tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74051653790268888332024-03-12T17:38:48.407-07:00Little Liza JaneA little blog about nothing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-18174465194468575242014-10-24T13:02:00.002-07:002014-10-25T07:36:32.643-07:00New Place, New Face, New Space<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<i>COME SEE ME! </i></h2>
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<i>AND PUT THIS ADDRESS ON YOUR FAVORITES BAR!</i></h2>
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<i><b><a href="http://www.mississyogi.com/">WWW.MISSISSYOGI.COM</a></b></i></h2>
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<b><i>I'm doing different things but continuing this blog in a different format. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>Thanks for visiting my site. You're going to love this. You'll be able to find my old Little Liza Jane posts there too. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>No I won't be writing here anymore. Stay in touch via mississyogi, a wellness site for everyone. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>Thank you for your support. </i></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-4101682052258193622014-09-19T08:58:00.000-07:002014-09-19T08:58:30.268-07:00You Live, You Learn<div style="text-align: center;">
One day this week, I thought to myself: Wonder if anyone still reads my blog? Lord knows this mommy has really lost contact with the Internet world. Though surprisingly, not with Instagram (so wildly addicting, it's weird. Haven't witnessed this much Internet social frenzy since 2005 and the beginning of the Facebook days. Remember all that?).</div>
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I decided to check on it. So four days later, here I am. And guess what, my precious darlings? </div>
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You've been visiting!</div>
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So I have to write something! Good times here are not forgotten.</div>
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Why come back, right now, in the middle of the end of summer and start of fall, right when everything is as busy as ever, with little boy just about to wake up and stomach grumbling and books to read and things to do?</div>
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Because there ain't nobody who can procrastinate like me! </div>
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But there is such a thing as good procrastination...creative procrastination, useful procrastination that results in high levels of cortisol (the stress hormone) which might be exactly what is needed to get the job done, whatever it is. </div>
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Here's the thought that's been on my mind: Yeah, I may be an idiot, but at least I'm out there! I might be asking stupid questions, but at least I'm curious. I might not have it all together, </div>
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but at least I'm honest about it. </div>
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I might fall out of arm balances, but at least I'm doing them! Falling on my face in parsva bakasana has never been more refreshing. Oh yes that dust on my living room feels nice on my cheek. I'm just glad I'm not in front of everyone at a studio, and if I were, I'd laugh a little too hard and shake it off.</div>
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Who knows? Maybe next time I'll stay up.</div>
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And motherhood? Damn that's a whole other deal. I'm learning my ass off in that all-consuming part of my life. Lyle's first ear infection was last week, and I looked like Medusa from staying up all night panting over his crib, basically chiseling wrinkles into my face. </div>
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That boy deserves an extraordinary family life though, and I'll be damned if my stubborn ego gets in the way. I've got a lot to learn. And so a lot to live.</div>
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Salud to you this weekend!</div>
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Stupidly but smartly,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-46703562451107172862014-06-23T12:30:00.000-07:002014-06-23T12:30:04.460-07:00Tighten Up<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm tightening up to get back upside down and right side up.</div>
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I'm banishing my kangaroo pouch and the little black line that goes with it. </div>
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Well, the little black line is more stubborn (scrubbing it down, crazily, has not gotten me anywhere), that lower abdominal pooch--while accepted, loved, and respected for a while now because of that bright, white, big-eyed, beautiful, bald boy that came via the biological fanny pack--has become my most petulant nemesis overnight, seeming to threaten my youth and vitality and strength and everything that goes with it. </div>
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Not only that, I am back teaching now at the recreation center and the spa. </div>
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I could use some core strength for real. </div>
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And this, ladies and gentlemen, is not what yoga is all about.</div>
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But right now, it is a huge motivation for me to put my stomach where my mouth is. That didn't sound right but you get the point. </div>
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My first big class back was 8 weeks out from the big epoch episode of the birth of my son, which I won't tell in case some of you out there might want to get pregnant and have a baby some day. Everything is going to be completely wonderful for you, I promise. I am not in any way being sarcastic because I do understand sometimes my tone takes a smart-ass turn. I really mean that. Let's just say that God taught me a lesson I needed to learn about trust and control. My attempts to have a natural childbirth taught me I have to trust people and that I can't control things to turn out the way I want them to. Everything was great and safe and now I have a little angel man. </div>
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Back to the point: abs. My mother was the first person in my life that make me think about abs. Because she had them. She probably still does. I bet she was born with them actually. </div>
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She was chiseled like Athena. </div>
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Although vain, I wanted abs too! Then I lost them and didn't care about them. Then I start doing yoga and they came back, and I said hey, that's great. </div>
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Then I got pregnant, and they were gone within 2 months. </div>
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But they are making a comeback. Like I was about to say, my first yoga class was in Nashville at Shatki Yoga--started by Kelly and Lauren Farina. Learn about the studio here: www.shatkiyoganashville.com. It's a beautiful space on Music Row with a hot room and a regular room. I did a class in the hot one. In a sunny spot. Forgot water too. The only thing to cool me was a lot of sweat and little breast milk (this blog is just so appetizing, isn't it?)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Later I was high on a post-yoga workout and walked under this tree and thought I'd take a picture because it was so pretty.</td></tr>
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It was awesome. I felt so good. Probably finally sweat out all those hospital drugs. Hell, I felt like a girl again. A girl working on her core. I definitely didn't get up into a tripod headstand,</div>
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but I surprised myself. </div>
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Suddenly, I was back on the mat every day, working hard or at least kind of working hard. I wanted to go back to work, both at the places where I teach yoga and Turnrow, the bookstore. I wanted to wear a bikini at the lake, on the beach, or maybe just in my house with a big T-shirt over me. </div>
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What could I drink or eat? Of course, any time I get serious about accomplishing something in terms of my body, I drink green tea. Green tea is the go-getter of the antioxidant-rich, herbally-minded nutrients. It works every time.</div>
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Why? It's thermogenic. It burns fat. It contains ECGC which a fantastic antioxidant, ridding the body of free radicals and toxins. And toxicity is a problem with fat. And fat is a problem with toxicity.</div>
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What yoga poses could I do though? Dolphin plank was the main one. Still is. I hate that pose so much that I love it. Like I hate green tea so much I love it.</div>
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And of course, leg raises and yogic bicycles, but also... headstand. Those will work your core like no other. It will actually work your whole freaking body. The trick is to tighten up to lighten up. So you don't collapse on your neck and head and break something or everything. </div>
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I told myself to pull it together, woman. Then as an effect of trying to pull my life and stomach back together, I became a yogi again. Realizing in a lightbulb second that I had also lightened up emotionally as well as physically in my attempt to tighten. </div>
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Tightening yourself up will lighten yourself up. </div>
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Fast forward to my first class back at teaching yoga, it was all right. I felt no anxiety about it. </div>
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Why? I was light because I was tight. Everything was all right. </div>
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Power is a soft thing that comes from the core. </div>
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Tightly,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-79301349585920206782014-04-25T08:38:00.000-07:002014-04-25T08:38:37.654-07:00Baby I Love You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I helped to bring the following stud muffin into this world. William Lyle, my prize. </div>
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And we shall call him Lyle.</div>
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This is he. 9 weeks old on Sunday. He is more active than I am. He kicks, stands up on our laps, moves his head all around. He's long like his daddy, impatient and emotional like his mommy. </div>
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Little Bear was 9 lbs. and introduced to life outside of me through almost 29 hours of labor. Definitely the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. Definitely. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIWyi2hgy8sOpZDqFeAZOlJRS8oZF2xoQwiYh20H2NCgHwpvaSlv10vB_yUvbPKx9XReaiFKG2D2-awe-qFBI785qDeN0O9kS56EAoO60P1P4MJQB5Ci3qCt1yFBXqFiuYa28nAseKrC8/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIWyi2hgy8sOpZDqFeAZOlJRS8oZF2xoQwiYh20H2NCgHwpvaSlv10vB_yUvbPKx9XReaiFKG2D2-awe-qFBI785qDeN0O9kS56EAoO60P1P4MJQB5Ci3qCt1yFBXqFiuYa28nAseKrC8/s1600/photo+3.JPG" /></a></div>
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He has already met some of his cousins, friends, aunts and uncles. He's been to Meridian and Nashville, and on his way to Oxford this weekend.</div>
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And we discovered he is a charming little thing. </div>
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He loves shapes, my milk, his swing, his carseat, and his choop. He makes wonderful noises, some loud and big, and some sweet and soft. </div>
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He has a plentitude of facial expressions, each cuter than the next.</div>
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I can't wait to get him out of his crib every morning. </div>
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To see what he looks like, acts like, how he's changed.</div>
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Life has changed. </div>
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Alas, that is all I have time to write. </div>
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Adoringly,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-49013984483798516732014-02-16T16:51:00.001-08:002014-02-16T16:51:34.484-08:00Waiting In Vain<div style="text-align: center;">
Something tells me my patience will be tried way more than this.</div>
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So I'm like, get used to it sister.</div>
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I'm over here thinking about spicy food, castor oil, sex (who isn't?), nipple twisting (who is?), walking, primrose oil, relaxation techniques, hypnosis, yogic squats (goddess pose), pressure points, and whatever else I can possibly find in my research of how to start a labor. </div>
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Now unless the doctor is waving Pitocin at me 1-2 weeks after my due date, why am I trying to rush this poor baby? Already telling it to hurry up, let's get going.</div>
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Not how I want to start this relationship. It's just that I'm so excited. Not only to see how things turn out, know the sex, but to know this child. The suspense has been killing me for almost 10 months, </div>
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carrying this kicking and punching bundle and wondering. </div>
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I'm just so damn ready. On every level. So excited too. </div>
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And would just straight up like to get this show on the road because my back hurts and also my pelvis and pubic bone. And I just get so dang tired.</div>
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But more than anything, I'm tired of holding my baby in uterus. I'm anxious to hold her/him in arms. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxShwPtC_KuLl9ZiYIUiem_bYPIKsymIjlND3nMTtP34lzSDb5JwcvLYWPOShsejArzKLpLXCTzvpWS4rvLWVtLVAsTufuPWxYrpByArxD8PAGfZdiWUEPbnevx-vQxb9MZ39uSNeEfYC/s1600/photo-214.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxShwPtC_KuLl9ZiYIUiem_bYPIKsymIjlND3nMTtP34lzSDb5JwcvLYWPOShsejArzKLpLXCTzvpWS4rvLWVtLVAsTufuPWxYrpByArxD8PAGfZdiWUEPbnevx-vQxb9MZ39uSNeEfYC/s1600/photo-214.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very attractive picture Will took the other night. Bigger than a boat.</td></tr>
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BUT it's not up to me, is it? Life and God and baby choose </div>
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when and where the whole thing goes down. </div>
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My first big act of parental surrender is now. And now is the only time to do it.</div>
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So while I'm doing this or that, mind in the future, waiting on my baby and body to do something, I'm missing all these pre-mommy seconds. Spending time with my husband alone, smiling at and loving on my dog, reading and writing. All things I could be giving over my presence to </div>
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instead of wondering, waiting and wishing. </div>
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Like I said, not how I want to start off this relationship.</div>
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No more "Hurry up! You're going to be late."</div>
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"Whenever you're ready, baby. There is a right time, and you know it." As I take a deep breath, feel my body from the inside, and enjoy this beautiful day, this beautiful moment. </div>
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It will happen in its own perfect time. No more waiting in vain.</div>
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The most challenging time to stay present is now. </div>
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"Concentrate all your thoughts on the task at hand. The sun's rays do not burn until brought to a focus."</div>
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-Alexander Graham Bell</div>
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Impatiently,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-70975703358927757912014-02-13T08:46:00.000-08:002014-02-13T08:46:08.726-08:00Hello Sunshine<div style="text-align: center;">
"Gah, what's that bright-ass light in my face?"</div>
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Oh. It's the sun. Hello. I'm so glad to see you, sunshine.</div>
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Thanks be to God. For real. I was spiraling downward, taking my grown fetus and husband with me.</div>
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To make things even more beautiful this morning, the sun is melting the ice that froze every blade of grass, every limb of every tree---pecan, crepe myrtle, cypress, oak, etc. </div>
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Every bush, every berry, everything. </div>
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As a prize for enduring the darkness and ice, the sun is shining through the prisms of glass adornment on nature, crystals dripping, raining down little sparkly diamonds.</div>
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The sound of rain in the brilliant sun, everything shimmering like an overdone dinner party out there--the trees with their white, stiff wigs melting. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_miOYJh3ksYZG48_9pRkWqZbgNeh9qOucOkyC6XR8XQ0G5WRo6m4OpIey6viYc-0bBWKnEPmoNrM7SJO4Qx4YIl_VgNuzIY23EOJ0AquMn5u0-BZmYctAo6pK7WuLlpmS4oOgCYBUJg7w/s1600/photo+2-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_miOYJh3ksYZG48_9pRkWqZbgNeh9qOucOkyC6XR8XQ0G5WRo6m4OpIey6viYc-0bBWKnEPmoNrM7SJO4Qx4YIl_VgNuzIY23EOJ0AquMn5u0-BZmYctAo6pK7WuLlpmS4oOgCYBUJg7w/s1600/photo+2-1.JPG" /></a></div>
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I can't get enough of looking at it. Right at it. That's where the fun is. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha05phhl2Y6vUFkoQA5WnM5GyiRxh45U7GDWdF1bEnyyBstWZ-CL3B4dyfNZ6v83TiOyye-jhY813qgCythZJ7TjBNDRse7Y95zGVS46sW6ET5aCoLrRQXfAIygDqoE9LM0ukjAku1C119/s1600/photo+1-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha05phhl2Y6vUFkoQA5WnM5GyiRxh45U7GDWdF1bEnyyBstWZ-CL3B4dyfNZ6v83TiOyye-jhY813qgCythZJ7TjBNDRse7Y95zGVS46sW6ET5aCoLrRQXfAIygDqoE9LM0ukjAku1C119/s1600/photo+1-3.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I do realize that all my pics are of my backyard now.</td></tr>
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Makes me want to go put on some jewelry and walk around with lipstick on. But of course, keeping in my sweatpants and huge T-shirt, because let's face it, these are the only things that fit/are comfortable to wear for me. </div>
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For a lassie who's just about freaking 10 months pregnant, I am just recklessly in love with this scene, sitting by the fire, and completely inspired. Staring at my little, warming Narnia in the Delta. </div>
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I haven't written in a while, and might not for another while. But I'm feeling the love this morning and sending it to you, if anyone still reads this blog about nothing. </div>
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And my thought for today: Observance. So much to stop and stare at. To observe and see. I want to notice. Not only the sunshine, affecting every little thing. But hold steady to thoughts and emotions too. Dig in, scoop them up with sunshine, melting these things like crystals, softening the hard. </div>
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We shall see. Can't wait to say hello to my own little sunshine thing. </div>
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Watchful,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-62307923121846618092014-01-22T13:24:00.001-08:002014-01-22T13:24:05.177-08:00Love The One You're WithWhat does it require to love the one you're with? Not speaking about who you're in a relationship with, not who you're married to, not who you're seeing or hanging out with, not who you've been loving from afar or have something weird or complicated with. I'm not talking about romance. Never been a big romancer. <div><br></div><div>I mean the person you're physically with, who might be at the table next to you, at the next desk, who is on the other end of this phone call, who you're looking at, working with, driving next to, past. Your teacher, your student. Your friend, your lover.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm trying to get back into the habit of thinking that everyone I come into contact with is having the worst day ever. Not only that, I used to trick myself into believing that they had the hardest childhood ever, and someone was threatening to sue or kill them. I know that last part was a little dramatic. Only a little. </div><div><br></div><div>But it helped me to remember that everyone is scared. And probably a little sad. Or a lot sad, which is not hard to see and know.</div><div><br></div><div>I heard once that everything that people do is either motivates by fear or love. That everything is in constant battle between love and fear. You're either walking toward love or fear. And only love can overpower fear. And fear can actually be seen as a lack of love. And fear comes in all shapes and sizes including anxiety, stress, hatred, depression, anger, control, etcetera (basically every negative experience or emotion). </div><div><br></div><div>So if you pretend everyone is a scared child, even if they're being an ass to you (out of fear), the only way to help the situation is to love. </div><div><br></div><div>How? It's just an outpouring of your energy: a smile, a well-wishing, a silent blessing, a compliment, a loving thought, an observation of any goodness you can see or sense. Or perhaps just attention, just being present with the person, listening.</div><div><br></div><div>It's not easy. </div><div><br></div><div>Nobody needs to hear this more than me right now. All pregnant and fussy, hot and bothered but not in the good way. For real hot and bothered, as in physically uncomfortable and irritable. </div><div><br></div><div>I have to keep remembering what I know. What I feel is right...totally, completely, finally. </div><div><br></div><div>And so much to freaking love. <br><div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2VNVWJyR8hkeV9w5FYN7eohyHBKY2aSD_8gCm6mHEfyLDDJFb1dJHAUtuA0PVB-Mu3-174lNUlpjtIsqiEO9uN4brKwbwmHc0wxBbvvA66wdmFsLEaKKsMvQmihYKA-cWaklbOMgbFAv-/s640/blogger-image-553742164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2VNVWJyR8hkeV9w5FYN7eohyHBKY2aSD_8gCm6mHEfyLDDJFb1dJHAUtuA0PVB-Mu3-174lNUlpjtIsqiEO9uN4brKwbwmHc0wxBbvvA66wdmFsLEaKKsMvQmihYKA-cWaklbOMgbFAv-/s640/blogger-image-553742164.jpg"></a></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Let's all try it. One person in our line of fire at a time. To love, to uplift. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">God help us.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Lovingly,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Liza Jane</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-3235369731648726752014-01-16T10:41:00.000-08:002014-01-16T10:41:36.262-08:00Turn the Page<div style="text-align: center;">
Now I've always been a reader. This trait can be attributed to my mom. The yoga and wellness thing comes from my dad for sure. The travel thing comes from both of them. But literature? I can thank my mom, the editor, the english major </div>
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(which I should have been damn it, didn't have the guts). </div>
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[Side psychological moment:</div>
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It makes me think, do we choose our professions based on what we grew up around? </div>
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Or are our career decisions sometimes a way of getting that acceptance and admiration from our parents? A LOT of people do what their parents did. Just saying.]</div>
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I have to say, for me, the holistic wellness/yoga thing is something I enjoy so much, it makes me think it's the environmental/upbringing cause. Maybe even nature and nurture. </div>
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The reading and writing thing? Definitely a love and passion. </div>
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If I could, I'd sit on my ass and let someone feed me grapes (or right now, dark chocolate covered coffee beans) while I read without stopping (except to do some yoga) without bathing or sleeping. </div>
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The only break I would take would be to write out of sheer inspiration when it hit me.</div>
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But alas, life is there. There is so much to do. I can't roll around on my mother's antique chaise lounge reading while someone brings fresh vegetable juice and probiotic drinks on a gold tray.</div>
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So the book pile builds. My own slush pile. I always read several books at one time. But now, it's just ridiculous. The leaning tower of Pisa on the bedside table has become daunting. There's stuff on the bottom I've been reading since this time last year. I do not relent, I will move forward. The pile will shrink.</div>
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Happy to say, I've taken one hefty baby off the pile.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m8nsWX-UmhYT2vBmYxXb1URGudEu8FFFwkuI1hOub44KJ2SJmAf40-ToVvQyjvM9lkHy65teIMUvyqR4L2rOX9VO7zEtsj8sFFy1fShiC4BuC4Vq0JxHGsfR7Cbgo_leWyfrWd-NPwNS/s1600/DownloadedFile-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m8nsWX-UmhYT2vBmYxXb1URGudEu8FFFwkuI1hOub44KJ2SJmAf40-ToVvQyjvM9lkHy65teIMUvyqR4L2rOX9VO7zEtsj8sFFy1fShiC4BuC4Vq0JxHGsfR7Cbgo_leWyfrWd-NPwNS/s1600/DownloadedFile-1.jpeg" /></a></div>
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Hate to make a hunting analogy, but this 770-page novel is my mount. My deer antlers or whatever. What I mean is, this has been an extremely busy time, what with all the biological nesting drive and stuff all around me. To credit Donna Tartt, in my opinion, it was a pretty easy kill. She writes like Fabritius painted (alluding directly to the masterpiece in the title). A true work of art.</div>
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While Will anxiously searched for a fabled buck that he saw around our house with a supposed beautiful something-point, I furiously fired through this thing, </div>
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taking note of this woman's talent I truly admire. (Different strokes for different folks. Different hobbies for different bobbies. You get my gist. I don't know what a bobbie is. I made that up).</div>
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<a href="http://www.fancijaebyrd.blogspot.com/2013/10/wednesday-what-im-reading-6-delta.html">Nancy chose this for our book club</a>. We had a great discussion. Not everyone loved it, which made for the great conversation. So glad we got this group together. Reading is so important, kids.</div>
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Then there are the baby books. Good-ness.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjya06GQ8cfrAkXJiNASGE4Y0lpSEVpb69eGVkWVq7_SLtjkgfYDxK-l0Z4-6wd50oIGNl-22LND0d5bPnV586aMBLGjugZ79O6y2WMkyZ4PPvLX8RKIAv_FrdWDE6VVcjbLNmLSeLXkOt_/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjya06GQ8cfrAkXJiNASGE4Y0lpSEVpb69eGVkWVq7_SLtjkgfYDxK-l0Z4-6wd50oIGNl-22LND0d5bPnV586aMBLGjugZ79O6y2WMkyZ4PPvLX8RKIAv_FrdWDE6VVcjbLNmLSeLXkOt_/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Ina May Gaskin gets to the point and tells it like it is.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm reading her breast feeding book now. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Been through about 4 childbirth books since I found out I was pregnant. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Geesh, you add that to the nutrition and yoga books constantly thrown about my house, the fun non-fictions and short story collections, plus the novels waiting in line under this month's book club book, and you need about 3-4 months of being on a deserted island to complete half of it.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Still the slushie pile grows. Working in a bookstore doesn't help. Yesterday at TurnRow, I started sweating when Jamie asked me if I have anything I've read to recommend for the spring. I almost had an anxiety attack. I got defensive as usual and said, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Maybe after I've read all the books I am reading that are already out there!" I'm surprised I didn't add, "I'm not a freaking machine!"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dang. I'm that under-achieving employee. While everyone else reads at the speed of sound, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm floundering around in last year's prize winners. I almost feel illiterate around those people. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I feel like a 13-year-old when they are discussing authors, and I'm like, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Oh yes, I agree. Who is that again?"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But, hey, doing the best I can. And that's what I am doing.</div>
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Struggling to keep up? Whatever. Go at your pace.</div>
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Literally,</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-53183763968644386162014-01-12T14:55:00.001-08:002014-01-12T14:55:23.045-08:00Let's Talk About Sex<div style="text-align: center;">
Preg post! Get excited.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Are you carrying low or high?" "Hold your hands out.""I know you're having a girl." </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"I know you're having a boy."</div>
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<br /></div>
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Lack of rashes, morning sickness, fast heartbeat, sweets cravings </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(more like total SUGAR ADDICTION). </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My favorite is my father-in-law: "Is there a follow-through to the kicks and punches?" His theory is if it's a boy, there will be a follow-through. If it's a girl, no follow-through. Have your ever seen a girl through a baseball without training? It makes sense. If his prediction is correct, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
this little creature within is a girl.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Then there's the people that look at you, talk to you for a second and say, "So you're having a girl?"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Then there are the pronouns. Watching what people say when they refer to your little fetus. "Is he kicking?" "She's keeping you up all night, isn't she?" As if these people have some sort of secret subconscious answer for you. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the dreams. One boy dream a long time ago. And the rest have been girl. A girl who looks exactly like me when I was a babe. And from the sonogram pics, the baby is looking like Will. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZFhmGq5SMxdxw1aEdBpHGa_lMBHSq3WCBxjNlxaotFmitddtx9FYenC1BkfIKbnJMOjlMWlqynow_h9ycI1lkTrdu-iq04VYpBX0WjcbDhiEcboJ_cdSllJLr0XsxZrp7eeCLsCNfRXqE/s1600/IMG_1416.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZFhmGq5SMxdxw1aEdBpHGa_lMBHSq3WCBxjNlxaotFmitddtx9FYenC1BkfIKbnJMOjlMWlqynow_h9ycI1lkTrdu-iq04VYpBX0WjcbDhiEcboJ_cdSllJLr0XsxZrp7eeCLsCNfRXqE/s1600/IMG_1416.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In my imagination, she also acts like Will. Thank goodness. Hopefully. Please let her be like Will.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This is not self-hate. From the tales we've each heard, he was a 10x better baby. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Also, as a person, he has some fantastic traits. I could insert my strong traits for some of his weak ones. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We've found out after being married and living together, he makes up for what I lack and vice versa. Hell yeah. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But all in all, let her be like Will.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Then there's my own pronoun usage. What do I subconsciously know? What is all this she business?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What about the pencil trick I did with friends a long time ago. What did the horizontal line mean, followed by an up-and-down-vertical motion? I'm going to have a girl and then a boy? What does it all mean?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Then there's the other sonogram picture, where the baby is prepping from shoulderstand to plow pose (halasana), and well we can tell she's going to a little yogi, yes. But there's a little something protruding. A little taco coming forward out of the hip area.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SR-muwuuhIAPc4dG1EntjyQAEllEp5EciWjT4-mnM9T9vLOKTVEmSo6juIOJAyAa3FlYKG_zIv7KVjysoCdots4N6_Emn-Nri4uqWXAddUPs1bNWsLMi509m7InNb5RP59WJlpNgsoOC/s1600/photo-213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SR-muwuuhIAPc4dG1EntjyQAEllEp5EciWjT4-mnM9T9vLOKTVEmSo6juIOJAyAa3FlYKG_zIv7KVjysoCdots4N6_Emn-Nri4uqWXAddUPs1bNWsLMi509m7InNb5RP59WJlpNgsoOC/s1600/photo-213.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Butt is up, baby is on its neck, looking up at legs overhead. Little something coming from the hip crease. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But then again, there's a lot going on in this pick. Umbilical cord, bunch of amniotic fluid. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And girls have little tacos too. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When people ask, I say "My head says boy, and my heart says girl." So now I've turned the sex of my baby into a battle between head and heart. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm just pouring over all the cues, all the different hints. It's supposed to be a damn mystery. Relax.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Why did I do this to us? We've come too far now. My doula says it's going to be beautiful. I'm just thinking, "Intense." It's going to be so intense. After all that, and with all that going on, and with that on top of all that. Whoa. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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But I'm loving my little green nursery and white onesies.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And I am enjoying the unknown. I appreciate uncertainty. And I freaking love surprises. </div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
Girlishly,</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-53565673366072891222014-01-07T13:49:00.001-08:002014-01-07T13:57:56.332-08:00Express Yourself<div style="text-align: center;">
Let's get off the baby boat for a second. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Don't get excited because tomorrow I'll be right back on it. It consumes me. </div>
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I mean, it's a pretty consuming event. Have mercy.</div>
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I want to babble. Thinking about this thing, spiritually. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Something is pressing everyone. The word press is everywhere.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Express. Repress. Depress. </div>
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It's pressing. </div>
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Something you have to say, something you have to do, someone you have to be. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So what is it that presses? What is IT? Some kind of force in you. You don't know what it is. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But it presses, it bubbles, it wants to surge out, go back to join with the Power from where it came. Somehow it got inside you.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let it fly, friend. Expel the pressing from you through expression. Else, what is your other choice? </div>
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Push it back for a bit--for another time, another place.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And so you hit the middle ground: Repression. Re: Go back, not time for this, not the place for this. I do not have the time, courage, strength, love, etc. You stick it back into you into this middle area, where this little thing of energy goes from ripe to spoiled a bit. But not enough to start stinking, not yet. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So it tries to find a way back out. It keeps boiling up to the top of your consciousness. Nope. </div>
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Not ready. Can't deal. Can't cope, and now it's all rotted from all the repression. Started to stink.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Send it Deep: De-pression. Bury it so you forget what it is. The little light gets dark, the produce grows spotty, brown, eventually black. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And now it's deep and stinky, making a mess of your insides. You've forgotten it--buried under all the excuses and resentments, bitterness and complaining. Something you wouldn't allow yourself to say, do, complete. Depression. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Now that the life form has been depressed, there are all kinds of issues. </div>
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What was it we wanted to bring about?</div>
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<br /></div>
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If you do not express, you will repress, then you will depress. So please express. For all of us. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkRmZdyhT5Cw1A11OgbffddUeezrU_9Dl_aze7PYJndzYBzUgV2_Zq8nA3gahQ9-A8jM-udNi3sjTTBC39daDgbBtlWIo022UmFgjNBGUDcLy_YPZVkmCTKpFX0S0rhOg7Au6lPhWU_xy/s1600/ballerina-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkRmZdyhT5Cw1A11OgbffddUeezrU_9Dl_aze7PYJndzYBzUgV2_Zq8nA3gahQ9-A8jM-udNi3sjTTBC39daDgbBtlWIo022UmFgjNBGUDcLy_YPZVkmCTKpFX0S0rhOg7Au6lPhWU_xy/s1600/ballerina-1.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of oriooli.com--love watching ballet!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img class="irc_mut" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9Y0n8x8FebqbJgCsGG1zYMoNWv-BPX4mBmLrFuHqJ1_GqNdlBke84ntu9Fe7i1AhI9eWKRPadnEhwzYkdJpeO_7AMyjWCGl3ZUoKB7gjD7owtJHImVD1NCmnvPe0cCV3r270PGR734w/s640/Demond1.jpg" height="393" id="irc_mi" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px;" width="275" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy: annconnellyfineartgallery.blogspot.com--a Demond Matsuo painting. I love this series of his paintings.<br />
I want one bad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img class="irc_mut" src="http://www.owlandbear.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/lucinda-williams.jpg" height="267" id="irc_mi" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 46px;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of owlandbear.com. Lucinda Williams--one of my favorite singer/songwriters. <br />
Bless her.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Whatever it may be that is being repressed, depressed--it could bless all of us if expressed. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
It could poison all of us if not. There has to be a fine line between depression and oppression. </div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Oppose: To press against life. Nothing is right. Everything is wrong. This, that, and the other. Opposing the pressing of all life.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I see the effects of oppression and depression all around me: poverty, drugs, control, fear, pain. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But expression? I see way, way more of that. Exponentially more. I can hear it too. It's everywhere. Life bursting forth. The sun, music, everything ever written, everything ever authentically said or sung. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It may be painful through grunts, expanding, growing, screams and pushing--but what you get is worth every moment of excruciating expression. The birth of beauty.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And so may this little post be on the sunny side of that which is pressing every single person. Expressed.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Pressingly,</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Liza Jane</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-210070532102266282014-01-04T12:17:00.001-08:002014-01-04T12:17:33.267-08:00Need A Little Sugar In My Bowl<div style="text-align: center;">
It's been my thinking, and still kind of is, that sugar is the devil. At least the white crystallized kind. It really does make people feel bad later, a spiking high followed by a very low dose of depression and sometimes anger. At least you're going to feel a little impatience or some kind of hard resistance towards life around you. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But hey, listen, I am absolutely not about to get on a soapbox about sugar right now. You know why?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm addicted. I'm trying to get away from it. I'm with you, friend.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And of course, like I do with all things, I'm going to blame this on circumstances outside of my control: pregnancy cravings.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's a little ridiculous when the first thing you used to reach for in the morning was an orange, apple or banana. Now? Chocolate. Yeah I go for the chocolate first. SO what?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So I realized what was going on around the sixth month. Coffee, at that point, became an immense craving as well. Some milked up, frothed up, delicious coffee. Just smelling it could make my eyes go black like a shark who has smelled blood. And then the sugar thing happened. And is still happening. Because I just ate the last of the gummy bears I put in my husband's stocking, supposedly intended for his sweet tooth. It made him happy until I ate all of them. Every last one. Don't even get me started on the chocolate-covered coffee beans I've been buying for myself. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Then there's the baking, which I could also partly blame on the holidays. Brownies, cake, cookies, cake cookies, brownie cake cookies. It's starting to get weird. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The unbearable hypocrisy of it all! Here I am studying therapeutic yoga and nutrition and I keep getting up for another stupid bowl of cereal at 1:30 in the afternoon, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
like I didn't have two bowls of Kashi's Honey Sunshine earlier this morning. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Then there was the failed first-round gestational diabetes test. Great. So appalled and embarrassed. You have no idea. "But I study holistic nutrition, what the hell?" The day before my second round of testing, it was like I was withdrawing. I stayed away from sugar, and I passed the stupid test. Still not proud of the overall effort it took for me to stay away from the things I ache for right now. Everything is made of sugar! You really can't get away from it. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I used to make fun of my husband, his blues name is "Sweet Tooth Jones." Like an older blues man in a juke joint in the 30s, playing the guitar for Bessie Smith, as she croons <i>I need a little sugar in my bowl</i>. A few friends and I joking, "What'd you get for ole Sweet Tooth Jones at the store?" Oh, some organic gluten-free, dairy-free fig cookies. Exactly what he wanted, I'm sure. Sweet Tooth Jones has no problem finding something substantially sweet in our snack cabinet now. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Carbs are an easy commodity these days.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJQTqrZFie57wxPHncn3ZOV2oOnWcXsbpAnWYZZxolbG-KxafGsWMSfVAEW6Hwj0F95SDGrKrP-oYkPhlKJwHOCKyCYG6AzI1eoxjt6A-F5aQMG5jXMcyHF3zoQt1iON53KrGVBdJ_OTs/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJQTqrZFie57wxPHncn3ZOV2oOnWcXsbpAnWYZZxolbG-KxafGsWMSfVAEW6Hwj0F95SDGrKrP-oYkPhlKJwHOCKyCYG6AzI1eoxjt6A-F5aQMG5jXMcyHF3zoQt1iON53KrGVBdJ_OTs/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But now we've got another Sweet Tooth Jones. And I'm pretty positive that we actually have three. Because, of course, this is all baby. I did not do this. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh shoot. Definitely not a good idea to start off this all-important relationship with blaming. But seriously? I was not like this before. I mean I liked a good funnel cake when it presented itself but I wasn't not going to go search one out, sniffing like a bloodhound, losing everybody I was with because my ultra-scent of smell took me straight to a place where grease and powdered sugar rule.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Maybe my blues name can be more jazzy: Blood Sugar Shorty or Cavity Calamity or something like that. Yeah, I like this blues name game. I'll be on this all day.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In short, our family is doomed in sweet-toothness. As crazy healthy as always I've been, right when I'm feeding a little kicking alien inside me, I'd rather have a damn bowl of some cinnamon cereal instead of healthy salad. Right when I've started a certification in holistic nutrition. Does it make sense? No. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
It just doesn't. But it is what is. And that's what it is. One thing still present: I try to stay away from high-fructose corn syrup. And artificial stuff like aspartame and Splenda and all that. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm not all bad. This, too, shall pass. As long as I don't start needing insulin shots. There's got to be some kind of upside to the downward things, right? Oh, yes. There's always some good in the bad and some bad in the good.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Sugar Mama,</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-27930195317767199372013-12-19T19:45:00.002-08:002013-12-20T06:41:20.473-08:00Jealousy<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm on a bit of a Natalie Merchant kick with song titles/blog post titles.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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My responses to "How far along are you?" have started prompting the response to the response, "Not long now!" as opposed to what I used to hear, "Oh you've got time." </div>
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And people close to us are asking, "What's Jackson going to do?"</div>
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Our first son. We stare at him, watch him as he wakes, look on adoringly as he falls asleep. </div>
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Kiss him, squeeze him, hug him.</div>
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They say we'll love the child even more. We just wonder how. </div>
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But we know it's going to happen.</div>
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I think he found out. The crib has been set up. It was a moment. He realized something was happening. I had to have a talk with him. He's no spring chicken. Although I hope we get some spring chickens. </div>
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He'll probably feel weird about that too.</div>
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So I decided to call a meeting with all of our kids. </div>
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It was time to be upfront about what's around the bend.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOeEBgztQGc5YlIymwwpgwJnZhDxxnf-uojL9N5GCc7bbNss4kN-5G4PWWgam4s3Z866dq_0jDnuFoKjhSIXsr7Ej0qVG4HA03HVFtBWEVStL8KbYP4b9o1lgcVSucyXLRZ06_uu-svCi8/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOeEBgztQGc5YlIymwwpgwJnZhDxxnf-uojL9N5GCc7bbNss4kN-5G4PWWgam4s3Z866dq_0jDnuFoKjhSIXsr7Ej0qVG4HA03HVFtBWEVStL8KbYP4b9o1lgcVSucyXLRZ06_uu-svCi8/s1600/photo+2.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can see Big Kitty took it the worst. He started shaking her head (we don't know the sexes of these cats). Blue over to the right was just quiet and still. She's always been the calm pet. </td></tr>
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It's okay, Big Kitty. You're going to love her/him!</div>
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Blue looks excited. I love this cat. When I get the urge to cradle something in my arms, I go find sweet Blue. She is a cool cat. Because he has been with us since he was a kitten and was handled by anyone and everyone, she is very social and not really afraid of anything, which can actually be annoying, but I love his little personality. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2LtpVCRBmzrZD7b7IMlTm8O099q5_plofo7UYWSpvYHX79wysIV_V5XDuQtgXI8_LDbmJqidOS58cFS5-87Lk7RBQIYUlFRzp4iUNX_RDdgjOBiiooi0ftXMmjzYV5EMP2ZDu2gmS32X/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2LtpVCRBmzrZD7b7IMlTm8O099q5_plofo7UYWSpvYHX79wysIV_V5XDuQtgXI8_LDbmJqidOS58cFS5-87Lk7RBQIYUlFRzp4iUNX_RDdgjOBiiooi0ftXMmjzYV5EMP2ZDu2gmS32X/s400/photo+5.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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The Canadian family out back has grown to about 7. I didn't even say anything--just walked out of the porch, and they turned, showing me what they thought about that. Guess they heard the news already. They're pissed. They only come around on sunny spring or fall days anyway. Whatever.</div>
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We'll all be used to it in no time I'm sure. </div>
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Animally,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-76699364784863656602013-12-17T07:47:00.000-08:002013-12-17T07:47:10.125-08:00Walkin' After Midnight<div style="text-align: center;">
I love this little thing inside me. I see it doing all kinds of tricks in my belly--the alien way my outtie bell button pops up and down. A wave of movement from within. These are the good times, I say to myself. I see its booty pop up, and I push on it. It pushes right back at me. Little spunky thing like its mother.</div>
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But it walks all over me.</div>
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I imagine it in there (yes, I say it...it's okay), just walking and punching my insides, and then doing a few somersalts. I'm happy for him/her that he/she is not defined by gravity right now. </div>
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But her walking sends me walking. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCzzjBk7FPo86OkOego0gV_FUwp8_Rs8lj6vfv2h77ZPvPDAEAxngEalBCFftM_D-mYMIUsd-V6HiCFvvdUKpBZNmmwIrIGmFKFlPHHyd6UmO8LDy-B7_wDdHS8NhnPWvVQ8RIBrEdZ7e/s1600/SET%5E043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCzzjBk7FPo86OkOego0gV_FUwp8_Rs8lj6vfv2h77ZPvPDAEAxngEalBCFftM_D-mYMIUsd-V6HiCFvvdUKpBZNmmwIrIGmFKFlPHHyd6UmO8LDy-B7_wDdHS8NhnPWvVQ8RIBrEdZ7e/s320/SET%5E043.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I keep hearing Patsy Cline on the radio these days--she's one of my favorites. </td></tr>
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I realize this might be the end of sleep as I once knew it. I wake up and every sense of my zen-yoganess is dissolved into fury and frustration (who am I kidding? We all know I have a breakdown at around 7:30 every night). I'm hot, I'm flustered, and damn it, I'm just not comfortable. And do I have to go to the bathroom or not? I don't know. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Will it rain or will it snow?</div>
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It could be my addiction to chocolate. It could be that for the first time in 3 years, I crave coffee like a crack addict. It could be my husband snoring and screaming in his sleep, "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?" And later, "WHO WON THE GAME?" and an hour after that, "Baby, they said they already picked up the carpet." And then later, "That was a great game." </div>
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Sometimes there is loud yelling, and sometimes it's just a simple, calm sentence. </div>
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It could be the moon, it could be the sun. But it's definitely not the chamomile tea or the magnesium hot bath. It's not the huge man T-shirt I have to wear or the lavender oil on my pillow. It's not the yoga. </div>
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It's my body. </div>
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I talk about the body in yoga. It holds the essence of spirit. And spirit is the source the mind. So I have to trust the body knows what it's doing. Some say it's preparing me to be up all night with the babe. I say back, "Wouldn't it want me to get sleep right now while I can, instead of torturing me?"</div>
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But I have to trust it's the right thing. I'm trying this out. </div>
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Trust the right things are happening at the right time. </div>
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Sure, I wake up every 3 hours thinking about what packages haven't come in from Pottery Barn yet. Sure, I feel like crying and losing it all day long. Sure, I'm a big huge chocolate addict who can turn into a demon at any moment. Lack of sleep, lack of time. And the baby isn't even crying in front of me.</div>
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This is definitely a pregnancy post. But can you blame me? Two months to go. From the side, I look like an isosceles triangle. My boobs are huge, competing for space with my high belly. I try to put a bra on (a damn D!), and they're like, "Nuh-uh. Not here, partner." And I say, "Yes, boobs. I can't walk around like a braless hippy." They say, "Fine, be our guest. I'm telling you, we have enough support from your big-ass belly." And so I wear the bra, and it squeezes me all day long in the most crowded area of my body, and around 6:30, I just can't breathe any more, and it's coming off. Then my boobs jump up and down for joy. My whole mood changes. I'm like a different woman with my bra off. </div>
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No complaints though. Like I always say, I am madly blessed. Insanely. And sometimes I feel I don't deserve it. But it's true. Sure, things aren't perfect. But they're perfect for me.</div>
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Sleep deprivation? What to do? I don't know. I just have to trust it's happening for a reason. If you're going through this too, perhaps we can find the answers together. But I feel your pain. Boy, do I ever feel your pain. I think it's an individual thing. My thing may be that I need to cut out the morning chocolate, which has caffeine in it. Or maybe I just need to chill the hell out. </div>
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Tiredly,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-424789138905398112013-12-08T18:47:00.001-08:002013-12-08T18:47:36.538-08:00Kind and Generous<div style="text-align: center;">
I moved here a little over 2 years ago. Just followin' my heart, </div>
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nothing but corn fields and a farm shop around.</div>
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I had some anxiety about a lot of the things. The smaller things were grocery store issues, driving gas issues (as in fuel for my car), being a vegetarian amidst a lot of meat-eaters (which led to the other kind of gas issues), etc.</div>
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The big things, there were two of them: how am I going to make money, do what I love and have some income? And how the hell am I going to make friends out here? A girl has got to have other girls. Everybody needs other people. </div>
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So we'll talk another day about the gas and income issues. Today, we'll talk about the people issue.</div>
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For a lassie in her mid-20s, making friends has always involved some kind of school or job or project. So enters this new challenge: get to know and love people while living in the middle of nowhere, get over any awkwardness about it, and make the time (and gas) to see some people.</div>
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It's very lucky my husband is such a bubbly, popular guy. His friends have become my friends, and their women have become my girls, and eventually I got to know people.</div>
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And they blew my mind. They welcomed me into their lives, and I am so grateful. I'm not from here. And I'm also kind of an odd, little bird. So I know this is kind and generous. These people have beautiful hearts, and I've just begun to talk about their generosity.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3q8D2GgLOcixaf0H4CG7phaZ55aM_xVe1N8fcIyi4PzHq2tjFLK7T9U_sngvubkJXkDdxn-iYdeul3XJTiXyVFjAxfuSkPHWUnEWTCSB91bWxzwIOT3R3nZFzY22F1nIy9yR8knAuCS_6/s1600/photo+1-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3q8D2GgLOcixaf0H4CG7phaZ55aM_xVe1N8fcIyi4PzHq2tjFLK7T9U_sngvubkJXkDdxn-iYdeul3XJTiXyVFjAxfuSkPHWUnEWTCSB91bWxzwIOT3R3nZFzY22F1nIy9yR8knAuCS_6/s1600/photo+1-2.JPG" /></a></div>
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Some of these people threw Will and me a baby shower Saturday night. A co-ed baby party. They made food. Kelli's home was so beautifully decorated. They stocked the bar (baby likes milk punch). They invited people. People brought gifts. They bought a big fat present for my offspring and me. It was beautiful and fun.</div>
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I saved the tears. I did not break down and cry. I am prouder than a lion about that. </div>
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But I am so deeply moved. My new friends astound me. I feel truly blessed. And inspired.</div>
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They haven't known me that long, and they have chosen to make me feel supported and cared for. </div>
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Now that really is something. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivB28KBTcHKCpUTsgRd9KdjDulxA7QJDVlj4Q4z7FhYYeW0vxqbAI_ufqP2ST7o19wggn9B2yYQVZa59HEfJwM8J6gFKTrwClmdPfEPBoaxh3y-Ali331m_44kl0DHTWQBfPmc_8rfw0dF/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivB28KBTcHKCpUTsgRd9KdjDulxA7QJDVlj4Q4z7FhYYeW0vxqbAI_ufqP2ST7o19wggn9B2yYQVZa59HEfJwM8J6gFKTrwClmdPfEPBoaxh3y-Ali331m_44kl0DHTWQBfPmc_8rfw0dF/s1600/photo+2.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most of the hostesses: Katie, Nancy, Elinor, Whitney and Kelli. Missing in this pic: the lovely, sweet and graceful Eleanor who is truly an inspiration to me.</td></tr>
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It's about how you make people feel. I will remember these women and their men when I think about how I want to make people feel: loved and supported. I hope to be as kind and as generous as they are.</div>
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And I only had about 6 ounces of milk punch so you can relax now.</div>
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Glowingly,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-6174714911265792752013-12-01T08:52:00.000-08:002013-12-01T08:52:03.011-08:00Breakfast at Tiffany's<div style="text-align: center;">
Breakfast at Liza's...all day long. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8caORkHsOvLcaAvfTAmk9X9rz3rgwsVHDTIew007GI7eVph35hTu7FqqO22Hh0p4B4wpeAwqbKz2amnsEdnqSTNC9oL1yv_iDEISltkvZmEzCu64LTmE2JoLdZwGLYfQ5eDn4OFsNOcU2/s1600/audrey-hepburn-breakfast-at-tiffanys_1992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8caORkHsOvLcaAvfTAmk9X9rz3rgwsVHDTIew007GI7eVph35hTu7FqqO22Hh0p4B4wpeAwqbKz2amnsEdnqSTNC9oL1yv_iDEISltkvZmEzCu64LTmE2JoLdZwGLYfQ5eDn4OFsNOcU2/s1600/audrey-hepburn-breakfast-at-tiffanys_1992.jpg" /></a></div>
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And this is exactly what I look like. Bright-eyed and beautiful with jewels in my hair, exactly like Audrey Hepburn. </div>
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(When I was a little girl and first saw <i>Breakfast at Tiffany's</i>, I wanted that to be my life...wild and free in a beautiful, scant apartment in New York, being chased by men. But then I realized that Holly Golightly was a sudo-prostitute. Then I thought maybe it wasn't the life for me). </div>
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By the way, a heroine named Holly Golightly would never fly with book critics now. Just making a note of how things have changed. </div>
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And this song from the 90s bugs me so much. Even before pregnancy irritability. I mean, if you only have one thing in common and that's some movie from the 60s, I think, maybe, it's time to let go. </div>
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Anyway, breakfast at Liza's is 24/7, non-stop, all day, everything and anything on the menu. </div>
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You can have any type of weird or interesting breakfast you want over here. </div>
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I could have breakfast all day long and often do these days. I just had two. I'm about to have my third serving right now. Now that the yogurt course is over, proceeded by the waffle with almond butter on top of it. I think I'll have a helping maple brown sugar oatmeal now. And then around so-called lunchtime, I'll have an egg with some spelt bread. </div>
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And so the breakfast never ends for me. </div>
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If we're talking about breakfasts, I'd like to pay homage to my favorite breakfast place, the Beacon in Oxford, MS. (Runner-up Pancake Pantry in Nashville). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievW6fnPZd-hLBD0sGVIeoG5U7QWTOEDZ500x1QD5tiJ_j1CfY9n1VRiF5yHCX307Puk4zkxzWbHEXjJSZUzgbHd1OdMISRjRSYTVeVpmHlRInXgIsfzCBG7qJDu6EODz4e_ziLCpUiNnm/s1600/photo-211.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievW6fnPZd-hLBD0sGVIeoG5U7QWTOEDZ500x1QD5tiJ_j1CfY9n1VRiF5yHCX307Puk4zkxzWbHEXjJSZUzgbHd1OdMISRjRSYTVeVpmHlRInXgIsfzCBG7qJDu6EODz4e_ziLCpUiNnm/s1600/photo-211.JPG" /></a></div>
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Everywhere I go, I search for a place like the Beacon. Recently, Will and I got to go. We sat in a cozy booth, drank an endless supply of coffee (don't worry, I restrained myself, and remembered pregnancy) and I ordered almost everything on the menu. I had the pancakes, I had the biscuits, I had the oatmeal, I had the grits, I had the eggs. Everything but the greasy meat parts of the menu (which I did considerably eyeball). </div>
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Friend Sarah came here every morning in college. They stopped asking her what she wanted eventually. I was so jealous they knew her name. But she went there way more than I and so deserved that medal of honor. </div>
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So here's to doing whatever the hell you want! Eat seven breakfasts if you want to. It might be weird, but you know there's something very sacred about being a weirdo. Unless you're a creepy type of weirdo. And then maybe get some professional help. </div>
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Besides eating breakfast helps to boost the metabolism. Now that life is flying, </div>
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I'm savoring my quick metabolism for all it's worth. </div>
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Satiably,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-29866541976966110932013-11-26T09:15:00.001-08:002013-11-26T09:16:44.351-08:00Light My Fire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Come on, baby, light my fire...</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFS4fHKn21rPMalnQQhLb0wIMxiv8YMJ4mHMf8yBn1pcCdGOrfqp7X_KjmTXcgxHUaiYmaePr2_xmnNNzDodCQfYcepqwven4V8mY9lOXOEFnzO520CtBAtHH6P9WKD19QXc_1R2JlbNay/s1600/photo-210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFS4fHKn21rPMalnQQhLb0wIMxiv8YMJ4mHMf8yBn1pcCdGOrfqp7X_KjmTXcgxHUaiYmaePr2_xmnNNzDodCQfYcepqwven4V8mY9lOXOEFnzO520CtBAtHH6P9WKD19QXc_1R2JlbNay/s1600/photo-210.JPG" /></a></div>
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Daddy Long-Legs built our first fire Sunday. I don't know where he got the idea that I like fires. Maybe it's because for the first two years of our marriage, I would scream "I love fires!!!!" and every night in the winter, "We should have a fire!!!" in total excitement. And so we did. Every night we were home.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwA9fF6LoOJF0c4wMQFlGgFdEJ3iRTC5YVrcWHUoWeTxZntnuEY7MeV_okTR8VxyOzOI031n8OGOHYQlcv6CFWfxOIM8NdhEF8XpSCIt5EgajGa2oT5nabgij1hq4asppb_m2vuWqsElpp/s1600/photo+1-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwA9fF6LoOJF0c4wMQFlGgFdEJ3iRTC5YVrcWHUoWeTxZntnuEY7MeV_okTR8VxyOzOI031n8OGOHYQlcv6CFWfxOIM8NdhEF8XpSCIt5EgajGa2oT5nabgij1hq4asppb_m2vuWqsElpp/s1600/photo+1-1.JPG" /></a></div>
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I stare at it, sit too close to it, poke at it, throw stuff in it...I love fire.</div>
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It's probably one of the 5 things I like about winter (hot chocolate/warm drinks, boots, Christmas/holiday season, skiing/snow [if even available], fire). It's the same for everybody, I know. But my disdain for winter is so strong that I cling to fires like a life preserver. </div>
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"I know it's only 58 degrees, but I had a bad day, so let's light it up."</div>
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It's energy, bright and warm. Something inside me resonates with that. I can feel that bright warmth, and when I feel passionate about something, I feel the fire. And I know how to stoke it. </div>
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I know where I feel it.</div>
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The third chakra (which is a swirling vortex of energy in the body), Manipura is located in the solar plexus. It represents warrior energy, self-esteem and transformation. It represents taking charge of one's life through selfless service, a get-up-and-go attitude. It is belly laughter and ease. It is warmth and vitality. It's the seat of personal power. It is, right now, my favorite chakra. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7gmDA54geV_jTTEGDBlMRQbQQFARngm1AphPTYCSxHtiIVp9wNf-Tj5yw5ugT9GCZCL9ALbfzOIWZ1lWK-W0lXRsPewnKeyjaK9iQzdH3utyC6n6WHh8fBefo55Yfp_QN_qQkd9Qc0mH/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7gmDA54geV_jTTEGDBlMRQbQQFARngm1AphPTYCSxHtiIVp9wNf-Tj5yw5ugT9GCZCL9ALbfzOIWZ1lWK-W0lXRsPewnKeyjaK9iQzdH3utyC6n6WHh8fBefo55Yfp_QN_qQkd9Qc0mH/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">courtesy of yogajournal.com<br />
BOAT POSE BABY</td></tr>
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A deficient third chakra is evident with digestive problems, low self-esteem, eating disorders, and feeling like a victim. In these cases, the fire needs to be stoked. I like core-strengthening poses for the third chakra. Navasana, which is boat pose, is great for this. Also, Urdhva Prasarita Padasana (fancy name for leg lifts) is also a great way to get into this chakra. Any twists too. The warrior poses. Making the sound "ram" will help too. Just do it.</div>
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Taking any kind of scary risk will help you to get into your third chakra as well.</div>
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Taking on too much stuff in life (sounds like someone I know...me), perfectionism, anger and hatred can indicate excess third chakra activity. Backbends are a great way to cool off the Manipura.</div>
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All righty, we got some winter griping in, some yoga, and now you're set.</div>
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Done for today. Wishing warmth for those of you stuck in cold, dreary weather. Like all of America.</div>
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Hotly,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-26920706637579121782013-11-23T09:30:00.001-08:002013-11-23T09:39:30.950-08:00House of the Rising Sun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihOadT3v5vOSY0-e8_K98RPA_03icJGYu5qaNFMLCXPjdBkDPK6LNxq5cN40rx_NXsPsR6r-7F0zUwAj-YG-Tu-xYs6DfcRo4AmmpRQL12eVqgragxGwMlFNbtWBhBw2STRIVSW53H04Qu/s1600/photo-208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihOadT3v5vOSY0-e8_K98RPA_03icJGYu5qaNFMLCXPjdBkDPK6LNxq5cN40rx_NXsPsR6r-7F0zUwAj-YG-Tu-xYs6DfcRo4AmmpRQL12eVqgragxGwMlFNbtWBhBw2STRIVSW53H04Qu/s400/photo-208.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We get a show every morning. It doesn't always look like this. </div>
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But something is always happening over that lake.</div>
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On this particular morning, I woke up mad. It happens. I knew I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything because I had to leave at 6:45 to go to the doctor in Jackson. Testing for gestational diabetes. Great.</div>
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Not even water. But as I stumbled to the kitchen out of habit, not sure what I would have done in there anyway, tired and angry and hungry and thirsty, I looked out my window and saw this. </div>
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Jackson and I went outside, breathing the cool air, and I stood in awe. Damn. It got prettier every second. Talk about meditation. Nothing takes you into gratitude like seeing something like this brilliant scene. God, the funkiest artist. The most radical, top-notch director of shows. My mood transformed, and all of a sudden, everything felt magical. I felt connected and uplifted. Jackson and I might have been the only creatures to see it exactly like that from where we stood.</div>
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So I felt loved. That was a crazy, busy day. I did not walk through it on a cloud. Three more hours of hunger and thirst and failing a diabetes test put me out. But that sunrise prepared me. I stayed pretty much uplifted throughout the day.</div>
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Not everyone chances upon magnificent sunrises every morning. A good way to get into the feeling of preparedness, of being loved and to try to hold on to that lifted feeling throughout the day is to practice a few sun salutations toward the east, first thing in the morning.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxfsdzmpdKUW-ZPJ-FE-meZmBZ-7xFI0xhzO1ss-MloSUlqOykxBXucLTroGPbQihWs3jokug9VmuL3LrSj3YrOBaC5R7VgLIVkkRMXbYdkuXCZGM7SPPIlGZ2O1wFu1hUzJpA7zIZgyo/s1600/yoga-sun-salutation-surya-namaskar2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxfsdzmpdKUW-ZPJ-FE-meZmBZ-7xFI0xhzO1ss-MloSUlqOykxBXucLTroGPbQihWs3jokug9VmuL3LrSj3YrOBaC5R7VgLIVkkRMXbYdkuXCZGM7SPPIlGZ2O1wFu1hUzJpA7zIZgyo/s320/yoga-sun-salutation-surya-namaskar2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Courtesy of smashboard.com)</td></tr>
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Get the body moving and warmed. Get into the breath. Get into the moment. Get into worship mode.</div>
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The Sun Salutation A's that I teach vary from the one above, so feel free to change it up for yourself, do what feels right. Even if it's just standing there in Mountain pose, feeling the ground beneath you.</div>
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You know that I kind of fight against anything that is expected of me or of women "like me." I've always resisted any type of boxing and especially the labeling of that box. So consequently "free-spirited" is often the adjective I hear about myself, which I recognize as another box, </div>
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but at least it has a prettier label. </div>
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But you know? We're all going through the same things. I'm thinking about paint colors and house repairs, and I feel like a nesting mama. But that's what I am. Put me in a box labeled "Nesting Mama," because that's exactly what's going on here. </div>
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I love this child, punching and kicking from within. I love my husband, helping and being sweet through all this. And I love my house, which I seem determined to turn into a cozier, prettier place this winter for us, my baby, and guests who come here. </div>
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And maybe just for the house's sake. To show love for the house, wherein I see a show in my backyard every day. To show gratitude for living here, in the House of the Rising Sun.</div>
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(I realize this song was about a house in New Orleans that could have been a brothel/drug and alcohol haven and/or prision, but humor me as I try to turn something dark into light). </div>
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Rising,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-57211871442313891502013-11-07T11:37:00.002-08:002013-11-07T11:59:03.572-08:00Fire on the Mountain<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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This story starts with a romantic, gorgeous wedding and ends with a romantic, gorgeous wedding. </div>
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At the end of September, we celebrated my close friend Caroline's wedding. Caroline is a sweet soul, a loving woman and a very talented artist. Her wedding was in Highlands, NC, the highest incorporated town in the Alps. I mean the Appalachians. She was beautiful. The gown was beautiful. The whole thing was beautiful. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFv11F0BVR4Xtc23pk_WMgj-zyGPmVrN43jNLAh5mzsCYDZE-9u_xBiN0ulTwChMiSt3rKuyOYgzSU2x56c8LyZTC9oWnbFxkUKV_BymYRu3SBeYYx5ud4nQiXFXBiIiTZxr8XygT-ZYmE/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFv11F0BVR4Xtc23pk_WMgj-zyGPmVrN43jNLAh5mzsCYDZE-9u_xBiN0ulTwChMiSt3rKuyOYgzSU2x56c8LyZTC9oWnbFxkUKV_BymYRu3SBeYYx5ud4nQiXFXBiIiTZxr8XygT-ZYmE/s1600/image.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd80n003NolKmbSknrrGIuvnzOjSWwGA-j9VbrA7bX3zXQ1fO5munhQyw6sGh6zuR2cnjgiMIx2-u6E5YANvoU8Ki1JvD_OWTIQE_5oGBdElGwgrYG3PiwGx6ddOBMMR6dWZhOy7-4Isoa/s1600/image_1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd80n003NolKmbSknrrGIuvnzOjSWwGA-j9VbrA7bX3zXQ1fO5munhQyw6sGh6zuR2cnjgiMIx2-u6E5YANvoU8Ki1JvD_OWTIQE_5oGBdElGwgrYG3PiwGx6ddOBMMR6dWZhOy7-4Isoa/s1600/image_1.jpeg" /></a>So there we were, celebrating one of my closest friends in the highest incorporated town in the Appalachians. It was still green, and the mountains just really called to me, you know? We were only there for a weekend, but I wanted more time.</div>
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I wanted more mountain.</div>
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The thing is pregnancy causes weird cravings. One minute you like spinach, and the next you're scornfully mourning the fact you bought some out of habit at the store.</div>
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I've been a tropical girl always. Low-lying tropical areas appeal to me. Or European cities. Sure, I like the mountains. Who doesn't? But that's pretty much it. Next thing I knew I kept picturing myself in wool socks, drinking hot chocolate by a fireplace at some B&B somewhere, looking out at the fall foliage.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_PVem_dqYR-5fleWhwUiCIDfwtEJscOPhX9ZIfGyE_sZtYPyZhuT0m0n68kM4BUPwcGJvje80CcmPWfMLHbZWmIxgCy0vUY04TpNYlURrpb2sRxUTEuQ1ax6bsnWzvo_864OFwse0YQq/s1600/image_2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_PVem_dqYR-5fleWhwUiCIDfwtEJscOPhX9ZIfGyE_sZtYPyZhuT0m0n68kM4BUPwcGJvje80CcmPWfMLHbZWmIxgCy0vUY04TpNYlURrpb2sRxUTEuQ1ax6bsnWzvo_864OFwse0YQq/s1600/image_2.jpeg" /></a></div>
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A short weekend in the Highlands was not enough. Although every moment of the weekend was wonderful--driving up the mountain, seeing Caroline like that, getting to see old friends, witnessing a lovely union, eating delicious food, making new friends, and driving back down the mountain. It left a craving like the brownie craving I've been dealing with. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrV2IwnxmACQpM1gStZgRuA-XynXwF2zk0Z9Y1MhOLMFB0d3El2dRPfzUxHU26fYo2OW8Nhyphenhyphen6olzuBiaDwVZPSG4Yhre8bCc1MwCe6_SbFSYUD-SIszLSM6dS8YZFSNSNuQW0kMOQZ9ZW/s1600/image_3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrV2IwnxmACQpM1gStZgRuA-XynXwF2zk0Z9Y1MhOLMFB0d3El2dRPfzUxHU26fYo2OW8Nhyphenhyphen6olzuBiaDwVZPSG4Yhre8bCc1MwCe6_SbFSYUD-SIszLSM6dS8YZFSNSNuQW0kMOQZ9ZW/s1600/image_3.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh pregnancy. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes. I'll be back.</td></tr>
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So we took a picture on the way back down the mountain. And I promised myself I would be back in the mountain air before long. So strange the things you crave. I had to have it. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTuFW4p9hzisisor8mf9x_mvSeRzd_ONm9GoskZ8PoPbPkAmqYwanBXKz2ZWBV5KUnxAlYQPOEjkk6cK9y8S1TDHT_M5q5Bt8aqe0QzmZkq3MB4nebkh5WSI7L4qA36VFJJTw98A7za5py/s1600/image_5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTuFW4p9hzisisor8mf9x_mvSeRzd_ONm9GoskZ8PoPbPkAmqYwanBXKz2ZWBV5KUnxAlYQPOEjkk6cK9y8S1TDHT_M5q5Bt8aqe0QzmZkq3MB4nebkh5WSI7L4qA36VFJJTw98A7za5py/s1600/image_5.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back home, taking a little sunset yard break with Jackson.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So when we got back to the flatlands from Caroline's shindig, I got to work. I knew we had to head back up into that Georgia-South Carolina-North Carolina-Tennessee corner soon. For a wedding at the beginning of November. I hadn't much time. And lots to do. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7W7yzDu-P7TCHV1hSaViBLSsMM6SKKUVlXwpUA78-nGs-t6Gl1nlW5utA_tJFm3tnfwvLcSipzGkSeWUdc9u9BDs0Swkn2ZwFup-A51QPm8fKDG8b6o6QeUS2jYtF2U3EAcYEaw7N_sH/s1600/image_6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7W7yzDu-P7TCHV1hSaViBLSsMM6SKKUVlXwpUA78-nGs-t6Gl1nlW5utA_tJFm3tnfwvLcSipzGkSeWUdc9u9BDs0Swkn2ZwFup-A51QPm8fKDG8b6o6QeUS2jYtF2U3EAcYEaw7N_sH/s1600/image_6.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh little Jacksey, little Jacksey poo. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Will got to work with cotton and peanuts. I got to work with nutrition school, nursery, house, and yoga. Paint colors and repair men. Car accidents and mental breakdowns. Homework and reading. The bookstore, the spa, the recreation center. I decided we had to the end of the month to get everything done. And then we would go again--this time to Asheville. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVlrxY07uMkUHf4kxvJfwjzOS8BZcB8MYkcdI2psmNL04iHqUPtCFOj3rHr8NCq9HJV1XgWxelEygnCj8ZFD8pwT0XQAwgQSH6-Q-J5Ek8Y2hxYa-rojyTxPVqw7sqWAdzGRIb_zXhj4U1/s1600/image_7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVlrxY07uMkUHf4kxvJfwjzOS8BZcB8MYkcdI2psmNL04iHqUPtCFOj3rHr8NCq9HJV1XgWxelEygnCj8ZFD8pwT0XQAwgQSH6-Q-J5Ek8Y2hxYa-rojyTxPVqw7sqWAdzGRIb_zXhj4U1/s1600/image_7.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wowza. Those Vanderbilts were loaded. </td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
I found a magical little B&B in Asheville. The <i>1900 Inn on Montford</i>. Best place to stay in the whole town probably. I got a good vibe from the place by just looking at their web site. And they had fireplaces in the rooms. Sold. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
The innkeepers were delightful, the breakfast turned out to be delicious, and the rooms were so cozy, yet spacious and clean. The sheets felt like whipped cream. The beds were king size. Plus, they had those little spa robes in the rooms. Listen, you give me a spa robe and a fireplace, and I'm like a little lamb in your arms. Not only that, the house was so charming and old. It was the quintessential, lovely old B&B. I have also decided I shall stay here again. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
The night we got there, we ate at a place called <i>Rhubarb</i>. Ok, folks, you know I'm no foodie, but I do know good food when I taste it. The chef from Blackberry Farms started this place, and it was magnifico! Go! If you go to Asheville, go there! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbcXLUN-LtGbsbYgNZ9EpgGkcy7qLgeeF86aicay8tdfV4oPTlSEpoEDBOaSbgFvHdZQUtDdmTqiFaxX5m1YlUyRF5Dr22Ae1JW518bW4BOSwevjvacGM-q4bbRafKvFBCbkWDnfXIJOA/s1600/image_8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbcXLUN-LtGbsbYgNZ9EpgGkcy7qLgeeF86aicay8tdfV4oPTlSEpoEDBOaSbgFvHdZQUtDdmTqiFaxX5m1YlUyRF5Dr22Ae1JW518bW4BOSwevjvacGM-q4bbRafKvFBCbkWDnfXIJOA/s1600/image_8.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Biltmore.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Then we're at the Biltmore, wondering around this monstrous mansion, and Will says he doesn't feel so hot. And he feels hot. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He says he can tough it out. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFRrI4rZMKoPQC48os1U30w-6yQ3_3xlgVNeinkW7E5glIb0usKPFqDjhEgShYUbWYU049MOBlWlnwIk3LX4-YCZkJcv06emFuVWbOSgo8cCPs36fCIoYf_Wdba2CgA0m_aiE6cGVMGMa/s1600/image_9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFRrI4rZMKoPQC48os1U30w-6yQ3_3xlgVNeinkW7E5glIb0usKPFqDjhEgShYUbWYU049MOBlWlnwIk3LX4-YCZkJcv06emFuVWbOSgo8cCPs36fCIoYf_Wdba2CgA0m_aiE6cGVMGMa/s1600/image_9.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The conservatory in the garden at Biltmore.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzfNWD9lf4FdPwB46LTpYmW0-u-KJ3U6LCPsYawdO1VtRoa3uKMuWNOrrV0n43leTBWRzd8vWdmqXBWL2Ny2dK3gnuTrj5k-14z0xzw5HNUMgOlOr1-ECTxhcf52n66ZgXRltD7bWJp0SH/s1600/image_10.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzfNWD9lf4FdPwB46LTpYmW0-u-KJ3U6LCPsYawdO1VtRoa3uKMuWNOrrV0n43leTBWRzd8vWdmqXBWL2Ny2dK3gnuTrj5k-14z0xzw5HNUMgOlOr1-ECTxhcf52n66ZgXRltD7bWJp0SH/s1600/image_10.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh my the orchids.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcQVEXrilp8U4Z2iC8r11LL_d0YwNkDYxUM8s5ujBMV5U95dZ0aW7v7_MP7V4_yOs-2oQGynAcUKjWBauMi-CO9U8WQEBxu1cIknFJpg6LxDzjLHcJoKqwop5J3h3HQC2m8XAvdURORZN/s1600/image_11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcQVEXrilp8U4Z2iC8r11LL_d0YwNkDYxUM8s5ujBMV5U95dZ0aW7v7_MP7V4_yOs-2oQGynAcUKjWBauMi-CO9U8WQEBxu1cIknFJpg6LxDzjLHcJoKqwop5J3h3HQC2m8XAvdURORZN/s1600/image_11.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH4PHdUCD68N_p3k8X7UQ5C_YWoayCfJ9X9KNLFIQTSvRoJEaOyDt7WJb952FlwoGyl0CC55YR9ygI7hFO5zgk3lA_APIzMdw0QhZoa5s_16F88JsHhIIBEhYKOWpxQO7QHsAG-2JVlp7T/s1600/image_12.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH4PHdUCD68N_p3k8X7UQ5C_YWoayCfJ9X9KNLFIQTSvRoJEaOyDt7WJb952FlwoGyl0CC55YR9ygI7hFO5zgk3lA_APIzMdw0QhZoa5s_16F88JsHhIIBEhYKOWpxQO7QHsAG-2JVlp7T/s1600/image_12.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I want a conservatory, Santa.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZhWMzrJ60am3i1bycU3g1Q_u7F8xgzVPWpUaQXcDUQLRCGqb0UAu-n34d-FG407nytm-55pqH43E8-WNcK9WK6tw5n-PbV4UY9KmhmHKOH95PnzTm9YDRCBEfESCmtKli80dRm9-ADxg/s1600/image_13.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZhWMzrJ60am3i1bycU3g1Q_u7F8xgzVPWpUaQXcDUQLRCGqb0UAu-n34d-FG407nytm-55pqH43E8-WNcK9WK6tw5n-PbV4UY9KmhmHKOH95PnzTm9YDRCBEfESCmtKli80dRm9-ADxg/s1600/image_13.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AWESOME tree. I seriously stared at this tree for 10 minutes. </td></tr>
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<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But then I turned around, and all the color had left my husband's face. Okay it's time to get our asses the hell out of here.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
He developed a fever. FIRE #2.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My motherly instincts kicked in. I went out and got soup, rubbed his head with a cold washcloth, ushered him Sprite and water. I didn't know where this was coming from 'cause I ain't no Florence Nightingale. But it happened. My baby got sick. We watched movies and lay in bed. I was cooing over him like Mary in the manger. Surprising, but I think I have a good shot at this Mommy thing.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
It didn't take long for Will's spunky immune system to spring into action. He was almost well the next day. One thing he knew: he didn't want to sit around. Typical.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
We went to town to grab some lunch to go before getting on the <i>Blue Ridge Parkway</i>. We were going to take it north to the highest point east of the Mississippi River--Mount Mitchell. We would hike up to the top, but my big belly wanted to make sure we had food to eat up there.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Needless to say, I ran into some things I liked in downtown Asheville. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqD6WWQUAfRlQPW01vMVn8zxJZKCSpC4tBXCZWTy9fasNlE06_n231z-gv2yj0WX8dLze1_rMUZjJVpsE3Yztj7I43u20zv-qxtX4tURKgdeagf3xb8Iu-vZ-XIc5QQOxzBdQvCO0pViir/s1600/image_14.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqD6WWQUAfRlQPW01vMVn8zxJZKCSpC4tBXCZWTy9fasNlE06_n231z-gv2yj0WX8dLze1_rMUZjJVpsE3Yztj7I43u20zv-qxtX4tURKgdeagf3xb8Iu-vZ-XIc5QQOxzBdQvCO0pViir/s1600/image_14.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Malaprop's Bookstore and Cafe.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two things my eyes are always searching for: little bookstores and yoga studios. When we were waiting for our food, we roamed downtown a bit. I swear a magnetic force brought me here. I fell in love. I love bookstores. This one, Malaprop's Bookstore & Cafe, <a href="http://www.malaprops.com/">www.malaprops.com</a>, charmed me like the others, like the one I work in.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8OwcUs5hpYWIdV0G6GWiiOsp1rbOTTEgd47v5beGskcanAKSmZyRUVp4YIge8eQ0Mpm6WJDYvqOXzemY8ldkhDeQ_IptECpDcPDxL4QDtMxuDJDCS0-nK-3rtojjo4VNGzdVEjWBwlTD/s1600/image_15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8OwcUs5hpYWIdV0G6GWiiOsp1rbOTTEgd47v5beGskcanAKSmZyRUVp4YIge8eQ0Mpm6WJDYvqOXzemY8ldkhDeQ_IptECpDcPDxL4QDtMxuDJDCS0-nK-3rtojjo4VNGzdVEjWBwlTD/s1600/image_15.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I missed work. </td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Will had to pull me out of there with a fishing hook and a net. The food was ready around the corner. But not before we stopped to look at an old drugstore, some art, and an organic clothing store. Whatever. I live in the country.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxvc6j9ehTJDCjTkLdEqJLXB3z0WmlttuXKBT0ocjmR2DOPYxPJsU7k1gd_o4AIWqiqDIoeDt4nq3BGY9Uhlcm8k20N06NfAFQukECsaxj48rocbvEtf_7FdU2bUEyjMHcvaUhgOCGWAQ/s1600/image_16.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxvc6j9ehTJDCjTkLdEqJLXB3z0WmlttuXKBT0ocjmR2DOPYxPJsU7k1gd_o4AIWqiqDIoeDt4nq3BGY9Uhlcm8k20N06NfAFQukECsaxj48rocbvEtf_7FdU2bUEyjMHcvaUhgOCGWAQ/s1600/image_16.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Balsam Nature Trail leading to top of Mount Mitchell.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh yes. A whimsical walking trail on the highest mountain. The trees were short, little dwarf trees with moss and lichen. Huge boulders and smooth little rocks, fallen trees and fog. The firs and spruces smelled like Christmas. I felt like little elves and fairies might pop out and surprise us. We were in our own little world. It felt so cozy and haunted in there. Right up my alley. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiion8GEHYW_6WzpzhRzb3l0JSjqw-2yr8kHJA6RKr_zcCjR6HTotSUNHtm_y2TcxWqkRk-9-pKdkgF22_oWqA4mnvE0rONhHjy_Kndr5UeD8Ic2-RPuuH-ZXOhnwZnkpba3FU4Bx9PpFbf/s1600/image_17.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiion8GEHYW_6WzpzhRzb3l0JSjqw-2yr8kHJA6RKr_zcCjR6HTotSUNHtm_y2TcxWqkRk-9-pKdkgF22_oWqA4mnvE0rONhHjy_Kndr5UeD8Ic2-RPuuH-ZXOhnwZnkpba3FU4Bx9PpFbf/s1600/image_17.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCK9d9X6xUS-fvIzq2NRrN1kq2tOHSNHxjVZQyjHH95QwcpfBbDGXOLVY4j-QGVPGpk-ovsJ9YLyeoSFK1aUE0drIpdbqtwN7ZJCYOzTxNPCbx-V1WZL8qCWHatuynknv5Nr1Aye5zXW1/s1600/image_18.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCK9d9X6xUS-fvIzq2NRrN1kq2tOHSNHxjVZQyjHH95QwcpfBbDGXOLVY4j-QGVPGpk-ovsJ9YLyeoSFK1aUE0drIpdbqtwN7ZJCYOzTxNPCbx-V1WZL8qCWHatuynknv5Nr1Aye5zXW1/s1600/image_18.jpeg" /></a></div>
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'Twas my favorite part of the trip. We saw rock overhangings (?), a natural mountain spring that began a creek that ended up in the Tennessee River, the Ohio River and finally the Mississippi River. We pretended to hear bears, though we might have really heard one. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUylCltyiH4nTgi0GRjnMH7rbZEnC28O_jpA_XWs5f0axS8uefhyphenhyphen2C7QOw7ZI7kjOcVYBWVLSJV2lGaXpIrwzL4AeHI7x7tsa7WiN_Ou1CnYvhG2uOtjc3NWFIfaLdh0EOVL7KR4tAj6K/s1600/image_19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUylCltyiH4nTgi0GRjnMH7rbZEnC28O_jpA_XWs5f0axS8uefhyphenhyphen2C7QOw7ZI7kjOcVYBWVLSJV2lGaXpIrwzL4AeHI7x7tsa7WiN_Ou1CnYvhG2uOtjc3NWFIfaLdh0EOVL7KR4tAj6K/s1600/image_19.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then we made it to the top. Where it was extremely foggy. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKT87oHp0EgLsYSay9Hodc0BY1Pk6I8hKDDtQSdK_-TPv4WPXx3MHox5pjVMlqHBihe31DojKeimSSgjbNmFenWgg845-LL8nTNPPiuGL6kx6hz-TM3OmyLbAiRbHgEbWq38dtYHOWw6PH/s1600/image_20.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKT87oHp0EgLsYSay9Hodc0BY1Pk6I8hKDDtQSdK_-TPv4WPXx3MHox5pjVMlqHBihe31DojKeimSSgjbNmFenWgg845-LL8nTNPPiuGL6kx6hz-TM3OmyLbAiRbHgEbWq38dtYHOWw6PH/s1600/image_20.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And I had some big fat biscuits from <i>Tupelo Honey Cafe</i>.</td></tr>
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</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Those biscuits were so good. Dash of salt and pepper on top. Had me going. No kidding. The blueberry preserves were homemade too. Dang, where did this come from?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
Later Will said, "Where's my biscuit?"<br />
"I don't know," I said defensively, looking down and away in shame, my voice trailing off. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuvPlm6M3kqvueHwAN5HLKrGy7U1Nze4_SutcmMSi36nC0jau5HgYu-pQtAplUcmLoGKpdMEOPBrICxyhxR1U8l3H_3UzFFlnSttiXOvbIoXwCmo36Wluf152BLh46yINDQ3CCjeAJ8jLJ/s1600/image_21.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuvPlm6M3kqvueHwAN5HLKrGy7U1Nze4_SutcmMSi36nC0jau5HgYu-pQtAplUcmLoGKpdMEOPBrICxyhxR1U8l3H_3UzFFlnSttiXOvbIoXwCmo36Wluf152BLh46yINDQ3CCjeAJ8jLJ/s1600/image_21.jpeg" /></a></div>
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So this cafe is another recommendation. If only just for the biscuits and jam, or whatever it was. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht49pxnuGtncq6qoDSyN42AfJva4C2S2ahGgk55Q8kPbZJT71JnI6d8JkmBiKyE4oHcA9uKKDiQbDmsHWmbhFNO4bP99MpXb7xkk6tHJLzmZStvcrFsHy1V9ybJzKEIKSoIaBbNBcufPGx/s1600/image_22.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht49pxnuGtncq6qoDSyN42AfJva4C2S2ahGgk55Q8kPbZJT71JnI6d8JkmBiKyE4oHcA9uKKDiQbDmsHWmbhFNO4bP99MpXb7xkk6tHJLzmZStvcrFsHy1V9ybJzKEIKSoIaBbNBcufPGx/s1600/image_22.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Um, we've seen better views. Fog kind of got us here. But oh well. I couldn't wait to get back in that forest. </td></tr>
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The ride to and from Mount Mitchell on the Blue Ridge Parkway was truly half the fun that day. I mean the foliage was incredible. View after view of blanketed red, orange and yellow peaks and rolling horizons in the distance. And driving underneath all those leaves in the sunlight felt heavenly--the seemed to light up in their colors. The colors amazed me, and for once, I was thankful for my superpower pregnancy senses. </div>
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What a special highway the Blue Ridge Parkway is. I loved every second of it. </div>
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The next day sent us to DuPont State Recreational Park, about 45 minutes from Asheville. We wanted to see some waterfalls. See above. See below.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNIFPDAReAsiWEdy219elaLcm8hO7fAP9aPRtpKbUMnv3KqnNt8WZLx2VCaTp4vEsIEqJ5i_a4GQ8dZKOBfe-05XbE-sHkhy07AhQwUDlTUQi74gl86yaz8Slli45ryvO9DChaNCpj7wmp/s1600/image_24.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNIFPDAReAsiWEdy219elaLcm8hO7fAP9aPRtpKbUMnv3KqnNt8WZLx2VCaTp4vEsIEqJ5i_a4GQ8dZKOBfe-05XbE-sHkhy07AhQwUDlTUQi74gl86yaz8Slli45ryvO9DChaNCpj7wmp/s1600/image_24.jpeg" /></a></div>
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The one above is called High Falls. Breathtaking. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwinQRGOZHHlOYdG1fXCyNIXzbo_d67LvdXlf1HESPdnADtgQ-8Id14KT0aBFEKmGYbsaxAMWIEdcJx1LmbSid4iMPyEPLS5XmIl9tgDqbMSVPIKGj29HpuvuIRKCSFGn4USFiWv-rYcR6/s1600/image_25.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwinQRGOZHHlOYdG1fXCyNIXzbo_d67LvdXlf1HESPdnADtgQ-8Id14KT0aBFEKmGYbsaxAMWIEdcJx1LmbSid4iMPyEPLS5XmIl9tgDqbMSVPIKGj29HpuvuIRKCSFGn4USFiWv-rYcR6/s1600/image_25.jpeg" /></a></div>
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We did some hiking around in this park. Loved seeing all the natural wonder. Waterfalls are crazy, you know? They are so damn pretty. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCXkdb4xLx2ZjklMwsNC-XM5N3ebWv4W0nndk4Vshm-0yQmAJ2CD4_6ZSuYeTeBbSFEpnQXFDSyRsJ-9w9yKPNDcyGD_dHxUxImTKtXSSPfJk-2ynuxA7vU2rrhNHdL5tDhS_CVSVRicI_/s1600/image_26.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCXkdb4xLx2ZjklMwsNC-XM5N3ebWv4W0nndk4Vshm-0yQmAJ2CD4_6ZSuYeTeBbSFEpnQXFDSyRsJ-9w9yKPNDcyGD_dHxUxImTKtXSSPfJk-2ynuxA7vU2rrhNHdL5tDhS_CVSVRicI_/s1600/image_26.jpeg" /></a></div>
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We started to see who catch the most leaves. I totally won. Even if Will tells you otherwise.</div>
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I loved this little park. I especially loved the sound of the waterfalls. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAweuLS3tx1CRkYnGSFVaKYM29EoxE_-rQ0-HIs-QO0wwLYNoaaSXUtn9Z6zgRtTJqfsg3faOPBlsPMVg_evtoUOJeFp6rRcf03kdHpMmrjlCClORE1pIXaD9dHhMpSz2QT5QPSnR1WLFm/s1600/image_27.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAweuLS3tx1CRkYnGSFVaKYM29EoxE_-rQ0-HIs-QO0wwLYNoaaSXUtn9Z6zgRtTJqfsg3faOPBlsPMVg_evtoUOJeFp6rRcf03kdHpMmrjlCClORE1pIXaD9dHhMpSz2QT5QPSnR1WLFm/s1600/image_27.jpeg" /></a></div>
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Then we came up on a waterfall called Triple Falls. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWTCMgbq08Bk_MWX64LFh0JNxnSYs2MdrBuFYchQ-hTnJ5-6vDQxG5qnzzyDiDkZbWeSMlqsWO2qsan938pEptTeJqXV38hnr64AHJSH9nUWWsQL67VCXn0a-ynYwMeP8MRz9oY_wjX9S/s1600/image_28.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWTCMgbq08Bk_MWX64LFh0JNxnSYs2MdrBuFYchQ-hTnJ5-6vDQxG5qnzzyDiDkZbWeSMlqsWO2qsan938pEptTeJqXV38hnr64AHJSH9nUWWsQL67VCXn0a-ynYwMeP8MRz9oY_wjX9S/s1600/image_28.jpeg" /></a></div>
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There's the third one. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCWOuA-K04YYhSrdWM1yyryW8Lq_tNd9MZUELeMweVSDkc-Xjuw_Q9m5mHcIieSGSmJy-cdStWCSb8paQkYtQOT9GkNT9qlXula5HTFrjlSN3MpakjYjN6zSqq6bFD-KZEFTmKeuXnW70/s1600/image_29.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCWOuA-K04YYhSrdWM1yyryW8Lq_tNd9MZUELeMweVSDkc-Xjuw_Q9m5mHcIieSGSmJy-cdStWCSb8paQkYtQOT9GkNT9qlXula5HTFrjlSN3MpakjYjN6zSqq6bFD-KZEFTmKeuXnW70/s1600/image_29.jpeg" /></a></div>
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The Biltmore has nothing on this place. Took my breath away. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsew2VqmXjNi6fC7yel7ZzJsPnPgOr42qD4Vd3-WhTT465iN8x4gRm5pfaQY3cwPjVFyaFeTsFCQXmrCG6n2EVk3umvAFgWcSH563P6FYroEMW_av_zBh-ZXUQarc4cAQ1etj0V9Yo4r7/s1600/image_30.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsew2VqmXjNi6fC7yel7ZzJsPnPgOr42qD4Vd3-WhTT465iN8x4gRm5pfaQY3cwPjVFyaFeTsFCQXmrCG6n2EVk3umvAFgWcSH563P6FYroEMW_av_zBh-ZXUQarc4cAQ1etj0V9Yo4r7/s1600/image_30.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boy feeling better.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLN6OAA-y6Cr5MAbMmdwxYJw1pcM4ccVEu_BJppYy-fSDNwz8K76e-rMGOakSfYyG3ho9auI7D8Rjm11t3uXYc3T-HdKYaMdyya7MvIs1iGfyyPrnsRvVst18dJCQoUye0doJyuJhKJ5s/s1600/image_31.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLN6OAA-y6Cr5MAbMmdwxYJw1pcM4ccVEu_BJppYy-fSDNwz8K76e-rMGOakSfYyG3ho9auI7D8Rjm11t3uXYc3T-HdKYaMdyya7MvIs1iGfyyPrnsRvVst18dJCQoUye0doJyuJhKJ5s/s1600/image_31.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Letting it all hang out. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaborT1DZ8B9cCE3edUQM4ZddAL0ztppYMVeIGX2yB_f8yWBbWblnChAX83AtRX_-3M9TzImLcFzoq2Z2IpbF1UEMEhvItZuiqON1M_BBDsEXGb7OkNBU1MtDpl2nKcXvs-c7uqRhjqfmS/s1600/image_32.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaborT1DZ8B9cCE3edUQM4ZddAL0ztppYMVeIGX2yB_f8yWBbWblnChAX83AtRX_-3M9TzImLcFzoq2Z2IpbF1UEMEhvItZuiqON1M_BBDsEXGb7OkNBU1MtDpl2nKcXvs-c7uqRhjqfmS/s400/image_32.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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This was our last day, and I walked away from this hike feeling like I got my mountain fix. I felt good about it. Like when I finally got my oven working, and made some damn brownies. Yet, somehow I did not feel right. All of a sudden. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXqxc2PZ6QA-UN4CDJayTJ-u7T7rs06tgkCSw0C0ousDSkqLUhvYJgxx9Knv_lH29lVeB31r6c1eEprDP_n0hqKO-OCMTZ74t8mjcGLHg55DqBB0UJe_0L-oJziYg-7Xy4g6sRsWnCHj7/s1600/image_33.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXqxc2PZ6QA-UN4CDJayTJ-u7T7rs06tgkCSw0C0ousDSkqLUhvYJgxx9Knv_lH29lVeB31r6c1eEprDP_n0hqKO-OCMTZ74t8mjcGLHg55DqBB0UJe_0L-oJziYg-7Xy4g6sRsWnCHj7/s1600/image_33.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little surprise when we got back. From the innkeepers.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Like I said, I can't say enough about the <i>1900 Inn on Montford</i>. Seriously, if you go to Asheville, stay here. These people are so nice. They gave us a baby gift on our last day! I mean, that's so nice. They don't even know us. I started crying of course. Just so moved by people sometimes. People really move me. Good people. The balloon said, "You're So Special." I wept and then I threw up.</div>
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I was sick. I got sick fast. It was Halloween night. All I wanted to do was watch the little trick-or-treaters in the neighborhood on the front porch, walk to a local restaurant and watch the leaves fall on our last night. I got no such thing. I got a fever and tossing-and-turning. FIRE #2. Thanks Will.</div>
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It was a long night, and I wanted an ambulance for the ride to <i>Reynold's Plantation</i> outside of Atlanta. Will packed me in the rental car at 7 in the morning along with all his other baggage, and we drive down. The last leg of our trip. A wedding for two fabulous people, Jack and Elinor. Will's closest buddy, and Elinor--a good friend of mine. </div>
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We checked in, and I crawled into bed. Slept, ordered room service soup, slept, drank some water, slept, took a bath, slept. And then in and out of sweaty sleep all night. By the morning, I was 60%. After some more room service, I was 70% and by noon, 80%. After a walk with Jessie (one of my closest who was there for the wedding too) I was 90%! I would go to the wedding that night!</div>
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And I'm sure glad I didn't miss it. What a lovely celebration. Elinor was stunning. Her dress was to-die-for. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7csU_N4EJOp-wGGRNwm4AALqSYtTdB7GLDScGuHAGp7fLsyO-gtNyu-KOeS5ivz5Ijd6VzCBefTf__RJCr2Ck9ohYQ4XInaUcv9wx56qvKNd9ru2H7jJxdoivYmF9udMLe8PQsDYYmF9V/s1600/image_35.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7csU_N4EJOp-wGGRNwm4AALqSYtTdB7GLDScGuHAGp7fLsyO-gtNyu-KOeS5ivz5Ijd6VzCBefTf__RJCr2Ck9ohYQ4XInaUcv9wx56qvKNd9ru2H7jJxdoivYmF9udMLe8PQsDYYmF9V/s1600/image_35.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I usually don't talk about this kind of thing, but man, good looking centerpieces!</td></tr>
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Everything was grand. The trip back wasn't so bad. And this week hasn't been painful at all. I'm back in black--barking orders for down-dogs and up-dogs, and updating bestseller lists.</div>
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That concludes my story about fire on the mountain. I guess the moral of this story is: follow your cravings but try not to get sick. I know I'm stocked with wisdom. Hell, you got some good Asheville advice. </div>
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Mountainously,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-744467491403283352013-10-25T18:34:00.001-07:002013-10-25T18:34:16.891-07:00Cry Baby<div style="text-align: center;">
Emotional release.</div>
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I'm so good at it. Always have been. I was a cry baby as a baby, and I was a cry baby as a girl, and now I am a cry baby woman.</div>
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Especially now. </div>
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People don't even notice when I cry anymore because I do it so much. Especially lately. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdvGKdvd4RALj8Wr7vLlLtdeHl2IYIo04gfIoajpdYzeK86HJjxmq6D7OAuK_dNeboOlmxCM07E6ZkWGPWrSAE2E15pnk_1XJ1BgCm5q32c07UX8KAi91sbVHvrBMs7qy-wWgE98HnMpK/s1600/Cry+Baby+The+Ultimate+Collection+Janis+Joplin++Cry+Baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdvGKdvd4RALj8Wr7vLlLtdeHl2IYIo04gfIoajpdYzeK86HJjxmq6D7OAuK_dNeboOlmxCM07E6ZkWGPWrSAE2E15pnk_1XJ1BgCm5q32c07UX8KAi91sbVHvrBMs7qy-wWgE98HnMpK/s320/Cry+Baby+The+Ultimate+Collection+Janis+Joplin++Cry+Baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Here's the deal: Some people are really emotional, and some are not. So deal with it. I don't understand people who don't cry, and they don't understand me. Yet it is this mix of these two kinds of people that makes the world go 'round.</div>
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For an already cry baby, pregnancy hasn't helped. Someone could tell me about a bad haircut they once had, and I would have a tear. A friend could break off a piece of her cookie for me, and the faucet would be running.</div>
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Things move me way too much. And you know what? I'm okay with it. At least I can feel. I'm okay with being human. An extremely sensitive human. A human with an alien-like sense of emotion. </div>
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Finally. I am entitled. I don't feel weird about the fact that I cry during sonograms. There's a tissue box there for a reason. When I saw this baby, my cry baby came out. The technician just smiled at me. </div>
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She's seen it before. </div>
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For once, I'm not crying or laughing at very inopportune moments. It makes sense now. </div>
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The perfect excuse.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcWFPeN436bKPtNoYofPmMdCatr7wWxSKJBMNUo9EstFTRIhc8CdjA8-xuJ1BBrNaqbrL9V1thmjb73jaE6upHzGEOA6UFPLwC3IFFB_m_fkUtfNpL6X24bLaVCrmRIftbcxOBVU7wefU/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcWFPeN436bKPtNoYofPmMdCatr7wWxSKJBMNUo9EstFTRIhc8CdjA8-xuJ1BBrNaqbrL9V1thmjb73jaE6upHzGEOA6UFPLwC3IFFB_m_fkUtfNpL6X24bLaVCrmRIftbcxOBVU7wefU/s1600/photo+1.JPG" /></a></div>
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What a cute face. Looks like Will. Already putting baby pictures up. Lord have mercy.</div>
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If you don't feel like letting your emotions fly around like a hurricane in public, </div>
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there are a few great yoga poses for private release. Unless you're in a studio full of people. </div>
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But it's probably going to be as acceptable to cry in the studio as it is in the sonogram room. </div>
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It certainly is in my classes.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw2S7WiO7EPYPjuEQ31IjfXChRXIC5dDfSEM_UliORXUbV1nKSbv6YPCn9xBm7QEzfSLjSjrSPrI9KXv0lEridK3xhXk3XFZqWGMlWljckb7ZvG2SyeCvxDoqT-Wlyp1dSjUZAqkLkW5hE/s1600/125-frog-pose-mandukasana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw2S7WiO7EPYPjuEQ31IjfXChRXIC5dDfSEM_UliORXUbV1nKSbv6YPCn9xBm7QEzfSLjSjrSPrI9KXv0lEridK3xhXk3XFZqWGMlWljckb7ZvG2SyeCvxDoqT-Wlyp1dSjUZAqkLkW5hE/s320/125-frog-pose-mandukasana.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of myyogaonline.com</td></tr>
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Frog. Mandukasana. </div>
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A lot of negative emotion is often stored in the hips. Women especially do this. When you push this energy away, refuse to feel it--it must go somewhere. It is usually pushed down into the container of the hips, usually the widest area of the body. </div>
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The first time I did this pose for over 5 minutes, I cried like a baby. Surprised? Neither am I. I felt like a fairy when I was done with frog. Light as a feather. </div>
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The wisest people in the world say that real strength is letting yourself feel, letting yourself cry. Strength does not look like someone biting their lower lip, remaining calm. I think strength looks like a wild woman, crying her eyes out, howling and moving, having the courage to feel what she's feeling. </div>
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I love being a cry baby. I respect other cry babies too. </div>
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Expressly,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-74537857381145466442013-10-17T18:00:00.002-07:002013-10-17T18:10:01.413-07:00Keep Your Heart Young<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Don't go growin' old,</i></div>
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<i>Before your time has come,</i></div>
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<i>You can't take back,</i></div>
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<i>What you have done,</i></div>
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<i>You've got to keep,</i></div>
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<i>Your heart young.</i></div>
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Man, life is a loaded gun. If you're really really busy, like most everybody, it will almost always happen that you forget to laugh, forget to have fun. Unless you're busy having fun, which I have been there before. That also can be unhealthy, depending on what kind of fun you're having. But for the most part lately, I have not been busy having fun.<br />
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So I have been listening to this Brandi Carlisle song between fender-benders, errands and work. Playing it really loud, as if I was trying to get it into my conscious from my sub-conscious. Get it in there, already.<br />
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Though I am interested and very glad about all the stuff I am doing. It definitely engages me, teaches me. However. I need something else--things are getting way too serious.<br />
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I need to write. I need to dance. Man, I need to dance. But most of all, I need to have fun, to laugh. But where the heck do you find the time for that when you're swamped? You literally live in a swamp, and you are swamped with tons of stuff going on. All caused by you. By me.<br />
I have asked for all of this in one way or another. It's all enriching my life. But dang it, this girl needs some balance.<br />
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And I am going to get it. One way or another. Even if I only have time to watch a damn Seinfeld episode. I know there is one out there I haven't seen. And I will find it.<br />
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In the meantime, when the going gets tough, the yoga gets going.<br />
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USTRASANA. Camel pose. Should have posted this on Wednesday. Oh me.</div>
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Anyway, I'm not saying that yoga is always the answer. I honestly think I need more than just yoga at this point. In fact, just writing this is making me feel lighter. I kept away for a little too long, and I apologize to both of us. I need this funky, little spitfire nothing of a blog.</div>
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But back to the pint, this pose makes me feel like I can fly. I have to go deeper every time for this feeling, though. Which is a fabulous challenge.</div>
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I almost always teach this pose in my classes, especially in morning classes, because it is such an energy-inducing pose. Or I should say energy-awakening. I smile at the students who look tortured, who keep coming back up, who won't let go of their necks, who hate this pose as much as I did when I start doing Bikram yoga. It takes a lot of courage. A lot of emotions are freed, and sometimes it feels like nausea. Sometimes you get dizzy. But if you take the time to walk through that and let it go afterwards, you will be different every time you do this pose. And we always pause after this one, either to accept and let go of negative energy or to enjoy the freed, positive energy. </div>
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Breathing deeply in Camel causes the oxygenated blood to rush back into the heart when you come out of the pose. This is literally keeping the heart young. Fresh, oxygenated blood rejuvenating your heart, all the organs right there in the backbend. I love this pose. I needed this pose, and that's why I hated it.</div>
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Yeah, I know I need more than a camel pose. I need to ride a freaking camel. I need to have fun. I've got some things coming up. I might even have a date tomorrow night.</div>
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I know that what brought Will and I together was fun. We are two of the most fun-loving people I know. Though love bonded us, it's true that fun brought us together. We need it. It's important for our relationship. When things start getting all business all the time, it's time to back that truck up.</div>
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He's looking at this while I write so I wanted to write something he'd be embarrassed about, but secretly really, really like. Got ya, baby! </div>
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It's time for some fun. It's time to find the time.</div>
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So there. I've given you two ways to keep the heart young. Literally and figuratively. </div>
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Heartily,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-62257723512707634782013-10-05T08:10:00.002-07:002013-10-05T08:10:51.689-07:00Pick a Bale of Cotton<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, the life of a farmer. The ups and downs. The hopes and dreams. The weather and climate.</div>
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Oh but it's so beautiful, that cotton. I even love the smell of it, which could very well be the defoliating chemicals, but I don't care. It's cotton. The fabric of our lives.</div>
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Seriously, it really does make up the fabric of our life, especially right now. My husband's head is spinning. He's jumping down, turning around, and picking those bales of cotton. And I'm waiting here, smiling and being supportive, while doing all the other million things I'm trying to do with my life. </div>
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It's a busy time for us. </div>
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Thank goodness I'm hitting that peak that all the former pregnant ladies keep telling me about. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moon over cotton. Looks like a painting.</td></tr>
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As happy as a farmer at harvest time...</div>
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All that hard work finally paying off--there is no better feeling. </div>
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Meanwhile, I'm walking around, wearing a cotton nightgown, barefoot and pregnant. </div>
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And for some reason, craving pecans. </div>
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Weird craving, but maybe not that weird, since I can go out there to see if any have fallen. </div>
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We're country folks, and I love it! </div>
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(Okay, I'll be honest--it's pralines I crave, okay? Or cinnamon sugar pecans. You happy?) </div>
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If you're getting some hard work done right now, know the feeling of having it done, of the payoff. </div>
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The harvest.</div>
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That's all there is to say this Saturday morning. That's all folks. </div>
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Softly,</div>
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Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-42085630738515743882013-10-01T20:04:00.003-07:002013-10-01T20:04:52.738-07:00Famous in a Small Town<div style="text-align: center;">
I love these small towns around me. I actually don't live in one. I live outside of about 5, including Jackson, which I also consider a small town. But I'm in the center, like a nucleus with the town electrons out in the perimeter (sorry, nutrition school is getting to me). </div>
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New country (most of it) just makes me sad. I won't get into it, and a few songs out there are really good. But most of it just pop fluff. Except Miranda Lambert.</div>
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I went through a huge Miranda Lambert phase that's still going on. It never ended. I knew her before she got big. She sang a song a while back about living in a small town, watching your back and behavior because everyone knows who you are and is noticing what you're doing. That was when the current affair was just heating up. I was belting this song in my boyfriend's truck, and Will looked at me like "you have no idea."</div>
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I didn't. Until I got here. Nashville is a big small-town, and you run into people wherever you go, but it's definitely got more privacy.</div>
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Especially if you're a movie star. Especially if you're a big one like Morgan Freeman. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVc9lB1JkJYDI3keLypuF9D8Qnc3cEgdzJAfzMyH6MkKD-bl8yw_hbjPJwnSjJXWnXdR5L_pakzQfmOMhBkAkvHJrZJo23KYa51gIOpe6SzyC3Vm9dRdIaDwdkyDxN2CQ8SOHM4eR5Puc7/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVc9lB1JkJYDI3keLypuF9D8Qnc3cEgdzJAfzMyH6MkKD-bl8yw_hbjPJwnSjJXWnXdR5L_pakzQfmOMhBkAkvHJrZJo23KYa51gIOpe6SzyC3Vm9dRdIaDwdkyDxN2CQ8SOHM4eR5Puc7/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of people.com</td></tr>
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For instance, I lived in Nashville for a long-ass time. Nicole Kidman lived in my best friend's neighborhood. Faith Hill's kids went to the school down the road from mine. Reese Witherspoon's parents live down the street from my mom's house. I never saw one. Except for Vince Young one time at my apartment building. He left Nashville shortly after. That was it.</div>
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In a place like Greenwood, Mississippi, you can bet everyone knows Morgan Freeman ate at Giardina's. Especially if I'm the one who saw it. I'm like the Paul Reviere of movie stars. </div>
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What happened was it was just he and I on Howard Street downtown. It was like a face-off. He was coming out of the restaurant, and I was going in. He looked at me. I realized it was Morgan Freeman and started blushing immediately. We smiled at each other. Then I looked away, made a funny face and burst out laughing. Hard. When I got to the door, he said something like, "Aren't you peculiar?" I actually have no idea what he said because there was some kind of ringing in my ears or I was thinking too loud maybe. Then I said, "I'm a fan, and thasss amina goodyeh" (like Will in his sleep). Anyway, I'm honored to say that Morgan Freeman thinks I'm weird.</div>
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Now I don't know if I've told you I work at the bookstore in Greenwood, Turnrow Book Company between my yoga classes. I was telling them about the Morgan incident. Then there proceeded to be a Morgan Freeman accent-off. My Morgan Freeman sounds like a bitter, old woman. Then in walks a movie star. she was talking to everyone, and then I thought "Dang, she looks familiar. And has the most flawless skin." </div>
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Later that day, eating lunch at the bookstore, a man sits next to me and starts talking to me about a moving being filmed in town. Apparently, James Franco is hanging out here now. Making a movie based on one of Faulkner's books. That explains the nice Hollywood actress rolling in and out.</div>
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So then I'm standing there, and they ask a woman to sign some books. Apparently, she is the poet laureate of the United States. "The best living poet walking the earth," as Ben put it. As someone who loves the written word and hopes to write one, this blew my mind. </div>
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She actually introduced herself to me.</div>
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Then I'm discussing Shannon McNally with Jamie. He says, "Oh yeah she played at your neighbor's house this summer while you were gone in Bali." What? Bacon powder? She's one of my favorites. I mean, I know she's from Holly Springs, but damn. Across the lake. My lake. My neighborhood. At one of my three neighbor's house. Shannon McNally. Filmed something for Showtime. Sang. </div>
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Private concert deal. I really can't complain that I was on the other side of the world, but dang it.</div>
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And when I asked someone else about it, they said, "Oh yeah, that Showtime thing at the Thompsons?" Very nonchalantly. Like, don't you know stuff like that happens here all the time? What!</div>
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So now I'm thinking the Delta is the hub of the universe. There are famous people all over. Talented people all over. The most talented people in the world right here in my towns, in my Delta. This is the place to be. Forget Nashville with its bright lights. </div>
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I've got real stars (get the play on words?)</div>
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Miranda's point was that everyone is famous in small towns. Who needs privacy? Especially when you're rubbing elbows with awesome writers and musicians and actors. Sure, you can't go to the store in your pajamas. It's not exactly down the road from me, anyway. Sure, you can't be in a bad mood and ignore everyone. You just end up talking to people about it, anyway. It's nice. </div>
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This whole place has it figured out. </div>
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I like it that people are starting to know me, figure out who I am. They're famous to me too. Not that I'm Morgan Freeman or anything (I mean, how A-list can we get? He's been in half of all the movies out there, for goodness sakes. Really, think about it. One of your favorite movies has MF in it).</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's a small town thing. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
It's not a nosy thing, no sir. It's a community thing. People care about each other. You'd think it was a gossip situation, but it's a connection situation. Everyone is connected, and the smaller the town, the tighter the bonds. </div>
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And the more relaxed the famous people. </div>
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Famously, </div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Liza Jane</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-65962455637148191972013-09-20T19:03:00.000-07:002013-09-20T19:06:28.611-07:00Made Up Mind<div style="text-align: center;">
Last-minute road trips are the best. The first one I remember was when my mom said she wanted to go to her friend's house in Louisiana when I was really young. Last minute.</div>
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We went, and I made friends with the friend's child, Sarah. </div>
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Fast forward 15 years, and we become roommates at Ole Miss. And throughout college, we took road trips all of the time. Interstate, back-road, beaches, cities, other colleges, her home, my home, short ones, long ones, red ones, blue ones. She's the first road warrior I met. She loves to drive.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I had so-so feelings about driving. I liked it all right, but I wasn't like "hell yeah, put me behind the wheel! I'll drive all night!" But she was. She is. She is such a driver that she developed a very close relationship to her white Volvo station wagon, whom she named Pearl. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWiZ9e136Vn_PnIqqu9WmCz_0AIhqbekT0z8aZ7UavvRYjZIaNGREQtg4qmG2THDLnZeKjyl-rJgPzBRt8tmcgJiK1OOS7Nxd3v-MpHYroRthwh5pOHmJ_CNs3YYUC2Hl65WX6b55lIPd/s1600/312290_979709222766_1708779795_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWiZ9e136Vn_PnIqqu9WmCz_0AIhqbekT0z8aZ7UavvRYjZIaNGREQtg4qmG2THDLnZeKjyl-rJgPzBRt8tmcgJiK1OOS7Nxd3v-MpHYroRthwh5pOHmJ_CNs3YYUC2Hl65WX6b55lIPd/s320/312290_979709222766_1708779795_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We all loved Pearl.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
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Pearl has since passed on, may she rest in peace. But that doesn't mean we stop the road trips. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
I told my mom we were coming to Nashville tomorrow, last minute for my other friend Virginia's engagement party, and she said, "Of course, Sarah. She loves to drive. Becky [her mother] drove a ton too." <a href="http://lizajanelove.blogspot.com/2013/05/ill-take-you-there.html">I've already written about the Vizards and their home.</a> </div>
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They're country folk, but cultured country folk. </div>
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</div>
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Now I am officially also a road warrior. It's a country folk thing. Shoot, we take road trips every day. Little ones, mind you. But we are not strangers to driving. For the most part, I enjoy it. </div>
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There's just one important ingredient, well two: a fun friend and good music. That's all it takes.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGAN7NEu1pE2W5Zs8tmMvuEz5OZD8zRGlD1aHq1gohDf-_7Qrs_1ipUKuWuNhb2awPEdkgMY0xTE_v4NWqcC9TVumVNp_nllZwG6Ookw3GRpGazUTt-rsep_XyXSbSO1ADCH-qBLI5MKQD/s1600/photo-206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGAN7NEu1pE2W5Zs8tmMvuEz5OZD8zRGlD1aHq1gohDf-_7Qrs_1ipUKuWuNhb2awPEdkgMY0xTE_v4NWqcC9TVumVNp_nllZwG6Ookw3GRpGazUTt-rsep_XyXSbSO1ADCH-qBLI5MKQD/s1600/photo-206.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah in Mother of Pearl, her new Volvo SUV, which will take us to our destination tomorrow. Sorry it's weird. I took a picture of a picture. So whatever.</td></tr>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
This is last minute. But it ain't the first last-minute trip for us. For all I know, the days of spontaneity are numbered for me, as present conditions seem to be insinuating. (I've been doing this thing where I'm acting like a part of me is dying. I totally look forward to this new chapter, but that doesn't mean I can't be sentimental and dramatic about the old chapter closing--it makes it more fun. And I know the fun isn't over. It's just helpful to act like "this might be the last time." Plus it gives you a good excuse to go ahead and do things, you know? Man, long explanation in parenthesis). </div>
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Anyway, she's driving right now from New Orleans in the night and rain, like a true road warrior. We leave tomorrow at the crack of dawn. We're coming right back on Sunday, and we know it will be worth the trip. We've made up our minds, </div>
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and we'll be singing some Tedeschi Trucks Band:</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<i>I've got a made up mind,</i></div>
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<i>It's made up all the time.</i></div>
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<i>Sure as the moon and the stars gonna shine,</i></div>
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<i>I've got a made up mind.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDoFqGBIC66RYsOPzdua9aZtG3TuZskY_bMVmoRh7w-yemLTiIClfh280i5nRZyy_i8-8IW31DnIksWzpzhkOjSMPTjeXD9UxsD8fWmDjMEA11LVZ4UA6HwWj81FD9zWc3cj5k_qVfl-zV/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDoFqGBIC66RYsOPzdua9aZtG3TuZskY_bMVmoRh7w-yemLTiIClfh280i5nRZyy_i8-8IW31DnIksWzpzhkOjSMPTjeXD9UxsD8fWmDjMEA11LVZ4UA6HwWj81FD9zWc3cj5k_qVfl-zV/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<div>
Love this album. Like I said, good music is a very important, inspiring ingredient. Here we go!</div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
Energetically,</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Liza Jane</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-85897969084955006552013-09-17T14:26:00.002-07:002013-09-17T14:56:52.657-07:00Lay Down Sally<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Rest here in my arms,</i></div>
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<i>Don't you think you want someone to talk to.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Thought I was out of the tired stage. Turns out I was out of the narcoleptic stage. </div>
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Especially after meals, I'm all "I think I'll lie down for a bit" instead of "I feel great, let's keep this train rolling!"</div>
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<br /></div>
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You know what though? This is normal (it's got less to do with pregnancy than with real life). After you eat, you're supposed to lie down. Don't matter if you fall asleep, but if your schedule is jam-packed as is every other American, no doubt you will fall asleep. </div>
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The trick is to have enough willpower and self-discipline and overall greatness, really, to get up after 20-30 minutes. Because after that, you're done, son. Go past 30 minutes and you are swimming with sharks. Grogginess rolls in, and she's just as bad as that fatigue you experienced after your meal. She's an all-consuming bad mood mixed with a little laziness and PMS. Your head is going to be so empty, you'll feel a little piece of sand rolling around in there, like the one in my iPhone. Plus, you'll be talking like my husband talks in his sleep, "Just let me fix it!" "Ayatoddy (?) I'll feed the cats." Not much sense, and a lot of fits and outbursts with leg kicks. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This is going straight into your gastrointestinal tract. This information. Because it's all about digestion. Digestion is put on hold if you are in sympathetic (fight or flight) mode, which is how we all are about 70% of the time, even though the only danger, really. is how we're treating ourselves, most of the time, except, of course, if you live with a lion. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDkLL1O24qtbNw40LizSZkLrFcAVusnV1q6kpo0eYveRW5FFxpdjWs_7f7s-RhHS3RKAagsYgXWI75z1zlbiabEk-1nka1rzTqhfRtZAE8vva1K0Zj3B2ijQWKU9QeQMhtzZvadfeXhuN0/s1600/jackson+on+a+stick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDkLL1O24qtbNw40LizSZkLrFcAVusnV1q6kpo0eYveRW5FFxpdjWs_7f7s-RhHS3RKAagsYgXWI75z1zlbiabEk-1nka1rzTqhfRtZAE8vva1K0Zj3B2ijQWKU9QeQMhtzZvadfeXhuN0/s320/jackson+on+a+stick.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I live with one.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You know what else about lions? They sleep. Right after a big meal. Actually, they eat meat so they are forced to sleep through most of the day. Just like big Jackson.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
What's needed then is the parasympathetic mode for optimal digestion. And listen buddy, the calmer you are, the better the whole thing goes for you. The more optimal your digestion, the higher your energy. Because the gut takes a big cut of it when it does its thing, which takes a long time, believe me. So if you can start it off right with a little bitty nap, why not? So I imagine that lying down after lunch and supper (unless you work the night shift, most likely you'll be going to sleep after supper), is the best thing to do. My dad told me to do this a long time ago. Take a nap, not too long, after lunch, and your whole day will go better.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Because people are not home in the middle of the day usually. The modern-day workplace does not condone curling up into a ball for 30 minutes under your desk like George Castanza. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I can't imagine just lying down under a shelf in the bookstore like a bum after I eat at work. Or during one of my yoga classes--lying down and not talking. "I just ate. So this is a silent yoga class. Y'all do what you want while I just lie here. I'll teach you for the last 30 minutes if I wake up." Which would easily make me the worst yoga teacher ever.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Which brings us to our pose of the day:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmS66s0hRcmr7w62-9ojy5NWRqrNuiRgByxK0aFs-dKXdWrRSgEN-cd78IvVzaLhHa44G8m4hn9bZbp3Lw_wN0OLyBc3G6NqxPp8F8potTc-3aB-IsYFE_m3_ZVAKfsXMpe4MAj6ESTmH_/s1600/Savasana-pose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmS66s0hRcmr7w62-9ojy5NWRqrNuiRgByxK0aFs-dKXdWrRSgEN-cd78IvVzaLhHa44G8m4hn9bZbp3Lw_wN0OLyBc3G6NqxPp8F8potTc-3aB-IsYFE_m3_ZVAKfsXMpe4MAj6ESTmH_/s320/Savasana-pose.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
This is savasana. Pronounced SHavasana. We do this pose in every class. It's very simple--just lie on your back. But you know? It's always at the end of class for the last 5-10 minutes. Why? To soak up the benefits of the poses done before. To meditate on the body. Maybe it's necessary to stop and lie down after every nourishing and helpful thing you do for yourself--eating, yoga, walking, laughing, feeding the dog, taking a shower, talking to friends. Imagine. Productivity wouldn't be high, but we'd be jolly as could be.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So I pronounce to the world (maybe disregarding Spain because it looks like they already do this), to enforce a nap-time. I hereby introduce the Nap Time to Prevent Brain Funk Law. We could definitely call it something better, but I don't have all day. We'll let the House and Senate deal with nomenclature. All companies must give their employees the opp to nap after lunch. It would be best to have a nap/yoga room with cots and bunk beds, and no funny business like <i>Grey's Anatomy</i>. If I ever run a company, you better believe employees will get 30 minutes of R&R after lunch. No more than 30 minutes because I've been to the dark side. I'm actually there right now. Nap gone wrong. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nap gone long.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMQG8zfSa3F0S2qJqcu5Be8lUzJZiwk1dKzMRh3RGfM97cQ2cf-Yf0kJzgiELhjGwEINTGhX_KAaS2AQ75Sco_T_6gGF5LfcAZGhz7LUwXjLwq8Oah_b22UnoMh-AFgXhe_RCT7AoSuqK/s1600/189362359302021978_IlIRbbYO_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMQG8zfSa3F0S2qJqcu5Be8lUzJZiwk1dKzMRh3RGfM97cQ2cf-Yf0kJzgiELhjGwEINTGhX_KAaS2AQ75Sco_T_6gGF5LfcAZGhz7LUwXjLwq8Oah_b22UnoMh-AFgXhe_RCT7AoSuqK/s320/189362359302021978_IlIRbbYO_c.jpg" width="247" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I took this from my friend Caroline's blog. I like it a lot.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So for the sake of productivity, let's keep it with eating and yoga. If at all possible, do an experiment and see how much better you feel if you should be able to lie down for 20 minutes after your next lunch. Close your eyes. See where it takes you. Right out of brain funk, no doubt.</div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
Restfully, </div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Liza Jane</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08066047804188273658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405165379026888833.post-77166412411923030622013-09-05T16:07:00.002-07:002013-09-05T16:10:08.186-07:00Leaving On a Jet Plane<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I'm leaving on a jet plane,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Don't know when I'll be back again.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I just kept singing that song, well those two lines (the only ones I know) over and over again--back in July, when I took off for Bali. It was a month-long deal, and I was already missing my husband and dog and home. At least I was taking the unborn fetus with me. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When Will dropped me off at the airport, everyone was giving him dirty looks like he had beaten me up because I was crying so hard. HARD. It was actually kind of weird. It was such a horrible moment because I have major feelings for the guy. But I had to do what I had to do, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and yes, it was a good move.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYs4kQMSgvX_8VkmXyZsBnfU0KkQZMB-n3chIRkUpXYbQR_2WsPFwjdyRhqCfhgQFBH6w54b-mNVY1k8N_azOdxjc6dD151lh2mpCxf2UclBLtRrLpaNwgdViEs3hfHEIO5UopqhjReCB/s1600/DSCN0098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYs4kQMSgvX_8VkmXyZsBnfU0KkQZMB-n3chIRkUpXYbQR_2WsPFwjdyRhqCfhgQFBH6w54b-mNVY1k8N_azOdxjc6dD151lh2mpCxf2UclBLtRrLpaNwgdViEs3hfHEIO5UopqhjReCB/s320/DSCN0098.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the retreat center outside of Ubud, Bali.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The first peaceful "yes, you are doing the right thing" feeling came when I heard ole John Denver in a C-store in the airport. Just the song I had been singing all week. For some reason, when things like that happen, I know everything is all right, and I'm walking my path.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The second one came when I saw the scene above. An infinity pool overlooking rice fields that flanked the path that led to our yoga pavilion. And the third came when I met some wonderful people, including my roommate, Samantha from New York who is SO New York. I loved it. She actually never left Bali. She is still there. Although I wish I could talk to her, I'm happy she's being a gypsy.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEgT6UDEWSCjXJBG0QE3MAkSoc_1wepVOQd0DQ64rIEKTcYTNxmRMHbuBFXREbVM1hyphenhyphenWcrxfRrqp2_rs0BZbDknec49q5IspHczdUkDCa-7Z2yBsBlhpoZTP4fg0_fzvBykaiMvp-iC4cD/s1600/DSCN0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEgT6UDEWSCjXJBG0QE3MAkSoc_1wepVOQd0DQ64rIEKTcYTNxmRMHbuBFXREbVM1hyphenhyphenWcrxfRrqp2_rs0BZbDknec49q5IspHczdUkDCa-7Z2yBsBlhpoZTP4fg0_fzvBykaiMvp-iC4cD/s320/DSCN0010.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sam on her bed. I do not miss my bed, and I don't miss the food.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But I miss Sam, and I miss that room for some reason.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTX8Pyz32VfdUGZINEkRW9rP84CIDUxGkqFBg5daRTbNtrV3IyaWJRSYP-6GuUem7yivqgIHIQmSxzSTtemQzATCWQgRvjFZTSz6kGnN5y0eOH_uh4knCwFsL8GxYrUZoS_YEZbevEnPYm/s1600/DSCN0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTX8Pyz32VfdUGZINEkRW9rP84CIDUxGkqFBg5daRTbNtrV3IyaWJRSYP-6GuUem7yivqgIHIQmSxzSTtemQzATCWQgRvjFZTSz6kGnN5y0eOH_uh4knCwFsL8GxYrUZoS_YEZbevEnPYm/s320/DSCN0011.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outdoor shower--pretty awesome.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And so, besides for the ENORMOUS geckos that were mating and reproducing on our wall, this outdoor bathroom was top 7 of my favorite things about this journey. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1feto77AXldBNlqaX0UckpqKjw8QOJROY5Ezm2A0cSKvcUxWqmg1lOra5_BwLCBD7eHbD6BqBd0jgaoZOESYtrHAXWWdTUN9pISXV-_Q1vTwRG2q24wYgLEYGJSAHCg9WMHnnil73MzZ/s1600/DSCN0013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1feto77AXldBNlqaX0UckpqKjw8QOJROY5Ezm2A0cSKvcUxWqmg1lOra5_BwLCBD7eHbD6BqBd0jgaoZOESYtrHAXWWdTUN9pISXV-_Q1vTwRG2q24wYgLEYGJSAHCg9WMHnnil73MzZ/s320/DSCN0013.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black sand beach.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No, this thing was a day-in and day-out deal plus homework at night. But we had a day off. A group of us decided to go to some beach somewhere. I had no idea where I was, but I had a fabulous time.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnN6YlF2lN2F75Mu7c2Wpwiu5Nc0AYyDT1yJgOAPSblHbYBgeCLAYMA-QyPM_ME1r6956Bhhjh9MWDdqZSEgZeGKQmMVZwfvuk4IC268IKAoqfffCFocNDtyhowVMMEI5F5t4EIDaB-ZPH/s1600/DSCN0015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnN6YlF2lN2F75Mu7c2Wpwiu5Nc0AYyDT1yJgOAPSblHbYBgeCLAYMA-QyPM_ME1r6956Bhhjh9MWDdqZSEgZeGKQmMVZwfvuk4IC268IKAoqfffCFocNDtyhowVMMEI5F5t4EIDaB-ZPH/s320/DSCN0015.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Just in case you wanted to see my feet in the sand. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6CQGt2jG95NxoN5gqSe1ghvAVkst8_5I5wVvzFw-4fNxEMlPc0HctlFrGRyvnpbwWRGgNk63NeHQgPIHsnOquuoc-DSpZWG7tsWb-EuBHsjxlp5SAPpP838p5VzbLvvefzMnQFEYKP5B/s1600/DSCN0020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6CQGt2jG95NxoN5gqSe1ghvAVkst8_5I5wVvzFw-4fNxEMlPc0HctlFrGRyvnpbwWRGgNk63NeHQgPIHsnOquuoc-DSpZWG7tsWb-EuBHsjxlp5SAPpP838p5VzbLvvefzMnQFEYKP5B/s320/DSCN0020.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yogis pulling tricks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I did not get out there and do tricky poses on a pool wall. My pregnant butt was already in mommy mode, taking pictures and being a cheerleader. "Beautiful Jess! Let's see it Ebonie!" </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQef6tdix052j-JQIumbDK2rW9pPbBQChQA11mRwQZPeG5eltJcgx-XFMpUVnF150YGaFpUmgZGBPp9XQOLs-Uh1YbuIRoWaqBBIFDKYxSdbMWoBfp5IF-BJJl0HTEDmLzczlfrJQMNx_U/s1600/DSCN0021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQef6tdix052j-JQIumbDK2rW9pPbBQChQA11mRwQZPeG5eltJcgx-XFMpUVnF150YGaFpUmgZGBPp9XQOLs-Uh1YbuIRoWaqBBIFDKYxSdbMWoBfp5IF-BJJl0HTEDmLzczlfrJQMNx_U/s320/DSCN0021.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We got Canada, London, Sydney, New Jersey, California and Mississippi all representing <br />at this random beach club somewhere in Bali.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Back to the intensive. It was intense. But I signed up for it. We worked hard. We did our best. We praised, we complained, we got confused, we got relieved, we got happy and then we got certified.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSA7xB3pEwW4oC1KorJy62Tl0E9cZhTMKFDTtRW2RoGj3XrvKmhg5Q8Zo8K23UfYfK_bJI43DCU3aBr8do7LiKOjWqQFpagg2ckhxfHO0QkdBkwgfpqwZcmkaDSJuI1-kr1Kk43W33F_4T/s1600/DSCN0028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSA7xB3pEwW4oC1KorJy62Tl0E9cZhTMKFDTtRW2RoGj3XrvKmhg5Q8Zo8K23UfYfK_bJI43DCU3aBr8do7LiKOjWqQFpagg2ckhxfHO0QkdBkwgfpqwZcmkaDSJuI1-kr1Kk43W33F_4T/s320/DSCN0028.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Path to the yoga pavilion--silence and meditation each morning.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I had some wonderful yoga classes that will most likely remain top 10 in my life for me. I learned a lot of important things that have already improved my teaching. Still, it was the people who made this experience memorable and wonderful. Wouldn't have been the same without them. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNl9PR2gf9g2df2dBBNdvtWk6WFSFR8BACHtKFT800ZuRZzrXVeBBJ-PdQzbDjDfjmJQbH7JTB4VOjabRLG7xds_fGq39vMaVUrmFiKUVLbGqwsc6Cgav6RErGQ5G4EopOmRIRHsuzQvY8/s1600/DSCN0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNl9PR2gf9g2df2dBBNdvtWk6WFSFR8BACHtKFT800ZuRZzrXVeBBJ-PdQzbDjDfjmJQbH7JTB4VOjabRLG7xds_fGq39vMaVUrmFiKUVLbGqwsc6Cgav6RErGQ5G4EopOmRIRHsuzQvY8/s320/DSCN0040.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ebonie and Kara in Ubud.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPPWJ-Dl7_Y8Mryb-m4gCNfIcepCN6tU-DI6Sr_WSXPaXrvmtx6najbFUsdG0DdxvNtKZSMMzZ9P7xOSxBuT7HOF4K1KK4byuBhN7zhwR2B22uWdCgvR7fqBr9ZAvkOhmuY7-28j6T-9V/s1600/DSCN0033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPPWJ-Dl7_Y8Mryb-m4gCNfIcepCN6tU-DI6Sr_WSXPaXrvmtx6najbFUsdG0DdxvNtKZSMMzZ9P7xOSxBuT7HOF4K1KK4byuBhN7zhwR2B22uWdCgvR7fqBr9ZAvkOhmuY7-28j6T-9V/s320/DSCN0033.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working in our pavilion. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2MyvsDOlyfwKN5rDxJrPHfUBWDRcyxJDBPq5KQ83SEg98iTHMn3RRYuOKCk0mO94zSff0mFznSCyPZ1cB680srGBTg4YY8ct3UQACfr3hD6hoax8iMHyAlXNIlRpUWq4lItu8Z9wzdd3/s1600/DSCN0042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2MyvsDOlyfwKN5rDxJrPHfUBWDRcyxJDBPq5KQ83SEg98iTHMn3RRYuOKCk0mO94zSff0mFznSCyPZ1cB680srGBTg4YY8ct3UQACfr3hD6hoax8iMHyAlXNIlRpUWq4lItu8Z9wzdd3/s320/DSCN0042.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ebonie getting attacked by an aggressive monkey.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGk80q6pTfuisou1_nk7iXZLcR2IpMc8KO6i1mIr5fke4Cl2aysc-8xjXb90mJv2-aDues_p4-Km_bjAg2X61J2lx_yWN0Z4nj4Jk4AKJrU6aAv4w4lPUuJnqWyvCjcQud0rZ347cnZtu/s1600/DSCN0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGk80q6pTfuisou1_nk7iXZLcR2IpMc8KO6i1mIr5fke4Cl2aysc-8xjXb90mJv2-aDues_p4-Km_bjAg2X61J2lx_yWN0Z4nj4Jk4AKJrU6aAv4w4lPUuJnqWyvCjcQud0rZ347cnZtu/s320/DSCN0065.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monkey transfer. Kara's got him. I was like, "Am I safe down here? Keep it away." </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
At that point, I was not used to aggressive monkeys and had been attacked</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and was trying to watch my back.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBd6NGKtmp1Mgt2d4GXVqtKQQ8HgEqOQF3HC0AlBEZ3LGVS5jdo4W4dSw8nJX0OZ4hilWp6XJQiJnN0whfR-rYgurCy3QQ0RjHbr9Ti71VsbqJSnC0jV0eejXm6f-mszZLTbvYup8UOJIf/s1600/DSCN0072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBd6NGKtmp1Mgt2d4GXVqtKQQ8HgEqOQF3HC0AlBEZ3LGVS5jdo4W4dSw8nJX0OZ4hilWp6XJQiJnN0whfR-rYgurCy3QQ0RjHbr9Ti71VsbqJSnC0jV0eejXm6f-mszZLTbvYup8UOJIf/s320/DSCN0072.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little monkey babe.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It was like adult yoga summer camp. A long period of time, spending every waking hour together. Swatting bugs and swapping bug sprays. Enduring through heat, bad food and physical exhaustion. Homesickness and snacks and emotional breakdowns. Friends you make and love and wonder if you'll ever see them again. Crying when you leave them. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The thing about camp and conditions like these is that your friendships are on fast-forward. It's like friendship turbo mode. It's not that you want it to be like this, but there's a closeness there that naturally happens in these types of circumstances. Far away from home, there are so many emotions and feelings. You've got to lean on someone, and someone's got to lean on you. And immediately I think back to real summer camp at Riverview, where a bunch of pre-puberty girls swayed arm-in-arm, singing "Lean On Me," crying their little eyes out on the last night in front of a bonfire. Tribal victories won, ropes courses conquered, and we were all bawling like we did the first day.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So bittersweetly, we took hold of our passports and went on our gypsy ways (from Bali, not Riverview--I'm back in modern day).</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
And that's it. That's all I have to say.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Well, except for, if you're ever thinking about something and wondering if it's right, just listen for John Denver or whomever you've been singing that week.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Signs are everywhere. Everywhere a sign. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Blocking out the scenery, something something my mind.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">And if you're not singing, you should definitely start.</span></i></div>
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Worldly,</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Liza Jane</div>
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