tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37622630498594199922024-02-07T19:40:14.953-08:00Beneath the TreesFinding the Sacred in Everyday LifeLeahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-74823771853102936962009-01-26T09:13:00.000-08:002009-01-26T09:15:16.948-08:00Where I amHey Everyone,<br />I know I've been absent on this blog for the last few months! I hope to pick it up again in the not too distant future, but for now you can find me here:<br /><a href="www.bryanrupphotography.wordpress.com">www.bryanruppphotography.wordpress.com</a><br /><br />Love,<br />LeahLeahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-1827576140446440212008-11-05T21:30:00.000-08:002008-11-05T21:38:55.502-08:00More from Poetry Class - Homestead<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1E3VBJ_NLjYSVxBcFhJ8bmD6k60dMXqJ_y7HqbgItM5z0L0vf2CcQL0UuV5DRxR0gNT7OQc_HlPmYJRWHKgcBRn9-L1QctMU5brWmhTy599zXVEGCxj3LuPXsp0GbC2iVQvj2YbOzMw/s1600-h/homestead.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1E3VBJ_NLjYSVxBcFhJ8bmD6k60dMXqJ_y7HqbgItM5z0L0vf2CcQL0UuV5DRxR0gNT7OQc_HlPmYJRWHKgcBRn9-L1QctMU5brWmhTy599zXVEGCxj3LuPXsp0GbC2iVQvj2YbOzMw/s320/homestead.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265414757381557202" /></a><br />Here is another poem that I wrote for class this semester. It needs a bit of tweaking before I turn in the final copy, but at least I've gotten the words out (that's more than half the battle). <br /><br />I've been spending a lot of time posting on the blog for our photography business lately: www.<a href="www.bryanruppphotography.wordpress.com">bryanruppphotography.wordpress.com</a><br />However, I do eventually plan on keeping up on this writing blog in the near future. We've got some exciting changes coming up in our lives that may allow for this so...I'll keep you posted. No pun intended (oh no, my husband is rubbing off on me) :) Anyways, enjoy the poem and let me know what you think.<br /><br /><strong>Homestead </strong> <br />My grandma came home <br />from a funeral, bringing in a pot,<br />a tree she received in remembrance of- <br />I don’t remember who.<br />She said that I could help her plant it,<br />and every year after<br />I marveled to see it grow<br /><br />the result of my tiny palms<br />pressed into the dirt, <br />securing one more Douglas Fir,<br />safely into it’s dark, native soil.<br />Shooting out needle green fingers,<br />It quickly outgrew my measly four feet<br />and now keeps watch over the creek <br /><br />where I used to play <br />on slippery smooth stones,<br />still in the blissful state before <br />learning how to tell time, before <br />knowing that I was not the first <br />to touch the dirt I found<br />between my toes, beneath my nails.<br /><br />Neither was my great-grandfather,<br />who built the place by hand,<br />with boards from trees <br />he was not there to plant, <br />and with nails from back East<br />that rusted into the timber and stayed,<br />curled up in the clouded damp <br />of an Oregon spring.Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-36913526708562601292008-09-23T11:14:00.000-07:002008-09-23T11:21:26.119-07:00Irritations<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesMWP4SYZNjNDnwh1zFGmoZ_wX5Z5k_b-P3zKFs8CL7DMZV2z0OkIC50vMP5mX0etVICe1l4lctCoseKAGisaCc2eQD4s6dkdr7me_anwqYBfrF-JPTfhz8Zls8isowYJbHlDPArOp5M/s1600-h/fam.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesMWP4SYZNjNDnwh1zFGmoZ_wX5Z5k_b-P3zKFs8CL7DMZV2z0OkIC50vMP5mX0etVICe1l4lctCoseKAGisaCc2eQD4s6dkdr7me_anwqYBfrF-JPTfhz8Zls8isowYJbHlDPArOp5M/s320/fam.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249283526222928274" /></a><br /><br /><br />Last year for one of my writing classes, we were all asked to write about something that irritated us, so that we could practice describing that feeling. I found it when I was sorting through some documents today!<br /><br />Just keep in mind in case you miss this: I am making fun of myself for the little things in life that get on my nerves, <em>not</em> criticizing my husband. <br /><br />When I got married, people told me that I would find myself arguing with my husband about the pettiest things. I shook my head at them in pity. No, not me…never. That is clearly only for people who haven’t gone through premarital counseling or don’t know what their Love Language is. Yet here I am, two years later, ready for a knock-down-drag-out with my husband about dishrags. It is a blow to my pride to admit that it has come to this, but it is the truth. <br /><br />We have a reasonable amount of dishrags, at least seven or eight…enough for an entire week of clean dishrags. However, my husband seriously resists putting the old dishrag into the laundry and bringing a new one out of the drawer. Furthermore, he finds it unnecessary to rinse out the dishrag after using it, or to hang it nicely along the edge of the sink so that it can dry out. It is very disconcerting to come into the kitchen to wipe the counter, only to find the rag full of food particles, coffee grounds, and crumpled beneath a pile of dirty dishes. <br /><br />We had to do away with sponges altogether because I read somewhere that they are basically like breeding grounds for bacteria…little petri dishes for diseases that can be used to wipe your kitchen surfaces. However exaggerated this might be, I just can’t bring myself to use a sponge or a dishrag more than couple of times unless I soak it alternately in each liquid cleaner found in my house. <br /><br />Maybe after having children, I will ease up about the germ factor in our kitchen, and embrace the dirty dishrags and sponges altogether. In the meantime though, my husband will probably have to suffer through my lectures, and indignant marches from the kitchen to the washing machine. What is the solution to our deep seeded marital problem? Probably paper towels!Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-90577909786110391082008-09-11T12:57:00.000-07:002008-09-11T13:04:15.569-07:00Ummm...here goes!I'm taking a Writing Poetry class this semester which seems to be taking a great deal of courage. Listening to a lecture is one thing, actually sharing a poem with a class is something entirely different. <br /><br />I really haven't written any poems for a few years...you know, since the phase in life when I was going through breakups and dramatic things like that. <br /><br />Anyways, here goes my first try. This is the draft I am taking to class today for editing. <br /><br />Remembering Italy From the Kitchen Window<br /><br /><br />The first time my toes touched the Mediterranean<br />I was worried about a lot of things.<br />I didn’t even see the sun make liquid <br />Out of my third gelato for the day<br />As I agonized over important decisions<br />And my adulthood started to rise up inside of me,<br />Slowly like the balmy tide<br />Swelling and then retreating, one wave and then another.<br /><br />Now instead I worry over dishwater<br />And with raisin fingers, wonder about the perfect temperature for baking chicken,<br />Or how to pay the health insurance bill<br />That is threatening me from the kitchen table.<br />But I know that these things are worth having,<br />These humdrum treasures I’ve strung together to make a life.<br /><br />I know this from the way the sun filters through the blinds just enough to wake me in the mornings,<br />Or the mama bird who lays her eggs in my petunia basket so that I can watch them grow feathers and leave.<br />None of it, not a single mundane miracle<br />Goes unnoticed by my briefcase of a soul<br />Which has been filled to the brim, and overflowing <br />One menial moment at a time.Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-17717593252174566912008-09-09T11:50:00.001-07:002008-09-09T11:53:21.600-07:00A Poem to ShareI know it's been a while since i've posted on here. Recently some loving words from a friend inspired me to update more regularly. <br />I wanted to share this poem that I read today.<br /><br /><br />Praying<br /><br />by Mary Oliver<br /><br />It doesn't have to be<br />the blue iris, it could be<br />weeds in a vacant lot, or a few<br />small stones; just<br />pay attention, then patch<br /><br />a few words together and don't try <br />to make them elaborate, this isn't<br />a contest but the doorway<br /><br />into thanks, and a silence in which<br />another voice may speak.Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-87921202146460760252008-05-14T22:32:00.000-07:002008-05-14T22:42:58.020-07:00I will change. I promise.<div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FlO2u11xBBNqT1grdH_VUryiNp-P-R4ksl060NlWV2bl4Krz2XCDfV1BSi1z9wdLKwExORCuYIy-HvmvRCPvYy91ED2JqpITi0kR8S9PEPQaWsT26WCPtYP9DkLDSBCS3UgHG1GEj1g/s1600-h/Enchanting+tree+withmods.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200474411408415186" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FlO2u11xBBNqT1grdH_VUryiNp-P-R4ksl060NlWV2bl4Krz2XCDfV1BSi1z9wdLKwExORCuYIy-HvmvRCPvYy91ED2JqpITi0kR8S9PEPQaWsT26WCPtYP9DkLDSBCS3UgHG1GEj1g/s320/Enchanting+tree+withmods.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>So, what is the point of having a blog that you never update? Nada. There is nothing. Hakuna. </div><br /><br /><br /><div>I vow to update this blog at least once a week this summer. When school starts, this promise is null and void. There you go...this is a big commitment for me, and I'm getting cold feet. Tony, if I can do it, you can too!</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div>Here is a random picture because I think that every blog post should have something for us to stare at. This is from my husband's blog which is also never updated. Actually, he has gotten better about it lately. <a href="http://www.bryan-rupp-photography.blogspot.com/">http://www.bryan-rupp-photography.blogspot.com/</a>. He also has a website. <a href="http://www.bryanruppphotography.com/">http://www.bryanruppphotography.com/</a> Yes, it is true that there is nothing on the information page. I guess if you like his work, you just <em>cannot </em>contact him. There is no way. You can always wonder what it would have been like to have him take your picture...if only you had his email...his phone #...or even a fax. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Actually, I'm just giving him a hard time. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Here are some pictures I used for a video project for a class. </div><br /><br /><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEisdZBlOkoQ4YuIWoO93Ws68ToQlJTPnHpc0hyphenhyphenwYQuP0QJAKFjyRIoRPfswi_1g9vnPkasXrW9UboVnQh9eC4anhQfJJqHslCA-pWHj9GEe44WmhvC0dUjyoZv3uztkdE0tRcW1vqlQ/s1600-h/oppressed-3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200475485150239202" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEisdZBlOkoQ4YuIWoO93Ws68ToQlJTPnHpc0hyphenhyphenwYQuP0QJAKFjyRIoRPfswi_1g9vnPkasXrW9UboVnQh9eC4anhQfJJqHslCA-pWHj9GEe44WmhvC0dUjyoZv3uztkdE0tRcW1vqlQ/s320/oppressed-3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHlCvicxMVleL9eXmMUOYBHqTj35LB0te6zpmifShz1QdhhJYLaKwCte1FT9N6n2DBCaaF73yIBwXgncFZcaCE4f-A-7Qpp-oHRp7xyMXVTLm1hAODkbV4BDOQIQ2x6IrSnrP5exNY4A/s1600-h/oppressed-4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200475768618080754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHlCvicxMVleL9eXmMUOYBHqTj35LB0te6zpmifShz1QdhhJYLaKwCte1FT9N6n2DBCaaF73yIBwXgncFZcaCE4f-A-7Qpp-oHRp7xyMXVTLm1hAODkbV4BDOQIQ2x6IrSnrP5exNY4A/s320/oppressed-4.jpg" border="0" /></a></div></div></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-85800230436291468972008-03-11T14:55:00.000-07:002008-03-13T12:45:36.070-07:00untitled, autobiographical essay (for class)I always try to reach back in my mind to define the moment when my child hood ended. For my friend Jeruto in rural Kenya, it was when she became strong enough to strap a baby sibling to her back. Her life could be divided into two phases of life: when she <em>was</em> a baby strapped to someone’s back, and when she <em>had</em> a baby strapped to her back. Another division occurs for Kenyan women when their body begins to grow into its maternal glory, with the round rump for dancing, balanced on strong legs for working. For young boys, there is the long awaited circumcision ceremony with its painful aspects being balanced by their first real taste of home brew and their father’s proud eyes.<br /><br />There was no ceremony to mark my passing from that place of trust in the world; and no obvious signs that I had embarked on my own journey of understanding the currency that the world really deals in; My distrust of the world came creeping up on me, the way that the ants in our yard would invade your body if you mistook their mounds of dirt for a sandbox. Gradually, so that you didn’t even know they were there until they reached your shoulders, leaving no choice but to strip down and start slapping.<br /><br />My mother says that I took the world upon my shoulders long before I should have; becoming a wispy, dreamy child with the eyes of a sad grandmother. Sad eyes that come from opening them up too wide in Africa, where it is impossible for a sad little granny in pigtails to go on believing that all is right with the world.<br /><br />Francis, our gardener could never get anything done because I followed him around the yard asking him big questions about the universe with a vocabulary that far exceeded his understanding of English. My mom didn’t mind because she hated the thought of having servants anyway. She tried to let them all go the week after she arrived in Kenya to find that they had been hired for her.<br /><br />Francis kindly explained to her that she would be looked down upon in the community if she didn’t provide wages for at least two people, when she was clearly wealthy enough to own a car. Washing missionary’s dishes was a coveted position. She agreed at the time, but was never entirely comfortable with the arrangement, always sending them home early, giving them breaks for sodas and chai, and teaching us to treat them as friends and equals.<br /><br />My sister and I were forever making up games. Francis would let us parade him around the yard in paper handcuffs as our prisoner. We were top secret detectives. He raced in our very own Olympic games, complete with gold and silver medals, made from the lids of tomato cans. Francis pushed me on my bike, played hide and seek, helped me hunt for beatles, and took my discarded toys home to his beautiful daughter Vivian.<br /><br />All of the white people in Kitale were invited to a dinner given by the ladies of the Indian Community. Femina Night; I repeated the words in my head in the days leading up to it. I had heard there was to be a fashion show (women in saris) and real Chinese food brought in from Nairobi. I laid out my black velveteen Christmas dress and thick white tights, stained on the heels with red dirt from the times when I couldn’t stand my shoes. The night before the big event, I saw fit to invite my best friend Francis, the Gardener, Prisoner, and Olympian. He stood in his Kelly green coveralls, and repeated back to me my new favorite words, Femina Night?<br /><br /><br />After running inside to tell my mom the good news (that Francis was able to attend), I learned a very hard lesson. Black people cannot come to Femina Night. This is for white people and Indian business owners only. My Poor Mother. How can you explain to a broken hearted eight year old the rules about colonial Africa, supposedly long forgotten? How do you explain why Mahindra at the grocery store yells at his black assistant and beats him for loading our groceries too slowly? I pondered the revolutionary thought for the rest of the afternoon, while mom (with tears in her eyes) called Francis inside for a soda to try to explain why Black People are Not Welcome at Femina Night. Black people cannot watch sari fashion shows or eat Chinese food from Nairobi.<br /><br />Later that year we learned that we could no longer eat fish from Lake Victoria, which flows out of Rwanda. When my mom told me about this, I learned a new word. Genocide. Our Kenyan friends shook their heads and clicked their tongues in pity as we all gathered around the newspaper articles with pictures of the bodies. Thank God there is no tribalism in Kenya, they would say, rolling their eyes towards the sky.<br /><br />Now I read on the news about the ancient tension between the Luo and Kikuyus who are now bent on killing each other in Kenya. Last year their children were going to school together, unaware of who was in each tribe. This year, they are being exploited by politicians who have found a way to cultivate hatred in order to get what they want. While the slums of Nairobi are being looted and burned, they sit in their mansions with body guards and wash their hands of the whole thing. Meanwhile, across the ocean, we watch yet another African country disintegrate into violence and hunger.<br /><br />I am older now though; and long past the growing up point, though it’s hard to say when that actually happened. Little girls with sad eyes inevitably grow into women with their own burdens to bear and their own secret sadness. As I turned twenty-four this year, I couldn’t help grieving the child that I was before I learned about things like Femina Night and Genocide.<br /><br />I miss that child because she still believed that there was a place for everyone in this world, and that no one would be left out in the cold; no one would be chosen above anyone else; loved because they are white. I guess it’s not a question of being able to hold onto to that naivety about the ways of the world; but that we still choose to believe in what<em> should</em> be;<br /> how it somehow <em>could</em> be.<br />I honor both the child that I was, and the woman I have become with the extent to which I fight for those ideals held by the young and innocent...those who haven’t yet learned to differentiate between who <em>does</em> and <em>does not</em> deserve to be loved.Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-91179881369794686542008-02-09T13:33:00.000-08:002008-02-12T13:53:56.085-08:002<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJNnVPK2rCI0bE7Xx0ykEu9rqPHi-NwArsEGUhHgyWO2AS1ar3OZQJzCDzI8Nd1LsS3QF2vLvCZPBEcfAHLBc3mDGnsnxf1iadIGFasu9xS0yWU201Cs1MJXauFifwFV7ZHaYXdOAX3M/s1600-h/00001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJNnVPK2rCI0bE7Xx0ykEu9rqPHi-NwArsEGUhHgyWO2AS1ar3OZQJzCDzI8Nd1LsS3QF2vLvCZPBEcfAHLBc3mDGnsnxf1iadIGFasu9xS0yWU201Cs1MJXauFifwFV7ZHaYXdOAX3M/s320/00001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166215225929365858" border="0" /></a><br /><strong><span style="font-weight: bold;">My second anniversary passed within the craziness of the holidays. Bryan and I marvel at how different we are from the people we were in our wedding pictures, yet at the same time how recent that seems. Being newlyweds was definitely fun, but I prefer the stable friendship that time has grown between us. On our wedding day, I was excited about what I thought my life with Bryan was going to be like...but now I am deeply happy about what it actually <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span>. I am really looking forward to the future phases of our life: starting a family together, being middle aged with him...right now it I am so thankful to be sharing an apartment, starting a business, going to college, balancing a million things. Sometimes I drive him crazy, and sometimes it goes both ways...however at the end of the day theres really no one in the whole world that we'd rather be with to share everyday life. He is such a gift to me.<br />This picture is dedicated to my friend Ben since he and I weren't able to attend each others weddings. Lately we've been sad about missing those important days. A few months before me, he married his beautiful best friend Virginia in Arkansas.<br /><br /><br /></span><br /></strong>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-16002703066756181782008-01-14T22:18:00.001-08:002008-01-14T22:20:52.137-08:00no time for blogging, just look at this picture instead.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRSsZm5zKlHUgIJNIIvIDy3AqsKSW_mEJ-lJRKMrA-dYU_qs5-sXxYxBlbBzGYrxSiUgy5kjuu-zEaLTpr8rTK9wZot3xpRuEggeWY1VPdwphB0wTKXdzMNV_FlpmP181l6X9KwwrwTM/s1600-h/december+2007+233.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155584440042916530" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRSsZm5zKlHUgIJNIIvIDy3AqsKSW_mEJ-lJRKMrA-dYU_qs5-sXxYxBlbBzGYrxSiUgy5kjuu-zEaLTpr8rTK9wZot3xpRuEggeWY1VPdwphB0wTKXdzMNV_FlpmP181l6X9KwwrwTM/s320/december+2007+233.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-3249969545464225022007-12-30T22:50:00.000-08:002007-12-30T23:56:48.547-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdrnzSHYI_4gL4i6Y-HuTZdRNF3ruDIKBTqEeG-uLfcF6ihbBY5sMhVA_QHlW03DecO46HA63wBpghgKSezOewH_0fkULuzox8wEABBTdht613WfvVEhmG8kOKQf3XvDjZMXoyIxCd8ao/s1600-h/IMG_3147.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdrnzSHYI_4gL4i6Y-HuTZdRNF3ruDIKBTqEeG-uLfcF6ihbBY5sMhVA_QHlW03DecO46HA63wBpghgKSezOewH_0fkULuzox8wEABBTdht613WfvVEhmG8kOKQf3XvDjZMXoyIxCd8ao/s320/IMG_3147.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150041643013507730" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Christmas was so relaxing this year, and made even more special by my parents upcoming move from the big blue house on Hardscrabble Road. Next year we will be having an Idaho Christmas, or perhaps filling up the guest room at my grandparents house. It's funny how we are given new eyes to see the things that are important to us, just in time for them to change. Does the promise of loss make old things seem glamorous, or just shed some light on the way things have always been? Either way, it seems important to realize that we don't have to continue dwelling in the past in order for it to be precious to us.<br />Easier said than done, as life marches on before we are ready. Or should I say, before <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> am ready. Me, the grown child who once became depressed and despondent when my dad chose to chop down a tree in our yard. One that was interfering with the power lines. Not my favorite climbing tree, but just a tree. Just a slight alteration of the view from the kitchen window. If I had known what an environmentalist was then, I would have eagerly joined the cause at the age of six. Not to protect mother earth, but to save my little girl brain from the uncertainy of sitting in the back seat of a minivan, never knowing when we would round the curve to find a bald hillside where once stood a forest.<br />There is something so urgent and temporary about being human; something in all of us that gets nostalgic about the time that is slipping through our fingers, knowing we can never have it back...and something that makes us get all teary eyed and sappy about babies growing up, and say stuff like, <span style="font-style: italic;">I remember when you were born</span>, and other highly original phrases.<br />Last night, I lay awake in what used to be my bedroom, with my husband beside me (weird), and thought about all the thinking, planning, and dreaming that went on there...wishing on a plastic glow in the dark star from Wal Mart. Never could I have imagined a life as full and blessed as the one that has come my way so far.<br />All that to say that this Christmas, we all collected some more beautiful memories in the blue house...ones that will stay with us through the inevitable changes as my mom and dad move to Boise, Jonah learns to walk, my little brother graduates from high school...and yes...a tree is chopped down to make way for a clearer view.Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-61492101502124286952007-12-27T14:35:00.001-08:002007-12-27T14:38:11.355-08:00Jonah at six months<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5-HUQ4OerNL5_95FskF8SpVouuidlWwQWSh-BnWGRNJlXsumQehEdrjSLD_tkD69hF45SpfS8TXI0CdqsL40f_zrkVpIx79ukjsig2RHnq1o9u4BLiwEXY00AJguclsJlBORIO8IncM/s1600-h/jonah+and+fam.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5-HUQ4OerNL5_95FskF8SpVouuidlWwQWSh-BnWGRNJlXsumQehEdrjSLD_tkD69hF45SpfS8TXI0CdqsL40f_zrkVpIx79ukjsig2RHnq1o9u4BLiwEXY00AJguclsJlBORIO8IncM/s320/jonah+and+fam.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148785188985768562" border="0" /></a><br />The day after Christmas, I got to spend some time with Kara, Joel and JONAH! He grows to be more delightful every day. Lately he is all smiles, especially when he's with his mama.Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-36092015505394654762007-12-18T22:59:00.000-08:002007-12-18T23:50:27.750-08:00The fabric of our lives<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKW9xiT3iejjj25KQGLWEwO8V7DQKXb_PyfnV7JOWo9slB9Wn103j7L_f8AeWNdXb-n03x7V47-nRhlAqza83cozlFID7hbLAlcoAoy2a_tnkAHdt9Mu43ZFjOngtyqYhFq8at_WSyygk/s1600-h/scarf1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145587083322722898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKW9xiT3iejjj25KQGLWEwO8V7DQKXb_PyfnV7JOWo9slB9Wn103j7L_f8AeWNdXb-n03x7V47-nRhlAqza83cozlFID7hbLAlcoAoy2a_tnkAHdt9Mu43ZFjOngtyqYhFq8at_WSyygk/s320/scarf1.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Today I wore a beautiful new scarf, crocheted by my mother. It is very warm in color and in function. </div><br /><br /><div>I am naming the colors myself, since they are too rich and varied for the usual names. </div><br /><br /><div>Merlot and raspberry jam...two of my favorites. Although that might not be a very good combination in your mouth (yuck), it sure is beautiful in yarn to be wrapped around your neck. There is also an orange cinnamonish color that I have yet to name. Any ideas?</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj841uzGA_-1JWYOUxOEjYPCqv5mhuDPkVDdVHEm0nBFYVRY_RqxTQy9oLp8V36BR60EfqbQnXP2KTbcc4Ll-INJF_fXC3Ptel7fmnhy9SIHvMJAYtZESAnFBx26aAxjwB5trvBPFDIYOE/s1600-h/sari+bari.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145587843531934306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj841uzGA_-1JWYOUxOEjYPCqv5mhuDPkVDdVHEm0nBFYVRY_RqxTQy9oLp8V36BR60EfqbQnXP2KTbcc4Ll-INJF_fXC3Ptel7fmnhy9SIHvMJAYtZESAnFBx26aAxjwB5trvBPFDIYOE/s320/sari+bari.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Adding to my textile delight, I also received this blanket from India. I find it pretty special since it is handmade out of used saris, and handpicked by my little sister. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This website tells the story about the organization where the blanket came from. </div><br /><div><a href="http://www.saribari.com/">http://www.saribari.com/</a></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>And here is an excerpt from their website that I copied and pasted (can I do that?)</div><br /><br /><div><em>Sari Bari is a safe home where women, who have been exploited in the sex trade, can have their dignity restored and experience new life in the making.<br />Each of our products made from the Indian sari is marked with a woman's name, a woman who now has the opportunity to make a choice for freedom and new life.</em></div><br /><br /><div></div></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-50241608640178937412007-12-13T19:59:00.000-08:002007-12-13T20:36:21.307-08:00Direction<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BvXRihm2QTuzaQuka8HIIvtHZygS2buzXXQvgI2z5yDLKce8rBAlvrYEr59U1D9TO9tXRVwe9FuSjR0oMrv9t0QN1AZw4wz688VAqtJWBXK1djXVRp8ASUid1q8SZmmPVUlqrFkn9Uo/s1600-h/IMG_0069.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143681814355380802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BvXRihm2QTuzaQuka8HIIvtHZygS2buzXXQvgI2z5yDLKce8rBAlvrYEr59U1D9TO9tXRVwe9FuSjR0oMrv9t0QN1AZw4wz688VAqtJWBXK1djXVRp8ASUid1q8SZmmPVUlqrFkn9Uo/s200/IMG_0069.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:78%;">my little sister's favorite <span style="color:#990000;">red</span> shoes. ruby red slippers to bring her home on Saturday. Yay!</span><br /><div> </div><div>For some time now, I've been searching for some direction for my blog. I've always been a sporadic journaler, and am finding blogging to be a similar experience. Chronicalling everything that goes on in my life ends up being pretty tedious for me, and I find that it just becomes another thing on the to do list. </div><br /><div>But, I really like blogging...I eagerly check my friends blogs for new posts, hoping for something new to read...and I enjoy the connections that it gives people; a window into someone else's life that you might not gather from passing the time of day. So, I haven't wanted to throw the baby out with the bathwater just yet (what a horrible metaphor). </div><br /><div>What I would really like to turn this blog into, is a way to practice making a big deal about the everydayness in everyday life. I need a place to document the presence of God in the details....you know, in the small stuff....as in, "don't sweat the ______". side note: could anyone please tell me whether or not periods and commas go inside of quotations marks or outside? It's getting a little embarrassing to not know that. </div><br /><div>Anyways, back to my revelation about blogging. Having a place to record my observations will help me get in the habit of noticing God around every corner. Because there really is a whisper of the divine in everything, and I want to tune my ears to hear it. I miss out on where God is in my life, because I am looking for her in something so....Goddish. Except for the fact that that is not a word. And then I wonder where God is. I actually ask myself that sometimes. But I know that I am the only one. :)</div><br /><div></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-77362416807189608842007-12-05T17:39:00.000-08:002007-12-05T17:57:14.960-08:00Self Doubt: The Loudest Voice in my HeadI've got zero creative energy tonight, but just want to bring up the topic/topics of:<br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Self Doubt</span><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color:#666600;">Self Counsciousness</span></span><span style="color:#666600;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#cc6600;">Insecurity</span><br />The voice that seems to speak up the loudest, is the one that confirms my deepest fears. I want to drown that voice out; listen to it less and give it no room in my life. But old habits die hard.<br />I know that the voice of Jesus speaks of love, freedom, acceptance...this is the voice that I need to turn up the volume on.<br />Otherwise, I end up trapped inside myself; tangled up in my own fears with no one room to see anyone else. Aside from the anxiety that my insecurities bring me...they keep me focused on myself, and incapable of cultivating the kind of love that Jesus gave out with abandon.Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-70734131218122131442007-12-02T22:53:00.001-08:002007-12-02T22:55:12.965-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2FHcgxNkN2L7gIzOCSrgjFTG2M49nO3dbYTp7aUkrzEbUEuHU0Yr-AKzxV5CtHj08vzQIRSoGQ6uRAp-dkKFK1y9_gCtsU-qSVntaa78VDoM1m2ME6Q8rm0bpCExyGU1ExhN22cJ0wm4/s1600-r/berries.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139636517571696482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNL61sPt-k3eJVP-RKtlx5XXZ0BhBFp2HUYQflwFz1Wok8PpgExoPYV5ezwsFsAvvg5eOyK-PnLHEmuixd_cZYhEK7FPnKZal7KO8Qo5BjeikM3GY7flwzeR5m1S5OOStky1FV2OZbz3Y/s200/berries.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><blockquote><br /></blockquote>"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"</div><br /><div><em>from a poem by Mary Oliver</em></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-64415687091437810002007-11-20T22:07:00.000-08:002007-11-26T18:33:04.048-08:00Now<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFXnJZhlXpdD5dnuR6Gxhv7Sf-2XLbihrTlOWl-jYx_TWS2OoiJHobJweKDJtxTE65QxgHt_2iLBqiqwTrJn0Db8A7Xwb2q-RjLmvFktc9-lRR5FcYX_hXx5u-1sD2qNZC1qSSbz1rYk/s1600-h/gramps.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135179486238103666" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFXnJZhlXpdD5dnuR6Gxhv7Sf-2XLbihrTlOWl-jYx_TWS2OoiJHobJweKDJtxTE65QxgHt_2iLBqiqwTrJn0Db8A7Xwb2q-RjLmvFktc9-lRR5FcYX_hXx5u-1sD2qNZC1qSSbz1rYk/s200/gramps.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="color:#009900;"><span style="font-size:78%;">my Gramps knows how to live in the moment</span> <span style="font-size:78%;">and so does my Grammie.</span></span><br /><span style="color:#009900;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Here he is picking blackberries.</span><br /><br /></span><span style="color:#009900;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxARdNHTGWH7-RX5T_93v12ObqfB3uBk0CVVzyEp6Ut0x2g2-ACaB9REPnf42ZwDBMCiXoVESMa0ABgNXe8BI3-iSN_IFBCYhOuFmYMHi5gStX2mNA1OGSYM2Jrfy97Xn_EiN01q8USe4/s1600-h/IMG_4009.JPG"></a><br /><br /><div>Does anyone else find themselves putting off contentment? </div><br /><div>Lately I've been noticing that my brain is always going a million miles an hour, and even if I have some down time, I have lost the art of just being in the present moment. </div><div></div><div>I catch myself unsettled about whatever I am doing currently, and always looking towards the future (near or far) to bring me a greater sense of fulfillment. </div><br /><div>I put off my life until someday...and I'm getting a little sick of it. </div><div>Here are some examples:</div><br /><div>As soon as I get through my first two classes, and I can can get coffee during my break and everything will be fine. </div><div>or</div><div>When I don't have to work as many hours I will be able to keep up my house better, and that will make us feel settled.</div><div>or</div><div>When I get to know these people better (could be anyone), then I will have the confidence to reach out to them.</div><div>or</div><div>When we are done with school, and have time to spend together without homework, Bryan and I will learn to communicate better. </div><div>or</div><div>Next week when I'm not as busy, I will prioritize my friends and call them</div><div>or</div><div>If I can just make it through the week and get home to my parents house for Thanksgiving, then I will really enjoy myself. </div><div>or</div><div>If I could get back to my pre-marriage weight, then I would feel good about my appearance. </div><div>or</div><div>When I can travel again to help people in third world countries, I will feel a sense of purpose.</div><div>or</div><div>When I reach my production goals at work then I will start enjoying it.</div><br /><div>Some of these are grounded in truth...some of them are not. Regardless, the point is that I am doing a lot of missing out on what is in front of me, and what is unique to my life right now....</div><div>right now..........or now.....</div><div>......................................................and now. </div><div>Mary Oliver's poems are really powerful to me because they emphasize the sacred in the everyday moments of life. </div><br /><div>I will post some, but not today.....Maybe someday....when I'm not so busy :)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-19284280682516448712007-11-19T08:17:00.001-08:002007-11-19T08:19:19.461-08:00I plan on writing more on this blog soon, and not using pictures to fill up most of the space, so hang in there with me. Right now my school life is a little writing intensive, so I spend my creative energy on that...maybe I'll just post some of my writing for school, and use it for two purposes.Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-81980492662174664152007-11-17T17:33:00.000-08:002007-11-17T18:11:26.595-08:00Bryan Lee is 24 todayI'm so thankful that my sweet husband was born...in 1983...3 months before me.<br />His first home was in Palisade, Colorado (http://www.townofpalisade.org)<br /><div class="style1" align="center"><div align="left"><table style="TABLE-LAYOUT: fixed" cellpadding="2" width="99%" bgcolor="#ffffff" border="0"><tbody><tr><td width="100%"><p><img style="WIDTH: 519px; HEIGHT: 106px" alt="Town of Palisade banner" src="http://www.townofpalisade.org/images/common/town_banner.jpg" usemap="#FPMap0" border="none" /></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="style1" align="center"></div></div><script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"> </script><br /><script type="text/javascript"> _uacct = "UA-892232-12"; urchinTracker(); </script><br /><div id="wrapper"><div id="header"><map id="FPMap0" name="FPMap0"><area shape="CIRCLE" target="_blank" coords="86,87,73" href="http://www.townofpalisade.org/"></map></div><div id="leftcolumn"><div id="layer12" style="MARGIN-TOP: 10px; Z-INDEX: 12; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"><a onmouseover="chkVer('go1','but1')" onmouseout="chkVer('go1','but2')" href="http://www.townofpalisade.org/recreation/rec_guide.pdf"></a><p></p></div><div class="style2" id="sidebar_l"><br /><area shape="RECT" target="_blank" coords="1,2,87,30" href="http://www.adobe.com/products/acrobat/readstep2.html">Here is a picture of him doing what he does best. I love to see the world through his eyes.<br /><p></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJZQPjHgEzWTIAuHpejT6RUSAFerTDORR6xr1PBniNzK5uNTvdTnOHRGqNumkEV6gXFX0U0BGtJ89j0vwjYudyoRQ9bLj66h1wb4BaPaTrO4ODgYb2BfHinR-aOEpl9XsuhQaBjw-C5Ow/s1600-h/smaller.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133992241313372210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 278px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 169px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJZQPjHgEzWTIAuHpejT6RUSAFerTDORR6xr1PBniNzK5uNTvdTnOHRGqNumkEV6gXFX0U0BGtJ89j0vwjYudyoRQ9bLj66h1wb4BaPaTrO4ODgYb2BfHinR-aOEpl9XsuhQaBjw-C5Ow/s200/smaller.jpg" border="0" /></a> <p></p></div></div><div id="centercolumn"><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><div id="wrapper"><div id="leftcolumn"><map id="FPMap0" name="FPMap0"><area shape="CIRCLE" target="_blank" coords="86,87,73" href="http://www.townofpalisade.org/"></map><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><br /><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><br /><br /></div></div><p></p><div id="layer10" style="MARGIN-TOP: -50px; Z-INDEX: 10; MARGIN-LEFT: 200px; WIDTH: 222px"><a href="http://www.palisadecoc.com/dining.html"></a><p></p></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfLulBVzbBY4kRbi9M3pE5yxkJnC2eIcODTmvQ9fb2kBLKqnmklzFLeFzmwkCLXshCS9Jl9f_0ZHWxd3U6ATucGUX1UajiWExZXuWN2I5zuAfjgKjkSY0-9Ct34O2uBlcwHeup5pSAYo/s1600-h/00001.jpg"><br /></a></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div><div id="layer13" style="MARGIN-TOP: 280px; Z-INDEX: 13; MARGIN-LEFT: 21px; WIDTH: 135px"></div></div><map id="FPMap10" name="FPMap10"><area shape="RECT" target="_blank" coords="3,14,158,108" href="http://www.palisadecoc.com/"><area shape="RECT" target="_blank" coords="206,12,318,122" href="http://www.palisadepeachfest.com/"><area shape="RECT" target="_blank" coords="365,26,651,97" href="http://www.coloradowinefest.com/"><area shape="RECT" target="_blank" coords="250,147,603,170" href="http://www.watershedplan.org/"><area shape="RECT" coords="11,126,140,247" href="http://www.townofpalisade.org/home/521DA.htm"><area shape="RECT" target="_blank" coords="365,27,651,118" href="http://www.coloradowinefest.com/"></map></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-10085912264355774562007-11-17T17:21:00.000-08:002007-11-17T17:32:50.146-08:00And some people pictures...still in AstoriaBryan thinking deep thoughts.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTapYm21CadNUesq3YL73NffEbXxFi27RZCfTpkEnv_NU0iS6tsM2ffZxdmhyphenhyphen7kmRzljEXKTknrdF5PfCqIOsa0xo2_9L1hx1ImWteu1166ctLNBokb7x_pvdSPkg1KmE4x7hbP-m7Bfw/s1600-h/IMG_1622.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTapYm21CadNUesq3YL73NffEbXxFi27RZCfTpkEnv_NU0iS6tsM2ffZxdmhyphenhyphen7kmRzljEXKTknrdF5PfCqIOsa0xo2_9L1hx1ImWteu1166ctLNBokb7x_pvdSPkg1KmE4x7hbP-m7Bfw/s200/IMG_1622.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133985240516679650" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />mom-in-law. she is adorable, and I love her.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii212vVjmsEQGz1NANmRm87JIr1otVBfpFVWDSA313xVDr9xsMgMznN4z6J-PiKW6V4SmN1uL4zKXOeGKu4TZcuWY9eh34su5DwXUo9L0iPW_Rh3uL4_dEDR-O_lWh8COlRNs2lPpPWMg/s1600-h/IMG_1620.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii212vVjmsEQGz1NANmRm87JIr1otVBfpFVWDSA313xVDr9xsMgMznN4z6J-PiKW6V4SmN1uL4zKXOeGKu4TZcuWY9eh34su5DwXUo9L0iPW_Rh3uL4_dEDR-O_lWh8COlRNs2lPpPWMg/s200/IMG_1620.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133984609156487122" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Bryan was teasing me about something, and I was clearly outraged :).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKfhhPN2oVaUTUxpc031bJbOJxR60fpnCGrVxIBjvalx4Icnk06UIzprwpdy-jVKsFJ_6oq2oO82yAtzkvYCJyp3JFmOOccam2Y_cj1RWDTX3QrbP9heQyN76cKxtm6VlUItonDNOm4Q/s1600-h/IMG_1632.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoKfhhPN2oVaUTUxpc031bJbOJxR60fpnCGrVxIBjvalx4Icnk06UIzprwpdy-jVKsFJ_6oq2oO82yAtzkvYCJyp3JFmOOccam2Y_cj1RWDTX3QrbP9heQyN76cKxtm6VlUItonDNOm4Q/s200/IMG_1632.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133986443107522562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My father-in-law, Gary is reading something historical.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rdEUc-BYcrMK7KtPfTUXW-1IMpoCAZh_jXBxNUZqkXYZtKJMHbPQL6vWHhqmjhWGfWNMxY4Hfwxsh26F7l22FUZ3xTXW0EvYDsuBkqGIgxd86YsY1OYZ3GWaRU9Q3lXSmqsmg50FURE/s1600-h/IMG_1695.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rdEUc-BYcrMK7KtPfTUXW-1IMpoCAZh_jXBxNUZqkXYZtKJMHbPQL6vWHhqmjhWGfWNMxY4Hfwxsh26F7l22FUZ3xTXW0EvYDsuBkqGIgxd86YsY1OYZ3GWaRU9Q3lXSmqsmg50FURE/s200/IMG_1695.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133986846834448402" border="0" /></a>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-35891876753210219422007-11-17T16:35:00.000-08:002007-11-17T17:19:38.981-08:00Astoria<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP6dskrSnGF_kTRqCzwKm0hdZAKwpISeqrb7zV32OyXwg6E77zn1b8ksCW9BLOUhoo6brqoUZdAwO1-UqresM5Vfx84r3ToSe6R9SXsWAHKV8uTdrZZLSoYX1s7ZUbH-hA5SRHy2BzY8o/s1600-h/IMG_1669.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP6dskrSnGF_kTRqCzwKm0hdZAKwpISeqrb7zV32OyXwg6E77zn1b8ksCW9BLOUhoo6brqoUZdAwO1-UqresM5Vfx84r3ToSe6R9SXsWAHKV8uTdrZZLSoYX1s7ZUbH-hA5SRHy2BzY8o/s200/IMG_1669.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133981778773039042" border="0" /></a><br />a view of the city<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Bryan's parents flew in from Colorado last weekend and we all drove to Astoria to spend a lovely night at a bed and breakfast. I really fell in love with the town, which sits where the Columbia River meets the Ocean. Here are a few highlights.<br /></span><br /><br /><br />the street, looking out from the pier<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1_kpJxATLs8XANczWL6fksBa_4L2YgvWn3TQbsCjb84-_mxW0r4MbZj9xiCELSNOn-4QtAjDaBs4BXCN0anUKUi29S-1ZwV_4Z0qwIgw0W7pogRznfju1W9yQX3kokDsBV07D6MVt2Q/s1600-h/IMG_1617.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1_kpJxATLs8XANczWL6fksBa_4L2YgvWn3TQbsCjb84-_mxW0r4MbZj9xiCELSNOn-4QtAjDaBs4BXCN0anUKUi29S-1ZwV_4Z0qwIgw0W7pogRznfju1W9yQX3kokDsBV07D6MVt2Q/s200/IMG_1617.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133976276919932802" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />haunted house<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHa8CQn6QQjmhRBvMNKsBpiw__RS7rA5Y2H8kDd9qyH3FRZ0EE0gZLWoHKJuJs1HngK7aN8-c5OPfKKLKLInr5rfQnUtjbpAq64ca2d7Vvb-3GGZnHEcEx1uujOn-qgJ_JCWgepInqUfs/s1600-h/IMG_1697.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHa8CQn6QQjmhRBvMNKsBpiw__RS7rA5Y2H8kDd9qyH3FRZ0EE0gZLWoHKJuJs1HngK7aN8-c5OPfKKLKLInr5rfQnUtjbpAq64ca2d7Vvb-3GGZnHEcEx1uujOn-qgJ_JCWgepInqUfs/s200/IMG_1697.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133978510302926754" border="0" /></a>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-78524216195331660062007-11-05T11:08:00.000-08:002007-11-05T12:53:25.948-08:00Monet Refuses The Operation<span style="font-size:78%;">(this picture of Lisby Rogers seems to go well with this poem. thanks for the use of it Lisby)</span> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5u3IDT6agJxX-6wNqQVGke_MPvDIw4vfKtmHxugvfWEGQs8BHIKbi62FnWRF58G0lsr0QqJBzreKd1A5wCxGolXGAXWvMi33RGood0qaIIkHrNv-3Bi-_JEyv8VLB2rxwjt-JZK12MoA/s1600-h/lisby+senior.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129436483979465762" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5u3IDT6agJxX-6wNqQVGke_MPvDIw4vfKtmHxugvfWEGQs8BHIKbi62FnWRF58G0lsr0QqJBzreKd1A5wCxGolXGAXWvMi33RGood0qaIIkHrNv-3Bi-_JEyv8VLB2rxwjt-JZK12MoA/s200/lisby+senior.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />poem by :Lisel Mueller<br /><br />Doctor, you say there are no haloes<br />around the streetlights in Paris<br />and what I see is an aberration<br />caused by old age, an affliction.<br />I tell you it has taken me all my life<br />to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,<br />to soften and blur and finally banish<br />the edges you regret I don't see,<br />to learn that the line I called the horizon<br />does not exist and sky and water,<br />so long apart, are the same state of being.<br />Fifty-four years before I could see<br />Rouen cathedral is built<br />of parallel shafts of sun,<br />and now you want to restore<br />my youthful errors: fixed<br />notions of top and bottom,<br />the illusion of three-dimensional space,<br />wisteria separate<br />from the bridge it covers.<br />What can I say to convince you<br />the Houses of Parliament dissolves<br />night after night to become<br />the fluid dream of the Thames?<br />I will not return to a universe<br />of objects that don't know each other,<br />as if islands were not the lost children<br />of one great continent. The world<br />is flux, and light becomes what it touches,<br />becomes water, lilies on water,<br />above and below water,<br />becomes lilac and mauve and yellow<br />and white and cerulean lamps,<br />small fists passing sunlight<br />so quickly to one another<br />that it would take long, streaming hair<br />inside my brush to catch it.<br />To paint the speed of light!<br />Our weighted shapes, these verticals,<br />burn to mix with air<br />and change our bones, skin, clothes<br />to gases. Doctor,<br />if only you could see<br />how heaven pulls earth into its arms<br />and how infinitely the heart expands<br />to claim this world, blue vapor without end.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(photo by Bryan Rupp)</span>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-39764380590109618902007-11-02T13:07:00.000-07:002007-11-02T13:19:19.832-07:00My Friend Kara: A Sappy Love StoryI would like to devote some space on my blog, to my friends from time to time.<br /><br /><br />Let's begin with the friend formerly known as <span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;color:#660000;"><strong>Kara Lee White</strong></span>, who has now become Mrs. Joel Young, and the proud mama of the adorable Jonah Julius, pictured in my previous posts.We have both been feeling a little sentimental lately about our friendship as we grow older and realize what a huge role it has played in our life. Friendships that last forever are rare, and ours is one of those treasures. We started out playing together when we little, off and on when I would come back from Kenya. We really became close in high school when we clung to each other for companionship and made ourselves laugh so that we could get through it.<br /><br /><br />Since high school graduation in 2002 (gulp)...<br /><br /><br />Our friendship has more than stood the test of time,<br /><br /><br />Spanning all the phases of our lives.<br /><br /><br />I don't have any recent pictures of the two of us together, so that will have to change soon.<br /><p> </p><p>Here we are about 3 years ago</p><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9BO-kfgZ5u5DL5lDJKM7C9IoQ8JsR33eN60WEzGhl1Pp0e41brSXH77IzliI5Bd80l56NkT2EV__Xia5tTS357YWuCti4BcPBRiYSlLA0pGpiOTndNfH76-2AmCnjnMbPE_l7nySMcGo/s1600-h/100_0921.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128339167079978002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9BO-kfgZ5u5DL5lDJKM7C9IoQ8JsR33eN60WEzGhl1Pp0e41brSXH77IzliI5Bd80l56NkT2EV__Xia5tTS357YWuCti4BcPBRiYSlLA0pGpiOTndNfH76-2AmCnjnMbPE_l7nySMcGo/s200/100_0921.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9BO-kfgZ5u5DL5lDJKM7C9IoQ8JsR33eN60WEzGhl1Pp0e41brSXH77IzliI5Bd80l56NkT2EV__Xia5tTS357YWuCti4BcPBRiYSlLA0pGpiOTndNfH76-2AmCnjnMbPE_l7nySMcGo/s1600-h/100_0921.JPG"></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9BO-kfgZ5u5DL5lDJKM7C9IoQ8JsR33eN60WEzGhl1Pp0e41brSXH77IzliI5Bd80l56NkT2EV__Xia5tTS357YWuCti4BcPBRiYSlLA0pGpiOTndNfH76-2AmCnjnMbPE_l7nySMcGo/s1600-h/100_0921.JPG"></a> </div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9BO-kfgZ5u5DL5lDJKM7C9IoQ8JsR33eN60WEzGhl1Pp0e41brSXH77IzliI5Bd80l56NkT2EV__Xia5tTS357YWuCti4BcPBRiYSlLA0pGpiOTndNfH76-2AmCnjnMbPE_l7nySMcGo/s1600-h/100_0921.JPG"></a>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-86771116434653675112007-10-28T19:56:00.000-07:002007-10-28T20:21:12.111-07:00Jesus Christ<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgv1EaL7z0UTexCs2gpxvSmNA0kz3tFhDzayKozk3Hw2vXEe527j10EgUv2y85DCZGVO6pqAq1hiIA-J86HM4fFGfiNUxQj41wEnIo1Qys9RzunqIdzqbMDRyI_-MTFgTFv4kh05HLZA/s1600-h/175px-Christus_Ravenna_Mosaic.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126590037353714690" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgv1EaL7z0UTexCs2gpxvSmNA0kz3tFhDzayKozk3Hw2vXEe527j10EgUv2y85DCZGVO6pqAq1hiIA-J86HM4fFGfiNUxQj41wEnIo1Qys9RzunqIdzqbMDRyI_-MTFgTFv4kh05HLZA/s200/175px-Christus_Ravenna_Mosaic.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;">I have been thinking about him a lot lately. I wish that wasn't something so new that it was worthy of a blog post, but that is where I find myself. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;">The sermon series at church has been about Jesus, and the Gospel (a novel concept, I know). Two weeks ago, Pastor Rick talked about how one of the problems with Christians is that we are not fully convinced ourselves, of some of the basic truths that we claim. Deep inside we're not entirely sure if Jesus is really our only way, our truth, and our life. We're not fully convinced that he is our only hope for this life. We keep thinking that we can come up with a better solution to fill the emptiness that we feel, or to heal the hurt that we see in the world. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;">It seems like an elementary concept for someone like me who has been following Jesus for as long as I can remember. But yet I seem to make a game of seeing how far away I can get from Jesus, while still being a part of the religion that is named after him. All of my life I need to be surrounded by friends and family, and a church that points me back in the right direction.<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-45126143561241016952007-10-24T10:57:00.000-07:002007-10-24T14:57:51.455-07:00What my little sister has to do with human trafficking<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkECE0SWfmPkIG8pBjKvJJNk1LMVHQGrreVzb-nqK8b4L_lb1haWoIozLgnv-n_yOahOXxe7sne6VnphM3SZvAcdSZwaztolooX5lYXQMltS9yv75ys2zJvZposc3LugiH8v9CSaViJg4/s1600-h/Hannah+with+Sanju.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125025184071670146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkECE0SWfmPkIG8pBjKvJJNk1LMVHQGrreVzb-nqK8b4L_lb1haWoIozLgnv-n_yOahOXxe7sne6VnphM3SZvAcdSZwaztolooX5lYXQMltS9yv75ys2zJvZposc3LugiH8v9CSaViJg4/s200/Hannah+with+Sanju.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" style="font-family:courier new;">Kolkota, India is home to some 10,000 sex workers, and also, my baby sister. Hannah is currently working with an organization called Word Made Flesh, trying to reach out to the women in the red light districts, in the city best known by outsiders as the home of Mother Teresa, and prostitutes. Many of the sex workers have been trafficked from Nepal, or Thailand, and are trapped in their lifestyle by debt, or physical force. Word Made Flesh is trying to build relationships with the workers, and connect them with organizations that can help them escape, and build a better life. </span></div><br /><br /><div><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" style="font-family:courier new;">I am so proud of Hannah, I could bust. Here is a picture of her and her little buddy <em>Sanju</em>.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected"></span></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762263049859419992.post-13969435530631391642007-10-11T17:14:00.000-07:002007-10-17T09:31:39.022-07:00The VoteHere is a confession: I don't usually vote, and I am very embarrassed about it. I mean to. I want to, and I believe in doing it.<br />The one and only political act in my life has been to march in the peace rally in Portland this year. Even then, I felt a bit ignorant, like a second rate marcher, who was going to be found out, and kicked out, because I wasn't wearing a shirt that says "Bush is the Antichrist". I don't find myself championing for any one political candidate, or party, and I feel horribly uninformed, so I bow out in a very cowardly way.<br />Today in my Gender Communications class we were discussing the history of Women's Suffrage, and how so many women and men fought a long and hard battle, so that I would have the right to vote. I was humbled, and grateful.<br />It means the world to me to have that opportunity. It really does. Almost as much as it means to me that my mother has stuck out a tough few years as a <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"></span>female youth and family minister, within a church tradition where the female part of that is a problem for many.<br />She does it because of God's call on her life. She has a message about Jesus that she wants to share through her work, and so she is willing to take the heat, and carry on.<br />She also does it for her daughters, and granddaughters. So that we might not discount God's call on our lives, or our spiritual experiences as less than valid within our church families.<br />I am so thankful for people who see a bigger picture than just what is acceptable in the culture around them. I shudder to think about where we would we be if no one was willing to question the social norms of their day and age. Let me throw out a word like....<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">slavery</span>, for example.<br />(On a side note...sex slavery and human trafficking have not been eliminated from the world. At all. Not even close).<br />So.....I am going to make a conscious effort about becoming an informed voter. Not just for the presidential elections, but in local things that affect the schools and people who live in my community.Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09737118881220304496noreply@blogger.com2