Write a *thank you* letter to someone whom you wish to acknowledge.

Describe an ethical dilemma that you have faced.

How tall are you... and how has your height shaped your experience of the world?

"Trouble is a part of life, and if you don't share it, you don't give the person who loves you a chance to love you enough." ~ Dinah Shore Share your troubles on the page.... 10 minutes. Write.

What has been wasted?

"There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." ~ Nelson Mandela Describe a place that you've returned to... and reflect on how you've changed since the last time you were there.

What are you in the process of creating?

Choose a milestone in your life (birth, wedding, funeral, etc.) and identify the most important moment from that event. Now slow down time and write about that moment in specific detail.

The day Rich and I were married, August 9, 1986, was a beautiful sunny day in Southern California. Not a cloud was in the sky. Our wedding took place in the fenced-in backyard of our rental house in Hawthorne as about 30 of our closest friends and relatives looked on. We stood facing each other in front of the minister, under a white iron arch intertwined with pink roses, white spider mums and white carnations. I was wearing a sheath dress with a white peplum top and a pink skirt. I wore the pink quartz necklace and earrings that Rich had given me for Christmas. Rich was in a light gray suit with a pink shirt and a gray, black, and pink striped tie. Rich's best man was his friend Ed, my best friend Sue was my maid of honor, and Rich's 5-year-old daughter Brianna served as our flower girl. We held flowers of the same varieties that decorated the arch.

I don't remember anymore exactly how we chose the minister. Since neither Rich nor I were members of a church, I literally may have picked him out of a phone book. It just didn't seem to be a very critical decision for me at the time. We were having a small, informal wedding and all we cared about was that he or she was a licensed officiant. I do know that he didn't meet with us ahead of time and he knew nothing about us personally. I don't think I was aware that he was a Baptist minister until a few moments before the ceremony began.

As he started speaking, I realized that perhaps we should have given a little more thought to the minister selection process. And as he warmed up, his sermon took on more and more of a "fire and brimstone" flavor. My "chauvinist radar" went up when he spoke of the need for the wife to be faithful to her husband. I detected a nuance that the woman is subservient and found myself wondering why the man doesn't need to be faithful as well? The mninister also employed the phrases "the two become one" and "forsaking all others," words which, in my mind, seemed to diminish the importance of a partnership between two distinct individuals.

As the sermon went on, Brianna showed signs of boredom as she began swinging her flower basket, and I was cognizant of the fact that the high heels on the women were probably sinking into the grass as mine were doing. Rich's nerves were starting to take over and his lips were visibly twitching. Just about that time, I noticed the young boy from next door poking his head over the fence to see what was going on. I was reminded of the "Kilroy was here" caricature. His unabashed curiosity lent a slice of Americana with a dollop of Dennis the Menace to the seriousness of the moment. I managed to suppress a chuckle, but I just had to smile. That young boy provided comic relief for me at just the right instant. Whenever I think of our wedding, I will always recall the humorous sight of that inquisitive, freckle-faced boy with a sprig of hair standing straight up peering over the fence.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words and never stops at all. ~ Emily Dickinson What do you have hope for?

Write about the last time you had a sleepover (read: spent the night at someone else's house!).

It wasn't the last sleepover I've been to, but it was certainly the most memorable. When I lived in California and my daughters were still young, I belonged to a neighborhood bunco group. We were all mothers in our late 30s and early 40s. Once a month, about 15-20 ladies got together on the premise of playing the dice game. In actuality there was more snacking, drinking, and chatting going on than dice rolling. We rotated spending bunco evenings at each other's homes but because there were so many of us, I only hosted the group once. Husbands and children, while not actually banished from the premises, wisely chose to make themselves scarce. Those were some loud, wild evenings!

Joann, one of the ladies in the group, decided to have a pajama party one winter Friday night and she invited all the bunco ladies. We were instructed to arrive in our pajamas and slippers and bring a snack and a beverage of our choice, either alcohol or non. Since nobody was leaving or had to drive, we were all free to indulge and the former choice was more in evidence. We wore a crazy conglomeration of pajamas and an even more amazing array of kooky slippers. Mine were giant pink furry monster feet complete with purple glittery toenail polish. A couple of the women even rolled each other's hair with those old-fashioned foam rollers.

Only about half of the bunco group could make it, so we had maybe 8-10 women at the party. Someone entertained the group by telling an embarrassing story that happened to her that day, and we were off and running. We decided to have everyone tell their most embarrassing story. Then we all told about the craziest thing we did in high school, the funny things our toddlers had said, and so on. Of course the more we drank, the more hilarious the stories became. As the evening rolled along and the cocktails flowed, many of us felt the need to stand and act out our stories, a hilarious sight in our flannel jammies and fuzzy slippers. We were all behaving like giggly teenagers who were out from under our parents' watchful eyes for the night, and it was a fun evening of leaving our cares and responsibilites behind.

I don't think everyone crashed until about 3:00 am. The next morning our hostess made pancakes at about 9:00 and we had some seriously hungover women sitting around the breakfast table. Every once in awhile, someone would begin snickering, remembering a particularly funny moment from the evening before. After breakfast, we all scattered to our respective homes to resume our responsible lives and our roles as efficient wives and mommies once again. But it was really a memorable evening of bonding and letting our hair down that I'm sure we all remember to this day.

"We all have big changes in our lives that are more or less a second chance." ~ Harrison Ford Describe a time in your life when you were given a second chance.

Write about an experience that took place in a waiting room.

Write about a "thank you" letter that you didn't mean a word of.

Well, it's not that I didn't mean a word of it. It's just that it felt forced and contrived, and probably read that way as well.

The university library where I work is named after a well known journalist and newspaper executive in the Atlanta area. He graduated from the university, was a member of the Board of Trustees, and a generous benefactor. There's even a room in the library set up to replicate his office, sometimes referred to as "the shrine" by the more saracastic employees. When he died in 1999, his widow picked up where he left off in his role of benefactor. We soon got word of an endowed fund which provided generous donations for unprecedented quantities of new books for several years to come. When the widow's next birthday rolled around, all of us employees were instructed to write her a thank you letter.

Say what? OK, I felt like a grade school girl again being forced by my parents to write a thank you note for a Christmas or birthday gift. Mind you, I'm not anti-thank you by any means. The gratitude expressed in a thank you tells us that we are valued and shows us that we're not being taken for granted. When I write a thank you note, it ensures that I actively appreciate a kindness done on my behalf. Who could argue with that? I religiously wrote my thank yous as a child, and as an adult I did my parental duty by impressing their importance upon my daughters and making sure they wrote them as well. But to me, a thank you is a personal acknowledgment of gratitude. I've never had to write a thank you note before for something that didn't benefit me directly. Does a thank you lose all meaning when it's written out of duty and obligation, rather than inspired by genuine, spontaneous appreciation? I think so. And in this case, it also seemed like a rather transparent vehicle designed to say, "Keep those funds coming!"

Well, I wrote the obligatory thank you letter and hopefully managed to make it sound halfway believable. I put in a little bit of personal information about myself; told about my job in the library and how long I had been employed there. It wasn't a huge deal in the scheme of life, but being required to write that note did make me feel childlike and led around by the nose. It was definitely one of the most unusual requests I've ever received from an employer.

Describe the last time you were stopped in your tracks by beauty.

It's a wonderful thing to witness beauty so breath-taking you're literally stopped in your tracks. It's happened to me a couple of times recently, and I'm torn as to which sight was most awe-inspiring. They were each magical in their own way.

My husband and I had the privilege of seeing full double rainbows very late one afternoon as we were driving around the lake to visit a friend. I think it's the only time I've ever witnessed such a thing in my life.... two rainbows side by side, with both of them beginning and ending at the horizon. Their brilliant colors were enhanced by the arrival of dusk. Of course I didn't have my camera, and it never occurred to me that I could have used my phone. The picture below was taken by my friend and co-worker as she looked out of her window at Mercer. The second rainbow barely shows up, and the picture hardly does justice to the spectacular sight. But it serves as a reminder of that remarkable afternoon--such a gift it was.

The second beautiful vision that stopped me in my tracks was the sight of my granddaughter sleeping. Aubree likes to sleep under the soft light of her toy seahorse, and she's the image of peaceful, pure, angelic innocence. Occasionally her eyes flutter and a small smile crosses her face, and I wonder what she's thinking about. Maybe she's having a wonderful dream. A sleeping baby is definitely a heart-melting sight.

Sleeping Beauty

Think about a reunion you've either attended or are planning to attend... Write about the emotions it evokes in you.

Meeting my long-lost family members. Back row: Hazel and Paul.

Front row:  Sharon, Iva, James, Laverne, Imelda, D'Wayne.

I started researching my family tree in 1996 and two years later I had the opportunity to attend my first large family reunion. It was held in Nacogdoches, Texas and was organized by a lady named Reba, a very outgoing person who did a fantastic job of rounding up family members from across the United States. At the time, I was living in California and Reba kept us all informed about who would be attending and a little bit about their backgrounds.

From Reba's emails, I knew that a Texas sheriff was scheduled to attend. "A law enforcer in our midst will make sure that we don't get too carried away with the festivities!" she kidded. But what I didn't know until right before the reunion was that Sheriff D'Wayne was a long-lost member of my own branch of the family. Our grandfathers were brothers two years apart in age, both born in the 1890s. They had been close as boys and young men, growing up in Texas and then moving to New Mexico with their parents and other siblings. It wasn't until they were adults in Portales, New Mexico, that the split occurred in the family. My grandfather, Tom, was the sheriff of Portales and his brother, Frank, was accused and convicted of incest with one of his daughters.

As you can imagine, the chasm created within the family was wide and deep. Portales was a very small town back in those days and the scandalous headline was splashed across the front page of the newspaper. It was a shameful and embarrassing time for the whole family. Frank's wife divorced him and isolated herself and their seven children from the rest of the family. My dad was a little boy at the time and didn't understand what had happened. My grandfather was under constant pressure from his parents, who also lived in Portales and didn't believe that their son was guilty, to "do something" about getting Frank out of prison. They refused to believe that there was nothing he could do--that Frank had been tried and convicted and had to serve his entire sentence. When my grandfather's term in office was up, he moved his family to Santa Fe, leaving his parents, the ex-sister-in-law, and the estranged cousins behind. Frank served his prison term and was remarried. Both brothers died in the 1970s.

So that was the sad story of a relationship that ended on a bad note between the two brothers and two sets of cousins. The older family members never did explain what had happened to my dad, and he got the definite feeling that it was better not to ask. He only knew that Frank had gotten into a great deal of trouble and had spent time in prison. It wasn't until I started researching the family and dug up the old newspaper articles about exactly what had occurred that we were able to put the pieces together.

Flash forward 65 years to the Nacogdoches reunion. I was excited and yet at the same time I had some trepidation about representing my side of the family and bringing together the two "factions" after so many years. I had no idea what D'Wayne would know about the past events, or what he had heard about my grandfather. D'Wayne brought his wife, his mother, his sister and brother-in-law, and his aunt and uncle to the reunion.

I needn't have worried. We all hugged and felt an immediate kinship. The close ties of so many years ago when our grandfathers were brothers were somehow carried forward to the current generations. The tender feelings I had upon meeting them still puts an inexplicable lump in my throat. I was astounded when I first laid eyes on D'Wayne; he has an uncanny resemblance to my grandfather, which is even more ironic considering the fact that they both were sheriffs. Then I met his Uncle Paul, Frank's son, who, with the exception of his gray hair and mustache,  is a shorter version of my dad right down to the cleft in the middle of his chin. We all had photo albums and shared pictures; of course D'Wayne was especially interested in the photos of his look-alike, my grandfather.

It turned out that they all knew the story about what had occurred so many years ago. D'Wayne had shown some interest in his family tree, and his aunt (the girl who had been molested) told him that there was something he should know if he was going to start researching. It wasn't a secret in their family. Paul told me the story of living way out in the country with his mother and siblings after the divorce; they all almost starved to death out there. His mother was a strong woman who stubbornly refused charity from others, and somehow they managed to scrape by. She later learned to speak fluent Spanish at the age of 40, became a missionary in Mexico for 35 years, and started a church there. She was known far and wide as "Hermana Mabel."

I couldn't wait to tell my dad about meeting his long-lost cousins, and he was excited and anxious to get together with all of them at a future reunion. Unfortunately, he passed away before that ever happened. D'Wayne and I have stayed in touch ever since. It was really a remarkable feeling to connect with that side of the family again after so many years. I think my grandfather was pleased and was smiling down on me that day.

"Without work all life goes rotten." ~ Albert Camus What's the value of the work you do?

This is a very good question. Unfortunately, I'm usually consumed with thinking about what I don't like about my work and the annoyances of my job. Rarely do I consider its intrinsic value. But everyone needs to know their work isn't pointless; that it has a positive impact. If I take my humble salary and a basic lack of recognition out of the equation, I can still find some nuggets of value in my work.

Most obviously, my work contributes toward education by making resources available, whether those resources are of the electronic or print variety. I'm responsible for gathering, organizing, and describing these learning materials so that they're easily accessible to students and the general public. Less visible but just as important is my role with student assistants. Their library jobs are often the first time these students have ever worked. They learn to establish a work ethic; to be accountable and responsible. As employees ourselves, we serve as role models to our student assistants. My work also has some historic significance; the library archives preserves pieces of history important to the University, the Baptist community, and beyond. For example, I had a role in organizing and making accessible the personal papers of ex Attorney General Griffin Bell, which included correspondence from several U.S. Presidents and other foreign leaders.

It's so easy to get lost in the frustrations of the job. When my work-a-day world gets me down, I need to remind myself of its inherent worth. My work gives me the opportunity to contribute to two causes I believe in:  education and historic preservation.

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple." ~Jack Kerouac Now use simple words to describe something that deeply matters to you.

Simple words. I love this quote and the concept. It isn't necessary to hide the true meaning of what you're saying behind a mountain of words. As Jack Kerouac explains, complicated, complex words lose people whereas simple words "shine like beacons of light."

I've stated previously that I love being a grandmother with all my heart. But I feel that I need to expand more on this feeling--to try and describe it in simple words.

When I love my baby granddaughter, I invest a piece of myself in future generations. The affection and values I instill in her will carry forth after I'm gone. That's such a gratifying feeling.

My granddaughter Aubree doesn't judge me. She doesn't suspect ulterior motives, search for double meanings, or try to read between the lines. She doesn't care if I'm rich or poor, cute or homely, klutzy or graceful.

Aubree loves my songs even when I sing off-key. She smiles at me even when my jokes are corny. Her eyes light up when she sees me even when I'm wearing sweats and a T-shirt and having a bad hair day.

To my granddaughter, it doesn't matter that I'm not the smartest, the prettiest, or the most popular. I give her love, attention, and protection from harm. That's all it takes to be perfect in Aubree's eyes, and the feeling is mutual.

The moment you have in your heart this extraordinary thing called love and feel the depth, the delight, the ecstasy of it, you will discover that for you the world is transformed." ~ J. Krishnamurti What do you love with all your heart?

Hey, this prompt is an exact repeat of the prompt given on January 15th. Even the quote is the same. So in the interest of time (and, OK, I admit it--laziness), I will defer to my previous answer. It hasn't changed. :-)

Think back to a song you used to love as a child... now write about it.

I spent a lot of time with my Grandma as a child, and she loved to play the piano and sing. Mostly they were "parlor songs" from the late 1890s and early 1900s, which was when she was a young girl. Her mother probably sang them to her as a child. I knew the words and could sing along to "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," "Bicycle Built for Two," and "Love and Marriage" soon after I was able to string sentences together. The ragtime music that she played was lively and happy. I loved all her songs, but as an adult I realize that some of them had horribly politically incorrect messages, and remembering those in today's climate is highly uncomfortable. There was one song in particular that she used to sing frequently and I loved the tune. Musically it was delightful, but even back then the words disturbed me, particularly the chorus. Embarrassing as it is to recount, it's part of my past and is still etched in the childhood compartment of my brain, so here are the lyrics:

Stay in Your Own Backyard

Lilac trees are bloomin' in the corner by the gate
Mammy's at her little cabin door
Curly headed picanniny comin' home so late
Cryin' cuz his little heart is sore.

All the children playin' around
Their skin so white and fair
None of them would ever let him play.
So mammy in her lap took the weeping little chap
And crooned in her kind old way

Now honey, you stay in your own backyard
Don't mind what them white chile do
What do you supposed they gwine to do
To a black little coon like you?

So stay on this side of the high board fence
And honey, don't cry so hard.
Go out and play just as much as you please
But stay in your own backyard.

What a miserable lullabye! And how very sad that the beautiful tune is tainted by these painful lyrics. As a little girl, I remember loving the image of the lilacs because we had a giant lilac bush growing beside the back door of our house and I'd sit on the back stoop and smell its perfume. I also remember feeling terribly sorry for the little black boy whose heart was breaking, and angry with the white children who wouldn't play with him. But most of all, I remember being disappointed and let down that his mother instructed him just to play in his own backyard.

Of course, as an adult I recognize these lyrics as a thinly veiled message of racism and segregation. I guess all music is representative of the prevalent beliefs held at the time it's composed. I doubt the song was written with hatred as its intent, but instead it was an unconscious reflection of an intolerant and insensitive society. As much as the lyrics make me cringe today, they're historically a part of our past that can't be denied. I guess they serve to remind us how far we've come.... and at the same time open our eyes to how far we have yet to go in eliminating racial prejudices and stereotypes.

What is your favorite number? Tell me the story behind its specialness.

My favorite number is 19. I love its oddness, its primeness (is that a word?), and the fact that it just misses the precision of being 20--a round, even, perfectly divisible and boring number. Yawn. 19, on the other hand, stands firm in its indivisibility and uniqueness, refusing to be compromised.

I can't remember exactly when 19 became "my" number, but I know it was deeply entrenched as my favorite by the 4th grade. At the end of the year, my teacher, Mrs. Hoyt, had all of us pick a number between 1 and 50. The student who guessed the number closest to the one she was thinking of would win the classroom wall mural we had created over the course of the school year. We all poured our 4th-grade hearts and souls into that mural, so it was quite a coveted prize. I won the mural. Mrs. Hoyt chose 19 because it was our room number, but I never thought of that. I just liked 19.

At age 19, my last year of being a teenager, I was a sophomore at Michigan State. It was the year I met my best friend Sue;  I was dating Bob, my first true love; and I went off to spend a fantastic summer working in Glacier Park. Life couldn't have been better. Yep, 19 was a very good age and a year of great fortune. It will always be my favorite number.

Today's prompt: LOSS OF RESPECT.

I really can't recall too many occasions when I've experienced a personal loss of respect in my life. But one incident that comes to mind is relatively minor and ironically, the memory still makes me smile some 38 years later.

It was 1974, the spring term of my junior year in college, and my boyfriend of two years, Bob, had just broken up with me during the winter. I was still hurting from that experience, but I had a support group of loving friends and was starting to feel good again. The arrival of spring certainly didn't hurt any in that respect. Traditionally, of course, college students have always gone a little wild with the emergence of spring and this behavior is intensified tenfold at schools like MSU where the winters are long, very cold, and generally sunless. In March of 1974, a man had famously streaked the Oscars and the phenomenon was starting to catch on at college campuses throughout the country.

One warm spring evening, the dorm cafeteria was abuzz with rumors that streaking would happen in our courtyard that night. A feeling of excitement and expectation was in the air. After dinner my roommate and I, ready to take in the spectacle, planted ourselves in the study room window of our floor, which overlooked the courtyard. We weren't the only ones with the same idea. Many of the windows in the 3-sided horseshoe of the six-floor dorm were open and populated with curious students. Sure enough, we weren't to be disappointed. Several guys streaked through the courtyard at various times, resplendent in their nakedness. In the midst of the madness, we heard a plaintive male voice ask, "Where are the women?"

It almost seemed like a dare. Sue looked at me and I looked at her. Should we? Just then our friend Shannon entered the study room. "I've been looking for you," she declared, eyes sparkling. "Jeannie and I want to streak; are you up for it? You two were the only ones we could think of who might do it with us." It took only a minute to agree. There was a definite feeling of safety in numbers, and it seemed easier to pull off the stunt with four of us participating. We decided to go right after dark, when we might not be recognized as easily. Our plan was to emerge from a side doorway, run out and circle the tree at the center of the courtyard, then run back again to the same doorway. Our friend Berta declined the invitation to join us, but she was very willing to serve as our official robe-holder while we ran. The scheme was hatched.

We gathered at the appointed hour, dropped our robes, and took off running. I remember hearing plenty of hooting and hollering from the dorm windows. What we didn't think about was the direction in which we'd circle the tree. As I wildly ran counterclockwise, I almost ran smack into a naked, flopping Jeannie who was running clockwise. We were all laughing hysterically as we scampered back to the safety of our robes and returned to our post in the study room. We were curious to hear how our escapade had been received. Our friend Paul was perched in a study room window above us. "Hey," he called out to us, "Did ya see those women who just streaked?"  We couldn't help ourselves. "That was us!" we hollered back. "B.S.!" was his skeptical reply, and with that our entire study room erupted in laughter.

Apparently, the identity of the four streaking women spread through the dorm like wildfire. The following evening as I was sitting in the cafeteria with my friends, my ex came walking up to me. Eyes blazing, he leaned down and quietly spoke into my ear, "The guys on my floor all saw you last night. Hope you're proud of yourself!" I guess it was his intention to embarrass me and convey his apparent loss of respect. On the inside, I have to admit I was somewhat crushed. I still had feelings for him and his opinion did matter to me. But at the same time I couldn't believe he was judging me. He certainly wouldn't have approached the other three women with the same comment; what made him think he had the right to treat me that way? I can't remember anymore how I responded. I think I just laughed and shrugged in what I hoped was a dismissive manner.

Later we heard a rumor that Playboy magazine was trying to find out who the streaking women were in order to interview us. We were never able to confirm if that was really true or not. But Bob's snide comment aside, I still have to chuckle at the memory of that wild night and the adventurous, somewhat exhibitionistic spirit of the four crazy co-eds that we were!

Today's prompt: LOSS OF TIME.

I met my friend Bobbyjohn when I was a sophomore at MSU and he was a freshman. He lived on the same floor as my boyfriend, Bob; in fact, he was a good friend of Bob’s roommate, Fritz. When Bob and I broke up during my junior year, I remained friends with both Bobbyjohn and Fritz, a fact that was a sore point with my ex. We were all just casual friends--they were good guys and fun to hang out with occasionally. Their fifth floor dorm wing became known as the Cabana Bananas, and their Who parties were legendary. Several of the guys were amateur musicians and they’d each take on the persona of a band member in The Who and jam. It was all wild, harmless, and slightly eccentric fun. They continued the tradition when they all moved to Inn Limbo, their house off campus.

Bobbyjohn was a big fan of the outdoors and after I had worked a couple of summers in the national parks, he was interested and asked for details about how to apply. I was happily anticipating working with him in Colorado during the summer of 1975, but he had waited too long and there were no longer any openings. We were both disappointed.

It wasn’t until a year after I graduated and had moved back from Colorado to spend a summer in East Lansing that I got to know Bobbyjohn a little better. He had just graduated himself and had a summer job on campus. I was working as a waitress at the Big Boy restaurant. The campus was less populated and moved at a slower pace during the summers. There were fewer distractions and more opportunities to get to know one another. He and I spent some afternoons at the outdoor pool on campus, we bowled together and went for bike rides out in the country. He and his buddies were going on a camping trip one weekend and he asked me to go with him. I happily looked forward to it. Up until then, it really hadn’t seemed like we were “dating;” we were just enjoying each other’s company as friends. But now I was wondering if it might develop into something more.

The week leading up to the camping weekend was a busy one for me and the day before we were leaving, I realized that I desperately needed to do some laundry in addition to the fact that my sleeping bag and camping gear were still at my parents’ house. So on Friday, I set out for a last-minute trip home, an hour’s drive in both directions. Bobbyjohn was to pick me up at my house in East Lansing in the late afternoon.

One thing lead to another, and my spur-of-the-moment trip home took longer than expected. I realized as I was headed back to East Lansing that I was going to be late, and I hoped that Bobbyjohn would hang out with my roommates for a little while until I got there. But the anticipated camping trip just wasn’t in the cards for me. My roommates told me that Bobbyjohn had been at the house and had waited about an hour until he just had to leave. Truly disappointed, I was kicking myself for being so disorganized and worried about unintentionally standing him up.

I don’t remember the first conversation we had after that, but I’m sure that I apologized and he accepted my apology. We remained friends but it was nearing the end of the summer, and I was moving to California with my friend Sue while Bobbyjohn got a job with Frontier Airlines and moved to Colorado. I saw him and Fritz one more time each when they came out to California with friends and looked me up. He and I exchanged Christmas cards with pictures of our families over the years. He had three children including a son with Down’s Syndrome, and he became heavily involved with a camp for handicapped children in Denver. We became Facebook friends and discovered a mutual interest in cycling. In one Facebook conversation we remembered those long ago country bike rides back in East Lansing, and he told me that he’d tried his best to flirt with me. I wonder why I didn’t pick up on that at the time?

I've always looked at that camping trip as a lost opportunity. In November 2010, Bobbyjohn died unexpectedly from a heart attack. He had spent a beautiful fall morning cycling with his friend in the Colorado mountains. When his wife arrived home from work, she found him dead on the kitchen floor, still wearing his cycling clothes. The tragic news made me sad beyond measure. I often think of him, especially when I ride my bike or hear a Who song on the radio. "Behind Blue Eyes" was his favorite song and will forever remind me of him. I dedicate the first ride of every cycling season to the memory of Bobbyjohn.  RIP, my friend.

Today's prompt: LOSS OF STRENGTH.

I spent the summer of 1973 working in Glacier National Park, Montana. The park service staffed their four lodges from a pool of college applicants. With my application, I had to submit a letter of recommendation written by a teacher, a church leader, or someone from my community willing to be my sponsor. My dad's friend was the city treasurer of our town, and he consented to be my sponsor. The park job wasn't glamorous by any means. Sometimes I worked in the laundry, where we cleaned literally thousands of bed sheets, pillowcases, white tablecloths and napkins. Occasionally I subbed in the dining room of East Glacier Lodge, working as a bus girl. You couldn't work as a waitress until you had a summer of busing under your belt. Other students worked as maids or bellhops. What made the drudgery of the jobs worthwhile were the days off, when the mountain trails and streams of the spectacular countryside beckoned.

On one such occasion, I made plans with a co-worker named Brenda from Sacramento to hike the 17-mile Highline Trail. I had accomplished many smaller hikes, but this one would be a serious all-day undertaking. Little did I know just how underprepared I truly was! It was a warm, sunny day and the narrow, winding trail went up one side of a mountain and down the other. Looking back, it was truly one of the most magnificent trails I've ever hiked. I don't recall that we saw another human being the entire distance. We walked alongside gentle streams and through fields of opulent wildflowers. We hiked past melting glaciers and thundering waterfalls. At one point, we approached a crystal clear lake nestled in a valley and as we got closer, we spotted a graceful doe drinking from the water. We cautiously crept toward her, trying hard not to make a sound. The deer let us get within a few feet and I managed to snap a picture before she bounded nimbly away, scared off by the clicking of the camera lens. That miraculous picture is one of my favorites of all time.

Around midday we were cresting the top of the trail and came across Granite Park Chalet built on the top of the mountain. It reminded me of something out of Swiss Family Robinson. The chalet served as a shelter for hikers and was outfitted with picnic tables. Brenda and I sat and ate the lunches out of our backpacks in a spot where we could gaze for miles over the Rocky Mountains to adjoining Waterton National Park in Canada. If only all my lunch hours afforded such a majestic, breathtaking view.

It was some time after eating that my hiking boots began to rub blisters in my heels. We’d been hiking alongside a stream and decided to leave the trail and rest on boulders near Redrock Falls to soak our sore, tired feet. The icy water coming down off the mountain was so cold it took my breath away initially. But after awhile my legs became numb and the water actually felt soothing. It was while we were peacefully soaking our feet that we happened to look back up at the trail. There, standing imposingly on his hind legs, was a huge grizzly bear. We were several hundred yards away, but it appeared as if he was staring right at the two of us. My heart was pounding wildly in my chest as we remained motionless and silently prayed that he wouldn't decide to head our way. This time, it never occurred to me to take a picture; my terrified mind was too busy wondering if I was about to become lunch for a grizzly. After what seemed like an eternity to us but was actually probably less than a minute, the bear dropped down on all fours and went loping off in the opposite direction from where we were headed. We feverishly put our shoes and socks back on and quickly worked on putting as much distance as possible between us and the bear.

The sun was low in the sky by the time we finally got back to lodge headquarters. During the last few miles, my arms were so swollen from hanging at my sides all day that I could hardly bend them at the elbows, and I couldn't curl my fingers to grasp anything. My heels were a mass of festering blisters. When I got into the shower back at my cabin, I found that I didn't even have the strength to stand anymore. I literally sat in the shower stall and let the water beat down on my head and body. Afterwards, I crawled into bed and it was one of those times when I was asleep before my head ever hit the pillow. I don't ever remember being that exhausted either before or since the day of that 17-mile hike. It zapped the very last ounce of strength I had, but the exhilarating adventure was totally worth every second of pain and discomfort.

Today's prompt: LOSS OF AN OBJECT.

It was New Year’s Day 2006 and I was just about to wind down after a hectic Christmas season.  We had a houseful of people with us over the holidays, including my mother up from Florida, and Brianna and Ryan, who were still living with us after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. It had been a special Christmas for all of us; the first one we had ever spent with both Brianna and Ryan.

I worked hard the entire day, disassembling the Christmas tree, putting away all the decorations, doing laundry, changing sheets, vacuuming, and cooking. The next day I’d be reluctantly returning to work after the Christmas break. As I was folding towels and putting them away in the linen closet, I felt my ring snag on the terrycloth. Looking down at my left hand, I was horrified to see four prongs surrounding an empty space where my diamond used to be.

My ring was fashioned from the same diamonds that were in my mother-in-law’s wedding ring. She died of breast cancer in 1997, 11 years after Rich and I were married, and my father-in-law gave me her diamond ring. He knew that his other daughter-in-law had a diamond wedding ring of her own, whereas Rich and I had exchanged gold bands on our wedding day. I was proud that Rich’s dad thought so highly of me and was touched that he wanted me to have the ring. Rich and I asked if he’d mind if we updated the setting to suit my own taste, and he readily agreed. Together with a jeweler, we designed a ring that I loved. It had a larger diamond set in four prongs at the center, a smaller diamond offset above, and several diamond chips arranged in a modernistic curve around the two bigger diamonds. The larger diamond was the one missing.

I began by searching thoroughly in the linen closet, removing every towel and sheet and shaking them out carefully over the dark colored carpet as I looked in vain for the sparkling diamond. Rich, the girls, and Ryan soon started helping me. Rich looked in the dryer lint trap and even disconnected the hoses to both the washer and dryer to see if it might have gotten caught in there while I was washing clothes. We took all the sheets off every bed in the house and then remade them. Ryan searched through the dirt in the vacuum cleaner bag. We dragged all the Christmas decorations out again and carefully unwrapped the tissue paper around each and every ornament. We looked through the trash cans in the house and the one outside. The six of us literally spent hours upon hours searching futilely for the diamond. As the night wore on, I felt more and more hopeless, the tears running down my cheeks as I continued to search. I remember Ryan assuring me that we wouldn’t give up; we’d look until we found it.

Well, diamonds are supposed to be forever according to the commercial, but this one sure wasn’t. It never did turn up again despite turning the house upside down. I subconsciously looked for it for weeks afterwards. There were countless times I’d glimpse something shining in the light and my heart would skip a beat as I’d stoop down to examine the object in question. It was always an inconsequential piece of tin foil or a shiny bit of metal. It’s amazing how many small specks of sparkle you see around you when you’re really looking.

Six years later, I’m still heartsick over the loss of that diamond. Through the ensuing years of the girls going to college, an open heart surgery, a wedding, the birth of a grandchild, and countless other expenses, replacing the diamond has never made it high enough on the priority list. The ring still sits in a drawer, with its empty hole gaping where the diamond used to be. Every time I catch a glimpse of it, the sadness washes over me once again and I quickly shut the drawer, unwilling to linger on the upsetting loss.

Today's prompt: LOSS OF WORDS.

Well, I'm at a loss of words right now to answer this prompt! So I'll just respond literally. I've come down with laryngitis several times in my life. It usually starts out with a sore throat and then progresses to feeling like something the size of a softball is in my larnyx. My voice cracks and about half my words are audible. Before long, I'm reduced to whispers and seal-like barks. Communication is dependent on people leaning in very close to hear my series of squeaks, pantomime through gestures and facial expressions, or, in the most dire of circumstances, frantic note scribbling.

Laryngitis usually strikes at the most inopportune times, too. Once I remember having no other choice but to walk next door and ask a male neighbor/friend to call in to work for me. That was embarrassing. I can just imagine how phony my excuse, coming as it did from an unknown male, sounded to my skeptical boss! Of course, I was vindicated a couple days later when I returned to work with a raspy "man voice" sounding something like Mrs. Doubtfire.

The most inconvenient time I ever got laryngitis was when I flew from Los Angeles to visit my best friend Sue in northern California. We only got together a few times a year, so our visits were virtual jabbering marathons with lots to talk about. Wouldn't you know it? That's when my vocal cords decided to give out. We made the most of our time together anyway. She just leaned in closer and listened more carefully, and was very considerate about not asking "What?" too many times, as I recall. And I had to learn to make my stories shorter, leaving out some of the less crucial details. :)

The tail end of laryngitis is usually when things get entertaining. At that stage, my voice becomes husky and mysterious. I once paged someone at my job at Wells Fargo with a voice sounding like Demi Moore. The male employees were all scrambling around looking for the new hire! I can only imagine their disappointment when they discovered it was only me, coughing raggedly into my kleenex.

Today's prompt: LOSS OF SLEEP.

I've gone without sleep on many occasions. Sometimes out of choice--like those times in college when I procrastinated too long and then pulled all-nighters to write a paper or study for an exam. Other times my lack of sleep was due to irritating nocturnal disturbances, such as when my family unknowingly camped next to a very busy railroad track in McLean, Texas. Then of course there are those frustrating occasions when lack of sleep comes from a busy brain that inexplicably won't shut off and a body that won't stop tossing and turning. Those are the times when non-sleep is a vicious cycle--you look at the clock every five minutes and start to panic thinking about how early you need to awaken in the morning and how tired you will be at work the following day, which only serves to agitate you further and keeps the insomnia going.

But the most vivid memory I have regarding loss of sleep happened the night our youngest daughter was involved in a bad car accident. It was a warm spring day and Julie, a junior in high school at the time, had driven her Acura down to Warner Robins that afternoon to visit a friend. The Acura was her first car—a hand-me-down from her sister. Night had already fallen when the phone rang and we received that dreaded call--the stuff of every parent's nightmare. Julie herself was on the other end of the line. "I've just wrecked my car," she told me in a strange, flat voice, with no audible trace of hysteria or panic. I, however, immediately went into full panic mode. I fired off questions at her as she explained her location and told me that paramedics had been called and were on their way. It had been a head-on collision and she was worried about the woman in the other car whose legs were hurt. Julie thought she was OK herself, but a nurse had stopped at the scene and was instructing her to lie down. I quickly ascertained that the detached tone of my daughter’s voice probably meant she was in shock. I urged her to follow the nurse's instructions and told her we'd be there as quickly as we could.

By the time we drove the 30 miles and arrived at the scene of the accident, both drivers had been taken to the hospital and the cars had already been towed away. We proceeded on to the hospital with our hearts in our throats. We were lead through the emergency room maze and there behind one of the curtains was Julie. She was lying strapped to a back board with her neck in a brace, still wearing her jeans and T-shirt. She was barefoot; her shoes nowhere in sight. Tears were in her eyes and when she saw us, they began rolling down her dirt-streaked face. Ants were randomly scurrying here and there over her body; she had been lying in the dirt beside her car until the paramedics arrived. Tears sprang up in my eyes as I busied myself picking off the ants. Sobbing, she told us was that she was so sorry. She said that she was on her way home when her cell phone, sitting on the passenger seat, started ringing and she glanced over to see who was calling. In those few seconds her eyes were off the road, she crossed the center line going about 50 mph and hit a car coming the opposite way. The driver's sides of both cars were crushed. Julie's air bag had deployed and when it was over and her car came to a stop, she found herself on the floor of the passenger side of the car. And no, she hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt.

The emergency room was extremely busy and we had to wait a very long time before Julie ever saw a doctor that night. In the meantime, it was heart-rending to see her lying so uncomfortably on that board. Her lips were chapped and dry and she begged for a drink of water. I tracked down a nurse but was informed that she wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything until a doctor had examined her. As time went on, she began crying in discomfort and pain. I finally grabbed a paper towel and got it wet in the sink. I washed off her dirty face and hands, then soaked another paper towel and squeezed it, letting the water drip into her mouth. Over and over, we repeated those pitiful motions until finally she felt some relief from being so parched.

A doctor eventually examined her and ordered several tests and X-rays. We waited through the entire night in that uncomfortable, miserable place. It was very cold in the ER and an elderly lady with dementia was in the next cubicle. She yelled the same phrases over and over all night long. “They’re twins!” she hollered, “A boy and a girl!” She was about to drive the three of us mad! An sympathetic nurse walked by in the hallway and as she glanced in at us, she saw the aggravated looks on our faces. She mouthed the words, “I’m sorry!” and asked if there was anything she could do for us. “Sedate that old lady!” we answered without hesitation. The nurse did bring us each a heated white sheet to wrap up in, so for the rest of the night we looked like three mummies as we heard repeatedly about the boy and girl twins.

The X-rays revealed that a small bone chip had broken off in Julie’s left wrist, and her left foot was broken. There were miraculously no other injuries. At 5:00 am she was released to go home, and I called my boss, leaving a message to explain why I wouldn’t be in to work. My voice cracked as I told about the accident; the enormity of the situation was just starting to hit. But it wasn’t until later that day, when Rich and I visited the tow yard to remove items from her car, that the full extent of just how lucky Julie was became crystal clear. As we explained who we were to the owner of the yard, he looked at us cautiously. “So what happened to your daughter?” he asked hesitantly. He was amazed when we answered that she was home and would be fine. He told us that he had worked for many years in the business, and by looking at the car, he had figured it was a fatality for sure. He led us to the car and as I took in the horrific sight, I finally broke down. I completely lost it realizing just how close we had come to having the most tragic day of our lives.

At a minimum, it’s a miracle that Julie's legs weren’t crushed in the mangled heap of metal that used to be the driver’s side of the car. As much as I’ve harped at her about wearing a seatbelt, the fact that she didn’t have it on and was thrown to the passenger side may have saved her. But I prefer to think that guardian angels in the form of her three grandparents were probably what saved Julie that night. Julie may believe that as well. I notice she always wears her seatbelt now.

This week is devoted to writing about various LOSSES you've experienced... Today's prompt: LOSS OF IDENTITY.

I lost my identity for a long time after we moved to Georgia. It was immediately obvious that I didn't fit in with my new environment. Among the more genteel, upper-crust Southerners, I was regarded as a blunt and unrefined Yankee. Southern women usually aren't seen in public unless their hair and make-up are perfect and their nails are done, whereas I'm a jeans and T-shirt, go-as-you-are kind of girl. Southern ladies sugarcoat everything they say, believing that even insults are OK as long as the heart is blessed: "She's probably gained 20 pounds in the last few months, bless her heart." I've never blessed anyone's heart in my life.

Among the rednecks, I'm seen as a bleeding-heart, slightly hippie-ish liberal. The sight of a pick-up with a gun rack in the back window, a Confederate flag waving from the roof, and a freshly shot deer in the truck bed offends my sensibilities; I can't help but cringe. I'm also viewed as a California sprout-eating, bicycle riding health nut by the tobacco-chewing crowd. I'm a Yankee transplanted to the Bible Belt, and I haven't been allowed to forget that fact for one minute. I've often wondered if Southerners realize that the term Yankee isn't used anywhere else in the country!

I soon became uncomfortable in my own skin and I wasn't even sure who I was anymore. I felt I had to hide my true self from others and edit myself constantly. The Southern drawl often baffled me and left me feeling slow and stupid when I had to question someone several times about what they were asking me. I quickly learned that shopping carts are buggies in Georgia, and every soda is a Coke. Food preparation is completely different and I got lots of funny looks from waitresses when I'd ask about the ingredients in Brunswick stew, or request baked chicken instead of fried. And who knew you had to specifically order "unsweet tea" unless you're into drinking syrup?

Religion is everywhere and is no longer a private matter as it was back home. In the South, people attend church twice a week, God is still in the schools and at all public functions, and there are more churches per square mile here than any other place I've ever seen. They all have those signs with the moveable letters, saying delightful things like, "Dusty Bibles Lead to Dirty Lives." Not being a particularly religious person, I had to learn to think fast when I was asked what church I belong to, which happens here just about as often as I'm asked my name.

My career identity was compromised when I moved to Georgia--there were no publishing houses in Macon nor any large companies with their own publications departments. My first job in Georgia ended up being in the office of an elementary school, where I felt like a fish out of water. The dress code was quite conservative and even my wardrobe was suddenly very inappropriate. I ended up buying a couple pairs of "sensible" loafer-type shoes, a couple of long to-the-ankle, button-up-the-front jumpers, one olive green and one navy blue (very popular among the teachers), and even a Vera Bradley purse--you know, those frumpy, quilted, flowered cloth bags that look like they'd appeal only to elderly women. Not so--apparently all Southern women love those shapeless bags! I didn't even look like the same person anymore.

It's taken me a long time to find myself again, and I'm still not 100% there yet. I've had to learn the art of sticking up for my own viewpoints without offending those around me. I've had to learn that it's OK to be true to myself without trying to blend in. I've finally learned to answer the "What church to you belong to?" question by answering, "I believe in the Golden Rule."  Most people simply smile and tell me they believe in it too. I figure those who raise their eyebrows or give me a strange look in return aren't worth worrying about. It's been time-consuming to find compatible people with similar beliefs and interests as mine, but they do exist. Even in the Bible Belt in middle Georgia.

Buddhist writer and teacher, Pema Chodron, says to "Start where you are"... Describe your current state of being--your environment, physicality, and any other details that bring you directly into the present moment.

It's late on Friday afternoon and I'm sitting in my office at work. My desk faces the doorway, which is a great improvement over my horrid old office where the only possible configuration of furniture involved my desk facing the wall and my back facing the doorway! Other furniture in my office includes a file cabinet, a wall-mounted bookshelf taking up one entire wall, and two 60’s-style chairs with a round granite-looking end table between them. My office has antique gold walls and a dark blue carpeting with a gold design in it. There are three interior windows: one looking out to the main area of Tech Services where everyone’s office window faces; one with a view of the first floor stacks; and, oddly, one between my office and the office next to mine. I keep the mini blinds pulled on the latter two. Adorning my walls are a bulletin board, a framed certificate of appreciation acknowledging 10 years of service, a poster of the Van Gogh painting Sunflowers, and an Insight poster proclaiming, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going. The smart left a long time ago.”

I’m wearing a pair of jeans, my UGG boots, and a red sweater since it’s “casual Friday.” My brain is fried. It's been a long week; today presented several problems to solve; and my boss gave me a "pre-review" in which she basically shared with me that my job as I know it will be disappearing come the new fiscal year in July. "But don't worry," she emphasized repeatedly over the course of the conversation, "there's a huge project up in Special Collections which involves digitizing rare manuscripts and personal papers owned by the library and I’d like you to be part of that team." I’m fine with that, and I wasn’t worried when I originally heard about the upcoming changes. I welcome the change in routine; the chance to learn something new. But it’s my boss's excessive reassurance that makes me uneasy and suspicious. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

I’m anticipating getting my hair trimmed after work (I’ve decided to grow it out from the short, spiky haircut I’ve sported for the past couple of years). Julie’s coming home from college for the weekend and Michelle and Craig are bringing Aubree up on Sunday to visit, so we'll all have the fun of being doting grandparents/aunt. I have all the materials to make some homemade Valentines--one of my fun weekend projects. We just received our tax return money so I’m also anticipating ordering our new kitchen flooring and purchasing a new comforter set and window coverings for our bedroom.

So there you have it, my current state of being... my present moment. But the basic question remains--where am I headed? "Start where you are. Take what you already have and build from there."  Or to quote the title of a book I recently cataloged:  Start Where You Are, But Don't Stay There. I've learned that lesson from my biking. I know that I can't pick up where I left off the season before, riding 50+ miles per day, or I'll end up sore and hurting. So I start slow and build. Likewise with my writing. I try not to compare my self-centered musings with authors that I admire. I start where I am, aware that it's all in the practicing. So what do I do now? I guess I just stay aware and alert to my surroundings. I remain flexible. I carefully watch for opportunity and grasp what naturally emerges.

"Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living." ~ Miriam Beard Describe a travel experience that transformed you.

When I was a child, my family had a travel trailer and my dad loved to plan trips. Because he owned his own business, we had the luxury of lengthy vacations in the summers. We camped in all of the state parks in Michigan and took a trip around Lake Superior. We trekked to New Mexico to see my dad's family many times, to California and the redwoods, to Colorado and Mesa Verde, to Utah and Bryce Canyon, to Arizona and the Grand Canyon, to Florida and to Washington DC. But the trip that had the biggest impact on me was the one to Glacier-Waterton International Peace Park in Montana/Canada when I was about 14 years old.

While we were visiting Glacier Park, my dad made arrangements for a guided horseback trip to Iceberg Lake. The round trip took the good part of a day and we packed a lunch to eat at the secluded lake. My mother stayed behind in the Lodge, happy to spend the day browsing through the stores, reading, and knitting. It was an overcast, cool day as my dad, brother and I mounted our horses. Mike was in the midst of his wannabe cowboy stage and he wore a western shirt with his jeans and a cowboy hat on his head. For some unknown reason, I decided to wear a pair of white jeans with my T-shirt (the jeans were no longer white after spending the day in a saddle!). My stomach had serious butterflies initially as I felt awfully high off the ground on the large horse, and I was unfamiliar with the unique swaying motion of the horse's gait. Part of the trail we followed was on the side of a mountain and it took awhile before I learned to trust the sure-footedness of the horse as I looked with trepidation at the canyon far below. As time went on, I relaxed more into the saddle and got used to the gently hypnotic rolling motion. I got so that I could enjoy looking at the awesome panoramic views before me and the array of profusely blooming summer wildflowers gracefully carpeting the hillsides.

When we arrived at our destination, the sight of Iceburg Lake literally took my breath away. It was a small aquamarine jewel lying in a pocket surrounded on three sides by towering rock walls. True to its name, several huge snow-capped chunks of ice floated on its surface. The way the lake is situated, it rarely sees the sun, so the winter snow and ice is very slow to melt during the summer. The most striking thing about the lake was its vibrant turquoise color. It seemed bottomless, and staring into it was mesmerizing.

I felt transported into another world during that trip. It was the first time I really stopped long enough to consider and savor the beauty of nature around me. I knew without a doubt I wanted to have more experiences like this one in the future. As we ate dinner in the lodge that night, my dad struck up a conversation with our waitress. She was a friendly college student from Virginia who was employed by the park to work temporarily during the summer. She talked with my dad about Iceberg Lake and enthusiastically described other hikes she had done. She told about the fun of working with other college students from various states and making new friends. Without hesitation she described her time there as the most fantastic summer of her life. It was at that moment I decided I wanted to do the exact same thing when I got old enough. And for three summers during my college years, I did just that. Working in the parks was one of the best decisions I ever made in my life. Just as that young waitress from Virginia proclaimed, those summers were priceless.

Tell me the story behind a piece of jewelry that you own.

I recently bought a jewelry armoire with money my mother had given me for Christmas. Over time, I've accumulated more and more jewelry until the small box that sat on top of my dresser just wasn't cutting it anymore. Particularly in the past couple years, I've enjoyed purchasing handmade pieces from a distant cousin who has her own business making big, chunky sets of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. I literally kept these newest pieces in a pile on my nightstand, having no other home for them. So I happily bought the pretty, handpainted armoire and then spent a couple hours organizing my jewelry to my heart's content.

As I organized, I realized that I own several bracelets which have special significance to me. Two of them originally belonged to my Aunt Alyce. Alyce was a petite, dark-haired, dark-skinned woman from Lebanon, and I thought she was absolutely beautiful. She had a wide smile and her laugh reminded me of pealing bells. She was always nicely dressed and she loved jewelry, often adorning her arms with bracelets. Alyce lived in New Mexico, and several pieces of her jewelry were turquoise and silver. None of it was costume. A very generous person by nature, it gave her great pleasure to gift pieces of her jewelry. My mother once commented on the beauty of a bracelet Alyce was wearing, which had alternating pieces of mother-of-pearl and rose quartz set in a wide silver cuff. Much to my mother’s chagrin, Alyce absolutely insisted on giving her the beautiful bracelet. After my mother quit wearing much of her jewelry, she in turn gave it to me. Another time, Alyce showed me a turquoise row bracelet, saying she wanted me to have it. It's a wide, stamped sterling silver bracelet set with a single row of turquoise stones. I’ve worn both bracelets many times. It always makes me smile to think of the delight Aunt Alyce got from wearing her jewelry and the joy she derived from giving it to others.

Another bracelet that lies glistening in my new armoire is an intricately beaded sterling silver bangle that I received unexpectedly at a family reunion several years ago. Rosie is a distant relative who plans the Riley family reunions each July in Flagstaff, Arizona. If it weren’t for her, the reunions probably wouldn’t even happen. She’s the outgoing, central figure who seems to know everyone and faithfully takes care of all the arrangements. She and her husband Merle, now deceased, owned an Indian trading post near Gallup, New Mexico. After I began tracing my family tree several years ago and met my distant cousin Darlene, I attended my first Riley reunion and met Rosie for the first time. Up until then, nobody had researched the Riley family roots. When Darlene and I shared the information we had uncovered, the annual reunion attendees were a rapt and interested audience. I’ve returned to the reunions a few times since then and have even gotten my parents and my cousins Tom and Marilyn to go. The last reunion I attended, Rosie presented me with the silver bracelet from her trading post as a thank you for all the hours I’ve spent researching the family. Her thank you wasn’t necessary; it was a labor of love for me. But I’m honored to own the bracelet and proud of what it represents.

Finally, a silver linked bracelet with multi-colored stones is nestled inside one of my armoire’s compartments. The stones are in what I call “Easter egg colors”—mint green, light yellow, pastel pink, and baby blue. When my mother still lived in Florida and I was traveling down there once a month to help her, she surprised me with the bracelet on one of my trips. She had attended a jewelry party in her neighborhood and decided to buy it for me as a thank you for all I had done for her. I knew that, being blind, she had probably spent a great deal of time feeling each piece of jewelry and asking someone to describe the various items to her. In her mind’s eye, she decided this bracelet was perfect for me, and I was deeply touched by the gesture.

"The difference between a mountain and a molehill is your perspective." ~ Al Neuharth How might you shift your perspective on something that feels daunting?

One of my friends declares in the "about me" section of her Facebook page that she's "committed to living in solidarity, manning up, and shifting the paradigm." Knowing this particular friend as I do, she's definitely speaking tongue-in-cheek, but her statement makes me think about the meaning of "shifting the paradigm." I imagine it's essentially a change of perspective in a large, world-view sort of way.

My own personal perspective or paradigm is unique to me. It's my view of the universe derived from the place I'm currently standing. Because nobody else can stand in my exact spot, no one can exactly share my perspective. One way to change my perspective would be to put myself in someone else's shoes by using the tools of projection and empathy to view a situation from another's vantage point. Often times that's much easier said than done. I remember an example given by one of my college professors to illustrate how a change in perspective can drastically alter what is perceived. Imagine looking down at a spiral staircase from a bird's-eye view. It would appear that a person on that staircase is going in circles, getting nowhere fast. Then imagine looking at the spiral staircase from the side. Now you're aware that the person is climbing upwards in addition to circling. It's definitely not the most direct upwards route, but the individual is ascending nevertheless. Sometimes you need to apply this image to your life; look at it from a different perspective and you will see that you are indeed improving yourself and getting somewhere rather than traveling in circles or stuck in a rut.

I also work to change my perspective in this way: Instead of recounting the things I have to do which chip away at the hours in my day, I attempt to think in terms of the things I get to do. I try to live in the present and enjoy the gifts I've been given. As an example, at those times when my noon exercise class feels like an interruption in my day that I just don't have the energy for, I remind myself that I'm lucky to be in good health, I enjoy being active,  I relish the break in my work day, and I'm fortunate to work in a place where such classes are freely available. Therefore I will gratefully seize the opportunity to go to class.

One rainy, dreary Monday morning when I left the house for work, I discovered that the battery in my car had died. I called my husband to come to my rescue and as I waited the 45 minutes for him to arrive, I wished I had just pulled the covers up over my head and stayed in my comfortable bed that morning. It took my friend's comments to change my viewpoint. She gently reminded me, "You have a car. You have a husband who cares. You have a job and a warm bed to come home to. You're having a great day even if you don't realize it." Sometimes it just takes a change in perspective to realize how lucky I really am.

When did you humbly ask for help?

It's probably very telling that I can't think of an answer to this question. Oh sure, I request help for a number of minor things... asking my husband for help with my car, asking a co-worker for help with a work problem that I can't seem to solve. But when it comes to the important, major things I tend to flounder and struggle along on my own until I'm way past my breaking point. I was literally at the end of my rope both times I finally broke down and went to marriage and family counselors. I was helped in the long run; but if I could only learn to take action and ask for assistance as soon as I need it rather than waiting, I might avoid a lot of misery in the meantime.

A case in point when I should have asked for help but didn't took place in December when my mother was hospitalized. Being a blind, elderly lady, she definitely needed an advocate with her in the hospital at all times. I'm the only family member living in the area, but I was balancing a full-time job, not enough time off, and a first grandchild about to be born all at the same time. Not to mention the fact that it was just a couple weeks before Christmas. I was overwhelmed, stressed out, and stretched beyond my limits. My brother and sister-in-law, both retired, were at their home up in Michigan, calling me on a daily basis and asking for updates on mom, but not once offering to come down and help. My husband was urging me to ask them for assistance, and I was considering it but never did. So what held me back? Did I think that:

a. Asking for help is a sign of weakness and I should instead be superwoman and handle everything on my own or
b.  Asking for help inconveniences other people; things really aren't that bad and I should make every attempt to handle the situation rather than expecting them to go to any trouble.

Answer a just isn't me at all; I have no illusions that I'm superwoman. But I do recognize myself in answer b. I hate to trouble others, to the point of being ridiculously unfair to myself. In the case involving my mom, I'd also have to throw in the factor of past problems between me and my brother, making me more fearful of upsetting the delicate applecart between us yet again. As it turns out, he would surely have rejected my request for help. It was during the same week that he attended a long-awaited reunion with a group of 1960s activitists he admires. He never would have given up that opportunity. Had I asked and he turned me down, I would have added an extra load of anger and bitterness onto the already huge burden I was carrying at the time.

I guess in the future, for my own peace of mind, I need to go ahead and just take the risk. For my own mental health, I should ask for the help I need no matter what the situation is or who I'm asking, and let the cards fall where they may. Easy words to say; not so easy to follow through.

"The beginning of a relationship, when just being in each other's presence is enough, no activity is necessary. We've all been there, and if you haven't been yet, your time is coming. If you're young, hang in there, if you're old, take a chance, love is worth the risk." ~ Bob Lefsetz Describe a time when you risked loving.

I doubt I’m unique when I say that my first true love was probably the riskiest. It was scary to open up and make myself vulnerable for the very first time and risky to expose myself both emotionally and physically. Uttering the three words “I love you” seemed perilous, as though I was jumping off a cliff.

I met Bob J. when I was an 18-year-old college freshman and he was a sophomore.  We were together for almost two years, from 1972 to 1974. It seemed like a long time back then. He was from coal-mining country in West Virginia. His dad worked in the mines and Bob came from a hardscrabble, Italian family with seven children. Several of the boys’ names rhymed—Larry, Terry, Gary—along with Bob, Rick and Billy. Additionally, there was the doted-on baby girl of the family, Lynn. When I met her she was starting to show signs of being quite spoiled and I’ve often wondered what kind of woman she grew up to be with all those older brothers. Bob was the oldest of the brood, and he took his position as role model for his younger siblings quite seriously. The first in his family to get a scholarship and go to college, he was successful in his quest to be a good example. The next two brothers in line, Rick and Terry, followed in his exact footsteps and I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of them did as well.

Bob first approached me in the dorm cafeteria and oddly enough, I really don’t really remember our first date. I know that we saw the movie “Billy Jack” early on—we went to the movies frequently. We quickly became inseparable. Bob was a chemical engineering major and had a rigorous class schedule, so we studied together a lot, which was definitely beneficial for me. Sometimes he’d get exceptionally frustrated with a math problem or equation he was working on, and he’d suddenly get up and knock his desk chair over, or throw all the books off his desk onto the floor. It was startling, but I never saw these little fits of rage aimed at people—only at things. He loved intramural sports and played on soccer and baseball teams; he also played racketball regularly.

For some reason, Bob was a controversial figure with my family and friends and I never quite figured out why. It was mostly the males that didn’t like him. Maybe it was his intense, competitive nature when it came to sports and academics. My brother didn’t care for him from the first time they met—it was winter, and Bob picked up a snowball and heaved it at Mike. I knew that he was just trying to “break the ice” and get my brother to horse around with him like guys tend to do, but Mike thought he was being picked on. My parents definitely disliked him. Mainly because they thought we were too young for such an intense relationship; but I also knew that Bob’s long, wild, out-of-control hair probably labeled him as a “hippie” in their minds. However, Bob was an R.A. in our dorm and he had to pass a stringent selection process in order to be chosen for the job. He came across as congenial and responsible to people who got to know him.

Bob came out to visit me in Montana the summer I worked in Glacier National Park and while we were apart he wrote lots of letters, always starting them with the words, “Dear little one.”  He was attentive and kind, buying me flowers and record albums, and paying lots of compliments. He and I had the same taste in music and we listened to the Moody Blues, Cat Stevens, and Gordon Lightfoot as we studied. We went to see Neil Young in concert at Cobo Hall in Detroit. Bob liked to play the guitar; I listened as he practiced playing "American Pie." I felt loved and respected and downright euphoric when I was with him. I went to West Virginia to meet his family. They lived in a tiny, no frills house, but they all seemed happy and friendly, making me feel very welcome. His Italian grandmother, speaking very broken English, embarrassed me when she asked us when we were getting married. The truth was, we had talked about marriage, agreeing to wait until we were out of college.

I took it extremely hard when Bob broke up with me during my junior year. He told me he wanted to date other girls. In hindsight, at least he had the courtesy to be honest and direct with me. Interestingly, it was a rocky break-up for both of us. He got upset when I briefly dated another guy on his floor and oddly, he even protested when I agreed to sew some patches on the jeans of another guy he knew who had just broken up with his girlfriend. Somehow, through it all, we still remained friends for quite awhile afterwards, only losing touch after I moved out to California in the summer of 1976. I found his brother Rick on Facebook and attempted to get back in touch with Bob once, but was disappointed when my attempt was rebuffed. I figure he either has a jealous wife, or he’s the type that wants to leave the past in the past. Regardless, in the treacherous waters of first love, I consider myself lucky that Bob was “the one.”

Don't think too hard... go with the first memory that comes to mind: The word is FLASHLIGHT. 10 minutes. Write.

When I was six years old, my parents hired a contractor and began building a new house in Farmington. This would be a big change for our family, moving from the country where we lived in a converted street car on my grandparents' apple orchard to a ranch-style, brick house smack dab in the middle of suburbia. My parents kept a close eye on the construction of the house, visiting frequently to check on the progress. I remember tagging along on a few of those visits. My brother and I were excited about our new home, particularly about the fact that we would each have our own bedroom. Our mom and dad showed Mike and I where our bedrooms were located and pointed out the bathroom across the hall that would be ours as well.

One day when we visited, the foundation and framing had been completed and the plumbing and electrical was just being started. As I wandered aimlessly back to my bedroom/bathroom area, I peered curiously down the black hole in the floor where the toilet would soon be mounted. There, staring back up at me, was the eerie, creepy face of a teenage boy. It was every little girls' nightmare (probably big girls as well!), and I was so startled all I could do was gasp. As I stood there, petrified, I was temporarily blinded by a flashlight that played across my face and I could hear the sound of muffled conversation and laughter coming from the boys in the crawl space under the house.

Finally springing into action, I ran to tell my parents. I was so shaken up that I began crying after getting over the initial shock. Of course, by the time my dad took a look for himself, the boys had high-tailed it out of there. We later found out that several of the newly-constructed homes in the neighborhood had been vandalized by a group of teenagers; our house luckily never sustained any damage.

From then on, I've always been a little creeped out about windows at night, ensuring that the blinds and shades are tightly drawn. It's my biggest nightmare that, once again, a face will be peering at me from out of the inky darkness!

Write about the softest thing.

Without a doubt, the softest thing I've touched recently is baby Aubree's skin. I've noticed that when my mother holds Aubree, she feels for a bare arm or leg and a smile of delight crosses her face as she strokes her. She may not be able to see the baby's sweet face, but touching her soft skin is the next best thing. The smooth, creamy plumpness is irresistable.

How to describe its softness? Well, Aubree's skin is softer than the pastel watercolor painting that hangs on our bedroom wall and it's softer than the feathery light down jacket I received for Christmas. It's softer than the bread dough that I kneaded for 15 minutes when I got ambitious and made homemade cinnamon rolls over the holidays. It's softer than the white Wonder bread and whipped marshmallow that I used long ago in making my daughters' peanut butter sandwiches. Its softness even competes with the downy fur of Bun-bun, my daughter Julie's pet rabbit. That's saying an awful lot, because Bun-bun is incredibly velvety.

I guess if I could put my hand in a batch of spun cotton candy, minus the stickiness, it might match the softness of Aubree's skin. Or if I could hold a white, puffy Cumulus cloud in my hands, it might be just as soft. But I'll never know for sure.

I think purity and innocence must be the secret ingredients in the baby skin recipe, causing it to win the contest for the softest thing on earth.

Write about something you can't deny.

I can't deny that I did some foolish, risky things as a teenager and "young adult." I admit that my behavior even bordered on being downright dangerous at times. (With the possible exception of the Amish or maybe the Mennonites, most adults can probably grudgingly admit to the same!) I certainly did my share of partying a little too hard, driving when I had too much to drink, and trusting total strangers when it could have had horrible consequences.

However, when I was 18 and a freshman at Michigan State, I found myself in a bad situation that was completely beyond my control. I decided to spend my spring break in Florida and flew down to my grandparents' house in Clermont, near Orlando, where I was meeting my cousin Audrey. She was also a college freshman, attending Florida State. We'd never been all that close; having opposite personalities, we had many disagreements over the years when our families got together. But since we were both in Florida for spring break, we decided to get together and spend a couple days with our grandparents, then drive Audrey's car to Daytona Beach, where we'd stay with some friends of hers who had an apartment there.

Our plans went off without a hitch and a good time was had by all in Daytona... until it was time to leave. Audrey had hooked up with a boyfriend from college, and he talked her into driving directly back to school rather than going back to our grandparents' house. They assured me they'd give me a ride to the Daytona bus station where I could catch a bus back to Clermont. I could then get a taxi for the short ride from the bus station to the house. Simple, right? I didn't have a good feeling about this change of plans, but what could I do? They were insistent. True to form, I felt double-crossed by my cousin, just as I had so many times before when we were little.

After being dropped off at the bus station, my bad feelings were confirmed. I was informed very matter-of-factly by an unconcerned employee at the window that there was no longer a bus going to Clermont; that particular run had been discontinued several months prior. My grandparents didn't drive anymore and I certainly didn't know anybody else I could call. Those were the days before cell phones, so there was no way I could reach my cousin and tell her to turn around and get her selfish butt back to Daytona! I took a look at my dwindling funds and called a taxi service from a pay phone, fighting against a feeling of panic rising within me. Sure enough, just as I feared, the taxi ride for such a long distance was much more than I could afford.

So I did the only other thing I could think of. I summoned up my courage, walked out to the highway with my backpack slung over my shoulder, and stuck out my thumb. It wasn't long before a middle-aged traveling salesman with a friendly demeanor picked me up. He was very talkative, seemed nice, and soon put me at ease. There were just two problems. He was only going half the distance I needed to go and.... hadn't I heard about the serial killer who was murdering girls hitchhiking in the central Florida area? I knew by the concerned look on Mr. Salesman's face that he was completely serious. In the blink of an eye, my unplanned adventure had suddenly turned sinister. He even said if it weren't for the fact that he had a business meeting later in the day that he just couldn't miss, he'd gladly go out of his way to take me the entire distance. By the time we reached the town where he lived, I was terrified and could tell he genuinely felt bad and had some serious misgivings as he dropped me off.

Once again I found myself out on the highway, but this time my thumb was shaking badly as I prayed that someone nice with good intentions would take pity on me and pick me up quickly. Suddenly, a squad car came around a bend in the road. The officer pulled up slowly beside me, rolling down the passenger window and shaking his head in absolute disbelief for a full minute before asking, "Don't you know how dangerous it is out here?"  At that point, the last tiny bit of courage I had in my body melted away and I began to sob. The officer told me to get in the car and asked for my ID. He told me he was checking to make sure I wasn't a runaway. With tears streaming down my face, I explained my plight. He told me that he could take me only as far as the county line, then he'd have to figure out another way to get me where I was headed.

After driving awhile, he pulled off to the shoulder and we came to a stop right in front of the sign for the next county. As we sat in silence, I noticed he was intently scrutinizing each car that passed by. Suddenly he turned on the siren and with lights flashing, he pulled out behind a full-size luxury sedan occupied by an older couple. He could tell by their license plate that they were from Clermont and apparently he figured they looked "safe." Initially perplexed at being pulled over, they listened to the officer's explanation of the situation and agreed to give me a ride to Clermont.

I have to say I was greatly relieved as I settled into their back seat.... but one more loophole reared its ugly head in my saga. During our conversation, the nice couple asked for my grandparents' names... and it turned out that the lady worked as a teller where they banked. Wouldn't it figure? She knew my grandfather well as the blind, elderly man she often waited on. Once again I panicked; I did not want my grandparents to know about the horrible situation I had been in. I swallowed all my pride and asked her to please not tell my grandfather that she had met me. He would worry himself sick over my escapade. She told me she understood and wouldn't mention a word.

We pulled into my grandparents' driveway and as luck would have it, I could see my grandmother peering out through the slats of the Venetian blinds in the livingroom. As I entered the house, she asked me in utter surprise, "What happened to Audrey and how did you happen to get a ride with the lady from the bank?" I explained that Audrey needed to go back to school sooner than she had expected. That much was true. Then I told a lie--that I had taken the bus from Daytona and when I arrived at the Clermont bus station, the "bank lady" had struck up a conversation with me and realizing she knew my grandparents, had offered me a ride to the house. The explanation seemed to satisfy her. As I sunk into an easy chair, I relaxed for the first time in many hours, relieved that my ordeal was over. And vowing never to let Audrey railroad me again!

As a postscript to my story, I did get a certain amount of revenge a few years later. Audrey came to live for a short while in Boulder, Colorado when I was there. We saw each other a few times and made arrangements to go out together one night. That same night, my roommates made plans to see the movie "Pink Flamingos," a cult flick that I also wanted to see. Hmmmm, should I spend the evening with Audrey during which she'd probably meet someone and leave me stranded, or should I go out and have fun with my roommates? I did something very uncharacteristic for me and stood Audrey up for the better offer--the same thing she had done to me several times. I'm not proud of it, and if it was anyone else I wouldn't have done it. My mother always told me that "two wrongs don't make a right."  But sometimes it's awfully tempting to "give someone a taste of their own medicine!"