Naptime

I overheard a conversation the other day in WalMart.

"I love naps,"said one. "I can sleep for an hour or two and still sleep well when I go to bed."
"Not me," said the other. "If I snooze more than twenty minutes, I can't fall asleep for hours!"

Poor thing.  I am more like the first.  I can doze for an hour or two and still go to bed at midnight without lying awake.  I am a born sleeper.  It was inherited from my dad's side.  Mom's family only slept if they were gravely ill.

I love to nap on a  rainy afternoon.  I love to curl up with a quilt on a snowy day.

I love to take a quickie snooze in the parking lot at lunchtime.

There are days when I come home, pat the dog, hug Hubby, head for bed for an hour or so.

Power-napping isn't my thing.  One of my sons has been good at it since the day he was born, sleeping for fifteen, up for five or six hours.  The other is like me, move till he drops, sleep anywhere, get up and go to bed.

I love to sleep.  The floor, the bed, the recliner, the car.  I love the daydreams that lead to the nightdreams that keep my mind occupied while my body is at rest.

Picture a rainy Sunday...I pull on a nightshirt, tuck a sheet around my shoulders and a pillow beneath my head.  It takes mere minutes to begin to dream.  There is something special about the unconscious, or the subconscious, thought.  Is it who I am? Who I might be? Or only a flight of fantasy?

Sometimes I wake up discombobulated and a little grumpy. (A LITTLE GRUMPY? says Hubby. HAH!!  More like just plain MEAN!)) Sometimes I momentarily forget where I am, or WHO I am.  It takes a minute to recover. I'm OK.

My advice to you? Let me sleep.  If I am sitting up or on the floor, sweating or freezing, let me sleep.  When I get uncomfortable enough, I will wake up.

The Men in My Life

The men in my life vary in age and stature. Some are mere boys, either physically or emotionally.  They are grey, sandy-haired or dark, with thick curls or balding.  Their eyes may be brown and/or green, hazel or blue.  Some are my blood, some not, some may as well be.  They are slim, muscular, a bit thick around the middle.  They are tattooed or not, pierced or not.  It doesn't matter. They are mine.

Some of my men are remarkably well-read, some extremely talented.  Some don't know enough, as my granddad would have said, to come in out of the rain.  Some I would call knowledgeable, some just plain know-it-all.

Some of them are peripheral, striding in long enough to make themselves known, then poof! Others linger when I wish they would go away.  Some are attached to a friend. 

Some of them I genuinely like, some I love with every fiber of my being.  Some I grudgingly tolerate.

Some of the men I know make me feel smart, pretty and special; others leave me with a sense of never being able to do anything worthwhile.  Some make me laugh.  They make me feel good just by being.  Some are talkers, some rarely speak.  Some might share a coffee, but will share none of themselves.  That emotion or thought that you think is too precious to share?  It is worth nothing when kept inside.

To some, I am a gift and they are grateful that I am a part of their lives.  To others I am an afterthought.  Others won't remember my name or my face.  They are the men I love, old friends and new ones, acquaintances and passers-by.  Each of them has a place in my heart or at least in my life.

I don't choose my friends by gender.  They are in my life because they fill a need--for love, energy, humor, information, competition  and kindness.

The women in my life fill those needs, too. They are, in general, more supportive, gentler with criticism, freer with advice, more vocal about their faith, less political.   They are less vain (myself probably excluded!).  They are usually more compassionate, less stubborn, have greater tolerance for pain and are more quick to rush to aid a friend.

I am not willing to give up the opportunity of a lasting friendship based on gender.  It isn't about flirting (OK, sometimes), sex, protectiveness or anything else.  I have chosen my life mate;  my sons and cousins and others are my blood; others have fit in as friends, co-workers or just people I know.

Each of them has a place in my life.  I hope I am worthy to have a place in yours.

One Step Forward

I have been on the road to self-discovery for many months.

I was getting cocky.  I found myself.  I found contentment. Ta Da! I had reached my goal!

Not exactly.

As soon as I got comfortable in my new skin, I learned lesson number 237.  Be careful what you wish for, and its corollary, want what you have.

Oh, boy.

Somebody has been shouting at me in my befuddled state, making me painfully aware that I am not done growing yet.  The contentment was only a deep breath in the asthma that is my life.

I have far more pacific moments now than I used to. It's just that now I know more about what isn't done.  It makes me a bit queasy.

It isn't depression, it isn't sadness.  Instead it is a restless spirit, one that wants to open every door and peek out every window just to see what is there. I wished, prayed, hoped for a new job, some excitement and some other more private things.  I am beginning to see that I should learn to want what I have and to not want what is not mine.  Not everyone has fame or riches or the thing that makes us concentrate on the unhappiness instead of the joy.

I call on God or on meditation when the restlessness fills me.  I need to walk or drive without destination.. I need to talk to someone who will not repeat what I say, nor nod as though hypnotized or bored.  Sometimes I need coffee, and that is all.  Sometimes I need it alone, sometimes I need to share a moment.  It isn't really the coffee, is it?  It is the need to absorb outside, unseen energy.

The unseen travels from you to me to him and back again.  Whether it is love or light or restlessness it ebbs and flows between us.  Is there someone who makes you feel tired, empty? Do others fill you with smiles and energy? My friend, those who leave you with the desperate feeling? Those are the ones who sap you and are unwilling to give of themselves enough to quench your thirst.  They have put up a force-field of sorts that enables them to keep what they have as though it is precious, yet it would be worth much more if it was shared, whatever it is.

My restless side is searching for others who, like me, are so full of love and energy that I can feel it.  They don't just take, they give.  This is what I want in my life.  We feed our bodies, so why are we so anxious  about feeding our spirits?

So my restless spirit has taught me something.  I need to want what I have, yet  surround myself with those who will give me the energy to aspire to what I am capable of being.  I will be careful of what I wish for, because it may not be in my best interest long-term. Whew! Heavy, man.

I was hoping that my first breath of contentment would last forever...but it didn't.  I am still moving forward, however, and making discoveries as I go on.  Will the restless spirit ever quiet itself?

I remember wishing that would be so; now I hope it never does.

I have found that it is the restless spirit that makes me grow. 

Hot Turkey Dinner, Please

As a child, my favorite treat was when Uncle Roy would drop off Aunt Marjie and me downtown on a Saturday afternoon.

Aunt Marjie always looked sensational in those days.  Barely five feet, two inches tall, easily over 225 pounds, she moved with a model's grace in her high heels.  She had her hair upswept and colored with New Dawn #27.  She wore a dress always--never owned a pair of slacks.  Her big hat, bigger earrings and polished make-up were just the outside of why she was well-loved.  I wanted to be like Aunt Marjie.

Aunt Marjie loved to take me to the theater.  We would go to the elegant Warner, or the ordinary Strand, but never the slightly dumpy Shea's where my friends and I went to see the Beatles' movies.  We would watch 56 cartoons, or take in Joan Crawford, Elvis or It's a Mad, Mad World! yet again.  I loved them all, from creepy Bette Davis to Elvis singing to the antics of Bugs and Daffy.

The best part was after the movie ended...a hot turkey dinner at W.T Grant's, or Kresge's (the forerunner of KMart) or Murphy's with the brass railings.  And always, always a sundae even if we were too full to speak.  To this day, I remember the somewhat salty gravy, the probably instant potatoes and the frozen peas.  Even then, I asked for extra cranberries on the side.

I was allowed to walk around the toy department only once, then I could pick out anything I wanted, within reason, of course, though sometimes I did get to pick out a bride doll.

Afterward, Uncle Roy or maybe Grandpa Hess would pick us up on Peach Street.  We would take a ride down State Street to the Dock on the Bay, watch the fishermen for awhile before we headed for home.

Those were good days.  I loved Downtown, the movies, the cartoons and the shopping.  To this day, I ask for extra cranberries with my hot turkey dinners at Bob Evans.  I miss Aunt Marjie still.  Her birthday recently passed, and I stood by her grave marker for a long time.. . Her hats and her earrings are fresh in my mind.  I wonder what she would think of the woman I have become.

Betcha she would love those hot turkey dinners.

Kayaking

I got into the tippy kayak with some trepidation.  What if I fall in the water?  Well, I guess I'd get wet.  Will I drown?  No, it isn't very deep and I am wearing a life jacket.

Motion sickness plagues me, often from the moment I set foot in a boat or a plane.  Well, I made a six hour flight; I can take a couple of hours in a kayak.  Am I going to throw up?  No, I am going to pop ginger root.

Fear envelops me.  It renders me speechless.  What made me want to do this, anyway?  I remember, it was the joy that Paul and Gina found in the sport.  It was the offhand remark of a friend. So here I am... Paul thinks I am concentrating.  No, son of mine, I'm scared.  Oh, just suck it up, lady. I am scared spitless.   I swallow, no small feat.

Am I strong enough?  Will I be able to keep up?  Will I have to turn back after a few minutes?  Oh, I am too old for this.  You know what they say about doing it or getting off the pot, don't you?

Nope, none of the above.  Well, it took a few minutes to get situated.  It took a little time to get the rhythm of the paddles.  It took a bit to realize that I was in the middle of the lagoons, and I wasn't tipping over and the only way to get back was under my own steam.

Paul, to his credit, was very patient with me.

I am stronger than I was a year ago.  I am not sick.  I don't hurt.  I am not afraid. I am at peace.  My mantra of the day...I am not scared, I am at peace...I made a choice. I can do this. . .

The sky was like a sapphire with a few wispy clouds playing on it.  The air was balmy--not too hot, not too humid, not too buggy.  It was perfect.  I want this. . I am at peace with my choice. . .

The water in the lagoons was like glass, a reflecting pool for every tree, every weed, every flora and fauna.  Clean weeds filled the channels, no algae to be found. Some lily pads and watercress, some geese and turtles.  The few humans that were floating by waved and told us about the eagle they saw.  Everyone is kinder than they are on shore.

I have learned some things.  I learned that I need a bigger life jacket next time (the muscle is within, the fat is without).  I learned how to paddle to make the kayak go fast, then let it drift wakeless. How naturally the motions came to me!  It was as though I had done this many times before.   I learned I am capable of overcoming fear.  I didn't fall in the water, I didn't throw up, I didn't get stuck in the middle and have to call for help.  I am stronger than I thought I was.  I did not awake in pain the next morning.  My fears were unfounded. The calmness, the peace within me, is palpable.

I am not afraid.  I am at peace.

Bring on the next challenge of my bucket list, bring on the white water.  I have learned than I can accomplish things, things I have never tried, by putting aside my fear and insecurity.  I can't wait to go again, solo or with another.  I've been given a better outlook of the unknown.  I have always been afraid of everything, afraid of what might go wrong, afraid of the consequences, afraid so much that I never even tried.  It may seem that kayaking is a small thing, but it was a huge step for me. 

It's all in how you look at stuff, I guess.

By the way, the name on the boat?. . . . .PERSPECTIVE.

White Lace

I wore satin and lace on my wedding day.  The gown was inexpensive even for that time forty years ago.  Complete with headpiece, veil and train it was less than a hundred dollars.  My mother made it for me, sewing on every sequin, every seed pearl by hand.  It had long lace sleeves and the body was satin with a lace overlay.  A more beautiful gown I have never seen.  Thanks, Mom.

My grandma Ceil usd to tat lace.  Another Grandma crocheted it, as did my mother.  White lace has always been a part of my wardrobe and a part of my home.  Lace peeks from my shirt and lets sunlight into my rooms.  I love the look of white lace, the intricate design, the way it keeps my privacy while it lets in the outside just a little bit.

White lace is my feminine self, the vulnerable part of me.  It isn't the part that shows in the business world.  It is the romantic side that shows itself in dreams in color, white chocolate and clouds, pink sunrises and red sunsets.  White lace lets me see magic in a still pool.  I can peek out the window without being seen, yet invite the lightning in to brighten the night.

Black lace, pink or ecru--they are the colors born of necessity; they serve no secret purpose.  They are the frivolous side of me.  They are a change of pace.  They don't have the purity and quiet innocence of white lace.

We went to two weddings recently.  The bridal gowns were lovely, one in eggshell, one in white.  The brides were so gorgeous as they gathered  their trains off the floor to dance with their new husbands.  Happiness was written all over their faces.

But something was missing.  Neither one wore even a speck of white lace. . .

From Within

Over the last week or so I have spent some time, though not nearly enough, on reflection. I am trying to understand some things like my attraction to people, places, events.  Like why I can transfer so readily my addictions from one to another.  From soft drinks to gin to food to Facebook games, to the Y and back again, like big loops and rings intricately intertwined.  One step forward, one step back.  I must have taken two ahead at some point because I am better than I was.

It has been more than a year now of new experiences, one after another.  New friends, old friends revisited, new job; things that have touched me in ways I wouldn't have believed a year ago.  Simple pleasures, most of them.  Life-altering, some of them.

Yet I remain vaguely dissatisfied in many ways.

The feeling of foreboding is still with me, though it has lessened to be better described as apprehension.  Something is missing.  My subconscious is looking for something I cannot find in the material world.  I get irritated too easily with the day-to-day.  I snap at the dog and Hubby.  I sleep to escape.

I worry about things over which I have no control--a friend's illness, lack of faith in God, stubbornness or unforgiving attitude.  I wonder, even obsess, over why someone doesn't like me or why I am so lazy at times.  I hear people yell at each other (or worse, ignore each other) and I want to ask them why.  Life is too short.

My goals have changed, my bucket list has grown, my desires and needs have been revised.  Some things I am sure of, yet I am... what?  Too lazy or too afraid to reach for them? Afraid of what? Rejection? Failure?  or success?  Is it the fear of the unknown?  Am I too cautious about consequences?  Am I too impulsive?

I am more certain of what I don't want than what I do want.  So many questions.

I want to put God in a fancy bottle, like my own personal genie, who will grant my every wish whether it is good for me or not.    I want Him to explain all these rantings to me and answer all my inquiries. I want Him to give me signs and portents to show me He is listening to my every word and will answer me instead of me having to wait to hear Him.

I ask for peace.  I want to know instead of guessing.  I want to be told where I am going wrong and how to turn around, not from you, not from a human perspective.  People's ideas tend to be brutal with their own ideas of truth; they call it honesty, I call it criticism.  No, I am looking for creativity and gentleness from within.

I know what my physical body needs--food and water, exercise, rest, human touch, faith and humor.  The mental state is another matter.  It needs much the same thing, only more delicately balanced.

I will find that balance someday.  I will get the answers I seek, probably from an unlikely source.

Maybe from within myself.

You Might Be From EriePA If You Love It!

Recently I joined a Facebook page called "You might be from Erie, PA if...".  I'm addicted.  Everyone 's posts give me a look back and remind me why I love my home town.  I see the names of people who jog my brain cells, places I had forgotten. Thanks, Iam Stacks, whoever you may be, for this brilliant idea.

All was well.  Visions of old and older Erie filled my senses.  Recollections of Christmas downtown, the stores that used to be, sights and smells and memories overwhelmed me.  It was the kind of stuff that makes us...well...US.

And then somebody posted a note about moving away and never wanting to come back.  I was horrified.

I am a lifelong Erieite.  Other places are for visiting, but this is where I want to live out my days.  My heart lives here.  There are good reasons why I continue to make Erie PA my home.  Here are some of them.

Are you stuck in our sometimes unending snow? I'll bet someone will give you a push and not expect payment.  Somebody hit your car?  If it was an Erieite, he left a note.  Are you hungry?  Look on your stoop. A neighbor probably left food and a treat for your dog.

Do you need faith?  There are churches, synagogues, mosques and halls of worship.  Was your wallet lost at KMart?  Betcha it will be returned intact.  Need a ride?  The bus goes within a block or so, a cab will take five minutes, the Lift will come to your door--but did you ask a neighbor?  Chances are, he will be happy to oblige.

Want something to do?  Try the Playhouse, the comedy club, the philharmonic or the ballet.  Watch a ball game or go to a car show or arts festival or concert or hockey game just to name a few. Take in Waldemeer (no admission fee to the park).  Go swimming, fishing, boating. There is something different to do every weekend.  Not enough?  Three major cities are 120 minutes away.

You can still find a banana split for three bucks in Erie, a cone for a dollar.  You can get a decent meal in a clean place for ten.  A small house might be fifty thousand in a neighborhood you can be proud of, but you can spend a hundred or two hundred or a half million if you want to.

Hospitals?  Yes, nationally acclaimed.  Colleges?  Yes, well-respected.  Police and fire and ambulance? Full time, fast and first rate.  Safe?  Yes.

Erie is a small city where you can be anonymous if you wish, yet the degree of separation is likely one or two instead of five.  Even with its surrounding townships, Erie is just a speck in Pennsylvania's chimney.  The people are friendly, the service is good,  life is good in Erie.  It's a small city with a big heart.

I am proud to call Erie, Pennsylvania my home.

Pictures

I hate having my picture taken.

Every time I think I am over it, that maybe this one won't freak me out, I am not and it does.

We have a professional photographer in our family.  She whips out that little Kodak at every occasion (or no occasion)  trying to catch a good snap or two.  OK, it's a simple little camera, but the colors are pure and clear and she is a genius at composition.  But when she oohs and aaahs,  I know she is trying not to hurt my feelings.  I may as well fill my cheeks with air, cross my eyes, pull my lower lip over my nose and stick out my tongue.  Awful.

I take a lousy picture and I know it, OK?  Let's face it, I am the least photogenic person in the US of A. Probably Canada, too, maybe even China.  We won't talk about the driver's photo.  I didn't expect to look like a movie star.  I didn't expect to look like Michael Moore in drag, either.

When I look in the mirror I don't see that ugly face that taunts me from the digital box.  Granted, I usually only look at my eyes, but that's beside the point.  I see a softly rounded face with bright eyes and silver hair.  I see dewy skin, a little puffiness that comes with age.  I do not see the sumo wrestler with several chins, a blotchy face and is that a pimple on my nose??  Oh, please just shoot me....

You're so pretty, he says.  Well, what else can he say?  You look fine! he says.  Well, yes, I do, if you want dinner and whatever you will not be truthful this time.  Oh, you look fine! says my friend of many years.  This from a woman whose God-infused joy beams from every pore.  Now that is a beautiful woman,  Nice pic, Ma, says my unnamed son who coughs and turns away so I won't see the snigger.  Be nice, my dear; after all, I gave you life.

Every time I see in a picture what I must look like to the world, I cringe.  My carefully nurtured self esteem plummets.  The flirty attitude disappears.  I want to go back to bed, pull the covers over my head, stay there lest I offend someones senses.

Yes, yes, a bit melodramatic (which I often am).  Even though I have come a very long way in the last year there are still some people and circumstances that set me back.  They lead me to a black hole, and a bitty Kodak shoves me into it. 

Thank you, no, I don't want to be photographed.   It crushes my ego, gnaws at my vanity, magnifies my flaws.  I prefer to see myself in a different light.

One good picture.  Is that too much to ask?

Beginnings

I love you, you know that, don't you?  I don't always tell you to your face; sometimes it remains quietly unspoken in my heart.  The key to my heart sounds trite, doesn't it?  But it is yours.

It's been more than forty years since the day we met.  We were both a little shy back then.  I can still remember the look on your face.  I can still remember your eyes, always smiling.  I could feel it even then, that something special was happening, something that would keep us linked in a small way or a large on, for all our days.

I remember the first time you asked to see me.  I couldn't believe that someone like you would want to be with someone like me.  There is nothing remarkable about me, but you, well, you were special, different from everybody else in some way.  You made me feel like I could fly.  You made me feel like I could accomplish wonderful things. You made me feel beautiful, smart and capable of almost anything. I fed off your remarkable quiet energy.

I became so wrapped up in wanting to be with you that I forgot about wanting to be with me.  That was all right for awhile, but these days I can feel those wings again, and I want to spread them wide and take in all the good things  that the universe has to offer.  I want the chance to sip a mai tai on the ocean, hobnob with those who run the world, float in a kayak on the lagoons and to write a book that will make people think about themselves in a new way.  I want you to be there with me, not watching from a distance.  I want you to see what I see.  I don't want to wonder if you notice me at all any more.

See, I don't want to go it alone.  I want you to be there to hold my hand or to give me a hug when I need it.  I need to lean on you, and I will be there so you can lean on me, too.

There have been those days when the distance between us seems insurmountable.  We don't talk, or we say too much.  You say things that hurt,  I say things that wound you just to get even.  But it is never even, is it?  It makes the chasm so wide that we are lucky if we can mend it.

But--here's the good part--we are still breathing.  We have a little while left at worst, a long time left at best.  We can go along as we are, or we can begin again.  We are alive.  We can begin again, and again, and again--as often as it takes. There is so much to see, so much to do!  I want to be with the person I know loves me the most so that neither of us has to do those things alone.

I look at you when you don't know I am watching.  I see the fine lines around those eyes that aren't smiling as much as they used to.  I wonder if you are thinking as I am, that it is time to begin again.  There was a time when you were my hero.  You brought me life. Am I willing to begin again with you?

Yes.  You are the love of my life.  Don't you ever forget it.

Foreboding

In spite of my generally good outlook of the last few months, I have recently been hit with a deep sense of foreboding.  I can't seem to shake it off.  It comes and goes, in daydreams and night dream, out of the clear blue.  I might be reading or dancing or walking at Wintergreen.  I will suddenly feel the tears well up and spill down my face.  I feel so foolish.

Much of the turmoil inside me ended when I realized who I am.  I have become reacquainted with the old self and I like her.  This eerie feeling tells me that there are still unresolved issues in my past or present that I have to see clearly, and I mean now.  Maybe I need to get away for a couple of days.  I do that on occasion, but it is always associated with work.  No, this time I need to pitch a tent, take my cell phone and peanut butter and iced coffee and just think for a few days without distraction.

I don't know what is going to happen, or when.  I feel it in the air--a mixture of sadness, chaos, fear and uncertainty.  I don't know if it is global or personal.  I only know it isn't right.  It leaves me with tenseness, irritability and a state of confusion that I don't much like.  My friends think I'm getting nutty.  My husband can't believe I can be dancing one minute and chewing off his ear the next. 

I want it to stop.

I am not mentally ill, thank you for your concern.  I am at least as normal as you are (well, some of you anyway).  I don't think I am a clairvoyant, although Grandma H was, and I will tell you about her another day.  It is not mass destruction I see.  It is more like a 4.0 earthquake, enough to shake up one but not cause deep personal tragedy in most cases.  I do believe we are in the End Times, but that isn't it.  It's a restlessness, an uneasiness, a dissatisfaction that I can't put my finger on.  Is it me, or is it the world?  I don't know. 

I wish I could say this was the first time, but it isn't.  The feeling is often precipitated by something I read or dream or talk about.  The images are triggered, and then I begin the "what if?" process.  That part is OK.  We all have "what if?" days.  My imagination turns itself loose and pummels me with sweet dreams of fame and fortune and whatever.  I enjoy the rush.

Sometimes it is different.  Whether it is an unrecalled nightmare or something deeper, I don't know, only that it gives me these muddy water dreams.  Grandma always said nothing good comes from one of those dreams.

So as I drove to New Castle today and someplace else tomorrow, I will use the time to think, to plan and to try to resolve whatever is causing this uneasiness.  Bear with me, my friends.

Maybe I think too much.

Brown Food, et al

Brown has a bad rep.

I seldom wear brown, except for its variant, khaki (whatever happened to beige?). 

Brown is the color of doggie doo.  It represents old food that is bruised, grass dried up and dying in the July heat, dead leaves beyond the reds and golds of October.  We look at weathered, leathery brown skin with some distaste at the wrinkles.  Coffee (ah, my beloved coffee!) leaves a nasty brown stain on your shirt and your teeth.  You can tell where a smoker sits by the brown film on the curtains and the wall.  And let us not forget the UPS guy who brings tons of brown cardboard boxes to my house, waking my husband from his already restless third-shifter daytime sleep. No, brown is not pleasant.


My wardrobe, as I might have mentioned, consists mainly of black and khaki with shirts of various jewel tones--garnet, amethyst, aquamarine.  This way, my sleep-deprived and slightly blurred eyes can grab a jacket, pair of pants and almost any shirt.  I leave the house looking decent if not fashionable. Khaki is my one indulgence in the brown family.  Yes, yes, I'm sure you have seen my recent acquisition of the brown skirt and jacket.  They are an anomaly, like the the lime green blazer. 

I used to wear brown.  Then we had our house decorated in earth tones.  It lasted a year or two.  I began to think I lived in the mountains instead of the suburbs. I haven't worn earth tones in my home or on my body since-- unless it looks darn good, like the brown skirt or the pleated blouse.

Anyhow, if you see the glass half full as I usually try to do, you see the better side of brown.  You look at the deep brown eyes of your loved one, or the so-dark brown eyes of a beloved dog.  You see the brown hair falling over the forehead of a child or the soft earth of your garden plot.  Brown is the color of the bark of your favorite oak, and the shimmer of maple syrup. It is the color of tiger eyes.  You see a beautiful woman's gently tanned legs. You see the warm woods of your classic end tables.

Brown gives us hot coffee and iced tea, chocolate cake and Oreo cookies. There are baked beans, new potatoes in their jackets and caramel topping on your sundae.  Toast a marshmallow, eat a s'more or a perfectly done hamburger or pot roast.  Spices like cinnamon and nutmeg, caramelized onions, even your morning toast with peanut butter (you didn't really think I would leave out peanut butter, did you?), all delicious nuances of the lowly maligned brown.

So, like many other things I have changed my perspective about in recent months, I have learned to accept the beauty of brown.  I am trying to--actually become obsessed by, as some would say--see the glorious world in all its colors from the blackest shadows to the white light of heaven's gates.  I am trying not to see the muddy mix of primaries that is brown, but to see how each individual drop of color turns it into khaki or peanut butter or 85% cacao.

Maybe my understanding of brown will help me to change my world a bit.