Writing About Writing...

OK, so I guess I am starting this entry with a fact that irritates me to the bone about the seed that has been placed in my heart...I love to write. I am sure it is not a huge secret that I would love to do so professionally and am starting to do just that but as I begin to figure this complicated little craft out, I am realizing that it is so not something that you can create a list for and expect it to be done by 5 p.m. so you can go home to your wife and kids. The talent of writing is a gift and curse and let me just expound a little more and tell you why...See, I believe we are all born with a talent that God intends for us to use to the best of our ability to set the world on fire. It has taken me only 35 years to figure this out but I know that mine are 1) working with children, hence my years as an elementary educator and 2) writing. Both are professions in which you can run but you cannot hide - the popular idiom "you can take the girl out of the trailer park but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl" - applies to both of these personality gifts/curses as well. Not a day goes by in which I see something and think "Oh, what a fun unit that would be...Maybe I will need to do this with my children..." or "I need to write about that" only to forget the topic three minutes later because I have laundry to fold, coffee to drink, and french toast sticks to make. I am not bragging on these gifts but simply stating a fact - you have gifts as well that I don't and I will not think you are bragging should you happen to mention them to me. That aside, I must admit that writing is something I wish I could run away from as fast as humanly possible. It is the dark shadow that lurks at you when you want to just fall into bed and read "People" magazine, it is the dream that will constantly nag you and say "what if..." and it is the idea that will pop into your head at random times of the day and won't go away even if you beat it with a stick. For example, I hopped on my little blog here this evening fully intending to write a piece in which I had entitled in my mind "Finding the Light." I will still probably write it on a better day but to give the gist of it away, it was about the greatness of my husband and how he always leaves the porch light on for me if I leave and return after dark. I love this small sign of his caring that is unspoken between us - we have never discussed it but it is something we do for each other that communicates "I love and care for you and want you to be brought home safely to me." Truthfully, I can't write about it now. For reasons I would rather not detail at this point, I am feeling mostly like smacking his face off. Of course, this is a huge figure of speech because I am not really a violent person in the least, but alas, these are the words that came to my mind. This is not a "smack your face off and get a divorce" that I am feeling but rather a common annoyance that pops up in the life of a married couple that is raising a four, two, and one year old child. I simulataneously love and hate him often - albiet mostly love but a handful of times during a month, hate. I know I can say this in front of the masses because I am pretty confident that he feels the same way about me at any given time. We are a great team but like all great, close teams who have made a life-long committment, we sometimes look at each other and say "You have GOT to be freakin' kidding me..." So here I sit, writing about not the light that he leaves on for me but the damn craft of writing that is a gift and curse. I can't write about my given topic tonight because truthfully, I am not feeling lovey-dovey towards the topic (which truthfully, every topic that is written upon is a "baby") I had planned to write about so I chose to write about writing. Hopefully that piece on the porch light will be written soon...

Recent Photos of My Chillens...

My Favorite Load of Laundry...

My Sweet One, who is, well, my sweet one...

Missy Moo the Mermaid

Bubba Boo's Cinco de Mayo photo

A Letter to My Children

Sometimes I catch myself in the ho-hum of my everyday craziness beginning to sweat the small things that really don't matter in the light of eternity and it is often something that knocks me over the head like a "Tom and Jerry frying pan" moment that brings me to reality. I recently had an experience with a little girl that rocked my world for the rest of the day. It was around Mother's Day and I was dropping Missy Moo off at her preschool. As she was settling her belongings into her locker, I noticed Jessie, a little girl who is sweet and a little quiet, hanging out in the hallway. As I approached her, I said hello and asked how she was doing. I always try to go out of my way to give her an extra smile because at the ripe old age of five, Jessie has already lost her mommy to cancer. She was "reading the hall" which is teacher-speak for reading the environmental print that surrounds her. She asked me several questions - "What does this say?" "Hooks" I would reply. "What does this say?" "Sarah" I replied. Next, she pointed to a picture that was leaning against another child's locker, obviously created to present to his mommy on Mother's Day. "What does this say?" Jessie asks, pointing to the word "Mom". "It says 'mom', Jessie", was my reply. Immediately, she stopped reading the hallway and went back to the classroom. Her joy of learning new words was over for the day. I hugged Missy Moo extra hard and scurried to the car with tears in my eyes. My tears were for this sweet child whose mommy was unfairly taken from her just too darn young. My heart aches for her and also her mother, who had to have been scared beyone measure to be leaving such young children behind. Truthfully, it is one of my worst nightmares behind losing one of my own children. I admit that it is selfish - I want to be the one to attend parent-teacher conferences, soccer games, ballet recitals, eighth grade graduation, and shop for prom dresses and tuxedos. I want to be the one they turn to when a friend has hurt their feelings, when they don't make the school play, when they get cut from baseball, when they have their heart broken for the first time, when they fall down and have to pick themselves up. To know that this would not ever come to pass as I lay on my deathbed would be unbearable. I am confident as to where I will go when that time does come; however, the end part would be unfathomable. This also got me to thinking about what I would say to my children should I be taken suddenly, as we all know is always a possibility, given the fragility of the life we live on this side. I could write novels to each of them individually about what I want for them and advice on things I have learned through trial and error but here is what I would tell them:

I am with you always, always. You will see me when a Gerbera Daisy blooms in the spring, especially if it is hot-pink. I will eat popsicles or any other frozen sweet treat with you on a hot summer day. I will be with you when you open your report card and see all A's. I will also be with you when you open your report card and see all F's. It is not what you DO that makes me love each of you - my love for you is not based on performance. My love for you is based on you. You are deeply and intensely loved for the unique beings God created you to be. I will be with you when hormonal changes take over your body. I am there when the first fool, and fool they will be, breaks your heart. I will overjoy with you when you are chosen for something special like a play, a sporting team, a recital, an award. I will be there whispering "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again", when you fail. And you will. I am there to encourage you to grow that "tough outer skin that is not too tough but tough-enough," and I am there to tell you to soften just a bit. I will be there when you hear good live music. I will dance with you to "Into the Mystic" by Van Morrison. I will be there when you finish a great book that stirs you in a way that forces you to move or think outside of your comfort zone. I am with you on a summer evening with a good, crisp glass of Chardonnay or a margarita (of course, once you have turned 21 - I am still your mother after all...) I will be there with you telling you to add chips, salsa, con queso, and guacamole. I will tell you to wait for sex. I will tell you to please not abuse the beautiful shell you have been given with cigarettes or illegal drugs. I will be with you anytime you eat chocolate, especially Hershey's Toffee Almond Nuggets. I will be with you on the first day of your first job when you are feeling insecure and maybe not really ready for this "real-world" thing. I will be with you when you walk down the aisle, when you have your first baby, when you realize how much you are really and truly loved. The love I have for you, my children, is not understandable until you have your own babies. As I say to you every night when I put you to bed, "I love you always, always. There is nothing you could ever do to make me not love you and you are fearfully and wonderfully made." You are my joy. You are my love. You are never alone.

In Scooby Doo We Trust

Before I get into the meat of my writing this evening, I want to apologize to my resounding nine followers (thank you for reading, my friends!) for falling off the face of the blog world. Try as I may, I just can't write daily though I am accepting that this is just simply a season in my life. I plan to do much more writing in general this upcoming fall, so we shall see. However, the main reason I have not been on so much is that, truthfully, my head hurts. It seems as though my oldest two children, Missy Moo and Bubba Boo, have reached the age in which they argue over things. Big things. Little things. Medium things. Pretty much all things. Since I am an only child, this incessant bickering between a two year old and a four year old is new territory for me. A few nights ago, my beloveds were arguing over something so insignificant that I can't even recall what it was and I simply looked at Classic Old Spice and said, "You have GOT to be kidding me..." to which he responded with "Welcome to the world of siblings, dear." This, of course, made me chuckle a bit because he often likes to think he is the resident expert on sibling relations in our home. Now don't get me wrong here - I respect that man more than any other person on this planet. However, when the love of my life was born, his oldest sister was 22 years old, his brother was 16, and his other sister was ten. I am a little incredulous when he makes comments about sibling rivalry because really, he was an only child. Classic Old Spice was the cute baby that everyone carted around and pretty much always had the attention on him. I am guessing, though I don't know for sure, that not many of his siblings actually fought much with him. Neither Missy Moo or Bubba Boo are free of guilt from the myriad of arguments that occur within a given day - sometimes Missy Moo provokes and Bubba Boo screams, sometimes Bubba Boo provokes and Missy Moo screams, yells, cries, and pretty much gives him exactly the reaction he is seeking. Of course, he always goes back for more with an extra little glean in his eye because he enjoys the consequences of his small pinches, hits, pushes, and climbing. I've tried to explain this to Missy Moo to no avail so the cycle continues. Bubba Boo is the one who makes me fall into my bed at night - he is ALL boy and I mean ALL. If I do say so myself, the child is beautiful. He has long lashes, curly brown hair, deep-brown-almost-black eyes and dimples that even the nurses in the hospital swooned over when he was born. He is also two and experimenting with his lot in life. He likes to test for consistency and equally loves to see what he can get away with. For a long while, his chosen form of communication was screaming. He screamed when he was happy. He screamed when he was mad. He screamed when he was sad. Sometimes he screamed to just, well, scream (hence why my head has been hurting). Lately, this has improved, to which I say at the top of my lungs "Hallelujah!!!", however, he has now officially traded this behavior for that of typical little brother behavior. Truthfully, there are times I don't blame Missy Moo for the irritations but after all, Bubba Boo is just doing his job. He is SUPPOSED to do these things - he is her little brother. Who else would pinch her while she is trying to watch a show? Who else would take her Littlest Pet Shop animals from her hands and run? Who else would push her when she did not give in to his every whim? The ironic thing is that Bubba Boo can melt my heart like no other. The other day, we were in Family Chrisitan Store purchasing a few books. Luckily, Bubba Boo was drawn to the children's area which was my saving grace because otherwise I would have spent the time chasing him around the store with My Sweet One, who now weighs 24 pounds at 11 months, in my arms. He plucked a monster truck from the shelf and proclaimed it as his and while I don't buy everything for my children when they want something, today was different. I told him he could indeed have the monster truck if he chose to be a good boy while mommy browsed for a few more minutes. He did well so we proceeded to the checkout to purchase our items. He had some trouble with releasing his firm clutch on the monster truck so the man quickly scanned it and gave it right back to him. Immediately, without being prompted, he said "Thanks, Mama." I mean, first of all, the child calls me mama and it's like sweet music to my ears. On my worst days, to hear Bubba Boo call me "mama" is enough to snap me out of any snit I might be experiencing. Secondly, to show such gratitude for something I purchased for him at such a young age shows me that I MUST be doing something right even when I worry that his antics are indeed due to my inadequate parenting. In addition, if I cough, sneeze, or even simply utter the word "ouch" he flies in from wherever he may be in the house to pat my face and say "You OK, Mama?" My ALL BOY boy is also a sweet, caring, sensitive soul who is curious about bugs, loves to play soccer, will scream "Look, Mama!" anytime he sees a Daddy Long Legs, and loves popsicles. He screams, he throws fits, he tests his boundaries - he is two. But when I see the character that is emerging from him, I know he will be just fine. He is just starting to be molded and it is fun. The journey will be long and wonderful and I know this but I thank God for making him the way He did. Missy Moo and Bubba Boo have had a small obsession with Scooby Doo during the past three months - yes, three months. It is not a fleeting one - it seems to be here to stay. Missy Moo refers to Classic Old Spice as Freddy, I am the winner of the nerdy Velma character (though I tell Missy Moo I would rather be her because she is the smart one), she is, of course, Daphne, Bubba Boo is now known as Shaggy, Ellie the WonderDog is Scooby, and My Sweet One is Scrappy. She often refuses to answer if you have the gall to call her by her God-given name. If you call her Daphne, she's all yours but slip and call her by her real name and you are toast. Missy Moo has pulled Bubba Boo into the Scooby club and he, too, is now obsessed. A few nights ago, after a particulary irritating day of about 75 arguments between the two of them, I found myself rejoicing that it was bedtime and I had everyone in jammies with the "night-night" movie (Scooby Doo of course - "Jeepers It's the Creeper" was our episode of choice for that particular evening) playing. I looked up from mixing My Sweet One's bottle to see the backs of my older babies - newly out of the tub with still-wet hair, jammies on, leaning on the ottoman together like best friends. It stopped me dead in my tracks because nothing, I mean nothing, would have gotten these two together throughout the day. Nothing, except for good old Scoobs. Thank you, Scooby Doo - in Scoob the Snapp's trust.

RIP Brain

I mourn the loss of my brain. I really did at one time be a functioning, responsible adult who could easily read directions and actually show-up to scheduled appointments. However, that individual is no longer with us. She is gone. She has left in her wake this new person who is very flighty, forgetful, and at times, irresponsible. I am not sure if the old one will ever return and this of course, is the most frightening thought of all. My dear hubby, Classic Old Spice, is a dentist. He has complained to me at times about patients who do not show up to their scheduled appointments to which I have always replied in a rather heated manner that it is not difficult to simply pick up the phone and call. After all, they are taking up the spot of someone else who might actually show-up to said appointment. "Irresponsible and inconsiderate" is what I mutter often followed with an unasked-for suggestion that he charge a $50 no-show fee because of course, that would help people to remember to show up to their appointment by golly. Sadly enough, this has come back to bite me in the arse because currently to date, I have missed three appointments since September. This may not sound like a lot but to someone who has never missed an appointment, this is shattering. I worry that Bubba Boo's ENT will no longer see him as a patient. I am certain my chiropracter, whose appointments I have missed not once but twice, thinks I am the supreme flake and I have had to eat a lot of crow and just nod sympathetically when Classic Old Spice complains of the no-shows. I am one of them now and we are bonded - I can't betray their trust as we appointment-skippers have to stick together. In fact, I recently was a no-show for my own dental appointment with my husband and he informed me that he is passing my charts on to another local dentist - he has officially kicked me out of his practice. Here's another scary example: I was recently diagnosed with an eye problem and my opthamologist (I made it to that appointment) prescribed a strong medication. After taking it for five days, I began to develop a rash on my neck so I promptly quit taking it and called his office the next day. I was told to halve the dosage and I should be good. I shared this story with Classic Old Spice and he asked the original dosage. We then moved on and talked about what we would do for lunch. Two hours later as we were standing at our kitchen sink, he looked at the directions on my prescription and realized that the half-dosage that I started to take was really what I was supposed to be taking all along. No wonder I broke out in a rash - I was taking twice the daily dosage I was supposed to take. As you can only imagine, Classic Old Spice simply thought this was hilarious. Just yesterday, I attempted to purchase my Clinique Touch Base for Eyes that I have been wearing now for four years. I love it and it is a staple - back in the day, I could rattle that color out in my sleep. As I stood in Nordstrom with hubby I could not produce the name of the color. Even worse, when the sales rep began to name them, none of them sounded familiar. I had to look at the one I thought could be it to determine if in fact it was. Just plain scary.
The list goes on - this was just this past week. Things like this are a common occurrence now. I recently read a quote by Louisa May Alcott (author of "Little Women") that said "she has read too many books and it has addled her brain." I think the appropriate term for me would be "she has had too many children in too short of time and it has permenantly altered her brain." Good-bye, sound mind. May you return at some point and if not, well, I won't remember you anyway.

Pampering?

I am not exactly sure at which point I began to lower my standards of what is appropriate appearance-wise for myself before I leave the house but I do know that somewhere along the way, this has indeed occurred. Back in the good old days, I would not have even considered leaving the house in the morning without a shower (which includes washing my hair), makeup applied maybe not perfectly but way more precise than it is now, and clothes somewhat unwrinkled and clean. Back then, I did know what the word “pampering” meant—I actually use to take time for manicures, pedicures, and a facial every now and then. I loved time in a spa and looked forward to treating myself to these luxuries if not on a regular basis, certainly more often than now. Fast forward four years to the present and I must admit there are moments when I catch a glance at myself in a passing mirror or window and I chuckle—the new me often has hair that has not been washed for three, maybe four days, my makeup consists of haphazardly-applied eyeliner and mascara (on a good day), and I usually can’t tell you the last time I showered. I also shudder to admit that there are times when I want to wear something that I have not had time to wash yet and I simply pluck it out of the dirty clothes pile, give it a sniff and if it is OK, I slide into without hesitation. Of course, writing this makes me think of the guys I used to know in college who did this as a regular part of their routine, but they were college guys—not me! However, somewhere along the line of this parenthood game (especially which each subsequent baby) my standards lessened and I could focus on what really mattered. Yes, I do miss those old days sometimes. I miss showering like the rest of the world does in the morning before they start their days. I miss having clothes that were regularly laundered, ironed, and stored away perfectly in my closet awaiting their next usage. I miss taking time to apply makeup in a non-hurried manner and I certainly miss the regularity of the mani’s and pedi’s I used to treat myself to back in the days of yore. This all being said, I must admit that if I were given a free time travel ticket, I would not go back to those days ever again. Those days did not include giggles so sweet that you had to stop what you were doing and simply bask in the joyous sound. Nobody cried when I left the house and nobody screamed with joy and jumped up and down when I returned home. Nobody ran to me with crocodile tears in their eyes when their feelings were hurt or they needed some love after a boo-boo. I did not have any little people saying cute things that made me run to my notebook to record their phrases so I could share them when they got older. Life now is so much richer, so much more fulfilled and so much more steeped in love. Pampering has taken on a new meaning now—I am pampered in giggles, kisses, hugs, and sometimes tears. I am pampered in knowing that I am making a difference to three little beings who will hopefully grow-up to be God-loving adults who strive to make their world just a little bit better. I am pampered in knowing that as I age, it is not the outside that really makes such a difference but instead what resides in your heart that will set the world on fire. Pampering is relative and I must admit that I prefer this new form of pampering. This being said, a mani/pedi every now and then never hurt anyone...

Just Call Me Oscar

I am a grouch. A big one. Since I was awakened by my six-month-old alarm clock this morning, I have been nothing but grumpy and on the verge of emotional collapse. I am not exactly sure why as it would make perfect sense if my friend, Dottie, was about to pay her monthly visit or I had a restless night of little sleep - neither is the case. I am just a big grump...I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and have been acting like Cybil since 7:30 this morning. I am cheery and calm one moment then I launch into crankiness over the smallest of things the next and I am certain I have done long-term psychological damage to my children. Missy Moo commented that she thought I was a little grouchy (understatement) and of course, I felt horrible so I apologized for mommy's lack of patience and told her I would work on changing my heart. This being the language I use with her, she understood completely and told me she would forgive me and, gasp, that she loved me very much. Of course this made me think of the loyalty our dog, Ellie, exhibits even when she is treated not so nicely - it seems when I am at my ugliest self, Missy Moo can sense it and will say "I love you, Mommy" which makes me feel worse for just having launched into hysterics because she did not pick up her fish game - for the hundreth time that day. Bubba Boo is at that oh so difficult age of wanting to play with only things that are dangerous or could make a gigantic mess (yes, in a house full of toys) so I feel as though I am constantly saying "no" to him. I have read a million positive parenting books about how to redirect him or use positive language (as in instead of saying "No feet on the table" you would say "your feet belong on your chair") but quite frankly, I don't see it working any better and by 5 p.m. I am done. So basically what I do is play policeman all day and rotate the little things I find throughout the house to their rightful spot and today, I just wanted a day off. Don't get me wrong - I love my children and my husband more than anything. I literally would give my life for any of them. But for some reason, today I felt like I just wanted to get in my car and drive. For a long time. I am certain that no one told me this mommy gig was so difficult but of course, if we all shared this with childless women, our population would end promptly because let's face it, there are some not-so-glamourous days. When I was working full-time when Missy Moo was six months old until she was 14 months old, I was distraught over the fact that I could not be with her all of the time. I envisioned play dates and lunch dates with friends who had children of similar ages as Missy Moo. I dreamed of mornings at KinderMusic and Gymboree and of taking long walks along the Monon Trail after we had practiced our alphabet and played with Play-Dough. Of course, there are many days in which this stuff does happen but I never envisioned the days/moments of utter hysteria when you think you just might die if you have to pretend that the "dancing girlfriends" are really here with us right now (these are Missy Moo's imaginary friends. Long story.) Being a stay-at-home mommy is all I have ever wanted to be and I am the happiest I have ever been in my life at this moment right now - so why on earth am I such a crankpot? I have so many blessings and know that many would look at my life and say "Oh puhleeeeeeeze, get a grip". I must say that I have to agree with them but then I also must say that I am human. So as I sit here and have a glass of Chardonnay and eat peantut M&M's, I liken it much to the tantrums Missy Moo and Bubba Boo throw out - sometimes mommy's have to throw tantrums, too. It is often not pretty and the guilt that comes afterwards is enough to think I should hand my children over to someone else to raise but it happens. I am not proud of it nor would I have ever thought, when I was childless and when I only had one child, that I would have days that I just wanted out, but this is the reality. Blessed I am and know it - human I am and can't help it. Tomorrow is a new day. Thank God.

The Sweet Curse of Motherhood

I can't watch the news anymore. Or read a newspaper. Or have an intelligent discussion about the topic of war. I cannot hold my tongue when I see a mommy or a daddy tug a little too hard on a child's arm at Wal-Mart and I will risk being accused of a being a pervert if I see a child who looks like a hug could brighten their little life even for just a moment. I am now a mother and have realized how deeply and intricately this gift, though sometimes a curse, weaves through the nooks and crannies of your being. There is no question that I could quite possibly be the biggest idiot on the planet concerning current events mainly because it is never quiet long enough in my household to hear the complete coverage of any news story so it's a bit like playing the game of telephone - I only pick up bits and pieces of a story and before I know it, I could cover the beat at the "National Enquirer" with just a little bit of truth to said story. Secondly, and probably the main reason why I can't tune in, is that I just simply cannot take it. I melt when I hear stories of 14 year olds shot and killed for no reason other than the fact that they were either in the wrong place at the wrong time or were so lost and lonely that they looked to violent street gangs to be their family. I can't help but conjure the image of the now-deceased 14 (14!!) year old as a baby being fed his first round of vegetables or watching him roll over for the first time. I picture the mother who might have played "This Little Piggy" with his chubby, tiny toes and laughed as her little one let out the giggle that is absolutely the most wonderful sound on the planet. I realize that for many of these tragic cases there may not have been a mommy or a daddy who adored and treasured that child in the way I do my own but I have to believe that the biological response that many, and I would venture to say most, of us feel is present more often than not. I am not so naive that I think all children are raised in loving and healthy environments but my dream is that they are and now there is a shattered mommy or daddy who grieves the broken dream of a life that was just too darn short. If there is no one grieving for them, I do. Every sad case is someone's son or daughter and by my own personal definition of a mommy this, in my own roundabout way, makes them mine as well. I once read that we as mothers have not just a responsibility of raising our own children but every child on the planet as well. When I first stumbled across this passage, I had to reread it several times to be sure I was understanding the author's message correctly as how could I possibly have an impact on a child being raised in tribal Africa? My favorite author, Anne Lamott, wrote a book about writing entitled Bird by Bird. She explains that she came to the title after watching her father, who was also a writer, attempt to assist her brother, who had procrastinated on doing a school project on birds until the night before it was due. The said brother sat at the kitchen table with books and notes spread all around him and was utterly overwhelmed and frustrated - he had no idea where to begin because the task was just too daunting. Anne's father simply said, "Son, you just take it bird by bird." What a great idiom for our lives - if we focus on impacting child by child, then maybe, just maybe this chain of goodwill could reach a child in tribal Africa. Quite possibly there is some truth to the cliche statement that one person truly can make a difference and it all starts with the simple emotion of compassion. When one becomes pregnant, no one mentions that you will soon release your heart to the outside of your body where it will stay for the rest of your life. I can't watch the news or read a newspaper because I value that person's life in a way I could not possibly begin to fathom until I had given a life of my own. I am certain this is the reason that police officers instruct children to look for another mommy or daddy in a store who has children if they were to become lost because that person will not leave the lost child until his or her parents are found. We do this because we know how scared our own children would be if they were to become lost and we want to alleviate some of that child's anxiety while at the same time making sure that he or she is safe. I am sure there are childless people who would do the same thing for a lost child which brings me to wonder "could other people reach this level of compassion without becoming a mother"? Most likely, however, this is what did it for me. This is what sealed the deal and made me a card-carrying member of the "weeper's club". I shed tears for the broken hearts, for the hurt feelings, for the lives cut too short, for the children living in violence and hate every day. I long to have the resources to build a home large enough to house the unloved children, the ones whose photos are not on anyone's desk or bureau or whose artwork does not adorn any refrigerators, and give them the life their sweet innocent selves deserve. I can't do it alone but I know I am not alone in my emotions - there is an army of mommy's out there who believe the same as me. One of my very favorite quotes of all-time was said by the ever-so-wise Helen Keller: "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart." So true, Helen, so true. And felt they are.