘thirty-five inches,”</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">and silently add <em>of pure humanity.</em></span><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Your tiny hands pull on my arm</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">and at my heart</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">toward a rusty case holding</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">a mangy black dog big enough to ride.</span><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Pulled by the fear of failure,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Pushed by a need to please,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">You whisper a single English word – “dog,”</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">peek up from the corner of your slant eyes;</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">and hope for words of praise from this</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">pale skinned grandmother of another world.</span><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Little Andu, your arms squeezed around</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">my neck when time to say good-bye.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Your rough head prickled my chest; burned</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">a little girl-sized hole that lingers today</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">and I remember…..</span><span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Little Andu with smile so wide,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">ruddy cheeks hint of a happy child,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">but dark almond eyes hold a sorrow</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">no child should understand.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: xx-small;">By Nancy Leigh Harless</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-6363378648447886832010-11-30T10:48:00.001-06:002010-11-30T11:03:56.962-06:00Sleeping Around<div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color: #4c1130;">My Grandaughter</span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">She twists and turns in the darkness,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">sheets coil and contort in her wake</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">until I am splayed and drawn, quartered</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">by the magnetic wires that bind generations,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">until the wire threatens to snap and slash</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">the progeny who is my nemesis.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">I reach through night’s dark shroud,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">place my palm on her small sweet chest…and breathe.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color: #4c1130;">My Gray-Haired Lover</span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">We rest a matched set of spoons fused</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">by love and living: shared memories, shared</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">dreams, shared name. His quiet breath,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">a butterfly kiss, tickles my ear until I stretch,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">back arching, roll onto my stomach breaking spoon’s seal.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">He stirs, turns onto his back in slow motion moan,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">He reaches through night’s dark veil,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">a work-worn hand cups my buttock….and he sighs.</span></strong></div><span style="color: #4c1130;"></span><strong></strong><span style="color: #4c1130;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color: #4c1130;">My Favorite Pooch</span></em></div><span style="color: #4c1130;"></span><em></em><span style="color: #4c1130;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">His small self presses against the hollow of my back,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">fused by with a weld that assures I am not alone.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">When midnight blasts of fiesta fireworks rouse,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">he circles ’round three times, curls his lean body</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">into a tight “C” and flops into a heap at my side.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">I reach through night’s dark curtain,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">touch the tiny rump against my side,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">pat three times …and sigh.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color: #4c1130;">My Grandson</span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">He sleeps, perchance to dream of damsels and noble knights.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">I lay side-by-side my Celtic youngling, a boy of courage and honor,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">suffer the wrath of this small chivalrous knight, resolved to slay</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">the mythic dragon that snores near his ear. The slap of a gauntlet glove,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">a mace to the kidney, a flail to my head! I stir. Pelted half-awake</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">I hear his battle cry: “Take that you filthy beast!”</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">I roll to the bed’s edge, reach across night's battle scene,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">place my hand on his small, gallant head ….and nod.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color: #4c1130;">My Mother</span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">She sleeps, in tomblike silence in somnolent, silken repose.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">We lay together, covered by a cotton quilt, hand-stitched </span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">by her own mother many years ago when she was just a girl.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">I awaken to unnatural stillness – night silent as a sepulcher,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">no sound from my mute mother: not a whisper, not a sigh , </span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">nor the small, soft wheeze of breath’s inspiration.</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">I reach through night’s indigo blanket, gently shake</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">a boney shoulder until she gulps a small gasped growl…..and I smile.</span></strong></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color: #4c1130;">Alone in My Tree House</span></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">I lay, a laggard in a hammock, atop a maple tree,</span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">listen to soft summer sounds hum in harmony.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="color: #4c1130;">Leaves, a river floating, swirl into child-deep-sleep, </span></strong><br />
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><strong>lulling introspection - thoughts superficial; </strong><strong>thoughts profound,</strong></span> <br />
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><strong> </strong><strong>I dream </strong><strong>through green leaf filters, and smile as I recall,</strong></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><strong>all the many different ones of you with whom </strong><strong>…. I’ve slept around.</strong></span></div><span style="color: #4c1130;"></span><strong></strong><span style="color: #4c1130;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><br />
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</span></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-61901275585107981862010-11-29T08:46:00.003-06:002010-11-29T08:52:00.474-06:00Be the Sparrow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-yyLQJxjG98P08viptYvnMLHp9opucx5IAK533Fm4fcBCN4j_Cyg38uFZQ1GhMvQkPEySMSA_52ZyUDPGoEhZIiXhBoZ7Xw7AIu0SDhOMdJXfjUoJVscSVofcnyKqWU-yN1YujUz5GOHW/s1600/boljmor+%25287%2529.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-yyLQJxjG98P08viptYvnMLHp9opucx5IAK533Fm4fcBCN4j_Cyg38uFZQ1GhMvQkPEySMSA_52ZyUDPGoEhZIiXhBoZ7Xw7AIu0SDhOMdJXfjUoJVscSVofcnyKqWU-yN1YujUz5GOHW/s160/boljmor+%25287%2529.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><span style="color: #0b5394;"> One Note Wonder</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> The sun had been up for an hour stealing morning’s chill. I had shared a solitude sunrise with a cup of coffee high in a tree, in the tree house built by my husband - complete with a “NO BOYS ALLOWED” sign.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> A lone sparrow lit on an overhead branch, settled himself, and began to sing. Treeeeat! Treeeeat! Treeeat! He chirped - a single monotone song. What he lacked in musical ability, He made up for with enthusiasm -- his song a one-note solo. He didn’t know, or care, if he blended into the other bird’s halleluiah chorus. I found myself carried back some 40-plus years, and chuckled to myself as the slideshow of my mind played out a childhood scene.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> I attended a very small school. Auditions weren’t required for any the choral groups. Every grade had one and no talent or singing ability was necessary. My friends and I signed up the first day – mostly drawn to the idea of a field trip in the spring to compete with other schools in the county in the yearly choral contest. Mrs. A, our music teacher, took these competitions seriously, and puffed up like a proud mother goose when her goslings came home with the trophy. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> Because I have a fairly low voice, I could never reach the high notes. My friend, Patsy and I were designated as the alto section. Patsy easily harmonized with the melody singing sopranos, and she could belt it out like a musical foghorn. I, on the other hand, carried my tuneless pail as quietly as possible, but hid my lack of talent by standing hip to hip with Patsy, and softly following her lead. As long as Patsy stood by me, I was an alto.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> But, when Patsy missed the practice session, I shivered solo; knowing Mrs. A would call attention to my unblending little voice. This morning as I watched my treetop sparrow sing his one-note wonder to the sky, I recalled a reoccurring childhood embarrassment. It happened every time Patsy missed practice, and I was alone “in the alto section.”</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> Mrs. A, a gray-haired matron, would pound out the tunes on her piano again and again, molding her songbirds into a flock that could bring home the gold. Wisps of hair disengaged from her topknot bun, as she feverishly strained to hear each of us sing while she played. Her rotund hips spread wide nearly filling the piano bench and she had a large flap of loose skin, where her chin should have been, that warbled when she talked like a big Tom turkey. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> S</span><span style="color: #0b5394;">he was stern, but also kind. I’m certain she didn’t intend to embarrass me but, never the less, every time she stopped playing, tapped her baton on the top of the piano and announced to the ceiling, “Girls, girls, there’s someone off in the alto section,” I wished for some magical invisible power that would let me slither between the cracks of the black floor tiles. All my friends would twitter. My cheeks would braise pink and I’d strain to keep the floodgates behind my eyes in closed position. I was the alto section. It was obvious that someone was me! </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> It happened over and over again that year - every time Patsy couldn’t make practice. The next year I didn’t sign up for the choral group. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> I haven’t sung for years, although I do hum softly to myself much of the time. But, this morning, as I watched that little sparrow, quite literally out on a limb singing his one-note wonder, I was reminded that song is a celebration of love. Who cares if you sing off key?</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> What I do know is that the sun rose this morning and warmed my face, a hush of a breeze kissed my cheeks. The trees were full with the melody, and the harmony, of heartland songbirds. A sparrow perched on an overhead branch and sang as though his tiny heart might burst. What he lacked in talent; he made up for with enthusiasm. </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> Be the sparrow.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><br />
</span>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-46503655921942498562010-11-25T09:05:00.003-06:002013-12-01T17:21:37.583-06:00Prosperity<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>Prosperity</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>A long-legged woman stands at the bow of her boat,</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>face warmed by rising sun. Silver streaks glint in her</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>light brown hair, sunbeams dance in the morning glow.</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>Nimble as a dancer she slips over the side,</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>rising and falling in undulating waves,</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>she sinks into her kayak.</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>With a mermaid’s grace she paddles toward the</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>white sand beach, frosted thick with pink and purple</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>seashells that stretches to the brink of the world.</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>She listens to the shells, so deep they tinkle like</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>a thousand wind chimes with each retreating wave.</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>She hunts.</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>She gathers.</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>She explores</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>the beach all day</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>filling a hand woven bag</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>with bountiful gifts from the sea,</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>until afternoon’s slanted light warns</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>soon the setting sun will stoke world’s</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>edge in a brilliant backdrop of fiery color.</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>The woman catches the first wave,</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>the smallest in a cycle of seven,</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>and smoothly paddles the kayak</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>toward her anchored sailboat home.</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>She spreads pink and purple shells</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>across the bow, admires each shape and hue,</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>then picks just one, that calls her name,</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>and slips the others gently over the side</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>returning them to the sea. </em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>The woman has everything she needs;</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>and she knows what</em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>she needs is </em></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #741b47;"><em>enough.</em></span></strong></div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-size: xx-small;"><em>Written 2006 for my life-long mermaid friend, Janet who has taught so much about living. ~ N L Harless</em></span></div>
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Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-29883171081294616382010-11-22T17:23:00.001-06:002010-11-22T17:27:37.291-06:00<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1a8guSK3_d9vesGFB7Rd6ynEPUhNX158hoqw1reeVYZy1zqAQ47ZgfwXwiE3lYMFMyi7vPcM8_HylOkni9BQKXscx31_Eh0d4HZ_gBUoAe3zIMCU3GzO4DdYI9ADmIW7-xWh_NasRPmyx/s1600/DSCF0264.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1a8guSK3_d9vesGFB7Rd6ynEPUhNX158hoqw1reeVYZy1zqAQ47ZgfwXwiE3lYMFMyi7vPcM8_HylOkni9BQKXscx31_Eh0d4HZ_gBUoAe3zIMCU3GzO4DdYI9ADmIW7-xWh_NasRPmyx/s400/DSCF0264.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: 0% 50%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></a><br />
story catching<br />
<br />
<br />
live wisely<br />
for remnants<br />
of your story woven today<br />
will linger like a spider’s webbed<br />
gye wires stretched between stanchions<br />
holding the meat of a long dead fly<br />
in slow decay - caught in her<br />
sticky trap long after<br />
you have gone<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">by nancy harless summer 2007</span><br />
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</div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-56507771872723964212010-11-21T10:32:00.001-06:002010-11-21T10:35:09.365-06:00The River Rises<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1MNLYE3lDnfESx7VJoN2yeLZg6Z_8ZldETR-EBoedkJnIsF6x5WnftOUmqrj8Mb8_4wbDS_Z9FOoqfG9MwzVMATm1tqFSLqBg-ZxiaVUNQsAtunWPF7NdYVpus9Mf05FJYlfbQZx9EfF/s1600/Noctilucent+8sec+2+8-22-2006.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1MNLYE3lDnfESx7VJoN2yeLZg6Z_8ZldETR-EBoedkJnIsF6x5WnftOUmqrj8Mb8_4wbDS_Z9FOoqfG9MwzVMATm1tqFSLqBg-ZxiaVUNQsAtunWPF7NdYVpus9Mf05FJYlfbQZx9EfF/s400/Noctilucent+8sec+2+8-22-2006.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: 0% 50%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><strong>The River Rises Up in the Night. </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">Wet beads cling to everything metal:</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">stanchions, guy wires, the bow hook</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">left leaning against the cockpit door</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">all glaze in tiny shimmering drops of light.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;">The river rises up in the night. Towels hung</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">to dry, now more sodden than the day before.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">Her smoky wetness drifts into my bed; I awaken</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">damp and clammy, taste her earthy scent;slither</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">from my bunk, glide up the ladder into the shadows.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;">The river rises up in the night, licks my pajamas</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">with a cool wet tongue, brushes her fragile fog</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">through my tangled hair. Vapors permeate my flesh,</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">diffuse into my soul, swirl beyond the margins of myself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;">The river rises up in the night, works her magic</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">with smoke and mirrors, burns scenes</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">of mystical madness onto her tree lined banks</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">until I, and the river, dissolve into one.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><br />
</span><br />
</div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-81930888588158881442010-09-03T00:42:00.007-05:002010-09-03T00:52:59.076-05:00Sister Love<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjoMOXOG-23kY1x-r-KcXVgfMfjaV53JfWmeF91fYE-K2B8di1UWndhsW-qQv9vQOHgv1tvQ_ZVQyGJ1D2pT8qt2FCoLMgYqbY0VPi6hd_Nc_-x4vpUXrgaLna3VrxjsndlC6JLnOGL4Ui/s1600/IMG_8975.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjoMOXOG-23kY1x-r-KcXVgfMfjaV53JfWmeF91fYE-K2B8di1UWndhsW-qQv9vQOHgv1tvQ_ZVQyGJ1D2pT8qt2FCoLMgYqbY0VPi6hd_Nc_-x4vpUXrgaLna3VrxjsndlC6JLnOGL4Ui/s400/IMG_8975.JPG" /></a> </div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: 0% 50%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><strong><em> </em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>If I could little sister I’d turn back time,</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>suck the sand up the hourglass to before</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>that tsunami cell phone call tumbled you</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>heels over head; sent you skidding across</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>a remote, rocky beach; then spit you out,</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>breathless and whimpering on a cold and distant shore.</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>If I could little sister I’d turn back time,</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>flip calendar pages backwards, make time stop</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>on the day before that all-changing day stole</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>every bit of breeze from your trembling sails,</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>left you struggling to inhale, and forever more</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>divided all your days into before … and after.</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>If I could little sister I’d take you away</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>to a faraway beach, where evening’s calm surrender</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>would melt the sky a thousand shades of splendor.</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>You’d search the horizon for a mythical green flash.</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>I’d pick shards of sea glass from your fragile heart,</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>gently daub your bleeding wounds,</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>and wrap big sister arms around you.</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>But know, little sister, if only I could,</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>I surely would,</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><strong><em>turn back time. </em></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"></span></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-6271868310360042662010-08-04T20:48:00.005-05:002010-08-04T20:53:10.928-05:00The River Rises Up in the Night<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXAbOoQ5G-xy5kKk_587QJKTJczzzKo6oGjpbD6pDmjt5rIwbygaZJdPiqKHtbCf8QOy3WemX3xW8Db1zV6W43SU7Kk_HrhEmrVaUmoMpsU8xxz7U72LrLQjRaTh8e7UpvaJl1ldI_Ynt/s1600/CIMG2615.JPG"><img border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXAbOoQ5G-xy5kKk_587QJKTJczzzKo6oGjpbD6pDmjt5rIwbygaZJdPiqKHtbCf8QOy3WemX3xW8Db1zV6W43SU7Kk_HrhEmrVaUmoMpsU8xxz7U72LrLQjRaTh8e7UpvaJl1ldI_Ynt/s400/CIMG2615.JPG" /></a> </div><span style="color:#ffffff;">One of my old free-verse poems will be included in Lyrical Iowa 2010.</span> <div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; CLEAR: both"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BACKGROUND: 0% 50%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial" border="0" alt="Posted by Picasa" align="middle" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" /></a></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; CLEAR: both"></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; CLEAR: both"><strong><em><span style="color:#003333;">The River Rises Up in the Night. </span></em></strong></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; CLEAR: both"><br /><strong><em><span style="color:#003333;">Wet beads cling to everything metal:<br />stanchions, guy wires, the bow hook<br />left leaning against the cockpit door<br />all glaze in tiny shimmering drops of light.<br /><br />The river rises up in the night. Towels hung<br />to dry, now more sodden than the day before.<br />Her smoky wetness drifts into my bed; I awaken<br />damp and clammy, taste her earthy scent;slither<br />from my bunk, glide up the ladder into the shadows.<br /><br />The river rises up in the night, licks my pajamas<br />with a cool wet tongue, brushes her fragile fog<br />through my tangled hair. Vapors permeate my flesh,<br />diffuse into my soul, swirl beyond the margins of myself.<br /><br />The river rises up in the night, works her magic<br />with smoke and mirrors, burns scenes<br />of mystical madness onto her tree lined banks<br />until I, and the river, dissolve into one.<br /></span></em></strong></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-71516377897291285192010-07-20T15:10:00.001-05:002010-07-20T15:11:00.871-05:00Business Women of Pella, Iowa<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfpDK1bGSJP3kwzbLHuXJPFLJnD7_l85vQU-JSAJuziXVMJ8flacQULefYqbJ4_NnPn9Ot8WYShfAjG8M4QUJBVLVm5UvMOF1QR_E2djbxt81yAWld8C9kYhoXZM5_GGA3s23QBupuVit/s1600/Book+Events-1.jpg"><img border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfpDK1bGSJP3kwzbLHuXJPFLJnD7_l85vQU-JSAJuziXVMJ8flacQULefYqbJ4_NnPn9Ot8WYShfAjG8M4QUJBVLVm5UvMOF1QR_E2djbxt81yAWld8C9kYhoXZM5_GGA3s23QBupuVit/s400/Book+Events-1.jpg" /></a> </div><br />We had a wonderful chat with the Business Women of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pella</span> last night. We were small in number, but we had a wonderful dinner provided by by the Culinary Arts program of the local college and great conversation. Nancy read "<em>Joy in the Morning</em>," from her book, "Womankind," and all the women were charmed by little Cassandra and the saga of her stolen jump rope. <div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; CLEAR: both"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BACKGROUND: 0% 50%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial" border="0" alt="Posted by Picasa" align="middle" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" /></a></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-53339770319330843382010-06-01T08:41:00.005-05:002010-06-01T08:47:51.992-05:00Good News from Imagine a Woman International: June 1, 2010This year the Imagine a Woman poem is celebrating its 15th year anniversary with a new website and new programs and opportunities for personal growth and professional enhancement. You're invited to the Launch of the IAW Coach Certification Program, today June 1. Make your professional dreams come true by joining the “Imagine a Woman” Team as a certified Facilitator-Coach. Circle the Globe with IAW and launch, grow, and enhance your woman-empowering coaching business, ministry, therapy practice, agency, or ministry. IAW provides a READY-MADE, READY-TO-GO “Imagine a Woman” NICHE for you at <a href="http://www.imagineawoman.com/">http://www.imagineawoman.com/</a>.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#ff99ff;">Imagine a Woman<br /><br /></span></em><span style="color:#ff99ff;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Imagine a woman who believes it is right and good she is a woman.<br />A woman who honors her experience and tells her stories.<br />Who refuses to carry the sins of others within her body and life.<br /><br />Imagine a woman who trusts and respects herself.<br />A woman who listens to her needs and desires.<br />Who meets them with tenderness and grace.<br /><br />Imagine a woman who acknowledges the past's influence on the present.<br />A woman who has walked through her past.<br />Who has healed into the present.<br /><br />Imagine a woman who authors her own life.<br />A woman who exerts, initiates, and moves on her own behalf.<br />Who refuses to surrender except to her truest self and wisest voice.<br /><br />Imagine a woman who names her own gods.<br />A woman who imagines the divine in her image and likeness.<br />Who designs a personal spirituality to inform her daily life.<br /><br />Imagine a woman in love with her own body.<br />A woman who believes her body is enough, just as it is.<br />Who celebrates its rhythms and cycles as an exquisite resource.<br /><br />Imagine a woman who honors the body of the Goddess in her changing body.<br />A woman who celebrates the accumulation of her years and her wisdom.<br />Who refuses to use her life-energy disguising the changes in her body and life.<br /><br />Imagine a woman who values the women in her life.<br />A woman who sits in circles of women.<br />Who is reminded of the truth about herself when she forgets.<br /><br />Imagine yourself as this woman.</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:78%;"> ~ Patricia Lynn Reilly</span></span>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-71701856160045901302010-05-25T16:48:00.002-05:002010-05-25T17:03:50.249-05:00Book Club<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKGwMAPWbisaf2spkkOfH7IVcgrUUzS9ORme6Nckxzl9o91nC1dvkhfYlJvPnt8tllWVC8TX9p48qKkuGA4PoJ9LD-BMv7V20pZiQ5-oP4AxM9QTrwMjRbg6LB27sJl7HX1PdpyfpN0iT/s1600/bookgroup.jpg"><img border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKGwMAPWbisaf2spkkOfH7IVcgrUUzS9ORme6Nckxzl9o91nC1dvkhfYlJvPnt8tllWVC8TX9p48qKkuGA4PoJ9LD-BMv7V20pZiQ5-oP4AxM9QTrwMjRbg6LB27sJl7HX1PdpyfpN0iT/s400/bookgroup.jpg" /></a> </div><p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"><em>Top row left to right Ellen, Michele, Judy, Anne, Janet and Suzanne.</em></span></p><p align="center"><span style="color:#000000;"><em>Bottom row left to right Cathy, Darlene, Rita, and Joanie</em></span></p><p><br />I "met" with the most lovely group of women this afternoon. The Book Club of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ormond</span> Beach, Florida had read <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Womankind</span></em> and one member, a nurse practitioner who coincidentally went to the same nursing school I did, invited me to join <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">them</span> for the discussion. Oh the wonders of the Internet! Thanks ladies! It was most enjoyable! </p><p>Make it a great evening!<br /><br />~Nancy </p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; CLEAR: both"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BACKGROUND: 0% 50%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial" border="0" alt="Posted by Picasa" align="middle" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" /></a></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-69496779373826146472010-05-24T20:59:00.008-05:002010-11-21T21:35:40.150-06:00Baby Monk<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgnk8i8b3AvMGIplvsMm_7-Hzeae-7WAhyvJw8IHE6Vl3sWSMS5YYMtLGiv2ZAOqQVOUHrQ_i99MWrNbE1vpy7G_sK6UfY_3mxrw_x_PnR2O3rJyY_PeQ77c-DTKAvKSdEAADtxNGfxtBQ/s1600/China+%26+Tibet+2007-125.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgnk8i8b3AvMGIplvsMm_7-Hzeae-7WAhyvJw8IHE6Vl3sWSMS5YYMtLGiv2ZAOqQVOUHrQ_i99MWrNbE1vpy7G_sK6UfY_3mxrw_x_PnR2O3rJyY_PeQ77c-DTKAvKSdEAADtxNGfxtBQ/s400/China+%26+Tibet+2007-125.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: 0% 50%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><em>Baby Monk<br />
Baby monk with almond eyes,<br />
Do you miss your mother?<br />
Sent so young, so far away,<br />
called to live with others.<br />
<br />
Baby Monk with cherry cheeks<br />
Worn rough by air-thin mountain<br />
Family chosen at age three,<br />
blessed yak butter flowing fountain.<br />
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Baby monk in crimson drape,<br />
street begging is your earning.<br />
Sandaled feet trudge ancient streets,<br />
prayer wheel clockwise turning.<br />
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Baby monk your quiet smile<br />
touches me like no other.<br />
Baby boy with almond eyes,<br />
do you miss your mother?</em></span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"></span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: 78%;">Nancy Leigh Harless</span></span></em></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: 78%;">2007 Llasha, Tibet</span></em></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-41415950151138791662010-05-24T11:35:00.001-05:002010-05-24T19:35:43.807-05:00Book Club From My TreehouseI'm looking forward to chatting with a group of women in Florida tomorrow.Isn't this an amazing world that we live in - one where you can sit in your tree house in SE Iowa and be part of a Book Club in Florida, or anywhere for that matter! I look forward to it. <br />
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I haven't been writing for a long time now, but am starting to think it's time to get back to it. I've been the ear for so many women, so many stories. It's time to stop being lazy. It's time to be their voice.<br />
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Make it great day!<br />
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~ NancyNorm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-87852073179018062012010-04-08T14:44:00.001-05:002010-04-08T14:46:53.698-05:00Friends of The Macomb Library<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbdUEQzPYj9_u-R_du4YFgGnuzbiB6JYav3pPen_KkO9qKOdFt7z6k80n3gqfnIOeGR3cWp2kjN-Rjjs2cu1srhOY4vbfDEVCjn7pXQie64XU-Gj6tI234QBYXVRLXdqfvbTm8nKcG0QJ/s1600/Womankind+Cover.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CLEAR: both" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbdUEQzPYj9_u-R_du4YFgGnuzbiB6JYav3pPen_KkO9qKOdFt7z6k80n3gqfnIOeGR3cWp2kjN-Rjjs2cu1srhOY4vbfDEVCjn7pXQie64XU-Gj6tI234QBYXVRLXdqfvbTm8nKcG0QJ/s320/Womankind+Cover.jpg" /></a><span style="color:#ffcc66;">I'll be speaking tonight at the annual dinner for The Friends of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Macomb</span> Library and reading from <strong><em>Womankind</em></strong>.<br /><br />I've also recently received a few invitations to attend Book Clubs. Some I'll be able to go in person.; Others, too far <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">away</span> to travel, I'll attend via <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Skype</span> on the Internet, or on speaker phone. </span><br /><span style="color:#ffcc66;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ffcc66;">I absolutely love joining the discussion about the stories of <strong><em>Womankind</em></strong>, so if your club would like to invite me just send an email - womankindconnection@gmail.com<br /><br />I look forward to hearing from you! </span><br /><span style="color:#ffcc66;">~ Nancy</span><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left; CLEAR: both"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BACKGROUND: 0% 50%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial" border="0" alt="Posted by Picasa" align="middle" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" /></a></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-14463004052972685572010-04-03T10:46:00.002-05:002010-05-24T21:32:18.515-05:00The Circle of Women<span style="color: #f3f3f3;">In every corner of the globe I've sensed “the sisterhood” of women. I've seen women struggle, sometimes against daunting odds. I've seen them nearly break under the weight of their lives. And I've felt an abundance of spirit, of wisdom, and of connection with these very women. Ordinary women who live with extraordinary grace. We've laughed together. We've cried. Through the sharing of her everyday story, each woman’s life has been validated and my own profoundly enriched. For the honor of being an ear for so many women, so many stories, I am deeply grateful.<br />
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This year as we celebrate the 15th anniversary of the “Imagine a Woman’ poem. It too has circled the globe, since 1995, inspiring women wherever it goes. This year Imagine a Woman International is celebrating the poem's 15th year anniversary with a new website and new programs and opportunities. You're invited to the "Imagine a Woman" poem's 15th Birthday Party TODAY APRIL 2, and throughout the month of April, at </span><a href="http://r20.rs6.net/tn.jsp?t=wjoygpdab.0.0.npzhx8bab.0&p=http://www.imagineAwoman.com&id=preview" target="_blank"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">http://r20.rs6.net/tn.jsp?t=wjoygpdab.0.0.npzhx8bab.0&p=http://www.imagineAwoman.com&id=preview</span></a><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">. I am a proud Launch Partner, and my book is featured at the Imagine a Woman website.<br />
Imagine circles of women all over the world. Imagine Crouching over an open fire near the Guatemalan border while Cecelia teaches the significance of making the small tortilla. Sitting under a cashew tree in Belize on a quiet rainforest afternoon, answering the young Mayan mother's question: "How can we make no more babies come?" Holding Ermine in your arms in a courtyard amid the children and chickens, weeping with her as she shares her poignant story of war. These are a few of the women of my book……Womankind Connection & Wisdom around the World. The women of “Womankind” congratulate Imagine a Women International today. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!<br />
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Namiste,<br />
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~ Nancy</span>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-22642700357965547722010-04-02T11:53:00.002-05:002010-04-02T11:55:48.112-05:00IMAGINE a WOMAN<span style="color:#ffccff;">Since 1995, the "Imagine a Woman" poem has circled the globe, inspiring books, screenplays, videos, life transitions, professional portfolios, ministries, coaching practices, relationships, virtual communities, social networks, and organizational missions. This year Imagine a Woman International is celebrating the poem's 15th year anniversary with a new website and new programs and opportunities for personal growth and professional enhancement. You're invited to the "Imagine a Woman" poem's 15th Birthday Party TODAY APRIL 2 at </span><a href="http://www.imagineawoman.com/"><span style="color:#ffccff;">http://www.imagineawoman.com/</span></a><span style="color:#ffccff;">. We'll be partying all day so get your party clothes on, invite your friends, and come on over.</span>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-28172686699561429222010-04-02T11:35:00.001-05:002010-04-02T11:40:28.304-05:00<span style="color:#000000;"></span>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-8530566034632787302010-01-05T20:51:00.009-06:002010-05-24T21:40:31.222-05:00ONE NURSE at a TIME<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; CLEAR: both" class="separator"><a style="MARGIN-LEFT: 1em; MARGIN-RIGHT: 1em" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW06k2OFjIyJdI_nVSCg3micm4kOiE8YAkfpqwqO29GZAxWPH8maFEJxF6bz2CBIGRrMH3qLc9hspD8QL9ftwL-FWh5jPGG8TpPzEIO6D71DUJSDw9ir0AemGvKezZzE6dRg1D5JDV5TF3/s1600/ONE+NURSE+at+a+Time.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW06k2OFjIyJdI_nVSCg3micm4kOiE8YAkfpqwqO29GZAxWPH8maFEJxF6bz2CBIGRrMH3qLc9hspD8QL9ftwL-FWh5jPGG8TpPzEIO6D71DUJSDw9ir0AemGvKezZzE6dRg1D5JDV5TF3/s320/ONE+NURSE+at+a+Time.jpg" gu="true" /></a></div><span style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: white;color:#330099;" ><span>Remember when I told you that while I was "story gathering" for Kaplan Publishing's upcoming anthology, Caring Beyond Borders I met a spunky nurse, Sue Averill, who works half the time internationally; the other half as an ER nurse in Seattle, Washington? Sue and her friend, Stacy Kelly formed the organization One Nurse at a Time. What a concept! It is a non profit created by these two nurses who are passionate about giving back to their local and global community through volunteer and humanitarian medical pursuits. They are dedicated to assisting other nurses enhance their profession as they too, look for opportunities to serve locally, nationally and internationally. And now I've been invited (well the truth is I sort of 'invited myself in' to be on the board of One Nurse at a Time! I look forward to helping raise awareness of what we nurses can do to change the world. </span></span>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7809801313716346498.post-8901905128816843212009-11-11T13:09:00.000-06:002009-11-11T13:09:48.928-06:00Last Book Event This Year<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhJ1qHJRxJmKHhwHBGlPZLAVDYWkOSVa1-yLdNRfcdMJF-MCm9fpf2VC_blU8GZ3135deqpJ30tSxj2rnR9NuZTrhciuXQwh9m5WatshR4o6ZU2lMot5CjBHicA1lquSiRF0zSR7nAcOv/s1600-h/10-02-09+Ivy+Bake+Shop+-0001.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CLEAR: both" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhJ1qHJRxJmKHhwHBGlPZLAVDYWkOSVa1-yLdNRfcdMJF-MCm9fpf2VC_blU8GZ3135deqpJ30tSxj2rnR9NuZTrhciuXQwh9m5WatshR4o6ZU2lMot5CjBHicA1lquSiRF0zSR7nAcOv/s400/10-02-09+Ivy+Bake+Shop+-0001.jpg" /></a><div style='clear:both; text-align:LEFT'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>Norm and Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09862713670458359819noreply@blogger.com