women of deliberate backbone

ancient, adventurous, creative & protective

I’ve been so inspired the stories of women lately exhibiting remarkable backbone, even in light of very challenging circumstances. I think we all have a little more backbone in us when it’s required. As I created the stories of these women and the various backbones they’ve had to summon to carry on: ancient, adventurous, creative and protective.

What type of backbone is required of you right now?

fluid memories, summertime…

a key to successful relationships…

HUMILITY noun

(CAMBRIDGE DICTIONARY) the feeling or attitude that you have no special importance that makes you better than otherslack of pride

“Pride makes us artificial, humility makes us real.” —Thomas Merton

—Loyola Marymont University philosophy professor, Jason Baehr writes in “Humility and Strengths”

“… Minimally, a humble person is aware of, rather than oblivious to or in denial about, her limitations.

But such awareness is not sufficient for humility, for a person could be aware of but chronically irritated by or defensive about her limitations. As such, she would be less than humble. Accordingly, humility also involves accepting or “owning” one’s limitations.

…humility involves a fitting awareness and responsiveness, not just toward one’s limitations and weaknesses, but also toward one’s abilities and strengths.”

Humility is about knowing ourselves—our weaknesses, strengths and where there’s room for growth in our understanding of both.  The more I read, I think this trait may be the key to lasting relationships.  

Pride and arrogance don’t build a lot of trust in one another and in turn make forgiveness of our transgressions much more difficult.

Now, if that isn’t a thought worth pondering on this day of celebrating LOVE, what is?

Happy Valentine’s Day 2019!

SOURCE: https://www.rawstory.com/2019/02/trait-key-lasting-romance/

more prairie stories…

 

 

horizontal mystery ship—for Dad

HORIZONTAL MYSTERY SHIP

when you leave at seventeen
rarely home
more than two weeks at a time 
months, years and decades
can be surprisingly unreliable markers of adulthood

only once
in the summer of ‘88
a recent college grad
wide-eyed and wanderlust-fueled
my tonsils required more
I stayed a whole month

once healed, packed, and in possession of necessary visas
off to the southern hemisphere
a young pioneer 
in search adventure
and different stars

now, when visiting 
after a lifetime lived elsewhere
grey hairs visible
no matter my efforts
I find myself
sliding into a peculiar second adolescence of sorts

driving Dad’s truck 
windows down, hair blowing 
mile after mile of expansive, wild beauty 
the prairie 
a determined cellular homesteader 
forever staking a claim in my blood and bones

I want to sneak out to the bar
play Space Invaders
sadly, no longer a standard
unlike 1982
drink beer, eat junk food
and avoid the endless expectations of being a grown-up

Looking back with midlife sensibilities 
I realize
those late nights in high school
tenth grade, I believe
laser focused, playing Space Invaders
provided a surprisingly valuable education 

initials entered, quarters stacked
protect the bunkers, defeat the aliens
monitor the horizontal mystery ship with vigilance 
my peripheral vision unknowingly trained 
to notice things beyond immediate scope
bonus points pinged
while friends waited impatiently

twenty more minutes, please

under a waning August moon
only one lunar phase ago
I was still my father’s daughter
a middle-aged, South Dakota teenager
pretending time actually plays tricks
wanting desperately to disregard reality 

one more visit on the calendar
one more phone call
cheeseburger or ice cream cone 
one more evening watching
Everybody Loves Raymond
M.A.S.H. 
or Mayberry RFD

twenty more minutes, please

quarters stacked no longer
Space Invaders
the nearly forgotten teenage relic 
of a heartbroken
fifty-something
fatherless daughter

once again, 
I am protecting my bunkers
monitoring a new horizontal mystery ship
paying very close attention
to what's just beyond my immediate scope

just twenty more minutes, please

grief is messy & highly caloric.

I lost my Dad in the early morning hours of August 30th.  He was a generous, loving, humorous and complex man.  He also was in a great deal of pain. Thankfully he no longer is.  But, damnit, he isn’t here anymore either.  Now, I’m in pain and I would like to talk with him about what bullshit it is to lose someone I love.  He knew this pain, he lost his baby brother, my Uncle Tom, almost exactly one year ago.  

I flew home to South Dakota from Vermont the morning Dad died.  I wept through both airports—Burlington, Vermont and Chicago’s O’Hare. I had a light blanket wrapped around my shoulders that dried my tears as needed.  I walked to my gate in Chicago, blanket draped and carrying a garment bag.  I caught the eye of a few people who offered nods of acknowledgement and held my gaze, maybe understanding that grief is messy.

Oddly, I kept hoping I could tell someone, anyone that I just lost my Dad.  I now understand what to do if I see someone else in the shape I was in.  To hell with privacy.  I will offer a hug.  Or I will buy them a coffee.  Or I will ask them why they are crying and listen, even if I only have a minute before my flight.

I arrived mid-afternoon.  Flowers, casseroles, baked goods, fruit baskets, cheese and meat trays had already begun arriving at the house.  The doorbell was ringing.  The landline was ringing.  Our cell phones were ringing and pinging.  Hugs and tears filled Mom’s back entryway and helped eased the weight of it all.

I knew the process of the “business” of death wasn’t going to be easy.  However, writing the obituary, picking out Dad’s casket and clothes, making phone calls and so on—these things kept us busy.  Busy is needed those first few days.  Making arrangements gave us something to focus on with a deadline, providing a little scaffolding to a messy emotional process.

There were times before the prayer service and funeral, I wanted the whole world to just leave me alone in my sorrow, because I just lost my Dad.

Thankfully the world didn’t.

I’m now keenly aware of how I didn’t give nearly enough attention to the loss of other people’s parents.  I’m sorry if I seemed cavalier.  I just didn’t know how much even a small gesture could mean.  I always thought of grief as a private process.  I understand better now what’s necessary to get through it all.

I’m so sorry for your loss, no matter how many years it’s been for you.

The outpouring of love, time and culinary talents from the good folks in Burke, South Dakota made it the whole process a lot more bearable.  No one would’ve loved having all of those goodies around more than John.  Right, Dad?  Although I think he would’ve hidden the bag of Dorothy’s famous peanut butter cookies in the freezer and pretended they were already gone.

I’m grateful to you all.  Thank you so much.

pie and coffee.JPG

PLEASE NOTE:  Is there a metabolic trick that helps burn the calories (mostly from homemade baked goods) that are delivered to the family during a time of loss?

grief + baked goods + casseroles + visiting + crying + fatigue = COMFORT

____________________________________________________________________

John Lowell Lillibridge lived 79 years, 3 months & 21 days.

Rest, in peace, Big Guy.

You will be greatly missed.

IMG_3445

 

Beware of this brain glitch.

The way our brain equates repetition for truth.

_______________________________________________

YOU ONLY USE 10 percent of your brain. 

Eating carrots improves your eyesight.

Crime in the United States is at an all-time high. 

 

NONE OF THESE STATEMENTS ARE TRUE.

They FEEL TRUE because of repetition. 

Crazy, huh?

Slogans should be persistently repeated until the very last individual has come to grasp the idea that has been put forward.”  

—Hitler in Mein Kampf

“But the facts don’t actually matter: People repeat them so often that you believe them. Welcome to the “illusory truth effect,” a glitch in the human psyche that equates repetition with truth. Marketers and politicians are masters of manipulating this particular cognitive bias—which perhaps you have become more familiar with lately.”

Source: Wired.com Article by Emily Dreyfuss

nice vector pop art retro comic  illustration. Woman whispering gossip

After I read this, I wondered…

What can I do if I notice my brain is on autopilot?

Pinch myself?  Snap a rubber band on my wrist?

OR…

Seek more sources to confirm or dispel my TRUTHS?

Let me know if you come up with a trick.

_________________________

SOURCE:  WANT TO MAKE A LIE SEEM TRUE? SAY IT AGAIN. AND AGAIN. AND AGAIN.

by Emily Dreyfuss


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is a picture always worth…

a thousand words?  Or do the stories we hold onto shape the narrative a lot more?  My Mom always told me that as a newborn I possessed a striking resemblance to Winston Churchill.  I can’t tell from the photo and I don’t actually really care.  I find it funny.  However, I’ve always held it to be the absolute gospel truth.

What other stories of greater consequence have I never questioned that I was told as a child?  

 

hey folks, don’t hide behind the camera.

Yesterday my friend Andrew and I were in his innovative home studio shooting some photographs for a series he’s working on.  I was wearing a mask for the shoot.  When we were done, it seemed like a waste to not take a few “unmasked” photos when the light and background were all set up.

I was reluctant to post this image today, not because of the quality of the image.  Nice work Andrew.  But why?  I think perhaps the “why” is; the veins/age spots on my hands, the wrinkles around my eyes and my grey roots awaiting a touch up (tomorrow).  However, while looking more closely I don’t only see those things.  I see that I’m wearing my favorite “uniform” of paint splattered khakis, a tank top and a cowboy shirt I’ve had and loved for twenty years.  Around my neck is a pendant my daughter, Willa made for me in her metals class.  I’m really relaxed.  Down the road I wholeheartedly believe I’ll be grateful to have this portrait.  Thanks Andrew.

 

Today I printed it at the #BCA studios on Pine Street in Burlington (thanks Renee).  I plan to write some details on the back so my grandkids or great grandkids will possess some information about me and who I was in March of 2018.

Don’t shy from the camera folks.  You’re going to want photographs of yourself.  Get your favorite ones printed.  Only having digital images is so different than actually holding a print in your hand—get multiples & share them broadly.

 

 

 

in the ruins…my love story

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