tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81706836001044491782024-03-19T03:01:39.037-05:00stephanie ericssona writer for all reasonsStephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-70941949027864679962011-09-26T03:23:00.002-05:002011-10-20T11:14:39.295-05:00let me lead you astray...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3pSD7qUu2OcvBXynpMjak3h_J-7VQt-De_nYJyTavXwuk8a9QaPXpDg2ciw_l9JciuCUfRx7d05BJywib96PZDAzEPf7nxxhBVpIQLwiEJxGSwpfzx1xHI91sGgC5RwD3ZqUkhWcGT8/s1600/girl+hwy+yellow+line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3pSD7qUu2OcvBXynpMjak3h_J-7VQt-De_nYJyTavXwuk8a9QaPXpDg2ciw_l9JciuCUfRx7d05BJywib96PZDAzEPf7nxxhBVpIQLwiEJxGSwpfzx1xHI91sGgC5RwD3ZqUkhWcGT8/s400/girl+hwy+yellow+line.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">This blog has assumed a new identity @ </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.stephericsson.com/">steph ericsson - companion through the bullshit</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Come follow me there. </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">This blog will continue to be around until the entire migration has been completed, so you can still find lots of stuff here.</span> </span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-34701666197480288242011-09-20T11:56:00.028-05:002011-09-20T15:32:12.734-05:00omission or boundary?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1gFsHPoMltDbDNfrqJkH8Tly7E5EvQxs_f3PWgvHLG0PLVgyYpij8q8TXFVVvlPEllwmEcZRieqWKPRFVXizNqu7ajlGKK23-LFNoW4NjEn2ledDInQW4cFSW3eSra0z7ebLyIcKLB7s/s1600/boundariespainting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1gFsHPoMltDbDNfrqJkH8Tly7E5EvQxs_f3PWgvHLG0PLVgyYpij8q8TXFVVvlPEllwmEcZRieqWKPRFVXizNqu7ajlGKK23-LFNoW4NjEn2ledDInQW4cFSW3eSra0z7ebLyIcKLB7s/s1600/boundariespainting.jpg" /></a></div>One day, while I was working in my garden, a neighbor, (I'll call her Linda) walked by and asked if she could help. I'd seen her around, had said hello, knew she lived down the block, but that was it. We'd never even had coffee together.<br />
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Linda was a tough old broad who carried herself like a stevedore right off the docks. Her rough edges said she'd duked it out with life and lost most of the battles. But I took her offer as a kind gesture, considering I was covered in mud trying to move some earth around to make a rise in that part of the garden.<br />
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Gardening to me is a sort of meditation where I find myself thinking of nothing but what is in front of me. It's my way of calming my monkey-mind to focus my energy, but that day, I welcomed her into my inner sanctuary without thinking. As we worked along side each other, she talked about her life, her past, the gossip in the 'hood, her opinion of other neighbors, yada yada yada... I began to regret opening the gate into my little world since it took real effort to stay focused on my mud while listening to her.<br />
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After the first half hour, she began to speak about her family. "I just know you'll understand this," she started this next phase of conversation and inside I groaned. I seem to have some mysterious 'open for business' sign on my forehead that gives people permission to tell me their darkest secrets--whether I want to know them or not. It's always been awkward finding myself in possession of someone else's secrets. But, I didn't have the heart to interrupt her and she wasted no time in getting to the juicy parts.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhd8lcINUApDB_LVuIwfklkiVJrJI3lV6Zzu9DdxxIQx1iwvpp16DasaPvnue6eR5OA20x5V10S-2P_tgLdyDgN6oaOskeS-_sz7S4tG_6P0r70FaLWQvILpfIK5Olv2LbzRxexLesooQ/s1600/tarbaby4+keeper.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhd8lcINUApDB_LVuIwfklkiVJrJI3lV6Zzu9DdxxIQx1iwvpp16DasaPvnue6eR5OA20x5V10S-2P_tgLdyDgN6oaOskeS-_sz7S4tG_6P0r70FaLWQvILpfIK5Olv2LbzRxexLesooQ/s320/tarbaby4+keeper.jpg" /></a>"I had two older brothers who'd never leave me alone. I couldn't even take a bath without 'em hassling me...they thought it was pretty damned funny to bust in and piss in my bath water..." I stopped in mid-air with my shovel, trying to reconcile the word <i>hassle </i>as a description of this scene. But she didn't notice and continued talking as she dug beside me. "They'd make me <i>stay</i> in the dirty water, laughing their asses off... sometimes, one of 'em would even <i>shit</i> in the water... thought it was pretty f--king funny too. And they'd say, 'Go on, wash up..."<br />
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I was now entirely immobile with this information. I didn't even know this woman's last name, and now I had a horrific image stamped in my mind. I must have mumbled something inane like, "That's horrible..." but I could see that to her, it was absolutely normal— something all brothers did to little sisters. I suppressed the urge to signal a big T for time-out. Her matter-of-fact tone made it that much more obscene, but what was truly disturbing was that it was clear she had never had any sort of professional help with it. Still, I asked if she'd ever gone to therapy and she just snorted, "Shit, no!" as if I was implying something even more undesirable than what had happened to her.<br />
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I couldn't get her story out of my mind. The image of a little girl sitting in a bath tub full of water while her brothers pissed and shat into it stuck like Tar-Baby for a week. But something else bothered me: I was actually angry at her. I felt threatened. Claustrophobic even. Out of all the possible reactions I could have--pity, compassion, sadness, why <i>anger? </i>In principle, I felt these things, but <i>not in fact</i>. Something <i>else </i>threatened me. Some part of me was deeply insulted. Was I insulted <i>for </i>her?<i> </i>I asked myself. No, I was insulted by<i> </i>her telling me this story when we did not have enough history between to actually <i>have </i>a relationship.<br />
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But what was the threat? Finally, I realized that by revealing this horrific secret, she was, albeit unconsciously, trying to fast-track a friendship with me and call upon the kind of intimacy that is only built over years. By making me a keeper of her secret, however reluctant I was, she had assumed a closeness with me that wasn't there. Moreover, it was a <i>Tar-Baby</i> because it came with an unspoken demand for me to reveal something <i>equally </i>secret about my own past. <i>Ah hah! </i>I thought, this is why I'm angry. I felt cornered and stripped of all those tiny choices made over time that forge a close relationship.<br />
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In <a href="http://www.scribd.com/fullscreen/64204745?access_key=key-1xcj4quy5eh0ozk23kop">'The Ways We Lie'</a>, when I write about <i>omission,</i> I am talking about a very different thing <br />
—to omit a <i>critical </i>piece of information. But the operative word here is 'critical'. For example, to invite a close girlfriend over for dinner and fail to mention that you'd also invited her nemesis ex-boyfriend is a form of deception. It strips her of her choices.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_IPnbhgxdeNkSy2QWezk8JhYBpY9KB6xcDYC6k9kINfEyci2BAM8m87VuZyPCHDDDRFa1ZwkMJe6a_gjksyZBHhBAeHnYiIS3vhmcY7B2jPhY_nCXAlxMqF5hN-MAn6XRmoUfiMxW98/s1600/turtleinshell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_IPnbhgxdeNkSy2QWezk8JhYBpY9KB6xcDYC6k9kINfEyci2BAM8m87VuZyPCHDDDRFa1ZwkMJe6a_gjksyZBHhBAeHnYiIS3vhmcY7B2jPhY_nCXAlxMqF5hN-MAn6XRmoUfiMxW98/s200/turtleinshell.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><i>Boundaries</i>, on the other hand, should not be confused with <i>omission</i>. Boundaries are self-protection. They are wise. They decide <i>whom </i>to let close to you, <i>how </i>close and <i>when</i>. They're dependent on authentic relationships built over time, when the real measure of the other person can be determined. For example, I rarely reveal that I am a writer to acquaintances and neighbors. I have found that often, people <i>treat </i>me differently and put me on an unearned pedestal. Writing is, to me, <i>just the work I do</i>, no different than teaching, building bridges or selling widgets. It doesn't make me a better neighbor. I'm <i>still </i>a horrible housekeeper. I can <i>still</i> be a pain in the ass when I'm grouchy. But this boundary protects me from the kind of isolation that celebrity-worship imposes. Does that make me a liar? No. Because it isn't a piece of information that these acquaintances need to know. It's not critical to our relationship.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">Linda's lack of boundaries had nothing to do with revealing critical information to me. This was the kind of thing you tell someone who can <i>do</i> something about it and I certainly couldn't. I'm no social worker. Had we been friends over time, become equals and built trust between us, I would have felt <i>very </i>differently—I <i>would have </i>felt compassion, pity, sadness for her. But as it was, it was a form of manipulation on her part. Now, I would have to treat her like a close friend when she was not. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdndhCtXUZ53iIJRrG7j_nCkD46WUZqED3s6ML6_8ASplEZ0OgUVj6dZrIXu6e1c_yjR0hz5tWW6PlLHdIAMH5OsmUm2LKT_fDKI-cfGDCD_rpoBHj5syF1RA_9ohJXbZfIPZP9BeNEK4/s1600/lineinsandnofeet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdndhCtXUZ53iIJRrG7j_nCkD46WUZqED3s6ML6_8ASplEZ0OgUVj6dZrIXu6e1c_yjR0hz5tWW6PlLHdIAMH5OsmUm2LKT_fDKI-cfGDCD_rpoBHj5syF1RA_9ohJXbZfIPZP9BeNEK4/s1600/lineinsandnofeet.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">The most uncomfortable part was about to come with Linda. Several times that week, she'd knocked on my door, asking me for a cigarette or a cup of sugar and I obliged her. But, then, one day, I came out to do my daily deadheading and discovered her sitting in the private little alcove where I drank my tea and wrote in my journal. My knee-jerk response was to ask her what she was doing in my yard. She was deeply insulted. Immediately, I wanted to apologize for being harsh, but some wiser part of me zipped that reaction. This was a person who'd taken an inch and had set her sights on taking a mile very soon. I didn't appreciate her assumptions. I did not want to be buddies. And I did not feel it was necessary to explain myself. Awful as this sounds, even to me, I knew that it was a choice that I was entitled to make for myself. I had drawn a line in the sand. That's a boundary.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">©2011 Stephanie Ericsson</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://stephericsson.blogspot.com/">Return Home</a> </div></div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-43835065894754431002011-09-13T00:25:00.002-05:002011-09-13T00:26:31.077-05:00love knows no boundaries<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/m3zZX7P5K6I" width="420"></iframe></div><br />
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Boundless.Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-26951023031207467542011-09-11T10:38:00.004-05:002011-09-12T03:16:16.484-05:009/11 sobs that still catch in my throat<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">The final piece of my series in tribute to the 10th anniversary of 9/11</span></div><br />
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I always liked to think I was tough. Not mushy or sentimental. It's a useful delusion.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_296900132"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVXudSD_4RpPpQTF7c8sKaOKzHap_m-kXUoqShR8Xmuk5wskiMXcoB89uVV0prq0RFU1eJ8nDfNWsEIYIcC3XZUGIzF11giwoOFJzVf1p1dpzwJ1tnfPwJEOQjn83BEDc-v-hE2exwKao/s200/bieger-and-farah.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.michaelyon-online.com/little-girl.htm">Beiger & Farah Phtog: Michal Yon</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>But there are these sobs that ambush me sometimes, like little muggers jumping out of a dark alley. <br />
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I know most of them by now.... the Star Spangled Banner at a ball game... a picture of an American soldier... the song <a href="http://youtu.be/WuznaEyzBzs">Danny Boy</a> or the sound of bagpipes... any baby picture of my kids... <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LYmIeHjptfZ__9uNEmXJkA0Nfep4qUnYw9MVN-YzRyIuq928n7xLeSRE8hoCKmZLbKvvktk9P4_QoTbc3k9qKzBLMP6Maat_1v3ekjkPBlvazdtVKWw_t14X87Od5k8IjW00md6QvhU/s1600/me+hinton.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LYmIeHjptfZ__9uNEmXJkA0Nfep4qUnYw9MVN-YzRyIuq928n7xLeSRE8hoCKmZLbKvvktk9P4_QoTbc3k9qKzBLMP6Maat_1v3ekjkPBlvazdtVKWw_t14X87Od5k8IjW00md6QvhU/s200/me+hinton.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steph & Jim Hinton</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">a photograph of me and my late husband laughing.</div><br />
And just about <i>any </i>of the photographs from September 11th, 2001.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">I've come to understand it to be the sweet side of grief. The part that made me more human.</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomvwjIjutkFmoL7qhZVKZ65QhFoRHql960w_ufC0a6ARbfivX4JDR3PTGiHj87XHkJDxvgNLCR7wnwI036YGrGa7wQKWMOYqrFikpud4QOBG7RUieW04OpZJQcI9Ai3QrVIFAhZVxJr8/s1600/15gall091011Sept+11+Flight+93.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomvwjIjutkFmoL7qhZVKZ65QhFoRHql960w_ufC0a6ARbfivX4JDR3PTGiHj87XHkJDxvgNLCR7wnwI036YGrGa7wQKWMOYqrFikpud4QOBG7RUieW04OpZJQcI9Ai3QrVIFAhZVxJr8/s400/15gall091011Sept+11+Flight+93.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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To all of those who lost their precious lives 10 years ago, to their families who have lived with an empty place at the table, to all of those firemen and police who risked everything to save the few they could, I want you to know that I wept for weeks 10 years ago, and even now, a sob for you still catches me off guard.<br />
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Stephanie Ericsson<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">© 2011 Stephanie Ericsson</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiomvwjIjutkFmoL7qhZVKZ65QhFoRHql960w_ufC0a6ARbfivX4JDR3PTGiHj87XHkJDxvgNLCR7wnwI036YGrGa7wQKWMOYqrFikpud4QOBG7RUieW04OpZJQcI9Ai3QrVIFAhZVxJr8/s1600/15gall091011Sept+11+Flight+93.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-87426143488915304802011-09-10T23:57:00.007-05:002011-09-12T03:17:01.508-05:009/11 what would happen if we said, enough?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluaxAnumhMfyQUnKLayy405WXCvHwi02ypt-Yd1vNtPNfNiWUirJtccdx2zcVlpbVvr13ozyTONSf_hyphenhyphen2-ejq0RdaTbj0SaQXG5xXYvDwNEYDM3pKUlAbkQoZZZVj4HKFlL2vxKxtVQg/s1600/Tutsi+woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
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<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: small;">Part of a series in tribute to the 10th anniversary of 9/11</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Times,'Times New Roman',serif;">Y</span></span>ears ago, I saw the documentary by Wide Angle (PBS) entitled, <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wnet/wideangle/episodes/ladies-first/introduction/204/">Ladies First</a>, about<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluaxAnumhMfyQUnKLayy405WXCvHwi02ypt-Yd1vNtPNfNiWUirJtccdx2zcVlpbVvr13ozyTONSf_hyphenhyphen2-ejq0RdaTbj0SaQXG5xXYvDwNEYDM3pKUlAbkQoZZZVj4HKFlL2vxKxtVQg/s1600/Tutsi+woman.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluaxAnumhMfyQUnKLayy405WXCvHwi02ypt-Yd1vNtPNfNiWUirJtccdx2zcVlpbVvr13ozyTONSf_hyphenhyphen2-ejq0RdaTbj0SaQXG5xXYvDwNEYDM3pKUlAbkQoZZZVj4HKFlL2vxKxtVQg/s320/Tutsi+woman.jpg" width="320" /></a> the women of Rwanda putting their country back together. One of the most striking segments <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluaxAnumhMfyQUnKLayy405WXCvHwi02ypt-Yd1vNtPNfNiWUirJtccdx2zcVlpbVvr13ozyTONSf_hyphenhyphen2-ejq0RdaTbj0SaQXG5xXYvDwNEYDM3pKUlAbkQoZZZVj4HKFlL2vxKxtVQg/s1600/Tutsi+woman.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>of the film was about the role that contrition and forgiveness was playing in healing the devastating wounds left over, not only among the Tutsi survivors, but among the Hutu as well. With the majority of the Hutu men in prison for their war crimes and the majority of the Tutsi men dead by the hands of these Hutu men, women had to run their lives, their communities, their economy and their government without them. There was no choice—they would pull their lives and country together or perish. <br />
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How did they accomplish this? They had been mortal enemies. There had been enough atrocities committed by neighbor against neighbor that it's inconceivable to imagine how the Tutsi and Hutu women could have even sat in the same room, much less worked together and cooperated for their collective welfare. They did something that is unimaginable to most of us... the Hutu women asked the Tutsi women for forgiveness for the atrocities their men committed. And the Tutsi women forgave them. I'm not saying that it happened in one day. Or that it was readily accepted. It happened over time, begun by a few individuals. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2X93ekWJxSnTUISqWuxQzQk4F8NeVYt-lmw6xEWmSP0ef5Fd-qB9API0Z8WncPwi72lL9x1wI0jM0j2gi-5rKx0Zvs4Va7gq3FLxEqBIuKgYoO0enYpWVhD7Ll2v6BnautDYDihrOrw/s1600/Women+w+protst+signs.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2X93ekWJxSnTUISqWuxQzQk4F8NeVYt-lmw6xEWmSP0ef5Fd-qB9API0Z8WncPwi72lL9x1wI0jM0j2gi-5rKx0Zvs4Va7gq3FLxEqBIuKgYoO0enYpWVhD7Ll2v6BnautDYDihrOrw/s320/Women+w+protst+signs.jpg" width="320" /></a>Another documentary, <a href="http://praythedevilbacktohell.com/">Pray the Devil Back</a> to Hell, chronicles the journey of the women of Liberia, who’d had enough of the years of war, of losing their children and men, of starving, of living in fear twenty-four hours a day. They determined together to put an end to it. They achieved this the way that women always do—by working together. Christian and the Muslim women put aside their differences and discovered they had more in common than they imagined. They stopped the violence with non-violent protests. They refused to be silent any longer, refused to be intimidated by the men, and even refused to sleep with their husbands until the violence ended. They used prayer, chanting and non-violent sit-ins. They did not back down. They would not go away. This is how they ended the war in their country.<br />
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It made me wonder. What if mothers, sisters, daughters, grandmothers all said, <i>“Enough!"? Enough violence. Enough sending our sons and husbands off to die. Enough wasting our country's time and resources on wars that never end. </i><br />
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Enough.<br />
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What would happen if the mothers of Israel and Palestine stood together and said, “Enough”?<br />
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Better yet, what if the women of the entire world simply refused to cook or clean or have sex with their men until the war ended everywhere?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwEVHg7tRkw-q_ifNtMM_p3THGX4FAXVhmb5H-xVtOz65LHyA3gpKQqmSOTCDIy1mdT-kyrSlA59nThhfAl-OuoM5kbqWbPmh5Irqq5vuY4zJlid8bcJd4oJP_G0agVUxqWQ9hI1VzcSA/s1600/dove.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwEVHg7tRkw-q_ifNtMM_p3THGX4FAXVhmb5H-xVtOz65LHyA3gpKQqmSOTCDIy1mdT-kyrSlA59nThhfAl-OuoM5kbqWbPmh5Irqq5vuY4zJlid8bcJd4oJP_G0agVUxqWQ9hI1VzcSA/s200/dove.jpg" width="200" /></a> I'm sure women across the world have smiled to themselves during a quiet moment stirring a pot of soup, and fantasized about what might actually happen if all women, everywhere, were to simply stop—even for one day—taking care of minor things—like food, shelter, clothing, and raising children. How well could men run all those the important things, like politics, government and business?<br />
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© 2011 Stephanie EricssonStephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-37563663706134161092011-09-09T20:22:00.015-05:002011-09-20T16:25:40.106-05:009/11—america, meet evil... evil, this is america<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-VAEUCULOqgqTFT1lJtTvPfw-j9GhQLYCv-jEKcapj39V0Tkm91VzyMFFJG8JU2juoI9-HsHutKM5jY2x_ZHbmK09WcQenIYAD7dmJwRqPNwMa7o7CUfNKzRp4Iplm7PcrencJlJoOuU/s1600/Father-Mychal-Judge-911.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-VAEUCULOqgqTFT1lJtTvPfw-j9GhQLYCv-jEKcapj39V0Tkm91VzyMFFJG8JU2juoI9-HsHutKM5jY2x_ZHbmK09WcQenIYAD7dmJwRqPNwMa7o7CUfNKzRp4Iplm7PcrencJlJoOuU/s320/Father-Mychal-Judge-911.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We met the true face of evil on September 11th, 2001 and it left us standing helpless in the streets, looking up and asking "Why?"<br />
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The unfathomable scale of violence struck us dumb. Violence creates very complex grief. There's never a way to make sense of it. Why? For what purpose? What did it achieve? Why my beloved? Questions that echoed back with no answer. Questions that are asked everyday in other parts of the world, but not here. Not in America.<br />
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In my book, I defined evil as—</div><blockquote>"Systematic brutality, usually done with an innocent expression, which seems to make insanity look sane." </blockquote><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"There is no conscience attached to evil. The shadow it casts over our values makes them seem trite. Evil parades as sanity so as to undermine our sense of reality... Evil is calm. It looks sane." —<a href="http://www.harpercollins.com/browseinside/index.aspx?isbn13=9780060969745">Companion Through the Darkness</a></div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBhTDq7zTNjiGGxuxUwPTUs1AAuNEW4R4BmzUBq83I1vqmXjPmpSCGLEFjM3t454cJJmtC5HbLy1FoYtrV9R5SVFZEBU7nHj7fjaAhjSZgd4JLSEPy-t7Qcsv7cskX9Id9nUSouUGgQQ/s1600/fallingman-lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBhTDq7zTNjiGGxuxUwPTUs1AAuNEW4R4BmzUBq83I1vqmXjPmpSCGLEFjM3t454cJJmtC5HbLy1FoYtrV9R5SVFZEBU7nHj7fjaAhjSZgd4JLSEPy-t7Qcsv7cskX9Id9nUSouUGgQQ/s320/fallingman-lg.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">It hides in plain sight. It seduces us into a denial of its presence. It acts with no regard for the carnage it leaves in its path. Evil people serve themselves... their emotional bodies are vacuous—incapable of empathy and others are purely disposable utensils. Understanding evil does nothing to excuse or mend the damage it does. Physical wounds will heal. It's the emotional ones that fester.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
"The intangible is hard to bandage."</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
In the years that have followed, we've done, as a nation, what all young adults do—we've gone to extremes, stumbled from one conclusion to another looking for the enemy, and awakened to the enemy within our own ranks. We've been hoodwinked by our own leaders into wars that did not heal us, but only served the private agendas of despots among us.<br />
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We've made monumental mistakes and are paying the consequences. But we've also matured. We've pulled together, rebuilt and re-visioned our future. We've learned and forgotten and learned again. And we will continue in that direction forward because that's just what we do.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">The attacks on 9/11 were not about religion. They were about power. A power-hungry minority have hijacked a religion and turned it into a mass-hysteria for pure evil. It is not the first time in history this has been attempted, and if you remember your history, it failed. then as it will fail again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
Human beings can only be oppressed for so long. We will only go along with lies for so long. Eventually, the human need for truth triumphs. The founders of our country knew all people have an inalienable right to freedom. Freedom of choice. Freedom of thought. Freedom of belief. Freedom of expression.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krF6LpUXODc&ob=av2e">"Baby we can choose you know we ain't no amoeba"* </a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
America is the greatest experiment in diversity that human civilization has ever known. It demands tolerance on a mass scale. But it's that very diversity that, as Darwin said, is vital for a species to evolve and thrive. Even on our knees, we continue to invent, produce, and create more than any other country in the world.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumx8Dh-9qXLfbVaFdUusa8dkgw4xxkoIOjpngNktLO_LhHApiD135muJWh86YW1AnUNW9XkHVgi5h1eQdwA1sRiDoWEpZTMcKsbHimczDOUMOaXH4XHRyp4XMEmLk8Y5TJubsmyh8McA/s1600/Believe+in+this+life.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumx8Dh-9qXLfbVaFdUusa8dkgw4xxkoIOjpngNktLO_LhHApiD135muJWh86YW1AnUNW9XkHVgi5h1eQdwA1sRiDoWEpZTMcKsbHimczDOUMOaXH4XHRyp4XMEmLk8Y5TJubsmyh8McA/s1600/Believe+in+this+life.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
We will take our grief from 9/11, embrace it and transform it into something meaningful. That's the American way. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Evil, meet America—your nemesis.<br />
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*(<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krF6LpUXODc&ob=av2e">Thing Called Love</a>, Bonnie Raitt)<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>©2011 Stephanie Ericsson </i></span></div></div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-9818199505615119172011-09-09T04:27:00.023-05:002011-09-12T03:19:01.065-05:009/11 a spiritual awakening in real time<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Part of a series in tribute to the 10th anniversary of 9/11</span></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><br />
<a href="http://www.laughingravy21.com/storefrontprofiles/DeluxeSFItemDetail.aspx?sid=1&sfid=80103&c=126969&i=234742171" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd17S064qL9cvGf4g2W8l-rCBYqxYn2enHwKs2iqoPWwgEqNKhEyMKHvKv93BM6zMd1IXj53P4-OJgnkNuK0RvzaqUPSCqtye9_fMyYVEqurHBIiym7JWL-gSUN5AFycNhUWq0bM05uFw/s1600/art+workers+grd+zero+XCELLENT.jpg" /></a> "Grief discriminates against no one. It kills. Maims. And cripples. It is the ashes from which the phoenix rises, and the mettle of rebirth. It returns life to the living dead. It teaches that there is nothing absolutely true or untrue. It assures the living that we know nothing for certain. It humbles. It shrouds. It blackens. It enlightens.<br />
<blockquote> "Grief will make a new person out of you, if it doesn't kill you in the making."</blockquote><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> <a href="http://www.harpercollins.com/browseinside/index.aspx?isbn13=9780060969745">Companion Through the Darkness </a></i></span></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd17S064qL9cvGf4g2W8l-rCBYqxYn2enHwKs2iqoPWwgEqNKhEyMKHvKv93BM6zMd1IXj53P4-OJgnkNuK0RvzaqUPSCqtye9_fMyYVEqurHBIiym7JWL-gSUN5AFycNhUWq0bM05uFw/s1600/art+workers+grd+zero+XCELLENT.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<br />
The term, <i>a spiritual awakening</i>, sounds so pristine, doesn't it? At least to those who've never been through one and seen the carnage first-hand. A <i>real </i>spiritual awakening is blood, bone and gooey entrails—up close and personal. <br />
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And grief is a spiritual awakening of mind-bending proportions. It's full of contradictions and paradoxes that threaten our sanity for a while. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd17S064qL9cvGf4g2W8l-rCBYqxYn2enHwKs2iqoPWwgEqNKhEyMKHvKv93BM6zMd1IXj53P4-OJgnkNuK0RvzaqUPSCqtye9_fMyYVEqurHBIiym7JWL-gSUN5AFycNhUWq0bM05uFw/s1600/art+workers+grd+zero+XCELLENT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>September 11th, 2001, was a wake-up call for us as a country, but for those who were personally affected it was a day of true spiritual awakening. The survivors were forever transformed. Life for them would never be the same again. There was no negotiating with it. No way back to the halcyon days of pre-9/11. Worlds were destroyed. The rubble was vast. The concept of life ever becoming normal again was laughable because it was so inconceivable.<br />
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The most poignant interview I saw in those days and weeks after 9/11 was Connie Chung's interview with the CEO of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cantor_Fitzgerald">Cantor Fitzgerald</a>, Howard Lutnick, who lost nearly 700 employees when they were trapped on 101st to 105th floors of Tower One. He, alone survived, because that morning, he'd taken his son to his first day of kindergarten.<br />
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To the untrained eye, Lutnick is obviously distraught but he is still able to articulate his feelings and the events that happened. What it isn't so evident, except to those of us who've been there, is that, although clearly in shock, he is <i>transcendent</i>.<br />
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Watching this interview, I witnessed a spiritual awakening in real time. Clearly, he knew he was part of something larger than himself. Any concerns for himself were totally diminished in the face of the greater losses of those 700 families. He is humbled by the way that his remaining employees pulled together. He is lifted up and carried by it. I would even venture to guess that this became the crucial reason that he went on, not just to <i>save </i>his company, but to rebuild it with a new vision that enabled him to take care of the 700 families who lost loved ones that day.<br />
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Absolutely raw and intimate, this interview captures the rarest of moments, when a human being shares the <i>true </i>face of grief.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/8rf35t4d214" width="420"></iframe><br />
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LINKS:<br />
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<a href="http://www.cantorfamilies.com/cantor/jsp/index.jsp">Cantor Families Memorial</a><br />
<a href="http://cantorrelief.org/">Cantor Relief Fund</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0060510293">On Top of the World: Cantor Fitzgerald, Howard Lutnick, & 9/11: A Story of Loss & Renewal</a> <br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2011 Stephanie Ericsson<i> </i></span></div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-22945246825008580302011-09-08T00:24:00.006-05:002011-09-12T03:19:35.198-05:00the three most important words on 9/11<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Part of a series in tribute to the 10th anniversary of 9/11</span> </span></div><br />
Twenty-three years ago, on a cold November day, my life totally collapsed like the World Trade Towers would collapse years later. My husband died suddenly. I was two months pregnant at the time after years of infertility treatment and all the heart-break that comes with it. I was too young to be a widow. Too pregnant. Too married and too in love.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTkUSg_gUs5tlc-ltiynrE_U-nY7a4JJnD7EcjUZDE7D5Jup66orVCg7797AxLOKOl_EjJLYl_zZtB-ppnxCKHBViNzCOwEacF0zqgGrZB6M1SSp6dpzydSHnRAiyNCEXx6V44G9giHY/s1600/scrile+911+fragmant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTkUSg_gUs5tlc-ltiynrE_U-nY7a4JJnD7EcjUZDE7D5Jup66orVCg7797AxLOKOl_EjJLYl_zZtB-ppnxCKHBViNzCOwEacF0zqgGrZB6M1SSp6dpzydSHnRAiyNCEXx6V44G9giHY/s400/scrile+911+fragmant.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>9-11 Fragment by Susan Crile</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The most indelible part of that change was the shift in paradigm that permanently altered the way that I saw the world. It was very disturbing at first, because it was suddenly very clear that this world was <i>deranged</i>. How we run it, what is important, how we ignore the most precious things in life—all seemed so, well—<i>insane</i>.<br />
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My husband’s death led me to write the book that I, myself, needed to read during that paradigm shift.That book opened up a world of people to me who, universally have had that same paradigm shift. We often joke that we are members of an exclusive club that we would never have joined given a choice, yet all of us know that we were now in possession of something urgently important—something <i>sacred</i>—as if God, Himself, had shared a secret with us.<br />
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Now, 18 years after I first published <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Companion-Through-Darkness-Inner-Dialogues/dp/0060969741">Companion through the Darkness</a>, I have a wealth of validation for all that I suspected was real, and right and true about this world.<br />
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My husband and I were on different continents when he died and I never got the chance to say my last “I love you” before he exited this world. Of all there was to deal with in widowhood, <i>that </i>was my greatest wound—not saying good-bye with all the love that I felt for him.<br />
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As the days passed after 9/11, recordings of the last phone calls made their way into news coverage. Again and again, the frantic messages had been,<i> I love you.</i> It was the most important message that everyone wanted to say, as they faced death on <i>either </i>side of the phone. They were a lucky minority --they would have an easier time healing, accepting and moving on.<br />
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For, when the playing field of life is leveled and we're all equally helpless, only one thing remains important—<i>I love you. </i><br />
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We who have survived devastating losses have a very special quality about us because we know this in our bones. We have survived the unsurvivable. In the new life we are given, we discover things like <i>redemption, forgiveness, the necessity of making meaning out of our suffering, the imperative to leave this world better for our having been in it, the greatness of small things, and the indisputable reality that we are all connected to one another. </i>This new paradigm shift automatically directs us to do <i>the next right thing.</i> No one has to educate us about what is important and what is not—we know this in our bones now.<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>©2011 Stephanie Ericsson </i></span></div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-69921576229821334992011-09-06T17:35:00.012-05:002011-09-12T03:20:11.896-05:00born on the 11th of september<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6MXhOOPX49u4rnNdspmpNdanFECZCTcbq2HqzPBvOHrT96VOloDlEXFH-dekg0YfkhbtDoAIQXg_AlYcB0jUf0zN54SI0J-fuyeXbrzb-bo367oqAT5UElnp-zPkLF5fW1bS7aXzLQ1c/s1600/survivor_covered_in_soot.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div style="text-align: right;"> <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Part of a series in tribute to the 10th anniversary of 9/11</span></div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6MXhOOPX49u4rnNdspmpNdanFECZCTcbq2HqzPBvOHrT96VOloDlEXFH-dekg0YfkhbtDoAIQXg_AlYcB0jUf0zN54SI0J-fuyeXbrzb-bo367oqAT5UElnp-zPkLF5fW1bS7aXzLQ1c/s1600/survivor_covered_in_soot.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6MXhOOPX49u4rnNdspmpNdanFECZCTcbq2HqzPBvOHrT96VOloDlEXFH-dekg0YfkhbtDoAIQXg_AlYcB0jUf0zN54SI0J-fuyeXbrzb-bo367oqAT5UElnp-zPkLF5fW1bS7aXzLQ1c/s320/survivor_covered_in_soot.jpg" width="227" /></a>I'm not superstitious. At least not anymore than the normal person. But human beings have always attached some sort of significance to births that happen on particular days... <i>He is a Christmas baby... Born on the 4th of July... She was born on her mother's birthday... </i>as if the coincidence says something prophetic about the child's life to come. And sometimes, it actually <i>does.</i><br />
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As a writer, I <i>am</i> guilty of noticing metaphors, which is just an extension of the same thing, only with more thought attached. I'm not claiming that all of those thoughts are <i>intelligent</i>, but they are certainly more intense. I find that sometimes, symbolism is just too coincidental to ignore. I think about patterns and the odds of things happening. I marvel at how <i>obvious </i>it can sometimes be, and I wonder <i>what it all means.</i><br />
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I was born on the 11th day of September in 1953.<br />
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On that same day in history in —<br />
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1297 - William Wallace defeated the British in the Battle of Stirling Bridge<br />
1609 – Henry Hudson discovers Manhattan<br />
1792 – The Hope Diamond is stolen<br />
1943 – The liquidation of the Jews began in Minsk & Lida by the Nazis<br />
1944 – The first Allied troops of the U.S. Army cross the western border of Germany.<br />
1985 – Pete Rose breaks Ty Cobb's record for most career hits with his 4,192nd hit<br />
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See a pattern? Me neither. What about people born on the same day?<br />
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1885 – D. H. Lawrence, English novelist<br />
1913 - Bear Bryant<br />
1935 - Arvo Pärt<br />
1940 - Brian De Palma <br />
1977 - Ludacris <br />
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Nope. Nada. I bear little or no resemblance to anyone on that list.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7KTl9tbSdHDr835pjF4EBr08JTLveJtHt4CDINA423NO64ra8lV_AsFDlLZDn39bzgSboQdsDXvq8Ys0UVJh7DeCUwGkVchWHF5LdRuVB_7aq3Vok-XB8FmBer_XmfgOK-XcqpRZOTo/s1600/september_11_ground_zero.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7KTl9tbSdHDr835pjF4EBr08JTLveJtHt4CDINA423NO64ra8lV_AsFDlLZDn39bzgSboQdsDXvq8Ys0UVJh7DeCUwGkVchWHF5LdRuVB_7aq3Vok-XB8FmBer_XmfgOK-XcqpRZOTo/s200/september_11_ground_zero.jpg" width="200" /></a>Until September 11th, 2001 when my entire country was collectively thrown into the agate-tumbler of grief at the death toll of 2,977 people, exceeding even Pearl Harbor.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7KTl9tbSdHDr835pjF4EBr08JTLveJtHt4CDINA423NO64ra8lV_AsFDlLZDn39bzgSboQdsDXvq8Ys0UVJh7DeCUwGkVchWHF5LdRuVB_7aq3Vok-XB8FmBer_XmfgOK-XcqpRZOTo/s1600/september_11_ground_zero.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
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That day began a transformation of our culture in much the same way that my husband's death set off the most profound transformation of my life in 1988.<br />
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I never envisioned writing a book about grief. Like most people, I avoided the subject at all costs and steered clear of anyone on such a 'downer.'<br />
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<a name='more'></a>As a child, I was seriously happy-go-lucky. My mother's nickname for me was Sunshine. To anyone who knew me then, I was destined for a life of puppy-dog tails and cotton candy. Whodathunk that my life's calling would be to work with people in grief?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVbkbuEERd58sqYszECSjVEsKqm9hiYOuyyBT7tIqWODXXiMUkOTrf_hmXPrV3jotM_sKsoPMSmI3YhOxQhm4ONxOTVhJ1rpNMC_a8JzgO8qou1tu_bEkN_V9RiXW_qukFfpm7grDDEw/s1600/me+n+mom+crop.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVbkbuEERd58sqYszECSjVEsKqm9hiYOuyyBT7tIqWODXXiMUkOTrf_hmXPrV3jotM_sKsoPMSmI3YhOxQhm4ONxOTVhJ1rpNMC_a8JzgO8qou1tu_bEkN_V9RiXW_qukFfpm7grDDEw/s320/me+n+mom+crop.jpg" width="282" /></a><br />
But that's what happened.<br />
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<a href="http://www.scottlondon.com/interviews/hillman.html">James Hillman</a>, in his book <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/970831.The_Soul_s_Code"><i>The Soul's Code, In Search of Character and Calling</i></a> re-visions the way that we think of our tragedies--that they are not tragedies at all, but simply the on-the-job training for what we were born to do. He changed my entire view of my life when he tells a story of how people described a man by saying: <i>The man married his mother...</i> Hillman reconfigures the logic... <i>but what if he chose his mother to prepare him to be married to that woman?</i><br />
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Elsewhere in the book, he describes a therapist whose particular genius is helping people through the darkness in their lives. Her on-the-job training was being forced, as a small child, to stay in a closet for days as punishment. In our traditional Freudian paradigm, we would consider her as deeply damaged from such an experience. We'd shake our heads and say "Such a shame..." We'd think of her as deeply <i>wounded</i>—(read <i>defective</i>, <i>inadequate</i>, <i>blemished...)</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge-UZpCvJOFk0Gn3cZpyK1LsWkZ-RmQ4c6w1bBx5NJ3YFxJjGxdVnRrkvXc0GUl_0CIoOod7krk30vjf1EGhbPuxUhQHYdyLmsFN3B8ujoDOu-7sYEpYCbVY4gw_mAeXqGQ5RCx_Ru4hk/s1600/1273_phoenix_logo_simple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge-UZpCvJOFk0Gn3cZpyK1LsWkZ-RmQ4c6w1bBx5NJ3YFxJjGxdVnRrkvXc0GUl_0CIoOod7krk30vjf1EGhbPuxUhQHYdyLmsFN3B8ujoDOu-7sYEpYCbVY4gw_mAeXqGQ5RCx_Ru4hk/s1600/1273_phoenix_logo_simple.jpg" /></a>And that would be right if you do not figure in the <i>phoenix-factor</i>. But the damage is not who she is. It does not define her in her totality. Human beings are far more than the mere sum of our experiences—particularly our injuries. Furthermore, it isn't so easy as the stereotype that she made lemonade our of the lemons of her childhood abuse. She forged something bigger than herself out of it that could be given to others. Something that transformed the lives of others. Something that will last far beyond her own lifetime. I'd say that was a calling, wouldn't you?<br />
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September 11th opened up our nation to the deluge of feelings that grief is all about—those things I speak about in <a href="http://www.harpercollins.com/browseinside/index.aspx?isbn13=9780060969745">Companion Through the Darkness</a>—<br />
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<blockquote><blockquote>"Grief is a tidal wave that overtakes you, smashes down upon you with unimaginable force, sweeps you up into its darkness, where you tumble and crash against unidentifiable surfaces, only to be thrown out on an unknown beach, bruised, reshaped. Grief will make a new person out of you if it doesn't kill you in the making." </blockquote></blockquote><br />
Until that day, grief was something in our culture that you quietly hid from others. Grief made you a pariah among our American culture obsessed with all things beautiful and fun. After all, it could be contagious. The grieving were reduced to stories told in bars as ways to pass the time.<br />
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After 9/11, people wept openly. They reached out and hugged each other. They told their stories and those who listened did not feel so alone anymore. They volunteered and donated. Some even quit their jobs and reinvented themselves.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5YfheLCUz2OeK3Y9yeLin3LjqN2CuT1HG-gE2BHAnpmjVR10aCUq4wbdG7xdcNo-A-CCdpFyVb41Qg8oZUf_4stbC8_77dpHUmIy_VJsdPrY4y1LlSlBJ62A4nU8uk72pp9mHftoWJws/s1600/911-memorial-NYC-1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5YfheLCUz2OeK3Y9yeLin3LjqN2CuT1HG-gE2BHAnpmjVR10aCUq4wbdG7xdcNo-A-CCdpFyVb41Qg8oZUf_4stbC8_77dpHUmIy_VJsdPrY4y1LlSlBJ62A4nU8uk72pp9mHftoWJws/s320/911-memorial-NYC-1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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These were only some of the ways that my own life was transformed by grief. Over the years, I have companioned many people through their grief, and those numbers continue to grow. Loss is something that will happen to all of us, eventually, so my work is never done. To anyone who hasn't walked this road, it would be easy to imagine that I've grown more serious, even morose. But those who know me know that isn't true. I'm back to that natural state of joy I had as a child. I'm not afraid of pain anymore. It doesn't define me. But it has certainly given me an appreciation of life that I never would have had without it.<br />
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I believe that collectively, as a nation, we could say the same of September 11th, 2001. It gave us our hearts back.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwXNHbXmU2osGbe-SgbtVjzeKoqQFm1Wmz8-SV9IFDXMn8gBAYLWpzub5HWZRouO6_DQqHtzko2qp3HnDrgcri9FJV99wbHsMcCv8xoqjO0isqzKCn8ExObBznOrsEi6yYQe0u3kChJ4c/s1600/HEART-rIGHTLYCorrected2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwXNHbXmU2osGbe-SgbtVjzeKoqQFm1Wmz8-SV9IFDXMn8gBAYLWpzub5HWZRouO6_DQqHtzko2qp3HnDrgcri9FJV99wbHsMcCv8xoqjO0isqzKCn8ExObBznOrsEi6yYQe0u3kChJ4c/s200/HEART-rIGHTLYCorrected2.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote>"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye."<br />
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~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>© Stephanie Ericsson 2011</i></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-16717992036136871402011-09-06T05:36:00.018-05:002011-09-06T21:51:15.440-05:00STEVE PRIMERO & STEVE SEGUNDO, by steve tecero<i>STEPHEN SELEY - New York Times Obituaries</i><i> </i><br />
<i>Published: May 14, 1982</i><i> </i><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1B2PDXWt8sQ/SSrX9sFcLVI/AAAAAAAADrM/N5FhGPJagS8/s1600/STEVE+Seley.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1B2PDXWt8sQ/SSrX9sFcLVI/AAAAAAAADrM/N5FhGPJagS8/s1600/STEVE+Seley.jpg" /></a><i>"Stephen Seley, an American novelist, died of a heart attack last Saturday in Ibiza, Spain, where he had lived since 1957.</i><br />
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He was 67 years old.<br />
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Mr. Seley, who was born in Brooklyn and grew up in South Orange, N.J., and Newark, wrote ''The Cradle Will Fall,'' published by Harcourt, Brace & Company in 1945; ''Baxter Bernstein: A Hero of Sorts,'' published by Charles Scribner's Sons in 1949, and ''The End of Mercy,'' published by De Bezige Bij of Amsterdam in 1969.</i><br />
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Surviving is a brother, Jason, a sculptor and dean of Cornell University's College of Architecture, Art and Planning.<i>_________________________________</i><i> End of obit.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jZJ9XSG364I/SSrX8lSbG0I/AAAAAAAADq8/YIarE45A-Bg/s1600/Steve%252BSeley_at+Bar+Estrella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jZJ9XSG364I/SSrX8lSbG0I/AAAAAAAADq8/YIarE45A-Bg/s320/Steve%252BSeley_at+Bar+Estrella.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">God holding court at Bar Estrel</td></tr>
</tbody></table><i></i>Seley was my father's best friend. The <i>Two Steves</i> were infamous in their own right on Ibiza where the locals called them <i>Steve Primero</i> and <i>Steve Segundo</i> in order to tell one from the other. <br />
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When I arrived on the island in 1972, the locals immediately named me, <i>Steve Tecero.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC14D4YOBLRILIYk9QbkgYtx4DV6dGBXXyudMUaedqS2bERtCI2U69YLZFGsnLEmjpQXVPi6KgKsnrLhjA9tcEP0qiOyVUvkwUSwlEpwnY29yNMYRilib01yIPHxVfTofgXESHtpoauQs/s1600/DadInbiza+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC14D4YOBLRILIYk9QbkgYtx4DV6dGBXXyudMUaedqS2bERtCI2U69YLZFGsnLEmjpQXVPi6KgKsnrLhjA9tcEP0qiOyVUvkwUSwlEpwnY29yNMYRilib01yIPHxVfTofgXESHtpoauQs/s200/DadInbiza+%25282%2529.JPG" width="194" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve II Ericsson</td></tr>
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My father was a painter and between Steve, the writer and Steve, the painter, there was plenty of trouble to get into. They'd met in 1960 when my father was working on a ship that had docked in the harbor. Seley got my father so drunk that he showed up on the docks to ship out 2 days late, and the only thing he found were his bags sitting on the dock. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPL3ef7XZUwrsIObi33eYGF4lvWrh7PVmKwggLFusv4u0N8mDEbz3g6XnujbUp4wEFnm4ydomD4xF7H6ebgwoc0hzl4yJDOA9A2j9JmnN6HqY5Pqb9tAdngOm-FVMuEvUYilyJUF6Erk/s1600/Lady+Adriana+%2528+Ibiza+Truus%2529+the+old+days..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPL3ef7XZUwrsIObi33eYGF4lvWrh7PVmKwggLFusv4u0N8mDEbz3g6XnujbUp4wEFnm4ydomD4xF7H6ebgwoc0hzl4yJDOA9A2j9JmnN6HqY5Pqb9tAdngOm-FVMuEvUYilyJUF6Erk/s200/Lady+Adriana+%2528+Ibiza+Truus%2529+the+old+days..jpg" width="145" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ibiza bag</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We used to meet every morning for coffee and <i>hierbas, (a local hangover remedy based mostly on the hair of the dog). </i>Seley would be reading some passed-down, out-of-date newspaper and ranting about the state of the world. My father would be holding on to his basket (the traditional Ibizenco all-purpose bag that doubled as a shopping bag, overnight bag, whatever) ready to do his daily grocery shopping. I would still be drunk from the night before so I didn't care what those two were doing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWVMysYt4gzOkVZaFp13-Pfhr0W6kNXK3FwZ5iQ2LhC5rste9ALSN2JGhOcFIdPc3r1ajXXKVZt37s79BitbonxYvnXkRW92ZqbJbaSBJTa8h0Ktcmm1iMgk-6BMgg28ZnyTFH1hkv_f8/s1600/OldTownSquare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWVMysYt4gzOkVZaFp13-Pfhr0W6kNXK3FwZ5iQ2LhC5rste9ALSN2JGhOcFIdPc3r1ajXXKVZt37s79BitbonxYvnXkRW92ZqbJbaSBJTa8h0Ktcmm1iMgk-6BMgg28ZnyTFH1hkv_f8/s320/OldTownSquare.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve II 1980</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">My father's moniker for Seley was 'God'. <i>Did you see God today? </i>he'd ask me. <i>What did God have to say about you're antics last night in the disco?... </i>shame shame. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Seley's nickname for my father was <i>The Nurse</i>, because he'd nursed Seley back to life on several occasions from his renowned binges. Seley had returned the favor when my father ran away from his wife, The Warden,, which happened so regularly, that he finally rented an apartment across the street from Seley.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nJz36lTksRg/SZJUROeQHII/AAAAAAAAE-U/Y6avM90rnVw/s1600/OldTownSquare.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="184" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SG22RUzcO0c/SZIEEcHtLwI/AAAAAAAAE8Q/IX_RxamI_pU/s320/The+old+clan+%2528Dad+in+this%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L- Seley & 3rd from L- Ericss </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
My father died suddenly in Jan. of 1981, of a stroke in his sleep. Seley was inconsolable. He'd lost his best friend, drinking buddy, partner in crime and nurse. He died the following year. I will forever treasure my memories of these two cracking private jokes at the Estrella and stumbling home drunk, holding each other up. I sure hope that there's a well-stocked bar in Heaven...<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">RIP Steves I & II, Love, Steve III</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
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</div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com3Balearic Islands, Spain39.0200099 1.482148199999983338.2929564 -0.087849800000016742 39.747063399999995 3.0521461999999833tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-68975585737487130842011-09-06T02:21:00.079-05:002011-09-07T02:49:02.159-05:00remembering Lonne Elder, III, mentor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZaIkUOBnsm2JRfghO3tRsVaYsmALi3O_ACa_lsbUrBKsOqgbk6cYeqdKsdjlvA-RQpnnXbCDwi4DDijrrvJ4VASgUvo9u-HT3e0TbHndVI8wgHZHWJgHg1xf3Zg1D5-Qx_AyLCHd9i0c/s1600/bird_of_head_and_naked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZaIkUOBnsm2JRfghO3tRsVaYsmALi3O_ACa_lsbUrBKsOqgbk6cYeqdKsdjlvA-RQpnnXbCDwi4DDijrrvJ4VASgUvo9u-HT3e0TbHndVI8wgHZHWJgHg1xf3Zg1D5-Qx_AyLCHd9i0c/s1600/bird_of_head_and_naked.jpg" /></a></div>Years ago, I asked the writer, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0253039/">Lonne Elder, III</a>, what it was like to start on a blank page. This is the sort of thing that one writer would ask another writer. <br />
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He said, <br />
<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote>"It is like being caught, at high noon, in the store front window of Bloomingdales, making love to my mother..."</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><br />
I worked for Lonne in the early years of my career. He isn't a household name for the masses, but within the national Black community that grew out of the sixties, he was a lion, revered by the Black intelligentsia. He is most famous for his movie, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0069303/">Sounder</a>, for which he was one of the first two African Americans to be nominated for an Academy Award and for his brilliant play, <a href="http://us.macmillan.com/ceremoniesindarkoldmen">Ceremonies in Dark Old Men</a>, which was nominated for a Pulitzer. He was one of the founding members of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Negro_Ensemble_Company">Negro Ensemble Company</a> where the likes of Samuel L. Jackson, Laurence Fishburne, and Lou Gossett, Jr. began their careers. He championed of a whole generation of black performers who broke through into mainstream entertainment during the sixties and the seventies.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMRcrSyN-Zq0MrOEd301BUL6bXVjeKdCLnBtIJABYSooCmn8ImcP3_IiETiHCl1HzAJEmje2e9ESirN8y3jIJWuGYjSVN6D5spY3VGbaPxIqW-tNz6fukkelANgRX1oNo24xCVFE3TGM/s320/lonne.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="258" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lonne Elder, III</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I met him one day when someone sent me over to his house to help him with some typing. I was 23, bouncy and very white. He met me at the door with his signature Swisher drooping out of the side of his mouth, grunted then turned around and walked back into the house. Since he didn't slam the door in my face, I assumed that I was supposed to follow him. He was built like a small bear and he lumbered more than walked. He showed me a desk and a typewriter, gave me some blank paper and a manuscript. When he finished explaining whatever it was that he wanted done, I realized that I had not understood a single word he'd said. This was the beginning of my <i>ebonics</i> education, long before that term was ever coined.<br />
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<i>It was a test</i>. Would this skinny, white girl tough it out until the eloquent Lonne emerged?<br />
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Well, I did. He left me alone in that little room in his house with the first draft of what would become <a href="http://www.csmonitor.com/1988/0427/lmum.html">Splendid Mummer</a>, and that day, I fell in love with his words.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PxjrplpFE39jhsmwT9aZCeZVdSC9AO6ANtfNSJCsfonUtcNzPSCJTiB4B32IK9lQAM_tyh11fSfEAsheUyY3swqT1yb9LKRQ_AcWLfCalDkH15B4JzxfO9Nf-9bWzuiNdFiS_y4ojsM/s1600/cermones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PxjrplpFE39jhsmwT9aZCeZVdSC9AO6ANtfNSJCsfonUtcNzPSCJTiB4B32IK9lQAM_tyh11fSfEAsheUyY3swqT1yb9LKRQ_AcWLfCalDkH15B4JzxfO9Nf-9bWzuiNdFiS_y4ojsM/s200/cermones.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I don't know why he kept me on as a typist in those early days. I've never been able to type. Back then, before computers, before even the correctable Selectric, I had to be hooked up to a 55 gallon drum of Liquid Paper. His drafts looked better than my re-typed ones. I used to marvel at the sound of his typing in the next room, bursts and fits of machine-gun fire. But, for some reason, he tolerated me and I tolerated his shuck and jive until the manuscript was done and I moved on to my next project. In those days, as a baby-writer, I was working with a co-writer/comedian, and living a bi-coastal life between L.A. and New York, which may sound glamorous, but it was just the way everyone in 'the biz' lived: work like hell and then move to the next job. <br />
<br />
Within months, he called me and somehow, I guessed through the thick jive and stuttering that he wanted me to come and work for him again, this time on a made-for-television movie, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0084790/">Thou Shalt Not Kill</a>, for Warner Brothers and NBC. From that point on, I became part of his team for the next 3 movies, and although the work was irregular, and I was busy working on a million other things, we fell into a rhythm and pattern of working that became the foundation of my own writing career. <br />
<br />
Every day, I'd do clerky things for him until about 4 in the afternoon, when the typewriter would go silent. "Ah, ah, ah, ha, Sweetheart..." he'd call out, "come here," was my signal that the grunt-work was done and it was time to discuss the writing of the day. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJq6NmHQIyr6VdYHwR_XTXKQiDeWvh2hc3mULz36G_btkeQ0RXjxR-Fe1pVVr_TbzNs90C2cwJbAynb2yh1BdCNxp9ajQegoxibxwVvXVTd26T48Og3ulE6sTqMJgn1LY4e90MTpWfNGc/s1600/lonne+carter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJq6NmHQIyr6VdYHwR_XTXKQiDeWvh2hc3mULz36G_btkeQ0RXjxR-Fe1pVVr_TbzNs90C2cwJbAynb2yh1BdCNxp9ajQegoxibxwVvXVTd26T48Og3ulE6sTqMJgn1LY4e90MTpWfNGc/s200/lonne+carter.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elder with Jimmy Carter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>That is when I got to know the eloquent, erudite Lonne Elder, III, not just from the page, but in the flesh. It became tradition for him to pour us both a healthy glass of Cognac, chop up a few lines of coke, and talk until 10 at night, discussing character development, language, human psychology, and anything else that came up. <i>This </i>Lonne I had no problem understanding for the ebonics disappeared as his natural eloquence emerged. He'd trained as an actor at Yale and knew the power of speech better than anyone I've ever known, before or since. I treasured those talks. They taught me the essence of drama, the discipline of writing, and the brutal honesty that a writer <i>has </i>to achieve on the page. <br />
<br />
We did three movies, a mini-series (<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078509/">A Woman Called Moses</a>) and a play together, and during that time, I became his story editor. My love for his words grew as I watched him work. He made me aware of my own intuitive understanding of people as he relied more and more on my opinions in his character and story development. This was a good thing because I was a hopeless typist. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs8A6kg2Gp2YQyEAITOxmbSlXXkgDoBCTVM3Uc_oQ5EDK2tTnBLuTwq4xjURoOmt7xSGU9GaoDaaMj6iuDw-FtcngcmOkWL6VykNXDVpaHA0LfwqyG_QYQ0P1F0CVvSSBHrs-dV4zTMv8/s1600/lonne2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs8A6kg2Gp2YQyEAITOxmbSlXXkgDoBCTVM3Uc_oQ5EDK2tTnBLuTwq4xjURoOmt7xSGU9GaoDaaMj6iuDw-FtcngcmOkWL6VykNXDVpaHA0LfwqyG_QYQ0P1F0CVvSSBHrs-dV4zTMv8/s200/lonne2.jpg" width="163" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite expression</td></tr>
</tbody></table>He came to visit me in 1988 when my husband died, and asked me to come back and work with him again but I was too destroyed in my own grief at the time to even consider it. That was the last time I saw him, for he died a few years later in 1996. <br />
<br />
His standard of being brutally honest on the page was the most vital mentoring I could ever have received. It set the bar very high. <i>Unless I was terrified of saying what I wanted to say, I wasn't telling the truth.</i><br />
<br />
<i>T</i><i>HAT </i>is what it is like for a writer to face a blank sheet of paper.<br />
<br />
© 2011 Stephanie Ericsson <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMRcrSyN-Zq0MrOEd301BUL6bXVjeKdCLnBtIJABYSooCmn8ImcP3_IiETiHCl1HzAJEmje2e9ESirN8y3jIJWuGYjSVN6D5spY3VGbaPxIqW-tNz6fukkelANgRX1oNo24xCVFE3TGM/s1600/lonne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-70543153105447945212011-09-05T00:38:00.001-05:002011-09-05T00:41:06.833-05:00out of the ashes<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"> A couple of years ago, a girlfriend sent me this photo with this note attached:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Steph~ </i></div><i> </i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5LpKd6LJVMavs5szJ3UlmzcOb_JWvHnoOxA578l-9-TLhOMeUMsnRlHg8tFLrVSfv16cXpxB1s-CKGmNlOY6XgoKOi6GfdkkYmTvvRPKoz0QxYN40pZ66tqv_E_I5yyXzDX_Mhk_s1g/s1600/Believe+in+this+life.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5LpKd6LJVMavs5szJ3UlmzcOb_JWvHnoOxA578l-9-TLhOMeUMsnRlHg8tFLrVSfv16cXpxB1s-CKGmNlOY6XgoKOi6GfdkkYmTvvRPKoz0QxYN40pZ66tqv_E_I5yyXzDX_Mhk_s1g/s320/Believe+in+this+life.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Graffiti at Ground Zero after 9/11</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“This was on side of the road at ground Zero in NYC after 9/11. Taken by a gal that I know. It's one of my favorites. I have the original and often find myself staring at it. Can't imagine the horror of it all and yet having the courage & guts to spray paint this...bet it was a #cowboyupgurlz...</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>XXOO </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>S"</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her note arrived during my own personal 9/11 when the entire infrastructure of my life had collapsed and I was wandering through my days, confused and stunned like those ghostly, ash-covered pedestrians caught nearby when the Twin Towers collapsed. Notes like this one were lifelines for me. I wasn't alone. And I wasn't dead. I could cling to the love of our "#cowboyupgurlz club" of women who also had risen from a pile of ashes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When the playing field of life is flattened, the way it was for our whole nation on 9/11/2001, nothing else is important except saying, "I love you" before it's too late. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">©2011 Stephanie Ericsson </div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-17284543796036941192011-09-03T23:56:00.000-05:002011-09-04T00:05:27.138-05:00a beginners guide to using facebook...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXTYn6O3QGFl5gQySdhPEAqCXnX5fkfxEqp9BJ3rEtIOKYwUDcXrjRVLhBzSED0jtlMM0NPkjyXcYicvl2tn-URiQOKWTEr8MCGrldzAKM58bvNeLAPu50mChnJZFKZeH6FFydsU0A9Q/s1600/A+beginners+guide+to+Facebook.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXTYn6O3QGFl5gQySdhPEAqCXnX5fkfxEqp9BJ3rEtIOKYwUDcXrjRVLhBzSED0jtlMM0NPkjyXcYicvl2tn-URiQOKWTEr8MCGrldzAKM58bvNeLAPu50mChnJZFKZeH6FFydsU0A9Q/s320/A+beginners+guide+to+Facebook.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
These days, I've been building a Facebook page for another writer who is a long-time client of mine. My first challenge is that he is used to working with the stone-age tools of pen and yellow pad, but fortunately, he's stumbled around his computer at home and work long enough to acquire a few basic computer skills. Still, to be <i>just </i>starting out on Facebook was like throwing himself into the middle of a stampede without a running jump.. What to do... what to do...<br />
<br />
I realized that, in order for him to have a <i>clue</i> about what <i>I</i> was doing for him, I had to teach him about Facebook, which would take a fair bit of time babysitting him at the computer and I didn't think that was the best use of my time. What to do... what to do...<br />
<br />
So, I decided to create a lesson plan... <a href="https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=explorer&chrome=true&srcid=0B02GUCv2fx1BZDA0NDdlMjgtN2VmYi00MGIzLWFlYTktYzI1Y2RjNmY0ZDI2&hl=en">the beginners guide to using Facebook</a> covering the basics.<br />
<br />
I set about making it with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNLE5z7jNaM&feature=related">eight-by-ten colour glossy photographs ... with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one. </a><br />
<br />
When it was all done, I was proud of my new creation—my bravura it's not but it sure was fun. And useful. At least for that minority of humanity that doesn't know how to use Facebook... poor dears... That's the equivalent of not knowing how to use a fork and knife... or an iphone... <br />
<br />
So, if you happened to run across someone who is sadly Facebook-challenged, perhaps this little lesson plan will give them the launch they need to become mavens of social media. If not, they can enjoy the music I put with it. Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-1740757358159977522011-09-03T02:51:00.000-05:002011-09-03T04:36:49.170-05:00Your favorite bookstore carries Companion Through The Darkness<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPuzomQxRqrf3oLyI2W6jfuq9eKibqdIqn44HYmipi_vZrCJR0oriUrXLn_JwFXsoLPuyB8YLkDIaelLPgtAL5wTrAjO_95B8ogNaGODlJHHpENsmBySuLpd434skR_juqoaV_oKjnpvw/s1600/Back+of+my+book.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPuzomQxRqrf3oLyI2W6jfuq9eKibqdIqn44HYmipi_vZrCJR0oriUrXLn_JwFXsoLPuyB8YLkDIaelLPgtAL5wTrAjO_95B8ogNaGODlJHHpENsmBySuLpd434skR_juqoaV_oKjnpvw/s200/Back+of+my+book.1.jpg" width="133" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_4UyrTI90dP5tKlx2Kru79HCU7wwUNEyNBA8bvnoqXkRw5aHMZPAKJTfTZgSoTD8WIczkN4qfm_b4KPae-XOCtJ0GhfYkn-rMhN9E58DDNK72fE24N44l04EunN7CTukCsFtJwm5u_I/s1600/Front+of+book+hi+rez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_4UyrTI90dP5tKlx2Kru79HCU7wwUNEyNBA8bvnoqXkRw5aHMZPAKJTfTZgSoTD8WIczkN4qfm_b4KPae-XOCtJ0GhfYkn-rMhN9E58DDNK72fE24N44l04EunN7CTukCsFtJwm5u_I/s200/Front+of+book+hi+rez.jpg" width="132" /></a><br />
Would you like to buy Companion Through the Darkness? Or send it to someone who is struggling with grief? Follow this link to choose your favorite bookstore and it will go straight to Companion's page.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.harpercollins.com/book/buy.aspx?isbn13=9780060969745#.TmHchLrsw70.blogger">Places you can buy Companion Through The Darkness: Inner Dialogues on Grief by Stephanie Ericsson </a>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-1253546069298784962011-09-02T01:17:00.000-05:002011-09-04T08:02:29.130-05:00confessions of a guerrilla gardener<span xmlns=""></span><br />
<span xmlns="">"I LIVE IN FROGTOWN," I told my friends in New York nine years ago, when I moved to this neighborhood in St. Paul. For them, the name conjured up an image of quaint little village </span>lamp posts draped <span xmlns="">with baskets of petunias. I couldn't restrain the snort that escaped from me when I heard that. "Trust me—" I said, "—there isn't a Starbucks within <i>miles</i>."<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Who knows where the moniker "Frogtown" was coined—but the land used to be swampy and has always been populated by immigrants. Most likely, it was a combination of the name, Froshburg, (frog city) that its German settlers used for it and the ancient and politically incorrect nickname used for the French, who also settled here. Either way, Frogtown was populated by frogs and the name stuck.<br />
</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CBSZN_6UDLs/R32ySfK0m1I/AAAAAAAAAMs/gc2iWM5PXIo/s1600/Into+the+Garden+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CBSZN_6UDLs/R32ySfK0m1I/AAAAAAAAAMs/gc2iWM5PXIo/s320/Into+the+Garden+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span xmlns="">Frogtown has never been gentry-fied. It's pure hoi polloi. A bevy of working-stiffs, emigrants & refugees. It's the largest, poorest, youngest, most ethnically diverse neighborhood in the Twin Cities. Without a doubt—it's the 'hood. I got my first clue to this when the neighborhood patriarch, who'd live on my block for the past 60 years, asked me,<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"Why would you move here voluntarily?"</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Well, coming from New York, it looked like a normal neighborhood to me…and besides, it had a double lot for my passion—gardening—at an affordable price.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Now, I'm not a social butterfly and I'm sure no social worker so if it wasn't for my garden, I never would have met my neighbors. But it seems that if you're always on your knees, digging in the dirt, you're granted a diplomatic passport in the 'hood</span>—<span xmlns=""><i>anybody </i>will talk to you.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">So, in my nine years of crawling around my yard on all fours, I've met just about everyone </span>in Frogtown<span xmlns="">—little kids stopping by for a drink from the hose on a hot day and ancient Hmong women who grin toothlessly, point at my flowers, nod, and grin again; barefoot hookers coming home after a night's work, carrying 4-inch stilettos; dignified old men in hats pushing grand babies in strollers; gang-bangers looking for lost pit bulls and sleepy mothers waiting for school buses; twitchy tweakers waiting for dealers and dog walkers who keep track of my blossoms. Neighbors—all of them.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">But I confess, my garden grew out of my frustrations with all the garbage in the gutters, the ugliness of poverty and the total lack of pride in the neighborhood. <i>Why</i>, I wondered, <i>are rich neighborhoods so clean and ghettos so dirty?</i> </span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">I remember as a kid, asking my mother if we were poor. She answered w</span>ithout any shame,<br />
<span xmlns="">"Yes, baby, we're poor." So my next question was,<br />
</span><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2AjH0ztUzy4/R8npVhmQEhI/AAAAAAAABP8/28O-5T0VqqM/s1600/paintedPeony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2AjH0ztUzy4/R8npVhmQEhI/AAAAAAAABP8/28O-5T0VqqM/s200/paintedPeony.jpg" width="200" /></a><span xmlns="">"Then, how come we aren't dirty?"<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"Because," she said laughing out loud, "darling, <i>soap is cheap!</i>"<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">I never forgot her answer. <i>Poor </i>doesn't have to go hand-in-hand with <i>dirty</i>—or <i>ugly</i>. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">But in a place where the relentlessness of poverty sucks away any enthusiasm, where litter blows freely from curb to curb, hopelessness eventually becomes part of the landscape. Depression is a <i>season </i></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><i> </i>and <span xmlns="">frustration is the daily weather forecast. We begin to believe that we don't deserve to be happy, or clean, or successful. And we certainly don't deserve beauty around us. Beauty is an unattainable luxury—something you</span> can't afford, especially if you use the local food shelf… Right?<br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">But beauty is powerful. It changes how you see the world. It changes how you feel in the world. It lifts your step the way a change of season can. If you doubt this, just try being miserable on a beautiful day. I dare you to stay depressed in a lovely garden. It isn't possible. Because beauty is a basic human need, not an indulgence. It isn't superfluous. It's as vital as air. And it's even cheaper than soap. Imagination and a little hard work are free.<br />
</span><span xmlns="">That is how my garden grew. I was so weary of ugliness that I picked up the garbage not only from in front of my house but in front of my neighbors' houses too. I planted more perennials. And annuals. Petunias, pansies, peonies, daisies, dianthus, phlox and cleome. I figured that if I made my corner gorgeous, kept my corner clean, maybe someone in a funk would feel a little better when they walked by. If someone saw me picking up garbage in the street in front of their house, maybe they wouldn't toss it out their car window. If I put out a bowl of water for thirsty dogs, dog-walkers would smile. Maybe, just maybe, one or two kids would feel proud of their neighborhood.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">What I figured was that if at least <i>one </i>person smiled everyday because my garden pleased them, it would be a victory. It might just give someone a little bit of hope on a day that they really needed it. And <i>I</i> <i>?</i> I would have struck a blow against pestilent poverty—the kind that deadens the soul after a while.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">A garden won't save the world, but it's <i>something</i>. In return, I get to live around beauty and defy forces that drag us down so we lose our self-respect. Strangely enough, people rarely litter any more on my corner. Best of all, I know my most of my neighbors.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">I owe it all to my mother and this guerrilla garden.</span><br />
<br />
<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" src="http://www.facebook.com/plugins/like.php?app_id=234713306574210&href=http%3A%2F%2Fawriterforallreasons.blogspot.com%2F2008%2F04%2Fconfessions-of-guerrilla-gardener.html&send=false&layout=standard&width=450&show_faces=true&action=like&colorscheme=light&font=arial&height=80" style="border: none; height: 80px; overflow: hidden; width: 450px;"></iframe>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com1St Paul, MN, USA44.954166699999988 -93.113888944.901858199999985 -93.2156224 45.00647519999999 -93.012155400000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-43910290791686090972011-08-28T20:46:00.000-05:002011-09-03T19:25:54.952-05:00Join The Companions Facebook Group<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Join other readers discuss their thoughts about grief in the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/thecompanionsgroup/">Companions Facebook Group</a>. It's a 'Closed' group, which means that there's privacy to talk about more intimate, personal things. It's a growing, active group of survivors. Read both excerpts of my book and more recent writings of mine and become part of a very caring, authentic community. You'll be welcome.<br />
<br />Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8170683600104449178.post-49990758879945834492011-08-27T12:30:00.017-05:002011-09-06T04:54:18.864-05:00Back in the Saddle Again<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Two months ago, I officially retired as a mother, moved into my own place, and have begun the ‘next phase’ of my life. It’s not unlike being 17 all over again, wondering what I want to be when I grow up. Now I don’t have the tug of raising kids that so completely dominated my life for the past 23 years. As sad as it is to let go, there are such possibilities ahead that I can get a little giddy.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve spent a great deal of time working with Facebook in the past couple of years. I created a <a href="http://www.facebook.com/CompanionThroughDarkness">Facebook Page</a> for my book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Companion-Through-Darkness-Inner-Dialogues/dp/0060969741">Companion Through The Darkness</a></i>, which led to creating a Facebook Group called <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/thecompanionsgroup/">The Companions</a> for my readers. After years of hearing from individual readers about their reactions to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Companion, </i>I was finally given a way to connect these people to each other—something I believe is critical in healing grief. It’s been an incredible experience to become involved in the lives of my readers, who are the most authentic people that I’ve ever met. I am in awe of how the Internet has given rise to not only the ways that grieving people can find support through a common community, but also with the number of those communities that have sprung up since I wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Companion</i>, 23 years ago. This has led me to design a series of workshops/retreats, which I will be announcing in the future.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aCpH1VD_fX0/R5toIqxJbHI/AAAAAAAAHXs/xvKSwLPYn9c/s1600/P3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aCpH1VD_fX0/R5toIqxJbHI/AAAAAAAAHXs/xvKSwLPYn9c/s320/P3.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>Because of Facebook, I now also hear from students around the world who have read my essay, “The Ways We Lie”, which is thoroughly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">delightful</i>. This essay, (originally published as the cover story for the <a href="http://www.utne.com/">Utne Reader</a>’s issue, “The Whole Truth About Lying, Trust Us” [Nov-Dec 1992]), has been reprinted in textbooks for college English for the past 18 years. With Facebook now connecting everyone in the world, students are able to find <a href="http://www.facebook.com/stephericsson">me on Facebook</a> and start a dialogue about the essay. It’s very rewarding to hear them tell me that this essay changed the way they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think </i>about truth and lies, what constitutes a lie and why, and what are the consequences of the lies we tell. Some have said that it actually has changed their lives. Because of all this interest, I have created a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Ways-We-Lie/223999297651147?sk=wall">new Facebook Page</a> for this essay which is only <i>just </i>up and running.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m also building a web-presence for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Dr-Stephen-Zuckerman/275708575776744">Dr. Stephen Zuckerman</a>, whose first three books I edited in years past. This has meant getting back on the learning curve, something I really love doing. I will post Zuckerman’s pages as they're created.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve decommissioned my blog, <i>Confessions, Thoughts Better Not Left Unsaid</i>, for now, because it needed a major re-design. I will be combining some of that blog into this one. I’m also looking into various web software for blogging to decide which one will suit my needs. In the mean time, I'm blogging here at 'a writer for all reasons.'<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is really great to be back in the writing saddle again. I’m loving it in a way I never did before. I <i>still,</i> however, hate the paperwork!<br />
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</div>Stephanie Ericssonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14987425156369311076noreply@blogger.com0St Paul, MN, USA44.954166699999988 -93.113888944.901858199999985 -93.2156224 45.00647519999999 -93.012155400000012