tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25386252240206000732024-03-18T00:44:01.330-07:00The Social PorcupineKeturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.comBlogger503125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-23802215385065353802024-02-27T11:59:00.000-08:002024-02-27T12:09:58.331-08:00Clarification <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div></div><div>Hello... I'm not back on this blog. I'm just here to reiterate <i>why I </i>moved platforms. I like writing at the same place as my fiance, it's easier to do new email subscriptions there, and the writing community is much more alive there. But <b>neither of our blogs are pay-walled. </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Everything we post is free to the public. Some people choose to pay for to subscribe, but that's an optional feature for those who feel inclined to support our endeavors. I do have no plans to ever paywall my substack. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div>It's a different place, and has taken used to posting over there, but I love that there's more outreach and community! Most of my fellow bloggers have long ago moved over there so it seemed about time to do. I hope you, my reader, will join us and continue to have quality, free content you find value in. </div><div><br /></div><div>You'll find me at: </div><div><div><a href="https://thesocialporcupine.substack.com/">https://thesocialporcupine.substack.com/</a></div><div><br /></div><div>As always, feel free to email me at keturahskorner (at) gmail (dot) com<a href="https://thesocialporcupine.substack.com/"><br /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHUkYDxpbOGFugd5g4JeNBVXd0g0ppzXqAJ2oY4trbqnYhcAT9fsuqhkGQw-iCoegGIpbDj2tWLvmk3QHdyTc0bslkyIqqDsabECjUSPVI4u4V-Qs53cWkSRsLBOotcgjnGHgKYJQV3CHtz29EKEzzN9rDtf7L5m5WDMpRp3q7ey42iVATh6oqdaYhbgS0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
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</div><br /></div></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-45755379362489910572024-01-28T12:36:00.000-08:002024-01-28T12:36:27.971-08:00Moving to A New Platform<p> </p><p>It's been a good few years here. I've loved blogger, saw it while it was a thriving community, and watched it slowly shrivel up. I tried to hold onto the platform as long as I could, out of sentimental reasons. But it's clear that it's lost its luster.</p><p>I've decided to commit to <a href="http://thesocialporcupine.substack.com">substak</a> for now. My fiance writes <a href="http://shagbark.substack.com">there</a>, too, and it just seems to be the place where all the writers are at. Plus there's ways to make money off the writing (doubt I'll ever make much, though. I'll always be in it for fun!). </p><p>Let's stay in touch. I'll still be blogging as The Social Porcupine. Just instead of blogspot, it's substack now. </p>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-59235830775831034312024-01-10T06:44:00.000-08:002024-01-10T06:44:00.139-08:00The "Trad" Woman: A Satirical Commentary on Women's Twitter Culture<p> <strong><em>(somewhat of) a satire</em></strong></p><p>It might be old news, but women are frustrated<em>. </em>Unfortunately, they can’t blame men anymore. They tried, they won, and now their rights are safeguarded by nuclear threat, and by the brains of nerdy, effeminate men willing to bring home the paycheck <em>and </em>change the newborn’s diapers. There just isn’t time anymore to open the car door or pay attention to which side of the street she is walking on. His picks up his dirty underwear now, but he also won't share a sock drawer anymore. And she feels slighted. </p><p>Who licked the icing off the cake?</p><div class="captioned-image-container"><figure><a class="image-link is-viewable-img image2" data-component-name="Image2ToDOM" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg" target="_blank"><div class="image2-inset"><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg 1456w" type="image/webp"></source><img class="sizing-normal" data-attrs="{"src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg","srcNoWatermark":null,"fullscreen":null,"imageSize":null,"height":972,"width":1456,"resizeWidth":null,"bytes":195241,"alt":null,"title":null,"type":"image/jpeg","href":null,"belowTheFold":false,"topImage":false,"internalRedirect":null}" height="267" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0deb96c0-dbb7-4221-9144-12189771fef6_2048x1367.jpeg 1456w" width="400" /></picture><div></div></div></a></figure></div><p>Women have lost their sense of identity, and it all started because they didn’t want men to spend so much time at the bars. Actually, they didn’t want their men to drink at all. Hence the reformation among Presbyterian and Methodist preachers to put down the bottle and ordain a few women pastors. Hence the temperance movement. Hence the end of moonshine and the beginning of World Wars, pantyhose, and pink razors. Patriarchy fell, but the matriarch died at the invasion of electrical kitchen appliances, daycare, and opportunity in the workforce for women. Quality of pub life was policed, but women at last had the right to own land, keep a personal bank account, and get a 9-5 job. Thank goodness, you say. Don’t forget, she also can vote now. She doesn’t have to make the sandwiches anymore… nor the bread. There’s a machine that’ll work just fine. </p><p>Maybe all modern women are feminists. Who in her right mind would rather stay home alone with the children while the man is off getting drunk with his buddies? Social workers can watch over children this weekend. We all recognize that the woman has just as many rights as the man to work, vote, and party and wear her spandex. A woman needs a drink sometimes, too. And she shouldn’t have to carry the burden of the traditional woman. </p><p>Those women LARPing on twitter as trad women? They’re the truest feminist, maybe the first of the newest wave, but feminists all the same. They keep their dyed hair braided, the make-up, although natural, is still plastered on thick. They’ll wear dresses if they need to take a photo, but it’ll be made out of a thin synthetic, and made by some kid in Asia who still can’t afford a rice cooker for his meals. Normally though, their outfit is simpler: black leggings, cream crop top, a pack of highlighters, and an inspirational self-help paperback. They can’t do much with their hands, except recycle toxic waste. They have no time to reduce or reuse. They can’t—or won’t— cook without a recipe done in the finest calligraphy and a detailed grocery menu. Cooking from scratch has come to mean googling recipes that corroborate fake foods.</p><p>What do these “trad” women want? Their rights. “Cherish me!” they demand. They don’t want to split the bill anymore than they want to chop the firewood. They want to be seen as a woman and treated better than a man i.e. expected to do nothing and participate in nothing. They want a hierarchy, and they want to remain at the top of it, in their polyester frills, surrounded by kittens and puppies and expensive chocolates. They say they want the patriarchy, but they actually want a gay butler. Someone with hands soft enough to wipe a baby’s rear end. Someone to tell them who to vote for—if he said, “Honey, we’re not voting this year” they’d file for divorce. </p><p>If an <em>actual </em>trad woman starts to speak, the LARPers rinse the blue out of their hair, pull their dress back on, and apply some mascara. If there were any sailors around, they’d blush. “How dare you tell me how to be a woman. My husband loves me and wants to pay the bills and do half the house work.” </p><p></p><p>Of course, an authentic traditional woman is as rare as a ruby, as the old proverbs say. She’s from out of time, or from “third world” cultures. She doesn’t demand <em>anything </em>out of <em>any </em>man, except for him to stay out of her domain. And her domain is the home and the village. She is the master of foreign trade. The dough under the mattress is thick because of her shrewd thinking. She doesn’t bother with make-up… that’s for the Egyptian queens who poison their lovers. She doesn’t throw away money on recyclables, fads, or cosmetics. Her body odor is sweet, like that of ginger and saffron. She influences the world with her handwoven, hand dyed textiles, and everything she touches is ordained with intricate pride. </p><p>And where is her man? </p><p>He isn’t paying her bills or bathing the children. He’s sitting outside the city gates with the rest of the old men, enjoying a cigar and shooting the breeze. </p><p>We’re in a new era. </p><p>It’s still unclear if we’ve come full circle to where feminism retvrns to femininity once more. Maybe there’s a way yet to fall before we bruise our knees and revamp the wardrobe. There <em>are </em>many women who are tired of the shtick. Their inner matriarch is waiting, ready to dismiss the men to the woods and the machines to the landfills. As Gandhi burned all clothes that were not made by the Indians, women are regaining their pride, too, and washing their own mouths out with soap and water. They have no more use for vanities and vulgarities. They want respectability back. </p><p>They are worried about their future, and the dignity of their place in society. Perhaps there are no more aunts, cousins, sisters. There are few friends capable of preserving food, culture and gossip to be found. And the ship that might have made their wealth has long ago sailed away. The birth rate is low and inflation is high. Even if they don’t want it, they have to keep a hold of the rights won from them. 9-5 every day, by the sweat of their brow, wearing clothing made by the hands of children they have never met, eating food that disfigures their curves, they work to support 21st century debts.</p><p>But it’s not enough to want to quit their jobs. The LARPers have shown us that. There’s no glory for the men in <em>that. </em>An idle woman is a bitter woman. She must <em>have </em>a cause, be it a home or a man. And feminism, in its short-sightedness, has failed her, stripping her of her capabilities, intuitions, and beauty.</p><p>A woman doesn’t need the approval of industry and capitalism in order to have “rights”. Her vigor, open strength, and thoughtful whispers and lullabies is all she ever wanted to rock the cradle and stuff her mattress. What good is her land to her if her sons can’t inherit it? What good is her right to higher education if she can’t do her husband’s math exams? </p><p>Women have never been demure, sweet, nor unseen. From Eve to Mary to every woman since they have done nothing but evoke rich change. It’s sweet when a man wants to help. But it’s a woman’s duty to scorn their attempts and banish them to the outdoors. Until we are ready to have the trash removed or the ice cream scooped. The mistake of the modern woman is in thinking men ought to be loud, proactive, and aggressive members of society. She forfeits her role in the communities. Her status as matriarch is trumped by the social well-fare hierarchy… big pharma, fast food chains, and corporations. It’s time the woman reclaims what has always been her rightful territory: <em>her world.</em> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyLGl9hakHSb98BhKp0fSbdEksAS5rgl5VVDplCy9QAQffk1qrII1YVx6zSxoi2f9TeqGXEfZyma4TtHojq-aBJvIAu-L3JB9teVMbHY8ykml5cWeddjU9Mtq6EQGbnHVfBIzCGwlnTk1iRXPGoeQ7jzoiRhHDBBvJCwMnhswqHH4cO8VQSFogbDawzuAx/s900/a-busy-village-scene-joost-cornelisz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="900" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyLGl9hakHSb98BhKp0fSbdEksAS5rgl5VVDplCy9QAQffk1qrII1YVx6zSxoi2f9TeqGXEfZyma4TtHojq-aBJvIAu-L3JB9teVMbHY8ykml5cWeddjU9Mtq6EQGbnHVfBIzCGwlnTk1iRXPGoeQ7jzoiRhHDBBvJCwMnhswqHH4cO8VQSFogbDawzuAx/w400-h270/a-busy-village-scene-joost-cornelisz.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-3619032289739738042024-01-03T08:52:00.000-08:002024-01-03T08:52:00.153-08:00Two Books to Buy and Read in 2024<p> </p><p>A new year is upon us, and with that the regular desire to make resolutions of personal improvement. But what if we took a year off from fretting over our weight, food choices, and hobbies and turned our eyes to the stagnated atmosphere of our homes, the dusty guestroom, and the next-door neighbor’s whose names we still don’t know although it’s been months since they moved in. What if we took a moment to learn from someone <em>else </em>whose been doing it a lot longer than anyone else, and cultivated the necessary assets a thriving community requires. It doesn’t really require much, except for a little self-denial and a whole lot of focused dedication to stick out <em>something purposeful.</em></p><p><img alt="" class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp pencraft pc-reset" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa297294d-2b8a-4683-83d8-e2636be9ad18_4032x1960.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa297294d-2b8a-4683-83d8-e2636be9ad18_4032x1960.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa297294d-2b8a-4683-83d8-e2636be9ad18_4032x1960.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa297294d-2b8a-4683-83d8-e2636be9ad18_4032x1960.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa297294d-2b8a-4683-83d8-e2636be9ad18_4032x1960.jpeg 1456w" width="1456" /></p><p>I’ve recently read two nonfiction titles that are gloriously refreshing. I plan to keep extra copies around the house to give away, or to provoke further dialogue. I encourage my readers to do the same! Here is a little bit about both:<br /><br />𝑩𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑶𝒇𝒇 by Eric Brende</p><p><picture><img alt="" class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft pc-reset" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F53c6db97-641a-4254-95e1-9cd6219bbaff_3648x2736.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F53c6db97-641a-4254-95e1-9cd6219bbaff_3648x2736.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F53c6db97-641a-4254-95e1-9cd6219bbaff_3648x2736.jpeg 720w" width="720" /></picture><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9a26efa8-334f-4dcb-9a45-0e605170c963_4032x3024.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9a26efa8-334f-4dcb-9a45-0e605170c963_4032x3024.jpeg 720w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft pc-reset" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9a26efa8-334f-4dcb-9a45-0e605170c963_4032x3024.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9a26efa8-334f-4dcb-9a45-0e605170c963_4032x3024.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9a26efa8-334f-4dcb-9a45-0e605170c963_4032x3024.jpeg 720w" width="720" /></picture></p><p><br />Something for young couples to consider their first year of marriage: why not go live with an established community or cult to learn lost skills? It's a great thing to do before you have children, doesn't need to be traumatizing if you do it for a limited time, and can positively impact the rest of your lives together. <br /><br />Andy and I spent a week in St Louis this mid-October and had the pleasure of meeting Eric Brende after a Latin Mass service. Immediately, we hit it off when we learned he was a pianist and kept a very sustainable household. He told us he was a published author, flippantly, as if it were no big deal, on our way down to the parish hall for donuts. </p><p>“Oh?” Andy asked, to be polite. “What have you written?” </p><p><em>Better Off</em>. Andy perked up, “I’ve <em>read </em>that.” </p><p>He loaned us the use of two recumbent bicycles a couple days later and gave us a delightful tour of the city, followed up with a glass of his homemade pear cider, fermented and pressed from the pear trees growing on his quarter acre lot. After that, he bought a train ticker and joined us on some of our travels out to Wisconsin, then gave us a copy of his book, which I started reading after the Front Porch Republic in the corner of a loud bar. It grabbed my attention, and I easily faded out of my loud surroundings into a happy, introverted place.</p><p><picture><img alt="" class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft pc-reset" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F58f5d244-101d-4986-99f0-379b8731a819_3800x2533.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F58f5d244-101d-4986-99f0-379b8731a819_3800x2533.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F58f5d244-101d-4986-99f0-379b8731a819_3800x2533.jpeg 720w" width="720" /></picture><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3912481e-3dd2-47fe-976d-1c2864f06b24_1080x1440.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3912481e-3dd2-47fe-976d-1c2864f06b24_1080x1440.jpeg 720w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft pc-reset" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3912481e-3dd2-47fe-976d-1c2864f06b24_1080x1440.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3912481e-3dd2-47fe-976d-1c2864f06b24_1080x1440.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3912481e-3dd2-47fe-976d-1c2864f06b24_1080x1440.jpeg 720w" width="720" /></picture></p><p>All this to preface how I came to read such a rich beautiful story that accounts the story Eric Brende’s first year of marriage, and of how he and his wife moved to an Amish community for an 18-month experiment. It resonated deeply with me, echoing examples of odd values Andy and I share, and I felt inspired after reading it, despite the author’s marriage eventually failing. Their shared efforts at the beginning were truly a worthy, noble endeavor, and I hope Andy and I might emulate it to some extent, with our shared skills and travels. Eric also shared a bread recipe with me that has become one of Andy’s and my very favorites! <br /><br />𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒍 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝑯𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑲𝒆𝒚 by Rosarie Butterfield</p><div class="captioned-image-container"><figure><a class="image-link image2" data-component-name="Image2ToDOM" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg" target="_blank"><div class="image2-inset"><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg 1456w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="sizing-normal" data-attrs="{"src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg","srcNoWatermark":null,"fullscreen":null,"imageSize":null,"height":177,"width":474,"resizeWidth":null,"bytes":9594,"alt":null,"title":null,"type":"image/jpeg","href":null,"belowTheFold":false,"topImage":false,"internalRedirect":null}" height="177" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F949eecd9-658c-40ad-a1b4-661f494d1cb1_474x177.jpeg 1456w" width="474" /></picture><div></div></div></a></figure></div><blockquote><p>“Radically ordinary hospitality is this: using your Christian home in a daily way that seeks to make strangers neighbors, and neighbors family of God.” - Rosaria Butterfield</p></blockquote><p>I’ve quoted and recommended this book often enough, and thought it was about time I <em>actually </em>read it. I downloaded the audio book from Hoopla and listened to the bulk of it while sewing on my wedding dress and cutting up pie apples. </p><p>I rarely feel this way about any particular book, but this book is <em>essential, </em>especially if you profess Christianity. But even if you simply feel dragged down by the idea of <em>how </em>to have community, how to “save the world” from the vapid pursuit of self, and wish to do something about it, this book offers key steps to not being <em>the problem anymore: </em><strong>to stop coping and start hosting a space for <em>everyone. </em></strong></p><div class="captioned-image-container"><figure><a class="image-link is-viewable-img image2" data-component-name="Image2ToDOM" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png" target="_blank"><div class="image2-inset"><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png 1456w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="sizing-normal" data-attrs="{"src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png","srcNoWatermark":null,"fullscreen":null,"imageSize":null,"height":683,"width":1080,"resizeWidth":null,"bytes":1229145,"alt":null,"title":null,"type":"image/png","href":null,"belowTheFold":false,"topImage":false,"internalRedirect":null}" height="683" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2a1e6623-77c6-4bde-9d57-21c9d839f3bd_1080x683.png 1456w" width="1080" /></picture><div></div></div></a></figure></div><p>The author establishes the importance of hospitality from the get-go. It isn’t a calling that <em>only </em>some receive, but that all Christians are duty bound to fulfill. It isn’t a skill or talent, and it doesn’t require wealth… in fact, fancy things can be a hindrance. Forget the fancy rug and fancy dinner wear if it hinders you from being generous. The author talks further about being and <em>introvert, </em>and how this doesn’t excuse her from the work of the gospel. If she needs time for herself, it is her job to find a way to have time alone without interfering with the spontaneity of the Holy Spirit by waking up earlier than the rest of her household to read, or taking an afternoon walk. </p><blockquote><p>“We introverts miss out on great blessings when we excuse ourselves from practicing hospitality because it exhausts us. But... Knowing your personality and your sensitivities does not excuse you from ministry. It means that you need to prepare for it differently than others might.” - Rosaria Butterfield</p></blockquote><p>She also had a special exhortation to the unmarried in our communities. Do you feel a calling to remain single? Like all “feelings” that lead us to believe we might be called to something as sacred and noble as a <em>purpose from God, </em>we ought to make certain it is backed by truth, and not some indulgent cope to remain in our own little worlds. <strong><em>If you are called to singlehood, it is because you are called to be a servant. </em></strong>And if you aren’t finding ways to serve your community with your ample time but are instead putting most of your energy into pursuing fantastical dreams and hobbies, you are avoiding the <strong><em>call of the gospel</em></strong><em> </em>for the <em>whims of the flesh</em>. She by no means claimed that it is wrong to develop personal interests and careers, but that these pursuits ought to add to the world rather than validate our own, small existence. </p><div class="captioned-image-container"><figure><a class="image-link is-viewable-img image2" data-component-name="Image2ToDOM" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg" target="_blank"><div class="image2-inset"><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg 1456w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="sizing-normal" data-attrs="{"src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/bd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg","srcNoWatermark":null,"fullscreen":null,"imageSize":null,"height":768,"width":768,"resizeWidth":null,"bytes":123348,"alt":null,"title":null,"type":"image/jpeg","href":null,"belowTheFold":false,"topImage":false,"internalRedirect":null}" height="768" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fbd4d2756-6c1a-48c2-8786-3edc849ce41d_768x768.jpeg 1456w" width="768" /></picture><div></div></div></a></figure></div><p>Butterfield painted many lovely pictures of what her home looked like, and how she’d garnered a lot from her era as a lesbian among the LGBTQ+ community, and how they taught her the home is often the only place you might have for a place of safe fellowship and inclusive conversation broaching <em>all </em>topics. She talked about the idea of accepting that which you might not approve of, as Jesus did with sinners, and of being among the lowly as He was and still is, despite the complaints of scribes, pharisees, and other self-righteous prudes. For some it is the closest thing they will know to a hospital or place of gathering and may be the only time people become aware of their role as God’s image-bearer, thoughtfully created and ordained from the foundation of time. </p><blockquote><p>“Hospitality shares what there is; that’s all. It’s not entertainment. It’s not supposed to be.” - Rosaria Butterfield</p></blockquote><p>It may not seem feasible… it may require that you triple your food budget and don’t plan expensive family vacations. It’s not meant to be easy, she said. We aren’t meant to live to satisfy ourselves, but to serve and to love. And when we are loving the things of God the things of the world matter less. Our children may not be involved in sports, but they will be inviting the neighbor children in for a meal, including them in their backyard projects, and create meaningful friendships. </p><p>Rosaria Butterfield isn’t asking you to think about whether or not this is for you, she is bold enough to say you <em>must </em>be convicted if you are worried about anything other than <em>hospitality—</em>both as a regular guest <em>and </em>host—and haven’t opened your heart to the radical, ordinary love of God. </p>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-73008601663499586552023-12-13T07:53:00.000-08:002023-12-13T07:53:00.142-08:00Church Hopping: A Spiritual Overdose to Remember our Mystical Origins<div class="separator"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></p></div><p> We’d just finished watching the movie <em>Jesus Freaks </em>when Andy asked me to marry him. It was early September… he’d planned to wait until I’d met his family in November, but we were ready to start planning our future. By all legalist appearances, we might seem unequally yoked. I was raised in a niche of an already obscure messianic movement, and he, born in and again recently returned to the church, was a traditional catholic. And yet those who know the two of us well and are able to see past the doctrines of man into the mystical hearts of God and His children, saw the inevitability of our union. Never is the material yoke naturally equalized between the two called to work together, not initially. It takes some sort of supernatural strength to put oneself with another, and in that acceptance is harmony cultivated.</p><p>Our spiritual experiences, though stemmed out of drastically varying circumstances, have bloomed toward the same aesthetical values. But such matters are not easily seen if one remains pigeon-holed toward ideas of <em>denomination. </em></p><p>Shortly after getting engaged, I told Andy, “I have a really fun idea, but please don’t say no until I present it fully.” </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“Let’s visit four churches next Sunday.” </p><p>I needn’t have worried. Ever amiable and chill, he agreed to my random proposition as long as one of the attended churches was a catholic mass. </p><p>In Montana, you have to drive a long way before arriving anywhere, and then quite a way further in order to get to some other place. Considering this, visiting four churches might initially seem impossible… we’d spend almost as much time driving from place to place as we would be sitting in the pews. </p><p>We started our day early, already exhausted from a weekend of sewing with friends. One of my sisters joined us and we drove a little under an hour to our first church: a traditional mass in Three Forks at 8am. </p><div class="captioned-image-container"><figure><a class="image-link is-viewable-img image2" data-component-name="Image2ToDOM" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg" target="_blank"><div class="image2-inset"><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg 1456w" type="image/webp"></source><img class="sizing-normal" data-attrs="{"src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/ed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg","srcNoWatermark":null,"fullscreen":null,"imageSize":null,"height":1092,"width":1456,"resizeWidth":null,"bytes":248674,"alt":null,"title":null,"type":"image/jpeg","href":null,"belowTheFold":false,"topImage":false,"internalRedirect":null}" height="300" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fed5c65d2-1d4f-47e5-9312-4bc51b871742_1824x1368.jpeg 1456w" width="400" /></picture><div></div></div></a></figure></div><p>My sister had never before attended a Catholic service, and I was still new to it myself. It was a very small gathering, and the priest was filling a double role: ministering here, then heading to a nearby town to repeat the Sunday sacraments once more to another congregation. The morning felt like the prelude to a revival: the people looked like they had fallen in some sort of stupor, some of them hardly dressed for the occasion, but the priest wore a green robe with tatted lace around his neck, ready to confront the ugliness of the world with truth. He spoke somberly, and between a variety of rituals, delivered a succinct homily that exhorted one to live a beautiful life of service. There were no fancy words. A simple reminder that we are set-apart, not for our own use, but God’s. My sister commented on how it felt almost stiff, and yet there was something refreshing about the <em>sanctity </em>of that.</p><p><picture><img class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8" height="400" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb21c816b-7d12-40aa-9b37-6a71535fad3d_1512x2016.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb21c816b-7d12-40aa-9b37-6a71535fad3d_1512x2016.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb21c816b-7d12-40aa-9b37-6a71535fad3d_1512x2016.jpeg 720w" width="300" /></picture><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F40aa1d21-9d79-49ee-aed4-2f8ef32e2b8d_1512x2016.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F40aa1d21-9d79-49ee-aed4-2f8ef32e2b8d_1512x2016.jpeg 720w" type="image/webp"></source><img class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8" height="400" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F40aa1d21-9d79-49ee-aed4-2f8ef32e2b8d_1512x2016.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F40aa1d21-9d79-49ee-aed4-2f8ef32e2b8d_1512x2016.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F40aa1d21-9d79-49ee-aed4-2f8ef32e2b8d_1512x2016.jpeg 720w" width="300" /></picture></p><p>We had time for coffee and donuts with the church, then drove a good half hour for a 10:30 Dutch Reformed service. It was a larger church with a pile of pews enveloped by radiating stained glass displaying scriptures in Dutch. The music was a little livelier than mass, but the lyrics were merely repetitive, and a toned-down version of the exact same sentiments expressed at the previous church. The preacher used far less scriptures than the priest had, in fact it was bizarre to realize how <em>much </em>he spoke and how little he <em>read. </em>And yet, already a theme emerged: both priest and pastor expounded on the parable of the talents, and there for the second time we sang of the <em>lamb of God who taketh away the sin of the world. </em>Instead of coffee and donuts, there were chocolate chip cookies and Gatorade in the meeting hall. </p><p><br /></p><p><img class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8" height="400" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ffa9289b8-93cc-4e55-8cd6-98dcde069f9c_1512x2016.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ffa9289b8-93cc-4e55-8cd6-98dcde069f9c_1512x2016.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ffa9289b8-93cc-4e55-8cd6-98dcde069f9c_1512x2016.jpeg 720w" width="300" /></p><p>The second church service was over sooner than we thought it might be, and we weren’t quite hungry enough for the picnic I’d packed. The conversations with the congregation in the meeting hall were short-lived, so we headed to staples to print photos.</p><div class="image-gallery-embed" data-attrs="{"gallery":{"images":[{"type":"image/jpeg","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/fa9289b8-93cc-4e55-8cd6-98dcde069f9c_1512x2016.jpeg"},{"type":"image/jpeg","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/eb4d2877-f713-4ef6-a082-7df6637248d8_768x1024.jpeg"}],"caption":"","alt":"","staticGalleryImage":{"type":"image/png","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/d22e0939-3b27-431e-ace4-59186e26cd18_1456x720.png"}},"isEditorNode":true,"isEditor":true}"><figure class="frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__imageGallery--shoTe frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__canEdit--XIs4R" data-component-name="ImageGallery" data-drag-handle="true"><div class="pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8 frontend-pencraft-Box-module__display-flex--ZqeZt frontend-pencraft-Box-module__flex-direction-column--Rq7pk frontend-pencraft-Box-module__flex-gap-8--HFpIK"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><picture style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Feb4d2877-f713-4ef6-a082-7df6637248d8_768x1024.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Feb4d2877-f713-4ef6-a082-7df6637248d8_768x1024.jpeg 720w" type="image/webp"></source><img class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8" height="400" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Feb4d2877-f713-4ef6-a082-7df6637248d8_768x1024.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Feb4d2877-f713-4ef6-a082-7df6637248d8_768x1024.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Feb4d2877-f713-4ef6-a082-7df6637248d8_768x1024.jpeg 720w" width="300" /></picture></div><div class="pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8 frontend-pencraft-Box-module__display-flex--ZqeZt frontend-pencraft-Box-module__flex-gap-8--HFpIK frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__imageRow--RFMqP frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__length-2--F3EXK"></div></div></figure></div><p>The ensuing lull, unexpectedly, bizarrely won, afforded us a moment of reflection. Of the things we liked best of each place so far, of how the next place might compare, of how the churches might improve by visiting the other, etc. Our next chosen service, a sort of non-denominational Calvinist gathering, began at 2:30pm, but you could show up a little early and there would be a small assortment of food and pastries. </p><p>It was a blessed day, indeed, hitting all the churches serving food. This wasn’t a factor in my deciding which churches to attend when I chose four, but it certainly paid off and made the endeavor possible… what a better way to spend a Sunday, fellowshipping with a variety of Christians, eating food, singing different styles of songs, and hearing a constant flow of scripture—with hardly any variance of belief. </p><p><br /></p><p>If anything, we were experiencing a walk-through of church history and the fall of holiness. In each church we witnessed less tradition, and the decline of sobriety, respect, and love for one another. Sarcasm increased and replaced humility. Juvenile crassness and demeaning comments amplified from church to church. Where the first priest may have said, “I am not worthy to be here before you today”, later degrading comments in the guise of comradery were jarringly substituted in an almost vulgar manner. </p><p> “I suppose you didn’t miss me, but you’re stuck with me anyways.”</p><p>“I know you all don’t like <em>listening </em>to her, but you’re gonna have to for a few moments as she tells you all about…” </p><p>The music, too changed, becoming less sober, contrived to please the senses. The songs lacked any solid profundity. They were simple ramblings of how good it <em>felt </em>to be a Christian, nothing exhorting us to virtue, sacrifice, and the <em>narrow </em>way. </p><p>It was one of those days where instead of delivering a sermon, we watched a video of some mission work being done in a third world country. The lights were dimmed and the sort of music that elicits your compassion filled the shadows around our goosebumps. There were no scriptures, no details, no actual testimonies. Just statistics and a request for monetary support. I was used to such emotional strings being tugged at by missionaries, and although I’ve never felt quite right about it, have oddly never thought much of it, until sitting next to Andy who had never witnessed such a thing. Number flashed across the screen. Mostly focusing on Egypt, they shared numerous countries and their populations (often in the tens of thousands) compared with how many people knew of Christ. </p><p>This number was shockingly low. Maybe two or three people had salvation according to their records, but there were thousands and thousands supposedly suffering without the gospel. </p><p>Andy pulled out his dumb phone and managed to pull up <em>another </em>number that this video conveniently left untold. There are many Christians in Egypt, albeit Coptic Christians. And they constitute the second largest religion amassing upward of ten million souls.</p><p><img alt="" class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__small--Muz63 pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_474,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F099a25a8-6584-4006-8587-6b416c5ad2bf_540x405.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F099a25a8-6584-4006-8587-6b416c5ad2bf_540x405.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_474,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F099a25a8-6584-4006-8587-6b416c5ad2bf_540x405.jpeg 474w" width="474" /></p><div class="image-gallery-embed" data-attrs="{"gallery":{"images":[{"type":"image/jpeg","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/099a25a8-6584-4006-8587-6b416c5ad2bf_540x405.jpeg"},{"type":"image/jpeg","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/9cb65796-4963-4b1e-a934-3bc0150d7ef4_2048x1400.jpeg"},{"type":"image/png","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/4abcb1c0-5fff-4323-8b5a-1f27e91fbe41_600x500.png"}],"caption":"","alt":"","staticGalleryImage":{"type":"image/png","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/736f617c-fa0c-4a2e-951f-4031651d23f6_1456x474.png"}},"isEditorNode":true,"isEditor":true}"><figure class="frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__imageGallery--shoTe frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__canEdit--XIs4R" data-component-name="ImageGallery" data-drag-handle="true"><div class="pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8 frontend-pencraft-Box-module__display-flex--ZqeZt frontend-pencraft-Box-module__flex-direction-column--Rq7pk frontend-pencraft-Box-module__flex-gap-8--HFpIK"><div class="pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8 frontend-pencraft-Box-module__display-flex--ZqeZt frontend-pencraft-Box-module__flex-gap-8--HFpIK frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__imageRow--RFMqP"><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9cb65796-4963-4b1e-a934-3bc0150d7ef4_2048x1400.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_474,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9cb65796-4963-4b1e-a934-3bc0150d7ef4_2048x1400.jpeg 474w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__small--Muz63 pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_474,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9cb65796-4963-4b1e-a934-3bc0150d7ef4_2048x1400.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9cb65796-4963-4b1e-a934-3bc0150d7ef4_2048x1400.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_474,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F9cb65796-4963-4b1e-a934-3bc0150d7ef4_2048x1400.jpeg 474w" width="474" /></picture><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4abcb1c0-5fff-4323-8b5a-1f27e91fbe41_600x500.png 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_474,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4abcb1c0-5fff-4323-8b5a-1f27e91fbe41_600x500.png 474w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__small--Muz63 pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_474,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4abcb1c0-5fff-4323-8b5a-1f27e91fbe41_600x500.png" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4abcb1c0-5fff-4323-8b5a-1f27e91fbe41_600x500.png 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_474,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4abcb1c0-5fff-4323-8b5a-1f27e91fbe41_600x500.png 474w" width="474" /></picture></div></div></figure></div><p>This missionary stood before the congregation speaking of how he was called to preach the gospel to those who didn’t have it and needed $50k to build a church, neglecting to tell us that he was working in a place filled with rich, Christian roots… but to give him the benefit of the doubt, we <em>saved </em>our judgment until we could speak with the man. </p><p></p><p>“I’m impressed you’ve heard of <em>Coptic </em>Christians.” He told us. No, he didn’t minister to Muslims… that would be illegal and unsafe. Yes, he was aware the Coptic Christians had the same Bible we have, but they were <em>still </em>unreached, because they didn’t <em>understand salvation. </em>Why? Because they view Mary as the third part of the trinity. Andy suggested that perhaps they didn’t, but this minister was determined that he knew how they believed better than anyone else, and then went on to say, that sure they probably weren’t <em>all </em>going to hell, just like Catholics aren’t all lost. They are a worked based faith, he went on. Yes, they have better family values, and we can learn a lot about how to be hospitable from them. But unfortunately, they don’t know how to read the Bible. </p><p>It was horrifying. </p><p>Not once did he mention in his presentation that he was only preaching to people who <em>already </em>had the Bible. Not once did he clarify that he wanted funds to build a church for a people that <em>already </em>had a church… nor that their church, ancient and beautiful, would be replaced by some drab structure lacking any meaningful aesthetic. And to think that he requested so much to build such a simple, ugly building in a place rich of culture despite poverty… why would it cost so much anyway? Was this just a profitable scheme to confuse the innocent? And yet, <em>others </em>in the church also knew of the Coptic Christians and supported the endeavor, not questioning the outrageous requested sum, because they sincerely believed that they had truth salvation, and these people of ancient practice and faith <em>did </em>not. But the Muslims… they did not care to go to prison to save <em>their </em>souls. It was wrong, after all, to disobey the government. </p><p>For a moment curiosity was piqued in that direction during potluck. But the Appalachian missionary in his fitted suit said, “I don’t won’t to ruin your appetite by speaking of unsavory, politically incorrect subjects.” </p><p>And so, in their ignorance, these brash, vulgar people did what was right in their own eyes, giving away their money to deconstruct a heritage they knew nothing of, and deemed worthless, conflating their self-righteousness for nobility. It grew to be too much, and so we left, repulsed and wishing for some table to turn over. </p><p>This third church further cemented what we saw at the second church: a lack of respect for holy things invites a crude approach to our relations with our neighbors. Andy accredited this to the protestant separation from the Catholic church, somewhat initiated by Martin Luther. He argues that the belief “I know better than the church” never stops, and divisions will continue to splinter until every man is reading the Bible alone, with no neighbor to love, unless he submits himself to the highest, original authority: the catholic church.</p><p>I had suggested we do this experiment mostly because I wanted him to understand some of my upbringing and associations, but the comparisons were showing me new things I’d never fully faced despite my years of attendance, and in no other possible way, I was starting to understand what Andy meant. But I felt there must be something deeper even than that… aren’t divisions inevitable where corruption remains? How can the protestants be blamed for their sin of going away, when the Catholics originally separated themselves from the Jews, the <strong><em>original schism.</em></strong></p><p>There are serious, wistful whispers of reuniting the orthodox and the Catholics, and of the protestants return as the final repentant prodigal. This retvrn to tradition, solemnity, and harmony would do something beautiful for Christianity on a whole… but I still believe the fractions are impossible to rectify without a deeper understanding of heritage. We must look further back to the first schism, the one between Jacob and Esau, between the Muslims, the Jews, and the Catholic church, and their unwillingness to be children of the same, Holy God, and of man seeing this weak spot and using it for his own glory, therefore defaming the name of God and the resurrection of the One Saviour who died that <em>all might be saved, </em>the jew and the gentile. </p><p>We fell to the very bottom of history and came full circle to early Christian practice all at once, experiencing the non-linearity of religion and faith: a home gathering at 6pm. We left town and headed deep into an abandoned Amish settlement. At the end of a long ranch road, we pulled up outside of a three story off-grid farmhouse—it still looked like an Amish house despite the cluster of vehicles parked haphazardly between the pigpen and barn. These were old friends of my family, but even Andy settled right in at home on their couch amidst the gathered, pouring his heart out in prayer with these people he’d just met. </p><p>A teenaged boy chorded on the piano, and we all sang loudly, with abandon. It was everything combined: the beginning, the decline, and the revival. There was no structure… there was a cry for direction. We sang more than we talked and prayed even more. We treated each other with respect, those who were tempted into sarcasm instead showed their wounds, and nobody threw a stone. This was fellowship, communion, and a mending of schisms, where the Jew and catholic and protestant at last reconvene and let go of their own understandings of what it means to be a <em>good </em>person and listen to Jesus. </p><p><em>You are my people.</em></p><div class="image-gallery-embed" data-attrs="{"gallery":{"images":[{"type":"image/jpeg","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/78e078c3-0c23-4442-ac06-ebc8a3556f0f_360x480.jpeg"},{"type":"image/jpeg","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/8b528ae4-68f5-4cfa-9455-43ba7b968d07_240x320.jpeg"}],"caption":"","alt":"","staticGalleryImage":{"type":"image/png","src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/1cd63885-83d6-4fd9-8a75-56a80298e208_1456x720.png"}},"isEditorNode":true,"isEditor":true}"><figure class="frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__imageGallery--shoTe frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__canEdit--XIs4R" data-component-name="ImageGallery" data-drag-handle="true"><div class="pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8 frontend-pencraft-Box-module__display-flex--ZqeZt frontend-pencraft-Box-module__flex-direction-column--Rq7pk frontend-pencraft-Box-module__flex-gap-8--HFpIK"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8" height="400" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F8b528ae4-68f5-4cfa-9455-43ba7b968d07_240x320.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F8b528ae4-68f5-4cfa-9455-43ba7b968d07_240x320.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F8b528ae4-68f5-4cfa-9455-43ba7b968d07_240x320.jpeg 720w" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="300" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img class="frontend-components-responsive_img-module__img--Pgjj2 frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__image--g2yvp frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__medium--uFsr6 pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8" height="400" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F78e078c3-0c23-4442-ac06-ebc8a3556f0f_360x480.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F78e078c3-0c23-4442-ac06-ebc8a3556f0f_360x480.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F78e078c3-0c23-4442-ac06-ebc8a3556f0f_360x480.jpeg 720w" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="300" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="pencraft frontend-pencraft-Box-module__reset--VfQY8 frontend-pencraft-Box-module__display-flex--ZqeZt frontend-pencraft-Box-module__flex-gap-8--HFpIK frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__imageRow--RFMqP frontend-components-ImageGallery-module__length-2--F3EXK"><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F78e078c3-0c23-4442-ac06-ebc8a3556f0f_360x480.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F78e078c3-0c23-4442-ac06-ebc8a3556f0f_360x480.jpeg 720w" type="image/webp"></source></picture><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F8b528ae4-68f5-4cfa-9455-43ba7b968d07_240x320.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_720,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F8b528ae4-68f5-4cfa-9455-43ba7b968d07_240x320.jpeg 720w" type="image/webp"></source></picture></div></div></figure></div><p>It isn’t a “you” vs “you”. There is no “but he doesn’t read the Bible how I read the Bible” when we put aside the minds of literate, all-knowing men. It isn’t about who left first, or who left at all, but rather a recognizing of togetherness. The schism is material, imaginary, and evil. There is no individual, no unique testimony. We are <em>all </em>prodigal sons, each given some great talent to cherish and increase and tend over. We all have the same purpose and mission, and it is not to be alone in our bedrooms, saying our <em>own </em>prayers, discovering our <em>own </em>truths, worried over our <em>own </em>bodies, souls, and pride.</p><p>When we look past the ways of men, of modern, lackluster ugliness and unequitable beauty of the old ways, we walk in the mystical realm. We lay aside our desire to be right and whole, and we become the <strong><em>gospel</em></strong><em>. </em>There are no words, no books, no <em>bible, </em>not even rituals or prayers or songs. </p><p> The proof is in the pudding: if our table is not well-laid and crowded, with something of bread and wine present, then we have missed the boat, remaining in our own abode, screaming irreverently, “But I am right!” There is no lingering, fiery taste of hell in the saint’s praise.</p><p>Yes, the way is straight and narrow, but the ditches are <em>not </em>filled with liter; there are wildflowers on God’s path. Can truth be some collection of <em>ugly facts? </em>Can it, even when most difficult to swallow, ever be ugly? Is it not something that <em>draws </em>the lost to the light, something that shows the way to beauty, that reconciles us to that which we wish to reject because of fleshly pride. Because of my love for beauty, and my disdain for the modern robotic method living life and going to church, it seems as if I ought to be orthodox or catholic to those who know anything about such matters. But because I was raised protestant, I think somewhat like one, and I can’t help but insist that the rift of the church is deeper and simpler than we might like to believe. </p><p>We have a problem of irreverence toward one another, and it’s much deeper than any one rebellion. Protestants must submit to the ancient church. The schism between the Catholics and Orthodox should be rectified. The Holy Church will be made whole <em>when</em> God’s people are remembered and reclaimed. And this can’t happen until the Jews acknowledge Jesus as Master and the Muslims as their brother. It is undeniable that it is God’s will for all of us to be reconciled into <em>H</em>is Kingdom, and yet we continue to strive and convert others to <em>our </em>ways of thinking, instead of submitting ourselves one to another.</p><p>Visiting four churches in a single day is a bit of a spiritual overdose—evoking mystical memories of the early church led me to a deeper love of all churches, especially those saturated in ancient tradition. Perhaps man has made it all up. But I much prefer the beauty men have thought to do with their hands to the words they babble to themselves and divide over. It makes me wonder: <em>is being equally yoked a matter of thought or action?</em></p>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-69640730370890453252023-11-15T12:58:00.000-08:002023-11-15T12:58:00.152-08:00A Summer Vision<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Do you ever feel you have dozens of dreams begging you to bring them <i>all </i>to life? And you would, if only they might co-operate and become<i> one vision</i>. This is what the Living Room Academy was for me: a culmination of a lifetime of thoughts and ideals. It started out as a flippant invitation that a woman I worked for said, "But why wouldn't you do this?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Besides seeming initially impossible to undertake, I didn't want to commit to such a project as opening my home up to other young women for a summer... I love my summers and couldn't imagine forsaking all the things I would normally do to teach summer classes to strangers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I won't go into why I decided to do this as I've already written on this in depth, but I do want to reiterate that I'm glad I didn't choose the convenient, lackluster path of complacency. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1iT9iEVIV69rNpaSH_KQnXt-nwbSsQ3unpstdepuKgy2sH6d69A-poOz3JMGRXbPU0bMGxvGeZ5icYnjJagZ4ePBmUDTbQMZE-zP7iCYxPKWBDJgu_LVUAQPfWT36j-HvKE4STCXqljEO9HtAwCsv5XGGgyoRNyjdtiq-79Dnf7EMA-X2GcIB_OSqznYN" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1iT9iEVIV69rNpaSH_KQnXt-nwbSsQ3unpstdepuKgy2sH6d69A-poOz3JMGRXbPU0bMGxvGeZ5icYnjJagZ4ePBmUDTbQMZE-zP7iCYxPKWBDJgu_LVUAQPfWT36j-HvKE4STCXqljEO9HtAwCsv5XGGgyoRNyjdtiq-79Dnf7EMA-X2GcIB_OSqznYN=w320-h240" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6iC_18tjIU20TJp40mcpC4_xBrKMUOsY5OS5ntfCGDmSI6lLSRGTWiyzgOyZ1eIsAxPiCFzeEzXwxjYQ3sqtJyvJegw_9hNTpfdod7RMJQN3O4GKj86WCou_Mqdmnr63O-qhdMGlAltWB5y58iWIcR3WSQnMTVTLZbgmMhoFf07HsLGZYjvXITHxIOdX4" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6iC_18tjIU20TJp40mcpC4_xBrKMUOsY5OS5ntfCGDmSI6lLSRGTWiyzgOyZ1eIsAxPiCFzeEzXwxjYQ3sqtJyvJegw_9hNTpfdod7RMJQN3O4GKj86WCou_Mqdmnr63O-qhdMGlAltWB5y58iWIcR3WSQnMTVTLZbgmMhoFf07HsLGZYjvXITHxIOdX4=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I hosted two courses this summer 2023. Six girls came to live with me, although only four of them were able to stay for the endurance of the two weeks. It is an intimate experience, so I tried to make certain the girls were received into a cozy, peaceful lowkey environment. I made the beds in the form with quilts and put lace pillowcases on the pillows (these details make a world of difference) and made sure to have food ready for them and that we spent a lot of time in the living room at first, where one has a gentle long embrace with the natural light and shelves filled with hardcover books. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg76sxxW4Hjw2IupEoy2zj70X9_y4VDoUUFOLHkvq5ueu0ddTMolnk8gBfVOmhFRnzyjQWnk8aSCN275cGYljdkriqhJ8Ye0KvIi-sMGsKqDyqOvJ-5KfFTwztqW7e74jVZ-HDVkJpjGwSCFbAEvB32nnFO0em8nurCdR0X48dUSKsGLnZR5-6UIimdLwIv" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg76sxxW4Hjw2IupEoy2zj70X9_y4VDoUUFOLHkvq5ueu0ddTMolnk8gBfVOmhFRnzyjQWnk8aSCN275cGYljdkriqhJ8Ye0KvIi-sMGsKqDyqOvJ-5KfFTwztqW7e74jVZ-HDVkJpjGwSCFbAEvB32nnFO0em8nurCdR0X48dUSKsGLnZR5-6UIimdLwIv" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3tMNQaryVSfb-FGI7Qsjo-IMY3_qmmWtlkJWLiAEQ50VGjLKITFjBjMyaY55lltnYPt8BvWmc9D7BHn15z6dYEGoSRxWYOZe8OKxaw_G8GGU8VHw1g810JaN-efbSmIgtdNlIWb8n3hc5RqrHHI2XnbgzZKGhCvIxWumqUJdq9il-ujU05PsAys0q-aIg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3tMNQaryVSfb-FGI7Qsjo-IMY3_qmmWtlkJWLiAEQ50VGjLKITFjBjMyaY55lltnYPt8BvWmc9D7BHn15z6dYEGoSRxWYOZe8OKxaw_G8GGU8VHw1g810JaN-efbSmIgtdNlIWb8n3hc5RqrHHI2XnbgzZKGhCvIxWumqUJdq9il-ujU05PsAys0q-aIg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUzl-GWdnIYfSxbilwhM9wkIAixfYtg3pnJvZHj4EEuq4gQ44si0e4akyvrLGnLFJs-swrcuK9iDkRCkoyHx63annlHNO6gC83zWH8kNDxLjMfmiP9tLzKufB95hRbNEU-y44DGah36fYePCgQ2j02_HJTDArXuYrKhbfoxDwjX5MpJAVahamGj-fYZdPz" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUzl-GWdnIYfSxbilwhM9wkIAixfYtg3pnJvZHj4EEuq4gQ44si0e4akyvrLGnLFJs-swrcuK9iDkRCkoyHx63annlHNO6gC83zWH8kNDxLjMfmiP9tLzKufB95hRbNEU-y44DGah36fYePCgQ2j02_HJTDArXuYrKhbfoxDwjX5MpJAVahamGj-fYZdPz" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My curriculum was meant to be organic and designed according to the personalities of my students. My first students were lowkey and loved to read. My second group of students were teenagers and I had to expend a little more energy, but they were also poets and enthusiastic. about the skills, and even in the exhaustion I felt justified. I wanted all the girls to leave feeling refreshed and encouraged in their femininity, that they understood the gospel better, and that they felt they could be better community members equipped to build lasting treasures for the Kingdom of Heaven through hospitality and skills. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And so, we started out at a slow burn. We made pillowcases by hand and then embroidered them, and in the evening while we read some work of literature we also knitted. I cooked for the first couple days and asked the girls to observe. We took afternoon walks and naps and got to know each other. In the mornings we stretched outside and read the scripture. At the end of the week, I took the girls on an outing, the first group to a live performance of <i>Fiddler on the Roof </i>and the second group to a poetry open mic at a local teahouse. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgB5FrvPCsZYjVmtcqvPEwa0fj4cUM7lpG6MovpWy8t4BZSdOxQIqQxaeEm2dr0LfhzbY5BV8Fofm30svHqB6aBFCnL3yDP6eCOlnwlEr007XGnWLwzKf5qOfvI0kKxthfOF6v0QEWI5x-owx4_UNkOpxkb_MpfYZD4sirOx1Ls50YMJ3_8KbJ7RSmD6Psc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgB5FrvPCsZYjVmtcqvPEwa0fj4cUM7lpG6MovpWy8t4BZSdOxQIqQxaeEm2dr0LfhzbY5BV8Fofm30svHqB6aBFCnL3yDP6eCOlnwlEr007XGnWLwzKf5qOfvI0kKxthfOF6v0QEWI5x-owx4_UNkOpxkb_MpfYZD4sirOx1Ls50YMJ3_8KbJ7RSmD6Psc" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The second weeks of the course were busier. We still read, walked, wrote letters, and had picnics. But we broke the quiet fast and quit our slow living-room activities, pulling out the clunky sewing machines and made skirts from sheets. We spent a day in town and found piles of garments that <i>did </i>not fit properly, took them home, pulled out the seam rippers, and tailored them to fit just as they ought. The conversations stirred deeper and more intimately. There was still peace, but our hands were busier. And yet there's something about busy hands that plants firmer, long lasting contentment of mind... <i>if </i>you allow it, if you give yourself and your hands to the <i>Goodness </i>of God and your neighbor. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh2JECE8TuKE_VP1UgPcoclYFilRY_sLCFZfw0hiNiJS643Ut2GqanbudsOth2MINTWj6jw2xgkwdNdPKOK-OrIDH84w3Hcm6N5Nwih3kSv6dwUmNVxXq6o248YFkyw-Pd0Ve5G3s7UQXFtBRCs4Jjy8xAZHgxUULqvAwgYlNA_qHT4aMroIjkASXXLCda" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh2JECE8TuKE_VP1UgPcoclYFilRY_sLCFZfw0hiNiJS643Ut2GqanbudsOth2MINTWj6jw2xgkwdNdPKOK-OrIDH84w3Hcm6N5Nwih3kSv6dwUmNVxXq6o248YFkyw-Pd0Ve5G3s7UQXFtBRCs4Jjy8xAZHgxUULqvAwgYlNA_qHT4aMroIjkASXXLCda" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhr_3kHLAxu-z9t3E8GoctnPQZgpXNvkwNgAObN1JmDSl-DeFxLwGcgYfVVPWabSATcSz1zU4JKPdZ7lh3IAdxv9Me7L3rmT6gjmwcEBdEA_racO7t6aSDmCrkr08NGYqnDVpJjDKwDj-dFndFUkLKfFUbIwLO2pYV7amL8OyDnXHvPQKclhrISVqYFivLP" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhr_3kHLAxu-z9t3E8GoctnPQZgpXNvkwNgAObN1JmDSl-DeFxLwGcgYfVVPWabSATcSz1zU4JKPdZ7lh3IAdxv9Me7L3rmT6gjmwcEBdEA_racO7t6aSDmCrkr08NGYqnDVpJjDKwDj-dFndFUkLKfFUbIwLO2pYV7amL8OyDnXHvPQKclhrISVqYFivLP" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Really, this is a large part of <i>why </i>I chose to share my summer with strangers, instead of spending my summer at open mics, in the mountains, or traveling. We are in such a sad era where community is shriveling up and dying, and somehow Christians, especially women, are largely responsible, from their lack of effort to their absolute coolness toward <i>doing </i>something about it, in fact often preferring to spend time on phones complaining about having no friends, but then, with obsessed snobbery, judging any person that God might send their way. Yes, I want to see more women equipped with practical skills. But I didn't want to add to the pool of entitled, self-serving and self-satisfying identity seekers. I opened my home to <i>teach </i>women how to be community builders, how to love their neighbor, and how to be <i>less </i>focused on their own needs and <i>more </i>in tune with Jesus' instructions on loving. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Therefore, the letter writing and the hosting and the making of meals. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've stayed in contact with most of the girls through letters and social media and it's sweet to see how each of them have cherished this experience and are finding ways to practice sweet, spontaneous womanhood. This world isn't always a kind place to women, but kind women somehow soften that reality and beautify the ugly corners we find ourselves forced into. These lovely girls are doing just that, and it makes me so proud to have been a part of such a wonderful program, and to witness the rewards hereafter. <i>It </i>was a summer of much sacrifice, effort, and exhaustion. But I am <i>so </i>thankful to have lived it and hope I can continue to teach similar courses in the future. But if not, I know that these girls will carry on the work of the <i>Living Room Academy, </i>and it will spread through them to <i>many</i> homes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaADeDblL5GGfHDNhePAPikgww0YPMb3LR3E-Nq48i59C-We3SFCKy1JynDq7lju_Ggle2bIL0QKrp-VP-y5tlzOG9duLLdRWBbqSGoRKBf2QTV08vue7yA6HXcin23qsQOv0WoitP7gEgKZb_-7Wai30Ymmv0PxojVe2MiEqX7bsD-eeFf54GVxIqoPyh" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaADeDblL5GGfHDNhePAPikgww0YPMb3LR3E-Nq48i59C-We3SFCKy1JynDq7lju_Ggle2bIL0QKrp-VP-y5tlzOG9duLLdRWBbqSGoRKBf2QTV08vue7yA6HXcin23qsQOv0WoitP7gEgKZb_-7Wai30Ymmv0PxojVe2MiEqX7bsD-eeFf54GVxIqoPyh" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvLjh2W_g0_XvDHivu2mX_5NwPZ7yBMW9mK4XvafjZLAiipnzS7WcYTQGj9Of_gqwnTkRd6aKokv0ACfBdJbEOs6LLlZQBIq5gwalLiHPP38KXEUZH60EWHtbLzYmLwA6NPw8d-j38FO8BdUIlhHJBu_WA2q7Id-b-zQOyfp55p21R0h6tJkssPwC-PStU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvLjh2W_g0_XvDHivu2mX_5NwPZ7yBMW9mK4XvafjZLAiipnzS7WcYTQGj9Of_gqwnTkRd6aKokv0ACfBdJbEOs6LLlZQBIq5gwalLiHPP38KXEUZH60EWHtbLzYmLwA6NPw8d-j38FO8BdUIlhHJBu_WA2q7Id-b-zQOyfp55p21R0h6tJkssPwC-PStU" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2LAyqOCXk2GMxIQul4ntWQwyO_1on0Bc83MNnU6isVkj4uV_4xk4NetwOTv3RqnCPnWvCvBXE83wFWzy7w6nbPjvzP-kGumLSrzs0aM3c5AjTLmyhIk8D0QtvIqFADZLaIrmMTf8T1zS0IhI5HJrGV2ERQTsdnrIKgrdA9FbfO_7um0UK78vZwqqbOHsn" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2LAyqOCXk2GMxIQul4ntWQwyO_1on0Bc83MNnU6isVkj4uV_4xk4NetwOTv3RqnCPnWvCvBXE83wFWzy7w6nbPjvzP-kGumLSrzs0aM3c5AjTLmyhIk8D0QtvIqFADZLaIrmMTf8T1zS0IhI5HJrGV2ERQTsdnrIKgrdA9FbfO_7um0UK78vZwqqbOHsn" width="400" /></a></div></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-66183917557622158632023-10-25T07:38:00.001-07:002023-10-25T07:38:00.145-07:00Tatting<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzaMEQhCB__VABP6qsHcUTAZ-Q1MXjPbgtDY63bNFV0VKxOcrOlA8SamT3w12pZY-IoCDqzkWvPTebuCNEr2cKwIWmnHm8tXN-oq652r-unuF5r_16Da22-Ws329N_6VZoMfISzWo1ZOXuhXGdWy3lZhTN9PC6C5TJ7MmGG6kDt3c0BHygBAHnYHmQMK-e" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">silk tatted lace edging for my wedding dress</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>If you asked me as a young girl what I wanted to do when I grew up, I wouldn't have had some answer that suggested I wanted to labor away for some corporation eight hours every weekday. I had no visions of being a Redcross nurse and patching up soldiers (unless it was for the <i>other </i>side), or of being some schoolteacher (I'd have encouraged all the students to play hooky), or of being the secretary to the President of the United States (nor of being the president). </p><p>No, I'd have told you that I would much prefer to make leather shoes and spin yarn for sweaters for my babies... and <i>tat</i> lace. Even now, I can't imagine a better aspiration than to sit in a rocker of luxurious wood on embroidered cushions and tat yards of silk lace with my silver shuttle.</p><p>We all have a grandmother, or a friend who has a grandmother, who made lace. Depending on their heritage and background, they may have done tape lace, bobbin lace, or needle lace among many others. My grandmother (and great-great-great-grandmother) tatted, and although I knew neither very well (one due to distance the other to death) I did not learn to tat lace at a young age. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiF2C0FXAum8azovDRyK-7bK8yk27O1nRND831xc3cWGkHB-kesT_cox5c_2_N58Kmsm58tlAN0Zu8Cwain1egiWovbynnCIHX73Hs7fdun881tx3sIQfOCfKIorAe3j23UXI051uHAAYSA-fpSGrpE5rEDhy3TAIN5IIB_IZH_6HhB8k8KAreHuZqA73kC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="2048" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiF2C0FXAum8azovDRyK-7bK8yk27O1nRND831xc3cWGkHB-kesT_cox5c_2_N58Kmsm58tlAN0Zu8Cwain1egiWovbynnCIHX73Hs7fdun881tx3sIQfOCfKIorAe3j23UXI051uHAAYSA-fpSGrpE5rEDhy3TAIN5IIB_IZH_6HhB8k8KAreHuZqA73kC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bookmark tatted by my great, great, great grandmother</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Lace tatting emerged sometime in the late18th or 19th century, a sort of "new parlor trick" reminiscing the Egyptian and Chinese knotted laces. For a hot moment it was the fad and feathery patterns featured in all the women's magazines. </p><p>One would use a small hand shuttle made of silver, a cheap metal, or bone with a machine bobbin filled of thread squeezed inside. These days you can buy all sorts of different shuttles from wood to porcelain to an assortment of metals. The lace is formed with both hands from precise movements and combinations of loose and taut tension.... really, it's a series of knots on an adjustable loop. Tatting can also be done with a needle as long as the eye isn't large than the rest of the needle and can be done with crocheting to create dimensional lace. </p><p>Tatted lace was mostly used for Royal garnishes, babies' gowns, and women's and men's collars and cuffs, bookmarks. While it is mostly an artifact of historical women's pastimes, tatted lace trim is still most commonly used to edge traditional Catholic priests' collars. I find the fact that lace in general was mostly for men and babies to be a fascinating factoid, and that women would make lace for their men or priests or babies, while <i>chatting </i>therefore also <i>knotting </i>their community together. Interestingly enough, tatting is called <i>chiacchierino </i>in Italian, which means chatting<b>. </b></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgu_HnsIWuKOmJHvZ3jSVtRI7dRDVtVYHAGiDQupukV2o0vaRX-JRmXAxPgRKBMki1ryMvAbtJ8wdjE0glNbDDwvIyQYjyWNXe788rtHcTZWtQYHHSvRDy6af1PPHK--1Z0o_C5Dg0ZkzfZrtk78GkEqOTI6jTREPuMbLqTbQ98qzoHB2Xhde51UMm4h5gl" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="1024" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgu_HnsIWuKOmJHvZ3jSVtRI7dRDVtVYHAGiDQupukV2o0vaRX-JRmXAxPgRKBMki1ryMvAbtJ8wdjE0glNbDDwvIyQYjyWNXe788rtHcTZWtQYHHSvRDy6af1PPHK--1Z0o_C5Dg0ZkzfZrtk78GkEqOTI6jTREPuMbLqTbQ98qzoHB2Xhde51UMm4h5gl" width="320" /></a>.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQIkXOz-6SFBwPzmwjx5WQf8h5UCqOfsFLglfpUAgyrydqyczEa9cDG_xqWMkV-9Yu5BcdnMfU0cr4uxRqAiPvcjyHRLaUxcjfuSEcIsvIIe1Y_FuoIu0_DP1OptfZlO4GQyBGPSIXmOcVSw416mfsMlqxg_rYgU25Nt8lmy4f57ormhbXlNwXGgJX0Hlt" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="805" data-original-width="717" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQIkXOz-6SFBwPzmwjx5WQf8h5UCqOfsFLglfpUAgyrydqyczEa9cDG_xqWMkV-9Yu5BcdnMfU0cr4uxRqAiPvcjyHRLaUxcjfuSEcIsvIIe1Y_FuoIu0_DP1OptfZlO4GQyBGPSIXmOcVSw416mfsMlqxg_rYgU25Nt8lmy4f57ormhbXlNwXGgJX0Hlt" width="214" /></a>.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCkNJGn_khCL59jU1GzCNVFYArnzxumo2EyXpJOiSKKp83vBYTM3Sae2SvfPfOYTVj7GFG6Pj2SD6N1ZPQI69AR8mcVFljTLA4mfgcqBXboSR4E0dMHQ0N7OXN2EGRaB7FwTPw3bVQHuECYNPzO-CSnnLDhwcuopp2dg6zBWP7pXG4zjJAzUrGdmYe1VE8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="304" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCkNJGn_khCL59jU1GzCNVFYArnzxumo2EyXpJOiSKKp83vBYTM3Sae2SvfPfOYTVj7GFG6Pj2SD6N1ZPQI69AR8mcVFljTLA4mfgcqBXboSR4E0dMHQ0N7OXN2EGRaB7FwTPw3bVQHuECYNPzO-CSnnLDhwcuopp2dg6zBWP7pXG4zjJAzUrGdmYe1VE8" width="194" /></a>.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWm3wOt0umKfso3iRB2lNma_rtvA79a6n9mK6MGrxfts2Ho46nny3xtnybyGww5OAvwc9ddCdGHDmL4RmNcMdIMx-NIJ6QaO2a_kCrT9Q14mPMTrizSbFQVZ0s4w2x7wpmsMiWG0dAlurjoEXplJIbengQ666qHysSsk0eYcjcDzlwg9WTdfFcmeZ1A4JB" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="382" data-original-width="279" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWm3wOt0umKfso3iRB2lNma_rtvA79a6n9mK6MGrxfts2Ho46nny3xtnybyGww5OAvwc9ddCdGHDmL4RmNcMdIMx-NIJ6QaO2a_kCrT9Q14mPMTrizSbFQVZ0s4w2x7wpmsMiWG0dAlurjoEXplJIbengQ666qHysSsk0eYcjcDzlwg9WTdfFcmeZ1A4JB" width="175" /></a>.</p><p>I found my first tatting shuttle, a cheap, but vintage metal, in an old box of lace trims, some of which were tatted. I saved it for when I might go see my grandmother next. It was then that she gave me the bookmark made by my great-great-great grandmother Mary Ann Wheeler. I know little about my times-three grandmother except that she was half Osage, born Mary Ann West on December 2nd, 1868, and passed in 1949. This bookmark is a most cherished possession... I've managed to lose it many times, and always find it again. As if it belongs with me somehow! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6oRQnIhmkutOn09fBmIHKXQSJS3KJfnRLrVR6rYkbI6TZqZspUL8rwFniJ6L-cg3r6dICL32Hvu-SODlANGnvS-2XlkVcNwzNenteiuYEI2IxwZQ2td2T_YK6hdKxsR7oJcNmOqvjsZi72bQv4ImLpmNAWdPViJqPFT2vbvGo8_WnAw_G9stY2BMryv73" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="835" data-original-width="1024" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6oRQnIhmkutOn09fBmIHKXQSJS3KJfnRLrVR6rYkbI6TZqZspUL8rwFniJ6L-cg3r6dICL32Hvu-SODlANGnvS-2XlkVcNwzNenteiuYEI2IxwZQ2td2T_YK6hdKxsR7oJcNmOqvjsZi72bQv4ImLpmNAWdPViJqPFT2vbvGo8_WnAw_G9stY2BMryv73=w320-h261" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>My grandmother, Gloria, was born three years after Mary Wheeler passed. But she found a small green book and taught herself to tat, mostly doing edgings that she attached to various garments and towels and gave away as gifts. I did not grow up around this side of the family, but my mom would tell me how her mother could make lace. After finding the old box of tatting supplies, I drove cross country to visit my grandmother Gloria and learned to tat. It had been a while since my grandmother had tatted, and so I supplemented my education with YouTube. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5j9ijicDjQZV6ggTPXFELF3bfEcDOjnY2kAqkBj9a2ENxZsmTBS6DSNyMoKLW_C3MP3cXwnK0lmbINzOmT1ncWnc1x_Z-xz3xmzGLBCxQS1HBsolO7dj4GLzg9aNhglOu6KyjCTukepnwD_A55_RpcSRqrgAWm4CZcerl378Uq195QKOrK9NIhsEO7YC7" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="754" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5j9ijicDjQZV6ggTPXFELF3bfEcDOjnY2kAqkBj9a2ENxZsmTBS6DSNyMoKLW_C3MP3cXwnK0lmbINzOmT1ncWnc1x_Z-xz3xmzGLBCxQS1HBsolO7dj4GLzg9aNhglOu6KyjCTukepnwD_A55_RpcSRqrgAWm4CZcerl378Uq195QKOrK9NIhsEO7YC7" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxGvIoiRqJPxeH-Km-FGmm628TuA3u2fqo_XEFX3XBQcdY5YFumorosnqd2z_Luiakl2jadPZ26EfIpcBbEYK1N3wt3AAQFsF089SYF5ULmGNLeP5sn_-xAZCvI_Xl6H4KGgzBGoPopVxhgI4YcfEyBApgcHoWi9xuvkTu_sSG0rCj8d4rGNh-NL1H0Mfl" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxGvIoiRqJPxeH-Km-FGmm628TuA3u2fqo_XEFX3XBQcdY5YFumorosnqd2z_Luiakl2jadPZ26EfIpcBbEYK1N3wt3AAQFsF089SYF5ULmGNLeP5sn_-xAZCvI_Xl6H4KGgzBGoPopVxhgI4YcfEyBApgcHoWi9xuvkTu_sSG0rCj8d4rGNh-NL1H0Mfl" width="180" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p>It took much of the next couple days to figure out how to make a single ring of lace, and how to connect them. The tension is odd at first... it requires a sort of dance between the fingers in which they are always poised at loose but exacting angles to adjust the tension with the minimal movement. After making quite a bit of the purple and yellow lace and perfecting the basic lace structure, I moved onto other things. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLdjIdxOs0v51I7_0NDaIBbNBEJ_Rkim5RgYEsYB8Mn0m91bRcVU2BupAmHDtnWkCTzGw0sPoZXyuLl0pV7G8T-JPVHum1uyFAw_ft7s2juAA1p2oOsMpcsr0VR3Z84L1FoCCR6Nww4hRYgbfhCp6nCVgDnleXZV3z505fa6TlYC6kDyGKreHCNAYebkOn" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLdjIdxOs0v51I7_0NDaIBbNBEJ_Rkim5RgYEsYB8Mn0m91bRcVU2BupAmHDtnWkCTzGw0sPoZXyuLl0pV7G8T-JPVHum1uyFAw_ft7s2juAA1p2oOsMpcsr0VR3Z84L1FoCCR6Nww4hRYgbfhCp6nCVgDnleXZV3z505fa6TlYC6kDyGKreHCNAYebkOn" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my first string of lace</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjs_7Z3BpKqr0iFb056rDMkDka6qNJmLR-2JmOeiyNUPhsR0FKOsoFbX2u9xxgaCnfEy_WjlA3HfaYKlCnTZg8ODcaxJKuGntnV1Gu7_Mf6KG3SxOSCMJRHXDUP70eX-fZoXuBOAdf7oLWv_r3v2QUcJ2f2NTQnG46fvV5jg_z5xoVsngKJ71DvwmrOsBy9" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="671" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjs_7Z3BpKqr0iFb056rDMkDka6qNJmLR-2JmOeiyNUPhsR0FKOsoFbX2u9xxgaCnfEy_WjlA3HfaYKlCnTZg8ODcaxJKuGntnV1Gu7_Mf6KG3SxOSCMJRHXDUP70eX-fZoXuBOAdf7oLWv_r3v2QUcJ2f2NTQnG46fvV5jg_z5xoVsngKJ71DvwmrOsBy9" width="157" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my first lace ring</td></tr></tbody></table>.<p>My next challenge was tatting a small doily, for a porcupine I joked, just to see what I could do freehand with my shuttle. I made a cute little piece of lace that I had no idea what to do with, until nearly a year later... when I decided to slip it into the first letter I sent to the man who would become my fiancé.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiF4LMefyuWBP4jmt20tT-Zplv32ma3ZDDCqz8rTHHCFHxcIiUV3JePq9aoCKq5esQyGXaaq4-6yXTvWdyVBgL5oZeL5z6rfdiPtiSNANU-DJyirVzQJcSYP2tr8LsGrd_loBclKDa9NEAuF7MbLvwVxq5i_pfAzEeoU2gZ6yfw_Ry47NBIc7E_obV3V3yi" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiF4LMefyuWBP4jmt20tT-Zplv32ma3ZDDCqz8rTHHCFHxcIiUV3JePq9aoCKq5esQyGXaaq4-6yXTvWdyVBgL5oZeL5z6rfdiPtiSNANU-DJyirVzQJcSYP2tr8LsGrd_loBclKDa9NEAuF7MbLvwVxq5i_pfAzEeoU2gZ6yfw_Ry47NBIc7E_obV3V3yi" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGMpX1BG2O_zr2hDo3i9En0K_RflbuxGDEsdKbvnGPQ7cZ-EwwE4VF--IdJ0E3yf1VOJweUBBB0hPD-3TU-_DMdgt_8onxln7K5-rhaNr3MMQK4zWmtFZOeeuAyjvmMIdWLGR9rpMUOHxY3WURGJ2Ul7iK1wfcU67bbPwehJsRKxaKJiCSjlXTKGl4xtQ5" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGMpX1BG2O_zr2hDo3i9En0K_RflbuxGDEsdKbvnGPQ7cZ-EwwE4VF--IdJ0E3yf1VOJweUBBB0hPD-3TU-_DMdgt_8onxln7K5-rhaNr3MMQK4zWmtFZOeeuAyjvmMIdWLGR9rpMUOHxY3WURGJ2Ul7iK1wfcU67bbPwehJsRKxaKJiCSjlXTKGl4xtQ5=w125-h320" width="125" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuJrjEIW_KIVIkwSj5NaSu4Q5RfHxS7nVE1hfDjVDT4ysPNwG9uW8HO7V0C_7gv8sPIqUQqfhIl7pQrTZ-VIllOLv5df_vlNWdbNzAB6Qqt9-0uV8BN4PAMFtOkhMDR4UNn77FvdcNuh_rfLGqei0GJ067rZFspuxWklEmmG-vAvQUHvUIXeukWz57AsdY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuJrjEIW_KIVIkwSj5NaSu4Q5RfHxS7nVE1hfDjVDT4ysPNwG9uW8HO7V0C_7gv8sPIqUQqfhIl7pQrTZ-VIllOLv5df_vlNWdbNzAB6Qqt9-0uV8BN4PAMFtOkhMDR4UNn77FvdcNuh_rfLGqei0GJ067rZFspuxWklEmmG-vAvQUHvUIXeukWz57AsdY=w233-h320" width="233" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjECEEvrOVqViGKS3JKVpHHN7a83GOwFz24-EKxUDPeXf1SoRlCVaXZnkIxX3ERZAHKR5KJGZ3ycc2SejShc8b1X_6VZomJSRMfvhbLI7VsLRc_7pCkT9GjHPT-KEulWc8EsJvgk9kLOhkp-OcEIED6FSAHidQa5HdOKxNUL3WcVPgkHj8A_nS57KTeDh8g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjECEEvrOVqViGKS3JKVpHHN7a83GOwFz24-EKxUDPeXf1SoRlCVaXZnkIxX3ERZAHKR5KJGZ3ycc2SejShc8b1X_6VZomJSRMfvhbLI7VsLRc_7pCkT9GjHPT-KEulWc8EsJvgk9kLOhkp-OcEIED6FSAHidQa5HdOKxNUL3WcVPgkHj8A_nS57KTeDh8g=w190-h320" width="190" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYjdUZ_tLLPRNPwZ8Amn-MtxLKDiT5idNvZul_f4L5MPnaOcbvpfXU29u58tbBEbGm8Kc_gsr_R0xWPnRTCkr7D1yAC0EjrH4trBVcDAY1EiHpiM88MgEpcnRtQKhio9Xc4q8uiW1X0ab3nVrZd19Mfwd4ZwBZlvEoKD7HUIayT7pIH9K5NFlDitUeTjas" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYjdUZ_tLLPRNPwZ8Amn-MtxLKDiT5idNvZul_f4L5MPnaOcbvpfXU29u58tbBEbGm8Kc_gsr_R0xWPnRTCkr7D1yAC0EjrH4trBVcDAY1EiHpiM88MgEpcnRtQKhio9Xc4q8uiW1X0ab3nVrZd19Mfwd4ZwBZlvEoKD7HUIayT7pIH9K5NFlDitUeTjas=w254-h320" width="254" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p>And then I began a masterpiece: twenty-five feet of lace edging for a quilt I'd been working on. The most wonderful thing about doing such a large project is how many connections it brought: little children came to ask, "can you show me how?" and old women drew closer "are you tatting!?" Even men were amazed and wanted to "touch this magical thing." </p><p>It took about six months to make enough lace for the quilt. Lace patterns, although intricate, are repetitive, and so after doing about eight inches I had the pattern pretty well memorized, and it became a lovely, mindless activity to do whenever I might be sitting down. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEheIT2-r_ckMQY-Bk7_hFzEE7mvQIHto2MNoh95nxv2kuYMa7oN-_BofHtyPgNSPPdv3eRLh9yfOIGtCFhJF_88mpSA7LEZAwzE5Gyl38p_dWlJmy1OYlGordbn9LO1o2GHulKZKhnQYcjx4Pv98TZrCHjvnoormG6xsaDAvQ0_VyjPU9Vmwb3OfWxfn7mj" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEheIT2-r_ckMQY-Bk7_hFzEE7mvQIHto2MNoh95nxv2kuYMa7oN-_BofHtyPgNSPPdv3eRLh9yfOIGtCFhJF_88mpSA7LEZAwzE5Gyl38p_dWlJmy1OYlGordbn9LO1o2GHulKZKhnQYcjx4Pv98TZrCHjvnoormG6xsaDAvQ0_VyjPU9Vmwb3OfWxfn7mj" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgmBiB9m95l9hQzoFgeNxVA9FW2sJI_Au4QiPoSU8YD95vW4Awg5Iv7FuRXr4eZaFd4sbcgFdnl--aNQJDZQAm1ew6na2NhMLjENYdjl3NGl8CBAFdija7AW0vOfK0SvnAuA3LTSnI4Hyi6nMDUn_pmX4uN4ta1cXq3ndmVjKmuLO6OXYF-6G8UeC-Uw_h" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgmBiB9m95l9hQzoFgeNxVA9FW2sJI_Au4QiPoSU8YD95vW4Awg5Iv7FuRXr4eZaFd4sbcgFdnl--aNQJDZQAm1ew6na2NhMLjENYdjl3NGl8CBAFdija7AW0vOfK0SvnAuA3LTSnI4Hyi6nMDUn_pmX4uN4ta1cXq3ndmVjKmuLO6OXYF-6G8UeC-Uw_h=w320-h240" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4bm0BHWReOroipTyd0lG0UBEdgAcZQx2RFtJvh66RvkPQlZXWTv9K1e_pBMWqqMBiPqSrkcos92D_NZNkicClUO-H6sM0IBNPr7laXWQRn85tXiEtGa_zZRS_RcYtGj8-4Ce_J4tsIRtkTWwoetyLVTFpr1RFpcfvZsT4NnJsiGkiFCjFgObU0h3pa2n0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1080" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4bm0BHWReOroipTyd0lG0UBEdgAcZQx2RFtJvh66RvkPQlZXWTv9K1e_pBMWqqMBiPqSrkcos92D_NZNkicClUO-H6sM0IBNPr7laXWQRn85tXiEtGa_zZRS_RcYtGj8-4Ce_J4tsIRtkTWwoetyLVTFpr1RFpcfvZsT4NnJsiGkiFCjFgObU0h3pa2n0" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I am now working on about twenty yards of silk tatted lace (hoping to do most of it with a silver shuttle I found on eBay) for my wedding dress. I'm currently about four yards in and enjoying the rhythm and of having something so pretty in my hands whenever I feel tired and useless. After that I don't plan on doing anymore major laces: I would love to do some barefoot style shoes, make small trims for towels and pillowcases and baby clothes, and make see if my husband will let me attach a King James' style collar to his jacket... I just love the idea of embellishing my family's arrayment, as much as it is polite and tasteful to do so. </p><p>If you're curious to see more modern tatted lace, check out this Instagram woman that sells tatted earrings <a href="https://www.instagram.com/wendy_the_lacemaker/">Wendy Carballo (@wendy_the_lacemaker) • Instagram photos and videos</a></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbnyEjeKvAj4l--uNJOcSvnJ-MOYtUkscIosSJ2ZB6fdkqmcu3KxI0t1LmQAXjj4LQDRd-Gc_YzSGUgRheR2WVnen8Ob7yRAIQP2kaESKu2P57CdRL7Lh-cn6RhAsFN3Ld4rHd5gzfm096xLP2pwVc5YAUy2hjBXgg9p3sSL7FbgqiCUlYtDyZnkteg28E" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbnyEjeKvAj4l--uNJOcSvnJ-MOYtUkscIosSJ2ZB6fdkqmcu3KxI0t1LmQAXjj4LQDRd-Gc_YzSGUgRheR2WVnen8Ob7yRAIQP2kaESKu2P57CdRL7Lh-cn6RhAsFN3Ld4rHd5gzfm096xLP2pwVc5YAUy2hjBXgg9p3sSL7FbgqiCUlYtDyZnkteg28E" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">needle tatting made by an older woman in Iowa</td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCwiShvTRUuPs2ATLokcKDPBBq5PnPmkuMoXd1OFrza-0xeSpAJHIkW73lo82panBut71XYCwrO-OxXIaoiPti48gEZ1XK3NtmL-WqMBh3FeUh0dj8q41E2uv1-ewRshnJJT-IUO1GvhHrWkIYzyGIEM_SFaStcnbTCMLhs7iwbrbHJhWSHbeWj2nxVxcX" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="2048" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCwiShvTRUuPs2ATLokcKDPBBq5PnPmkuMoXd1OFrza-0xeSpAJHIkW73lo82panBut71XYCwrO-OxXIaoiPti48gEZ1XK3NtmL-WqMBh3FeUh0dj8q41E2uv1-ewRshnJJT-IUO1GvhHrWkIYzyGIEM_SFaStcnbTCMLhs7iwbrbHJhWSHbeWj2nxVxcX" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">vintage tatted lace</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>.</p><p><br /></p><p>Because we are slowly losing the ways of our grandmothers, I feel it is partly my duty to spread the skills I've learned, and I've taught as many others to tat as would like to learn. I hosted my first tatting class June 2022 when hosting the Yellowstone Outpost Porcfest. I've since offered classes through my Livingroom Academy program, but mostly just teach people spontaneously whenever they see me tatting and ask to be shown. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVQnS7ykb_Mn5OEujGX2A9-SaVngoDEWB1pRyI1nFt1xJDw-4fD6FEN9G2vJC9rAzISUGMpzlFGZQH_gbEfXlHOTVcOpsYP1WjvE1iuGTf3Q87jYm06WVqHorHC8dOIlXZQXFd4YCeIU3WiPo_nGZIUUiozDSQkHVAm3xU-CqkCOROAVv7E-LIPVO-FK58" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="720" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVQnS7ykb_Mn5OEujGX2A9-SaVngoDEWB1pRyI1nFt1xJDw-4fD6FEN9G2vJC9rAzISUGMpzlFGZQH_gbEfXlHOTVcOpsYP1WjvE1iuGTf3Q87jYm06WVqHorHC8dOIlXZQXFd4YCeIU3WiPo_nGZIUUiozDSQkHVAm3xU-CqkCOROAVv7E-LIPVO-FK58" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFYHIEtJH98nVYhUnyKtaltL9YuMhXDlZpb_cJ6rbDH_B45UVI6sJbeiyUN0MRrnv9Az7vfbKNazdrc41tmtyVn4g86paGCCHld_N_cFuNe_rWO5nBIPtZaO6vQ2as01nf9HHkSVoo8egQtQ_-h5LHVoXhVSHmE17MpYgqPYbbESPoPBnJmBO113YtlNqd" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFYHIEtJH98nVYhUnyKtaltL9YuMhXDlZpb_cJ6rbDH_B45UVI6sJbeiyUN0MRrnv9Az7vfbKNazdrc41tmtyVn4g86paGCCHld_N_cFuNe_rWO5nBIPtZaO6vQ2as01nf9HHkSVoo8egQtQ_-h5LHVoXhVSHmE17MpYgqPYbbESPoPBnJmBO113YtlNqd" width="180" /></a> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Although it is complicated to learn, once you get the hang of it, it salves the common ADHD tick bubbling in most women's hands. I believe this, along with the way it sustained joviality in a parlor, is why it was common to begin with. And I wonder, what if tatting had remained popular among women, would we be better connected with our community through </span><b style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://keturahskorner.blogspot.com/2023/05/sanctified-gossip.html">chatting</a></b><span style="text-align: left;"> and charity? </span><span style="text-align: left;">If you could choose between a face tattoo or tatted lace... which, would it be? Both seem to hearken back to the days of sailors, of chatting and gossip, of comradery. </span><span style="text-align: left;">Imagine even the difference our modern aesthetics would bely if girls could make and add lace to whatever they wished... would they want ripped jeans anymore</span><span style="text-align: left;">? Would they want to be feminists anymore? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Perhaps I am putting too much importance in a piece of lace and giving it too much power. But we can always wonder what might have been...<i><b> and what might be. </b></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhciycRPScfN9yXSCqhyhJpzCSYO_4q2U-Nw9uaOJjK0t80d_q63BqPVSQnDuyi1PUzYjBs7ZlydK4ZTFNGsJgZTDjVIhpWECRwaMnyYDsyLmH4m138BJwP_KOXLo6_P54B130W89V_3KSmwdSh6OvGkf4s5ykyJjthGV5g3jR3zuBo3uxGvrQUmSBWUnv4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhciycRPScfN9yXSCqhyhJpzCSYO_4q2U-Nw9uaOJjK0t80d_q63BqPVSQnDuyi1PUzYjBs7ZlydK4ZTFNGsJgZTDjVIhpWECRwaMnyYDsyLmH4m138BJwP_KOXLo6_P54B130W89V_3KSmwdSh6OvGkf4s5ykyJjthGV5g3jR3zuBo3uxGvrQUmSBWUnv4=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-35974092852593048432023-10-18T07:59:00.005-07:002023-10-18T07:59:00.154-07:00Swallowed By Cloud Nine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">If my ten years of blogging has taught me anything, it is that if a steadfast blogger woman goes MIA it is because she has stumbled upon the delights of cloud nine. After all these wild illusions, I am no different. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Yes, I am engaged.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I have missed this blog though, and my lucky readers will be glad to know that my fiancé is also a writer, and we are keeping the other accountable to our earthly passions.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The writing shall carry on!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Andy (aka Shagbark Hick from twitter or Randy from his Substack <a href="https://shagbark.substack.com/">County Line Notes</a>) and I plan to be married sometime in the spring as soon as the wildflowers are ready to be made into bouquets. There is little to do this winter but to make my wedding dress. And, of course, for us to get to know each other's families and faith as thoroughly as love urges one.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4hhGAK3BPbuR27fm2O7un8lg0QczcEXiATXZXwhS85--br7hGeedDKPWnvwr0xdZXKZVWNzsQh79CFf8qxBu6p8xByLOJHrjhF__27x2MAp4RgrTyeE8DtGq8pQVPEGHcEc3BnnksrgAsO7MwtKEsB7dvPLS_vMGmtdcVrhYArW4aiY7l0-xOtw94XTfU" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first picture together, taken by my little brother in my father's junk yard. </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">If you all remember, I left end of last summer for a long road trip that lasted just about five months. I was weary to know what to do with my broken heart. I had followed a vision past its end, and although the harvest appeared plentiful, I held no fruit from which I wished to save seeds. I couldn't even tell what the last straw was anymore... the entire pile had burnt to fine ash months ago. The wasteland was too cluttered to afford the peace of deserts. And while I've never struggled with the sin of complacency, I faced the flipside: bitter hardness of heart. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">As I wished to hate and despise men, I told myself I mustn't, that I must choose the path of open heartedness even if tore the last bit of strength out of me and killed me. I told a friend, "I will marry the first interesting, <i>kind </i>man I can find." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I was pretending to be open. But I was daring the world to show me that such a combination in a man could even exist. God, in His mercy and kindness, filled my path with nothing but such men for the next few months. To stay true to my desire to not have a heart like Pharoah's, I forced myself to two-step with cozy strangers, play my flute loudly by ear in music jams squeezed between talented prodigies, and accompany newly met friends to bizarre parties where intoxicated, tattooed men would softly ask me if they could see the lace trim I tatted for a quilt (I certainly stood out at such parties since I held and accepted no substances). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Despite my flippant claim, I met <i>many </i>interesting, kind men. And each of them chipped away at whatever it was that had built up around my heart, preparing me for the man I'd meet in the last week of my travels. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrKu6ULd1h2cP7YEd3sW21-qPuSTvFGUDy3t-QzjZaX_Yh1ZnALz7tjLA0AcKqWaj5tQk1qiVRxcd8OVJluO_Ne_-AIevDff1HPtWMM4TL1pBZRPHKjpAt13g_S2aRtnFvfPP4_IVxKBHquLp4WBuz8cH11I1lv98z4EzoxwS4yfhgY_HyEq7lpCfL38b7" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andy making us tea in some warehouse parking lot in Missoula Montana </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It's difficult letting go illusions we build up for ourselves, especially when we've had clear visions accompanied by searing intuition. I've met and conversed with many women who had similar stories to me, of how they met a man and instantly <i>knew </i>that they were to marry him. For some of these women, they have beautiful testimonies of how God told them they would marry, perhaps their husband was unaware of it at first, but eventually they did marry, and all was beautiful. But for all the beautiful stories there are many untold realities of women holding onto <i>their </i>revealed vision, occasionally invigorated by the stories of success and thereby sticking with something that drags on until it becomes almost sinister in nature. And yet we hold on because we <i>knew, </i>because it is love, because it would be wrong to quit just because we cry every day. It is how a woman was made, though, and in a perfect world, her interpretation is rewarded and reciprocated until she is made secure in the fulfillment of her promised vision. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But visions are not the same as prophecies. They are not guarantees, nor commandments. They are nudges of some possible reality that might be ours if we allow ourselves to be offered on the alter. And yet, our sacrifice is never enough if it is not accepted. Perhaps you do say yes to the vision, and yet <i>you </i>are not alone, and if someone else says <i>no </i>a choice arises. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Before it was too late, I <b>defied</b> my intuition and went to look for a new dream, or simply to sleep and let dreams, too, rest awhile.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And I encourage all young women who may be in a similar plight to reject <i>their </i>truth. Let yourself be given to the wind and hold onto <i>nothing. </i>God will find you and carry you and take you from place to place until He sees fit to place you back on Earth among the fresh dew of new morning promises.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitOGScYcsiHfy1Fwt-5jTsttVvlrgrCR69ZqYFXHwJga1KU8DFnTIizAQNnFk7mJ-3zdT84zrsgyA9tbA4OP_95Qd_ta5X2fXz3jIsI-9qTmeBBy7IWvOmrtD8FbkXJzFxhfbuwGKP1uCrngUwTRhmJ4PUZL9C3apgZcJZep7bkum5NgstNsjGNCJOmqae" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andy washing my living room windows</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">When at last I had removed myself from the alter of my choices and turned my back on the steps I'd built, and faced the wide-open nothingness of <i>anything, </i>the visions of what I knew to be true became meaningless. Nothing concrete existed here but aesthetics. Here I found both nihilism and my body done away with. Desires remained, fruit thrived, purposes rekindled. But it was no longer <i>my body, my choice. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>"Not my will, Lord, but thine be done."</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Because he gave but <i>would </i>not take away, I swallowed my freedom and surrendered to the dream-giver all ideas and basic rights... I needed neither. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Five months is an arbitrary number. Somehow it was right for me. With friends' council, I was able to stick mostly true to the denial of self and cultivated a freshness of spirit. Childhood aspirations resurfaced, and I shared them wholeheartedly on twitter because it was the last social media platform, I felt safe to express freely on. I connected with a lovely woman my age who loved the idea of my Living Room Academy and wanted to help me make it a living reality. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"But" she told me. "I want to also find you a husband." </div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">She asked me to fill her forms out, assured me she wouldn't actually give my information to anyone, but it would certainly help her know if her website glitched, and then she dropped the pressure... for a week. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"I know you said you weren't interested in finding a husband... but I didn't really think I'd find someone that seems kinda perfect. The only issue is that he doesn't really believe in working a real job..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My guard was up, but a man that loved <i>poverty. </i>This possessed my attention. I told her she could give him my number. Andy called me, and we talked nearly two hours. I answered the call between classes and music practice in North Carolina at the John C. Campbell school. At first, I was bored and disinterested... except I never had a chance to feel awkward or as if I might be doing something wrong. He kept me enthralled and made me laugh. He told me how he'd left the dumpster diving for church, and when I asked him why he couldn't do both... and he received my contrariness as something heartening. He told me he was a poet, then as I leaned into the wet grass and searched among the clovers and arranged sticks and leaves into the shape of butterflies, he asked me what I held most dear. "All things whimsical, hospitality, and books."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqtDCK93fIevV_ml3nxwJ_Nm3lzGsSX5-LXLQNIpd6E-CRrPg8-pHW1nWXMhrTDFl69xPZoL74CsqtSo2brbU92Mib1YD7NLT1JsBqaaWepuJG-JS0Oif2QuyI0cDGIntk0PleuN7sqnVniAKKqnjrrTO-WmwjT4VBDzmwxz7WKAb3DxFKIJc_ONDyTJcV" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andy making me lunch outside my workplace</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We exchanged a letter each, and then he called me over zoom to break up with me. But even this was sweet somehow. I didn't feel rejected as I had with other men. Even in this he didn't want to make me cry but was doing what he thought to be right at the time. Before I had liked him, but as he sat there telling me things couldn't go on, I knew deep down that this man had somehow kept the doors open in such a way that a man who flits between several girls fails to do. He had put all his eggs into <i>one </i>basket, leaving my basket quite dry and empty. And yet now I knew I'd willingly let him fill it again because of his decisive, complete way of handling my heart. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We didn't talk for about two months, but I only cried that first day. I felt hardly sad about the situation, just immensely grateful to have been liked by such a sweet man. I sort of felt things <i>could </i>still work out. But I had no idea if they would. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Willow, our matchmaker, though, was enraged. She pressed him to reach out to me again, asking me first of course if I'd be receptive to that. After a couple weeks of wanting to but fearing my potential wrath he finally DM'd me on twitter and asked for another phone call. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgg6AxDbJBNjdjmudbfSP2UpTDeP-N1Ub4Hy33in8bs8LhM7sEq59Zmo4s43NwmQVLISuUukk0ObmM3pxM8EFzklOE7WfrIZD2Ai0LvdlOJqMJWW3OAstCtqzriGnA8EmJGZ9Av7Gtj7tpt0d-U_Rw0AGb_yFQgtK35vP12xaP8MHZNWLL2wgA0C1ExTEdV" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my friends gathered around Andy and me </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Those two months were good for me though. In that amount of time, I had to ask myself some honest questions. Would I revert to old dreams? I would not, not even if new dreams became equally unattainable. What would I be willing to do for a man, truly <i>willing. </i>Would I allow myself to fully join him in <i>his </i>work and in <i>his </i>life? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The paradox of being a woman is that we should never change ourselves for a man and yet when someone we love needs change to honor who they are we transcend... could I love him enough, even half as much as Ruth loved Naomi? I've never looked for a man who was equally yoked to me, but for one who I knew I could yoke myself to and trust blindly into whatever life he and God would choose. And yet, in those springtime months I sorted through the actual logistics of what it might look like to deny all personal pedanticism for some greater Truth expressed only in the works of my submissive hands and feet, unable to be captured in the words of my mouth.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I'm not sure how sincerely I could have dealt with these crucial questions if we hadn't had those couple months of silence. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">He came to meet me the last half of June. I think we were both terrified of each other... we didn't hug or touch for at least four or five days! But slowly, we drew closer to each other, and shared sunsets, books, and meals. Chill and eagerly, he let me drag him through all my obligations, putting himself to use, never seeming out of place, but naturally assuming position and priority in my everyday life, and loving all my friends and family. And then he took my hand, and hugged me, and we decided we would go steady, and on the last day, after accidentally finding out I'd never kissed anyone, found a moment to kiss me. </div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This summer we both had obligations that kept us in separate states. We sent many letters over the next two months, and talked on the phone whenever we could, sometimes for seven hours. We found ourselves both wishing to be where we weren't but also thankful that we were strongly doing good things for the world. At the end of my last living room academy course, he returned via the amtrack... and we haven't been separated a day since.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For a good month, he stayed in a cabin my dad fixed up for him on our property and immersed himself in my everyday life. We went to poetry open mics, hosted my friends, and he drove me to work every day and would make me lunch in the parking lot on his camp stove. I was nervous at times that I might be overwhelming him with my chaotic, bubbly life... but no, he continually impressed me with his chill, dedication to my whims, earning my trust for the times when he would be, "It's time for a break" and feeling <i>relief </i>that he had the insight to make us both breathe. Every day I feel grateful to be with someone who makes me laugh often and adores me and continually asks me how I am and what I'm thinking. I feel so respected and cherished and absolutely seen and safe. I love cooking for him and reading his writing and listing to his professor-esque spiels, and of bending down to his ear, to whisper sweet promises... or munch a cracker loudly. Yes, we cackle much together. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Andy is a lot like me (just nerdier and less ditsy). He traveled hobo-style for over five years, writing poetry on his typewriter, rejecting modern societal expectations in every path he chose. He is also a devout Catholic, an excellent writer, and a man of woods and maps. Instead of keeping almonds in his pockets, he jokes about having cabbage (really, he has stuff to make a campfire).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We are now traveling on the Amtrak making our way slowly toward his family. On the way we are getting to know each other's faith and visions thoroughly, or as much as one can do such things before discovering them absolutely in the ensuing sauntering years to come. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Life is truly a blessed experience these days, and I'm so lucky to be this happy... and I refuse to think this fairy tale shall have any uncommonly <i>unique</i> epilogue after our happily ever after. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-85721784957225877112023-06-07T06:19:00.001-07:002023-06-07T06:19:26.875-07:00A Mormon Temple<div>If you had the opportunity to step inside a temple of the Church of Latter Day Saints, would you? </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Last month two LDS missionaries came inside a little bookstore I was taking care of for the day. Delightful conversation about theology, anarchy, and adventure ensued. I told them about my church hopping days. Before they left they handed me a little brochure, "I think you'll appreciate this."</div><div><br></div><div>It was information about a temple just built in Helena... and it would be open for visitations until dedicated! Yes, I was interested. I finally made it out yesterday, the last day before being closed to non church members.</div><div><br></div><div>Really, it was a fascinating, thought provoking experience. There were many pieces of art throughout the entire building, some of it original paintings others quality prints. One of the most unusual and loveliest was of God hugging Jesus.</div><div>There was texturized carpet and embroidered chairs and large chandeliers. So many mirrors, and I badly wanted to get a mirror selfies, but no pictures were allowed. </div><div><br></div><div>The temple is just many rooms for their different rituals of commitment and services: a room where you may be baptized for those who have died, a room for pondering, a room for performing vows, dressing rooms with white clothing (gowns with lace for the women and simple pants and shirts for the the men). It is such a rich place, and I'm beginning to feel that a church is deeply better off with such a place that might point back to Solomon's temple.</div><div><br></div><div>Of course there were things that felt disjointed and jarring. The plants inside and throughout were all fake. The tour guides were sweet but bland... somehow they managed to reveal bits of INTRIGUING fascinating things about marriage and heaven, and yet in such a drab, non intellectual way. The railings about the temple were ugly, the exit signs disruptive, numerous small things about and inside the temple just brought it from a place of wondrous to "this feels fake and corporate." </div><div><br></div><div>This world is so full of amazing stories... that's what I love about mormonism. It's so creative, and has model-worthy family views for earth and heaven. And the temple, despite the occasional grating aesthetisism, was charming.</div><div><br></div><div>If ever you have the opportunity to see such a place, do go, and let yourself be open to seeing something different, so that your own life might be enriched with some wholesome inspiration... because there will be some takeaway for you that may intensity your personal walk</div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-73192173854774754172023-05-31T07:24:00.000-07:002023-05-31T07:24:00.148-07:00Turtle Island for Women who Love Woods <div>Last weekend I taught hand sewing and embroidery at <a href="https://www.turtleislandpreserve.org/">Turtle Island</a>, an off-grid thousand-acre nature preserve in North Carolina. I also participated in blacksmithing and netmaking classes and went on a long quiet walk... discovering I shared a birthday with one of the founders.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div><div>It was a beautiful weekend to unplug and pick up skills. The students were a delight. I watched them fall in love with sewing, some of them claiming they'd never thought such a thing possible. The truth is matters of femininity are far from despicable once we move past the lie that we're incompetent. The word empowerment gets thrown around a lot, but it's simply capability and joy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some call it domestic servitude... because they want more corporate slaves and fewer competent women guiding communities. A skilled, capable woman isn't a doormat. She's a queen with a broom in hand ready to beat the pulp out of that doormat so you'll feel welcomed in her domain.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div><div>Our sermons will be more readily heard, too, because it will be backed by authentic benevolence. </div><div><br /></div><div>Do check out Turtle Island's available courses. They of course have something available for just about anyone and everyone. Their next woods woman's weekend is in the fall! And they also have two-week summer camps for young girls. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-44386761494381359002023-05-12T21:45:00.002-07:002023-05-17T12:38:42.854-07:00What it's Like Driving Twenty Hours In A Day <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div>What's it like driving twenty hours in a day?</div><div><br></div><div>First let's squelch the misconception that traveling is exciting. Instead of sitting on your cozy couch staring out your sparkling windows with curtains you sewed you're cramped in a driver's seat staring out a bug-smeared window. Simple as that. </div><div><br></div><div>This morning I woke up at some rest stop in South Dakota. It had a ridiculous sign posted "encouraging" people to stay only three hours. I slept six. </div><div><br></div><div>Lost the sheet of metal I'd skillfully duct taped to the top of my car to cover a busted skylight. Dear God, pour the rain on my enemies. (Please don't let my enemy's car be parked next to mine tonight).</div><div><br></div><div>I listened to the rest of the audio book "Body Keeps the Score". Excellent material.</div><div>Sustenance: half a bag of chips, a sourdough peanut butter sandwich, a square of chocolate, water, one coffee, vitamin d capsule (forgot to take other vitamins). </div><div>Many friends called. </div><div><br></div><div>When driving through some large city (perhaps during rush hour?) I noticed some van in front of me with human arms flapping outside the window. I thought that strange and interesting, but drifted off to other thoughts.... until that van pulled back alongside my car, all the arms still waving... turned out it was a family I've known my entire life but haven't seen since I was sixteen. What a fun unexpected ten second visit!!</div><div><br></div><div>Humidity is amazing because it adds texture to my otherwise flat hair and hides my earbuds. I pulled into a gas station talking on the phone with a friend (this friend is heading same direction as me but from the opposite side of the country).</div><div>When I stepped out of my car, my friend still in my ear under my hair, the trash guy came over and waved to me, "I had so much fun watching you come in laughing to yourself the whole way."</div><div><br></div><div>Loved being that eccentric woman. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div>Tonight I'm staying at some other rest stop near my destination. I stopped here so I can write and study french and disregard another sign that says "no overnight parking". </div><div><br></div><div>At this point, I'd pretty much go see anyone who would offer me a neck massage.</div><div><br></div></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-37490330476737345592023-05-10T07:10:00.002-07:002023-05-10T07:10:00.138-07:00Sanctified Gossip <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Women are leaders in grace, conversation, and reconciliation.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You know what odd combinations I love to see most in evangelical home churches? A woman fully living in her femininity, and yet quite not silent in church. It isn't that I wish to defy 1 Timothy 2:12, but that I understand sobriety isn't the absence of speech or the presence of silence. It's that I understand that the works of the Proverbs 31 women are so perfectly aimed the attention lands where she intends --her fine work, her husband, her community. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Several years ago, I attended a dance that demonstrated traditional femininity and masculinity through honor, sacrifice, respect, and romance. The oddest of statements was issued: <i>women traditionally were the leaders of conversation in society. </i>They hosted spaces for men to converse, and certain women were sought after for invitations <i>because </i>the spaces they held invoked the best discourses. Arguably, these women weren't brazen or given to much debate. They simply made sure the conversation never dulled. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And yet what does it mean to be a leader in anything? <b>Neither silent, nor loud, but sober-minded</b>, the real message of 1 Timothy 2:12. What a way to overturn the Christian sentiment "women are to be silent" without being a feminist.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A strong community is not one where the women are silent, but where they are the facilitators of wholesome times and good conversations. All they have to do is ask a good question and the men are suddenly put at ease and able to argue and mansplain, occasionally energized with a pretty statement or another question and something nice to eat. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But a community isn't just about what the women do for the men. That, if anything, is the surface result of something deeper and more beautiful. Men are the direct beneficiaries of a woman's thoughtfulness, grace, and ideas-made-realities. But it is other good women building women up that make all of this attainable and healthy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Let's get nerdy for a moment and chat about gossip. Did you know that the word gossip doesn't appear once in the King James Version? I'm sure if appears in other translations, and I'm not a KJV only advocate, but for the purity of etymology and because I happen to only have a Strong's Concordance near me, I don't think it matters if other translations use this word. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Looking into the etymology of the word, it really seemed to start out with rather well-meaning intentions: someone we know well who we bring into a circumstance with the intentions of having them share good news with everyone else. Eventually it broadened like a good pair of aged hips are wont to do and came to simply mean "anyone engaging in idle talk". </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Check out this interesting article that gives a larger view of the word and <a href="https://wordhistories.net/2017/02/04/gossip/">how it originally had no derogatory associations</a>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Idleness isn't as much of a sin as the Puritans would have us think. Think leisure, rest, small talk, sharing the simple delights through conversation. As long as it doesn't fall into the territory of slandering your neighbor, gossiping is the natural way of women's speech, and even how men converse when they are done with pontificating their visions. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To be clear: I am not defending slander. Slander, blasphemy, and malicious talk have no constructive place in our communities, and the scripture is clear that these things are sins (the ninth commandment, Proverb 10:18, Romans 1:29).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i> "Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers." Ephesians 4:29 </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>I could go deeper into why slander is a sin, but most of us already know why through experience and conscious. I would rather circle back to my original point and expound on why women should engage in more gossiping.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><h2 style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Idle Conversation is the Breath of Community </h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Without women I'm not sure community could be a sustainable concept. Not only do they feed those that enter their homes and nourish the present moments with gladness and grace, but they also bear children and tell them the stories of old, therefore guaranteeing the success of the future. In this all they remain both sane and soft through intimacy with other women... that is to say by gossiping and with idle conversation. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What does this idle speech look like? It is not a forgetting of sobriety; it is not a delighting in slandering. It is <i>chit chatting. </i>It is women gathered around their work talking about the things that really matter: their hearts, their flowers that just bloomed, the new recipe they just tried, how Jackie helped mend his sister's sweater, how Karen ended her bickering with her brother by suggesting they skip stones. It is that phone conversation between women that energizes them to clean as they ramble on about the weather and the things Susan and Allie said Friday night. There is laughter, there is lowered voices, there is a sudden burst of energy to do all the things you were procrastinating over. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When women build these conversations of importance over the everyday things of their life, they are prone to share <i>more</i>. And this is where the waters sometimes get murky, where we touch the line of backbiters and slanderers. But we must face this, too, if the community is to flourish and the women remain happy. Because it is important, we remain honest, even in our pursuit of being kind and graceful. There will be jealousies and malicious deeds done, and they mustn't be shoved under the rug. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><h2 style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Gossip is Enlightenment for Potential Reconciliation </h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> It is hard to face the envy in our heart, but we must do so. I can recall two specific instances where it I could no longer take the tension of hating the woman next to me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Once, after months of misery, I simply said, "We hate each other, don't we?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Yes," she said. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Why?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She told me, and we talked it out, eventually laughed a little, and things became more tolerable. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Another time I told a friend, "I'm so jealous of you right now."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She stared at me, "I'm jealous of you right now, too."<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We sat down by each other and said nothing else, just laughed and cried for awhile. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This approach is probably the most biblical (Matt 18: 15-17) but sometimes we just aren't aware enough of the state of our hearts to know that we hate or envy our sisters or brothers. And this is when constructive gossip can be productive, especially when we have wholesome friends. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I'm really mad at -- right now..." As friends we listen, and we sympathize. If the issue is bad enough, we listen for awhile before offering advice. Perhaps we call the other person up and say, "I think you should call --. They are feeling dejected right now." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That friend might be upset for a bit, too... let them speak their piece. As women, we all know the contentment of ranting. We don't have to really mean all the things we say to each other... we just need to say them. And then we need to be encouraged to forgive and forget and make amends. But often that is only possible after having gushed for a bit to our friends. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There is a relieved heart that can say "I've been feeling unkindly toward my sister." and then find herself feeling more loving toward her sister. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Women need to express both their anger and their envy in order to move past it. What roots and grows in silence is to be feared more than an outspoken woman. A sullen, vengeance is the true breaking of homes and communities. But not only is gossip is edifying for the recognizing of our hearts, our love, our anger, and our envy, it keeps us safe. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><h2 style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Gossip Keeps the Community Safe from Unsavory Folks</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Once again, we toe the line of slander in our pursuit of "being the busybody who spreads truth". </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The truth is, most everything is everyone's business if it affects anyone outside of immediate home. To say otherwise is to try and conceal unsavory dealings. Gossip, when done right, is a safeguard against toxic relationships and dangerous people. It allows women to process things they don't understand, and when they do, it is the means of protection for keeping others safe: a constructive warning of another person's degenerated character. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is not a justification for tearing anyone's reputation down. Always, even in honesty, first must come benevolence and the desire for reconciliation. Forgiveness and grace <i style="font-weight: bold;">must </i>precede all shared truth. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">There are many common oral proverbs of religions: <i><b>it is better to kill a man than to slander his reputation and leave him alive in this unjust death. </b></i></div><div><i><b><br /></b></i></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The point is to speak poorly of another's reputation is not a light matter. There is much power in our words. But do not hesitate in speaking truth of this nature. Take this duty seriously and soberly and share in a way that benefits the community at large. Perhaps even the offender will be saved through the confrontation and sudden accountability. But if not, if the reputation is killed, your words are merely the enlightenment of actions done. <i><b>At the end of the day the burden of our reputation lies solely in the works of our own actions and not in the words of someone else's lips. </b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I find it odd that this is even a controversial topic in Christianity. We are all about being truthful and forthright until it comes into the terrain of "gossip". We talk of being one body until actual damage is done between members and then we sanctimoniously claim, "we are minding our own business". I am by no means suggesting the government should have any involvement in these matters, but that the community should <i>not </i>keep sins private and propagate further suffering. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Choosing to be the good Samaritan is realizing "I am my brother's keeper" and all things are your business if you have eyes to see and ears to hear. Do something about injustice, don't wait for it to get so out of hand that <i>someone </i>calls 911. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Often this is the job of women. Being naturally inclined to gossiping, they will more readily recognize and address an issue when seen and will do all in their power protect those in their domain. And as long as they keep love and hospitality and generosity at the forefront of all their actions, this is a good thing. This is your Deborah and your Jael. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><h1 style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sanctified Gossip</h1><div>It can be such a beautiful thing when done virtuously. It is a positive way to spread information without paying for a newspaper. It keeps our communities safe; it energizes and educates women. It alerts the community to another's needs or desires, and a food train is organized, or a barn built. It allows us to detract from the toils of our work week and fall into the leisure of dreams and thoughts.</div><div><br /></div><div>We've been led to believe gossiping is some great sin, and yet much of the church laments a lack of friendships and community. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ideas, legalistic and puritan in nature, are part of why community is shriveling.</div><div>Instead of discouraging healthy chatter we should sanctify our speech. There should be more trust, care, and insight. These are the pure things of everyday life, or both work and of respite. Think about it... when was your soul last refreshed? When did you last let your guards loose and share idle away the time with some friend chatting over events and experiences and other acquaintances? Give it a try. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>-</i>Ephesians</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://jfredrickson.com/day-146-and-gossip/?fbclid=IwAR1_h3EjdR2fopvme_MNNrPZ0nuDUIwS57ZkxFDXtfzHDwPlnlPcwJjh-oU">Check out this article a friend wrote about gossip a few years back. </a></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-1494509768600866882023-05-03T06:30:00.003-07:002023-05-03T06:30:00.132-07:00My finished Quilt <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">An era of my life is finished. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Last night I tied the last knot on this quilt, a project for my hope chest that's been with me since February 2018. A friend said it must feel like a child after all this time. Not really, it is more like an unanswered thesis. But it is written, and for that I am thankful. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This quilt is something I began to dream at twelve years old when I found the embroidery pattern, a bunch of baskets of flowers, at a quilting shop. When I "won" a Janome sewing machine (pretty sure the woman just liked me and drew my name and called it a "second winner". She also copied out the pattern for me, because I'd admired it for so long, and told me to someday use it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Years passed, and then one day, a little over five years ago, I needed something to lift me out of a mindset. The s<a href="https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=sing+team+psalm+42&view=detail&mid=2A84DD058A2FDD84CAA22A84DD058A2FDD84CAA2&FORM=VIRE">ong based on Psalm 42 by the Sing Team</a> was my current favorite song. It felt like I was eating a lot of tears and would be for the rest of my life. And so I told myself, let's see how many things you can cry over for five years. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I indeed cried over a lot of things for five years, many of those tears though went into the quilt and I ended up tasting something sweeter than bitterness. I learned to dream again, and I found visions that fit my soul. I let my soul alone and I let God have control of my will and my fears. And eventually, those tears watered wildflowers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Along with the longtime yearning of doing a quilt the authentic way (completely by hand) came the desire to learn to tat lace.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I wanted all of it to be made of good materials: I found muslin wide enough to back the entire king-sized quilt, purchased quality cottons, and the batting is from a local wool mill ran by a friend. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> I wanted something that would take a long time, for it to implement many skill sets, and for it to be the bearer of time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> It has been just that, and while sometimes I roll my eyes at the actual arrangement and colors I chose five years ago, I am content because of what this quilt holds, regardless of current mature preferences. It's somewhat sad to be done with something that's been with me for so long, something that has represented a lot and now carries many stories... the initial heartbreak turned excitement, the renewal of stories, my time in Germany, the lace knitted while helping with my friends' babies, the embroidery done while my dad was in the hospital, the lace tatted while on many road trips, and all the bits done while church hopping or for that short bit where it took up all my living room. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There is only one way to summarize the pains and joys of these last years: this quilt. So much tried ambition and discovered delight. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I'm already touching new projects, and so the nostalgia is overshadowed by excitement. But that's exactly what I would have wanted when I first started what I thought was an impossible task (not because of the actual work). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Thank you everyone who has been a part of this journey!! It's been fun sharing... I hope you feel as satisfied and sad as I do right now!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">All you young women fretting, maybe this is your sign: go make a quilt!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Imagine holding an armful of something you made. . . something to keep babies warm in ;D </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The final touch: Some free hand embroidery on the underside corner.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div style="text-align: left;">The quilt update posts: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://keturahskorner.blogspot.com/2019/02/my-quilt-year-of-spare-moments-stitched.html">One year</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://keturahskorner.blogspot.com/2020/03/handgemacht-in-deutschland-all-things.html">Two Years</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://keturahskorner.blogspot.com/2021/02/three-year-update-on-my-quilt.html">Three Years</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://keturahskorner.blogspot.com/2022/03/four-year-quilt-update.html">Four Years</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://keturahskorner.blogspot.com/2023/02/five-year-quilt-update.html">Five Years</a></div></div><div><br style="text-align: left;" /></div></div><br /></div><div></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-191423185547549532023-04-26T06:53:00.002-07:002023-04-27T07:11:22.714-07:00Toastmasters and Doomer OptimismI began speaking a couple years ago shortly after returning from Germany, mostly at political events to share about the <a href="https://thegirlwhodoesntexist.com/">girl who doesn't exis</a>t. <div><br /></div><div>As someone who loves words, it felt horrible to stand in front of people and ramble on toward ideas. I refused to have written speeches to rely on. I wanted to be "a real speaker". But the writer in my also groaned. . . and so I joined the political speech and debate club, and when it was discontinued, the leader took me under his wing for a few weeks and pointed me toward Toastmasters. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't really have time to join Toastmaster, though. I went to the meeting, a raveling, but spirited crowd doing its best to draw in more members by being the very best themselves, and although I only had a couple weeks left in Montana before leaving for a long road trip, I paid my dues and joined the club. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's how it's been ever since. Not once have I truly had time for this spectacular club. Life remains always relentlessly full. Sometimes I am gone for months. And then... sometimes I am home and able to go for weeks in a row. Other times things come up, or I just choose to stay home and not drive the forty minutes to the meeting. And yet, despite never having had time, it hasn't overloaded my plate, but been the very thing I've needed. </div><div><br /></div><div>It has brought my visions the validation they needed. It has comforted and calmed the writer in me, and directed my mouth to say the words my hands might have wished to write. Mostly, it has calmed the homeschooler into accepting the good of being awkward and ditsy. It's made me more at ease with who I am in general, and bolder, and more confident, for every word I've shared since. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is all a testimony to my irregular but purposeful Toastmaster attendance. But isn't that the way of life? Don't wait until you have time to do the things you want to do. Do them now, a little here a little later. Let it take a while but begin now. It all adds up. It doesn't have to be perfect, as we are always reminded. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8QGKDxiBm5EFCfamuFnF4P3F4oqrPaMWxuVj6XR8ASXMM-32Mz7mBwM3EJb1DZ9nNMmz6XdmL8u2haNwNAXDLPbmuOL6pDN6Lff4PjI4JRnP1HSEvoHOk0S2AJQW_Zc5OKqGX-pbmmolse1vCauJJcTGM4rnjuAgU3R6-OZNFVd0TCm2o_X2OlIzF5A/s1315/339825122_958517101817233_7113344611920093070_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="1315" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8QGKDxiBm5EFCfamuFnF4P3F4oqrPaMWxuVj6XR8ASXMM-32Mz7mBwM3EJb1DZ9nNMmz6XdmL8u2haNwNAXDLPbmuOL6pDN6Lff4PjI4JRnP1HSEvoHOk0S2AJQW_Zc5OKqGX-pbmmolse1vCauJJcTGM4rnjuAgU3R6-OZNFVd0TCm2o_X2OlIzF5A/s320/339825122_958517101817233_7113344611920093070_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The latest fruit of that very good decision is my appearance on the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4DS0FDhvJyo">Doomer Optimism Podcast</a>, a podcast that realistically looks at where we are heading and still chooses hope. I share about my family heritage and how it has personally impacted my lifestyle and future projects. I have a personal goal to appear on five podcasts this spring. The DO episode is my second so far! </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4DS0FDhvJyo" width="320" youtube-src-id="4DS0FDhvJyo"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Is there something you've added to the much-too full plate that's positively impacted your overall life? Have you ever visited a Toastmasters club? Share with me! </b></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-61305765281827589752023-04-19T09:22:00.016-07:002023-04-19T09:22:00.215-07:00I Saw the Light (Gaslit)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">*Disclaimer, I'm writing about an exchange with a large twitter account because it's a prime example of the culmination of struggles in my heart right now, and she likely won't see my post. If she does, I would hope she would at least appreciate my perception of the event and that I'm willing to be honest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We have all these terms we throw around about people to justify our perceptions of them as toxic. Truth is life isn't as simple as that, and we're too complex to be the pure victim or the total perpetrator. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A couple months ago it came to my attention that there was deep tension between two acquaintances and myself. I'd known of it for a long time and didn't know what to do about it... until I realize I could just be honest, accepting, and kind. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Within two day I'd reached out to both young women and reconciled. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> Something unexpected happened. They reciprocated. We forgave each other, the misunderstandings were shattered and forgotten, and we now trust and like each other. I now have so much hope for so many other relationships. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>Audrey Horne is something of an iconic e-girl, except she is actually likeable. Her viral tweet really captures the nature of her Twitter presence: I post a lot and it doesn't have to make sense to you, leave me alone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A lot of women from all walks of life feel seen by her tweets. Sometimes I feel envious of how well she says the things I want to say. Her account could be my account. I'm sure many women feel that way about what she posts, though it seems she has mostly a male audience.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Right now, I'm pretty focused on my school, so the nature of my own tweets is the summer program. This is twitter. We all spill our guts shamelessly everywhere. And most people appreciate it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But... one morning....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div>I kinda freaked out to be honest. I hate being made to feel guilty for just doing what everyone else does on Twitter. Especially by this woman with a pinned, viral tweet about posting too much. Of course, I'd also just decided in the rest of my life that I wasn't going to accept any passive aggressive attacks anymore, and that I wouldn't allow myself to be gaslit again. </div><div><br /></div><div>A test??? </div><div>Honestly, I was mildly panicked through this whole exchange, feeling crazy and horrid the whole time. But I just reminded myself: focus on the Light, not the gaslighting. Focus on God's light and on her light. She is human, too, and annoyed, and that's ok.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so, I tried to listen, and to then remain true to both her feelings and to mine.</div><div><br /></div><div>My first principle: never block, everyone is my neighbor. </div><div><br /></div><div>My second principle: Truth heals, be honest but do not be rude. Kindness bridges misunderstandings.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Situations like that don't usually end with the other person following you. Often, they block you or troll you to all their friends and make you want to delete twitter and hide your head.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is a unique exchange, purely because of it's happy ending. And I can't really tell you why this ended well except... perhaps God knew I needed to pass a small test as hope and strength for an upcoming, larger trial. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Awhile later I stalked her twitter and found I'd inspired a volley of negative and positive tweets (except we all know it had nothing to do with me, because she is a real human with a life outside of twitter).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>Once again, I have reconciled with another woman, and we respect and trust each other a little more. This is what we should be doing as women. There is too much envy and disdain amongst us. It hurts us, our friendships with each other, and our relationships with men. It's odd, but the more I love my fellow woman the healthier my relationships with men become. I believe it's because competition is eradicated from romance and it's properly sweet and nourishing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Share with me! How do you handle situations like this? </div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-16374696332327753732023-04-12T06:16:00.000-07:002023-04-12T06:16:22.313-07:00Remove My Heart of Stone, Jesus, Be Alive!<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div>Our life reflects the good decisions we make long after the moments are done. Years ago I went to Germany and realized my community was stifled because it was isolated to a single building, like a tree growing inside a greenhouse, unable to branch out and reach to the sky. I do not advocate forfeiting original roots, and yet when I turned that new leaf over I flourished.</div><div><br></div><div>The fruits yesterday: </div><div>Three of my friends joined me and we visited the Holy Rosary in Bozeman for Easter service. My heart is constantly drawn closer to a good catholic mass these days (I know of two catholic churches nearby that are not good). </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div><br></div><div>We arrived just on time, therefore could not sit together but found random empty spaces and split up. And yet such services aren't meant to be experienced any other way. </div><div>The wholesome, rose-colored light, the incense, the hymns and abundant scripture reading predominantes the senses. It's all my favorite part.</div><div><br></div><div>And then a small word from the priest: we are the stone sealing the tomb. Remove yourself. Let Jesus free, let Him work through you. You are the stone: soften your heart and be empty. Be empty so He can be alive. </div><div><br></div><div>What good works are we barracading?</div><div><br></div><div>My community is flourishing. It is no longer isolated and stale and wanting. And yet, there is always that goal we continue to strive after, those bickerings and hardships yet to be resolved. There has been much reconciliation. But there is more to come. </div><div><br></div><div>He is risen... but have you softened your heart?</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-70250740279435290102023-04-05T05:31:00.003-07:002023-04-05T05:31:00.203-07:00Wearing Lace At Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The first thing one usually likes to do when they get home from a long trip is look into their closet and wear the clothes they haven't touched in months. And of course, I did that. But what I'm wearing above I had with me all those months... and yet never wore that combination together. Odd how that is. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Except the mittens.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've found them in my drawer, a birthday gift from years ago that I thought so lovely yet was unsure of how to wear. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Until my fingers were too cold to quilt and I wanted to quilt. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXscmCytCs4rtklsrdQEjB3-dHCpoZaT1It9aq4WePx1LfNEirxvy76YnDQJ3CFwccajsq-tGR8kmHmrU_abxLSAKbs_519sljVknktBAA5hzTB1vP9I6ggRdK4dlg9Fe-lx1becOb3os-mXFB-_PMweTxhGxVtlj2TKeLyS6gXvdJAWI0eC3FDEznKg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXscmCytCs4rtklsrdQEjB3-dHCpoZaT1It9aq4WePx1LfNEirxvy76YnDQJ3CFwccajsq-tGR8kmHmrU_abxLSAKbs_519sljVknktBAA5hzTB1vP9I6ggRdK4dlg9Fe-lx1becOb3os-mXFB-_PMweTxhGxVtlj2TKeLyS6gXvdJAWI0eC3FDEznKg" width="400" /></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXscmCytCs4rtklsrdQEjB3-dHCpoZaT1It9aq4WePx1LfNEirxvy76YnDQJ3CFwccajsq-tGR8kmHmrU_abxLSAKbs_519sljVknktBAA5hzTB1vP9I6ggRdK4dlg9Fe-lx1becOb3os-mXFB-_PMweTxhGxVtlj2TKeLyS6gXvdJAWI0eC3FDEznKg">
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</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've done a lot of road tripping. And yet this last one was truly the best one. I'm still glowing. How good it is to be a gypsy, woke on all the right day to the surprises, gay and because I was homeschooled and learned my words from old books and could care less what those who've never read have to say about my vocabulary. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">To have dreams is one thing. To witness the advent of your visions is another. And that's where I'm at. . .had to make a hardcore WIP list. Whenever I need to procrastinate, I do something else on the list, and somehow so much of it is nearly finished. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've been thinking about the good people in my life. How they are never petty, how they cause me to be softer and less petty. They show me the beauty of the mysterious. How sad it is I used to dislike mysteries simply because I misunderstood them . . . the intent is not to be secretive, reclusive, or passive, or if it is, it isn't a mystery. Not the wondrous, elating, extraordinary mystery we crave. Not the <i>thing </i>that beckons loyalty and commitment and trust. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">What is a mystery? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The promise of an unveiling, a revealing of something wholesome. <i>I have something good for you, do you believe? Not yet... but soon. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Do I know this mystery? Ah, perhaps not fully, yet. But I've tasted and smelled it. It destroys all walls, is needs no safety nets, it invites an open heart to be free and joyous. It is no secret, but quiet certitude one feels deepest while napping. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh38qtmtKvixC2Df0tSqQ5S9mD2PdAq305nJomDgY32uOffbG6nxB2RjSdjQiMueLN5rGT442D5gHequ5VaDBX_NtKvnSyL2rL6SY4tyuXnj-a-bY19NWwLetwYKcn4sT1ebx1wAScYdCiPAxyHpVNq6pnrl9SLH3xQt_WgBR5MxonB5a2hXKH0CFWw3Q" width="400" />
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</div><br /></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-28751454845780732072023-03-29T07:33:00.006-07:002023-03-29T07:33:00.201-07:00The Living Room Academy<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRDPe6ZjGlUT0790jtgjE_knyBNyvi7TGLcYUPDLsR8jwkE-lbZMu7u7rPgQHLx62ieP169pck_2wWHEO5ym3LEN8OJgq1KFQCaIt7d2MlviBRP2pyNvX3xUCjs9BzGR3GUIZuJjR4UC9PZVXuWqj2zNcXGPU9AQpMuQleLKjAcvYsC33cApeO3MhsA/s2942/DSC_0356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="2942" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRDPe6ZjGlUT0790jtgjE_knyBNyvi7TGLcYUPDLsR8jwkE-lbZMu7u7rPgQHLx62ieP169pck_2wWHEO5ym3LEN8OJgq1KFQCaIt7d2MlviBRP2pyNvX3xUCjs9BzGR3GUIZuJjR4UC9PZVXuWqj2zNcXGPU9AQpMuQleLKjAcvYsC33cApeO3MhsA/w400-h250/DSC_0356.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Young women,</p><p>What do you wish your grandmother taught you? </p><p>I know many of you were raised with traditional values and have the desire to run a pleasant, blessed home. . . but have no idea how to begin. Perhaps cleaning your room is overwhelming enough, let alone envisioning yourself ever sewing, mending, cooking, embroidering. You want to be a capable, diligent woman, someone who makes others feel comfortable. </p><p>You know you are meant to repair that emergency tear with thread, herb, or handkerchief. </p><p>And you are right. </p><p>This is why I'm opening my home up in Montana this summer as <a href="https://www.livingroomacademy.com/">The Living Room Academy</a>. </p>You have the extraordinary opportunity of learning how to keep a home cozy and wholesome. For two weeks you will be living with me in my Montana home and following me throughout my everyday activities. We will cook and clean and sew and knit and embroider. In the afternoons we will take walks in the mountains, and before bed we will gather to read and talk and do something light with our hands. <p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4xE3vJCBODLxyxdpvMxvcYRS680P74Whd-zrirSirnqx7gvB0Wua0VTXXoNbDscSc-vRct8ceGpTRvW6iQR6EUefCCsAMTzw3WwDbfew8s2YmOJgjxJBEBLw-QkLeANhC-5CHrWSPO8CC6SczljrYlPcGhbeGGg2KU5Dm-q3V2p3AO1InDB0vzRM1Q/s3008/DSC_0019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="3008" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4xE3vJCBODLxyxdpvMxvcYRS680P74Whd-zrirSirnqx7gvB0Wua0VTXXoNbDscSc-vRct8ceGpTRvW6iQR6EUefCCsAMTzw3WwDbfew8s2YmOJgjxJBEBLw-QkLeANhC-5CHrWSPO8CC6SczljrYlPcGhbeGGg2KU5Dm-q3V2p3AO1InDB0vzRM1Q/w400-h266/DSC_0019.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>This course may seem daunting, it will be far from easy, but you will leave feeling refreshed and ready to build community and run a household. You learn the art of grace and spontaneity through developing life-skills, and you will do this in the presence of other young women. </p><p>I am passionate about making sure young women can come to this. While I encourage girls to first reach out to their church or community for funding, the school also has a scholarship program. Money should be the least of your concerns when applying to the <a href="https://www.livingroomacademy.com/">Living Room Academy</a>. </p><p>You can <a href="https://www.livingroomacademy.com/register">register here</a> or email me to begin your application! </p><p><br /></p><h4 style="text-align: left;"></h4><h3 style="text-align: center;"><i>Welcome the unexpected. <br /></i><i>Reclaim tradition and delight. <br /></i><i>Appropriate some old-fashioned ideals.<br /></i><i>Come visit this extraordinary school where everyday things happen!! </i></h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnRsWidn_C4mkoZ7vwloNllWU9mF0kew0bgFbUVoiCSuTV81uhouA55yMHYERNUIc-misUyvNa-7VfrGTNMrINj2alb5HRdwWz9MpnyiM12kFPjHI0u3zXbXolA6nk2e3OGqytwLYIbgUHdRmg9dNwM0_X-XsqAFaV_fLo5wI3RzPmDFIpOd0zGBDfQ/s2940/DSC_0178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2940" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnRsWidn_C4mkoZ7vwloNllWU9mF0kew0bgFbUVoiCSuTV81uhouA55yMHYERNUIc-misUyvNa-7VfrGTNMrINj2alb5HRdwWz9MpnyiM12kFPjHI0u3zXbXolA6nk2e3OGqytwLYIbgUHdRmg9dNwM0_X-XsqAFaV_fLo5wI3RzPmDFIpOd0zGBDfQ/s320/DSC_0178.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRP67CJkMhVy_29BCuqP_5trwowxPFgKQNy1uh9E6pR5h-TyioNOchK_YTHQow0J7u186Zj1NwCkTM0D2ts5W2gzJs-E2fDE6G9iYw8Vwu6WmmxrGOqzQEmd1-Km3s98jcBDbc7YxDut1KH3MIh9SenuSpBLsoVGl_nniQOB2pUdAnJiYsUosaOWEkZg/s2418/DSC_0102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1953" data-original-width="2418" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRP67CJkMhVy_29BCuqP_5trwowxPFgKQNy1uh9E6pR5h-TyioNOchK_YTHQow0J7u186Zj1NwCkTM0D2ts5W2gzJs-E2fDE6G9iYw8Vwu6WmmxrGOqzQEmd1-Km3s98jcBDbc7YxDut1KH3MIh9SenuSpBLsoVGl_nniQOB2pUdAnJiYsUosaOWEkZg/s320/DSC_0102.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuboiT_-KoFCr-mfekVC5cihbitVz4xTw725lhxkV1oA35jyXYbGT04y_xJRfM4b5Y9GsXBmfead9ZNrXvHCGSvmA2ozmK1UpFyMvhFok_-z1p7tHjsUvC5JeCKmuRIxE_T8ujuIXC_Leby6Os23sTn4izsHhyvkN2PWT8kaYhMu9EkKqNx--OGyW5Tw/s2949/DSC_0312.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2949" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuboiT_-KoFCr-mfekVC5cihbitVz4xTw725lhxkV1oA35jyXYbGT04y_xJRfM4b5Y9GsXBmfead9ZNrXvHCGSvmA2ozmK1UpFyMvhFok_-z1p7tHjsUvC5JeCKmuRIxE_T8ujuIXC_Leby6Os23sTn4izsHhyvkN2PWT8kaYhMu9EkKqNx--OGyW5Tw/s320/DSC_0312.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-28580197635915212212023-03-22T06:29:00.002-07:002023-03-22T06:29:00.212-07:00A Confession From a Non-Competitive Woman<div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgIhp2fQznBqWoZ-ZKex-LI7zTcE54oNx9CCptjXy6d5G6ZsZmWiEPo4fUZqZqw7e0EcoOW5ahL7_GyEJwcXKqvK4Le3DM__vUjc2AZW6ldEOot1c4csXGYzZia7N9K3KzuiJDwKWb9kW-kZ7emsZRGDxlG_302JOStObVqPf8g0b5_B7l-7BTdXqXA/s2048/IMG_1202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgIhp2fQznBqWoZ-ZKex-LI7zTcE54oNx9CCptjXy6d5G6ZsZmWiEPo4fUZqZqw7e0EcoOW5ahL7_GyEJwcXKqvK4Le3DM__vUjc2AZW6ldEOot1c4csXGYzZia7N9K3KzuiJDwKWb9kW-kZ7emsZRGDxlG_302JOStObVqPf8g0b5_B7l-7BTdXqXA/s320/IMG_1202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>My readers, acquaintances, and stalkers see the things I accomplish. I, alongside the comfort of my own shadow, know of my distractions and my tendency to focus on the wrong tasks, always a little behind on the priorities, or rather prioritizing things in a haphazard manner. </div><div>Some see me as <i>competitive.</i></div><div><br /></div></div><div>Today I make a confession. I am not competitive. I do not do things to compete. I don't bother with comparing myself to others; I have little envy for another's life. I am happy and content, and while someone might inspire me, that <b>inspiration does <i>not </i>lead me toward lust but growth</b>. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>Years ago, some strange soul that knew me quite well rightly judged me as having no ambition. To this person <i>that </i>was a taboo personality defect in myself. </div><div>For a time, I cared. I tried out ambition... and found myself reverting to the old, simple delights of my life.</div></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>Sure, there is a dedication to my work that appears jarringly like competition. . . but appearances, as we all know, lack the reason of motivation. </div><div><br /></div><div>That classic question containing all the weight of presumed projections: "Why?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Why does the workaholic love money so much? It's likely he hates money, hardly spends it or gives it all away, but is looking to drown some sorrow in the steady mundane. Perhaps it is the procrastinator who is the most ambitious of us, the one who cares to win the most, who desires the most success. We never really know why anyone is how they are, unless we ask, and unless we wait for someone to give us an honest answer. And even then... do we ever know? Does it really matter to know, just as long as we are aware of our own motivations? </div><div><br /></div><div>I am at terribly curious and lazy woman, with a strong dose of extroverted self-pride (I like to share the inspiration, what comes around goes around). I do what I do because I love it, because I believe it, because I'm a bit of a workaholic and an extroverted loner. </div><div><br /></div><div>But to be competitive would devalue all of this. Why would I degrade my visions and handiwork with the base desire to be better than others?? If I truly believed in what I said and did, all I felt for my friends and loved ones would be admiration. I am truly that person that plays the board game determined to win because I enjoy the challenge, but content to lose because another's success doesn't undermine my own worth any more than my success would discredit theirs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Honestly, I don't believe most people are really competitive beings. Someone might tell me, "Yes, I'm competitive. I like to win." </div><div><br /></div><div>Well. Who doesn't like winning. But that absolutely doesn't mean you are the sort of person who is jealous over everyone else's wins. Do you really like to see others lose? Others get degraded? Do you really want others to feel like they are unworthy next to you? Then you aren't really a competitive person. You're simply someone who delights in doing all things well, including sports and games.</div><div><br /></div><div>What baffles me is a competitive spirit between lovers or good friends. No relationship is strengthened by trying to "put one up" on the other. If you "win" in these sorts of situations, you gain nothing but distrust and hatred. Healthy relationships build each other up, congratulate each other, inspire each other, give and take willingly. </div><div><br /></div><div>And if a moment of envy does stab the heart, be like me and my friends and just blurt out, <i>"We hate each other, don't we?"</i> or <i>"I'm really jealous of you right now."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Often, they will start crying and return the confession, "I'm jealous of you right now, too."</div><div><br /></div><div>You'll laugh, you'll talk, and you'll go back to being good friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I believe in being focused to your vision. But this stems from the virtues of loyalty, dedication, and self-less love. A truly focused, dedicated mission has little thought of common success or worldly opinions. There is something much more noble at work:<i><b> the action of dreams wrought. </b></i></div><div><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div><i><b>What is something you do that makes you appear to be competitive? </b></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-35826933702802224082023-03-15T06:31:00.028-07:002023-03-20T16:24:45.708-07:00The Folk School Experience<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7b2CZNd_Gmxbd40lo66OcEXrhH5HxbaGkxT8731sgPuPA_BGyAPNIkBxjUew5SVMp2YYYa3VWt32hHHnpipXuRAiR4o1mgPnzZ-ZlV1l_X9X7S5OE9MPya-VijdfchFGE6aa-PX2rXrGQvBfxCUIADPa-HOs5V9lrkBFd3Ry3YxsU-stxZzHXKfXoWA/s4032/20230120_081615.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7b2CZNd_Gmxbd40lo66OcEXrhH5HxbaGkxT8731sgPuPA_BGyAPNIkBxjUew5SVMp2YYYa3VWt32hHHnpipXuRAiR4o1mgPnzZ-ZlV1l_X9X7S5OE9MPya-VijdfchFGE6aa-PX2rXrGQvBfxCUIADPa-HOs5V9lrkBFd3Ry3YxsU-stxZzHXKfXoWA/s320/20230120_081615.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqWXUKdy729eF3B9KOAYpwanYd457X75bQEisS-JXRimAbAncAeiJSdNmBuYqdVC79XKxolvGjunhzgm8H147I4J25NhVhK2_iaCJHXETYjTKBHkuIfdjI34sH9UqOYAVmNk6BNcuRi_WsTLOjM-ouwfWH7eh3-ynEvDwJ8HCoysMekstpREtm_NCLA/s4032/20230121_103427.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqWXUKdy729eF3B9KOAYpwanYd457X75bQEisS-JXRimAbAncAeiJSdNmBuYqdVC79XKxolvGjunhzgm8H147I4J25NhVhK2_iaCJHXETYjTKBHkuIfdjI34sH9UqOYAVmNk6BNcuRi_WsTLOjM-ouwfWH7eh3-ynEvDwJ8HCoysMekstpREtm_NCLA/s320/20230121_103427.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It's sometimes hard to differentiate between what's wise and what's rash. It felt like a rash decision to apply for the work study at John C. Campbell at the end of last summer. I dreaded being accepted and felt sick as I left Montana to begin a five-month road trip. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I felt sick because I was doing something very hard, I was forcing myself to vomit illusions, and I was force feeding my dreams back into my heart, a shrunken scared dry thing for a beating box of visions.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I was letting go of something I loved to pursue what I wanted: happiness and satisfaction. I let go of the soft hands of confusion and jumped into the wells of living waters, where many unknown, open arms awaited.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Of course, I felt sick. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And of course, I healed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbLZxo-AdrQIu4ZeAtMHQIYOmR9XHRbrvnWeNvk1eBL7J5j4fJtd-YK8NcKxwQsoMgcZe9vI1-dXDenZpvE167-i0uFAAJYVgIBrFyOU0aFRBxli1uh-ZfelfAwgQpr5MCScEByiUPcBf/s1600/1675118425543359-1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbLZxo-AdrQIu4ZeAtMHQIYOmR9XHRbrvnWeNvk1eBL7J5j4fJtd-YK8NcKxwQsoMgcZe9vI1-dXDenZpvE167-i0uFAAJYVgIBrFyOU0aFRBxli1uh-ZfelfAwgQpr5MCScEByiUPcBf/w194-h400/1675118425543359-1.png" width="194" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I'd been on the road two months before I received my acceptance email. I sat outside a bar on top of a picnic table, barefoot and playing my guitar when I happened to glance at my phone and saw the acceptance email.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> I'd dreaded this... And yet when I saw I'd been accepted, I grinned, and I grew excited. Ah. So, this hadn't been rash... God was in this, I just needed to keep trusting. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Two more months passed, I came to the last stop of my five months journey: the folk school in North Carolina. I'd let go of so much, and processed so many things, and yet my heart was still unsure.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I arrived and I hated the place. I didn't want to be on the five-month trip, and this afternoon part, this ending would take so long to pass. I didn't want to be at this folk school, the lone conservative Christian. But neither did I want to look back.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I let myself hate the place, hate the people, hate my dorm and room, hate everything about it. I let myself grieve.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And then the people talked to me. They had names, and fingers that made things, and they wanted hugs and songs and all the other things I was ready to love and enjoy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I forgot that I didn't want to be here, and I fell into a wondrous experience. I grew alive as the people saw me and loved me. And in turn I saw them and loved them. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">God knew I needed to leave, to let go. I obeyed, although I felt sick and bitter. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I obeyed and this last step of my five-month journey was the final marrow of the bone I'd started. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVGnYDoMMSICR7CYUGwjE35kk2fY9cfq8GBiz-uanyw-aBOiTW9h_KT21XmQ0sVWbNntz_uAkJ0B0RFkos2IG94iJi9yBnyzpl-fUqGTvN3YXWyMkXYI0Ar-2jwLimFW8yuydG_EMFvEMWEQv-8vpIHk1RgJhsL6cHD1EQfyZRj2-gw5oged31QZm7Q/s4032/20230124_130359.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVGnYDoMMSICR7CYUGwjE35kk2fY9cfq8GBiz-uanyw-aBOiTW9h_KT21XmQ0sVWbNntz_uAkJ0B0RFkos2IG94iJi9yBnyzpl-fUqGTvN3YXWyMkXYI0Ar-2jwLimFW8yuydG_EMFvEMWEQv-8vpIHk1RgJhsL6cHD1EQfyZRj2-gw5oged31QZm7Q/s320/20230124_130359.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBWldavKLzcHPaOArRdK_Zja28z2R9zr_IECCfj_AvBP0aglIKqfAltH2b1_094g940nxDC7r5-fGKrlaiPuDcAEp8xrPxVBlGdy639_fKA5_bFpttWMROWfLrYQXmrGfSemvZdaWmG0Jwgq4Ng8KVzWZda9KGX3U-MJex03ct0EQTAbwwv_8BMrrapg/s4032/20230124_130529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBWldavKLzcHPaOArRdK_Zja28z2R9zr_IECCfj_AvBP0aglIKqfAltH2b1_094g940nxDC7r5-fGKrlaiPuDcAEp8xrPxVBlGdy639_fKA5_bFpttWMROWfLrYQXmrGfSemvZdaWmG0Jwgq4Ng8KVzWZda9KGX3U-MJex03ct0EQTAbwwv_8BMrrapg/s320/20230124_130529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The John C. Campbell Folk School teaches traditional arts and skills. Their motto is <i>singing behind the plow</i>. Not because they have any plows about: generally speaking, they find the idea of plowing the land harmful to the soil. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The spirit of the campus is taking joy in everyday work and tasks, of making joy an everyday occurrence through dance and music and creativity. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There are over fifty buildings on campus. Most of them are studies for various classes such as blacksmithing, wood carving, quilting, broom making, pottery, metal working, painting, and music. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HVgtplVz5McJe7H6ryveQtyhifvK1L36TZQf_yklIsCqaZS4j4vcr8qxSFeeY0rzoCMXCas4GIfrmtSHDzUjoUn3B10tyRN1UmL6S1MwFBc8wgptDfD44pMlhTQE7RNgFINFXLmWfItkawSqjsLKiXqraA8YJtIFkLIOt_ASkkG6tPGNCxn57njj9g/s4032/20230118_220857.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HVgtplVz5McJe7H6ryveQtyhifvK1L36TZQf_yklIsCqaZS4j4vcr8qxSFeeY0rzoCMXCas4GIfrmtSHDzUjoUn3B10tyRN1UmL6S1MwFBc8wgptDfD44pMlhTQE7RNgFINFXLmWfItkawSqjsLKiXqraA8YJtIFkLIOt_ASkkG6tPGNCxn57njj9g/s320/20230118_220857.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScdOLFgPRV-TQoE5-8hzQqk1gy8uToTJtvWaAC2Mb7iD2Uvo9eHWGahrwRzIqvP31LfVKsKdQOXUGaRJQcfOO3ZC4ZJddTlsS_5CkrRSCqi7wunMBub7JNwmsEyETGQ1HtqZmc2UHVvAnPfVGpPYdAjOXNpbrXvxNyPG-2yM-oENO-WcFva8z14gDCQ/s4032/20230115_161619.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScdOLFgPRV-TQoE5-8hzQqk1gy8uToTJtvWaAC2Mb7iD2Uvo9eHWGahrwRzIqvP31LfVKsKdQOXUGaRJQcfOO3ZC4ZJddTlsS_5CkrRSCqi7wunMBub7JNwmsEyETGQ1HtqZmc2UHVvAnPfVGpPYdAjOXNpbrXvxNyPG-2yM-oENO-WcFva8z14gDCQ/w195-h400/20230115_161619.jpg" width="195" /></a></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8wkC2MIpVVNtSgXi9CIu8dVCfwvHmqSKyL7NczouLn9eUAU-wPoJ6YdEzgj9rWkm4qiyGpUvG1nmjSRaGZAP8dNCX-8HxHGtEuBDb6fKbIevxnI09K2nEm9hGyUq0fbQe38NqbO3jnPS9RXoOhLZyc-dhUI4-9f-WYjb3Dcag9UYj-ztdQUcbB0tww/s4032/20230117_212505.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8wkC2MIpVVNtSgXi9CIu8dVCfwvHmqSKyL7NczouLn9eUAU-wPoJ6YdEzgj9rWkm4qiyGpUvG1nmjSRaGZAP8dNCX-8HxHGtEuBDb6fKbIevxnI09K2nEm9hGyUq0fbQe38NqbO3jnPS9RXoOhLZyc-dhUI4-9f-WYjb3Dcag9UYj-ztdQUcbB0tww/s320/20230117_212505.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I arrived at a dorm with one long hall and five rooms, a kitchen, and a community room with one long hall. My room felt drab and uncharacteristically cold, and so I filled a ledge with books and put a bright quilt on my bed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There were nine of us work studies. My roommate was a dear woman from Alaska. She and I both wore nightgowns and spent many of evenings talking to friends and family or reading.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8cL3UgS_s69AYXy7ObMMIIKs1FK0Ozg0PvWO9ciTkyiaEKQKgsDF3cGoBUnKmnaio-FG9SKnKXMJqRT4V8qYULmGzUIWoa__1G1urU7t5MHrdTAt9FzJzxtNfz_xMy7ddnhqvSQOuhIWPm7Cjoo7roNZJIM8KQdpwTgRHMumeyICy5a47FQ-StzU9xA/s4032/20230118_120349.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8cL3UgS_s69AYXy7ObMMIIKs1FK0Ozg0PvWO9ciTkyiaEKQKgsDF3cGoBUnKmnaio-FG9SKnKXMJqRT4V8qYULmGzUIWoa__1G1urU7t5MHrdTAt9FzJzxtNfz_xMy7ddnhqvSQOuhIWPm7Cjoo7roNZJIM8KQdpwTgRHMumeyICy5a47FQ-StzU9xA/s320/20230118_120349.jpg" width="156" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The work-study life is a seasonal life. We were assigned to garden duty, and during January that means a lot of mulching beds and paths. The gardener made sure we had many other interesting things to do, though, so that we couldn't help but love the working portion of this program a little bit more than the studies. We became a community of bees, happy and cliquish and busy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloT6btznc28LE6aUu8m89qmkEr4Ku3tHWOMF9bIP_RmSZ6L9fvloJa5eXOChjI3_NAHsb6mtXR-baZL7E39Ymfqnvx9Z1AyZhY3yoqy2U4JP5CvS0Vk8crLTr3-9CS9ZHTg2twxQNDtXbIeLKwP5ubc_9537HiHPwYizCBEvJYpveUNcWjz0zgtqB-Q/s720/FB_IMG_1676000683236.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloT6btznc28LE6aUu8m89qmkEr4Ku3tHWOMF9bIP_RmSZ6L9fvloJa5eXOChjI3_NAHsb6mtXR-baZL7E39Ymfqnvx9Z1AyZhY3yoqy2U4JP5CvS0Vk8crLTr3-9CS9ZHTg2twxQNDtXbIeLKwP5ubc_9537HiHPwYizCBEvJYpveUNcWjz0zgtqB-Q/s320/FB_IMG_1676000683236.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVm2kKm2hroWocfnIAFH_FBaelsLAQvRoTq4dOkZAi3vTsTPnZqdciptpocYqn1q6ZfQed8e38qWzRmh8djSXnfC6mmvvTdiSJSuJIxCwBKQ04wBsvWFPjqBn2kvhvnldmM8XiwwUuxZqO/s1600/1675048797879084-7.png" style="letter-spacing: 0.2px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVm2kKm2hroWocfnIAFH_FBaelsLAQvRoTq4dOkZAi3vTsTPnZqdciptpocYqn1q6ZfQed8e38qWzRmh8djSXnfC6mmvvTdiSJSuJIxCwBKQ04wBsvWFPjqBn2kvhvnldmM8XiwwUuxZqO/w300-h400/1675048797879084-7.png" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKarXx6eY8GUE2pKusBC4HFy48rtc9DwrFS8H3h2NE-C6yA0D2vMLAhpt5Y2Ni0d9s0-MJPUcmFFPoRXZ0jlXEZEPNFK2XpZG-R4-s_Q8v-9DWxrorTFUUCPO4mdvpMj_uVHKekyeJYPaIzAe-V9e-T-AjqojYbyW_zeTZOr4LCSiBS7xxLOMqO2GM5Q/s4032/20230130_152856.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKarXx6eY8GUE2pKusBC4HFy48rtc9DwrFS8H3h2NE-C6yA0D2vMLAhpt5Y2Ni0d9s0-MJPUcmFFPoRXZ0jlXEZEPNFK2XpZG-R4-s_Q8v-9DWxrorTFUUCPO4mdvpMj_uVHKekyeJYPaIzAe-V9e-T-AjqojYbyW_zeTZOr4LCSiBS7xxLOMqO2GM5Q/s320/20230130_152856.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vSwiSKhU77FjjBcejMuIzap3f38rniQjl9unuzP-6NG8SpHWDW5PsqfzSbokgvZk6l5Zcy3hBgMWdi3tiysO0UT0rgaKF1TkE8NpA2igz3tYT7_I8vQCD6iW7CSEGNHnfAj2af1QRudXu1_0OUemNkdc8y5EcXxD2LwNmTzlSiCoKciMd0N5qJfZ0g/s4032/20230201_093205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vSwiSKhU77FjjBcejMuIzap3f38rniQjl9unuzP-6NG8SpHWDW5PsqfzSbokgvZk6l5Zcy3hBgMWdi3tiysO0UT0rgaKF1TkE8NpA2igz3tYT7_I8vQCD6iW7CSEGNHnfAj2af1QRudXu1_0OUemNkdc8y5EcXxD2LwNmTzlSiCoKciMd0N5qJfZ0g/s320/20230201_093205.jpg" width="156" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For a couple days we spent time in the ceramics studio making signs for the garden!! One of my housemates made a bunch of adorable mushroom pins, too!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTokT4W-D3ci6763wMsE_qNfW3oDJ63iGSuQNMB6w70wOUdjWg13w3zNOYdEm3lxzkuVkTJmLLpS11kTotauv_TJs-Qod2IL87jzsgCznrDQIP4WBd23CKsQ6wj_oq1LUE9fCfh_MY-TMG16r_YUCEXueeuhkGyY2iCa49xo_rUM5ucd-2juqF_5Xcgw/s4032/20230201_093218.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTokT4W-D3ci6763wMsE_qNfW3oDJ63iGSuQNMB6w70wOUdjWg13w3zNOYdEm3lxzkuVkTJmLLpS11kTotauv_TJs-Qod2IL87jzsgCznrDQIP4WBd23CKsQ6wj_oq1LUE9fCfh_MY-TMG16r_YUCEXueeuhkGyY2iCa49xo_rUM5ucd-2juqF_5Xcgw/s320/20230201_093218.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNCUVwPZVz3fkOVf8OBpPUhp-QVzjtoAqR6gLI0frFaMBfqUqX7iREpCJt7WD5EAoU8knD-sK7b2BKlAAtIvnvuNDDQcg5BtaJ4Z8rI_d7Piy9bQJWysFZ319buxFkjV462dl2IAWCNgeYZuGAcZXQjGr8pqCpGXCU3S4ZQxesCyvhlxG5w3bOM0Qlg/s4032/20230224_121557.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNCUVwPZVz3fkOVf8OBpPUhp-QVzjtoAqR6gLI0frFaMBfqUqX7iREpCJt7WD5EAoU8knD-sK7b2BKlAAtIvnvuNDDQcg5BtaJ4Z8rI_d7Piy9bQJWysFZ319buxFkjV462dl2IAWCNgeYZuGAcZXQjGr8pqCpGXCU3S4ZQxesCyvhlxG5w3bOM0Qlg/s320/20230224_121557.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuA-uJxVSb9-SCodqNPYBl1nBm_ODzaTFC7q_fcVXcTJ-oeKFJ4ixDyeEclXiFgFNiPvFrHqgtFH_9h45hQPprSIGoUkA7xIJSNglTOZBYoE6hriD69BiP9c2DUq3TPRMgoL52vU0qxNeYHYXBWJc41xhgqSNiSXfqhZYdRY0TJ-HdDyiIym-EmwApg/s4032/20230224_121610.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuA-uJxVSb9-SCodqNPYBl1nBm_ODzaTFC7q_fcVXcTJ-oeKFJ4ixDyeEclXiFgFNiPvFrHqgtFH_9h45hQPprSIGoUkA7xIJSNglTOZBYoE6hriD69BiP9c2DUq3TPRMgoL52vU0qxNeYHYXBWJc41xhgqSNiSXfqhZYdRY0TJ-HdDyiIym-EmwApg/s320/20230224_121610.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDyWPLgBaqjdMFYVjnFtpwr9Lx9b0bQLZrecw7U1ATGFTcVSClNUTBRQb7Z-colDhQiNG_1CNuyqgqdGn-XvoHGf7AiLf20D2gcWBgGplPJor0Y2P1S2NsUE8YoHi7e7sAJHQPBLan3HCy/s1600/1675048794513846-9.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDyWPLgBaqjdMFYVjnFtpwr9Lx9b0bQLZrecw7U1ATGFTcVSClNUTBRQb7Z-colDhQiNG_1CNuyqgqdGn-XvoHGf7AiLf20D2gcWBgGplPJor0Y2P1S2NsUE8YoHi7e7sAJHQPBLan3HCy/s1600/1675048794513846-9.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">There are two eccentric and potentially grumpy men they say the work studies should meet. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">The first, Tim Ryan, makes sure to come see the work studies shortly after their arrival. He came bearing gifts of hats, chapstick, notebooks and pens, lotion, water bottles, and a message. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">He told us how we were the spirit of the folk school kept alive; that the work study program was the <i>true </i>John C. Campbell experience. Then he invited us to his home every Sunday morning for brunch and opened his home up to us whenever we needed another place to go, or if a friend needed a place. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">He showed us the key to his place and said, "What I'm doing for you doesn't require that I'm here, if it did it wouldn't be real." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Brunch at his place was a beautiful experience. He remembered allergies and food restrictions, he let us tour his cave of books, and before we ate, he had us gather in a circle to hold hands and to thank us for coming, saying he had no rituals but to thank us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">My thank you was <span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">showing up for brunch as often as I could, and</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">knitting him a hat before I left. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2UM3Z-3J3NT2WRE2H6k3p1dnvu1fjfjWkORa7DIjs55VY750pXOuJJdNJUI3_lolWDK6wPmZDNExBjzGBBtxvnUUmvMLEnTSOPgDCbaEhy7_WzmbqxTFixThg1Sm-p-OmYN_SlraTtqtiI_mSkKJsmgYGmpVu77DHr6zjEz2uVd9ZaSPhyi9MQPftoQ/s4032/20230212_103943.jpg" style="letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2UM3Z-3J3NT2WRE2H6k3p1dnvu1fjfjWkORa7DIjs55VY750pXOuJJdNJUI3_lolWDK6wPmZDNExBjzGBBtxvnUUmvMLEnTSOPgDCbaEhy7_WzmbqxTFixThg1Sm-p-OmYN_SlraTtqtiI_mSkKJsmgYGmpVu77DHr6zjEz2uVd9ZaSPhyi9MQPftoQ/s320/20230212_103943.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqX_ZgY5W7LHv8ZiF-48TA6zH-VhMB04G6vO2SbpPj4YXgy82t_JndOwvPJEMMNvzrQaOtTFkw3YbpEOnl2_H-rZBn26Zvsp7mujBuhKijnPivZp9a42f6y9Rl8DtlblvDfkLHpr-Xc7oe9-C49Nm9DlSMmyXQSDqh4sKuuuStRuMNxD9yO7-PZ0SKg/s4032/20230120_180129.jpg" style="letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqX_ZgY5W7LHv8ZiF-48TA6zH-VhMB04G6vO2SbpPj4YXgy82t_JndOwvPJEMMNvzrQaOtTFkw3YbpEOnl2_H-rZBn26Zvsp7mujBuhKijnPivZp9a42f6y9Rl8DtlblvDfkLHpr-Xc7oe9-C49Nm9DlSMmyXQSDqh4sKuuuStRuMNxD9yO7-PZ0SKg/s320/20230120_180129.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">I also discovered an open mic in a nearby town inside a post office/ sometimes cafe called <b>Keep It Posted</b>. The mayor bartended while a bunch of old folks told amusing stories. I got up and gave a comedy spiel interwoven with melancholic poetry.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIo85xF2Dc8wFxu6j5WKfM8NjzpyzxINBa98dHLYdgTmoAa8TvTibHz5lRbU20-SFHwbIs6PePa9qCVkrNi6CLyhamgrcm0XHbXJZxoQy-SGPF7tuyeNYhbGhM2r4UCehyphenhyphenVy605HE2CMn/s1600/1678155369164616-6.png" style="letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIo85xF2Dc8wFxu6j5WKfM8NjzpyzxINBa98dHLYdgTmoAa8TvTibHz5lRbU20-SFHwbIs6PePa9qCVkrNi6CLyhamgrcm0XHbXJZxoQy-SGPF7tuyeNYhbGhM2r4UCehyphenhyphenVy605HE2CMn/s1600/1678155369164616-6.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">The other cool place was <a href="https://www.susato.com/">Kelischek's Music store</a> about a mile up the road. George loved to tell stories, and to give you many answers, and to show off all his instruments. He wasn't a fan of most questions, and it was nearly unmannerly to ask prices since things were so expensive and if we were buyers we could just purchase online. We were here to hear his stories. And they were good stories. I'd love to go back with a notepad. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqEQn4tbtiHFiDcu6FtJ2WRkLnOxI5JBIN-O8te0b6E5nOcfqR5WpTCbuJwTEP64CEdKNn9V19J2nJQs9Y1lMP3No0ftzUg8YOLEKchlCAcDyclYdM_WHKKIsUtlNGjQT_6BWocIs5-JVVyJOETZIi-xLLtrjubhL5st1rEYQpmjwbCz2l7smQmNjLrg/s4032/20230217_171418.jpg" style="letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqEQn4tbtiHFiDcu6FtJ2WRkLnOxI5JBIN-O8te0b6E5nOcfqR5WpTCbuJwTEP64CEdKNn9V19J2nJQs9Y1lMP3No0ftzUg8YOLEKchlCAcDyclYdM_WHKKIsUtlNGjQT_6BWocIs5-JVVyJOETZIi-xLLtrjubhL5st1rEYQpmjwbCz2l7smQmNjLrg/s320/20230217_171418.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">The folk school experience became a happy bubble that some of us never left. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">I went away for dances occasionally, and to visit a friend in Asheville.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Some friend accidentally put a makeup container on the top of my car and oddly it managed to stay there through a four-hour drive! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8gx3IBjRnTXZcNxJoY_r96JMraHu4gzCSWKPPX41IrhiQvXX7w1gc13X6JGIMcpLD-NfnhxCD6kX1QQUD7SMPXRA5EG6PHcPyUjZmDp_DeSwRhI1xSSzGA47Z0q-ATEysE14KxoKK9U1LrDgo3aZQYYibnOnzjspgBWwDzCepiw80SjymnAZcW_lIIw/s4032/20230214_084220.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8gx3IBjRnTXZcNxJoY_r96JMraHu4gzCSWKPPX41IrhiQvXX7w1gc13X6JGIMcpLD-NfnhxCD6kX1QQUD7SMPXRA5EG6PHcPyUjZmDp_DeSwRhI1xSSzGA47Z0q-ATEysE14KxoKK9U1LrDgo3aZQYYibnOnzjspgBWwDzCepiw80SjymnAZcW_lIIw/s320/20230214_084220.jpg" width="156" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I don't think any of us work studies particularly cared about holidays, and yet Valentines Day was sweet. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Little gifts, trinkets, notes were passed around. Compliments, sincere and poignant, followed suit. And one of the girls went around serenading all of us with song! The laughter made it all the more sacred and real somehow.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2dAKc_G_Z4wnnqmPgCN07j3-6NJBUTZozHamNYiwrDnEJqghfGeNDPyY6QUJT60Arv_QwLD1NCK-fhbX7KWz6JYkWWlf_EZnI1AH1SYMvQQ_HJDLfF3v8z2zlThm1nb83B-gNjxdkjfJgL9r87IwFREPW8yauFZV0_O_XkhEJ_IW0b71HzX3M8zjQA/s2640/20230218_121411.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2640" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2dAKc_G_Z4wnnqmPgCN07j3-6NJBUTZozHamNYiwrDnEJqghfGeNDPyY6QUJT60Arv_QwLD1NCK-fhbX7KWz6JYkWWlf_EZnI1AH1SYMvQQ_HJDLfF3v8z2zlThm1nb83B-gNjxdkjfJgL9r87IwFREPW8yauFZV0_O_XkhEJ_IW0b71HzX3M8zjQA/s320/20230218_121411.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXHziyblGK4PeLAzSB8-88ID3xLoyjDsijnYBKLghSO3qZ10dkNWws57LDBMyOuSNUi7RPCPHZkdGvRXt4ULiAbT111KBqY6SwDhmlzDvheHxxJIJsuEzxhiRS2gi7pT-C1qYUriz0Fz_ouh3AOInS_xcXOKiIuDMxLgf2FFoQqWEq22_gM8TDC8FnA/s4032/20230214_164624.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXHziyblGK4PeLAzSB8-88ID3xLoyjDsijnYBKLghSO3qZ10dkNWws57LDBMyOuSNUi7RPCPHZkdGvRXt4ULiAbT111KBqY6SwDhmlzDvheHxxJIJsuEzxhiRS2gi7pT-C1qYUriz0Fz_ouh3AOInS_xcXOKiIuDMxLgf2FFoQqWEq22_gM8TDC8FnA/s320/20230214_164624.jpg" width="156" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIYWiqWMs_xD9vcrB3KLQcc9v0kKCwPwBLupomqK3Tw9LG2YCrkfuKqai2X03mUbP-tBdJgbZsoA6Kat-v-dMH24hxPBTBWCLf2BXhHR4KHij1ovkLeCkGC7yrdcSEGhELVU9Z1BPuRDDBlPEkAY11jESWYXDSGjPaiJQZ0gaxunh1tc7NpeEruOHJw/s960/FB_IMG_1676000624042.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIYWiqWMs_xD9vcrB3KLQcc9v0kKCwPwBLupomqK3Tw9LG2YCrkfuKqai2X03mUbP-tBdJgbZsoA6Kat-v-dMH24hxPBTBWCLf2BXhHR4KHij1ovkLeCkGC7yrdcSEGhELVU9Z1BPuRDDBlPEkAY11jESWYXDSGjPaiJQZ0gaxunh1tc7NpeEruOHJw/s320/FB_IMG_1676000624042.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwrFMM6-w5aPEk2PS8TkukHQdqEJzqIsqj4t1Qmlf0R_WbyeTi8ff4xSar4-TMyo6o1tjHkaC9MAK1EDMdBy6LNJpru4oy1137e8RP2pLenqhJWNoUFtPzT_8fDvHLH8rCWH93rvFq4yl9U2sMIIla89xHo9qFRjMRJIcYc94sUXdM6ea7P4xEZ4pgWA/s4032/20230214_110151.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwrFMM6-w5aPEk2PS8TkukHQdqEJzqIsqj4t1Qmlf0R_WbyeTi8ff4xSar4-TMyo6o1tjHkaC9MAK1EDMdBy6LNJpru4oy1137e8RP2pLenqhJWNoUFtPzT_8fDvHLH8rCWH93rvFq4yl9U2sMIIla89xHo9qFRjMRJIcYc94sUXdM6ea7P4xEZ4pgWA/s320/20230214_110151.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3Zmb6i0Xf5CfoTG67eX9ELgYgL7-pto_p6l7ir9Ds-IkU7fIYWTPs6KP658dDxB1bm4pAEAA50pfCkj-UcdVpOSUsYsGdXMyq7hfznVzmIdAvBkUzp95SYnmiozYPvPiCTk71tGucIJJF1lPIZqoGE6MINPBKMNZGc-kITPn590aP0bmdEO-LTMzrw/s4032/20230215_104259.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3Zmb6i0Xf5CfoTG67eX9ELgYgL7-pto_p6l7ir9Ds-IkU7fIYWTPs6KP658dDxB1bm4pAEAA50pfCkj-UcdVpOSUsYsGdXMyq7hfznVzmIdAvBkUzp95SYnmiozYPvPiCTk71tGucIJJF1lPIZqoGE6MINPBKMNZGc-kITPn590aP0bmdEO-LTMzrw/s320/20230215_104259.jpg" width="156" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've had a lot of luck in my short life. I've persisted at doing the things of life and doing them my way, and the waters have catered to my path. COVID restrictions lifted the session I became a work study, luckily, or I would have dropped out of the program. <i>That </i>had been my one condition, and I almost thought I might just get to go home. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Instead, I showed up and was confronted with everything working out. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I knew I'd be in the minority, but it was startling to realize from the get-go that I was the <i>only </i>conservative and that a lot of the folks there probably hadn't had many positive experiences with Christians, conservatives, or anti-maskers/ vacciners. And of course, there were moments when this became an issue, where I thought we might actually end up hating each other because of these differences. But we all extended grace. They wore their masks; I borrowed and shared no sermons. I said little save that I would not shout "unclean" to the leper, rather hug the sick and offer them soup. As a woman: I heal, I do not run away, and I put shame to those that fear.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Unfortunately, this is still a prevalent part of life, especially among the folk arts communities right now, and it's unfair to not address our perspectives. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But that being said, there is also much grace due to a greater desire: the desire for community. And through that grace we can see past our own perspectives to the hearts that mean well and believe sincerely. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And this grace allows us to look past our differences and find a common ground to work, to sing, to live together and love on another. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4hDJhqzW6DAstPC2znzvSE1OrO-8LdaVDdGltpMZMT7skHcWOcRlX95lsY7PgtJP7VtetcP8jFvhL_OhalTkB3yC4RsUDu01bCZlUbL9NzwAN5ia3hY43U3-dRip_puOE3mOauosrF-8YdLgG70KU0UGWifl6IC9EpkP-PiAl0R5S4k6kbhjsAKZwQ/s4032/20230216_104110.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4hDJhqzW6DAstPC2znzvSE1OrO-8LdaVDdGltpMZMT7skHcWOcRlX95lsY7PgtJP7VtetcP8jFvhL_OhalTkB3yC4RsUDu01bCZlUbL9NzwAN5ia3hY43U3-dRip_puOE3mOauosrF-8YdLgG70KU0UGWifl6IC9EpkP-PiAl0R5S4k6kbhjsAKZwQ/s320/20230216_104110.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">These are duck eggs from inside a freshly butchered duck. One of the girls told me, "If you eat one, so will I." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So I did. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So she did. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Below are its wings, spread and salted.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0bTYGRqeRFf5qFRT0eA4acAWl8SobRssVgMUiQKJBxOAC-wpf38OArN3Xi5Nv95PfA6G3-BHpSGwndHKQJvJ5DUOpnfRKCzWf9xWkjtIvPGXP0W5zuQgmuZhPL5iifjAwzHnEWpf2K1RHqHqK-3JuJUHi-fvAksNqhp6qHUZJSaMliuHvhjJeyYrLKw/s4032/20230219_084258.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0bTYGRqeRFf5qFRT0eA4acAWl8SobRssVgMUiQKJBxOAC-wpf38OArN3Xi5Nv95PfA6G3-BHpSGwndHKQJvJ5DUOpnfRKCzWf9xWkjtIvPGXP0W5zuQgmuZhPL5iifjAwzHnEWpf2K1RHqHqK-3JuJUHi-fvAksNqhp6qHUZJSaMliuHvhjJeyYrLKw/s320/20230219_084258.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx5acIIAzdY2KZERERN5XwJzPf1isu-s-pPp0Pu8gHU235bSbPSAN28qULEt-wgJTCE5adtZZJUzOeUWZDVNv6dY5tjhMzvTEZdaEWbLFEVxy6SuWUHC62txpDCYewHevKML6Vp0Kc9sxQCOxKvBPA8I41sfFecy_kPTnYgjOy48N3e_DPGHjbtayL7A/s4032/20230216_111052.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx5acIIAzdY2KZERERN5XwJzPf1isu-s-pPp0Pu8gHU235bSbPSAN28qULEt-wgJTCE5adtZZJUzOeUWZDVNv6dY5tjhMzvTEZdaEWbLFEVxy6SuWUHC62txpDCYewHevKML6Vp0Kc9sxQCOxKvBPA8I41sfFecy_kPTnYgjOy48N3e_DPGHjbtayL7A/s320/20230216_111052.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Conflict faded along with first impressions, and we became a tight group. Time became unnecessary. We were here always . . . we would all come back again, anyway, so we have agreed.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFa37i64mjzn-MLEyo3WU9orZiU8xSegZJRXtiXIoY4SZT1-W0s9Woxmrevlhnxkbv16vpY_9ikcwVxX2OK6p2CUWhz_rMljZwftv8yfYYSUtj4dTga7LUBCsMBM7QWQ_Qtp7PQbKqkhztlntqzuKbqvP1tMuhW5DV9IUegnO79UccsWw1hZgxzJbGMA/s4032/20230216_153636.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFa37i64mjzn-MLEyo3WU9orZiU8xSegZJRXtiXIoY4SZT1-W0s9Woxmrevlhnxkbv16vpY_9ikcwVxX2OK6p2CUWhz_rMljZwftv8yfYYSUtj4dTga7LUBCsMBM7QWQ_Qtp7PQbKqkhztlntqzuKbqvP1tMuhW5DV9IUegnO79UccsWw1hZgxzJbGMA/s320/20230216_153636.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_FdpoSQcQTc0MRB-0xmBn88m8cRS4YrBaWfOqU9kin9wqk6lXVmL-RpC7pkml7ZG3PD2UqHelJkdRo7AEVugld79n5HwGMg016HnZ6S7eN4MwLJLYIpVzakMx3Gr7cj8BbgjNBkc8tF_HE1IMlOR5bpcPaOpncxt87lR9H8luHMtxlpApURTXvYVKA/s4032/20230216_155047.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_FdpoSQcQTc0MRB-0xmBn88m8cRS4YrBaWfOqU9kin9wqk6lXVmL-RpC7pkml7ZG3PD2UqHelJkdRo7AEVugld79n5HwGMg016HnZ6S7eN4MwLJLYIpVzakMx3Gr7cj8BbgjNBkc8tF_HE1IMlOR5bpcPaOpncxt87lR9H8luHMtxlpApURTXvYVKA/w195-h400/20230216_155047.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNhZhBNacjJhGXEE8tVMbtghCYE0iX9Psu6cOyTWPoj3507FCkVcQuMLHHBfMc5NUYggqRbs3dscrbyLcbvY4A7sZisOE17tlRAwYfSapBF-vvcSOBxyha1JlMAL-D2eFA8cu_a58bGtn8XlS824wGMald_QhcOxIcmV64xsW_ADMNH24TcyTAQbxJw/s4032/20230217_103432.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNhZhBNacjJhGXEE8tVMbtghCYE0iX9Psu6cOyTWPoj3507FCkVcQuMLHHBfMc5NUYggqRbs3dscrbyLcbvY4A7sZisOE17tlRAwYfSapBF-vvcSOBxyha1JlMAL-D2eFA8cu_a58bGtn8XlS824wGMald_QhcOxIcmV64xsW_ADMNH24TcyTAQbxJw/w400-h195/20230217_103432.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLgp9DI5OTle0YHbdALMdBWB86gcg9GTlRxBX9WHIzbDvAuounvr4uS-Fx59ULiDCeqNb-f5WWIVkTZsROPWrfiF_IPpG4XBr_vMIPOWf8yxatfoZo9U7WG9SC1LjxiCDrFp590GWjqSYdEw6csCgDdpGytRIlAmn_YXz3tE4kyks-V09F8N0thMm_-A/s4032/20230127_105023.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLgp9DI5OTle0YHbdALMdBWB86gcg9GTlRxBX9WHIzbDvAuounvr4uS-Fx59ULiDCeqNb-f5WWIVkTZsROPWrfiF_IPpG4XBr_vMIPOWf8yxatfoZo9U7WG9SC1LjxiCDrFp590GWjqSYdEw6csCgDdpGytRIlAmn_YXz3tE4kyks-V09F8N0thMm_-A/w195-h400/20230127_105023.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I took a memoir writing course in my first study week.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I worked on my book <i>The Girl Who Doesn't Exist, </i>wrote a few character sketches, and <a href="https://keturahskorner.blogspot.com/2023/02/unnecessary-but-aesthetic-gates.html">spit out a couple</a> pages about the school. I enjoyed my classmates and hearing all their stories. Looking forward to the day when we might all exchange published books. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ngdXwrvi5T-G_Mf7DpoMeIVjbKGuv1RrfAyBPmQ7sGp7K-uQlieDMdAJ3-HBtRise4_K3k1FVfnR_UwsT5qQzfTFHO_JO3Ihxsuc1mccH3lA1mf81aiMe0vaz8iZcDgOzx6418rqcJNWDGsCLXeXr5jNK8Qh5YTjDhongAvgBZJdiV5pYMngJiBPkQ/s4032/20230124_110003.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ngdXwrvi5T-G_Mf7DpoMeIVjbKGuv1RrfAyBPmQ7sGp7K-uQlieDMdAJ3-HBtRise4_K3k1FVfnR_UwsT5qQzfTFHO_JO3Ihxsuc1mccH3lA1mf81aiMe0vaz8iZcDgOzx6418rqcJNWDGsCLXeXr5jNK8Qh5YTjDhongAvgBZJdiV5pYMngJiBPkQ/w195-h400/20230124_110003.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipy1TmwYCR7TExPGrvd9NiOrOvLVexwQbJleOEN-MuR5v6OgMSboZRbcyV6L5kZWOVb6xDsemXtnoAhIhCm38iPRJdexa7Mem3R5NSO54CtW_pY2WdX8zVc9rAzEyDVS3fVLE05S4Ss_zS/s1600/1678155377691939-1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipy1TmwYCR7TExPGrvd9NiOrOvLVexwQbJleOEN-MuR5v6OgMSboZRbcyV6L5kZWOVb6xDsemXtnoAhIhCm38iPRJdexa7Mem3R5NSO54CtW_pY2WdX8zVc9rAzEyDVS3fVLE05S4Ss_zS/w320-h288/1678155377691939-1.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoCbOwbFrOoAMLIf15WtoGAmN4vJP1PxqYtf2JAgYqEq_qlITXWh01KJAuNxLzolcD73_0TuhYx4DhlxKWqCkXoLniOHkeg__5okRgIY5Nc-AksCs1siloQaAQ0WbXHdtZ8lXZ0HHCwJnperMvwFd8_RBvB1hztI1rhIXnU4vhKploIHRs3Vt-D82yA/s4032/20230209_154813.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoCbOwbFrOoAMLIf15WtoGAmN4vJP1PxqYtf2JAgYqEq_qlITXWh01KJAuNxLzolcD73_0TuhYx4DhlxKWqCkXoLniOHkeg__5okRgIY5Nc-AksCs1siloQaAQ0WbXHdtZ8lXZ0HHCwJnperMvwFd8_RBvB1hztI1rhIXnU4vhKploIHRs3Vt-D82yA/s320/20230209_154813.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I wood turned for my second study week. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was terrifying, loud, and itchy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I didn't realize what I'd signed up for. I'd never heard of a lathe, never seen the sharp tools we used. I thought I'd signed up for wood carving under some poetic guise. But I remained because I knew I had something to learn. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">In the midst of the noise, in the frustration of sound and unaccustomed force, I relearned the truth all excellent hands know: to have control is to be gentle. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I found a silence in the rhythm, and I let myself make mistakes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(I also helped the instructor with his demo!!)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxurNEzR9P5XGaOhyuUgFb-cl6MwmwaB84O0qHkXhWX_YfLQ-E6amy1Wbfye_AG38Wjv8_01zLy5G3t_jcd0CZURKlFtrdg7M6F7IPvDc1K2otkmYWAS9WWajikTwq5-MzZz-6CQ_kTfc5_RnVhXDR75gcjo_vJS_3mDUmXFd8d0ajHuH6KWqaR8Acw/s2640/20230208_112742.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2640" data-original-width="1488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxurNEzR9P5XGaOhyuUgFb-cl6MwmwaB84O0qHkXhWX_YfLQ-E6amy1Wbfye_AG38Wjv8_01zLy5G3t_jcd0CZURKlFtrdg7M6F7IPvDc1K2otkmYWAS9WWajikTwq5-MzZz-6CQ_kTfc5_RnVhXDR75gcjo_vJS_3mDUmXFd8d0ajHuH6KWqaR8Acw/s320/20230208_112742.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLX2uZluPo_f8jcFyVbF6EWq1nFjKQwG67KiVLc4TsnxbFI0el4dv14qzz-rzXHTJvd8RFbWHJr5cYk7JwJ8tYUrRnd57yOb6U1rL8Zkq45TZASjWyZugnscEMbTS35Fo5RRI0kXTGEqoI/s1600/1678155372837990-4.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLX2uZluPo_f8jcFyVbF6EWq1nFjKQwG67KiVLc4TsnxbFI0el4dv14qzz-rzXHTJvd8RFbWHJr5cYk7JwJ8tYUrRnd57yOb6U1rL8Zkq45TZASjWyZugnscEMbTS35Fo5RRI0kXTGEqoI/s1600/1678155372837990-4.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvrjqrlvtwDsvJpRDfF7TinvSS4pKNVPDzKuy9cxzU42nTg9ksZfDwrGjzINiaVck82nmlePhffzEiBzkfEKWJHdmUYb5pzL2EeNFXrvZcEn2JrOEq61tW8nEamrn40dhLc6SF-gp5rOzA7eTT0P0v_pl7t2tbmeba3Uxbw443tI9WVQfrVB_efrpPYA/s3000/CampbellFebruary2023.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2069" data-original-width="3000" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvrjqrlvtwDsvJpRDfF7TinvSS4pKNVPDzKuy9cxzU42nTg9ksZfDwrGjzINiaVck82nmlePhffzEiBzkfEKWJHdmUYb5pzL2EeNFXrvZcEn2JrOEq61tW8nEamrn40dhLc6SF-gp5rOzA7eTT0P0v_pl7t2tbmeba3Uxbw443tI9WVQfrVB_efrpPYA/s320/CampbellFebruary2023.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINrnC9lhgNgA0ld0jp6YVgRQrJVst9JSY-m3zxMhey0qAniVJKuXfng2Yud7KcKTTqYoA65Z0IeEPz_U6xTxKL1kzDJR1x6VATtPliJuwk7bkZQ5LYg6FqRlXYBSd1cX5-mKk3l59T87Xh7bgW9hLJCgaRxRDqs_w-vxQUGRH7NfOreLOhvkmgIxgjw/s4032/20230210_155939.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINrnC9lhgNgA0ld0jp6YVgRQrJVst9JSY-m3zxMhey0qAniVJKuXfng2Yud7KcKTTqYoA65Z0IeEPz_U6xTxKL1kzDJR1x6VATtPliJuwk7bkZQ5LYg6FqRlXYBSd1cX5-mKk3l59T87Xh7bgW9hLJCgaRxRDqs_w-vxQUGRH7NfOreLOhvkmgIxgjw/s320/20230210_155939.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wnAv5Q75QsH-cH2OEMofqYGdrU9h7Oj1uIcFb0Ln_sWmTRz5a7ZpPnq1hZtQXbInXY39cqxxGkC9i4SH1YoSUUXmKemHJueusk4qgfM6-vaSZrZG6XjBhh2LlbWHgPPnYYPN3kB4O8kD_YwD284r7MUM1F8J5-I7sckNRXL9LhWK08XmI2lva65pqQ/s4032/20230210_160124.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wnAv5Q75QsH-cH2OEMofqYGdrU9h7Oj1uIcFb0Ln_sWmTRz5a7ZpPnq1hZtQXbInXY39cqxxGkC9i4SH1YoSUUXmKemHJueusk4qgfM6-vaSZrZG6XjBhh2LlbWHgPPnYYPN3kB4O8kD_YwD284r7MUM1F8J5-I7sckNRXL9LhWK08XmI2lva65pqQ/s320/20230210_160124.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBas7GAk7Q9ZAnqvWhlMjITQMqdqXu0u8u38qBls-SgW7LBxHHID5hhqFNUG4Kr-IafO1ouVZmNAEh3RgqhzjykT_8a509bQ5qDI16b3JFwSw3bR1n6RvOl1xt6jHdpr2IW8WgB8CUsQKqKM5rLmvSLWMlplOkYo_5C_BB3DtKfd7StNVSLDGMkRwiA/s4032/20230224_121005.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBas7GAk7Q9ZAnqvWhlMjITQMqdqXu0u8u38qBls-SgW7LBxHHID5hhqFNUG4Kr-IafO1ouVZmNAEh3RgqhzjykT_8a509bQ5qDI16b3JFwSw3bR1n6RvOl1xt6jHdpr2IW8WgB8CUsQKqKM5rLmvSLWMlplOkYo_5C_BB3DtKfd7StNVSLDGMkRwiA/s320/20230224_121005.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Had to wash my clothes thoroughly after... isn't that a clever way to hang a vest when there are no clothes pins? Just zip it up. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wz5F-8A6IO6eqcCgZ7PJ4udgC2HhOcXQzY2ES3R4VneavT8_Eu2TwkfT3v8LC-59AlLDp69_e16-1027R5LrKbFyilyRvN3MH0YntkcbIcbX95zwwBQtM-fHfdfW0Tat9ABH6eDRGW9nwnVPQKOgQx-Gv2BHhvR0vN_M9KM7EcD1G7DmOYQyV1bfuQ/s4032/20230220_100142.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wz5F-8A6IO6eqcCgZ7PJ4udgC2HhOcXQzY2ES3R4VneavT8_Eu2TwkfT3v8LC-59AlLDp69_e16-1027R5LrKbFyilyRvN3MH0YntkcbIcbX95zwwBQtM-fHfdfW0Tat9ABH6eDRGW9nwnVPQKOgQx-Gv2BHhvR0vN_M9KM7EcD1G7DmOYQyV1bfuQ/s320/20230220_100142.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My third study week was also the last week of my program. I did a book arts class and made journals. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0drci3ThpPVs7oU8FUPEZS_CpjSglTo1lHoWshc-XCHXyfEitt_eAoTk-bmD0U5bfMoR_hKwcIX6ucWC9mW-xhqpZkMKP9jMqciIKo0vKkMFxsKj9EjJLZQay31ljVgkFfeePTASvZXuVVHrmRXxnwT4IxgKM_Lkv0u_B41MTeOM0IF5slx3N0kIylA/s4032/IMG_9543.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0drci3ThpPVs7oU8FUPEZS_CpjSglTo1lHoWshc-XCHXyfEitt_eAoTk-bmD0U5bfMoR_hKwcIX6ucWC9mW-xhqpZkMKP9jMqciIKo0vKkMFxsKj9EjJLZQay31ljVgkFfeePTASvZXuVVHrmRXxnwT4IxgKM_Lkv0u_B41MTeOM0IF5slx3N0kIylA/s320/IMG_9543.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAe7mtkcp2Sqt1xqEorkCj2G1Jyw5OhhjfTPzlbK0xNlCTnN7IlZfKnO4OINSU_tIVDPRTMk8EIA9yfHzPvlczRQtytpIjeWADGFAcDnkgIxcXk0WJ7oKCMsTLTVPiKm6fn1viOHJt6iJXXXTnM3hH6wZE8r4HN9PTNaYEqnv1cj2azjaIT4ObGo9zaQ/s4032/20230221_091253.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAe7mtkcp2Sqt1xqEorkCj2G1Jyw5OhhjfTPzlbK0xNlCTnN7IlZfKnO4OINSU_tIVDPRTMk8EIA9yfHzPvlczRQtytpIjeWADGFAcDnkgIxcXk0WJ7oKCMsTLTVPiKm6fn1viOHJt6iJXXXTnM3hH6wZE8r4HN9PTNaYEqnv1cj2azjaIT4ObGo9zaQ/s320/20230221_091253.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcbKLvl1faDFd-09ZM53oegnzA-UcgM3lHvw0fFhpR4yE1V46u99Ffr2G608AG1k49J2rC2Q5QPclc0qPEeGkgj5CBIsmffoMREEfsFc67NGWaZBSnwwpUFQRv6LFDwPmen3fmGXi5OgyxNgUzK-Mc2WtjaYIUan-d0sNDqxZz-YjQrNINR_Z30X7Tg/s2429/20230221_152617.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="2429" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcbKLvl1faDFd-09ZM53oegnzA-UcgM3lHvw0fFhpR4yE1V46u99Ffr2G608AG1k49J2rC2Q5QPclc0qPEeGkgj5CBIsmffoMREEfsFc67NGWaZBSnwwpUFQRv6LFDwPmen3fmGXi5OgyxNgUzK-Mc2WtjaYIUan-d0sNDqxZz-YjQrNINR_Z30X7Tg/s320/20230221_152617.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>We drew and raised our drawings to make stamps for embossing into leather, and then we painted our embossed leather with special, messy watercolor paints that stained my fingers. When asked what happened I said, "<i>I tried painting my nails in the dark." </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This week was the final week of my five-month journey. I was excited for the end, and yet I soaked up that last week by zoning out and focusing in on the very fibers of each second and sound. For the first time in a long time, I forgot people and saw only my what was in my hands. I saw what was mine. And I let the rest be. I took a long walk in the woods for hours and I was happy, because all I had that was mine was good. I grieved what slipped through, but I rejoiced at the color that remained. And through that joy the final tears washed away the residue and filled me up at last with all I needed. I was well, I am the well of living water, the healer who awakes happy, who knows not what it means to cower or distrust or choose the sickly passions. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There was an embarrassing side effect. At the end of the week, I saw a woman who looked quite familiar. I asked her, "Were you in the doll-making class?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"No, I was in your class." </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYx0G5LRQdMhNBfDITGmcvoDZOrYS6OE4kWq8HTl6t-tZA-tbHEpdctwcdvO-KssDe7MFMjaD5IJNbH01VfEioC47dmgGcUq3Jf8xDdwFGH5hoT9NaNhzSl4Z34mHJ8ly30qH1flmicgMZHvqIDVymVrRH_8pGb8k_sDd-KyBUuzv1tcZ8fzjwtygD0w/s4032/20230222_090323.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYx0G5LRQdMhNBfDITGmcvoDZOrYS6OE4kWq8HTl6t-tZA-tbHEpdctwcdvO-KssDe7MFMjaD5IJNbH01VfEioC47dmgGcUq3Jf8xDdwFGH5hoT9NaNhzSl4Z34mHJ8ly30qH1flmicgMZHvqIDVymVrRH_8pGb8k_sDd-KyBUuzv1tcZ8fzjwtygD0w/s320/20230222_090323.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpYJKUgs0JntS97V8VrOgaXZKW0N-A_84drFVzpajX74TWVrQx0JXIRs4-o_JVrjBolEOD4ktBFLXPBFi_MFaHCYmuUr8qEHAqIBPlhDy6qxpW6J7c143yTjZW8oQMU2sqeeIedmHlhoEl-0mvBVSUpr53iT73FAr_24aIRgmYY-MlCVfcrkJKlzDwg/s4032/20230222_144205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpYJKUgs0JntS97V8VrOgaXZKW0N-A_84drFVzpajX74TWVrQx0JXIRs4-o_JVrjBolEOD4ktBFLXPBFi_MFaHCYmuUr8qEHAqIBPlhDy6qxpW6J7c143yTjZW8oQMU2sqeeIedmHlhoEl-0mvBVSUpr53iT73FAr_24aIRgmYY-MlCVfcrkJKlzDwg/s320/20230222_144205.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Quite proud of my skin color. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTEeMBdVa_FIETrBpQSfQpqGP2qk7gvxsI4tA_9DSGkCx72GS7oU_CTHyL5HUxDqmBgO03_SWPA8HGsZUk-6qTwjLhiKZqrhBXlHg2xJ3tYBebha3Z_I6yIPVv_Di89wQQn_AeuuvI3N2AXyBHFccwra_K2Aqyi0qwi2RVnqElUbcFW0Fl5YC3wvmMQ/s4032/IMG_9681.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTEeMBdVa_FIETrBpQSfQpqGP2qk7gvxsI4tA_9DSGkCx72GS7oU_CTHyL5HUxDqmBgO03_SWPA8HGsZUk-6qTwjLhiKZqrhBXlHg2xJ3tYBebha3Z_I6yIPVv_Di89wQQn_AeuuvI3N2AXyBHFccwra_K2Aqyi0qwi2RVnqElUbcFW0Fl5YC3wvmMQ/s320/IMG_9681.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxof_ny13vdCsRTdQXCTxmWJMWd7F8vh7hvoZrSvLj4FZULqUw7bofv9baDJjDHbV6XK4bUc2XtiT2PZMX2hqEF98yAGK1oQvf63QAVeuY5Vh6iksUmrJ2QHcTyX5sZJfHuPc9F5a8S4IaLpmYNepktxpq9xdTHmGVYvvztWMhkW8Pg07tc7CfwB0Ng/s4032/IMG_9693.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxof_ny13vdCsRTdQXCTxmWJMWd7F8vh7hvoZrSvLj4FZULqUw7bofv9baDJjDHbV6XK4bUc2XtiT2PZMX2hqEF98yAGK1oQvf63QAVeuY5Vh6iksUmrJ2QHcTyX5sZJfHuPc9F5a8S4IaLpmYNepktxpq9xdTHmGVYvvztWMhkW8Pg07tc7CfwB0Ng/s320/IMG_9693.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoZmVMkFfZOofLe13gGzPpzabLwTgwTiOeKC8mWxNGl5HY9hxytajm6FbwzjsIp62cExENPDw7wSAx2SwCXn9H34vQWDFPfM58co_QTd_6y53yHsAtP6SxffMpIbne4C72aGXqDOcqxHUWtUptH3iAldEpYwfZGbIhYhd6Hn8QBt24ZDwPcgAPczU6A/s4032/20230223_161945.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoZmVMkFfZOofLe13gGzPpzabLwTgwTiOeKC8mWxNGl5HY9hxytajm6FbwzjsIp62cExENPDw7wSAx2SwCXn9H34vQWDFPfM58co_QTd_6y53yHsAtP6SxffMpIbne4C72aGXqDOcqxHUWtUptH3iAldEpYwfZGbIhYhd6Hn8QBt24ZDwPcgAPczU6A/s320/20230223_161945.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVg_Mr_r3GvTPj1zJg5RoAtqeS_30aTpK2MYwSz0Zxzyg32A5nBrP413iWb79W9UGq0x9jz2KdSzYjabq1djbB-RIbfjJii655eQsi-eL_GlPEQE-iA6RtteeFHzLSxiIkMx3yk_5XRdmPOn-SXmAvzL0cy5qKAjXhDa7LeCQJwpMNT4br7A_lAZDJIw/s4032/IMG_9719.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVg_Mr_r3GvTPj1zJg5RoAtqeS_30aTpK2MYwSz0Zxzyg32A5nBrP413iWb79W9UGq0x9jz2KdSzYjabq1djbB-RIbfjJii655eQsi-eL_GlPEQE-iA6RtteeFHzLSxiIkMx3yk_5XRdmPOn-SXmAvzL0cy5qKAjXhDa7LeCQJwpMNT4br7A_lAZDJIw/s320/IMG_9719.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCG1xHy0KXHTBdj4-m4qjZvAfVt_Rmub_H2pBPHi3avT9GzXpsRMAgdGd-rTw12HKqwu41YxwDi9CxqJQrDtDKrSJhQhbEwnVCYFWf_9se5JDsSR4UblNZgNuCqhBrHCxqMA19ZrSZk9uDeKUqTeYia35h9bexLerYxKs69wfZqSjYlxogk8DyWn0ArA/s4032/20230224_172654.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCG1xHy0KXHTBdj4-m4qjZvAfVt_Rmub_H2pBPHi3avT9GzXpsRMAgdGd-rTw12HKqwu41YxwDi9CxqJQrDtDKrSJhQhbEwnVCYFWf_9se5JDsSR4UblNZgNuCqhBrHCxqMA19ZrSZk9uDeKUqTeYia35h9bexLerYxKs69wfZqSjYlxogk8DyWn0ArA/s320/20230224_172654.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The middle two journals are made from deerskin that a roommate tanned from roadkill. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Love the process. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_TIxSbIsU3lNjPfzkTfFf2sNLwF9bmeOa_Ok3VtaQ_FD5Bj0wip-LrWJSmbxCr2DJ4veAzGlHj2TBbv4QjuOdT6LAASRMtvbwMlsHmWWCawiWQ4N7IN9LDEMkubbK2bMmKeoekOWi9v4bjpYRFFjzKsvOAiyNxits-4ms6dGVtVLxsthuuyZ_dFYU7Q/s4032/20230224_172611.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_TIxSbIsU3lNjPfzkTfFf2sNLwF9bmeOa_Ok3VtaQ_FD5Bj0wip-LrWJSmbxCr2DJ4veAzGlHj2TBbv4QjuOdT6LAASRMtvbwMlsHmWWCawiWQ4N7IN9LDEMkubbK2bMmKeoekOWi9v4bjpYRFFjzKsvOAiyNxits-4ms6dGVtVLxsthuuyZ_dFYU7Q/s320/20230224_172611.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFLtivRu4jcyAQv8HSl_FwruS4-JNT705wZ9WbHdMJ4zde4UnnuMKAFS9mKkfcXincYVcMJBeZSFCLE9U7pTo-QMz0SLlVj0Iu0BAaZTbAVd-y_rqxVfPD7Wf721eJ5tip7ow6kR8elGMuqiPWDpuj3dxY87j9-B7iLOUpr2wO-a7EVa_YB6bzd9Egw/s4032/20230219_115705.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFLtivRu4jcyAQv8HSl_FwruS4-JNT705wZ9WbHdMJ4zde4UnnuMKAFS9mKkfcXincYVcMJBeZSFCLE9U7pTo-QMz0SLlVj0Iu0BAaZTbAVd-y_rqxVfPD7Wf721eJ5tip7ow6kR8elGMuqiPWDpuj3dxY87j9-B7iLOUpr2wO-a7EVa_YB6bzd9Egw/s320/20230219_115705.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2NhgbRS9mQzc8V4oGkXiYROlN-8zmrPXWlBMBm3BUR-EKziKNHt1jxfNKecdkE72GaPIocR9fTqaAawjYOOCIRr4q5uQyWORhIbWK6SiNmKKlypJZ1gdpf3Ii8OIth_hRc6U6xV7rjM_1KB3loAJLkClQQ6GmMDgv1p3zsqDB3Qff8uihM8u_0TERQ/s4032/20230219_120913.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2NhgbRS9mQzc8V4oGkXiYROlN-8zmrPXWlBMBm3BUR-EKziKNHt1jxfNKecdkE72GaPIocR9fTqaAawjYOOCIRr4q5uQyWORhIbWK6SiNmKKlypJZ1gdpf3Ii8OIth_hRc6U6xV7rjM_1KB3loAJLkClQQ6GmMDgv1p3zsqDB3Qff8uihM8u_0TERQ/s320/20230219_120913.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Together we work studies hosted our own fun. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We went hiking, had picnics, sang around the campfire. There was a possum skinning and a nalbinding demonstration. I taught darning one lazy afternoon. We danced and participated in a mockumentary about ourselves. We formed a band and performed. Some evenings we'd wood carve or walk to the Crown to the Old-Time jam (I often brought a wooden recorder). There was always something happening, from shape not singing to demonstrations in the other studios to last minute parties.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UZ3Q_imyPgdL8los6qfMcpAwCIS4xtEzKuchwIOPxFaxWA0DYUa_NLJ1P4oIojrmEUZ6kuxs3kluKw2ecvJNcNt6nIqGpRKl1qV2L5GaeY9rTSgu0CweasGBOie3kaVxjvfCLcK8Ky6I2zpMWlTGLqPmDXMuaknkrVIgChlti5KYpNtPlCD5KFQIjA/s4032/20230219_131950.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UZ3Q_imyPgdL8los6qfMcpAwCIS4xtEzKuchwIOPxFaxWA0DYUa_NLJ1P4oIojrmEUZ6kuxs3kluKw2ecvJNcNt6nIqGpRKl1qV2L5GaeY9rTSgu0CweasGBOie3kaVxjvfCLcK8Ky6I2zpMWlTGLqPmDXMuaknkrVIgChlti5KYpNtPlCD5KFQIjA/s320/20230219_131950.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIOAbPqJ0sQEM-2e-ZXb5GlJXQrr8TeYYnFuo8MWMEUigW4ZK_yUHeluBbVb9yWIUEbHp6FEfMqIfz4NbTJ3Mm5aUBu11RWG252gufsv2FQmoJAgWAVym1fCEBqqTyUXKp9SKFpXuVPW5dXOg-ooONtvdF1fVMtw5T9uNwid5GjrdJAdXS0vaZlzaVQ/s4032/20230219_134706.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzU8x5DcqUgprnxVqXed1I0HnzbQWASdpREQ2CYZYMShWpDqqukEp2GFayiBfKpxUsRfuR3kOwgZ2nSyRVrv-OlUSqksDAPzmXTSMvIxjrLZ3uKhTf-PSSaJhzt2j1cmEODRacaTFBkr9YlzwxzYtyTgrPNsbZtpSicL-0W16eCV8dWY3RM3NNMUOhHg/s320/IMG_0524.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozIYOJg52G71VzsPjRR_JWOFm8hB204DIN8hMano2VHMBw3qQwjQhQZOc0jI53nsSOwzKhFqsMvjFq5VpsWYn9ikDmoQXb63OSntT8C1uV6DmnSxTDwcgHRbPR9lZzhtzcAf7F8BTd5gf/s1600/1678155371156296-5.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozIYOJg52G71VzsPjRR_JWOFm8hB204DIN8hMano2VHMBw3qQwjQhQZOc0jI53nsSOwzKhFqsMvjFq5VpsWYn9ikDmoQXb63OSntT8C1uV6DmnSxTDwcgHRbPR9lZzhtzcAf7F8BTd5gf/s1600/1678155371156296-5.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>I left this place in love, ready to return if ever the opportunity arrives, but satisfied all the same. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There is something about being with a group of people and choosing to admire one another, and of doing so whole heartedly. It slaps out any nonsense you might have been thinking about the world and yourself. It reminds you to get back to those dreams, because they are important. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Like anything, it is what you make it. But how wonderful to have those rare moments when each soul has decided, "I will make the most of this, I will give it my all, my very best. Let the gospel live in my eyes, in my hands, in my words." <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Should you go to John C. Campbell? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Probably. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Either way, don't think about it much. Apply, be rash, let what may happen be. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksTi0iuGggjBEQEN6BjzsmYX2lz6AZ7pFPd-BH1zptpX-xWF_DlTJzQujA1Naz2wMv7dVuyQ6GHypQ303YTg9FyhHdGjF1TdV1gcf-B8lIL_13UcpXYTaF5e1kv9Sm9XXKzgk0ytYl661fe7u3Gzs2LskQT768d8zuME8bOueL09iKKVlO5TQln9pRw/s4032/20230120_081530.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksTi0iuGggjBEQEN6BjzsmYX2lz6AZ7pFPd-BH1zptpX-xWF_DlTJzQujA1Naz2wMv7dVuyQ6GHypQ303YTg9FyhHdGjF1TdV1gcf-B8lIL_13UcpXYTaF5e1kv9Sm9XXKzgk0ytYl661fe7u3Gzs2LskQT768d8zuME8bOueL09iKKVlO5TQln9pRw/s320/20230120_081530.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvEFdNzRZS_70dG1v7QatIy_AhZWUaFUXPL-AjjyxcJFruf_6-TStJ6KqOva8sSPe9iTbfM1W9ERyXa4ZRcntEZ7IoR2ve3ctzuTJ7VYD9u8-w7ktoDUFWBynqF0nSpKTZEEYQz0x45DRbPRw2TN797pFHH2iibeg7_4ZcPR_dQw9qdDffHufBPzGIg/s4032/20230119_110705.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvEFdNzRZS_70dG1v7QatIy_AhZWUaFUXPL-AjjyxcJFruf_6-TStJ6KqOva8sSPe9iTbfM1W9ERyXa4ZRcntEZ7IoR2ve3ctzuTJ7VYD9u8-w7ktoDUFWBynqF0nSpKTZEEYQz0x45DRbPRw2TN797pFHH2iibeg7_4ZcPR_dQw9qdDffHufBPzGIg/s320/20230119_110705.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmfUd3MUIYKsQdXzI2aRy4wnygzocmKI-fHAFVWJSu3dZKUaTTUn_dIEiwVDXUe-AfX8YKRHPxNgGhWQFVN9-aOnoVZ1lDtiFcvJitZhS6it0ry1pW-SNNT8uiOdAC0Vmrdhb6iXMsP4qnkAc1VdnnzpfUlT9q0_DnKaLJL3rM00AJUtCdAwVSPUgYg/s4032/20230119_085259.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmfUd3MUIYKsQdXzI2aRy4wnygzocmKI-fHAFVWJSu3dZKUaTTUn_dIEiwVDXUe-AfX8YKRHPxNgGhWQFVN9-aOnoVZ1lDtiFcvJitZhS6it0ry1pW-SNNT8uiOdAC0Vmrdhb6iXMsP4qnkAc1VdnnzpfUlT9q0_DnKaLJL3rM00AJUtCdAwVSPUgYg/s320/20230119_085259.jpg" width="156" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-15879928775648233432023-03-08T08:14:00.001-08:002023-03-08T08:14:00.205-08:00"The Girl Who Doesn't Exist" is on the NBC Docuseries <p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-otH6L6ubyVJip3tXW19y-33U2M5Ki6rmu4FMuHxZ-Drfis7SfCdrqVq7nlV7dtzv_rvtYdwCZRb0BgtQgCsL5DouwlAxoCWCc2qed5Asj4UUKopFbpb_mSunxcGmc5H7Y7dRHLxq9fR1AoyFOevtGeJa8wwNKAvgOfhL3aOnIWcRM3Ou_sCBmcKhCA/s1920/FREE-STATE-Keturah-Lamb-Bio-Pic.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-otH6L6ubyVJip3tXW19y-33U2M5Ki6rmu4FMuHxZ-Drfis7SfCdrqVq7nlV7dtzv_rvtYdwCZRb0BgtQgCsL5DouwlAxoCWCc2qed5Asj4UUKopFbpb_mSunxcGmc5H7Y7dRHLxq9fR1AoyFOevtGeJa8wwNKAvgOfhL3aOnIWcRM3Ou_sCBmcKhCA/w400-h225/FREE-STATE-Keturah-Lamb-Bio-Pic.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />I hosted <a href="https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=pfbid0pWETwV6p17yti9TD5MPCMkaYVC1HJGVybJCguaMpDMwZ6tUoFThba1V5jXE3dcml&id=100008763846847&mibextid=Nif5oz">The </a><i><a href="https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=pfbid0pWETwV6p17yti9TD5MPCMkaYVC1HJGVybJCguaMpDMwZ6tUoFThba1V5jXE3dcml&id=100008763846847&mibextid=Nif5oz">Yellowstone Outpost</a><a href="<iframe src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fpermalink.php%3Fstory_fbid%3Dpfbid0pWETwV6p17yti9TD5MPCMkaYVC1HJGVybJCguaMpDMwZ6tUoFThba1V5jXE3dcml%26id%3D100008763846847&show_text=true&width=500" width="500" height="792" style="border:none;overflow:hidden" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen="true" allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share"></iframe>"> </a> </i>at a Libertarian event in New Hampshire June 2022. It was a fantastic time meeting all sorts of liberty minded people. We provided food, music, tatting lessons, goats to pet, and presented on a few topics important to community welfare and happiness. I spoke on <i><a href="http://thegirlwhodoesntexist.com/">not existing</a>. </i><p></p><div>A couple New Hampshire reporters came through while working on their Free State Project docuseries, a collection of thirteen-minute videos on a Libertarian manifesto. Some of my story is featured in episode two. You can watch it <a href="https://www.nbcboston.com/news/local/coming-soon-life-liberty-and-the-pursuit-of-new-hampshire/2961708/?fbclid=IwAR22fm6McwUlskIWce_enxlB21zvtMdhTL4BltybN9Lr8pclTMmyDHBdZo8">here</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-42660180801105809882023-03-01T08:11:00.004-08:002023-03-01T08:11:00.243-08:00Four Foolproof Methods For Preventing Car Burglary <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzu_0MvLh2vWIKdogKzdseWx7N76uhazW8jA1MOF1Jf5c4RhzIGa4SDkzE4BxhidzKEZiuyDOuVRhEqOiw2AJreNeTmhFnXtfEXuT4ZuBJKAeC0iotK9J0mZRt0FlHpkZLABBj4Uf1egVn/s1600/1675081125652286-3.png" style="letter-spacing: 0.2px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzu_0MvLh2vWIKdogKzdseWx7N76uhazW8jA1MOF1Jf5c4RhzIGa4SDkzE4BxhidzKEZiuyDOuVRhEqOiw2AJreNeTmhFnXtfEXuT4ZuBJKAeC0iotK9J0mZRt0FlHpkZLABBj4Uf1egVn/s1600/1675081125652286-3.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">We live in a time where women can be eccentric without being burnt or drowned for witchcraft. It's safe to be sentimental. Naivety isn't foolishness; perhaps foolishness even is the fuel to a successful trip.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The world has always been dangerous. Always will be dangerous. But where has fear gotten anyone? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've been on the road for five months. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I hope to never pay for a hotel room while I could car camp. My flax cat and piles of wool and down linen duvet is so much more comfortable than any sanitized (or lice-ridden) hotel bed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I've stayed with many <i>strangers. </i>I never pay for a hotel room: I've spent weeks car camping. I've stayed in several major cities. I've parked at rest stops, gas stations, churches, and restaurants.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Here is what I've done to prevent car burglary: </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>1. Never lock doors </b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Locking doors prevents nothing (or presumes I have something worth stealing). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Locked doors incite broken windows. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've locked my car exactly twice while on my travels. The first time I accidentally locked myself <i>out </i>of my car. I was in the middle of nowhere and in my pajamas.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> I took my trusty bike off the top of my car and rode 7 miles. Thankfully someone was home at the house I found... and they had locksmithing tools.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The second time I let myself be talked into locking my door. When I came to my car later, I found the skylight window bust through. Nothing in my car was touched though, which brings me to my second point...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2<b>. Nobody wants to enter a witch's lair </b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I full-heartedly believe nothing was ruffled around in my car because of the herbs stringed up, the baskets of tinctures and mugs and books, dried flowers on the dashboard, copper pots, etc. One look into the car warded off any potential entrance. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Touch and you will be cursed.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Even robbers are superstitious.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><b>3. <span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Drive a junky car</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">It helps having a car with a few duct tape patches and a starter that takes several cranks to get the engine rumbling. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">There's just nothing to my car that speaks bank break. It's reliable only to my magic fingers and would fall apart under anyone else's touch.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">"Sure that prevents car theft, but that's road hazard." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">As a young woman of confident gait. naivety is my strength and safe guard against <i>all </i>imagined and actual fears. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.2px;">It isn't road hazard because of my roll of duck tape, tools, and kind souls I happen upon through my travels. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzu_0MvLh2vWIKdogKzdseWx7N76uhazW8jA1MOF1Jf5c4RhzIGa4SDkzE4BxhidzKEZiuyDOuVRhEqOiw2AJreNeTmhFnXtfEXuT4ZuBJKAeC0iotK9J0mZRt0FlHpkZLABBj4Uf1egVn/s1600/1675081125652286-3.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>4. Have no Fear</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've repeated this many times throughout this post, but it's important enough to be a whole separate point.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Go to the ends of the earth to spread peace. We aren't met to remain home wallowing in potential. And </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Fear attracts negative experience, whether home or on the road. I believe this wholeheartedly. I also believe women are mostly safe doing pretty much anything, as long as they are wise and retain a bit of their naivety (naivety coupled with a straight head attracts help from the right sources). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Also</b>: (<i>every Bible verse about fear inserted</i>)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">That being said... it's not enough to <i>not </i>have fear. You also need to chase it a little. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And that's why I love roadtripping, and stumping all the burglars.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-2101786129453148262023-02-22T08:37:00.001-08:002023-02-22T08:37:00.211-08:00Five-Year Quilt Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was Halloween night and I was around a campfire with friends, tatting my lace. A friend leans toward me and whispers, "Were you homeschooled?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I giggled, holding up my tatting. "Is it obvious?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">He laughs, "Yes." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">How many stitches are in this quilt? Probably as many miles I've traveled. And yes, this quilt is marked with the memory of many places seen. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've reached that five-year deadline, and it's not quite done yet. <a href="https://keturahskorner.blogspot.com/2022/03/four-year-quilt-update.html">I'd just finished getting the quilt mostly together last year. </a>I worked on a lot of other projects throughout spring and summer but began working on tatting some lace mid-June. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">End of August I decided to go on a five-month road trip. My quilt was still not finished, and I didn't want to bring all of it with me. I labored every spare quiet moment and finished quilting it by end of September using a large embroidery hoop, thimble, and thread. I often had to wear bandages on other fingers . . . my callouses were too fresh to keep the needle from digging into my fingers. Also, I bought spools of quilting thread but didn't finish any of them off, surprisingly. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">When the quilt was done and I had my few pictures to prove it, I stuffed it in a black trash bag and left home for a while, taking only my tatting with me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I found the lace pattern on Etsy for $2. I knew the basics of tatting from my grandmother but had to learn a few new techniques by watching YouTube videos. It took about six months to tatt twenty-five feet of lace. I starched the lace with a cornstarch/ water solution in January, let it air dry on a sheet, then hand-picked all the picots to be round and flat. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This lace has been everywhere, and on at least three extended road trips. Many hands have touched it, many eager fingers have learned a little bit about tatting, and many curious people have been proud to have me sitting at their side. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">If this quilt has been about anything, it's about rediscovering joy, which is the same as sharing happiness with others. And for that I don't mind that it will take me another couple months before it is completely finished. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(All that's left is attaching the lace edging!!)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-23716763171969360112023-02-15T07:30:00.000-08:002023-02-15T07:30:00.202-08:00Unnecessary But Aesthetic Gates <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div>I'm in that last stride before stepping homeward. <div><br /></div><div>I've been accepted into a six-week work study program at the John C Campbell Folk School, and my second week is half over. It's one of the fairest work exchanges I've ever found myself doing. We work three weeks for lodging, food, and for up to three weeks of classes plus two weekend classes. But even the "work" is arranged to be pleasant, if you don't mind sharing some full-hearted effort. I've grown at least half a muscle in each arm, and I've been much too busy to do anything except soak in abundant opportunity.</div><div><br /></div><div>The staff like to let you know the place is haunted by friendly ghosts. Last night my roommate and I awoke to find our bedroom door wide open, so maybe it's true. I like the idea of Olive's ghost watching over the place, walking through the gardens, and visiting the students in all her favorite places.</div><div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div><div>This school seems to have a theme of unnecessary but aesthetic gates.
I haven't been sure why I decided to attend the folk school, until I saw all the purposeless gates. My life really has no boundaries, few fences. And yet I continue to laugh at ghosts in half-closed doorways. I'm not sure I've ever been called to walk through any particular opening although my young life is richly colored hall of many entered doors. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't have to go anywhere I've gone. But why wouldn't I? If there is a pretty door, and the latch feels good to the soul shivering ever alert under my fingertips? I love how it feels to have gone through instead of around.
Really, all doors and gates we come to are purposeless. We COULD jump over fences or find suffering to hack our way through. </div><div><br /></div><div>You see, our mountains and valleys are littered with opportunities to fall into ditches or to step into beauty.
Every open door isn't a sign of potential purpose as much as permission to ponder possibilities. </div><div><br /></div><div>I first heard of John C Campbell school at a music festival this summer. I stood in front of a public bathroom mirror smearing bentonite clay on my face. Some girl said, "Goals, girl! I want your confidence."
She told me how she'd been a work study at a folk school and invited me to bring my tatting and sit with her at the JCC table. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Neat. I think I'll go," I committed on the spot. </div><div><br /></div><div>I knew I'd soon be wanted excuses to leave on another extended road trip. I could wander aimlessly, or I could enter this pretty gate that had just opened and hit me in the face. Of course, I've done both the wandering and the entering. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is only now that I'm here, entered through many random gates, that I'm excited to be here. I imagine that's how it'll be too when we're in heaven. At last, we'll look back and laugh at our pretentious talk of eternal life and rejoice that we made it through that aesthetic pearly gate. </div><div><br /></div><div>These paths we walk are as strong as my perceptions of them. There are no doors as real as the one inside our hearts: doors often locked tight in fear, sometimes open for a moment peering out guilty to see if we ought to add our stone to the soup or if we might retreat again. And then occasionally we release the latch and throw away the chains and locks and we become that warming, whimsical beautiful gate. No-one must come to us, but many won't pass up the gift of a hand to hold. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some of the wildest experiences here have been off campus:
The open mic of old-time story tellers where I sat and knitted a baby dress before standing up to offer my comedy spiel interwoven between sad poetry. They laughed. They shivered. No clouds were destroyed in the process of making our rainbow.</div><div>In the daytime it is a post office, at nighttime a Cafe. The mayor bartended and served the many old women champagne in crystal. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div><div>Some eccentric old man invited the work studies over to brunch at his book-cramped home. He told us to take books, or bring books, to come whenever. He said, "Let me show you where the key is because the work I'm trying to do won't work if it only works when I'm home." </div><div><br /></div><div>The pressure is gone. Go where you want, but remember, you are the greatest, most beautiful of all the open doors, forks in the paths, and latched garden gates. What is your aesthetic? For me and my house, it is a place of grounded wonder. </div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2538625224020600073.post-15215961205312720282023-02-08T07:56:00.001-08:002023-02-08T07:56:00.253-08:00Throwing Out the Fleece to Make Stone Soup (Travel update)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">December was a step into Dostoevsky's words, "the soul is healed by being with children."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was the time of basking in Elizabeth's greatest fairytale, a true-ish story called "Green Dolphin Street".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I spent the first half of the month staying with a friend, waiting with her for her first child to come. She and I processed a small deer, and then when the little one was born, I tried to help by cooking and cleaning. I tended to spend much of my spare time sewing on her treadle machine. I kept busy, but never too busy to not be able to take breaks for holding baby.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There's been so much contentment. I didn't want to leave. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But time inures us ever onward. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I went to visit an old friend who is going through a divorce. It was sad to be there. She and I worked on projects together, I filled the house with piano music, and I cuddled with her little boys and read them stories.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I was hosted by a small church family over Christmas, and then I went to a week of dancing. My soul was prepped: now I was the child healing others. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For an entire week I tapped into that inner joy. I danced past physical capability. I cooked for those around, and I sat and watched stories happen. I became friends with the sound guy, a seventy-five-year-old man. He encouraged my wild ideas, taking joy in the vivacity. And one night when I broke into sudden uncontrollable heaves of sobs, he and the cook found out and made sure I was not alone. He has now passed away, sometime in the beginning of the new year, and the loss is real. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The new year came with disappointment. I soared in and out of withdrawn callousness and shredded belief. How do we survive such things? We remember the good. We are thankful for the gratified dreams. And we tell the nightmare to cease. I wept. And then I stepped forward, into another home with another child.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I stayed with all my friends from Above Rubies. I watched men jump into freezing waters, and held all the new babies, and told stories to my friends' children. I began knitting a baby dress just because the pattern is cute and because I knew someone would want it someday. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And then I left for John C. Campbell School. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">At last ready to be alone, ready to seep in potential promises. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJpstIp3na4icAPG1IlZ5RnBKj7nAV2XcGHLbcnlNQ5oJviq4A-Di6Oj3oRBc0_-QLywqthEOsCHiheKTpG35oAc9VuwJsT3eoqNCuZG6Dkem8MiSw9Z_hSbrRg1rJC6OPKuEEibR1OeC/s1600/1672839577987321-0.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJpstIp3na4icAPG1IlZ5RnBKj7nAV2XcGHLbcnlNQ5oJviq4A-Di6Oj3oRBc0_-QLywqthEOsCHiheKTpG35oAc9VuwJsT3eoqNCuZG6Dkem8MiSw9Z_hSbrRg1rJC6OPKuEEibR1OeC/s1600/1672839577987321-0.png" width="400" /></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJpstIp3na4icAPG1IlZ5RnBKj7nAV2XcGHLbcnlNQ5oJviq4A-Di6Oj3oRBc0_-QLywqthEOsCHiheKTpG35oAc9VuwJsT3eoqNCuZG6Dkem8MiSw9Z_hSbrRg1rJC6OPKuEEibR1OeC/s1600/1672839577987321-0.png"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUz243ib925upRLAbfZYou6sA4F8GFjfnWiNpVfERAmLq48wF3S4SE1IPjltetTP-ke2kiLCyPB_t3xOkg4zBinaOfLtYf_72w3-GpyP4lydoBzvb9sE-dSGR2jJMBtTxGjwqjnCn_GSHD/s1600/1672839574204022-1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUz243ib925upRLAbfZYou6sA4F8GFjfnWiNpVfERAmLq48wF3S4SE1IPjltetTP-ke2kiLCyPB_t3xOkg4zBinaOfLtYf_72w3-GpyP4lydoBzvb9sE-dSGR2jJMBtTxGjwqjnCn_GSHD/s1600/1672839574204022-1.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiodWZBgNKR_aPURI8XQ3-IDj31KaNiCTYKRz1FitHWNJyMqZomWBwJjm5Dj2gcKNukGiTi4jGa9CgAM7ruNhnT8cQoLDFUkCT1GR-i0J0SEmTAdmzD2HhQLehPnpiN1TXKxvSBu52n6_OF/s1600/1672839569330719-2.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiodWZBgNKR_aPURI8XQ3-IDj31KaNiCTYKRz1FitHWNJyMqZomWBwJjm5Dj2gcKNukGiTi4jGa9CgAM7ruNhnT8cQoLDFUkCT1GR-i0J0SEmTAdmzD2HhQLehPnpiN1TXKxvSBu52n6_OF/s1600/1672839569330719-2.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjZ6c3u_1L_40CQRJ5uGNAELsG1R97QxOq9W4UweHsRCyBr7-P4nXVk7Z9h9A0xYqLjS7ejs5lsXt_TE1dmXiY6B2OPxLaW9zjyRpKXLfM-7Zc7-v7QqdK7A6FTc191zdwIOwWRcfZnmz/s1600/1672839565026379-3.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjZ6c3u_1L_40CQRJ5uGNAELsG1R97QxOq9W4UweHsRCyBr7-P4nXVk7Z9h9A0xYqLjS7ejs5lsXt_TE1dmXiY6B2OPxLaW9zjyRpKXLfM-7Zc7-v7QqdK7A6FTc191zdwIOwWRcfZnmz/s1600/1672839565026379-3.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHCYNArQ9Z22f6HjUeE-efR4StvrieVIyx73Ntlbe3jAkNWthnVJKptTh5bqCmxU76l1eTtFjpnemFmiITDIYFB1tAaoyNheBmAYeyCA_LdG4vliw9hXenhAQXCHr4PPlw97L4gPS62cPL/s1600/1672839560259507-4.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHCYNArQ9Z22f6HjUeE-efR4StvrieVIyx73Ntlbe3jAkNWthnVJKptTh5bqCmxU76l1eTtFjpnemFmiITDIYFB1tAaoyNheBmAYeyCA_LdG4vliw9hXenhAQXCHr4PPlw97L4gPS62cPL/s1600/1672839560259507-4.png" width="400" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHCYNArQ9Z22f6HjUeE-efR4StvrieVIyx73Ntlbe3jAkNWthnVJKptTh5bqCmxU76l1eTtFjpnemFmiITDIYFB1tAaoyNheBmAYeyCA_LdG4vliw9hXenhAQXCHr4PPlw97L4gPS62cPL/s1600/1672839560259507-4.png"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aJfZDLKBCmwFq9MO6Y-CYRxZcq-Nann-y4wcZvAV_dsU2y85XbGhX7FRaa7U8K4bDzuwVL6i9xJxSmMWgNlxmec4jZnaMAIIj3aAx5PNTUs9rXANnIsHFaiQaTJkhJMx9Ribm6GqpPdG/s1600/1675048805134279-2.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aJfZDLKBCmwFq9MO6Y-CYRxZcq-Nann-y4wcZvAV_dsU2y85XbGhX7FRaa7U8K4bDzuwVL6i9xJxSmMWgNlxmec4jZnaMAIIj3aAx5PNTUs9rXANnIsHFaiQaTJkhJMx9Ribm6GqpPdG/s1600/1675048805134279-2.png" width="400" /></a></div>I wasn't on the road much of December and January, but stayed at three main places: Outside Buffalo New York (with quick Canada detour), Knoxville Tennessee (dancing!!), and near Franklin Tennessee (the magic there is dependent upon the nature of the changling). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">There was birth and death both, the one to the other. Life and eternal life. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">They were weeks of peace. I melted. If I screamed it ended in a laugh, or the whisper of a smile. Nothing lasts but goodness. And goodness is what we need to remember what it is we want, and most importantly, it's what we need to recall who we are despite derailed desires. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Who am I? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It's hard to pray, "Thy will be done" when you've dampened the fleece with your own tears. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Let the fleece alone, eat your tears. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And pray with the whole of your broken heart, "God where are you?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I am that woman holding up her light against the winds of the day and the morrow. I sing with my eyes closed knowing that if I open them and find the light distinguished my prayer has sent it to brighten someplace only God knows about. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A soft heart is a crumbled heart of stone. What to do with so many crumbs?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> Throw them at the proud? Realize we are <i>yet </i>the proud?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I am the one who must throw the stone . . . into the soup, where I will feed those I'd have cast stones at, who I'd have burnt with the hot coals of fires if wind had stolen my words as my heart so desired. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I make stone soup with crumbled dreams. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And dreams vividly inspire. And the path is filled with travelers, all ready to add to that Great Meal of wine and bread and stone soup because we've let go of who we thought our Saviour ought to be. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzYZUWDx-IizCF2HUx1o0ydT3VxIN-LrZaBT6sKF9UVtNW1zZFkxfCOFojuIFifjZGkCdE8_tIX_V54x5MhPjvxj4B_UsZGNu3_PD_AnrU3OxzrPi1Ml0uj7PXAi5s_mdk78IUvRr9uzI/s1600/1675048803858246-3.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzYZUWDx-IizCF2HUx1o0ydT3VxIN-LrZaBT6sKF9UVtNW1zZFkxfCOFojuIFifjZGkCdE8_tIX_V54x5MhPjvxj4B_UsZGNu3_PD_AnrU3OxzrPi1Ml0uj7PXAi5s_mdk78IUvRr9uzI/s1600/1675048803858246-3.png" width="400" /><br /></a></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div></div><br /></div>Keturah Lambhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05041749245034077912noreply@blogger.com2