Annual Scrapbooking Weekend . . .

Well it's about time! You've been home for almost three weeks--the least you could do is talk about the weekend!


Okay, okay. I'm sorry. What can I say . . . I've been busy.


How about I share some pictures?


Here's my little spot . . .

And here's the rest of the workroom. Ain't it cute! 

yes that IS facebook up on my screen. But hey . . . I need a break from time to time!

 And here's the basket that Susan won when one of us drew her name.  Darn it! I wanted to win. Once, when I first started coming, they drew my name. It was so cool! All sorts of scrapbooking tools and stuff. . .

 And here are a few of the pages I got done.

We go every year . . . a group of about sixteen of us and we work for four wonderful days, cropping and stamping and glittering and journaling. Sometimes we even take showers and get dressed! But it's not unusual to find us still in our jammies and slippers late into the afternoon. Because, as I said . . . it's all about the work. 

We've used the same location for the last five years, The Red Barn Inn up in Coldspring. Ain't it the cutest little place you ever seen? It's run by the owners who cater to quilters and, of course, scrapbookers but the way they feed us, you'd think we were royalty! 

So I got my son's scout album done while I was there--just in time for his Eagle Court of Honor coming up here on the 4th of February. 

pictures of that will follow   

Apparently I'd rather die . . .

. . . than walk in the Avon Walk For Breast Cancer again. Or at least that’s the subconscious message I’ve been sending myself.


Sure I did it once—walked those forty grueling, painful miles in two days. I thought I’d properly built up to it, thought I’d sufficiently trained during the weeks before. And maybe I did. Maybe it was the actual weekend event that did me in, the way I hooked up with that friend I hadn’t seen in six years, the friend with the extra loooong legs that took one stride to my three. The friend I insisted on keeping up with that first day.

Mile twenty six saw me wearing more blisters than feet. 

Needless to say, day two was torture. If not for my meditation practice and my ability to send my mind to a happier place (a place far from my feet), I would not have made that second day. It was two weeks before I could walk normally again, two weeks before my feet stopped oozing with every step.

That was three years ago.

Proud and stubborn, I signed up for the walk again the following year, dutifully starting my training walks twelve weeks before the race. About five weeks out, I dropped a paper cutter onto the top of my foot and had to have stitches. I was told no walking for at least three weeks so I laid off long enough to heal. I started the training walks again until, a couple days before the race, I pinched a nerve in my neck doing a yoga pose. I’m talking excruciating pain all down my right side whenever I moved. So that was it for me . . no walking.

I didn’t sign up the following year. I was too busy and (gulp) somewhat intimidated by past events. So I just gave myself to my team, offering support and help in fund raising. I had planned to be out there the weekend of the race, cheering them on and handing out water . . . that kind of stuff. But, oh my gosh! If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll remember this. It happened the day before the walk. So last year, instead of walking those forty miles, I was sitting in a hospital bed with tubes dripping someone else's blood into my arm.  

So now April is rolling around again and I’m a little terrified. The Avon Foundation is sending me e-mails and cards reminding me that it’s time to sign up again. And I'm trying really hard to pretend not to see them. See... I hate to imagine what kind of avoidance strategy my subconscious has in store for me this time. 

The pros and cons of Menopause

I've been organizing my photographs for the last few days . . . some twenty years of memories stuffed into boxes, cabinets and multiple albums around the house. Of course I ran across pictures of myself from way back when, long before the big "M" was looming so large. And I got to thinking how every phase in life has it's pros and cons, even this one.

Like how my once non-existent belly now rests comfortably on my upper thighs whenever I sit. And how the top part of my menopausal middle provides a nice little shelf for my breasts.

This from a woman once in complete control of the comings and goings of body fat. Once able to push her body through extreme sports and grueling exercise. Sure, I can still push it. But it just won't go as far. And all the injuries from years of extreme physical work are squatting in my hips, knees and shoulders--nagging reminders of the things I once did.

Those times of greater capability and a well-trimmed middle are a distant memory as my girth expands of its own accord—regardless of whether I live on a diet of lettuce and spend hours a day intimate with my elliptical. My body is on a journey of its own, taking me along with it.

So, what of those “pros” I hinted at? They’re certainly not "form" related. But they are certainly there. Like the wisdom of fifty-some years assuring me that form is no longer (indeed it never was) what defines me. As young people we are very tuned to the external—how thin are our hips, how clear our skin, how large our breasts. Even further away we go into our clothes, our cars, our houses and lawns. We see our outward display as paramount to our success.

But as we grow in wisdom and age, we turn our gaze inward, looking toward our character, our spirituality, our relationship with ourselves, others and God. Depth of thought and mindfulness become more meaningful—like taking time to honor the smallest things, like giving instead of having.

And as we go even deeper, we learn that we are not (and have never been) our bodies. We start to fully grasp the idea that our bodies are merely temporary dwellings for our true selves. And if we listen carefully to that deeper voice, we realize that our purpose in life extends far beyond the mere polishing and maintenance of our dwelling. 

I once read a scholarly essay on how the Chakras so closely mirror the stages in our lives. How we start at the root where grounding, safety and survival are prominent in our thinking. From there we move up to the egoic stage, the age of power and acquisition. On to the solar plexus where we learn discipline and begin to see the value in reigning in our egos. Next is the fourth chakra, the Heart Chakra, the movement toward spiritual maturity. It’s usually during mid-life when all the good stuff starts happening. The heart chakra is seen as the bridge between the three lower chakras and one’s higher, spiritual ambitions. On to the fifth, sixth and finally the seventh chakra located at the crown of the head. The crown chakra is considered the stage of infinite consciousness.

But we can only reach the crown by moving through the lower stages first. We simply have to be egoic for a while! We simply have to learn the importance of taking care of our dwelling before we can abandon it to our higher ideals. It’s part of life.

I know this menopausal body has served me well. It stayed fairly polished during the years when I needed it to sparkle. It remained a solid dwelling place for the entity I know now as “me.” And now, as I witness its gentle and natural decline, it forces me to slow down, allowing more time to ponder what is truly important in life. Rather than to fixate on this belly, as it lounges here against these thickening thighs. Rather than to dwell over those photographs of a thinner, trimmer, more active me.