happy new year...

I am a little late for my east coast friends...but I have been busy...

Oh...




“What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That's not been said a thousand times?
The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.
We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.
We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.
We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our prides, we sheet our dead.
We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of a year.”
Ella Wheeler Wilcox

love,
the lass...

and goodnight...

Congratulations!!!!!!!!

Let it be written on this night, December 31, 2007, my friends Phil and Ann have decided that regardless of their differences in temperament, religion, and musical interests...they will marry...and join those differences in the challenging...yet rewarding relationship that can only be found in marriage...And to that end, as a covenant of good Faith and fair dealing...Ann and Phil have chosen to wed, for all the right reasons and to that end have committed to remember that they love each other...and when their individual flaws and frailties come to the surface...they will without hesitation...remind each other that they could be playing solitaire...not a good game...

Please join me in wishing them great joy and happiness...

Oh...and Ann...Phil says that you have always wanted to visit a certain place...

Well...my last task...of 2007...Ann...go to the pantry. In the coffee can (which no longer has coffee) there is another message...

Well...what the heck....

Ann...you are going to Morrocco...oh...Phil will be joining you...It is called a honeymoon...I think....yep...that is what they call it. I call it...a romantic getaway...in style...

Love you both...and guess what? I am invited to the wedding...finally...whew...My work is done...haha

Here is something for you to look forward to...



Now Phil...make sure you kiss the pretty gal at midnight...I will expect a full report tomorrow...for brunch and conversation...it has been too long.



It's elementary...

Thanks for letting me join in this most memorable occasion...oh and Ann...

Your daughter and the family are Upstairs...just thought you would like to know...

Love,
The Lass...

Phil? Did I do good?

Good night and ...see you all tomorrow...

Time out...for Charles Wilson's War...

While my two friends are having dinner...and "the conversation". I took some time to finish my end of the deal...and then treated myself to a movie...Charles Wilson's War...

Charles Wilson you ask? Well...let me share...

In the early summer of 1980, Wilson read an Associated Press dispatch on the congressional wires that described hundreds of thousands of refugees fleeing Afghanistan. Few, however, were paying attention, even in the American government. According to his biographer, George Crile, Wilson placed a call to a staff member of the US Congressional Appropriations Committee who dealt with "black appropriations" (CIA funds) and requested a twofold increase in the appropriation for Afghanistan. Wilson had just been named to the Defense Appropriations subcommittee, a small panel of lawmakers in the House responsible for funding CIA operations, putting him in a position to make such an order.

This would not be the last time for Wilson to greatly increase the CIA budget for its Afghan operation. In 1983, he won the approval of $40 million more, with $17 million especially earmarked for anti-aircraft weapons that could take down Soviet Mil Mi-24 helicopters, known as the "Hind," that caused heavy damage and casualties to the Afghan Mujahideen. The following year, Wilson was approached directly by CIA officer Gust Avrakotos, who, breaking the CIA's rule against lobbying Congress for money, asked Wilson for $50 million more. Wilson agreed to the increase and convinced his colleagues in Congress by saying that "The U.S. had nothing whatsoever to do with these people's decision to fight ... But we'll be damned by history if we let them fight with stones." Wilson later succeeded in moving $300 million of unused Pentagon funds into the Afghan operation right before the end of the fiscal year. In this way, Wilson had a significant influence on the level of support the Afghan Mujahideen received from the United States.

Charles was a flawed man by any standard...and would not be invited by good Christians to tea...but like Michael the Archangel...Charlie is not that kind of angel...

He loved women...and a good bottle of scotch. But, Charlie is a man who understands power...and the need to use it...for good. So, I would say, by any measure...Charlie will have no doubt "earned his heaven points." If not...I would have to say...I would stick my mother on a long conversation with God. No doubt, the conversation is not necessary. A man of passion...does passionate things...in my book...that is perfect...

The film is great and Tom Hanks plays the person of Charlie very well. Not to mention, honestly.

If you have the opportunity see the movie...and if you do you will see what lead to the rest of the story in Afghganastan.

I think the fable of unintended consequences, recounted by Gust(CIA operative) to Charlie, really makes the point. A horse is given to a boy and the villagers rejoice. "We'll see," the Zen master says. The child falls off and breaks his leg, an unfortunate turn of events. War breaks out and the injury keeps the boy at home, a blessing, it seems. Good and bad intertwine...and that is life...and so whenever I am congratulated on something or given comfort for misfortune...my response is usually, "we shall see..."

Tonight my friend Phil is going to propose marriage to Ann...and I already know the answer...will this be happily ever after...I think the odds are very good...but like the Zen Master says...we shall see.

I have one more duty to perform tonight....So...back to work...

Oh...and Happy New Year...

Love,
the Lass

You are doing fine Ann...stick with me...

Now...you have read the letter and it contains a key...the key opens a box hidden under your Christmas tree...(which by the way I haven't seen...I digress), go to the tree...find the box...open the box...and read the instructions...

Now, I will be butting out for a while...but Ann...one more thing...don't...call me...I am on to another part of the mission which requires secrecy...and besides...my lips are sealed...

Oh...and here is a little thing I found...



Someone said this is your favorite song...

I like it too...

Oh...and Ann, have a wonderful evening...

Love,
the Lass

Ann....Phil and I had a chat many months ago...

It was on a day that Phil and I took a very long drive to Coeur D'Alene...and had the talk. Phil and I discussed a very special person...Oh, I believe her name is Ann...and Phil had discussed the "break up". Well, I discovered that I actually had met Ann...and she was in love with a jerk....oops...man... that had just ended their 5 year relationship. And...he was hitting on me...oops. Wrong woman to hit on...as Phil discovered. So...

Within the confines of that auto...and our road trip...Phil began to unravel a tale of his relationship with a woman...who he was truly meant to be with. But, Phil, being Phil...pedantic...was getting a little panicky. And he just made a foolish error. That is when I stepped in...and had "the talk". 16 hours later...and much analysis for which I was paid nothing by the way...Phil agreed, he was a "jerk"...oops...mistaken...and that,in truth, he loved and missed Ann...I knew what Phil didn't want to admit...even to himself...he was worried that he would miss out on all those wonderful women he hadn't met yet.

However, I asked Phil to tell me what he loved about you Ann...and here is what he said...

"I love the way way she listens to me."
"I love the way she makes me feel when I am around her."
"I love the way she she ignores my faults."

Then I asked him...tell me three things you don't like...

Phil, being Phil, began...well she...then he looked at me and said...you know something..."there are plenty of things she does that drive me crazy...but none that I can say I don't like."

So...me being me...asked him if he thought any other woman would want his sorry ass...and he said.."let me just say...I doubt if anyone would put up with my sorry ass...and do it without me knowing she is putting up with me."

So...hear tell Phil met you the next day...crawling back to you as it were...well not quite...I embellish...

But here is a little song we picked out...to describe the comeback...

Hit it...



Not finished Ann...more to come...but right now...I need to get some things prepared.

Oh...and Ann...look in your drawer in the kitchen...there is an envelope...read it...

Love,
the Lass
oops...the one you keep your bills in...sorry...haha

It is new year's eve...and I love movies.

One of my favorite movies is "When Harry met Sally"...isn't it on your list? Anyway...New Years Eve is here...and I just thought I would take a stroll down memory lane...and smile a bit...

So...in celebration of new beginnings and all that that brings...here is a great New Years Scene...



Now if you think I am done...nope...I have a surprise for a lady named Ann...and my co-conspirator Phil asked me to do this...so, in keeping with my vow to help a man who is both helpless and hapless....

More to come...

Love,
the Lass

my mother....and her most recent message.

El Cid...my mother...may her tribe not increase...has sent another message. Perhaps she needs to find better things to do with her time...or perhaps she knows when I need a "message"...

Honesty

One day, when a seamstress was sewing while sitting close to a river, her thimble fell into the river. When she cried out, the Lord appeared and asked, 'My dear child, why are you crying?'

The seamstress replied that her thimble had fallen into the water and that she needed it to help her husband in making a living for their family.

The Lord dipped His hand into the water and pulled up a golden thimble set with pearls.

'Is this your thimble?' the Lord asked

The seamstress replied, 'No.'

The Lord again dipped into the river. He held out a silver thimble ringed with sapphires.

'Is this your thimble?' the Lord asked.

Again, the seamstress replied, 'No.'

The Lord reached down again and came up with a leather thimble. 'Is this your thimble?' the Lord asked.

The seamstress replied, 'Yes.'

The Lord was pleased with the woman's honesty and gave her all three thimbles to keep, and the seamstress went home happy.

Some years later, the seamstress was walking with her husband along the riverbank, and her husband fell into the river and disappeared under the water.

When she cried out, the Lord again appeared and asked her, 'Why are you crying?'

'Oh Lord, my husband has fallen into the river!'

The Lord went down into the water and came up with George Clooney.

'Is this your husband?' the Lord asked.

'Yes,' cried the seamstress.

The Lord was furious. 'You lied! That is an untruth!'

The seamstress replied, 'Oh, forgive me, my Lord It is a misunderstanding. You see, if I had said 'no' to George Clooney, you would have come up with Brad Pitt. Then if I said 'no' to him, you would have come up with my husband. Had I then said 'yes,' you would
have given me all three. Lord, I'm not in the best of health and would not be able to take care of all three husbands, so THAT'S why I said 'yes' to George Clooney.

And so the Lord let her keep him.

The moral of this story is: Whenever a woman lies, it's for a good and honorable reason, and in the best interest of others.

That's our story, and we're sticking to it.

Signed,
All Us Women

and one Lass...

back to Johnathon Livingston Seagull..

Sometimes...in the quiet of the night...I open Richard Bach's book...and my little seagull heart remembers...just what is like to fly...




Come fly with me and Johnathon...you will like it...I am sure.

Love,
the Lass

“When you have come to the edge of all the light you have
And step into the darkness of the unknown
Believe that one of the two will happen to you
Either you'll find something solid to stand on
Or you'll be taught how to fly!” Richard Bach

Two men and a hobbit....

C.S.Lewis was a good friend with Tolkien... and it is a bit of a story.

When they first met, as academics at Oxford, Lewis was a protestant atheist, Tolkien a catholic believer. However, their common interest in all things linguistic, legendary and Nordic brought them together. The bond was sealed when Lewis became a Christian. Lewis was one of the first people to whom Tolkien showed 'The Hobbit'.

Oh one night the two men argued...or "discussed" ...

On a warm September night in 1931, three men went for an after-dinner walk on the grounds of Magdalen College, part of Oxford University. They took a stroll on Addison's Walk, a beautiful tree-shaded path along the River Cherwell, and got into an argument that lasted into the wee hours of the morning -- and left a lasting mark on world literature.

At the time, only one of the men had any kind of reputation: Henry Victor Dyson, a bon vivant scholar who had shared tables and bandied words with the likes of T.E. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf and Bertrand Russell. His two companions were little-known Oxford academics with a shared taste for Icelandic sagas, Anglo-Saxon verse and the austere cultural mystique of "the North." Few people remember Dyson now, while millions celebrate the names of his companions: C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien.

Yet the works that made their reputations -- "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of the Rings" for Tolkien, "The Chronicles of Narnia" for Lewis -- were profoundly shaped by that night-long argument and the bond it cemented. It's possible that Tolkien's Middle-earth would have remained entirely a private obsession, and quite likely that Lewis would never have found the gateway to Narnia.

"Lovers seek for privacy," Lewis wrote in "The Four Loves" (1960). "Friends find this solitude about them, this barrier between them and the herd, whether they want it or not." Lewis and Tolkien quickly found this cozy solitude after they met in 1926, during a gathering of the English faculty at Merton College. Both men had fought in World War I, and come back scarred by its industrial savagery. They had seen the worst the 20th century had to offer ...up to that point, anyway...and took paradoxical comfort in studying blood-soaked Viking Age stories of ambiguous heroes and gods battling monsters and the outer darkness, tales short on the milk of human kindness but long on sardonic humor. ("Broad spears are becoming fashionable nowadays," a character remarks in "Grettir's Saga," just after being pierced with one.)

On that fateful night in 1931, Lewis was in the midst of a fretful return to religious faith. Raised as an Irish Protestant, he had become an agnostic as a teenager. Though he came back to accepting the idea of a divine presence in 1929, he continued to resist Christianity. It remained for Dyson, a High Anglican, and Tolkien, a devout Roman Catholic, to push him over the threshold -- though it literally took them all night. As they marched back and forth along Addison's Walk, Tolkien argued for the literal and mythological truth of the Resurrection of Christ.

By all accounts, the key moment came when Lewis declared that myths are lies, albeit "lies breathed through silver." Tolkien replied, "No, they are not," and demanded to know why Lewis could accept Icelandic sagas as vehicles of truth while demanding that the Gospels meet some higher standard. Hours past midnight, Tolkien finally went home to bed, leaving Dyson to carry on the campaign. Tolkien's argument -- that the Resurrection was the truest of all stories, with God as its poet -- may not sound particularly convincing to nonbelievers (nor indeed to some Christians), but to a man committed to the idea of myth as the only way to express higher truths, it was irresistible. Two weeks later, Lewis told a friend he had once again fully embraced Christianity: "My long night talk with Dyson and Tolkien had a good deal to do with it."


"The Pilgrim's Regress," Lewis produced a torrent of books, essays, novels and radio talks, all works of Christian apologetics or stories with obvious spiritual preoccupations. Even as he churned out these works, Lewis prodded Tolkien to pull together and complete his stories of Middle-earth -- the private universe that had preoccupied him for most of his life. Thanks to that ceaseless, friendly prodding, Tolkien published "The Hobbit" to great acclaim in 1937. The prodding continued during the long, fitful gestation of its out sized sequel, "The Lord of the Rings," which finally saw the light of print in the mid-1950s. "The unpayable debt that I owe to [Lewis] was not 'influence' as it is ordinarily understood but sheer encouragement," Tolkien recalled. "He was for long my only audience. Only from him did I ever get the idea that my 'stuff' could be more than a private hobby."


It seems that the collaboration between these two men began with an argument and ended with something transcendent...a kinship of encouragement. You see that is what to me friendship is. It isn't the mindless yes...or agreement that too often fellow travelers find...but rather the forcing to the surface the real parts of us...that make use move in the direction we must...or should. Friendships like theirs are not found in apathetic, dreary compliments, but rather the tugging, pulling, prodding...forcing of thought...and that to me is what sets apart true friendships. It is the outcome...it is our desire to reach the other persons...person. It is what makes us better.

And the proof is...both men offered themselves and the world better literature and the love of a hobbit and a lion...and a fateful night...became a literary marriage of friendship...encouragement...and transformation...through thoughtful argument.

I rather like that. If I were to examine my most dear friendships...it would be the ones that did not compliment me...but forced me to think...made me argue with my own position...in that way...changing...and altering my course, hopefully for the better.



A question...is sometimes the only thing that an honest friend can ask...

I hope that one day...I can ask such a question...for a friend...

oh...and Ramble On...I just love this tune...you should too...if you love a hobbit.


Love,
the Lass

My very first book...Hans Christian Andersen

My mother believed in reading. She still does. Books were sacred things in my home. They were to my family the place to find the answers...and to take us to places we would never visit...or simply to entertain. But books were our daily bread.

My first book was the written by Hans Christian Andersen. And one of the tales I read was this one...

The Shepherd’s Story of the Bond of Friendship
by
Hans Christian Andersen
(1842)
THE little dwelling in which we lived was of clay, but the door-posts were columns of fluted marble, found near the spot on which it stood. The roof sloped nearly to the ground. It was at this time dark, brown, and ugly, but had originally been formed of blooming olive and laurel branches, brought from beyond the mountains. The house was situated in a narrow gorge, whose rocky walls rose to a perpendicular height, naked and black, while round their summits clouds often hung, looking like white living figures. Not a singing bird was ever heard there, neither did men dance to the sound of the pipe. The spot was one sacred to olden times; even its name recalled a memory of the days when it was called “Delphi.” Then the summits of the dark, sacred mountains were covered with snow, and the highest, mount Parnassus, glowed longest in the red evening light. The brook which rolled from it near our house, was also sacred. How well I can remember every spot in that deep, sacred solitude! A fire had been kindled in the midst of the hut, and while the hot ashes lay there red and glowing, the bread was baked in them. At times the snow would be piled so high around our hut as almost to hide it, and then my mother appeared most cheerful. She would hold my head between her hands, and sing the songs she never sang at other times, for the Turks, our masters, would not allow it. She sang,—

“On the summit of mount Olympus, in a forest of dwarf firs, lay an old stag. His eyes were heavy with tears, and glittering with colors like dewdrops; and there came by a roebuck, and said, ’What ailest thee, that thou weepest blue and red tears?’ And the stag answered, ’The Turk has come to our city; he has wild dogs for the chase, a goodly pack.’ ’I will drive them away across the islands!’ cried the young roebuck; ’I will drive them away across the islands into the deep sea.’ But before evening the roebuck was slain, and before night the hunted stag was dead.”

And when my mother sang thus, her eyes would become moist; and on the long eyelashes were tears, but she concealed them and watched the black bread baking in the ashes. Then I would clench my fist, and cry, “We will kill these Turks!” But she repeated the words of the song, “I will drive them across the islands to the deep sea; but before evening came the roebuck was slain, and before the night the hunted stag was dead.”

We had been lonely in our hut for several days and nights when my father came home. I knew he would bring me some shells from the gulf of Lepanto, or perhaps a knife with a shining blade. This time he brought, under his sheep-skin cloak, a little child, a little half-naked girl. She was wrapped in a fur; but when this was taken off, and she lay in my mother’s lap, three silver coins were found fastened in her dark hair; they were all her possessions. My father told us that the child’s parents had been killed by the Turks, and he talked so much about them that I dreamed of Turks all night. He himself had been wounded, and my mother bound up his arm. It was a deep wound, and the thick sheep-skin cloak was stiff with congealed blood. The little maiden was to be my sister. How pretty and bright she looked: even my mother’s eyes were not more gentle than hers. Anastasia, as she was called, was to be my sister, because her father had been united to mine by an old custom, which we still follow. They had sworn brotherhood in their youth, and the most beautiful and virtuous maiden in the neighborhood was chosen to perform the act of consecration upon this bond of friendship. So now this little girl was my sister. She sat in my lap, and I brought her flowers, and feathers from the birds of the mountain. We drank together of the waters of Parnassus, and dwelt for many years beneath the laurel roof of the hut, while, winter after winter, my mother sang her song of the stag who shed red tears. But as yet I did not understand that the sorrows of my own countrymen were mirrored in those tears.

One day there came to our hut Franks, men from a far country, whose dress was different to ours. They had tents and beds with them, carried by horses; and they were accompanied by more than twenty Turks, all armed with swords and muskets. These Franks were friends of the Pacha, and had letters from him, commanding an escort for them. They only came to see our mountain, to ascend Parnassus amid the snow and clouds, and to look at the strange black rocks which raised their steep sides near our hut. They could not find room in the hut, nor endure the smoke that rolled along the ceiling till it found its way out at the low door; so they pitched their tents on a small space outside our dwelling. Roasted lambs and birds were brought forth, and strong, sweet wine, of which the Turks are forbidden to partake.

When they departed, I accompanied them for some distance, carrying my little sister Anastasia, wrapped in a goat-skin, on my back. One of the Frankish gentlemen made me stand in front of a rock, and drew us both as we stood there, so that we looked like one creature. I did not think of it then, but Anastasia and I were really one. She was always sitting on my lap, or riding in the goat-skin on my back; and in my dreams she always appeared to me.

Two nights after this, other men, armed with knives and muskets, came into our tent. They were Albanians, brave men, my mother told me. They only stayed a short time. My sister Anastasia sat on the knee of one of them; and when they were gone, she had not three, but two silver coins in her hair—one had disappeared. They wrapped tobacco in strips of paper, and smoked it; and I remember they were uncertain as to the road they ought to take. But they were obliged to go at last, and my father went with them. Soon after, we heard the sound of firing. The noise continued, and presently soldiers rushed into our hut, and took my mother and myself and Anastasia prisoners. They declared that we had entertained robbers, and that my father had acted as their guide, and therefore we must now go with them. The corpses of the robbers, and my father’s corpse, were brought into the hut. I saw my poor dead father, and cried till I fell asleep. When I awoke, I found myself in a prison; but the room was not worse than our own in the hut. They gave me onions and musty wine from a tarred cask; but we were not accustomed to much better fare at home. How long we were kept in prison, I do not know; but many days and nights passed by. We were set free about Easter-time. I carried Anastasia on my back, and we walked very slowly; for my mother was very weak, and it is a long way to the sea, to the Gulf of Lepanto.

On our arrival, we entered a church, in which there were beautiful pictures in golden frames. They were pictures of angels, fair and bright; and yet our little Anastasia looked equally beautiful, as it seemed to me. In the centre of the floor stood a coffin filled with roses. My mother told me it was the Lord Jesus Christ who was represented by these roses. Then the priest announced, “Christ is risen,” and all the people greeted each other. Each one carried a burning taper in his hand, and one was given to me, as well as to little Anastasia. The music sounded, and the people left the church hand-in-hand, with joy and gladness. Outside, the women were roasting the paschal lamb. We were invited to partake; and as I sat by the fire, a boy, older than myself, put his arms round my neck, and kissed me, and said, “Christ is risen.” And thus it was that for the first time I met Aphtanides.

My mother could make fishermen’s nets, for which there was a great demand here in the bay; and we lived a long time by the side of the sea, the beautiful sea, that had a taste like tears, and in its colors reminded me of the stag that wept red tears; for sometimes its waters were red, and sometimes green or blue. Aphtanides knew how to manage our boat, and I often sat in it, with my little Anastasia, while it glided on through the water, swift as a bird flying through the air. Then, when the sun set, how beautifully, deeply blue, would be the tint on the mountains, one rising above the other in the far distance, and the summit of mount Parnassus rising above them all like a glorious crown. Its top glittered in the evening rays like molten gold, and it seemed as if the light came from within it; for long after the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, the mountain-top would glow in the clear, blue sky. The white aquatic birds skimmed the surface of the water in their flight, and all was calm and still as amid the black rocks at Delphi. I lay on my back in the boat, Anastasia leaned against me, while the stars above us glittered more brightly than the lamps in our church. They were the same stars, and in the same position over me as when I used to sit in front of our hut at Delphi, and I had almost begun to fancy I was still there, when suddenly there was a splash in the water—Anastasia had fallen in; but in a moment Aphtanides has sprung in after her, and was now holding her up to me. We dried her clothes as well as we were able, and remained on the water till they were dry; for we did not wish it to be known what a fright we had had, nor the danger which our little adopted sister had incurred, in whose life Aphtanides had now a part.

The summer came, and the burning heat of the sun tinted the leaves of the trees with lines of gold. I thought of our cool mountain-home, and the fresh water that flowed near it; my mother, too, longed for if, and one evening we wandered towards home. How peaceful and silent it was as we walked on through the thick, wild thyme, still fragrant, though the sun had scorched the leaves. Not a single herdsman did we meet, not a solitary hut did we pass; everything appeared lonely and deserted—only a shooting star showed that in the heavens there was yet life. I know not whether the clear, blue atmosphere gleamed with its own light, or if the radiance came from the stars; but we could distinguish quite plainly the outline of the mountains. My mother lighted a fire, and roasted some roots she had brought with her, and I and my little sister slept among the bushes, without fear of the ugly smidraki,1 from whose throat issues fire, or of the wolf and the jackal; for my mother sat by us, and I considered her presence sufficient protection.

We reached our old home; but the cottage was in ruins, and we had to build a new one. With the aid of some neighbors, chiefly women, the walls were in a few days erected, and very soon covered with a roof of olive-branches. My mother obtained a living by making bottle-cases of bark and skins, and I kept the sheep belonging to the priests, who were sometimes peasants,2 while I had for my playfellows Anastasia and the turtles.

Once our beloved Aphtanides paid us a visit. He said he had been longing to see us so much; and he remained with us two whole happy days. A month afterwards he came again to wish us good-bye, and brought with him a large fish for my mother. He told us he was going in a ship to Corfu and Patras, and could relate a great many stories, not only about the fishermen who lived near the gulf of Lepanto, but also of kings and heroes who had once possessed Greece, just as the Turks possess it now.

I have seen a bud on a rose-bush gradually, in the course of a few weeks, unfold its leaves till it became a rose in all its beauty; and, before I was aware of it, I beheld it blooming in rosy loveliness. The same thing had happened to Anastasia. Unnoticed by me, she had gradually become a beautiful maiden, and I was now also a stout, strong youth. The wolf-skins that covered the bed in which my mother and Anastasia slept, had been taken from wolves which I had myself shot.

Years had gone by when, one evening, Aphtanides came in. He had grown tall and slender as a reed, with strong limbs, and a dark, brown skin. He kissed us all, and had so much to tell of what he had seen of the great ocean, of the fortifications at Malta, and of the marvellous sepulchres of Egypt, that I looked up to him with a kind of veneration. His stories were as strange as the legends of the priests of olden times.

“How much you know!” I exclaimed, “and what wonders you can relate?”

“I think what you once told me, the finest of all,” he replied; “you told me of a thing that has never been out of my thoughts—of the good old custom of ’the bond of friendship,’—a custom I should like to follow. Brother, let you and I go to church, as your father and Anastasia’s father once did. Your sister Anastasia is the most beautiful and most innocent of maidens, and she shall consecrate the deed. No people have such grand old customs as we Greeks.”

Anastasia blushed like a young rose, and my mother kissed Aphtanides.

At about two miles from our cottage, where the earth on the hill is sheltered by a few scattered trees, stood the little church, with a silver lamp hanging before the altar. I put on my best clothes, and the white tunic fell in graceful folds over my hips. The red jacket fitted tight and close, the tassel on my Fez cap was of silver, and in my girdle glittered a knife and my pistols. Aphtanides was clad in the blue dress worn by the Greek sailors; on his breast hung a silver medal with the figure of the Virgin Mary, and his scarf was as costly as those worn by rich lords. Every one could see that we were about to perform a solemn ceremony. When we entered the little, unpretending church, the evening sunlight streamed through the open door on the burning lamp, and glittered on the golden picture frames. We knelt down together on the altar steps, and Anastasia drew near and stood beside us. A long, white garment fell in graceful folds over her delicate form, and on her white neck and bosom hung a chain entwined with old and new coins, forming a kind of collar. Her black hair was fastened into a knot, and confined by a headdress formed of gold and silver coins which had been found in an ancient temple. No Greek girl had more beautiful ornaments than these. Her countenance glowed, and her eyes were like two stars. We all three offered a silent prayer, and then she said to us, “Will you be friends in life and in death?”

“Yes,” we replied.

“Will you each remember to say, whatever may happen, ’My brother is a part of myself; his secret is my secret, my happiness is his; self-sacrifice, patience, everything belongs to me as they do to him?’ ”

And we again answered, “Yes.” Then she joined out hands and kissed us on the forehead, and we again prayed silently. After this a priest came through a door near the altar, and blessed us all three. Then a song was sung by other holy men behind the altar-screen, and the bond of eternal friendship was confirmed. When we arose, I saw my mother standing by the church door, weeping.

How cheerful everything seemed now in our little cottage by the Delphian springs! On the evening before his departure, Aphtanides sat thoughtfully beside me on the slopes of the mountain. His arm was flung around me, and mine was round his neck. We spoke of the sorrows of Greece, and of the men of the country who could be trusted. Every thought of our souls lay clear before us. Presently I seized his hand: “Aphtanides,” I exclaimed, “there is one thing still that you must know,—one thing that till now has been a secret between myself and Heaven. My whole soul is filled with love,—with a love stronger than the love I bear to my mother and to thee.”

“And whom do you love?” asked Aphtanides. And his face and neck grew red as fire.

“I love Anastasia,” I replied.

Then his hand trembled in mine, and he became pale as a corpse. I saw it, I understood the cause, and I believe my hand trembled too. I bent towards him, I kissed his forehead, and whispered, “I have never spoken of this to her, and perhaps she does not love me. Brother, think of this; I have seen her daily, she has grown up beside me, and has become a part of my soul.”

“And she shall be thine,” he exclaimed; “thine! I may not wrong thee, nor will I do so. I also love her, but tomorrow I depart. In a year we will see each other again, but then you will be married; shall it not be so? I have a little gold of my own, it shall be yours. You must and shall take it.”

We wandered silently homeward across the mountains. It was late in the evening when we reached my mother’s door. Anastasia held the lamp as we entered; my mother was not there. She looked at Aphtanides with a sweet but mournful expression on her face. “To-morrow you are going to leave us,” she said. “I am very sorry.”

“Sorry!” he exclaimed, and his voice was troubled with a grief as deep as my own. I could not speak; but he seized her hand and said, “Our brother yonder loves you, and is he not dear to you? His very silence now proves his affection.”

Anastasia trembled, and burst into tears. Then I saw no one, thought of none, but her. I threw my arms round her, and pressed my lips to hers. As she flung her arms round my neck, the lamp fell to the ground, and we were in darkness, dark as the heart of poor Aphtanides.

Before daybreak he rose, kissed us all, and said “Farewell,” and went away. He had given all his money to my mother for us. Anastasia was betrothed to me, and in a few days afterwards she became my wife.

Love stories always attracted me...partly because as a little girl I was struck by the tenderness of it...and for some reason, it seemed to me that it would always be something for others. Odd for a little girl...even odder for a grown woman...

But Hans Christian Anderson provided me with many entertaining lessons in life...and pictures of people as another person saw them...his vision...became mine for a moment.

Perhaps it was his love of literature that gave me reason to love his tales. I carried his book with me everywhere...while my friends played with dolls...I kept company with my friend Hans...and his friends.

Hans displayed great intelligence and imagination as a young boy, a trait fostered by the indulgence of his parents and by the superstition of his mother. He made himself a small toy-theatre and sat at home making clothes for his puppets, and reading all the plays that he could lay his hands upon; among them were those of Ludvig Holberg and William Shakespeare. Throughout his childhood, he had a passionate love for literature. He was known to memorize entire plays by Shakespeare and to recite them using his wooden dolls as actors. He was also a great lover of the art of banter...we shared that one...and assisted in initiating a society of like minded banterers amongst his friends.

Well...Hans...was simply...Hans Christian Andersen...



How could someone not love the story teller? Oh..and sometimes an ugly duckling becomes a swan...


well from this ugly duckling...a swan looks quite odd...

love the lass...

oh...and you might want to know this...

Andersen fell in love with Riborg Voigt, who was secretly engaged to the local chemist's son. "She has a lovely, pious face, quite child-like, but her eyes looker clever and thoughtful, they were brown and very vivid," Andersen remembered in The Book of My Life. Riborg married the chemists's son, Poul Bøving, in 1831. A leather pouch containing a letter from Riborg was found round Andersen's neck when he died.

Andersen never married...but that did not stop him from loving...and giving love to the world...I think that I understand that...

Atonement...a word...an act...is it possible?

atonement:Amends or reparation made for an injury or wrong; expiation.

Maybe Gandhi knew...

Picture Gandhi near death from starvation when a crazed man, a Hindu, arrives with food that he insists Gandhi must eat. He demands, "Here! Eat! Eat! I'm going to hell - but not with your death on my soul!"

Gandhi replies, "Only God decides who goes to hell."

"I killed a child!" the man confesses. "I smashed his head against a wall!"

Gandhi asks, "Why?"

"Because they killed our son... my boy! The Muslims killed my son!"

Gandhi sees the man's unbearable grief and remorse. He gently tells him, "I know a way out of hell. Find a child, a child whose mother and father have been killed - a little boy - and raise him as your own. Only be sure that he is a Muslim..."

The man's expression changes to one of hope. He suddenly sees a way in can undo what he has done and effect a restitution. He can replace his own son and provide a Muslim orphan with a home and parents. It is a perfect solution.

And then the Mahatma adds, "And you must raise him as a Muslim."

A look of horror and incredulity comes over the man's face. He had not counted on this degree of atonement. He drops to his knees and sobs.

We often are able to express our regret. And yes, we accept penance. If we have stolen money or other goods we know we need to make restitution. But this merely takes the event back to the status quo ante. We give back what we stole or pay for it in cash. We repair what we damage or replace it. We print a retraction or publicly apologize. Or, we balance the destruction of one life by giving life to someone who would surely perish without our help.

But this is not enough. It is as if the act of sinning takes us into negative numbers and restitution simply takes us back to zero on the number line. The slate is clean. It's as if we had never sinned at all. Or so we tell ourselves. In fact, in order for true atonement to occur, we must go into the positive numbers, remake ourselves from the sinner who harmed, who hated, who contemptuously stole, cheated, or destroyed, into a person who benefits, loves, and is honest and generous. In short, we have to transform ourselves from one who harmed an enemy into a caring person who benefits that same enemy. Loving our enemies is the greatest of challenges but one that all religions mandate as the ultimate test of redemption.

Absolving a man of sin and giving him the chore of restitution does not correct the man.

After he writes his check - or has someone else write it for him - he remains the same hateful individual, the same bigot, the same thief or killer. He may even become more hateful towards those he has harmed, more filled with resentment for having been exposed and punished. The lesson he learns is that crime carries a penalty, one that can be embarrassing or inconvenient, or expensive. If he changes at all it is either to be more careful the next time he vents his rage or sins, or else to calculate that the sin isn't worth the trouble.

It is not enough to ask for forgiveness, to say, "I'm so sorry." A sinner has placed himself in his own hell and others cannot pull him out of that hell by their acts of forgiveness. He has to do this for himself. He can compensate the victim or he can be put in jail as punishment for his crime. But until he remakes himself into the kind of person who does not commit such crimes, he cannot restore the necessary balance. In Newtonian terms, "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." It was in that "opposite" reaction that Gandhi saw the man's redemption. The Hindu man who in his hatred had killed an innocent Muslim child must adopt a needy Muslim child and by raising him as his own son, discover the true beauty of Islam. He did not have to forsake his own religion. But he did have to be converted from the false Hinduism of ignorant hatred to the true Hinduism of understanding, love and tolerance.

Christians teach that our sins require atonement. Offenders are obliged to repent, apologize, and give as reparation and penance something of value to God whom they have offended. However, due to the enormity of the sin, which is against the holiness of God, and the poverty of their own good, they lack adequate resources to make proper reparation and penance. However, Christians can appropriate Christ's life and death as a sacrifice, "an offering made available to us men to offer as our reparation and penance.... It is simply a costly penance and reparation sufficient for a merciful God to let men off the rest." God allows the Son to sacrifice himself so that we can apply the merits of his innocent death to atone for our sins. Consequently, the model of atonement on which he settles is that of a sacrifice that makes resources available to needy sinners.

Christ's sacrificial death "has no efficacy until men choose to plead it in atonement for their sins. In so far as Christ the Son is distinct from God the Father, the sacrifice takes place independently of us, but even here we can hardly gain the benefit of forgiveness from it until we associate ourselves with it.... The sinner has to use Christ's death to get forgiveness." But then is this view of atonement available to the religious inclusivist? According to the Christian inclusivist, salvation has both an objective and a subjective dimension. The objective dimension involves Christ's death as atonement for our sins. The subjective dimension includes, among other things, the individual's faith and good acts. While only Christianity makes clear Christ's atoning provision, God can be encountered and his grace manifested in various ways through diverse religions. Salvation is available for everyone, regardless of what religion they practice or whether they have heard about Christ's sacrifice, though it does not follow for the inclusivist that all are saved or that all religions provide equally adequate means to facilitate the discovery of God or spiritual development.

The movie Atonement makes you think...because it examines the the consequences of an act that is wrong...and whose author must suffer...and atone...but how?

The question of atonement is a good one...and I believe Gandhi had it right. I also believe that without true atonement...we cannot transform from what created the transgression to begin with. Sometimes it is merely the chicken or the egg question. Was I wronged because I caused the wrong, and when in my judgement of the wrong, will I find redemption? If you don't find peace...then you cannot find redemption...and forgiveness is therefore not enough...nor is making reparations alone...one must not simply come to a zero sum...the balance sheet must have a positive asset and therefore, we must go beyond what seems easy.

I recommend the movie...but I also recommend the Kite Runner and Gandhi...and think about the message...



Sometimes...we just get it wrong...and then must atone. But how? Now that is the question...isn't it?

Sometimes it is a Raven...and sometimes it is ....

I don't know why it is...but I recite poems to myself. I have done so for years...actually since childhood. I think it is because...unlike prose...you have permission to create a vision...which can be interpreted. One of the reasons I like Poe...not just for the Raven...but this lesser known poem.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me -
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

There will be speculation about who inspired this...perhaps his wife Virginia, that is possible...or perhaps it was meant for us...to discover for ourselves. I recite this poem to myself when I am feeling ill. Today I have a bit of a flu bug...and so...I remembered a love...and angels who envied it...

Edgar Allen Poe...and his enigmatic poem...and me with a cold...how perfect.



A wind blew out of a cloud....maybe that is why I recite this when I am feeling chilled...I am soooo...well I think you get the picture.

Awake....Arise....it is Christmas...

Everyone has Christmas traditions...families generally develop them or they simply evolve over time. My family...well we changed our traditions...from year to year...

But I rather like the idea of a tradition...makes for something solid to look forward to. Some thing repeatable...

But this morning is about a birth...and the tradition of celebrating that birth...














Merry Christmas everyone...I have to work today...but...I celebrate Christmas in a very unique way...haven't you noticed? I have been celebrating for quite a while...

Enjoy your family,love ones or if you are like me and alone on this day...rejoice...

Love,

The Lass

Christmas Eve...

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
by Clement Clarke Moore


'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Now I was going to make a video message...but having technical difficulties...

Just want you to enjoy this wonderful evening. I hope you are enjoying the moment...

Oh...and Clement Clarke Moore wrote this poem for his children...I like that...



Merry Christmas to all...and to all a good night.

The Lass

I give myself gifts every now and then....tonight I gave myself a gift.

When I entered junior high, the first thing I did, was to enroll in the debate class which altered my way of thinking...words as weapons.

I love the art of debate...a thinking persons way of exploring ideas. The point of debate...is a proposition..."Resolve..." The art? You must be able to argue both points with sources to back up your proposition. You must be able to use these sources by using logic...and knowledge...and the art is born from the ability to understand the proposition...argue it using sources...and win...with logic and eloquence. You must know the opponents weapons...and use this in your arsenal...a war of words is no blood sport for those who cannot or will not think...before speaking.

So...tonight I watched a little movie. "The Great Debaters". And once again I was taken back to my early years...and my first proposition..."Resolve whether the United States should be involved in unilateral military intervention." And so it was, that a wee lass learned not so much about this argument...but rather about the art of it.

And so it was the son of a Methodist minister, Melvin Beaunorus Tolson was born in Moberly, Mo. He moved with his father, the Rev. Alonzo Tolson of the Methodist Episcopal Church, from parish to parish throughout Missouri and Iowa.

Tolson completed high school in Kansas City in 1918. He showed an early interest in poetry, drama, and debate. He published his first poem, on the sinking of the Titanic, in a local newspaper in Oskaloosa, Iowa.

He attended Fisk University in Nashville and graduated from Lincoln University in Pennsylvania in 1924, and in that same year he moved to Marshall, Texas to teach Speech and English at Wiley College. While at Wiley, Tolson built an award-winning debate team which, in 1935, beat University of Southern California/ Harvard University in the national championships. An excerpt from the 1936 Wiley Yearbook, “The Kitten” described the debate team “beating most of the (black) colleges and several outstanding white universities…Lost one debate out of 75…Completion of the tentative date with Oxford in England in 1937.”

In addition to his teaching duties, he coached the junior varsity football team, directed the theater club, co-founded the black intercollegiate Southern Association of Dramatic and Speech Arts, and organized the Wiley Forensic Society, a debating club that earned a national reputation by breaking the color barrier throughout the country and meeting with unprecedented success.

His official biography indicates that he mentored students such as James L. Farmer, Jr., know for his work in the Civil Rights Movement and providing assistance in organizing the sit-ins and Freedom Riders and Heman Marion Sweatt, plaintiff in the U.S. Supreme Court case, Sweatt v. Painter, against the University of Texas Law School, a decision that led to the creation of Texas Southern University, and James Wheaton, actor, director and educator.

In addition to the outstanding contributions he made to the development of scholars and community leaders in Texas, Tolson won greater acclaim as a poet who wrote poetry, including his first poetry collection, “Rendezvous with America”, which includes “Dark Symphony” in 1941 “Libretto for the Republic of Liberia” in 1953, “The Harlem Gallery” in 1965 and other works.

Now, this is a movie...and Harvard is the school...and there are other changes...but the light of the movie is from its gift of sight...or insight. It is the capturing of the thrill of debate...the discipline of the art...and the man who took young minds to a place few visit...the world of ideas...thought and form.

I work on Christmas Eve and on Christmas day...so tonight I gave myself a little gift...or a great one...and I am grateful to have had the chance to see this little movie...if you do...you will be better for having invested time...in just experiencing the love of thought...given voice...and argument.


Oh...and I think they used Harvard...as a David and Goliath theme...it works...for me

Merry Christmas,

I think that we are coming to a close of this holiest of seasons. I hope that you are taking some time...to enjoy the joy of the season.

Love,
The Lass



Keep your rightous mind....I just love that...

The second year...no tree...no home to decorate...but

There is this...



oh and this one...has become one of my favorites.



But really it is not about the decorations...or the gifts...it is about love and the spirit that love brings...even without a tree or gifts...I still have the spirit of Christmas in me...

And I think George really did get it...and Clarence got his wings...



Oh...and the clock is ticking...and Santa is making his preparations...now if you don't believe me...please refer to my previous blogs...Oh ye of little faith...whew...

What will I do? I know...keep believing.

Merry Christmas,
The lass

Two questions....and the meaure of life...

I just saw the most poignant,beautiful movie I have seen in years. There was no high tech...there was no great musical score...there was just the communion that took place between two men...who were facing their deaths...with a list..."The Bucket List".

Now I am not going to spoil the movie for you...because I truly wish you all would go to see this movie...and you will know what I am trying to say.

The Bucket List is a movie about the measure of our lives...and the meaning we attach to it. It is also about the love of two strangers who found in each other a gift...one that would change them...and that I believe is the most important gift you can give a person.

I will share with you one of the important questions posed by this film...or two...

It is said that the ancient Egyptians believe that when you cross over...you were met at the gate...and two questions were asked. The answer would determine your eternal resting place...

The first question: Did you have joy in you life? The second question: Did you bring joy to others? I wonder...what each of us would answer...I know I have given it thought.

The Bucket List is something that we all need to do. It is The List...the things we need to do before we "kick the bucket".

So, during these most holey days...if you get a quiet moment. Take out a piece of paper...and write...your bucket list...then share it with someone you would like to share your experiences with...

If you don't get to see the film...write the list...and make sure one of the items you cross off...is to see "The Bucket List"



You should do this..."you can do this." Write your list...and then start crossing them off.

A message from the Appollo 8 crew...

Sometimes you simply must believe...scientist...astronaut...earth bound...

Remember this?



"God Bless all of you...on the good earth"

Love,
The Lass

Counting down...to zero hour...

Ground control to major Tom...Santa is making preparations.

My boss loves basketball...got to love that about him..

Every day the management "team" sits down and has a cup of coffee...our time together. Just to relax a moment...and talk. Not about work...no, not us, we always seem to find a moment to talk sports. That is because my boss loves sports. Today we talked about the famous and infamous sports personalities. And this got me to thinking about some special sporting events that I recall...and some had a little less flair...but it did make us smile..

So...me being me reminded my boss of a moment that sticks in my memory...1987...you know...Celtics vs Pistons...I want to take you back for a moment...

The lay up...

The Celtics had established themselves as the best team in the Eastern Conference for the earlier part of the decade, with 5 Eastern Conference titles from 1981-1987. But with the emergence of the younger Pistons came the first real threat to the Celtic dynasty. The "Bad Boys", as the Pistons became known, used physical and often dirty playing tactics to intimidate their opponents and bully their way to victory. This roused the ire of Boston's players and fans, and the teams' mutual hatred of each other often led to on-court fighting. Detroit's biggest antagonists were Bill Laimbeer, Rick Mahorn and Dennis Rodman. In game 4 of the 1987 Eastern Conference Finals, Bird and Laimbeer were both ejected for fighting as the Pistons went on to rout the Celtics 145-119, tying the series at 2-2.

The Bad Boys in Game 5...there were those of us...who will not forget that fateful moment...

Perhaps the most famous moment of the Pistons-Celtics rivalry occurred during Game 5. Leading by one point with just a few seconds remaining, and threatening to take a commanding 3-2 lead in the series, the Pistons' Isiah Thomas had his inbounds pass intercepted by Larry Bird, who quickly dished to Dennis Johnson for the winning layup. With Robert Parish forced to sit out game 6 due to a suspension for punching Bill Laimbeer in the second quarter of game 5 (the first suspension for a playoff game in NBA history), the Pistons won game 6 to send the series back to Boston for a 7th game. The Celtics ended the bitter series with a 117-114 home win over the Pistons in Game 7.

However...The rest of the story...

Thomas would get his revenge against Bird in the 1988 Eastern Conference Finals. The Pistons finally unseated the Celtics, winning the series 4-2 and advancing to the NBA Finals to face the Los Angeles Lakers. What was notable in the Eastern series was the fact that the Pistons, who entered the series with 21 straight losses at the Boston Garden, defeated the Celtics by winning two of three games at the Garden (Game 1 and Game 5). In Game 5, the Celtics even led by as many as 16 points before the Pistons rallied to win 102-96. In addition, their rough style of play and intense defense shut down Bird's scoring dramatically, holding him to just 10.0 points per game on 35.1% shooting, thus forcing the Celtics to rely on McHale.

Now...there was another Piston memorable moment...Yikes...why did it have to be him?



so...the rest of the story?

This game was the precursor to Detroit making the Jordan Rules. After this game and a 59 point spanking on CBS the next year against Detroit, the Pistons devised the Jordan Rules - the most comprehensive defensive scheme devised by the NBA to this day.

There are just some moments you need to share with those who appreciate a good moment or two...

This however is not one of them...



I wish they hadn't done it....Yikes...

Love...
The Lass

Oh my gosh...a mystery gift....

I just arrived home from work tonight to find a gift at my door. A Batist Picinic Pack for 2...No really. And here is the mystery. I did not purchase it. No card inside...nothing...

I cannot believe it. So, I contacted the usual suspects...and nope. We don't exchange gifts in my family. Not anymore. Just the children receive gifts. I contacted my closest friends...nope. My gosh. Someone sent me a gift...but didn't let me know who.

I am stunned. I looked at the package address. Yes, it was to me...my name...my address.


Well...no matter who did this...it is perfect. It is just wonderful. I love picinics and this is a great gift. Someone was so kind as to send me something. I am so appreciative. It will be my only gift this year. I just cannot believe my good fortune. I just wish I could thank the person who sent it. Although...I could receive a bill in the mail soon. Who knows.

But this made my evening. It trully did.

I received a gift. My gosh...how wonderful life really is. So...I am sending this message out to the universe...Thank you, Thank you, Thank you. And I promise I will use it...and each time I do...I will thank the wonderful sender...

Merry Christmas...

The Lass...

Mystery solved...I called the company...why Carlene...you wonderful person...which of course reminds me of your visit here...




Merry Christmas...and leave a candle in the window for me...

What if....

An impromptu goodbye party for Professor John Oldman becomes a mysterious interrogation after the retiring scholar reveals to his colleagues he is an immortal who has walked the earth for 14,000 years. Acclaimed Sci-Fi writer Jerome Bixby conceived this story back in the early 1960's. It would come to be his last great work, finally completing it on his deathbed in April of 1998."What if a man from the Upper Paleolithic had survived until the present day"

What if such a man survived? Well, I liked the idea...and I had read the book so...I decided to watch the movie. It takes place in a cabin...and the entire movie is one long series of questions...answers and more questions...The great what if.

I think we humans in our frailty and needs find the great what if questions to be compelling...or necessary...somehow we need to ponder the great what if...

I loved this book and loved the movie too. It was not in the theaters...but that is the charm of it. If you get a chance to download the movie or purchase it on DVD...do so. You will enjoy it....and the questions you may have wanted to ask...might come to mind. My question? What didn't you do, that you wished you had?

Now...watch the movie...read the book...gather some friends...and ask the questions that you would want to ask....

I love Science Fiction...this was a good one.

Love,
The Lass

An ancient voice...and a chant...that may surprise you

A voice from the unheard voices of the Christians of the Middle East who have been witnessing to faith in the Saviour since His incarnation in their midst. Chanted by Reader Nader Hajjar, Ottawa. Video by kalamation and Fr. Francois Beyrouti.


This is not what you will hear in your church I am sure...but to God's ears...this is the music of the ancient world...

Merry Christmas...no matter what language you speak.

What about Chaldean?



Hayyo Ya Mhuyumne, or Come All Ye Faithful, sung in Chaldean Neo-Aramaic by the Saint Joseph Chaldean Catholic Church Choir. A traditional Christmas hymn. I like the other song better, but some people like this song too.

Latin...



Or a little English...Morman Style..




Are you getting the picture??? Do you see the pattern?...Oh you are so smart. Of course...it is music...the music of every language...seems to find a way to celebrate the birth of a child and the birth of something else...a concept...a hope...a little idea...that transformed us...

Love each other...now that is something to sing about...



Just like our Korean friends here...

What all this must sound to God in his heaven...a cacophony of noise? Or the melody and harmony of his beloved children...getting it right...for the moment...I BELIEVE NO MATTER WHAT...IT IS MUSIC TO HIS EARS...

love,
The lass

A Christmas Poem...

If I were to wake...
this Christmas morn...
Then all my dreams
would then be born...

Made up from years
of wishes true
To make my Christmas
Dreams for you...

You see it was
my wish this year
that you would have
your loved ones near

And then when gathered
on this glorious day
to hug and kiss
the hours away

So dream I will
for certainty tells
that when I awake
The Christmas bells

Will chime a tune
for you and yours
and for Santa to learn
to come in through doors.

The wee little Lass 1969

Two men...two generations...a Bing and a Bowie...and

A Christmas moment...long ago...when things were simple...and there was a little drummer boy...



I remember watching this...always loved watching Bing's Christmas show...

Love,
The Lass

It is a matter of forgiveness...and what is that?

I have realized that nothing causes more turmoil than denying my own inner voice and choosing to not live by my truth.

If we have been disrespected, it in no way gives license to disrespect others. Nor does it negate the fact that our actions do affect others. However, as you will read below, one is responsible for themselves, their actions, their reactions, not the actions and/or reactions of others.

To forgive……You must have blamed.

Sometimes we must take a hard look at a concept called "forgiveness". Forgiveness as most of us have been taught is nothing but an illusion. One that is in place to keep us in a state of blame, judgment, and revenge. Most hang on to their judgments and hatreds. I have even heard others say - "I am a vengeful person and I like myself this way. For now I am OK with being vengeful…Until it hurts me." Well from a deeper perspective one can see that it hurts the whole way through. Most are also very good at blaming others for the shortcomings and problems of their own lives. When you think about this, it's insane. How can we blame others for OUR life?! Simple….its how we are taught, brought up, bred … whatever you want to call it.

Spirit does not forgive because it does not blame!

Life is a series of events that we ourselves have attracted and created. The universe is also a series of events. All of these events occur independently of our opinions about them. The stars are all in their proper places. Each snowflake that falls lands exactly where it is supposed to. The temperature and weather each day is exactly as it is supposed to be. The storms, the droughts, the floods, the flow of the rivers and the placement of the mountains, the orbit of the planets – all of it just is, perfect. The universe in all its glory, beauty and perfection is presented to us. There is nothing to forgive, because there is nothing to judge and no one to blame.

We create all that we need for our existence. When we know this, then we are in a position to know that we create all the frustration, anger, and hatred we have towards others as well. Even deeper….Are we in fact creating the others in our life for the purpose of having someone to blame?

Our need to forgive is a monumental misperception!

The belief that others should not have treated us the way they did is, of course, the ultimate absurdity! The ultimate expression of selfishness is to believe that the world should be the way we think it should be and that others should act as we think they should. The universe is always working exactly as it is supposed to, and so is everything in it even the things that we have judged to be wrong, improper, cruel, bad, and painful for us and others. Our desire to improve these things is also a part of this perfection. How can others not have treated us the way they did? Instead of being angry at the way we were treated, regardless of how horrible we have perceived it to be, we need to remember to view that treatment from the true perspective. They did what they knew how to do, given the conditions of their lives. The rest of the baggage we carry around with us is ours! We own it all ! If it is anger and judgment, then that is what we have elected to carry around with us and that is what we will have to give away to others!

I am sure some of you are saying…What? That is crazy. Is it?...I have been treated poorly, I have been wronged, I am a victim. He/she had no right to say or do that to me. I deserve to be treated better! I could go on and on and on. The truth is, how we react to others is what offers us peace or causes us pain. It has nothing to do with anyone but us. Let me rephrase that ... Our happiness is our responsibility, it has nothing to do with how others act, how they treat us, or the like. Furthermore, how we treat others has nothing to do with anyone but us as well. If someone is angry with us, hating us, casting out insults, doing all sorts of "perceived wrongs" to us, it is still our choice how we react to them and how they treat us.

An example. If you squeeze an orange what do you get out of it? Does it matter how you squeeze it? Does it matter what you use to squeeze it? Does it make a difference what the circumstances are that surround the squeezing of the orange? The truth is, when you squeeze an orange, no matter how, what, when, or where, you will always get orange juice. The same goes for us. If someone is angry with us and we react in anger it is because we harbor anger inside. If we have only love inside, we have only love to give away. No matter what, apple juice will never come out of an orange. And no matter what, if one is filled with love, understanding full responsibility for themselves, regardless of what is thrown their way, love is all they have to give in return.

If it is hate and judgment that we have elected to carry around with us, then it is hate and judgment that we will have to give away. You have literally given control of your life to those whom you have judged to have wronged you. It is really not about learning to forgive, but rather learning to correct the misperceptions that you have created with your own thoughts. Once you clear your thoughts you assume total responsibility for yourself, including how you are treated, and you will reach a point where the concept of forgiveness is no longer something that you even practice. Forgiveness will simply become part of your being, or rather you will realize that it has been part of your being, of your Spirit all along. You will have corrected all of your misperceptions and eliminated the three sources of your discontent: blame, judgment, and revenge, which create the need to forgive in the first place.

Once again….

To forgive….You must have blamed!

Now...that is a revelation for me...and one that has taken me on a long journey...partly fixating on what others did or others thought. The truth is...I don't really know...I can guess. And what does it matter in the end? The prison I created for myself certainly out ways the perceived wrong...they only did what they do...my reaction was to defend myself and blame them...and then have to find a way to "forgive". Really? Too much trouble to me...and not very productive for my happiness...So, I looked at the picture through another set of eyes...I stepped outside of my little prison...and discovered something...All the angst was focused on me...and for the first time I took a long deep breath and breathed it out.

No two interactions will ever be seen by people the same way. Misques, mistakes, and misunderstanding, all come with the distinct disadvantage of not really knowing what the persons real motive was...and besides, could that act be so important as to launch a thousand hours wrestling their demon? And how will that change the outcome? In truth, it doesn't.

Perhaps the key to dealing with it all...is just to view it as a movie...some parts are good...some dialogue real...ans some endings...well, just end unhappily...or does it?

What I guess I am saying is...As difficult as it seems, you can be sure of this: At the core of the heart, you have the power to move beyond the old issues that are still hindering your freedom. The hardest things—the ones that push you up against your limits—are the very things you need to address to make a quantum leap into a fresh inner and outer life.

In the long run, it's not a question of whether they deserve to be forgiven. You're not forgiving them for their sake. You're doing it for yourself. For your own health and well-being, forgiveness is simply the most energy-efficient option. It frees you from the incredibly toxic, debilitating drain of holding a grudge. Don't let these people live rent free in your head. If they hurt you before, why let them keep doing it year after year in your mind? It's not worth it but it takes heart effort to stop it. You can muster that heart power to forgive them as a way of looking out for yourself. It's one thing you can be totally selfish about.

The incoherence that results from holding on to resentments and unforgiving attitudes keeps you from being aligned with your true self. It can block you from your next level of quality life experience. Metaphorically, it's the curtain standing between the room you're living in now and a new room, much larger and full of beautiful objects. The act of forgiveness removes the curtain. Clearing up your old accounts can free up so much energy that you jump right into a whole new house. Forgiving releases you from the punishment of a self-made prison where you are both the inmate and the jailer.

Sincere forgiveness isn't colored with expectations that the other person apologize or change. Don't worry whether or not they finally understand you. Love them and release them. Life feeds back truth to people in its own way and time—just like it does for you and me.

Israel Zangwill said...it best

The Past: Our cradle, not our prison; there is danger as well as appeal in its glamour. The past is for inspiration, not imitation, for continuation, not repetition.

Well you know I like that...and for what it is worth...I like not making a prison of my feelings...I rather like the idea...of simply saying...it is what it is...and that in some other universe...or quantum observation...I may have been the offender...or maybe I was...wouldn't that be something?



Sometimes...it is just that easy...now why the heck does it take so long to figure it out? I know...but I am not telling...

Love,
The Lass

Now get some sleep...a new day is dawning...and I like to think it will bring with it much love and joy...if not...it will not be me stopping it.

Oh...one more thing, to forgive does not mean to continue to engage in the same behavior that attracted the thing that caused the grief to beging with...that would certainly mean that someone...is not thinking...

I love a good book store....and I have my favorite

I love libraries, museums and book stores. Not the real commercial type...Borders etc...I love a private, lovingly attended to...Book Store. The Book store I have fallen in love with, is Elliott Bay Book Company...This is no normal bookstore...it is a place of the love of books...of all books...and more.


Here is how they describe themselves...

The Elliott Bay Book Company, an independent, family-owned bookstore, was founded in 1973 by Walter Carr in the space which currently houses our children's section. In 1976, with the generous support of the Globe Building's owners and numerous friends of the store, we moved the store to the building in the corner and took residence on our current home at 101 South Main Street. That space comprised the store's first two rooms. In subsequent years we grew, room by room, to occupy the various nooks and crannies we do today. One of those expansions took us downstairs, and The Elliott Bay Café, Seattle's original bookstore cafe, was opened in 1979. This reader's haven, with its tasty foods, tempting desserts and beverages, and convivial setting, has served as one of the city's meeting places from the day it opened.


It is a joy...I tell you a joy...to walk around these rooms...just opening books to undiscovered places of mental landscapes...Someone wrote the words for me to read...to explore. They entertain...they teach...they inspire...they fill me with the desire to touch each page with solemnity...reverence for the author...a kinship of being. I love the written word. I wish I had the talent and the vision to ignite the thoughts that I have been so passionately attached to in my life.

But just as people find the natural environment full of grace and beauty, I find the same in the warmth of this bookstore.

So...if you find yourself in Seattle, and are looking for a way to spend the day...and you happen to love books...go to the Elliot Bay Book Co...and open yourself up to a wonderful experience full of the smell, touch, and experience...of loving books...

A little tune to go along...with fantasy...the Book of Love...



Some of it's transcendental...some of it's just really dumb...why yes indeed it is...but read to me...and my heart is yours...

Oh...and this is dedicated to a man who loves books...and shared his love of a few...he was not a friend...but he is forgiven...for a lover of books...cannot be all bad...
he wrote:

.. I picked up old copies (1922 and before) of several books last week including The Chessmen of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Kidnapped, and Last of the Mohicans the Burroughs book was the "newest" - printed in 1922. I have two (old) copies each of both Kidnapped and Last of the Mohicans. Actually - if I had the money (tentatively priced at $1,000) I would have bought a book by G.K. Chesterton inside of which was a letter by his wife, written to the person who had owned the book. I collect old books and manuscripts - the oldest being a sermon from 1686 followed by a collection of sermons & letter by Jonathan Swift (Gulliver's Travels) compiled by his nephew and printed in 1768. After that I have a number of books from the early 1800's like a bible from 1826 and number of classics from (e.g. printed in) the early to late 1800's like those mentioned above, and others by Dumas (The Three Musketeers), a couple by Jules Verne including one is Swedish from 1879 (I read enough to very crudely get the gist of the story but that is about it), Rudyard Kipling (The Light that Failed), George Eliot (Silas Marner), and then a of books from (printed) 1900-1925 by H.G. Wells, Edgar Allen Poe and others.

Oh...one more thing...it is a good place to purchase a Christmas gift for someone...trust me...books make good gifts. I have never met a book, I did not enjoy...even if it was "just really dumb".

The Lass...

no place to die...but death does not come with a happy ending

Last night a man went shopping. He may have been purchasing a gift for a love one...or simply purchasing something for himself. But, as he looked through videos in the electronics department...he took his last breath. The man had a fatal heart attack...in the aisle of our store.

The attempts by paramedics failed to restart the heart that simply gave way. But what was most disturbing was the crowd of on-lookers. The man was stripped naked...by the paramedics...and the crowd of people shopped and stood by watching as the attempts to save what life was left...would fail. My coworker Jim...closed the department...He was shocked. He said.."Diana...they continued to shop around him...My God..what is wrong with people.." I know what he was saying...this was not an animal...this was a human being...with family, and history....and dignity.

He didn't choose the time...it chose him. And it that moment...he was alone...among strangers...dying on a department store floor...as people moved around him...without a pause...no inconvenience to stop their shopping.

I write this because we all will meet this fate...let's hope that our time is met with more dignity...and never to be witnessed by such shallow people.

God bless this man's soul...and I do hope that his family never learns of just how inappropriate the people who would witnessed his passing were.

Sadly,
The Lass

Living Deliberately...and Thoreau...

As Henry David Thoreau so eloquently put it:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.



That pretty much sums up where I am in my life...living deliberately. I like that notion. It came to me today while I was stocking cosmetics. Now this is certainly a menial task, and well someone with a degree an um teen years of management, probably should not be stocking shelves. But you know something...I enjoy it. What I think I like about it is the instant gratification...I fill a hole...and another and another until the shelf looks full...complete. And in that moment I get a "well done" thought in my head. Could anyone do it? Sure. Is it going to change the world? No, certainly not...but in that moment...I have done something with my hands...and I like that feeling.

I used to get great satisfaction from financial success...for companies...or seeing my goals met...but not any lasting feeling of simple pleasure. So I began to think about what really makes me happy. And you know...it is simple things...gardening, painting a wall, or decorating a home...I enjoy painting, photography, sewing, and just about anything that gives me that sublime moment of completion...as a manager you are never finished...there is no moment of ....it is finished. But when you create something with your hands...when you see the product finished...it is a joyful moment.

I love to cook for the same reason...it is an art to me. I love collecting recipes...and preparing dishes for friends and family...for that exact moment...when it is finished...and all gather to consume what I have created with my hands...

I would say in my life the things that have mattered most have all been connected with creating something...seeing it grow, completing it. In a sense...I have been living a life...deliberately.

Everything I do, witness, create, feel, sense, learn...is all done with such depth....I wonder how sometimes I could feel so lonely then? Perhaps I define this in terms that others may not understand...or perhaps I simply want to share all of this wonder...this lust for life...with someone who shares the same...deliberateness...

Even when life is difficult there is something vital in the difficulty. I overcame cancer...a loss of a job, financial ruin...and a year of struggling to find work in a place that was strange to me. But, when I think about it...other than a few behaviors that I would prefer to forget, I not only survived it all...I thrived. And I think I could...because I believe that all along I was living my life with deliberateness...awareness...and no resignation to my plight...but simply a daily move...to keep going and all the while stripping the layers of my onion.

All possessions gone...no money to speak of...lost to paying medical bills...no certain future...yet never losing that "knowledge", that I would make it...that I could make it.

I think when you work with your hands...when you create something...you are not thinking about yourself...you actually don't think at all...you are in a sense....outside of yourself...and the only thing you need to do...is to complete the task. Whether it is building a skyscraper, repairing a car...or simply casting a line in to the water...we all need to be active...and actively living.

Each day I spend on this wonderful blue dot...I am more hopeful for mankind. Unlike the doom and gloom club, I am inclined to believe in us...why? Because we are marvelous...simply marvelous...and even those of us who stray...or are flawed...are part of the glory of it all.

So...when I spoke to a friend tonight that was complaining about not having the "Christmas Spirit"...I began to talk to her about her fondest memories...of my experiences with customers and co workers at the store....of music that I have been listening to...or the boats that I watched last night...all decorated with lights...parading for people like me...to sit in joyful awe of the beauty of it...the celebration of it...and although I was alone...I stood with hundreds of my fellow human beings...smiling...oohing and ahhing...as the colorful lights drifted by.

Now...certainly I will be alone this Christmas...and certainly I would love to be with family....loved ones...but I guess on Christmas day...I will find a place or a moment to be part of it all...Church for one.

Now...if you are feeling blue this holiday season...go bake some cookies...or paint a ceramic village house...or purchase a toy for Toys for Tots...or simply go to the town square...where you live...and enjoy the hustle and bustle of people busy with their shopping...

And if that doesn't do it for you...remember Thoreau...

Friends do not live in harmony merely, as some say, but in melody

The melody for me sounds like this...




Now...how can you not be in a good mood...really...truly...

Love,
The Lass...living deliberately