Rooted Reflections: A Collection of Hair Stories, Trials and Triumphs

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On Peace O Peace! Stay, ruby breasted warbler, stay Stay, ruby-breasted warbler, stay,. Fill for me a brimming bowl Fill for me a brimming bowl. As from the darkening gloom a silver dove As from the darkening gloom a silver dove. To Lord Byron Byron, how sweetly sad thy melody! Written on the Day That Mr. Leigh Hunt Left Prison What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,.

To Hope When by my solitary hearth I sit,. Ode to apollo In thy western halls of gold. To Some Ladies What though while the wonders of nature exploring,. O come, dearest Emma! To George Felton Mathew Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,. Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs. Hadst thou liv'd in days of old Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,. I am as brisk I am as brisk.

Give me women, wine, and snuff Give me women, wine and snuff. Specimen of an Induction to a Poem Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;. A Fragment Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake;. To one who has been long in city pent To one who has been long in city pent,. I could be content Happy is England! I could be content. To Charles Cowden Clarke Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,. How many bards gild the lapses of time How many bards gild the lapses of time!

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there.

To My Brothers Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,. Addressed to Haydon Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,. Addressed to the Same Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;. Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance,. To Kosciusko Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone. Sleep and Poetry What is more gentle than a wind in summer? I stood tip-toe upon a little hill I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,.

Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition The church bells toll a melancholy round,. On the Grasshopper and Cricket The poetry of earth is never dead. After dark vapours have opressed our plains After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains. God of the golden bow God of the golden bow,.

This pleasant tale is like a little copse This pleasant tale is like a little copse. To Leigh Hunt, Esq. Glory and loveliness have passed away;. On Seeing the Elgin Marbles My spirit is too weak — mortality. On The Story of Rimini Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,. On the sea It keeps eternal whisperings around. Unfelt, unheard, unseen Unfelt, unheard, unseen,. Hither, hither, love Hither, hither, love —. You say you love; but with a voice You say you love; but with a voice.

Alan Beale's Core Vocabulary Compiled from 3 Small ESL Dictionaries (21877 Words)

The Gothic looks solemn The Gothic looks solemn,. Think not of it, sweet one, so Think not of it, sweet one, so; —. Apollo to the Graces Apol. Which of the fairest three. O blush not so! O blush not so O blush not so! Hence burgendy, claret, and port Hence burgundy, claret, and port,. God of the Meridian God of the meridian,. Lines on the Mermaid Tavern Souls of poets dead and gone,. Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb;. To the Nile Son of the old moon-mountains African! Spenser, a jealous honorer of thine Spenser! O thou whose face hath felt the winter's wind O thou whose face hath felt the winter's wind,.

Extracts from an Opera O! O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts Oh, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts! Song The stranger lighted from his steed,. O sleep a little while white pearl Asleep! Four seasons fill the measure of the year Four seasons fill the measure of the year;. Where be ye going, you Devon maid Where be ye going, you Devon maid? Over the hill and over the dale Over the hill and over the dale,. O that a week could be an age, and we.

To Homer Standing aloof in giant ignorance,. Give me your patience sister while I frame. Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,. On Visiting the Tomb of Burns The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,. Old Meg she was a gipsey Old Meg she was a gipsey,. There was a naughty bay There was a naughty boy,. To Ailsa Rock Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid! This mortal body of a thousand days This mortal body of a thousand days. All gentle folks who owe a grudge All gentle folk who owe a grudge. Of late two dainties were before me plac'd Of late two dainties were before me plac'd.

There is a joy in footing slow across a silent plain There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,. Not Aladdin magian Not Aladdin magian. Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud. Upon my life, Sir Nevis,I am piqu'd Mrs. I watched as my breasts and ankles swell with it. I delighted in seeing patches of hair pop up in random places. I was a Wookie the size of a small moon and I loved it.

I watched red scratches — the badges of motherhood — stretch across my abdomen. I never knew what it was to feel beautiful until I was pregnant. After my son was pulled from my abdomen I was left with another scar — my mother scar — and a pooch like a deflated basketball. Who was this person in the mirror? I exclusively breastfed and started taking daily walks with my son so that the beginning of our life together was a healthy one.

Today I am now 41 pounds lighter than the morning he was born. I threatened to cut it off and hide indoors until it grew back.

Every way I brushed it looked like a bad combover so I began to hide my balding head under fabric head bands and scarves. I felt like I was watching myself turn into Gollum from Lord of the Rings. I pathetically poured over pictures of myself from just a few months before where my hair was lush and, even though it was really thin to begin with, at least it was all there. I sulked too damn much about my sickly thinning hair. He loves me because I am his mother, not for what I look like. What does matter is that I care for him unconditionally, that he knows what love is, that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes, and that I and teach him how to be a good and thoughtful person.

And a lesson that I have learned as I have written this is that I need to teach him healthy habits, to be comfortable in his body, and lastly, that joy should be measured in smiles and laughter, not pounds. Creativity fills a void — a cavity — in my life. It is so much a part of me it is in the way that I think, the words that I say or write, how I cook, how I approach a problem, how I use my time. It fills in the gaps between science, reason, and necessity. It is so much a part of me, I have half a room dedicated to all things creative: Creativity has always been a part of my life.

Generally I have always considered my personality to be divided between my creative side and scientific side. However, pondering the concept of creativity this week has led me to realize that the scientific side is steeply enriched with creativity and vice versa. Science requires creativity to develop innovative research, create new technology, and imagine things that no one ever thought possible. In that way, creativity is fueled by science.

Getting creative with science is how we influence education. It is balanced, pulling and tugging in compliment; a beautifully choreographed dance in which one motion inspires the next. It reminds me of one of my favorite creative outlets in which I really get my science geek on: It is one avenue where my love of science and photography continues to evolve into an ever reciprocal process. I first used to photograph seaweed to convey scientific concepts, for species identification, and for education. In order to identify a species or photograph certain details I would hold up a bit of seaweed to the rising or setting sun to look at its features only to discover the most beautiful illuminated jewels.

And I was hooked. My collection of seaweed jewels is never enough. I would conjure up new ways to photograph them, display them just so in just the right light, organize a frond on a piece of paper to press into a keepsake. I continue to seek out their illuminated shapes and features, collecting images as my treasures. And later, those images have ended up being useful for a field guide or a book or on display at a National Park and the art has become science once again. It is an ever rewarding cycle.

Seaweeds allow me to indulge in both my science and creative sides completely. They inspire me with their beauty. They fuel my creativity even if I am not working with them directly or even living near any at the current moment. My image conveys the word creativity and how it fills in the word cavity. The pattern is a seaweed just before it was pressed. Without going too deeply down the rabbit hole which is my brain working out these kinds of riddles, I will just say that I find it puzzling when people are spoken of as either being or not being creative.

How can it be that a human being isn't creative? Every time we solve a problem, tweak a tool's purpose, make a friend, share an idea, have literally create a child, etc We all do creativity, everyday. Clearly, most people are talking about a specific kind of creativity upon uttering the word. They are speaking of an artistic ability. But, I have to say that I just reject that. I feel like it puts up too many walls between people who are supposedly artistic and those who are not.

That rankles because I believe that we all have artists inside of us. We are talked out of knowing that part of ourselves and guided away from knowledge that would allow us to explore and express that artistic side, as our lives progress. Or, some of us are just so infected and enamored by the love for artistic expression that we have only the choice between pursuing it or going mad. And I do mean that, mostly literally. My struggle with depression is far greater when I cannot work artistically. It honestly kills me just a little bit when people say they are not artistic or creative because they cannot draw.

The truth is that drawing is a skill that is taught and learned. It's a skill that requires one to relearn how to see three dimensional objects and convert them into two dimensional objects in their head so that they may render them on paper. That is a tricky thing to do.

It take education and a whole lot of practice. Some people learn it faster than others. That is the only difference. Yes, I do recognize that there are differences between people who never get truly good at art and those who do. I would propose, however, that those differences have much more to do with 1. I think that may be the bottom line for me. When other's see creativity, or talent, or art I see a person being brave.

The image above is something new for me. I don't usually do artistic pieces involving people. This is me being brave. Peace feels like floating, weightless, yet slightly compressed, like an embrace or the gentle constant pressure of fluid all around. Peace is soft and firm, supportive and freeing. Peace is a buoy, a foundation of calm, a muscle that gives and holds at the same time. Peace is safety and love and trust. Peace tastes clear, fresh and clean, and infinitely complex in it's subtlety.

It is cool on the tongue and warm in the belly. It feeds and soothes. It refreshes and revives. It nourishes and warms from the soul outward. Peace smells of warm musty earth, hints of sweet succulent greenness.

It smells clean and crisp, transient yet rooted in soil. It smells of nature and is so faint that I wonder if I imagined it all. Peace is quiet, a flowing kind of sound. It ripples and glides in truest subtle harmony. There are children's laughters so distant that it may be memory. There is music so fundamental that it is indistinguishable from the rustle of tree leaves, the strings of a wooden plaything, the beat of a heart, the sounds of an animal being.

Peace is a complex kind of quiet that lets me hear. Peace is the glassy, ripply, choppy, wavy, flowing, stagnant, sparkling, foaming, jubilant, dark blue and green surface of water. It holds together with astounding tension, yet trickles through my fingers. It molds and carves mountains yet glides and drips from the most delicate spider's web.

It beads and floats through the air. It freezes solid, sharp and brittle. It holds and reflects color, light, images, sounds. It gives under pressure but bounces back in graceful equilibrium. It's potency is paramount to life on this planet and yet it contains entire worlds within its smallest measure. Peace is not just a sense of calm, but it a state of acceptance. For me, I have struggled with the birth of my son ending in a cesarean. I had the most beautiful pregnancy, the kind you read about in fairy tales if they were about such things.

From the moment I saw the faint line on the pregnancy test I was filled with a light. I glowed through my first trimester. I floated through my second as the life inside of me grew and started to flutter about. And when my belly swelled in my third, I was truly prepared for the little life I had grown from seed. I had embraced all the changes my body had gone through. I had taken all the classes, read and re-read all of the books, and written a birth plan.

At 41 weeks and 4 days I lacked any pending labor signs — even the descending of my baby into my pelvis. I gave into my impatience and accepted an induction, throwing half of my birth plan out the window then and there. I was at peace with that though. I wanted my baby in my arms and not weighing on my hips.

It is in my nature to 1 be in charge of a situation, 2 be kind and polite, 3 avoid conflict, and 4 worry about things more than I should. During labor with my son I learned that some of these traits are stronger than the others. I thought that 1 was truly one of my strongest traits as it influenced my perception of my birth during my pregnancy. I had educated myself in the anatomical and spiritual senses in preparation for this day. As it turns out, 2, 3, and 4 were all much stronger that day. Really, who is polite during labor?

But I was far too polite. I listened to the nurses and not my body. I also progressed much quicker than they could measure. Again, throwing another line of my birth plan out the window. The idea of an end to the volcanic eruptions occurring ever closer within my uterus brought me peace. With pain medication I felt I would float on a cloud to 10 cm and push this baby out as if he were but a tiny marshmallow.

I had to wait to finish an IV bag full of fluids before I could get the epidural. Drip by drip the fluid entered my body, bringing me closer to the moment when those magical drugs would numb me from the waist down and ease me through the end of my labor into delivery. By the time I finished the bag I had dilated completely and really had to poo. Which, as it turns out is how it feels when you are ready to push. I did what I was told and fought the most primal urge I have ever felt in my entire life. The anesthesiologist had just arrived and was told to wait aside until the doctor arrived.

This was supposed to be the moment my son was born. In the chaos that is the well-choreographed dance of medical staff turning on the infant warmer, the doctor pressing on my perineum and coaxing me to birth my baby, the nurses holding my legs and coaching me through my contractions to push, my husband was holding my hand with the excitement and anticipation of finally being able to hold his little boy.

Instead, I did not progress. Not within some invisible timeframe I was unaware of. So he suggested that I labor down. I got an epidural at 10 cm. At the moment the anesthesiologist told me to stay absolutely still I managed to fight my convulsions, my contractions, my pushing urge… and the blood pressure cuff went off on my arm.

And then I floated away. I rested pain-free, covered in wires and probes and tubes. I was at peace with my decision. Unmedicated Pitocin labor is no joke. I had survived through all 10 cm of dilation so all I had left to do was push this little guy out after a little rest. I could do this, easy peasy. I snuggled up under my blankets, curling up with my baby still in my womb. I talked to him and gave him pep talks on how he was going to descend and slip right out when I pushed. When my hour was up I was thrilled to finally finish what my body had started. I scooted to the edge of the bed and began pushing.

I pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed. For three hours I pushed. I pushed in every different position possible given the amount of drugs, wires, and tubes going into me. I felt that he was so close. My husband even got to peek in and see the top of his head. I tried to sit up in the bed to push but the nurse kept pushing me back down. She suggested that sit ups were better than gravity than pushing out a baby.

I tried not to argue with her, so when she would leave the room which she did quite often I would adjust my bed back into a sitting position. But I still did not progress. My epidural faded, no matter how many times I pushed the button for more. The doctor came back in and watched as I pushed. Nothing was happening except for the pain returning. I wanted to keep on pushing. I wanted a mirror. I wanted to hold my sweet baby in my arms. The doctor informed me that after 3 hours the baby was still too high for forceps or suction.

He planted the seed of doubt that caused me to worry: And ever so casually the doctor suggested a C-section. In the first days after my surgery I was in shock. In a way I was actually a little fascinated by the aspect of being awake for my second abdominal surgery. But it was because something I had planned and prepared for could turn out so far from my vision. Understandably, anything can happen during labor and delivery.

But I had not been strong or been my own advocate in the most intense and beautiful moment of my life. Looking back I question whether my C-section was not one of medical need but a shortcut, a means to an end, a decision ruled by impatience. I lamented for the loss of the experience I never had. And then I wrote. I have written and retold my birth story countless times. Each time I learned something about myself. Each time I recalled another part I had forgotten. Each time I became more accepting of my outcome because I cannot change the past, only the future. But this does not have to be my only story about becoming a mother.

I am not done having children. Next time I will have a toolbox stocked with experience and knowledge. I have educated myself about VBAC. I will have a doula by my side advocating for me and a peaceful beginning for my next little one. I know there is beauty in birth and in my future. My image is a dyptich representing the bookends of my pregnancy. The first is a picture of the ocean on the day I took my first positive pregnancy test and the second is my C-section scar at 6 months postpartum.

Stretch marks, pulled up pooch, and all. It is an amazing feeling. Like having my lungs filled with happiness. My hope is not focused like a wish or a dream — though I do both of those daily as well. There is no room for disappointment in my hope. It is open ended, bottomless, daring, eager, and every morning I get a free refill. I think my hope stems from the excitement of the unknown, almost like each day is adventure and anything could happen.

Where will this day lead me? What will I encounter? What will I learn? Who will I talk to?

What will I see? Where will I go? What effect will today have on my life or the lives of others? If I was better at journaling, each day would be its own story. Admittedly these would be boring to others, but wildly fascinating to me nonetheless. All I do know is that it makes every day a joy, being filled with hope, such that even the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

My picture is of a sunrise over the Pacific Ocean in Cambria, California. The words are from a song I made up over the last few months which I sing to my son each morning as we watch the sun rise over the trees from our living room window. This is probably unexpectedly dark. I don't mind if you skip it. Hope is a beautiful thing to most. I don't wish to deny anyone that perspective. Really, go back and read Cory's words. Her hope is such a nicer place to be. There is a passive quality to hope that I find very distasteful.

I know that it's the kind of concept that is defined by an individual in the way that they use it and regard it. But, there is this pervasive and defining quality that is introduced when a word is used as decoration. I see the word hope displayed all over and that washes away any depth the word ever had for me. I cringe when I see it now. To me, hope is the last ditch effort to hold your head above water before giving up and drifting into the great abyss.

Hope arrives when everything else goes to hell. Hope is something to grasp onto while putting one foot in front of the other, until you can walk without thinking about it. Hope is faith in the idea that not matter how bad things get, nothing ever stays the same, and someday it will change.

All of this is suppose to make it beautiful and reassuring, I understand. And I do think that is true for some, but not everyone. In many ways I think hope is a luxury of the rich and privileged in western societies. It's a "first world" perk, an accessory. Plenty of people have suffered and died regardless of how much hope they had in their hearts.

I have hope, and I have faith, but I feel these things in regard to that which I know to be true and real. I'd like to think, when I'm at a point in my life where I might need hope, I'd go down fighting instead of wishing things were different. Fighting is my brand of hope. Being an active participant in my "fate" is the absolute least I could hope for. Anything else feels like a fairy tale to me. My image doesn't really relate to what I've written. It's just something I was working on at the time.

I suppose it could be seen as my kind of hope, standing strong against the prison bars of despair, instead of cowering in a corner. But then, why is my prison made of a flower. I'm tempted to firmly plant myself on the other side of the generational divide known as "old" by saying, "There's not enough respect these days What else is new?! I am a firm believer that respect is earned, and shouldn't be a blanket philosophy that leads to automatic acquiescence to authority.

I was taught to question authority. In my youth I thought that meant that calling my teachers Mr. Now I understand that teachers are people with lives and mortgages and dreams. I understand that they chose a difficult job that paid next to nothing, and in my case, in a neighborhood that had potential for violence and the assurance of poverty. What an incredibly daunting path they chose. They weren't all good at it by any means.

Some actually did it because they had nothing else they could do to earn a living and they were biding their time, trying to make it through. Most showed up everyday, in every way, and they did their best. They were owed that respect, I just didn't understand that. I couldn't have possibly known. In a sense, I wasn't suppose to know because that's where we are developmentally in grade school or middle or high school. It's a good thing that paying them respect was institutionalized etiquette or I don't know how I could live with myself now. My point, I think, is that I get the sense that some of us never really grow out of the developmental stage where we just don't understand what the word means.

And that is something that that we are sorely in need of. Over at Urban Dictionary they have a way of defining concepts by committee. People contribute their own definitions. The ones on respect are surprisingly different than what you find on more traditional dictionary websites. I guess some of us do know what the word means. What I forgot to mention is that the teacher experience I related helped me to see that while I still don't think respect should be automatic in that it is blindly given, I do think that most people have often earned it without our knowledge.

It is that conclusion that makes me inclined to have and act with respect toward others while always evaluating, always watching, that it is cared for by those to whom it is given. If they abuse it, I snatch it back. It's, therefore, a blanket philosophy with a caveat for stitching. Respect is a philosophy to me. Do unto others as you would have done to yourself, or so the story goes. I believe that somewhere inside of everyone is a good and decent person.

And I try to act accordingly by respecting their space, their privacy, their rights, their opinions. I love the diversity of thought and expression that exists in human nature and respect that each individual conveys emotion and life in general so, so, so differently. But when I feel disrespected the black and white philosophy begins to crumble.

My kindness goes topsy-turvy. I feel unsettled after putting so much effort into being a good person, a good driver, a good friend. I don't know how to act and I don't know what to say. This is the grey area where many, if not most, people might hold a grudge. But unless actual harm is done I cannot and will not hold a grudge.

You taste like shoe. I know that you are an amazing vegetable that is well loved in many cultures and I remember tasting you one time and you were actually extraordinarily delicious. I will try and try and try you again because I respect you, eggplant. I know there is good in you.

Maybe eggplant isn't a person, but it makes sense to me. I was in fourth grade the first time I truly experienced clarity. Until then I had no idea that the world was blurry. I thought that the chalkboard was hard to read because I sat in the back row but for no other reason. When I stepped out of the doors and looked at the empty lot across the street I gazed at the trees. It was as if I was seeing them for the first time. Now, clarity has more meaning for me in the realm of photography. Clarity comes when an image conveys an idea that the viewer can clearly grasp and connect with.

Clarity comes when an image is balanced in both composition and color, when nothing is left to question. Yet there is still comfort and excitement when none of these are met. I am huge fan of hunting and capturing bokeh — the out of focus blur and circles of light usually in the background of an image. I love the blur of colors together, where leaves on trees bleed seamlessly within the spectrum between blue and yellow.

Perhaps it is reminiscent of my childhood, when everything was literally a blur. My lens was focused too close and the scenery was completely bokeh. I suppose, to me, there is clarity in the blur. This topic, for last week, was honestly, supremely ironic. For the first few days of last week I was in some kind of massive and sudden funk.

Here's what I wrote about it:. But, It's been a long time since then. Maybe I should think about this in terms of what I do feel clear about. A clarity list - I began it in my head but the length of it and the relative importance of the words on that list belies the enormity of the emotion in being bogged down in the muck of uncertainty within a very deep small place within myself. It's those questions we all ram up against at different point in our lives - Where am I going? What am I doing? That night I slept for 12 hours. The day after that, I was all back.

I've had a lifelong relationship with depression. I take medication and for the last 15 years or so I've been relatively stable in mood. There are lows of course.

Enthusiasm : Week One

It's the soul sucking abyss of despair that you can't pull yourself out of that is the dangerous kind. What happened last week wasn't typical for me in any way. I was pretty clear about what felt broken in my life another irony just not why it came to be so intense so suddenly. I'm also unclear why those same issues no longer bother me. The intensity of it rocked me to my core. Having lifted after a much needed rest, also was atypical.

Another strike against clarity. I can't say that I have gained too much wisdom from this brush with the abyss. Image is of a pond's surface, with photographic layers of light, shadow, rain, and other water, over top of it. It's what my brain felt like. That word scares me. It might as well be synonymous with "nightmare. It meant disappointment was inevitable. And disappointment was lethal in my child mind. There are a lot of hows and whys to this development but that is the dull, sad part. The far more hopeful part is the slow climb up from fear of good things snatched away toward a self possessed, fierce ability to snatch them back.

I often call them goals, or hopes, or fantasies, but they all mean the same thing. They are things I love that words. It means anything and everything I want. Love is a dream. My child's happy life is a dream. A place in the world that makes me feel closer to the land, to the natural rhythms that make far more sense to me than human constructed ones do.

Romance is a dream. My work, being seen by others, is a dream. I have bigger dreams too, but those scare me the most. It's good that they scare me because that's how you know they are big enough. Unlike the fear I have of all dreaming, this is a clean kind of fear in that its the kind of fear we all share. It's the fear of thinking so big that you might fail. When I need to hold a dream and the fear of that dream together in my hand, to claim it, possess it and own it, I do it gently.

I don't "white knuckle it". I don't, "go big or go home. When they're big enough and strong enough, I move in and live there. I know this is bit of an odd reflection on sustainability, but it's been a difficult topic for me, one that has brought up a lot of dark and cynical emotions about humanity's abuse of our home. Instead of inflicting that on you, dear reader, I decided to look at an aspect of emotional sustainability.

Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you. Okay, I realize this might actually sound pretty negative on it's own. But, I don't think it is. I think that we all face times in our lives when we feel vulnerable to others with less than friendly intentions. Part of learning to live a fulfilled, actualized, contented life, is to learn how to protect ourselves from those who would turn their pain on us.

English Vocabulary Word List - Alan Beale's Core Vocabulary Compiled From 3 Small ESL Dictionaries

Owning and accepting and gathering to us those things within us that make us feel weak, will ultimately make us strong. If we deny our weaknesses, set them away from ourselves, they are still part of us. We still are wounded upon an assault to them. But, if we keep them close, wear them with pride, accept them are parts of us, no one can touch them. If we love our faults, our vulnerabilities, no one can make us ashamed of them. At the beginning of this week, struggling with how I would approach the theme of sustainability, I asked my husband what comes to his mind.

Sustainability for me has been a key word—a hot topic—in my journey, generally in regards to the environment and agriculture. And here, at the end of the week, I am still struggling with choosing just one of my thoughts on sustainability to focus on. Sustainability has been a big part of where I came from, where I have been, what I have done, and who I know. As a kid, I spent my summers on a huge farm in Idaho where the fields would change each time I returned. I had a friend who lived there and shared with me all of the magnificent systems they had in place, including a composting toilet, solar panels, grey water system, and bike-powered blenders mama needs her margarita — pedal faster!

We had sustainability fairs on campus where Woody Harrelson would come by in his bus and preach about the benefits of raw food diets for health and the environment. I have eaten cookies baked by the sun in a solar oven.

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• Nuovo Rinascimento. Idee per la formazione: Idee per la formazione (Masters of learning. Fondamenti) (Italian Edition)
• The Keepers and the Kept
• Twelve Lieder, Op. 9, No. 7: Sleepless (Sehnsucht)
• The Deepest Cut (A Sons of Navarus Short Story)
• Character: The Pulse of a Disciples Heart