Tiny Bubbles . . . er, Flowers

I love the crumpled bottom petal and the reflection of the flower in this photo.

Though the bloom isn't the focused center of the photo, the horizontal crescent of lacy stem, circular reflection of the light and triangular apex of my closed fingers, make the bright red a delicious spot of surprise.  

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The delicate frond-like leaves curl about my fingers like lace.

In the past, Nathan hasn't liked going on walks with me when I had my camera with me.  At the drop of a hat, I would stop and focus my camera on an interesting bird, insect, flower, tree, animal . . . while Nathan would keep walking, unaware that he was now walking alone.  Often, I would waunder off the path or crouch down behind trees or bushes where he couldn't see me.  Thus occupied, I could remain focused for quite a while before I came back to reality.  In the mean time, Nathan would have been calling my name and looking for me, frustrated and (sometimes) panicking.  

For the last few years, I have made it a point to keep my camera at home when Nathan and I are out.  

I now have even nicer cameras and Brent takes me out to parks and places to look for good shots. 

Unfortunately for Nathan, though, my iPhone now has camera apps that provide me with an incredible, quality photo--so I have a great camera in my pocket at all times.  Whenever I see a plant or flower I don't recognize, I immediately stop moving and start taking photos. 

If I can, if the flower is a weed, I'll grab a handful of it and take it with me until we've gotten to our destination.  Then I arrange the specimen on the sidewalk or back seat of the car and take photos.  

It is easier to get focused pictures that way--and Nathan gets to keep his sanity.  Provides both of us a calmer quality of life.

And calm is good.  

All Hail Caesar Weed . . . and Two Very Cool Water Birds

Purple Heron, Ardea Purpurea

Limpkin, Aramus guarauna

      I first met Caesar Weed some half a dozen years ago during a horticultural class I took at Palm Beach State College.  It was a full semester of all kinds of weeds—the majority of which, I was mildly irritated to find out, grew in my own yard.  

     The fact that there is a wild-growing vacant lot across the street from our home probably had something to do with it.  

     Most of the weeds were also what I would call “wild flowers.”  The plants grew during specific months of the year and tended to spread out horizontally, sending down rootlets along the stems as they grew.  The flowers were small, usually about the same size as the nail on my pinky finger.  

The flowers, close up, however, made up for their size with their colours and petal configurations.  What appeared as a spot of yellow or purple in the middle of a green patch turned out to be unexpectedly complex arrangements of unusually shaped petals.  The stamens were frosted with vivid pollen grains. 

     Most of the names of the grasses and plants and sedges have escaped my conscious mind.  Caesar Weed, for some reason, is an exception.  

I think it is because of the leaves.  They are stiff and covered with minute hairs that give them the feel of fine sandpaper.  Long after I pick a plant to take it home and photograph it, the leaves are ridged and the flowers pristine.  Most weeds, once separated from their roots, begin immediately to wilt and the flowers to close up.

 Green Deane, a blogger, (www.eattheweeds.com/caesar-weed-sampler/) writes that Caesar Weed, Urena lobster, is also called burr mallow or pink burr, and is edible.  The plant was imported to grow as a source of food. The blooms are edible, as are the young leaves.  The root can be boiled and the tea used in place of aspirin or used for stomach ache--it is also an anti-bacterial. Unfortunately, it is no longer harvested, being considered "famine food," and is labeled invasive.  It grows equally well in marshes and in dry soil when it rains enough. The leaves have "star shaped hairs" on the back so that even cows, who have no teeth on their bottom jaw, won't eat them. (end quote)

I also remember the plant because in the far corner of my yard, on a neighbor’s side of the chain link fence, is a respectable stand of Caesar Weed.  I do my best to keep the plant away from the clusters of pineapple plants growing in that corner—but I don’t really mind that my efforts haven't eradicated the plant entirely.  

I like the fact that I remember its name.  I like to feel the leaves when I rub one between my fingers.  I love the tiny, purple blooms that pepper the long stems.  I like that the plant reminds me of the few years ago when I was taking classes every semester and learning about the plants and trees that grow around me.

I like learning—and Caesar Weed will always be a part of that time in my life.

I don’t have many close friends, and this weed feels like a friend every time I see it.

The birds are another matter.  Both are unfamiliar to me.  Reading about them tells me that they are plentiful in Florida—but I don’t frequent the marshes where they spend their time.  I love getting photos of birds from Florida a place where ibis are as common as robins in the North.  

A Bird, A Flower, A Butterfly

Black Swallowtail FL 2015

White Oleander, Jupiter FL 2015

Young Sandhill Crane FL 2015

I have been going through some of the photographs in my collection. The crane and butterfly were images from the Stuart Youth Trek in July 2015.  The oleander is growing outside of our Chapel in Jupiter FL. 

Brent gave me a wonderful camera years ago and another really cool one just a month ago.  I haven't taken the time to master either . . . . but I enjoy puttering around with both of them.  While Nathan was getting his new phone (early Christmas present) registered, I waundered around the store, looking at the computers.  My desk computer is late-2009 and the laptop that I am using right now came into my life mid-2010.  In today's terms, I am working with Middle Aged Tools.  The baby that I would like to take in hand is a 15 inch MacBook Pro with a 1 Terabite memory.  

Perhaps next Christmas?  

Our home is full of noise right now.  Caleb and Lauren are home with us during the day. We have a tread mill (for me) and an elliptical machine (for Nathan) to use while we watch TV.  That brings more motion into our home than I've seen in a long time.  

This isn't really much of an essay.  The pictures aren't really much to look at.  I just wanted to check in and make sure that I still had something in my head.

Tonight Brent invited me to go for a walk on the beach--as long as we didn't talk about the kids.  It was wonderful.  Tomorrow he offered to go with me to one of the parks and use the cameras he's given me.  I'll have more to write about and more photos to share tomorrow evening.  

I can hardly wait.

What I Have Been Given: What I Have to Give

What I Have Been Given:  What I Have to Give

Carolyn Hendry

My daughter Lauren made this for me as a gift.  The initials in the book are B&G for Boy and Girl.  The initials on  this tree are C&B--for Carolyn and Brent.

At the Ward Christmas party last night, I got to tell Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree.  At the end, I returned to our table, where Nathan is crying in deep, heartfelt sobs.  Asked  later, he told me that he felt deeply how much the tree had given—and still the boy wanted more.  Nathan’s Asperger’s usually keeps him insulated from strong feelings by walling him safely inside a shell.  He knows that God loves him, that the Lord knows him and his desires, but he is wired differently from most of us.  What he is feeling doesn’t reach his conscious mind.  I am glad that the story was able to work its way into his heart that night.

After I told the story, Mike came to me and thanked me for the story—he had never heard it before.  Two other members also thanked me for telling it.  For the first time in my life, I feel gratitude for the way that they reached out to me.  Like Nathan, I’m also wired strangely because of my manic depression.  I hold  far away from me what others think or feel about what I do.  It started with reactions to my manic depression—“water off a duck’s back” Brent would remind me when I had to be with those who thought I should just “snap out of it” and quit looking for attention.  For years I didn’t even bother to read Thank You notes that people would send me.  I figured that I had done what I’d done because I wanted to or felt inspired to do.  That someone would notice my actions or feel any kind of response to it was meaningless to me.  

The fact that I have always been able to open my heart to Brent without reserve—and that he has never violated that trust—is beginning to work its way from my inside to my outside.  As love and gratitude come from others, my spirit is enriched and I feel thankful for their good wishes.

When I was sixteen, I made a list of things that I wanted to accomplish by the time I was thirty.  One of those was to influence people so that they were better after having heard me tell a story, give a talk, sing, or read something I’d written. During high school, I wrote incessantly—pounds and pounds of paper filled with my hurried script.  I couldn’t write fast enough to record everything I was feeling, everything I wanted to share. I wrote essays and recorded events in my life from the perspective of someone floating at ceiling height . . . as if I were watching the drama of my life happen on a stage.

Sociologists and those who study world literature say that there  are no new stories—only the retelling of seven basic, formulaic plots.  The record of an individual would contain years when he overcame some incredible difficulty, how he became a success some aspect of his life, what he sought to obtain through his labors, when he left home to face the world on his own, happy times, tragic occasions, and—as when we are baptized—the rebirth of his soul as he embraces truth.

Elder Eyring, in October 2015, declared that “No matter where we go, our Priesthood goes with us.”  I personalize that for me:  “No matter where I go, my face, my soul, my heart, my reputation—all go with me.”  I carry the baggage of my personal history with me every day.  I will bring this lifetime of baggage with me when I die and face Christ—how I faced trials, what I spent my time on, how I acted when I was far from home and no one around me knew me, the joys I treasure, the sorrows that weigh down my heart, if I sought out and then embraced the truths of the Gospel.  

I see myself after this life recognizing Christ, dropping everything and running to Him to put my arms around him and feel His around me.  I want to thank Him for Brent, for my children, for my parents and brother and sisters—for all the incredible things I learned during my lifetime.  I want to thank Him for horses and for books to read; for dark chocolate and my body; for college and for limiting high school to just four agonizing years.  I want to press my face into his chest—for I imagine that I will still be 5’ 2” when my body is resurrected—and smell the light of his Being.  

Chris Young sings a song, “The Shoebox.”  In the song, he finds an old shoebox as he is cleaning out a closet.  He finds a card made for him by his mother.  In it she counsels him: “Don't forget to fill an old shoebox full of things to look back on.” 

The first time I heard it I wanted to rush back home and pull out a container that I keep underneath my bed.  In it is the first (and only) doll that my dad bought for my first daughter.  There is an ice scraper from my Grandpa Burton’s gas station—the first in Star Valley, Wyoming.  There is a rabbit made for me by my daughter: yellow flannel, pink paper, tape and thin white string.  There is a heavy, flat Christmas tree ornament made by my son with his pre-school picture in the center.  There is a plaster handprint, painted red, that my second daughter gave me for a Mother’s Day long ago and a Christmas angel my mother made out of a lace handkerchief.  These are all part of my story.  I may share a common storyline with all of humanity, yet my story is like my finger print, or my DNA.  It is impossible to mistake it for any other person’s. 

The items in my box, and hundreds more, fill the baggage I’m amassing right now.  Some things are heavier and harder to carry than others.   There are things marked by despair, others saturated with joy, some marred by shame.  I cling even to the difficult objects—they are part of my story, irrevocably melded to my soul.  I want all of these elements there when I open my bags to Christ’s view.  The miles and years that have made me who I am; carved a heart that I hope will be an acceptable offering.

At the end of The Giving Tree, the boy returns to the tree, that loved and gave all she had, that the boy could be happy.  The tree is stripped of her fruit, branches and her trunk chopped down.  Even though the story line follows one of the seven universal plots, the events themselves happened to a singular tree and a specific boy—grown to an old man.  We are left at the end of the story with an unforgettable image of an old, tired man resting as he sits on a stump.  This stump who discovers that, even though she thought she had nothing to offer, she is just exactly what her boy needs.  And she is happy.

Little Black Beans--In a Box

It happened today.  I was cleaning up the Church Nursery room after class was over.  In the corner of one of the storage closets, I found a small black bean.  From more than half a decade ago, evidence that the things I did with the Nursery-aged children still exists—hidden in places that no one thinks to look or to clean.  Those children spent 18 months of their life with me (from the time they were one and a half years old, until they reach their third birthday) for two hours every Sunday.  In those hours, I saw changes in each of them.

They learned that they were very important individuals.  When I asked them a question:  “Would you like some pretzels?”, I waited for an answer.  It could be a nod or a word or a finger pointing to where they wanted them placed on their small, paper snack plate.  Some, accustomed to a home where they were still considered a baby—took a little while to realize that if they didn’t answer, they didn’t received any of that treat.  The ability to make their own decisions was frustrating to some, irritating to others, ultimately liberating for each of the children.

I met this nursery member last week for the first time.

When I entered the nursery room for the first time, it was a bare, stripped down room.  No pictures, no colour, no music, no fun.  I soon added red curtains for the two windows.  I put together puzzles:  Noah’s ark, three children on an imaginary flying machine, a town scene complete with a train and rows of multi-coloured homes.  These were framed and hung on the walls.  

Old, broken toys and toys too old or too young for the children were replaced.  I loved combing stores for puzzles, blocks, and large activity cubes that could be set about the room on the floor.  I made a large quilt that had 18’x24’ padded patches distributed and spaced evenly over its area.  During reading time, each child had their own soft place to sit—each had a space defined by the unchanging pattern of the quilt.  

For lesson time, there were small, identical, tan chairs to sit in.  The small chairs each got a calico cover—different colours and shape designs ensured that every chair was different.  These covers stopped arguments that “This is MY chair!”  They picked the chair they wanted for the day—and no one else could sit on it during the two hour class time.  Ownership.  

This young man likes the chair with the rainbow on the back of it.

I introduced new foods at snack time.  Old familiars like fish-shaped crackers, and very thin stick pretzels were joined by baby carrots, apples that I cut into thin slices while sitting with them at the snack table.  I brought raspberries and small bowls filled with applesauce or yoghurt.  There were bananas and saltine crackers spread with peanut butter.  We made ice cream. 

There was routine:  opening play time with quiet toys:  puzzles, activity cubes, drawing tablets.  From there we had a short lesson and singing time.  Snack time went from a rushed-hurry-eat-don’t-make-a-mess-time to a pleasant, intricate pattern.  Instead of the adults smearing each child’s hands with liquid sanitizer, the children went into the attached bathroom and washed their hands.They learned to wait in line for a turn to rub hands with soap and then play for a few seconds in the running water as they rinsed their hands off.  The children helped to set the table and we had a short (very short) prayer on the food, ending with a joyfully loud chorus of “A-MEN!!” 

During the year, I called the children’s parents and arranged for me to visit each child in their home.  I brought cookies and spread each one with icing, watching my Nursery child decorate them with sprinkles and chocolate chips.  After I left, the preschooler got to show her older brothers and sisters, mother and father what she did that day with her teacher.  

Once or twice, I sent a handmade card (with a few stickers enclosed) to each of my students.  I told them that I was looking forward to seeing them on Sunday.  I told them that I loved them.

I spent lots of time (too much time my husband sometimes thought) planning the short lessons.  There were also colouring pages and other art projects for the children to make.  They brought what they had done home with them to show their families what they had done that day in Nursery.  

The number of students varied.  Some Sundays there were ten or eleven children, other times two or three.  One Sunday only a single child came.  When the mother saw that her daughter would be alone with me, she offered to keep her pre-schooler with her for the next two hours of Church meetings—embarrassed that I would be lavishing two hours on “just” her child.  I thanked her for her thoughtfulness, but reassured her that it would be wonderful to have the next two hours with just the two of us.  

One the members of our nursery now.  She is a kind, curious young girl.

It was a unique opportunity to get to know this youngest of women.  I was enriched by that time . . . I still remember the two hours I spent with her.

After all this remembering, I need to return to the small, black bean I found while cleaning after Nursery today.  That bean had come from a, well, a bean box.

As an added activity, I decided to bring the Nursery children something that my own children had loved when they were pre-school age:  a bean box.

This box I brought into the Nursery room, was as large as I could manage and we played in it just as we would have in a sandbox.  There were things to measure with and things to pour with and things to scoop up the beans with.  The rule was that the beans were to stay in the box—but of course that was really hard to enforce once we’d been playing for a while—so I laid a large tablecloth on the floor before the bean box came out.  In the end, the theory was that stray beans would land on the cloth and be easily swept up and returned to their storage container. 

For nursery, we used a light green, rectangular, cotton table cloth.  The bean box was an under-the-bed storage container—so it was long with sides just about 7 inches high.  Usually there were several things going on during play time, but when the table cloth was laid down and the bean box opened, all the children drew together and sat around the box.  Big spoons, measuring cups, funnels, a few small dump trucks and hands . . . lots of hands . . . moved the beans from one side of the box to the other.  They took turns filling up the teacher’s cup and then letting the teacher pour a cascade of silken beans over their outstretched hands.  It was a lesson in self-control and taking turns and finding joy in the feeling the constant motion of innumerable tiny spheres.  Thousands of tiny, shiny black beans flowing as if they were water.  

And escaping.

Scooting into corners; hiding inside the folds of the table cloth, skittering underfoot as everyone “helped” to capture the beans and return them to their family home . . . even in a room that appeared to have gotten every particle back and in place . . . still there were individuals who escaped.  

One of them tucked himself into the corner of the storage cupboard, waiting more than 5 years.  Waiting until I was released to fill other callings.  Waiting until I was asked to return and be the nursery leader again.  Waiting until I found him today.

I found him today and along with him, a flood.  There was a five years’ flood of old memories of children who had come into the nursery.  At a year and a half, they were just able to speak a few words but, as yet, unable to sit through a five minute lesson.  They grew to three years old in a moment in my mind.  Eager eyes, shy smiles, and increasing confidence—this remembering all came washing over me—like a cascade of beans poured into the bean box—over outstretched hands.  

That bean box was five years ago.  After I was released as Nursery leader, I left and the new leader threw away the beans and someone else took the box home.  The only part that remains is the light green table cloth.  This morning I spread it on the floor underneath the bubble machine and the three children danced about, heads tilted up, hands outstretched, feeling the tender “pop” of bubbles as they landed on their fingers.

A Good Day: Red Cone Ginger and Brazilian Red Cloak

Like the tulip tree that I wrote about before, this bush is right outside the building where I have Managerial Accounting this semester.  It is Megaskepasma erythrochlamys--I recognized it as a Brazilian Red-Cloak when I took a plant identification class a few years ago  It was blooming when classes started in August--and has continued to produce tall bracts of flowers.  

The bush is thoroughly tropical:  that is, it has huge leaves with flowers that pop bright red against them.  It was blooming when classes started in August--and has continued to produce tall bracts of flowers.

The flower bracts are about 18 inches high.

Spent flowerlettes show these long, white petals in the middle of the shorter red ones.  In the photo below, you can see two pairs of white petals at the base of the bract.

This view shows more of the inner, white pairs of petals all along the length of the flower.

The leaves have a long "drip spout" that keeps the rain from sticking to the surfaces and giving black  sooty mold--yeah, there really is stuff called "black sooty mold" that can coat the surfaces of leaves--preventing exposure to the sun and the process of photosynthesis.

I just spend part of this afternoon outside washing the black stuff off of an avocado tree.  The scale bugs were about done for the year--more than half the leaves were already dead.  I sloughed off the dried leaves, scrubbed the branches and remaining blackened leaves with slightly soapy water until it was gone.  When I first discovered the gardenia tree in my backyard 9 years ago, its leaves were also covered with this black, waxy layer.  I did the same thing then--and the tree is still alive and doing really well.  

Not a technically good photograph, but it gives a feeling of how big the whole plant is.

This afternoon was windy--actually cold until work warmed me up.  I was smart enough to wear gloves so my hands didn't chap . . . and my arms didn't get cut up when I washed off the leaves of the pineapple plants at the base of the tree.  After washing off the mom-plant, I found two babies that I detached and brought indoors.  I washed them off with a toothbrush in the kitchen sink--they are on the front porch waiting for tomorrow so that I can plant them at the base of one of the pine trees in the side yard.  

The leaves are alternating opposite attached to the stem.  When I broke off one to take a photo of the back of it, it came off with a cheerful "pop!"

back of the leaf

A few days after taking pictures of the Brazilian Red-Cloak, I was meeting Brent for lunch and found these Red Cone Ginger plants in the atrium between buildings (at FPL, Juno Beach).  The colours of the two plants are just alike:  the texture of the leaves and flowers are completely different.  The Red-Cloak leaves are soft and tender--the Ginger has stiff, smooth leaves . . . which are long . . . beginning at the base of the plant instead of along a rising stem.

These flowers are completely different from the Red-Cloak, too.  The flower bract opens like a pine cone and, at its base, sprouts off new stalks of flower.  It reminds me of the pineapple plants.  I imagine if I took one of these new flower starts that I could get an entirely new plant.  

base of the flower cone

Flower cone before opening.  Just like a Bird of Paradise, it slips up and out from the protective cover of the leaf stem.  

A mature flower with all of its "babies" also filled out.

Brent and I have been talking about what to do about the house.  His body is slowing down even faster than mine is . . . a fact that he ignores almost as well as I do.  The yard takes time and energy and money.  I have been collecting cool plants, bushes, and trees--which costs.  My initial desire to focus on my traditional favorites (mostly roses, fruit trees) has completely wained.  I now only plant things that would do well here if left alone in the middle of a field.  The avocado trees are beginning to bug me enough that if another one gets sickly, I am ready to simply have Nathan chop it down and Umburto dig out the roots.  I have fig trees that do not give figs, peach trees that do not give peaches, and avocado trees that do not give avocados.

On the brighter side, I have a mulberry bush that is brimming with tender, fuzzy berry starts; a lime tree that has one lime growing on it already and lots of white blooms ready to burst;  a mango tree covered with blooms, a Barbados cherry tree that produces cherries almost all year round.  Our star-fruit tree is a constant producer and the banana trees have cascades of green bananas . . . which will either freeze in a freak cold-snap or all ripen at the same time.  

When Brent was a child, he remembers his dad asking him what he wanted to do when he grew up.  He answered that he wanted to grow bananas--which his dad laughed at and told him would never happen.  Brent's mom corrected him and told Brent that he could do whatever he wanted to do.  He could do anything.

And now he grows bananas.

We have been following Irish Mike's Big, Giant Swords with interest.  He started by creating huge swords for his own pleasure and, this week, was able to pay some of his partners (who do parts of the swords so it can become a viable business) an actual paycheck.  !!!   My dad's own Orabrush business miracle began in a more traditional way--not on YouTube--and also grew into a company that created jobs.  

I wonder what I will do.

Today I worked in the yard (yeah!), went to class (yeah!), paid bills (yeah!), spend time with Nate (yeah!), and wrote in one of my blogs (especially yeah!).  

It has been a good day.

Back Again With an African Tulip Tree

Close-up of the inner flower.

Full-grown tree

These flowers, still attached to the tree, can barely be seen in the photo of the entire tree above.

Front and back of the leaflets.  Below the size and shape are easier to gauge.

 

Making Things Happen: TALK Taylor Swift singing, Irish Mike making swords, Carolyn writing words

It used to be that I wrote about everything . . . in the same way that Taylor Swift writes her songs from her diary, I used to write my life out in my diary.  It helped me to make sense of it or at least it helped me to put it behind me.  Something in my soul misses it terribly, and so I stay up late tonight to compose my thoughts.

Brent James Hendry--my one true life's passion.

My children:  Megan, Lauren and Nathan

The same three, more than a decade later.

I watched a Discovery Channel program--Really Big Swords--about an Irish fellow, calls himself Irish Mike, who loves to create weapons that actually only exist in places like anime serials and movies.  Tonight he created a sword for an American heavy weight athlete--a woman who is one of the top ten strongest people in the world.  He explained that her life must be very lonely--little tiny gymnasts got all sorts of endorsement offers when they won gold medals at the Olympics . . . but this woman had gotten none.  His daughter loved princess make-believe and her father wanted to give her another way of seeing the world--make her aware of other options she had for her life.  He didn't like the fact that princesses were suppose to just sit around and look pretty, instead of making things happen.  

Small detail from chair that I painted and gave to a young girl in Florida--
something I made happen.

I have been fascinated by Taylor Swift for the last few years.  Not only is she beautiful and tall and thin and successful--but she is doing exactly what she has wanted to do since she was old enough to sing Twinkle Twinkle, accompanying herself on a toy piano at 4.  At 11 she sang the national anthem to a stadium of football fans--the next day at school she sat down at lunch and everyone else at the table got up and moved.  Her mother said that she hated to have things like that happen--that she hurt inside when things like happened--to her daughter, but she needed to experience them.  She also, though, gave her daughter a guitar when she was young--and when Taylor wanted to go to Nashville TN--she took her there over Spring Break.  Then her family moved there so that she could apprentice to RCA recording studios when she was 12 . . . 13?

My realm of possibilities was so different from that--not that I didn't get my share of "shunning" and actually cruel bullying during middle and high school--but education was always the mantra that hung about our house.  Dad lost jobs, but then he also got new ones because of his education.  I knew that there were times when we didn't have enough money--but I don't remember ever being on welfare or getting help from the Church because we couldn't pay the rent.  We always lived in homes that we owned--except in Dominican Republic where we rented a large house.  We moved often--an average of about every two years all told--with Dad's jobs.  Never for me or any of my other brothers and sisters--Dad told me that he and mom decided that while us kids were young, that the two of them would forgo lessons or training so that us kids could have the resources to do those things.  But my passions--acting and riding horses weren't considered "real" to my family in the sense that Taylor's singing was.

Peter, Oops, and Roo--three dwarf rabbits that Brent welcomed into the house because he loved me so very much.

Perhaps it is just that I did not have the passion for these things that Taylor did.  When we were in elementary school, Mom always had the three of us:  me, Susan and Martha, singing and performing.  After we sang before the audience, I would continue to sing as I wandered around--hoping that someone would hear me, recognize my talent, and pick me out to become a star.

Kind of like one of Irish Mike's daughter's princesses . . . just waiting around until someone came to save me. 

Watching me watch myself:  through Brent's eyes, I am
always smart and brave and beautiful.

However, there is one thing that I share with Taylor Swift that I hope neither of us every loses:  at various times during her concerts, they show a closeup of her face as she listens to the screaming crowd--loving her and supporting her and wild for her music (which is her).  She has never yet lost that look of amazement and wonder that she could be on stage, doing what she has always wanted to do, in front of people who love having her sing and perform for them.  

Taylor watches her audience as I have watched my own children--with amazement and wonder that such a privilege  could be mine.

My "Blessing" from Argentina.  It cost more to fly her home
from Argentina to Texas than it did to transport our whole
family back when Enron pulled us back to the U.S.

I walk around my yard, through my house, look at photos of my children as they have grown up, see the dedication and love in my husband's eyes as he watches me move about the house--and I am thrilled that I can be in a situation where everything I have every wanted has come true.  I am thin, though short, I have money to spend on travel and gifts (for others and myself) and classes at the local college.  While my father and mother couldn't make my dreams of riding horses or performing before adoring crowds available to me--my husband denied himself hobbies and new cars so that I could ride good horses and he never tires of listening to me sing or watch me perform with his whole, riveted attention.  

Curly--the first horse who was totally mine for a little while.
He taught me what it was to give everything to someone
who gives all they have to you.

During my manic phases, Brent has never blamed me or gotten angry with me--and even when I lost hope in myself and the Lord--he never did.  I am married to a man who has forgiven me my idiotic wrongs against himself simply and thoroughly--without my even needing to ask.  I am constantly amazed at the blessings and adventures that are mine.  There is LITERALLY nothing that I can think of that I want to do that is not possible for me to do when I want to do it.  

My pills are kicking in.   That's another thing that Taylor Swift has, at least never admitted, had a problem with--manic depression, panic attacks, chemical imbalances that screw around with how you see things and what you think they mean.  

I hope that Irish Mike's daughter gets to find all the options she needs to enable her to make decisions that will help her to be happy and honest and sane as she grows up.   I hope that Taylor Swift never becomes jaded and hardened by the money and notoriety that have been heaped upon her.  I hope that I can find just what it is that I want to be when I grow up . . . 56 years old this year, I think I am entitled to consider settling my mind down on some firmer footings than I have yet experienced.