tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10153390386324841312024-03-20T02:38:13.046-07:00It's Not About The Hair"The irreverent reverend with something to say."Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.comBlogger97125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-61157646953753683922017-09-15T14:01:00.000-07:002017-09-15T14:01:29.215-07:00<br />
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Greetings! I'm now blogging for University Congregational United Church of Christ. Yes, it's a mouthful which is why we always just say, "U. Cong." Although sometimes this sounds like, "Yukon." And then people then you go to church way up in the frozen North.<br />
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Here is where you'll find me:<br />
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https://universityucc.org/how-hard-could-it-be/<br />
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https://universityucc.org/pained-glass/<br />
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https://universityucc.org/a-window-into-the-soul/<br />
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Enjoy and don't hesitate to leave comments there.<br />
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<br />Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-2863818180710278632016-08-06T12:53:00.002-07:002016-08-06T12:53:28.678-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My biggest reason for disliking (I started to write "hating" but I don't want to be a hater) the Blue Angels is because of my friend Claude. He died of AIDS in 1992 in Bailey-Boushay here in Seattle. I spent a lot of time with Claude at the end of his life. Three days before he died he was going in and out of consciousness like dying people often do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I was sitting with him when the Blue Angels flew over Bailey-Boushay. He opened his eyes in terror and cried, "What is that?!" Now Claude was a deeply spiritual person and we had very open and direct conversations about dying, death and the possibility of an afterlife. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So when I answered, "The Blue Angels," he sat up gasping in horror. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Angels? Are you sure? Are they coming for me?" The noise was deafening, frightening. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I tried to explain but I had to shout over the noise which just upset Claude even more. He grasped my arm with that unexplainable strength of a dying person and shouted, "Why are you screaming?" This would have been funny if he were not so terrified, and drug addled and, well--dying. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">All I could do was lean over and hold his bony body and pat his shoulder blades that stuck out like pancake turners. "It's okay, it's okay. You are safe." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I was glad he couldn't see me crying. I, too felt scared as if we were under attack--and of course we were--but not by the Blue Angels. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Now every time I hear or see the Blue Angels I have that same angry/sad/ terrified reaction and have to tell myself, "It's okay, it's okay. You are safe."</span>Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-18932432115202405012016-02-29T18:41:00.000-08:002016-02-29T18:41:39.163-08:00Leap Day!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Yes, it's Leap Day and I feel I should make some kind of leap--physical or metaphorical. But I'm too tired to make a physical leap. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We just got back from a wild weekend in Los Angeles where we had a gathering of two families who were united by a wedding. Lots of staying up late and having fun--such a burden.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The wedding was between Wes's cousin's daughter Karina <span style="background-color: magenta;"><span></span></span>and a really nice man named Rickie. They were already quietly married in November on the beach in Mexico. So this weekend was a big celebration of that small ceremony. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Friday the two families met at an Italian restaurant. There were lots of children and 20--40 year olds, so lots of crazy fun energy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Saturday was a homey lunch for a few of us given by the the mother-of-the-bride at her place in Venice. Delicious food, beautiful weather. Everyone talked, listened and laughed. Very low-key, shorts and flip-flops. (None of the women wore the Fashion Grimace which is that pinched look you get from Spanx and high heels.) Then Saturday night was the big blow-out reception with fabulous food, drink and dancing. And grimacing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Not me of course. I wore completely unfashionable peep-toe, patent leather sling-back flats that I've had since 1997. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Then we caught a plane back to Seattle just in time to watch the Oscars with dear, old friends.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So where am I going with this? What is the leap? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Well, last night I had this dream: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><style>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am taking a friend to show her a house. I say, “This is where
I lived for a while. This is where I learned to say, ‘F**k you. I’m taking my
own path. Blessings upon you.’ It’s important that you say all three." I tell her. "You can’t
just say, ‘F**k you.’ You always need to say all three, especially ‘Blessings upon you.’” </span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So maybe the leap is an interpretive one about the meaning of this dream. Here goes: the first part of life, it's easy to just say, "F**k you," and leave--a job, a relationship, a living situation. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then we learn that instead of just running away, it's more important to move <i>toward</i> something, toward our own truth. Hence, "I'm taking my own path."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And finally, as we move toward our own paths, our truth, we want to leave behind nothing but love and kindness. Therefore, "Blessings upon you."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So perhaps the "leap" is that in 30 years of knowing Wes's family and our Oscar watching friends, I see that discovering our truths and our paths is an ongoing thing for everyone. It's not just the domain of newlyweds or the recent college graduates. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But perhaps for those of us who have been around for a while, it's a little bit easier to get to, "Blessings upon you." We don't like the way it feels to just say, "F**k you." It's like an internal Fashion Grimace: we feel pinchy and pained. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'll write another Leap Post in four years (God willing). So let me just say, "Leap boldly. And blessings upon you."</span> </span></span></div>
Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-88635669566593406472015-12-08T23:19:00.000-08:002015-12-08T23:19:23.634-08:00I was literally pulled into the shop on Front Street in Lahaina, Maui.<br />
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We're here for our 30th wedding anniversary. We go to Lahaina because it's the place my mom was born and we wanted to see the Buddha at the Jodo Mission.<br />
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A beautiful young woman pulls me into a skin care shop and says, "I see wrinkles around your eyes. I can do something about that!" She proceeds to put serum around ONLY ONE EYE and then pressures my husband. "Doesn't this side look much better? Doesn't it?!"<br />
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Wes nods but when she looks away he shakes his head, "No."<br />
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It's all a scam. I look at Wes and say, "What time do we have to return to the car, Sweetheart? Ten minutes?! Oh, we must go!"<br />
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I won't even tell you the name of the store but here is my question: "What if churches did this?"<br />
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A person walks by and someone from the church offers a hand to a passerby and says, "I see wrinkles around your eyes. Would you like to come in and tell me about them?"<br />
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The person comes in. They talk about their life, their sorrows, their joys. When they leave they feel better. And maybe, just maybe, they look better. And best of all: no charge.<br />
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After the woman finally did both my eyes, she called a man whom she called "the dermatologist." Then she disappeared. I mean, she actually left the store.<br />
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Then he really pressured me about buying eye serum for three ninety-nine. That's $399.00. Almost FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS.<br />
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Finally I said, "You know, I don't really care about wrinkles around my eyes."<br />
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In an instant he went from friendly to furious. "Well, fine!" he said. <br />
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I wish I had said to him, "Look, we came here to see the Buddha. Do you think I give a crap about wrinkles around my eyes?" But I didn't want to be rude or snarky.<br />
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But if you take one look at that Buddha you can see: either he's using that eye serum or . . . he doesn't care about his wrinkles and he's really at peace. <br />
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<br />Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-1405568319272465982015-09-18T09:37:00.002-07:002015-09-18T09:37:34.698-07:00What I Used To Believe
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I used to believe that
if you didn’t claim that Jesus Christ was your personal Lord and Savior, then
you would go to Hell. </div>
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I used to believe in Heaven and Hell. </div>
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I used to believe that everything in the Bible is true. </div>
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I used to believe that Jesus was this unknowable,
mysterious, cranky, self-sacrificing man. Now I believe that Jesus is my wise,
sassy, loving, gay brother.</div>
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I used to believe that my parents were terrible parents. Now
I believe they did the best they could. </div>
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I used to believe that people who love cats were idiots. Now
I believe they are simply misguided. </div>
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I used to believe that I would be best friends with my
college housemate for ever and ever. </div>
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I used to believe that marriage is a trap and not for me. Now
I believe that you make marriage any way you want it to be. </div>
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I used to believe that eating low fat/high carbs was good
for me. Now I believe in eating low on the food chain, mostly plants, not too
much. And some chocolate. </div>
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I used to believe it was wrong to be gay.</div>
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I used to believe that you should never tell anyone you
color your hair. </div>
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I used to believe that I should do everything my doctor told
me to do. </div>
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I used to believe that my way was the best way to do
anything. </div>
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I used to believe that three for a dollar meant you had to
buy three. </div>
Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-16679625218264513262015-06-15T07:38:00.000-07:002015-06-15T07:38:54.961-07:00The Tree of Possibilities
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="font-size: small;">There
I was with my mother in the field of St. Martin sitting on a blanket between
two chairs under the Tree of Possibilities. I turned to her and asked, “Mom,
how is your quality of life?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span></span>She
put her arm around me, and because <b><i>this is fiction</i></b> she also hugged me and
kissed my cheek. Then she said, “Oh, my favorite daughter, any time I am with
you the quality of my life is so fine. I am filled with love for everyone.”
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span>I
looked up and noticed that the branch from which I had plucked this possibility
actually looked a bit diseased.<span> </span>A
little twisted. So perhaps the fruit from this branch was not really a
possibility but a shriveled fantasy. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Nevertheless,
it was pleasant sitting there with her, our picnic basket filled with fruit and
salami and cheese and bread. On the other chair sat our cooler with cold white
wine. Since dad was not there, she could have a glass of wine without worrying
that he would drink most of the bottle. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Wine
in the middle of the day always makes both of sleepy, so we feel asleep in the
middle of her explaining her recent painting. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;">When
I awoke she was gone so I got busy writing my new book. Now that I am fluent in
French I discovered that I think about things differently. Jokes are different
because the adjective goes after the noun. How can you call someone a no-good
two-bit lily-livered weasel-eating bastard when you have to say “bastard” first
and then “no-good two-bit lily-livered weasel-eating?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;">It kind of loses
something. </span></div>
Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-66131100602845854832015-04-11T12:35:00.001-07:002015-04-11T12:35:32.594-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2XdgFZc5Bn3b0DyuIX_1kAMs3n_HcNeykAdiic09PmlYDFguop0CqDMqC1vuKEP_zdzauJworJ4Do8tVfot_bWH1ALrkNiuMQy0MNTdes2hKa68EIwSUWHMmyEzR4gY2u0S2XMfD3hE/s1600/IMG_1215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2XdgFZc5Bn3b0DyuIX_1kAMs3n_HcNeykAdiic09PmlYDFguop0CqDMqC1vuKEP_zdzauJworJ4Do8tVfot_bWH1ALrkNiuMQy0MNTdes2hKa68EIwSUWHMmyEzR4gY2u0S2XMfD3hE/s1600/IMG_1215.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
The name of this horse is Junior. His owner told me he has a big fancy name but she just calls him Junior. He is boarded on the farm that is about a quarter mile from our house. He appears on this blog because I was watching him a few weeks ago and I experienced pure Joy.<br />
<br />
Junior loves to play with that red ball. He chases it around the field and then picks it up in his mouth and shakes it--just like a dog would. Sometimes he drops it and then dances around it as if expecting it to make a sudden move.<br />
<br />
I was rooted to the spot just watching him with the biggest horse-poop-eating grin on my face. For a brief moment he looked up at me then he gave a sort of cocky horse grin and kicked the ball down the field and charged after it.<br />
<br />
David Beckham beware. You got nothin' on Junior.<br />
<br />
Junior is nineteen years old. I don't know how old that is in human years, but I want to be like Junior <i>always</i>: having moments of pure Joy and sharing them with everyone.<br />
<br />
<br />Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-86073065963882508702014-12-15T11:34:00.000-08:002014-12-15T11:34:07.906-08:00
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">May you find joy and hope in this season of Darkness <i>and</i> Light. An excerpt from <i>It's Not About the Hair: And Other Certainties of Life & Cancer</i>:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><b>December</b> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was just completing my first year of being off chemo. But there were all kinds
of beginnings and endings happening around me. Lisa had completed the last
possible treatment for her cancer. We were now giving her palliative care:
packed red blood cells, platelets, hydration. We referred to this as the, “red
wine, white wine, water,” regimen. She had already had hospice come in and do
an initial assessment with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She cut off her long hair before it all fell out and had a wig made that
looked perfectly natural—until now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had lost so much weight that it perched on her head like a little
blonde nest. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If
it had been any other patient in this situation, I would never have mentioned
that I was coming up on my chemo anniversary. But I had known Lisa for several
years and knew she would celebrate with me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
knocked and slid open the door to her room. I was surprised to see that she was
fast asleep and even more surprised to see that she was not wearing her wig. A
soft knitted cap covered her head. I was just backing out her room when she
opened one of her eyes, lifted her hand and gave me a little smile. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come
in,” she said softly. “I have a question for you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
gelled my hands. That was our policy at the clinic: “Gel in, gel out.” It was
like rubbing clean smelling slime on your hands. Or blowing your nose without a
Kleenex. Or shaking hands with a slug. You get the picture. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lisa
and I always joked about this because everyone who stands there rubbing his or
her hands together looks like some mad scientist eager to inflict some
horrendous pain. The unfortunate thing about this is that we both thought that
at times, it was true.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
I rubbed my hands together and said in my best Transylvanian accent, “Yes, my
darling. What is your question before I stick the electrodes on your eyeballs?”
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
hospice nurses come in every couple of days. But at the end, don’t you think
they should be there all time, because what if I fall out of bed?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
kept rubbing my hands together way after the gel had evaporated. I grabbed a
rolling stool from the corner of the room and sat down. Then I lowered the seat
and cleared my throat. I bought myself about fifteen seconds doing all of this.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
won’t fall out of bed at the end,” I said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
do you know?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
won’t have enough energy. You barely have enough energy to go to the bathroom
now, right?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right.”
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
at the end, most people don’t have a lot of energy and they usually go into a
coma. If you’re in a coma, you’re not jumping around and you won’t fall out of
bed. ” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
rolled up close to the bed and took her hand. “If you’re really afraid of that,
you can have someone stay in the room with you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t say anything for a long time, just lay there
gripping my hand. I saw that she was getting the “white wine” today. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally
she said, “I told my daughter that Mommy is probably going to die from the
cancer.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
did she say?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She
said, ‘I don’t’ want you to die, Mommy. What if I have a problem and need to
ask you a question?’ I told her, ‘When you have a question, all you have to do
is get very, very quiet and very, very still and ask your question. Then being
as still and as quiet as you can be listen very carefully and Mommy and God
will give you an answer. And as you get older, when you very quiet and very
still, you will hear your own voice.’” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here
it was December and I had seen parents feverishly shopping and buying their
children all kinds of toys and games and books and clothes. How many parents
had thought of giving their children the gift of learning how to listen to God
and listen to their own voice? Because I was fighting back tears, my voice was
sort of thick when I said, “What an incredible gift you’ve given her.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you. “</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Get
very still and get very quiet. I felt as if I spent most of my time as a
chaplain telling people to check in with their breath, to quiet themselves, to
listen. What if we all had learned to do this as children? Maybe I’d be out of
a job.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are times when I feel as if I am
in the presence of some kind of Higher Being. That afternoon with Lisa I felt
like that. She was thoughtful and filled with peace. I know that some people
who work with energy say that energy is just energy. Period. But I disagree.
I’ve been with people whose energy felt scattered or chaotic or nervous. Maybe
it’s a matter of semantics. But Lisa’s energy felt divine and I wanted to sit
there and bask in it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
she said, “It’s wonderful to sit in the silence with you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
wonderful to sit in the silence with you. </span></i><span style="font-family: Times;">The words wrapped around me in that way I recognized as Spirit speaking.
We sat for quite a long time holding hands in the silence and I didn’t tell her
about my chemo anniversary. </span></div>
Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-9426156151899738752014-12-01T06:27:00.000-08:002014-12-01T06:27:39.397-08:00Humbled. Again.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy8Aa9KLMQqWGoF127K7SPHk0TRuA9o6d35I6TGHOml_6HqQYycoXUrwXWSV4frgqMCp37nFtygnMj1ijiGVn_4IYzf8V6F73cIg4vB-75gNyOOMUr2in8lT52N7QJFgI9tMEgRYlNYQA/s1600/IMG_0583.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy8Aa9KLMQqWGoF127K7SPHk0TRuA9o6d35I6TGHOml_6HqQYycoXUrwXWSV4frgqMCp37nFtygnMj1ijiGVn_4IYzf8V6F73cIg4vB-75gNyOOMUr2in8lT52N7QJFgI9tMEgRYlNYQA/s1600/IMG_0583.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
While we were in Washington, D.C. for the TEDMED shebang, we needed someone to take care of Max our Cairn terrier. Our 10 year-old dear friend and neighbor E. offered to do it. He did a great job. I could tell because Max didn't want to stay here--he kept running over there. Excellent!<br />
<br />
To thank E. I decided to bake an entire batch of chocolate chip cookies just for him. He could do whatever he wanted with them. The letter below explains what happened.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span>18 septembre 2014</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Dear E. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span> </span>I
made and wrote out your thank-you card <i>before</i>
I made these cookies for you. I feel that I must write a letter of explanation
because they are absolutely hideous but they taste pretty good. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span> </span>One
of the reasons I’m giving you the cookies just the way they are is to model for
you that failure is hard, but the important thing is that I tried. I will tell
you that I am a very good cook. Chocolate chip cookies are my specialty. So I
was horrified to see the nuclear meltdown that came out of that oven. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span> </span>But
here’s the most important thing for you to know: as I was walking to the Migros
Supermarché to buy ingredients, and as I was making the dough, and as I was
making the cookies I was thinking about you and what a wonderful person you are
and how I hope this year is one of your best and how grateful I am that you
like Max and he likes you and that you took such good care of him. I was hoping
that you find your passion and enjoy your life and do well in whatever you
choose to do.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span> </span>This
is important because it was like saying a little Cooking Prayer of gratitude
and blessings for you—for almost an entire day! </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span> </span>I
would like to blame this cookie disaster on the fact that I couldn’t find real
brown sugar nor could I find chocolate chips but perhaps the real reason is
that I was supposed to write you this letter. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span> </span>Included
are photos of the different ways I tried to make these cookies right: a
different pan, parchment paper on the pan and a lower temperature. I hope you
are amused</span>. Thanks again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He thanked me profusely. </span></span></div>
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Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-51045472243150965852014-10-29T23:59:00.000-07:002014-10-30T14:07:46.270-07:00Hanging Around With New Friends<br />
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As a child I had certain friends that my parents just did not like. There were two girls in particular. "You get up to no good when you are with them," my mother said. I couldn't deny it. I was just a better kid when I hung around with my other friends.<br />
<br />
This is true even if you are an adult which is why people in recovery from drugs and alcohol are encouraged to make new friends. Who you hang with affects you.<br />
<br />
So there I was at the Washington, D.C. TEDMED conference. So many people there using their intelligence, their creativity, their energy and in some cases their own money to make the world a better place. "Create." "Improve." "Solve." These are words I heard over and over. <br />
<br />
Just like when I was a kid, this mind set started to rub off on me. I started thinking more about how to leave the world a better place. What can I create, improve or solve that would make a difference?<br />
<br />
People at TEDMED are doing this in a big, obvious way: airbags to prevent hip fractures, new kinds of skin grafting, toys to help disabled children become mobile. These are all great things. But not all of us can do that kind of stuff, right?<br />
<br />
Mother Teresa (who I'm pretty sure would be invited to do a TED talk if she weren't dead) said: “Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.”<br />
<br />
I believe this is where true transformation occurs for both the receiver <i>and</i> the giver: doing small things with great love. When we do <i>anything</i> with great love we are transformed. <br />
<br />
Any of these TEDMED speakers will tell you that their work is not only transformational for the world, but for themselves--because they do it with great love.<br />
<br />
And you pretty much <i>have</i> to love it when you put that much time into it. I say this both as a hospital chaplain and as a writer and as a TEDMED speaker. It's just too damn hard unless you love it. <br />
<br />
So what about you? What small thing are you going to do today with great love? How will you be transformed?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.tedmed.com/talks/show?id=293021">My TEDMED talk, September 2014</a>Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-35170958420789308622014-09-19T00:39:00.001-07:002014-09-19T00:39:39.665-07:00Why I Haven't Posted<br />
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How can anyone be miserable in beautiful, enchanted Switzerland? I mean, c'mon! But I have been and here's why: despite spending the last year taking college courses in French and then a three-week intensive course at the University of Geneva, I can't understand a thing anybody is saying. Lesson: just because you can read <i>The Little Prince </i>in French doesn't mean you can <i>parlez français. </i><br />
<br />
I was bitterly--and I do mean <i>bitterly</i>--disappointed. <br />
<br />
The intensive course was six hours a day. I understood about 25% of what the instructor said. I <i>hated </i>it. Yes, "hate" is a strong word--but not strong enough. Every morning I would lie in bed and loudly groan for a full minute before I got up. I'm sure our neighbors (with whom we share a wall) thought we were having extremely hot sex <i>every</i> morning. I swear they started looking at me differently.<br />
<br />
Because I couldn't communicate, in no time I turned into an insecure, fearful, introvert. I had to ask myself, "Who <i>am</i> I?" Yes, you can spend your whole life pondering this existential question. In the mean time, someone has to buy groceries.<br />
<br />
But here's what happens when you can't read the labels: <br />
<br />
--You and your husband wash your hair with conditioner for an entire week resulting in a Greaser Look that is not flattering to either of you. <br />
--You serve your guests what you think is a grilled veal sausage but it's really some form of cooked pasta that is now hard and dry. When your guest asks to read the package you cover your embarrassment with another glass of wine.<br />
--You ruin a colored load of laundry because you think think 60º is Fahrenheit and not Centigrade. <br />
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Military time, centimeters, centigrade, grams, kilograms: exquisite and insidious forms of torture. Scene in the Farmer's Market:<br />
<br />
Seller: Vous bxln tqupr cnxz?<br />
Me: (assuming he's asking how many little containers I want) Deux!<br />
Seller: Vxbdureteaux?<br />
Me: (panicking) Oui, oui!<br />
<br />
I watch in horror as he bags two kilos (four pounds) of olives. I hand over the money and then go have a glass of wine.<br />
<br />
So I've been miserable for two and half months and then yesterday I decided to be happy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What?! <i>Decide </i>to be happy?</td></tr>
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Seriously. Here's what I've learned--and as with many spiritual truths it's counterintuitive--<i><b>there will be no external change until there is an internal change. </b></i><br />
<br />
I know, I know our culture teaches us differently: "If only I had x, y and z, <i>then</i> I would be happy." But I know better than that. I also know that I have to feel my feelings (frustration, anger, sadness, depression), give them a voice, ("I hate it here!") and then move on (I'm deciding to be happy).<br />
<br />
So <i>that's</i> why I haven't posted. If you're in town be sure to stop by. We'll give you a glass of wine. And some olives. <br />
<br />
<br />Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-18339062360448354002014-04-30T08:33:00.000-07:002014-04-30T08:33:13.092-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Here's what I want to say about moving: it's kind of like being terminally ill. The closer you get to leaving, the choosier you are about how you spend your time and with whom.<br />
<br />
<b>Change of Metaphor </b><br />
<br />
We leave for Switzerland June 28th and I feel as if I jumped out of an airplane and have been happily free falling for awhile but now the ground is rushing up at me and it's time to pull the rip cord, i.e. get serious about packing up the house. <br />
<br />
I can't pack <i>everything</i> now because we are still living in the house. But it's not too early to clear the closet and the drawers in the guest room. We don't live in there, right? <br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
But clearing out the drawers meaning packing my fabric to store in the basement which means cleaning out the basement to make room for the fabric. Cleaning out the basement--well, you know what that means. <br />
<br />
Seventh Circle of Hell.<br />
<br />
Fortunately our renters told us not to worry about the books in the bookshelves. "Just leave them," they said. That is a relief and they will have a year to bone up on death, dying, spirituality, energy work, parasitic diseases, screenwriting, biblical history and kombucha making.<br />
<br />
Then there is the issue of getting Mr. Max re-chipped and vaccinated in triplicate in two foreign languages and making sure he has passed AP English, obedience training and knows his times tables. Yes, I am talking about our dog. <br />
<br />
More later about all of this craziness. And I haven't even said a word about my third quarter of French. Please visualize me fluently speaking French. So far it is nothing but a dream . . .Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-27213434996063944992013-12-20T11:27:00.000-08:002013-12-20T11:27:27.546-08:00Strength For the Journey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday a friend of mine was grousing about how bad
Christmas is—the expectation that we are all supposed to be merry and happy and
jolly. </div>
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But true followers of Jesus know that Christmas is not about
happiness. It’s about waiting. It’s about a long, hard journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s about fear and being rejected. And
ultimately it’s about finding Light. </div>
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The Christmas story that’s all about cozy families, caroling
and giving gifts? That’s the Madison Avenue story, the retailer’s story. That’s
the Target, Macy’s, Amazon story. </div>
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If you read the actual Christmas story you know it’s a story
about struggle: finding out your fiancée is pregnant (and not by you). It’s
about hearing that your son is supposed to bring healing to a broken world (WTF?
I just want him to go to college, get married and have kids.). It’s about
giving birth in a filthy manger. And it’s about strangers approaching your
newborn. </div>
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Does any of that sound happy and jolly?</div>
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I know, I know, what about the angels? They’re a small part
of the story. There’s one at the beginning to say, “Hi, you’re pregnant and God
is the father.” And of course Joseph gets one in a dream to say, “Mary is not
some slut and you should really marry her.” But that’s it for Joseph and Mary.
They don’t get any more angels. </div>
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The shepherds get a boatload of angels to give them
traveling directions. But that’s it. Those pictures of angels surrounding the
manger? I don’t think so. Read the book. </div>
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I <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>really don’t take
the Bible literally. The Christmas story is most powerful as a metaphor for a difficult
journey at the end of which—impossible though it may seem—we find the Light. </div>
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We need Light for our broken lives. For our confusion, our
grief, our anger, for all the crap in our lives that makes us say, “It’s just
too damn hard.” </div>
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Make no mistake: finding the Light isn’t usually happy or
jolly or merry. Because sometimes the Light shows us what jerks we’ve been or how
we’ve made our own misery. </div>
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But as painful as that realization is—what a gift! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of the Light we can see a
different path. Then we have to make a choice. Choice—another gift!</div>
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That means that Christmas happens all year long because
we’re constantly embarking on new and difficult journeys. </div>
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So let me end by saying, “Strength to you on your Christmas
journey and may it be Light.” </div>
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<br />Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-20633914538536346192013-12-13T17:00:00.000-08:002013-12-13T17:04:17.425-08:00Some Sentences About Crime<br />
Today I attended the sentencing of the man, whom I'll refer to as Mr. Criminal, who broke into our house and took my two computers. To my shock he is only twenty years old. He shuffled in wearing hand cuffs, an orange jumpsuit and those hideous plastic shower slippers in which one can do nothing <i>but</i> shuffle.<br />
<br />
My other shock was that he was being sentenced for two others thefts besides mine, one of which was stealing firearms and selling them. That is bad. Very bad.<br />
<br />
Escorting him was a portly police officer who couldn't outrun a snail but could probably do a great job blocking and tackling. I was thinking about this since they took the handcuffs off Mr. Criminal. He had flame tattoos around both wrists.<br />
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The Judge, a very attractive, classy and dignified woman asked me to read my letter. I read:<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">" Dear
Judge, </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I
have not yet been able to afford to replace all my computer equipment, but
hopefully will be able to do that soon. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">What
I will never be able to replace are two years of essays, sermons, unfinished
book manuscripts and photos—particularly those of my father’s 90<sup>th</sup> birthday
celebration. Yes, I have learned
the hard way about backing up computer files.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">As
sickening as it was to lose those things, it was even more devastating to lose
my sense of safety and security in my own home. Our doors and windows were locked. Our burglar alarm was on.
When I asked the police officer what else we could have done to prevent this
burglary, he shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and said, “Not a thing.” </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">He
agreed that if we did not have a burglar alarm, they would have cleaned us out.
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">So
even now, five months later, I sit up in bed if I hear anything in the middle
of the night. I don’t go back to
sleep for a long time. I lock up the house and carry a key when I’m watering
the yard. I don’t even shower with
the bathroom window open. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
can’t pretend to know the life circumstances of Mr. Criminal (and
whoever else accompanied him) that lead to this crime. But I do know that it
was wrong and it matters. Stealing not only robs the victim but also robs the
thief of self-respect, dignity and self-worth. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">My
hope is that Mr. Criminal will regain these things but I suspect it will take him
longer to do so than it takes me to replace my computers." </span></div>
<br />
His attorney then explained that Mr. Criminal committed his crimes because his father died when he was fifteen and to cope he started taking drugs. So now he had to steal to support his drug habit. The Judge said nothing.<br />
<br />
Mr. Criminal and I looked at one another several times. His glances at me were furtive, but I looked at him a long time because I wanted him to understand that you steal from a person, not from an inanimate object such as a house or a car. (He has a record of car burglaries too.) <br />
<br />
The Judge then asked if Mr. Criminal wanted to say anything. He did. <br />
<br />
"I'm sorry to Ms. Jarvis," said.<br />
<br />
This was a very wise thing to do considering the judge was just about to sentence him.<br />
<br />
She gave him ninety months. The minimum. She urged him to continue his education in prison. They handcuffed him again and lead him out. <br />
<br />
And that was that. <br />
<br />
I took the bus home and of course stopped at Bartell Drugs to buy chocolate. And what to my wondering eyes should appear but my favorite: Hershey's Mint Truffle Kisses. On Sale! What a great day!<br />
<br />
So why then, amid the overhead Christmas music, aisles of decorations and laden with chocolate did I start sobbing? <br />
<br />
I had to fumble in my bag for a tissue hoping it didn't look like I was shop lifting because what if I was wrongly convicted and had to appear before that same judge. How weird would that be? <br />
<br />
This kid is only<i> twenty. </i>What a waste of life--to spend the next seven and a half years in prison. <br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later I arrived home to hear about this shooting at Arapahoe high school in Colorado. Where did that kid buy that gun?<br />
<br />
Probably from someone like Mr. Criminal!<br />
<br />
Seven and a half years isn't nearly enough. <br />
<br />
<br />Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-6683103632278011052013-09-26T19:08:00.001-07:002013-09-26T19:08:53.662-07:00<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">Last week I was
visiting my sister in California. We’re really close and we had a Blast
together. We walked, we shopped, we cooked, we talked, we drank wine, we
watched funny YouTube videos, she shared her iPod playlist with me. It was just
The Best. Our last day together was killing us because we knew we had to part
that afternoon. So we decided to spend the entire day <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">speaking with British accents.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">We
used to do this as children because we worshipped Hayley Mills. We wanted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to be</i> Hayley Mills. And we really
sounded like little English children. We were very good. So that afternoon we
start talking like we work for the BBC but we soon realized that actually our
accents are rather bad. We sound like British ex-pats who have been too long in
the States and have lost their plummy BBC English. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">But we do the best we can all day
and she drives me to airport and comes in with me and we look at the schedule
and bollocks! my flight is two hours delayed. So we decide, well, why not have
drinks and dinner? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">We
walk into the restaurant and my sister leans over to me and whispers, “We’ll
have to stop with the accents now.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">And
I replied, “Whatever for?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">So
we sit down and the waitress comes and says, “Hi, how are you? What can I get
you to drink?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">And
I reply, “Why I think we’ll have two Margaritas!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">She
asks, “Cadillac?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">And
I say, “Splendid!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
we have this marvelous dinner—arugula salad with blue cheese, pears and pecans,
a roasted Portobello mushroom with sun-dried tomatoes, melted mozzarella and
fresh basil. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">After dinner, we got into a discussion about how we felt
like completely different people speaking this way. I, for one, spoke less,
because I was aware that my accent was not perfect and I found it so much work.
But also, I said to Lynie, “I can’t be loud. It doesn’t feel right.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">And
she said, “Yez.” She said that a lot, “Yez.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">And
I said, “And I suddenly feel it wrong to criticize how people are dressed.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yez.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
I said, “You know friends have told me that when they speak French they feel
like entirely different people.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBwMefSTsrLsPX_41EqWuKF1hVFLmtiEeImA4u_urkkP-EM6sF2TmP68E40Z_LUcF2wz0RENiqZVUAys49Tb1DjGQhI7nYkENTrCtnm6L7HTczsE2MciYUXgKLIQQjS-DPm4_CORusjc/s1600/Hayley_Mills_4078x850w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBwMefSTsrLsPX_41EqWuKF1hVFLmtiEeImA4u_urkkP-EM6sF2TmP68E40Z_LUcF2wz0RENiqZVUAys49Tb1DjGQhI7nYkENTrCtnm6L7HTczsE2MciYUXgKLIQQjS-DPm4_CORusjc/s320/Hayley_Mills_4078x850w.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because
inside I really did feel different. Who was this person? Who was this quiet,
accepting, thoughtful woman? Clearly she was me so where is that Me when I am
American?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="st">Could it be that speaking with an accent is perhaps a way, a strange, weird way, to explore
your inner self? What if it’s a way to discovering who you really are? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-66940463578784357732013-08-25T10:59:00.001-07:002013-08-25T10:59:41.024-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
<style>
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--></style>I was<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>looking at a breathtakingly beautiful thirty-three year old aesthetician.
I was completely distracted by her enormous eyes, (I’m half Iranian,” she said)
her beautiful pouty pink lips and her long thick hair. I liked looking at her
but did not like hearing what she was saying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because
you have had oily skin,” she said,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“You will not wrinkle much—you will sag. Yes, here, I can see.” She
touched my jawline. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
you mean my Newt Gingrich-like pouches,” I said laughing and pulling on my
skin. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.
And you must not do that. Do not pull on your skin.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What? Why wasn’t she contradicting me and telling me that I don’t look like
Newt Gingrich? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She
turned to Pam. “And you—you do not have large pores. I see pores all day long
and yours are not large. Get rid of your magnifying mirror. When you called
about your pores, I thought you would have skin like an orange peel! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pam
looks disappointed. “What about my wrinkles?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
have no wrinkles.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
about my rosacea?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
you have papules and pustules?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well,
if you don’t have papules and pustules you don’t have rosacea. What you have
are broken capillaries. Do you jog? Joggers are the worst. They get hot, their
capillaries open and that bouncing around—their capillaries break.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There
was silence for just a moment so I cleared my throat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can
I ask you a question that’s a little personal?” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of
course.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Have
you had Botox?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.
In my forehead. Because one day I made a face and someone told me I looked just
like my mother.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
you got Botox because of that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.
And now I can’t make that face.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
made me wonder: is there something they can give you so you won’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">act</i> like your mother?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-62103051161099362062013-08-10T13:18:00.002-07:002013-08-10T13:27:35.185-07:00Listen To The Ice Cream<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEsCfXr8WD-rhIxclvAvd5t0ly37oxFPAdzmgQce5qVPDDAutiw8TrDjdE7AQRHwbDX1kQfTD-GPBHReosf1edGmH7JD4YM4kphN5YRq8723gP9sXgqdo0q93Kq1UaWr4CfJbDnnbPNf8/s1600/Choc-Soft-Serve-Cone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEsCfXr8WD-rhIxclvAvd5t0ly37oxFPAdzmgQce5qVPDDAutiw8TrDjdE7AQRHwbDX1kQfTD-GPBHReosf1edGmH7JD4YM4kphN5YRq8723gP9sXgqdo0q93Kq1UaWr4CfJbDnnbPNf8/s320/Choc-Soft-Serve-Cone.jpg" width="129" /></a>I just got off the phone with a friend who is shocked at her family's inability to listen to one another. They all talk at once--on top of one another. They don't respond to one another because they are so busy speaking.<br />
<br />
It's like having dozens of sof-t-cone machines churning out ice cream. It's going all over the floor because there is no one to catch it, let alone eat it and enjoy it. <br />
<br />
And of course they ask her nothing about what's going on in her life.<br />
<br />
For years this has been how I evaluate my social experiences: did you find out anything about me and my life? <br />
<br />
This drives my husband crazy because when we are discussing a party on the way home in the car, I almost always say, "S/he didn't ask anything about me." Then I proceed to give a bio on everyone with whom I interacted just to prove that I take my own advice. <br />
<br />
To avoid being a victim I'll often dive into the word river only to find that after a few sentences I'm again drowning in the story which is all about the other person.<br />
<br />
It's not like people aren't aware. I've even had someone say, "Oh, my God! The last time we talked it was all about me. Tell me what's happening with you!" So I do. For a few moments. <br />
<br />
I used to get mad, but now I just sigh.<br />
<br />
That is until <i>just a few moments ago</i> because of this phone call from my wise, witty, wonderful friend who has SEVENTY-FIVE years of amazing life experience to share!<br />
<br />
So heads up, people! Ask others about themselves. Listen without speaking. Look that person in the eye. Inquire more deeply into what they have just told you. <br />
<br />
Enjoy one another. Eat a sof-t-cone. <br />
<br />
And what's your experience with this? I'm listening. Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-26566493654325305442013-03-20T13:15:00.000-07:002013-03-20T14:11:49.368-07:00Bonnie And Clydes<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">On Friday morning, March 15th around 9:15 a.m. thieves broke into the
downstairs study of Debra Jarvis and her husband. They pried open a window
with a hatchet taken from their toolshed. The buggers didn't even bring their
own tools. Only two things were taken: both of Debra's laptop computers. It is
thought that the shrieking burglar alarm drove them off. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">On Sunday, March 17th at 4:44 p.m. her MacBookAir sent her a message about
it's location. (Her MacBookPro which was also stolen, did not have this feature
in it.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">She immediately called and emailed the officer associated with her case. The
officer never returned her messages. On Monday she even made an in-person visit
to the North Precinct during which she was reminded about "limited time and
resources." Tired of the lack of response from the Seattle Police Dept. Debra
decided to take matters into her own hands. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">On the afternoon of Tuesday, March 19th she went with Dave Morris and Kris
Meyer to south Seattle or maybe DesMoines--though signs also said "Welcome To
Burien." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Debra, driving the get-away car, pulled up the street while Kris and David
went to the house pretending to be interested in buying a BMW they saw on
Craig's List. They were looking for a white w/black convertible top BMW which is
actually the description of the get-away car involved in this theft. Oddly, the
people in this house actually were selling a<em> red </em>BMW that was parked in
the driveway. Considering it has flat tires and had been there since the last
Google satellite photo, it was no surprise to hear that they were selling it for
parts. Also odd that the brother of the person answering the door drove a silver
BMW. That's a lot of BMWs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> So they chatted a bit while Debra waited in the car. It seemed that the uncle
who lives across the street had some information so Kris and Dave went over
there. They came back to the car and reported that the uncle was "very big."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> They determined that they had better make A Plan. Since the computer was now
locked, it was impossible to tell for sure if it was still at this address. The
tracking device only works when someone is on the Internet. Locked computer=no
internet access. She locked it because she wanted to save her files. But it is
possible her files are gone anyway since someone changed the user name. The user
name is now "TMoney" which Debra finds so infuriating she could spit nails. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Debra wanted to go to the door by herself since the person who answered the
door was a 20-something white male. Her reasoning was that she looked pretty
harmless, although she was wearing Spy Clothes: jeans, running shoes, black
sweater which wouldn't show blood stains--hers or anybody else's. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> But she ended up calling the North Precinct and talking to Det. Stephens. She
explained to him that she was sitting outside the suspect's house--well, not
exactly outside, but up the street. He told her to call 911 and tell them her
plan and they would send a police officer out to stand by her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> She did so and a dispatcher said she would send someone out from the King
County Sheriff's Dept. The three waited in the car--for a long time. During this
time Debra kept having hot flashes, so she kept the car key turned to
"accessory" so that Kris and Dave could roll down their windows since it was
getting pretty steamy in there. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Nowhere in the car instruction manual does it mention that this kind of hot
flash survival strategy will run down your battery. It really should. So when
Dave suggested turning the car around so that we could see the police coming,
she found she was unable to start said car. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">More and more this was looking like a bad Caper Comedy. Kris suggested just
letting the car sit and perhaps it would miraculously heal itself since it is
after all a Subaru which we think means, "Bright Shining Divine Four-Wheel
Chariot Star" in Japanese. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Debra, who has a real spiritual/religious bent, prayed mightily. In Japanese.
Fifteen minutes later said car started. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> While they were waiting, the "very big" uncle went to the house, opened the
garage door and did something in the garage. The tracking device showed that the
computer was in the corner of the garage. The three were very antsy for the cop
to arrive. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The officer finally arrived and after many phone calls to Det. Stevens and a
discussion of search warrants, etc. Officer Maran said Seattle PD would not
issue a warrant. He decided he would just go to the door and say, "A stolen
computer has been tracked to this house." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> He did this and the aforementioned 20-something disavowed any knowledge of
this. The uncle across the street who is not only "very big," but also "very
bearded," came to see what was going on. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Officer Maran said he'd call Debra if there was a break in the case, but it
pretty much looked like she was screwed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The white BMW with the black top was pulled over yesterday with four black
men it. The police could not seem to find this car in their system as it turned
up as "sold" on Thursday, March 14th, the day before the crime. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Debra is disappointed but at least she knows she did everything she could.
She is also a little bit in denial and expects a tidal wave of chocolate will be
going through her when she starts grieving all she has lost. And yes, she will
make friends with iCloud. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Dave and Kris were brave and resourceful--especially during the hot flash
storm. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">Under penalty
of perjury under the laws of the State of Washington, I certify that the
foregoing is true and </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">correct to the best of my knowledge
and belief.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">--Debra Jarvis</span></div>
</span></span><br />Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-45978278762393819712013-02-23T17:05:00.000-08:002013-03-24T13:56:36.663-07:00Jesus Goes To Yoga Class<style>
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The new guy next to me seems nice.</div>
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Warm, friendly—not creepy.</div>
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Wears a T-shirt and ordinary running shorts,</div>
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not the baggy ones that look like culottes,</div>
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not the tight black kind which say, “Notice my ass.”</div>
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No. There is something real regular about him.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He has no trouble with any pose:</div>
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Eagle, Plow, Boat, Fish. </div>
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Smiles in Child’s pose. </div>
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Spends extra time in Prayer Pose. </div>
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Wrinkles his nose in Warrior I and Warrior II </div>
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but does it perfectly: strong and balanced. </div>
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<br /></div>
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He holds Plank pose as long as the teacher,</div>
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the rest of us going down like dying daffodils. </div>
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I think, “Dude, this is not a competition!”</div>
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But he stays strong, no effort. </div>
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<br /></div>
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He sits Full Lotus during meditation.</div>
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Breathing Hum/Sa without moving. </div>
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Breathing Light/Love without strain. </div>
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Breathing You/Me/We without contradiction. </div>
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<br /></div>
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He fails at one pose only: Corpse. </div>
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<br /></div>
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He keeps getting up. </div>
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<br /></div>
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After class we bring our hands to our hearts, </div>
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bow to one another and say, </div>
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“Namaste.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Divine in me salutes the Divine in you.</i></div>
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He really means it. </div>
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Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-37498182338843096542013-01-29T16:58:00.002-08:002013-01-29T17:00:20.596-08:00Liar, Liar, Bike Shorts on Fire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7g70Mk7wDq1ydPkvx5UQZXOsxkdXs0c0kHj9N8vnIavPuFZC8sqIT632aHdZm75DxevhIoOOrfXbXbwihd70SZ5VGIZJBDBvkdZGoM5p9zGCD401Tfx2nuh5h1cmVYZDIm3kRzr11lLM/s1600/armstrong_not_about.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7g70Mk7wDq1ydPkvx5UQZXOsxkdXs0c0kHj9N8vnIavPuFZC8sqIT632aHdZm75DxevhIoOOrfXbXbwihd70SZ5VGIZJBDBvkdZGoM5p9zGCD401Tfx2nuh5h1cmVYZDIm3kRzr11lLM/s320/armstrong_not_about.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
It may seem that everyone has already had their say about Lance Armstrong. But I haven't and since the title of my book is a permutation of the title of his best selling book I feel a connection with Lance.<br />
<br />
Years ago when people were going after him for doping, I was saying, "No, no, people are jealous of his success and want to bring him down! He works like a dog and that's why he wins."<br />
<br />
I supported him even when he--well, his <i>assistant</i>--turned down my request to write a foreword to my book saying, "Mr. Armstrong regrets he cannot lend energy to your project at this time and wishes you the best of luck." <br />
<br />
I understood. He was busy training--and fending off jealous critics!<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
I watched the Oprah interview. His eyes looked dead to me--even when he was getting emotional about his kids. I'm glad he's in therapy but you know what? That dude needs <i>spiritual </i>counseling. Seriously. <br />
<br />
I want to ask, "Lance, what gives your life meaning? Where do you find joy? What are your spiritual beliefs? How do you nurture your spiritual life? What does it mean to love? What do you think happens when you die? Do you believe in a higher power--other than yourself?"<br />
<br />
And I don't mean that last question to sound snarky. I don't care if he's aetheist, agnostic, sudoku or acrostic. I'm sincerely wondering what/who is going to get him through those times when he awakens in the middle of the night, turns over on his left side, turns over on his right, can't go back to sleep. Stuck with his thoughts--if only, if only, if only . . .<br />
<br />
The dark night of the soul. <br />
<br />
Mr. Armstrong, I sincerely wish I could help you at this time. Best of luck. If there is anything I can do, let me know. Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-68363491127347184002012-11-21T21:00:00.001-08:002012-11-21T21:00:36.635-08:00I've been cooking since Monday and having a blast! But one thing is on my mind that I would like to share before The Big Day (Thanksgiving). The one thing is that "mastectomy" does NOT rhyme with "vasectomy." It is not "masectomy." See the difference? ma-STEK versus ma-SEK.<br />
<br />
This drives me crazy and on this eve before the day we give thanks I say, "Yay, my maSTEComy was seven years ago."<br />
<br />
No, this is not some insightful spiritual post but just something that I've been meaning to say. Words make a difference. <br />
<br />
Thank you.<br />
<br />
And I mean that.Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-87220753303384682672012-09-10T09:03:00.000-07:002012-09-10T09:03:05.089-07:00Jesus Goes To Yoga Class
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkDP3V88La3gxRHAhA7-tutbuWMo6YDURBJfCYtMe8sxhB-agqt6-iWSq1T11ayqIQ7bRTOOnkXsheXHp2V433lVJRXadmEFfJR4v5ls-wzAFhE31CNT_pbTAvflRO2Qh_pCX1Uc7ezQ/s1600/IMG_0264.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkDP3V88La3gxRHAhA7-tutbuWMo6YDURBJfCYtMe8sxhB-agqt6-iWSq1T11ayqIQ7bRTOOnkXsheXHp2V433lVJRXadmEFfJR4v5ls-wzAFhE31CNT_pbTAvflRO2Qh_pCX1Uc7ezQ/s320/IMG_0264.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Times; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: yellow;">Yes, fans, it's Q & A time again. This time I'm answering a bunch of huge, existential questions and if I really had all the answers I could start my own church or perhaps people would start thinking I'm the Messiah. Which I'm not. </span></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #d5a6bd;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%;">How can spirituality
impact healing and recovery? Are there any studies about this?</span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="color: yellow;">First
let’s define spirituality. In my book it’s a felt connection to something Beyond,
to something Higher that transcends our individual little selves. I think it also
means how we view life, where we find meaning, what we believe about pain in
life, what we believe happens when we die. These are spiritual questions and different
religions have different answers.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
answers to these spiritual questions greatly impact our healing and recovery.
If we believe that life should be daily candy and unicorns then we’re going to
be pretty pissed when we get a flat tire—or a cancer diagnosis. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
if we believe that everyone gets some sewage thrown their way and that it’s up
to each of us to find meaning in it then we’re going to have an entirely
different life experience.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
yes, there are many studies out there and all you have to do is Google
“spirituality and healing” and then settle in with enough food and water for a
year because that’s how long it will take you to read through them all. Studies
are criticized because the bottom line for many science peeps is </span><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">that human consciousness is derived from the brain, and that
its effects are confined to the brain and body of an individual. So forget
about prayer because anything you do can’t affect me. But studies show prayer
makes a difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
are basically saying, “It’s not possible so why study it?” A little
close-minded, don’t you think?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #d5a6bd;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%;">I don’t practice
any organized religion right now, but I’m feeling the need for a spiritual
element in my life. How do I go about finding out what is right for me? There
are so many practices out there, I’m not sure where to start.</span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="color: yellow;">A
good place to start is looking at the spiritual beliefs with which you were
raised and asking yourself where are you with those beliefs now. You may be
surprised to find that your beliefs have changed or even more surprised to find
that they are the same. If you haven’t been raised with any beliefs, then what
resonates with you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ask yourself
the aforementioned questions:</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How
do I view life? What do I think about pain and difficulty in life? What do I
think happens when I die? Where do I find meaning in my life? What do I need to
nurture my spiritual life? A supportive community? Spiritual direction?
Solitude? </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .01gd;">
<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Don’t
under estimate the value of a supportive community—a church, a sangha, a temple
community. We love to think that organized religion is a bunch of mindless drones
who all believe the same thing. Ha! Wouldn’t that be so much easier? In fact,
my experience is that it is a group of people who are actively exploring their
spiritual beliefs and seeking to live them out with support from one another.
And it’s not that organized.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">More questions next time! </span></span></div>
Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-1504991765384175692012-06-19T12:50:00.000-07:002012-06-19T15:51:12.707-07:00Whiner-in-Residence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Sunday I was recognized as University Congregational Church's first writer-in-residence. I stood up in front, they said nice things, bopped me on the head with water and there I was.<br />
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One of the first things I want to do is start a writing group for returning women veterans. My original idea was to have it be for all vets, but a vet said to me, "One in four women have been sexually harassed and I'll tell you right now they won't open up in front of men." So I changed my idea.<br />
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I'm planning on having a twice monthly group that meets for a couple hours in the evening. My original idea was to have a Saturday eight-hour writing retreat like Maxine Hong Kingston does but I realized that will mean a lot of single moms won't be able to come. So I changed my idea. <br />
<br />
You can see by now that my original ideas have all changed--for the better--but I felt a little down about this because it seemed so straightforward in the beginning.<br />
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Then a very wise friend said, "You have to decide exactly what your role is and what your goal is. And you need to educate yourself about the military and all the issues around it."<br />
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She gave me a list of books to read which are all terrific and I love to read and learn new things and try new things but during an exhausted moment the other night I thought, "Why didn't I just offer a writing group for people with cancer? I know about that. I'm expert at that! I wouldn't have to do all this work. Why returning vets?"<br />
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And on and on, wah-wah-wah when suddenly, clear as a bell I heard a voice in my head say, "Because that is where the need is."<br />
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Sure enough there are enough cancer writing groups to start a small city. But writing groups for women veterans? Not so much.<br />
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<i>Why returning vets? Because that is where the need is. </i><br />
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So I'll get on with the planning and arranging and educating myself and connecting with people. Most people are very supportive except for a few people who walk around wringing their hands and muttering, "What about the liability?" They are afraid a vet will go crazy and sue the church.<br />
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When you get right down to it, anybody could go crazy and sue the church. And on the above mentioned Night of Self Pity I asked myself, "Well, Holy s**t, did Jesus have to put up with this kind of crap?"<br />
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Once again, clear as a bell, a voice in my head said, "Not unless you count scourging, flogging and crucifixion. And that crown of thorns was no picnic."<br />
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When I hear words in my head like that, I pretty much know that's Jesus talking as my experience of Him is that He can be a super wise-ass. <br />
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So I thought, well, if Jesus could start a major world religion with no internet, surely I can start a veteran's writing group. Perhaps you are thinking, "Who are you to compare yourself to Jesus?"<br />
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Well, if you call yourself a Christian you'd better be comparing yourself to Jesus all the time, Buster! Although I think it's perfectly fine to occasionally compare yourself to other religious figures as well.<br />
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I've compared myself to Ghandi and concluded that I'm fat although I did make my own clergy robe and Ghandi made his own--garment thing. So we have that in common. I'm hyperactive compared to the Buddha. And not enough of a visionary compare to Mohammed. <br />
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But I'm happy to say that both Jesus and I are right up there on the wise-ass scale. <br />
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<br />Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-85963787162089087402012-05-30T21:00:00.000-07:002012-05-30T21:00:01.804-07:00Ask Me . . . AnythingI've decided to open this blog up to questions since I receive a lot of questions from readers of <i>It's Not About the Hair.</i> They are excellent questions, so why not share them? And why not share the answers?<br />
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So ask away and I'll do my best to give you my honest answer or at least my honest thoughts on your question. I can't pretend to have ALL the answers. Maybe just a few.<br />
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Whew. The above paragraph generated a major hot flash. Must mean I'm on to something!<br />
<br />
<br />Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015339038632484131.post-4750038993060376422012-03-09T19:14:00.006-08:002012-03-09T19:27:48.188-08:00Award/Reward<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnS9VLiLA8W2f8kreHKn-NvvWItFFQeEx-pEdlHKBtQ3-YWWLDFehv5vcwItAJIV-YjFP3jzs7I3_w86TDINb8-jGIWcK9G75OvrD26ISlRBrux4C9BMAySiaC31cij8zBn7K86ckyxnc/s1600/CrystalTrophy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnS9VLiLA8W2f8kreHKn-NvvWItFFQeEx-pEdlHKBtQ3-YWWLDFehv5vcwItAJIV-YjFP3jzs7I3_w86TDINb8-jGIWcK9G75OvrD26ISlRBrux4C9BMAySiaC31cij8zBn7K86ckyxnc/s320/CrystalTrophy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718104379288265058" border="0" /></a><br />I've been at the American Academy of Hospice and Palliative Medicine conference this week. I watched several people with decades of experience in medicine receive well-deserved awards.<br /><br />Many of us will never work in the same job for forty years, so we will never get a "lifetime achievement" or "career" award. (Mothers should <span style="font-style: italic;">definitely</span> be getting awards if they've managed to raise children to become kind and compassionate adults.)<br /><br />But here's the thing: even if you stay in the same field for forty years, you have to find <span style="font-style: italic;">reward</span> in your work every day or the big <span style="font-style: italic;">award</span> at the end is empty.<br /><br />I'm so happy to find the rewards in my work. As I watched person after person walk off the stage with a big glass award I wondered, "What do you do with all those things?"<br /><br />That's just one more reminder of why the daily reward is better: you don't have to dust it.Debra Jarvishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413323223312789631noreply@blogger.com0