tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53383564034314485012024-02-08T00:57:55.968+00:00Forever learningA continuing story of self-discovery, growth and re-evaluation... thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-29959099237754933962023-07-26T19:47:00.005+01:002023-07-26T19:47:58.111+01:00The chasm of the selves <p> That lost, detached, adrift feeling you get when the foundation upon which you relied for certain truths reveals itself to be significantly less structurally-sound than had long been presumed.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuRGJnTWKvXqA12aFN7NloUfIkFCOmc2Bj57PrKAZkn4qJXXmjRejT2Jj57XY-15hRjg1m2HNQflQMrCL_JhTc5NOuHAJ07xP2l0__6WJe2z__vxLuGcHs5_sXn-cP3fg23s2sczNBOmR1D8zCVHDqGZgHcZayRDJNKCWxihhIPsOvexfPBOamlakx6kRU/s4032/IMG_3930.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuRGJnTWKvXqA12aFN7NloUfIkFCOmc2Bj57PrKAZkn4qJXXmjRejT2Jj57XY-15hRjg1m2HNQflQMrCL_JhTc5NOuHAJ07xP2l0__6WJe2z__vxLuGcHs5_sXn-cP3fg23s2sczNBOmR1D8zCVHDqGZgHcZayRDJNKCWxihhIPsOvexfPBOamlakx6kRU/s320/IMG_3930.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>How does one honour their own truth and yet simultaneously keep the promises made to never destroy another?</p><p><br /></p>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-91104039019343917792023-06-12T20:43:00.002+01:002023-06-12T20:44:25.172+01:00R E S P E C T<p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWzMR2aLIbLmOUwHGYQlaQLcKB-3xFf053VNV3rMgI7ZRPv3D1zfuLKVR7oUKgo7hXn8krft-TevSUAlYpni8QcraR9M98j7XJN42r_pfrXZJWIfTaxRU8eIS6DOkK_p11kCOCNI9_2iqdTjfOoV7Un0iMu5l3bKjFv3qb319Xum0P9H5LPI7PrLlUg/s4032/49AB7F86-CC61-47A5-BD3E-C526F6195FDC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWzMR2aLIbLmOUwHGYQlaQLcKB-3xFf053VNV3rMgI7ZRPv3D1zfuLKVR7oUKgo7hXn8krft-TevSUAlYpni8QcraR9M98j7XJN42r_pfrXZJWIfTaxRU8eIS6DOkK_p11kCOCNI9_2iqdTjfOoV7Un0iMu5l3bKjFv3qb319Xum0P9H5LPI7PrLlUg/s320/49AB7F86-CC61-47A5-BD3E-C526F6195FDC.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><br />To whom this very much</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"> </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">concerns, </span><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I will be fine.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">That's something you need to not only know but to comprehend: to fully, wholly, and in all other ways ... to <b>know</b>… I. will. be. fine. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">You have chosen me as your pariah, your outcast, the target of your distaste, your rage, your ire, your judgement, your inner-pain, your insecurities. You have made it more and more obvious over the years that we've known each other. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">You're spending less and less energy in attempting to hide your obvious contempt, the disgust you feel toward me. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Deliberately manipulating events to ensure my exclusion is one thing but when you make it clear, beyond any remote chance of confusion, that your own entertainment is more important than my life, you have decided and made it known to me, to everyone involved, that you are literally willing to risk my actual life instead of making a small, relatively simple change that wouldn't negatively impact anything </span><span style="background-color: white;">or anyone.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">And you know what? </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I'll be fine. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I have survived magnitudes worse than you…</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">and I have <b>thrived</b>. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">My “favourite” part is that, in spite of everything, you have now asked a favour of me. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Except, we both know it’s not a favour, don't we? </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">We both know there will be no reciprocity in this - or anything we share. There never has been and there never will be because you. do. not. respect me. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I give and you take. You ask and I give and you take. You expect and I give and you take. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">And, as much as I will actually enjoy doing this most-recent “favour”, as I have every time I've performed it in the </span><span style="background-color: white;">past, it will be the last “favour” I do for you. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I accept that you do not respect me but let me make this perfectly clear here:</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I. Respect. Me. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I cannot control how you feel about me. I cannot control what you say about me. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I control who has use of me and you ... you are not worthy of such a lofty privilege.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">I am through letting you use me. I am through enabling you your blatant disrespect of me.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Sincerely, </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Over it and over you. </span></p>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-48914441199103815862023-06-04T14:46:00.000+01:002023-06-04T14:46:08.724+01:00A week in the life …<h2 style="text-align: center;"> Monday</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RMXf1zTS4dnelkjU2brTgwrKIkjDFhm0k99znwGo48bqdSOrucMaYA2x9Dy6yd41mqAOKaHusv-3gRVwWcm_n56Crlsj6vLqZ2Nzjhsk00-cwtMrjzYUoW4OegNXLrMrjjErcHUYrmf7DeL6zU_29INGn42nfLjraWqeydf_NrzW1YrMB6dlKe5Bwg/s2532/684DB37D-A864-4AA9-80F7-36C54E73C680.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="2532" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2RMXf1zTS4dnelkjU2brTgwrKIkjDFhm0k99znwGo48bqdSOrucMaYA2x9Dy6yd41mqAOKaHusv-3gRVwWcm_n56Crlsj6vLqZ2Nzjhsk00-cwtMrjzYUoW4OegNXLrMrjjErcHUYrmf7DeL6zU_29INGn42nfLjraWqeydf_NrzW1YrMB6dlKe5Bwg/s320/684DB37D-A864-4AA9-80F7-36C54E73C680.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">An allergic (thankfully, mild!) reaction when “oat milk” unexpectedly contains pea protein. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOMMsU2RMkaS4EIkARQZGPxXM335GN9QRQXpbDbIOYUwR-dFu3xaZ0BxrJQ-dbtkG466Otrs57nc8-n_nKjxl7bpkp2QJcExN-OUThDMcJtCBEV379ZvZ3I0-u0G5yH7ur3ml0mT-WTU2mjlvdfyNevbYrNAK6eN-lQOnL25dV1Dd7wR4HjmF-xuFCA/s4032/52C188FE-2E5E-40A4-8AC4-56A4011B116F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOMMsU2RMkaS4EIkARQZGPxXM335GN9QRQXpbDbIOYUwR-dFu3xaZ0BxrJQ-dbtkG466Otrs57nc8-n_nKjxl7bpkp2QJcExN-OUThDMcJtCBEV379ZvZ3I0-u0G5yH7ur3ml0mT-WTU2mjlvdfyNevbYrNAK6eN-lQOnL25dV1Dd7wR4HjmF-xuFCA/s320/52C188FE-2E5E-40A4-8AC4-56A4011B116F.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnfUA2X9FvEQMKuXng5cxF5dllT94NxVmR2K5fK7bFOqn-MPnaka5TS01Hr9TVVqwEijXXZpuQ3zVBYwLNfkPhAvAbrXsEVtxUBuAXCGaoNQ6P7JQ7QzAmx43JpQjV1Zmm1h6NRdMboIJij4apu8tQBlinMbcrbTBNybwZeSWmdp8Dg575RGFk-4dsA/s4032/128513EF-3E39-442B-8499-4DCCDE377AD7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnfUA2X9FvEQMKuXng5cxF5dllT94NxVmR2K5fK7bFOqn-MPnaka5TS01Hr9TVVqwEijXXZpuQ3zVBYwLNfkPhAvAbrXsEVtxUBuAXCGaoNQ6P7JQ7QzAmx43JpQjV1Zmm1h6NRdMboIJij4apu8tQBlinMbcrbTBNybwZeSWmdp8Dg575RGFk-4dsA/s320/128513EF-3E39-442B-8499-4DCCDE377AD7.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Gorgeous local plant life. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieR3BUyLIlUyzmBqtgEoQ-PUk9EObgItwhLkT9Z3tLS_R5gpJ1Gv9F__fSVE0DafgqCLnhvR5sC1TmE5JKhrtrTRZ4DflImf4NJn6PYAH3mqnIx7Gry-Ep3Fk-f0LD6mS8Ff2yRDVyHlO_K3yMfT0CMYHCm0pMnOny3feziyqajUhX9GUtke-LUPNoRQ/s4032/EC31E35E-525A-4F89-8B6F-98C07048FD14.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieR3BUyLIlUyzmBqtgEoQ-PUk9EObgItwhLkT9Z3tLS_R5gpJ1Gv9F__fSVE0DafgqCLnhvR5sC1TmE5JKhrtrTRZ4DflImf4NJn6PYAH3mqnIx7Gry-Ep3Fk-f0LD6mS8Ff2yRDVyHlO_K3yMfT0CMYHCm0pMnOny3feziyqajUhX9GUtke-LUPNoRQ/s320/EC31E35E-525A-4F89-8B6F-98C07048FD14.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">“I’ll draw the monster’s head, Grandma will draw its body, and you draw the monster from the body down!”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhV_kCnLiC1FSCauIsDehLgbrz9VUEb0YIEBEk9r6uZip8fIMQM18nkfIttAxc1DS2fuZzSWppw6AjHnCBmDWoIwGfzKiZ0i1y-Hom6obfFRYklPHaFyz5xn2yYiIg7eX2bqfxb1iJcwSY7CN8MwquxqZ2EEqxdM1Ylb8iXxZ19KTugxaZ9Jp1qHAYGA/s4032/2362FAEC-575F-4064-BA40-191B28186ADB.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhV_kCnLiC1FSCauIsDehLgbrz9VUEb0YIEBEk9r6uZip8fIMQM18nkfIttAxc1DS2fuZzSWppw6AjHnCBmDWoIwGfzKiZ0i1y-Hom6obfFRYklPHaFyz5xn2yYiIg7eX2bqfxb1iJcwSY7CN8MwquxqZ2EEqxdM1Ylb8iXxZ19KTugxaZ9Jp1qHAYGA/s320/2362FAEC-575F-4064-BA40-191B28186ADB.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">Tuesday</span></h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrqo-ADI_Mr9ijr00wob_gEQgxH3DjxaT1tmF91cT7MLBsEjcjQ7d7-zVb-oe2mQ2YSFPQwZi069mpbBd8mLSLLJXMt671oDM6-R7_oFtw6dWyTFiemU76FqbDMS_JLEpPxKa1KKOLlteNMB1MJ-Qa0Hm__YhbmMs_xeDJJyI19ansSVfpNC5H9-KMA/s4032/E52B32C4-F38A-405E-AB15-13CD6874770F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrqo-ADI_Mr9ijr00wob_gEQgxH3DjxaT1tmF91cT7MLBsEjcjQ7d7-zVb-oe2mQ2YSFPQwZi069mpbBd8mLSLLJXMt671oDM6-R7_oFtw6dWyTFiemU76FqbDMS_JLEpPxKa1KKOLlteNMB1MJ-Qa0Hm__YhbmMs_xeDJJyI19ansSVfpNC5H9-KMA/s320/E52B32C4-F38A-405E-AB15-13CD6874770F.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Craft time: Celebrating messes. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLvRZgJPGA957Dt0_EdXjPrhEcWI0ulGXw1G5hQMAtyQI6T6Ik5RC_Ea_uM0ctX-Qky6Ky2BAkeA73cE7TxI1Wyj29cT9ViRlmLWZuGPPMhZDF2JIsCZEguAnIZF408Xa1unCrnddDmKrNEFpV6KPEv4qJRYfk65wTKVE5Vzy34GvJgEcoeK-SfJCFg/s4032/4ED42B53-2221-4611-A195-5803353375C3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLvRZgJPGA957Dt0_EdXjPrhEcWI0ulGXw1G5hQMAtyQI6T6Ik5RC_Ea_uM0ctX-Qky6Ky2BAkeA73cE7TxI1Wyj29cT9ViRlmLWZuGPPMhZDF2JIsCZEguAnIZF408Xa1unCrnddDmKrNEFpV6KPEv4qJRYfk65wTKVE5Vzy34GvJgEcoeK-SfJCFg/s320/4ED42B53-2221-4611-A195-5803353375C3.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Hot chocolate o’clock. Firm family favourite.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPrZB8-USSn3n1Op_Hgv_NOtlnDu13lTywjBv2uCen9Ms5lqY_bMTNO_iPIk07Z0NyAUz0PrynMq7xyseUAxQOIo0rRuG9Ncbcf6nUj92njjBmaOXVL_cCE0oOeuN-Q3VF2iDg8Y96QX0u5tL1rIYGx2RJkKyW74t_GauQo2REKZHBM36Dy-_dj-ePbg/s4032/7BC79D57-69BB-4888-9039-276B89A63EB1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPrZB8-USSn3n1Op_Hgv_NOtlnDu13lTywjBv2uCen9Ms5lqY_bMTNO_iPIk07Z0NyAUz0PrynMq7xyseUAxQOIo0rRuG9Ncbcf6nUj92njjBmaOXVL_cCE0oOeuN-Q3VF2iDg8Y96QX0u5tL1rIYGx2RJkKyW74t_GauQo2REKZHBM36Dy-_dj-ePbg/s320/7BC79D57-69BB-4888-9039-276B89A63EB1.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzM_KFh3n_Tqa63L5jr3tDSXk9gulr2S_w-QYgJcSZfa3PFy9Xyq6Q4SdArbYUHcAE6AT2sYePN9U2duux4t-drG5t5G3cUq4jTQbLsbP3vcX7MmaDHxnG2jU7IUWB4IwPX0IeHF1sL2HmQEw8kzfN3yMMSeqKBx7yGPBGkQcI_q0sLcC1uSvcOXe0A/s3840/BF7423E0-F47C-47A9-BB0F-99BDC9A342B2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3840" data-original-width="2160" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzM_KFh3n_Tqa63L5jr3tDSXk9gulr2S_w-QYgJcSZfa3PFy9Xyq6Q4SdArbYUHcAE6AT2sYePN9U2duux4t-drG5t5G3cUq4jTQbLsbP3vcX7MmaDHxnG2jU7IUWB4IwPX0IeHF1sL2HmQEw8kzfN3yMMSeqKBx7yGPBGkQcI_q0sLcC1uSvcOXe0A/s320/BF7423E0-F47C-47A9-BB0F-99BDC9A342B2.jpeg" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">With a pampering mani-pedi, it was a good afternoon, indeed!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: center;">Wednesday</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75olIW8SDWG1Wbf1Ib0HoOd8vzWL7ugewlPcT2Oj3ngoALdWt2reldR4YRYJ56PA7WcZ06iA-qGB0AIArbL6or2PdxOuaYt43Dtr_UC5jyEO__3svb9nU8gT2Un2IYSUN52slSOxpwjHrrBM0acInvEusuOjqGhXsB2rMmFe-xnPKBkkcg0eruIBVvw/s4032/4FDF1A68-7225-4B18-A90D-69753C1CB0A6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75olIW8SDWG1Wbf1Ib0HoOd8vzWL7ugewlPcT2Oj3ngoALdWt2reldR4YRYJ56PA7WcZ06iA-qGB0AIArbL6or2PdxOuaYt43Dtr_UC5jyEO__3svb9nU8gT2Un2IYSUN52slSOxpwjHrrBM0acInvEusuOjqGhXsB2rMmFe-xnPKBkkcg0eruIBVvw/s320/4FDF1A68-7225-4B18-A90D-69753C1CB0A6.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Headed to the spa to be marinaded and tenderised. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin2H2fhc0YTFaDaq2dCZUdrQSv2mNirZmDHQc7DMlysY7R93SIhNyzn78pCO1HRBKg9NDXzWqJAifGOoOx9A_m7ksWRsVvboXVJKSGGsB-QdQhEF-qvXPYqwU55_GtFbCQ00AFx-NpgMmXe6_awNl8jwqzGbxj19YCAC3i9NG1-e2DyD0tKctYLXrSEQ/s3021/95B10F3E-FAF8-4132-8DE4-0FBD4DE7AEE8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2637" data-original-width="3021" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin2H2fhc0YTFaDaq2dCZUdrQSv2mNirZmDHQc7DMlysY7R93SIhNyzn78pCO1HRBKg9NDXzWqJAifGOoOx9A_m7ksWRsVvboXVJKSGGsB-QdQhEF-qvXPYqwU55_GtFbCQ00AFx-NpgMmXe6_awNl8jwqzGbxj19YCAC3i9NG1-e2DyD0tKctYLXrSEQ/s320/95B10F3E-FAF8-4132-8DE4-0FBD4DE7AEE8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Tenderising interrupted by a team member needing emergency help. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: center;">Thursday</h2></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6AP8PDMbKinfdP0C71v746pmaIZvuW1aFp_3IboYmbM59ayJnJdbnbuHDUT36ea6KErKqiGMBrktw8OmQApRuPrHhaISzgoxvjOqJqIm27ZT46uiaqGgg5XlTNLnO_k7bqAOz6l28Ja1xHDUO6W-ZNoi6RssIgATLulr2E7bj2u6bUSTiv8imX16mQ/s4032/1BE476A0-D92B-4128-80D8-7262EEA4B6E3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6AP8PDMbKinfdP0C71v746pmaIZvuW1aFp_3IboYmbM59ayJnJdbnbuHDUT36ea6KErKqiGMBrktw8OmQApRuPrHhaISzgoxvjOqJqIm27ZT46uiaqGgg5XlTNLnO_k7bqAOz6l28Ja1xHDUO6W-ZNoi6RssIgATLulr2E7bj2u6bUSTiv8imX16mQ/s320/1BE476A0-D92B-4128-80D8-7262EEA4B6E3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Back again for a scan and the results (which came 4 hours later). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAfYCEr1SvfXHde3ZohXI7zfVGJYeYyUj5SrT70JSiqow7thny0qf2ClmyMFuUurGWHQoSoVc-wlcj9uFWiisMdcRmLQGKzhqkel6hQIHBzw9PgMbwylmNj-PWPA7aYQu6210B39xE1RamxRObYYOYUv2G7D_pzGBZJ2LlJz1cNYGQ7VonsCdlGjs1kA/s4032/BEF8FEF7-DCEC-48AA-95C5-5FA30CAA59C6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAfYCEr1SvfXHde3ZohXI7zfVGJYeYyUj5SrT70JSiqow7thny0qf2ClmyMFuUurGWHQoSoVc-wlcj9uFWiisMdcRmLQGKzhqkel6hQIHBzw9PgMbwylmNj-PWPA7aYQu6210B39xE1RamxRObYYOYUv2G7D_pzGBZJ2LlJz1cNYGQ7VonsCdlGjs1kA/s320/BEF8FEF7-DCEC-48AA-95C5-5FA30CAA59C6.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Potentially-lethal cross-contamination / why it’s beneficial to get to lunch early. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJrKrZwA_aNDUuc9fMd7awF-4Fhol-_VtkLAy3EOwP149wv8fp1qN6Qmm52W2WjWZdq58SUiMZrwG0zI3NBD68PNtBn5lcVRO0xEVOPv3XeacfEHnIivtOCsf86ouoBUd6vY3CD-25t-CjULnUpX2aS-ABBos2KIxoCYVUmvNi_SHOT0iUVTo3fpKqg/s4032/903234A1-C48B-4D3A-AB30-152A44E7BD66.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJrKrZwA_aNDUuc9fMd7awF-4Fhol-_VtkLAy3EOwP149wv8fp1qN6Qmm52W2WjWZdq58SUiMZrwG0zI3NBD68PNtBn5lcVRO0xEVOPv3XeacfEHnIivtOCsf86ouoBUd6vY3CD-25t-CjULnUpX2aS-ABBos2KIxoCYVUmvNi_SHOT0iUVTo3fpKqg/s320/903234A1-C48B-4D3A-AB30-152A44E7BD66.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">More gorgeous local plant life. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKLl5YAW-FZlTfQZdyQIrlK9RxrFI9sA9y4QWZno5HxXKav2UUD1u-bXvFYeapLKEubMu1sDT-QKt2A2wY5paycxAj9fiTNUudOZ-KTsE253ULN0AnGq-sL5XsSx9n23FJmdOGE9hRoxIJM5V6RLtCkirSc7VtFpBfPD_kbuKxBv9CnxVr65BxgYvcw/s4032/16B8F098-08B1-404F-849E-182DC6F558A3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKLl5YAW-FZlTfQZdyQIrlK9RxrFI9sA9y4QWZno5HxXKav2UUD1u-bXvFYeapLKEubMu1sDT-QKt2A2wY5paycxAj9fiTNUudOZ-KTsE253ULN0AnGq-sL5XsSx9n23FJmdOGE9hRoxIJM5V6RLtCkirSc7VtFpBfPD_kbuKxBv9CnxVr65BxgYvcw/s320/16B8F098-08B1-404F-849E-182DC6F558A3.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Unwinding with “adult” beverages like the teenagers at heart that we are. (Glass contains Archers and lemonade.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00010OiZYIaQ_iz6StjfF2xGyKxFXgs_24TZup8q41K3YrJKsd8w-WnAI-wG8EStcbd-JlJDWIn-LE6g99IOrWhVmnrhwjpoiCejn2xFuhXKCpyC8eWO9aCVhc3X4w4mide2t5yfP3feKxlDplqQwQ6SCYmePJocxUUU7oXhMFwJcfO0VTN3MHjTKfQ/s4032/23E6B8CC-59B7-4B31-AC0B-286160FA5DE7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh00010OiZYIaQ_iz6StjfF2xGyKxFXgs_24TZup8q41K3YrJKsd8w-WnAI-wG8EStcbd-JlJDWIn-LE6g99IOrWhVmnrhwjpoiCejn2xFuhXKCpyC8eWO9aCVhc3X4w4mide2t5yfP3feKxlDplqQwQ6SCYmePJocxUUU7oXhMFwJcfO0VTN3MHjTKfQ/s320/23E6B8CC-59B7-4B31-AC0B-286160FA5DE7.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Any day with glitter is a good day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: center;">Friday</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95z-osy7SoNvXSsofT4Sn-gXDbYdjCfYEhMIcg12TlmwHmdCcndtdsuqbjAAnjJIkLgGm3onW3efzHnHZrCbjV7WrOcx6tdNsOndjLRBe9Epo9KIdwZWTOiKX6ufT53d1mNES1tlQt-Zfo-_SamKSNn_xOMb4xvBA8HF7yaJhB9W-4vPg-1PFiugg_Q/s4030/291289D2-0FE7-45A8-9640-7E5E7C3E62F0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2707" data-original-width="4030" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95z-osy7SoNvXSsofT4Sn-gXDbYdjCfYEhMIcg12TlmwHmdCcndtdsuqbjAAnjJIkLgGm3onW3efzHnHZrCbjV7WrOcx6tdNsOndjLRBe9Epo9KIdwZWTOiKX6ufT53d1mNES1tlQt-Zfo-_SamKSNn_xOMb4xvBA8HF7yaJhB9W-4vPg-1PFiugg_Q/s320/291289D2-0FE7-45A8-9640-7E5E7C3E62F0.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Heading home today, sky matching the overall mood.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: center;">Saturday</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgux5Q53GmpSh9cr7gUZokNIjnXO7aXY12g60ZbZneu8QvRvbI32jmyTU8697ULvBaGvvlLo38aVvryB4DnhNCxRnj5OAnkosQ6S_5Tm-XfP73w08oil4khgN_kE_b-PvsCIHZA6Z0aAkJwUeWwqkN-CBCgsyNgghyJvp_S96TQUaS7TmkwxlF64MEgqg/s4032/6F93C067-1D27-4DE0-A9B3-1CC84685E9CD.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgux5Q53GmpSh9cr7gUZokNIjnXO7aXY12g60ZbZneu8QvRvbI32jmyTU8697ULvBaGvvlLo38aVvryB4DnhNCxRnj5OAnkosQ6S_5Tm-XfP73w08oil4khgN_kE_b-PvsCIHZA6Z0aAkJwUeWwqkN-CBCgsyNgghyJvp_S96TQUaS7TmkwxlF64MEgqg/s320/6F93C067-1D27-4DE0-A9B3-1CC84685E9CD.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Unfortunately, it was my turn. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAm-VCFgISIBgdOcBhv0Ov92cZ1R536PdN1uEW-Pe-nvG8rdc_Iyj2vXOeMF0u0nWAO4iGAxxkd-ic7mMyMFsDyj2gUYm4Xnvd0A8Hk6lIL6uxFsuUwTkZVhlAekgJ7hcr11lB2feGC-LBLUzYBM8AxkQoIngEldZ-xCWHWrr1NrQnyDnEXF-e4HapdQ/s4032/C9DF959F-0506-413A-8582-B2340D955096.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAm-VCFgISIBgdOcBhv0Ov92cZ1R536PdN1uEW-Pe-nvG8rdc_Iyj2vXOeMF0u0nWAO4iGAxxkd-ic7mMyMFsDyj2gUYm4Xnvd0A8Hk6lIL6uxFsuUwTkZVhlAekgJ7hcr11lB2feGC-LBLUzYBM8AxkQoIngEldZ-xCWHWrr1NrQnyDnEXF-e4HapdQ/s320/C9DF959F-0506-413A-8582-B2340D955096.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Being severely allergic to milk, choosing “vegan” menu options isn’t necessarily the best choice when you’re even more allergic to peas. Oops. (See also: Monday, above.)</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-8453573236189384252023-05-20T15:35:00.000+01:002023-05-20T15:35:52.916+01:00What if …<p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">W</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">hat if I said to you that I love you ... </span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">What if I told you all the things your tired, aching soul yearns to hear... all the things that would warm and relax and soothe your pains, your sorrows... </span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">What if I welcomed you into my arms, into my embrace... so that you may know comfort, so that you may know ease and adoration...</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"> </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">What if I made space for you beside me, nestled with me in the very centre of my world... </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">What if I created the home you've always wanted... always knew you deserved... </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">What if we faced the highs and lows, the confluences and confusions of the Universe together... side by side... strengthened, supported, symbiotic in our ways, in our selves... </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">What if I opened myself to you so that you may find shelter, growth, freedom...</p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">What if I said to you that I love you.</p>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-53417989821795071732023-05-12T21:37:00.001+01:002023-05-12T21:37:53.148+01:00Tile 19<p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">Tile 19</p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">While I sat and waited, I counted the tiles in the ceiling. Suspended on the day the system was conceived, judging by how dirty and sagging this one presented, I kept getting distracted from my counting by Tile 19. The layered effect of multiple rust-coloured water stains indicated that, at some time in its history, this space may have been an office. The kind with a typing pool and a too-handsy but-he’s-harmless-really, "Oh, that's just Bob. You get used to him and learn to ignore him," boss who smoked too much and swore too much and winked suggestively every time he called his secretary into his space to take dictation. </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">Tile 19 seemed to stare back at me, emboldened by, even belligerent in the self importance of having borne witness to scenes and conversations over the years that likely wouldn't be believed. </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">If these tiles could talk. </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">One corner of Tile 19 was particularly fascinating. There, the darkest layer of staining, almost as dark as old blood, caused me to look to the floor directly beneath, expecting to find corresponding damage or evidence of what must surely have been dripping from the ceiling at one time. </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">A chill ran down my spine as I considered what the building now housed in this modern Western word, a supposedly enlightened or "woke" society and then how much worse it may actually have been. </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">Back Then. Before. When it was A Different Time and it was socially encouraged to treat others badly. </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">The floor revealed nothing, however. Relatively new linoleum tiles covered the room. Hard- wearing, easy-to-clean, functional, reliable. </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">Seeping outward, away from the darkest stain, the next layer, at least as dark as dried tobacco leaves, was shaped almost like a butterfly. The abject absurdity of something as beautiful and delicate and natural as a butterfly being present or even represented in this space caused me to actually chuckle to myself. The sound startled my fellow occupants in the otherwise silent room, just as the wall-mounted speakers announced, "four hundred seven!" </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">I glanced at the Turn-O- Matic ticket stub clenched in my balled fist and sighed. </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">604. </p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">I looked up and re-started my tile counting. When I got to Tile 19, someone started screaming. I sighed again, my fist tightening around the ticket. </p>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-63428721135777250552023-05-11T22:31:00.004+01:002023-05-11T22:31:46.352+01:00You won’t need your notebook today <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5jKll1vdRYciWNPY0fdZZafcyIeCEJH-ZmegQl4wuHHs9PgLbasfgsezxCy-L-sDldeAZX8Df_hO0ftqVk8fbWrcff2weawjIlqeoms6Wa04HnKPN26dZmJLMeRh6iVGy8HbvFSfmKbnzCD4z-F3_RkhfZE85dBsG9ZNB_iomH2YsKSQihajxs3cAbQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="514" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5jKll1vdRYciWNPY0fdZZafcyIeCEJH-ZmegQl4wuHHs9PgLbasfgsezxCy-L-sDldeAZX8Df_hO0ftqVk8fbWrcff2weawjIlqeoms6Wa04HnKPN26dZmJLMeRh6iVGy8HbvFSfmKbnzCD4z-F3_RkhfZE85dBsG9ZNB_iomH2YsKSQihajxs3cAbQ" width="206" /></a></div><br /><p></p>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-12933819630973431032023-05-10T21:29:00.001+01:002023-05-10T21:29:07.399+01:00The No Post Tonight post<p> <span style="font-size: medium;">Work was heavy today (in all positive ways) so I’ll contend myself with mentioning what I’m reading this evening and get back to it rather than trying to wrack my brain for a post I’ll later lament for lack of thought or preparation.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiArDLeo-egkk9O1_oxBC8B6z_7Fx41cUAJKjmkwj4qtS1iepKwUk6ofrWQW2rkh3dGlO7CViGvFZnc7KfRSkzUoNKxnZG3uih-bQwYxK1bjHc_eWn8q6kdN3WJQOWg8JpiiurvTMS3YI9VmgTDQmawGg9t1mYnpBvW_qCx1jQBsx7S536OaImSmrbVuQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1764" data-original-width="1099" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiArDLeo-egkk9O1_oxBC8B6z_7Fx41cUAJKjmkwj4qtS1iepKwUk6ofrWQW2rkh3dGlO7CViGvFZnc7KfRSkzUoNKxnZG3uih-bQwYxK1bjHc_eWn8q6kdN3WJQOWg8JpiiurvTMS3YI9VmgTDQmawGg9t1mYnpBvW_qCx1jQBsx7S536OaImSmrbVuQ" width="150" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://franlebowitz.com/">https://franlebowitz.com/</a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m late to the party when it comes to Fran, something I think she might actually enjoy, having only come to understand what she might be about after watching the documentary M. Scorsese did starring her. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">While I don’t agree with all of her opinions (how boring would it be if I did?) I’m finding her writing style enthralling, her ability to see and report back parts of the world that, to me, go far beyond “observational” and delve deeply into experiential. A view from which I feel lends her work even more power. Power I can currently only dream of possessing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Someday, perhaps.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p></p>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-74441354134913006262023-05-09T19:45:00.001+01:002023-05-09T19:45:46.459+01:00The Self in the Esteem<p> <span style="font-size: medium;">The Self in the Esteem</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKCDcz2h9oMGMUH-FbUSg0Tcybk2y_zbRb2Bi8KQQVgEOndFlGfVIi7HbFjieYGhMOHzxgeDZVMuZkvHSK1OanFft40gXWUOS2DMKkIu7m3r-FCmAekQPP9ZvaLvzg4v9hp0lYxGvjFSzrBfNFy2UNG1fYpvKwLFEwF1IHVI0TbodCBagJXFz2ChPtTA/s3088/IMG_2525%20copy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKCDcz2h9oMGMUH-FbUSg0Tcybk2y_zbRb2Bi8KQQVgEOndFlGfVIi7HbFjieYGhMOHzxgeDZVMuZkvHSK1OanFft40gXWUOS2DMKkIu7m3r-FCmAekQPP9ZvaLvzg4v9hp0lYxGvjFSzrBfNFy2UNG1fYpvKwLFEwF1IHVI0TbodCBagJXFz2ChPtTA/s320/IMG_2525%20copy.png" width="240" /></a></div><p>For decades, I've struggled with self worth, self-esteem.<br /><br />My past taught me early on that my value lay only in how I could be of use, be of service, be pleasing to and for others. It was a lesson painfully learned and oft repeated when I dared to consider another way, that I may have a worth that wasn't only attached to those around me and their ever-fluctuating opinion of me. </p><p>Now, I find it's no surprise that a large part of being unable to value myself is due to having been unable to develop a sense of Self in the first place. How could I consider myself to have any value if I didn't develop a Self in the first place. </p><p>Children of narcissists, of abusers ... children born of and into trauma often find themselves preoccupied with learning what their caregivers needs are during the stages of development when they should be learning what their own needs are. </p><p>This missing element in a child's development creates myriad complications as they grow and develop. Interoception, body dysmorphia, damaged (if present) self-esteem and self-worth and, at its worst, it can prevent the development of a true sense of Self. And these are just the ones I can think of in the moment. <br /><br />It's only now, in my late 40s that I am realising, accepting, wading through what has brought me to be the person I am today ... the traumas, the determination, the intelligence, the refusal to be the person I could have been ...</p><p>Because the person I could have been didn't break the cycle - she followed, dutifully, obediently, unquestioningly, and she was broken. </p><p><br />I am not she. <br /><br />I am me and I am worthy. </p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-10933956859676161622023-05-08T19:57:00.002+01:002023-05-08T19:59:33.720+01:00What do you write when you don’t know what to write?<p><span style="font-size: medium;">What do you write when you don’t know what to write?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEig1T7mD6TBviJbx3sF86Wyx3DnErY-BeGL-nQ48ETW1qGdcv_DaA34DYLVhmkuc-782PELOEgJV6fo41GCDUmjr6UKH0QpuDhas10z6d8lYScY3rBfasnQILJ8lKesFnRFwB71LVY8oLekTt3pvQk1wsnpvoUULZWrv7_TmS7irQXbKErCt5fAmJaZkw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEig1T7mD6TBviJbx3sF86Wyx3DnErY-BeGL-nQ48ETW1qGdcv_DaA34DYLVhmkuc-782PELOEgJV6fo41GCDUmjr6UKH0QpuDhas10z6d8lYScY3rBfasnQILJ8lKesFnRFwB71LVY8oLekTt3pvQk1wsnpvoUULZWrv7_TmS7irQXbKErCt5fAmJaZkw" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In a surprising but considered and measured turn of events, I’ve made the decision to write a lot more, everyday when feasible.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today, being a bank holiday, I’ve had ample time to determine a theme, a subject, on which to write … even more than enough time to source and use a/n idea /theme generator.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here I sit, however, hoping my muse will appear out of the ether and provide much-yearned for inspiration.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The online generators I’ve found haven't been sufficient in prodding loose any sort of ideas ... not even grabbing the physical dictionary and trying to randomly choose a couple of words as catalysts ... subjects ... words to include …</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Gutta-percha" and "roundel" haven’t knocked loose a single whisper of an idea.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And now I believe I’ve answered my own question ... I will write about being unable to write ...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And that's <u>not</u> on irony.</span></p>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-27003099740600151962023-05-07T09:44:00.001+01:002023-05-07T09:47:16.705+01:00The curious case of the incurious<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNXGg0TBlLrlwQ96TBdRKdRrY3FEDp6nzBSAEm2jWS7Tm8kbnXFm8AfSr5m55_qMrSKOfzv9nk7w22C7vjsx1rvn6N4LY37bgC3ZkPqYySBKAViOqjydew6kHsnDfbc2CyjLtb2yIcZ8uxateS62kNQ8yOd5ryhaMW3Xo9cTOngOIghZGw2NwqQ3OM0w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNXGg0TBlLrlwQ96TBdRKdRrY3FEDp6nzBSAEm2jWS7Tm8kbnXFm8AfSr5m55_qMrSKOfzv9nk7w22C7vjsx1rvn6N4LY37bgC3ZkPqYySBKAViOqjydew6kHsnDfbc2CyjLtb2yIcZ8uxateS62kNQ8yOd5ryhaMW3Xo9cTOngOIghZGw2NwqQ3OM0w" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />As an adult, I consider myself to be quite curious, even inquisitive but when I think back to my childhood and adolescence, I'm dismayed that I don’t recall any such feelings from those years. It's as if I experienced that period of my life in some sort of senses-numbing fog. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It wasn't safe for me to ask questions. It wasn’t safe for me to wonder.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When you experience severe and repeated childhood traumas, you learn to accept everything around you because you <b>fundamentally</b> understand that you cannot trust your own senses. Everything around you becomes unreliable and, by extension, inconsequential.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It becomes vital for survival to understand that anything and everything can change in an instant. Moods shift, the meanings of words change, stationary inanimate objects suddenly become fast-moving dangerous weapons … it’s safer to accept the environment, the surroundings <b>knowing</b> that, <b>expecting</b> that the truth of the given situation only exists in that singular instance. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I think this is a large part of why survivors of chronic trauma experience such notable self-biographical memory gaps and why it’s often difficult to imagine, to hope for the future. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If what we <b>know</b> is unreliable, how can we possibly speculate, hypothesise, dream …</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div><br /></div>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-14114605984946443252023-05-06T20:54:00.004+01:002023-05-06T21:40:07.340+01:00A blog is a terrible thing to waste<div><span style="font-size: medium;">A blog is a terrible thing to waste</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSXwCtrnl-Bm0QIT-21upR4JmxI8NfsNweIWz8nyBbJufNR0gVZqMBrMRIP5EtUUgy1mmnnFxHOJHuejjTY1gW08LMvKNJ7IDg13oJwC_vmcrr0NfWh55CNfuQ3IbNhvyenJ1r7GgBFcw_iG50Pse8AjlLLu0O4YOeEUZQzn2IGQPFxN2sOgGcIdhcCA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSXwCtrnl-Bm0QIT-21upR4JmxI8NfsNweIWz8nyBbJufNR0gVZqMBrMRIP5EtUUgy1mmnnFxHOJHuejjTY1gW08LMvKNJ7IDg13oJwC_vmcrr0NfWh55CNfuQ3IbNhvyenJ1r7GgBFcw_iG50Pse8AjlLLu0O4YOeEUZQzn2IGQPFxN2sOgGcIdhcCA" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Words - my shield, my weapon of choice, my solace, my refuge. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Words often come to me at the most inopportune times … when I’m asleep, when I’m sitting with no way of recording their importance, their urgency. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Words of fiction, of fantasy, of fact. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Words end up scribbled on random scraps of paper, the back of a used envelope, the inside cover of a nearby notebook, notecards - oh so many notecards. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Words come, persistent, alarming, emotional, stoic, clinical, and timid - some words slither, some assault, some whisper from the shadows, barely, if at all, perceptible - but even those refuse to be ignored - coming back to the fore and demanding immediate, undivided attention.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Words I will honour here - on this disused, misused blog.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">A place, a chance to give voice to the words that haunt me, that tease me from the depths of past trauma, from an inimitable imagination.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-66696830618398166572021-06-11T12:59:00.001+01:002021-06-11T12:59:44.330+01:00The return of a lost old favourite (for some)<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This is an adorable LoveBug who has "bitten" many in its time. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFo-J1ovCfBRmH2Xu9kh-A06eT7_p24-5cRpusjWYk3_cQSnTA_pxvr6QT7_oGLBu_q22bJdxkwNgeac2Akck-Pyb0APxgjZ-6FTK3-e2jqjso_sBbDXXX9kLFimrenCi9Z0Np3QsgSfWb/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFo-J1ovCfBRmH2Xu9kh-A06eT7_p24-5cRpusjWYk3_cQSnTA_pxvr6QT7_oGLBu_q22bJdxkwNgeac2Akck-Pyb0APxgjZ-6FTK3-e2jqjso_sBbDXXX9kLFimrenCi9Z0Np3QsgSfWb/" width="320" /></a></div></span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Make it in any colour you like. Make an army of them! </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Gauge isn't really important, the larger the stitches, the larger the finished project will be. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For whatever yarn you choose, I recommend using the recommended hook size. If you crochet loosely, use a hook size smaller than recommended because you don't want the stuffing to come out from between your stitches! </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Body </span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Ch 4. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sl st in 4th chain from hook to form ring. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 1 = Sc 6 in ring = 6sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 2 = Sc2 into each st = 12 sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 3 = Sc 1, sc2 into next st* around = 18 sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 4 = Sc 2, sc2 into next st* around = 24 sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 5 = Sc around = 24 sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 6 = Sc 3, sc2 into next st* around = 30 sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 7,8,9 = Sc around for 4(ish) rounds (depending on how "tall" you want your LoveBug to be) </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Bottom</b> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Ch 4. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sl st in 4th chain from hook to form ring. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 1 = Sc 6 in ring = 6sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 2 = Sc2 into each st = 12 sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 3 = Sc 1, sc2 into next st* around = 18 sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 4 = Sc 2, sc2 into next st* around = 24 sts</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Round 6 = Sc 3, sc2 into next st* around = 30 sts </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Add eyes (and antennae as you see fit). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Stuff using "poly-fil" (Stuffed Animal Stuffing). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Find what will be the "face" of your LoveBug (mine is 10 stitches wide). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Mark the bottom edge of the body on either side of the face with stitch markers. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Skip 1 sc, mark, skip 1 sc, mark so that each side has 3 markers. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Use sc to attach the LoveBug's "bottom". </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I started in the back, making sure to tuck my ends into the body (so I had less weaving-in to do. Yes, I am -that- lazy). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At each of the stitch markers, make the sc to join both pieces and then ch 4. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sc in 2nd ch from hook, sc in each ch back to the body and sc into the next "joining" sc (that joins the bottom to the body). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Ch4, sc into 2nd from hook, etc. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This is done once at each of the markers, creating 6 legs in total. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Once the circle is complete, sl st to join, bind off and weave (or tuck) in the last end. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Don't forget to name your LoveBug(s)! <br /><br />I used a random name generator she found online.
<br /><br />Poem (also free!)
<br /><br />"I've been bitten by the LoveBug." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">LoveBugs bite wherever they can </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">They'll bite anyone, woman or man. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This LoveBug bit me on the finger</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The scar, now on my heart, does linger. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And though he bit me (and it was sore) </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I met you and asked for no more. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">You're my favourite symptom, ailment, disease </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But don't fret, dear, you don't make me sneeze. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So, when my eyes well up and I look sick </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Grab the LoveBug and blame him quick. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He gave me you as an infection </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I want no cure in an injection. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The LoveBug now returns to you </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In the hopes that you'll be smitten, too.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><i>originally published on my old website: morethanblue.com in September 2008<br /> <br />(C) TMBJ all rights reserved - also mentioned here: https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/lovebug <br />All information in this post is free to share/use for profit as the maker sees fit. Please attribute credit where possible.</i></div></div>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-56229698555507166592020-01-13T12:36:00.000+00:002020-01-13T12:36:04.134+00:00The puzzle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMLkfCw3uOh69o12nrT9jwGExf2jipvEbobieb6HOywIitrGIEjNubxkcoOMpkPOScJT_V3BV25LmqnAbS949c6N9Q4tG6NNLdYzSBITklF3XBxIueQD1cifOYcky0sle-8GNas9B_ovI/s1600/IMG_8489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMLkfCw3uOh69o12nrT9jwGExf2jipvEbobieb6HOywIitrGIEjNubxkcoOMpkPOScJT_V3BV25LmqnAbS949c6N9Q4tG6NNLdYzSBITklF3XBxIueQD1cifOYcky0sle-8GNas9B_ovI/s400/IMG_8489.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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When you’ve spent the past three decades thinking you’ve had your shit together, only to learn that it was a façade and that denial is, not only real, but also a real mean bitch; how do you pull yourself apart and heal the broken or missing pieces of yourself so that you can have a hope of reassembling everything into something even remotely whole?</div>
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This is the puzzle I have been dealing with in every waking moment (and in most while asleep, too) since early October 2019. </div>
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Childhood trauma, abuse, and neglect are powerful forces that, over time, inflict more damage, create deeper wounds, than is often fathomable. </div>
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PTSD triggers seem to come from nowhere at times ... feeling a compulsion to grab house keys every time I take the bins out in case someone locks me out of the house; accepting blame when it is warranted but becoming almost debilitatingly anxious at the faintest whiff that I might be blamed for something that isn’t my fault; the anger that seethes through me when someone innocently asks where I’m going ...</div>
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Some of my triggers I have been aware of for a long time (the smell of chicken noodle soup makes me anxious and nauseated; when I feel I’m being ignored I want to just run away, far and fast) and some arrive suddenly, violently, swelling from some unknown abyss, leaving me drained, empty, confused, and wounded all over again. </div>
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It’s bittersweet, opening up these sudden scars, realising past traumas that my subconscious decided to bury. I oscillate between “gods, I didn’t realise it was so bad!” and “that explains *so* much!” and both reactions are valid, if perplexing in their symbiosis. </div>
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As I meet each one, systematically tearing it down to get to its roots, to unearth it’s core, I’m exhausted from the pain of remembering, the effort of disassembling ... and yet, I’m exhilarated by pride in what I’m accomplishing, how hard I am working to help the one person who always took a backseat in my life; myself. </div>
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I work to put these delicate pieces of myself back together, discovering how they all fit, finding forgiveness for the hurt, scared, lost child I once was. </div>
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And each piece finds its place within me anew. Strengthening my foundation. Building my sense of self. </div>
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Me; my favourite and most challenging puzzle. </div>
thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-33806153652863590372019-11-16T15:43:00.000+00:002019-11-16T15:48:08.042+00:00Please be patientPlease be patient with me<br />
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Please be patient with me as I accept and navigate my new reality<br />
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Please be patient with me, this suggested diagnosis is difficult to swallow -- as much as I know it fits, it answers so many questions -- as much as it's almost epiphanic in its simplicity<br />
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Please be patient with me, I truly thought I knew what was going on<br />
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Please be patient with me, the path through "severe depression" cannot be rushed<br />
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Please be patient with me -- I know you're used to my highs, my "everything's fine"s, my ability to know the bright side of everything<br />
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Please be patient with me -- I, too, am used to those highs, that vantage point<br />
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Please be patient with me, the realisation that it's all been a cover, a facade over something deep, something tumultuous -- is difficult for me to handle<br />
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Please be patient with me as I (again) work to rebuild myself<br />
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Please be patient with me as I struggle with the amount of work still yet to be done.... especially when I feel I've come so far<br />
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Please be patient with me as my own patience, my sense of self, are battered and torn and shredded<br />
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Please be patient with me as I search for the right words, the definitions, the explanations, the realisations that I hope will serve me well in communicating what I, myself, don't understand<br />
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Please be patient with me as I strugglethefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-53062773030534993142019-02-03T21:53:00.003+00:002019-02-03T21:53:42.846+00:00Semi-Silent Sunday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Rockin' it!</div>
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<a href="http://hawkandowl.org/sculthorpe/about-sculthorpe/" target="_blank">A stunning walk through the woods</a> </div>
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Our hotel...</div>
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Sorry, ladies - no breakfast for you!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi99Zfwd-u6K8nBOQUAePp-FDm22zO0TVAhB0dQgr_yCFj2GhdG7pSyhECTsTBsDShJJXnuspzpRS9pwIl-MH2q-L8KbXZdjIpGXtN7Bsw_sxejs4wHOe5eWFmHaXJUHyashXmwh2hTEwjc/s1600/IMG_0781+2.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi99Zfwd-u6K8nBOQUAePp-FDm22zO0TVAhB0dQgr_yCFj2GhdG7pSyhECTsTBsDShJJXnuspzpRS9pwIl-MH2q-L8KbXZdjIpGXtN7Bsw_sxejs4wHOe5eWFmHaXJUHyashXmwh2hTEwjc/s320/IMG_0781+2.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div>
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Interesting design feature...</div>
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<a href="http://www.wroxhambarns.co.uk/" target="_blank">Wroxham Barns</a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZqrPeCNGZZawf2Rt_bE2qQgy6qc-JIoR7ru3GNR3ga9hVZmwWYnlgB-M3XzdqebcLNbOWtsLN2CfFdvUpqUAP0lcVBngP5ijXD6VOf7MWjeZlMl2hmlSh0pu5BwNfi6m525_HlGjPlphL/s1600/IMG_0829.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZqrPeCNGZZawf2Rt_bE2qQgy6qc-JIoR7ru3GNR3ga9hVZmwWYnlgB-M3XzdqebcLNbOWtsLN2CfFdvUpqUAP0lcVBngP5ijXD6VOf7MWjeZlMl2hmlSh0pu5BwNfi6m525_HlGjPlphL/s320/IMG_0829.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div>
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So tempting</div>
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The <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/place/52%C2%B052'39.6%22N+1%C2%B026'25.9%22E/@52.877674,1.4383503,17z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m14!1m7!3m6!1s0x47d74f92d2aa4e9b:0xcdde64bb0a88712a!2sMundesley!3b1!8m2!3d52.875412!4d1.433174!3m5!1s0x0:0x0!7e2!8m2!3d52.8776739!4d1.4405389" target="_blank">North Sea</a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRcpX3BaHWeLqh6hTIjczVYdfRwAT8tGCxF2hqzZ0jmUpORa8hQa_xOIEKd6tTg8U18_8i1hHZmXVhW0_2EhLyEKvOXdf5RP8DHldaOxCkyv2OIHTQcFTnCvtY7Ayh62Kz-DdWWqs9IpA/s1600/IMG_0856.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRcpX3BaHWeLqh6hTIjczVYdfRwAT8tGCxF2hqzZ0jmUpORa8hQa_xOIEKd6tTg8U18_8i1hHZmXVhW0_2EhLyEKvOXdf5RP8DHldaOxCkyv2OIHTQcFTnCvtY7Ayh62Kz-DdWWqs9IpA/s400/IMG_0856.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Feet in, whatever the temp! (3rd February)</div>
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<a href="http://wroxhamminiatureworlds.co.uk/contact-us/" target="_blank">Wroxham Miniature Worlds</a></div>
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Spotted!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSl59y_cPTb97lx7jgnj1Uem0nCtBH4za-VjfZzBijcmGoTGsN3w5qfFaWHrgYjVMLAuoqpJkJEDwpnNTbvHSarSTyrH7g3rZeBKhy0rg_yjcNS_81TMrtfhjB_mbiF1SIf6weNhYxiIx/s1600/IMG_0817.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSl59y_cPTb97lx7jgnj1Uem0nCtBH4za-VjfZzBijcmGoTGsN3w5qfFaWHrgYjVMLAuoqpJkJEDwpnNTbvHSarSTyrH7g3rZeBKhy0rg_yjcNS_81TMrtfhjB_mbiF1SIf6weNhYxiIx/s400/IMG_0817.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div>
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Not good enough, mate</div>
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Second time lucky?</div>
<br />thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-37918527828889757302019-01-22T18:06:00.000+00:002019-01-22T18:11:20.518+00:00Resolution versus Intention<span style="font-size: x-small;">As defined by the <a href="https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/" target="_blank">OED</a>, a Resolution is: <i>A firm decision to do or not to do something</i>. Stemming from “Late Middle English: from Latin resolutio(n-), from resolvere ‘loosen, release’ (see resolve).” To resolve a problem.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">An Intention is defined as: <i>A thing intended; an aim or plan</i>. The etymology being: “Late Middle English: from Old French entencion, from Latin intentio(n-) ‘stretching, purpose’, from intendere (see intend).”</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLQIMmMS8Y3m9pYNxaLjM-OFne5Z4qblt81KHyMDzTOFByKFiUIAyYuhtwU-ErO9vrr-8nNNqDjJJ5J9ZnZ9svH_nAFf2Neb_34-bjZ1GKqsUFIh3Yx8fc27I8VFu2zTi-ix0rILUuS5e/s1600/IMG_9819+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLQIMmMS8Y3m9pYNxaLjM-OFne5Z4qblt81KHyMDzTOFByKFiUIAyYuhtwU-ErO9vrr-8nNNqDjJJ5J9ZnZ9svH_nAFf2Neb_34-bjZ1GKqsUFIh3Yx8fc27I8VFu2zTi-ix0rILUuS5e/s320/IMG_9819+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Greece - December 2018</td></tr>
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Words have meaning and the inherent meanings of words bring power to the messages conveyed using those words. Consider the impact of some of the greatest speeches held in the annals of history, the words therein where carefully chosen for their meaning, to increase the intended impact of the message being conveyed.<br />
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As a writer, I am blisteringly aware of the power of words, so it recently became important to me to understand my aversion to the concept of making New Year’s Resolutions.<br />
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Each time the Gregorian calendar approaches the 1st of January, friends and family members begin discussing the concept of Resolutions – some in earnest, some in jest, some even with a hint of sardonicism – and each year, my participation in the conversation wanes markedly.<br />
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My hesitance in sharing what I resolve to do in the coming year is that I find resolutions to be strict, unyielding, unaccepting of change, of movement.<br />
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<i>A firm decision to do or not to do something.</i> Historically, I have decided to “go to the gym 3-4 times a week”, as an example. I had been resolved. I had made a firm decision to do something. When an unavoidable change in circumstances then happened and I could no longer afford my gym membership, my resolution ceased to be, it failed. I felt, on several levels, disappointed. I was let down by life, the Universe, and by me. <i>I </i>had made the decision and I hadn’t been able to fulfil my own rigid expectations.<br />
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After several such disappointments, I decided something I now believe to be invaluable:<br />
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<i>I don’t need to resolve</i>. My life isn't a problem to be fixed. I don’t view my life as something for which I need to make ‘firm decisions’. I don’t live my life in such a way that my life needs to be resolved, released, loosened. I my life has a purpose. I live my life in such a way that I am ever stretching; my mind, my body, my goals, my plans… My life has purpose, it has direction. <i>I intend</i>.<br />
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When things happen that are unexpected, or ‘against the plan’, as they inevitably will, I merely adjust the plan, I re-aim, I stretch.<br />
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This flexibility, I find, is crucial when it comes to my emotional, mental, and even physical health. The knowledge that I am allowed to change, to adjust, to just “go with the flow” as life brings me new challenges and opportunities enables me to better accept my place in the world.<br />
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Each year, as I age and learn and grow and stretch; I make intentions… Flexible plans that perfectly fit the life I am designing for myself.<br />
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<i>I intend.</i> I intend to choose my words carefully. I intend to live my life free from limiting, damaging language.<br />
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<i>I intend.</i>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-18715267164620803452018-07-27T09:27:00.003+01:002018-07-27T09:27:53.208+01:00The Three Crows<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The Three Crows</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">As the afternoon wore on, the old woman wondered when the calling of the crows would herald the arrival of her visitor for s</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">he had seen the tell-tale three crows the day before.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">A soft breeze tickled the back of her neck as it slid in through open windows. Age had brought the woman comfort. She was no longer afraid of the unknown, of dangers unseen. She kept the windows and doors of her small cottage open during the day. She loved the feel of fresh air on her wrinkled skin, reminding her of a long-ago time, of youth, of innocence, of a life well-lived. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The old woman did close her doors at night, however. Though she rarely felt fear these days, she was still reluctant to become food for some wild animal while she slept, and had never enjoyed the concept of pain. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">As she aged, she was grateful that her journey had been quite gentle. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">She hummed softly to herself as she washed her supper dishes, the tune older than she, the lyrics faded into the mists of lost memories. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Outside the kitchen window, more crows began to gather and she knew her time as limited. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">She dried her hands on a threadbare towel and shuffled into her sitting room. She turned her attention to her shelves, upon which rested her modest collection. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">She smiled as she began polishing each item in turn, items collected thoughtfully, each containing meaning she would be unable to convey if asked, but that she felt deep in her bones... meanings from important moments in her past. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">A gold locket... A handkerchief with the initials A.N.B. embroidered in one corner... A silver coat button... A flint arrowhead... she dusted and fussed over each thing in turn, her eyes twinkling as she recalled memories she’d replayed thousands of times before over her long years. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">She replaced the final item, an unsent love letter, on its shelf and she heard it. The crows had all gathered and started the announcement of her arrival. She smoothed her skirt and ran her arthritic hands over her hair to settle the strays, tucking them into the high bun she favoured for both aesthetics and convenience. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">She settled into her favourite chair and set it to rocking gently. She sighed deeply, relief washing over her. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Her visitor didn’t knock. He knew he was expected. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">As he entered the sitting room, the old woman’s eyes sought his and she nodded to him, her mouth relaxed but expressionless. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The visitor spoke first, “You know why I’m here?”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The old woman nodded. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">“You’ve been expecting me for some time, haven’t you?”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Again, the old woman nodded silently. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">“Mind if I sit?”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The old woman shrugged, eyes never leaving her visitor, and still she didn’t speak. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The visitor settled himself into the seat beside the cold fireplace and turned to stare into its blackened emptiness. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Resigned to what was to come, knowing it would be painless - that was the promise - the old woman sat in comfortable silence and closed her eyes. Though she knew it was time, she was in no hurry. All urgency belonged to her visitor. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The old woman woke suddenly from a gentle, pleasant dream or, perhaps, a memory, to find her visitor now standing over her... a soft, reassuring smile on his face. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">He whispered, “It’s time.”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The old woman nodded and accepted the visitor’s outstretched hand to help her to her feet. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">“It’s been a good life,” he said. “Full of adventure, love, generosity... but now it’s time.”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The old woman nodded once more and, with one swift, silent movement, ended the life of the man before her. She bent, picking up her trinket, a signet ring, and placed it on a shelf among her other memories. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">As she shuffled to her bedroom, the old woman began to hum once more, idly wondering how long she would wait until she again saw the three crows.</span>thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-87643598965085930262018-07-15T10:11:00.000+01:002018-07-15T10:11:38.717+01:00"She'll be fine"<i>Not so long ago, I had my feelings dismissed. This is nothing new to me.</i><div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>When questioned about their decision, the person in question simply said (of me), "She'll be fine."</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>To that person, I write:</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, I'll "be fine".</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Your summary dismissal of me and my feelings isn't enough to do me any real or lasting damage - you're not that important. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Far greater people in my life have treated me far worse and done much deeper damage. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dismissal and neglect are the hallmarks of my childhood - a childhood that has caused me to develop PTSD. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A childhood for which I have undergone countless hours of very expensive and comprehensive therapy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let me assure you that, if my psyche can withstand the childhood I endured, no damage you can do would compare nor could compete with what I have already endured and, most importantly, <b>overcome</b>. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>I will be fine.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But not because you have decided that my emotions are unworthy of your consideration but because<b> I</b> have decided that you are unworthy of my emotions. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>I will be fine.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our relationship, however, will not. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You have just proven to me that, like may adults before you, you do not respect me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I will act accordingly.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>I will be fine. </b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
It's what I do.</div>
thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-41322728683687425582018-04-16T22:25:00.002+01:002018-04-16T22:25:39.658+01:00The Photograph - Flash Fiction Challenge<i>At writer's group last month, we were offered old photographs that had been part of an estate donated to a charity shop and asked to write a story about it. This is my story:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The Photograph<br />
<br />
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<br />
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Sarah hummed softly to herself, a song from her childhood
that evoked memories of her father, aproned and covered in flour, baking in
their kitchen on a Sunday morning, memories that made her smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She tapped short but perfectly manicured nails on the
table-top before her as she waited, eager to spend time with one of her favourite
people. It had been a decade since they’d seen each other. An old photograph of
that person, Sarah’s great aunt, sat on the thick, buff folder just to the
right of her tapping fingertips. Though she knew the subject of the photograph
well and had seen hundreds of photographs of her famous great aunt over the
years, it was only three months ago that she’d first seen this specific
photograph for the first time. It had been sent to her anonymously along with a
note.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCZ88Euwg86SwYTKeu-sErL-ofwC0lWUpvFPWax-HmE7OVGKi0uw_UQRNF_A8kipOmjp8eVYArZaqiNtrDEGCHQ2ja_xleAzLl4NwmHJlJEa5S7S4t_uSdALAcQHHR7ErQmyNF9TsiD8N/s1600/IMG_3013+%25281%2529+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCZ88Euwg86SwYTKeu-sErL-ofwC0lWUpvFPWax-HmE7OVGKi0uw_UQRNF_A8kipOmjp8eVYArZaqiNtrDEGCHQ2ja_xleAzLl4NwmHJlJEa5S7S4t_uSdALAcQHHR7ErQmyNF9TsiD8N/s320/IMG_3013+%25281%2529+copy.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Sarah stood and smiled as a woman was wheeled into the room
and pushed up to the table. For the first time in her memory, Sarah didn’t kiss
the old woman in greeting though she couldn’t pinpoint the emotions that caused
the change in her behaviour and, for her great aunt’s part, it went unnoticed anyway.
The woman was glamorous, always had been. Her decades before the movie cameras
had crafted her every move and even at 96 the woman didn’t have a single hair
out of place, her make up was perfect, her face dewy, even if heavily lined in
her advanced age.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Sarah and the old woman exchanged pleasantries and Sarah
felt herself smile as she asked after the health and welfare of the old woman
before her, their affinity for one another undeniable, cultivated over decades
of familiarity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally, as the conversation reached a gentle, natural lull,
the old woman mentioned the photograph on the table. ‘Where did you get that?’
she all but whispered. ‘I must have been – what – 21, I think.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hoping the other woman
would continue. Trying to meet her gaze, her heart felt heavy as she saw the
look on the old woman’s face, saw the wetness in her eyes. The moment of
silence between them stretched for uncountable heartbeats before Sarah could
bear it no longer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sarah looked down at the photograph one final time before
asking, ‘Why did you kill that boy, Margaret?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-80085696620719744352018-01-09T15:41:00.000+00:002018-01-09T15:41:30.703+00:00Flash Fiction - The Danger of Undeserved Power<i>Flash Fiction Challenge from the <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2018/01/05/flash-fiction-challenge-the-danger-of-undeserved-power/" target="_blank">terribleminds blog</a></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>~1000 words based on the idea of The Danger of Undeserved Power</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Entering the room, he hesitated, unsure of how to broach the
subject weighing on his mind. His pulse raced, blood and hormones coursing
through his veins – fight or flight in full swing though he had not yet made up
his mind which course to take.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was standing at the window, looking out at the falling
snow, and he was momentarily relieved. She adored snow. Perhaps seeing it now,
in all its cold, serene, beautiful danger would mean she was in good humour and
accept his coming declaration with some level of humility.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Crossing to the centre of the room, he gently cleared his
throat to get her attention and held his breath while she turned from her
daydreaming, anxious to try to read the look on her face.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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True to form, however, her face held as much emotion as a
slab of marble. Blank, yet disarmingly welcoming, her gaze settled upon him as
she waited to learn of the reason for the interruption. She seldom <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">asked</i> people for anything, and they both
expected him to know it was for him to explain his presence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He gently cleared his throat once more, his gaze dropping to
the expensive carpet beneath their shoes before speaking, careful to enunciate
every syllable for oh, how she loathed mumbling!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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‘Your Grace, we have received word that…’ was all he was able
to manage before being cut off by the sound of her voice. His head snapped up
in his shock and worry, no one ever spoke over her, not even a syllable and he
wracked his brain, trying to remember if he’d been inhaling or otherwise
hesitating when she’d started speaking. He silently prayed that this was true
while taking extra pains to hear her every word.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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‘I don’t care,’ she all but spat. The venom in her voice not
worse than normal but he noticed something about her face. There was an
expression there that he’d never seen before in all his years of service to
her. It was all he could do to stop himself from visibly recoiling at the
sight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Has the fabric for my dress been finished?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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‘No, Your Grace. The factory has had a set back. The fire
caused so much damage that they haven’t been able to fulfil the order. They’re
rebuilding as fast as they can.’ He blanched, knowing that she had ordered the
arson attack on the city and that it had gotten out of hand. The people tasked
with starting the fire had met their own end in another, smaller fire two days
later when the total extent of the damage had been known. She expected
perfection and it had not been delivered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Those bloody imbeciles! I simply wanted the urchins in that
damned bakery to learn a lesson – no one disappoints me, I don’t care who died.
I accept no excuses.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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He nodded in response, ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ His own brother
had been lost in the accident that affected the bakery but he was wise enough
to know better than to speak of such things in her presence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He listened to the rest of her brief diatribe and accepted
her next set of outrageous instructions. She all but vibrated with ferocity and
strength as she spoke. She was quite formidable and anyone who had ever seen
her in person understood immediately how she had come to power so quickly, so
absolutely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he finally left her presence, she was back to staring
out the window, her lunch – cooked to perfection – and probably several times
before the chef was willing to have it presented to her, being wheeled in
through the doorway he’d just exited.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walking swiftly from her suite, he found a rare moment to
breathe and to collect his thoughts before he was bombarded by lesser staff,
desperate to know what it was that she demanded next, desperate to know how
they would struggle to appease her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One by one he briefed all of the people who approached him
and then sought out those that had been too busy or too afraid to learn of what
was to come. The staff scurried from task to task – there was no time for
hesitation, conversation, contemplation… Orders had been received and must be
carried out to perfection and without question. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Several hours later, when the instructions had all been
disseminated, he left the building through a servant’s door and headed to a
local café. Bundled against the snow, he was grateful for it as it provided
much-needed anonymity. He entered the café through the back door and stomped
his boots firmly on the mat inside before removing his heavy outerwear and
heading upstairs to the café owner’s residence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well into the night, the carefully-chosen attendees of this
secret meeting discussed the plans, the details of the coming coup. It had been
5 years in the making, each year the plans becoming more and more concrete,
more and more urgent as their beloved country struggled under the control of
Her Grace. Meticulously detailed and happening in just two days’ time, the plan
was set into motion that night in the residence above a small, unassuming café
where, outside, beautiful snow blanketed the world, creating a landscape of dreams,
of fantasies, creating a world of seeming purity and innocence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He knew his role in the plan and he knew it well, and though
he understood the necessity of it, he still struggled with the damage his
future actions might have on his psyche. He had been ordered to kill many
people while under her rule – many who deserved it and many who did not. This
next killing, however, was different. This next killing would be of their
ruler, their leader, Her Grace and, though he knew they needed to be free of
her tyranny, he had never killed someone so young. If everything went according
to plan, and how could it not, Her Grace would die the night before her 11<sup>th</sup>
birthday.<o:p></o:p></div>
thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-78543597832114533942017-10-27T17:20:00.002+01:002017-10-27T17:20:37.310+01:00Low carb individual cheesecakes - a recipeAs more and more research is coming to light about <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2017/07/05/go-low-carb-increase-fertility-chances-five-times-experts-say/" target="_blank">the benefits of eating low-carb as part of a healthy-eating lifestyle, especially when linked to trying to conceive</a>, I decided it was too simple a change not to make.<br />
<br />
I had done <a href="http://www.atkinsglobal.com/en-gb" target="_blank">Atkins</a> years ago, immediately prior to conceiving my daughter, so I had some personal knowledge that, at least, it won't <i>hurt</i> my chances and was comfortable that I'd be able to "handle" the changes necessary to eat significantly low-carb.<br />
<br />
Since late July, I have been following a more-or-less Atkins approach to my dietary life and, after cheating only once (at a fantastic US-themed party in August) and ironing out some kinks (having too much fruit), my body has been responding quite positively and I have now lost more than 8.5 cm from my waist.<br />
<br />
My journey isn't over, however, as I would like to be still significantly smaller than I currently am, but I can already feel the benefits (not least of which is gaining some semblance of confidence).<br />
<br />
Now that I have made the change and done the hard work of "coming off of sugar" (for the skeptics, research proving sugar addiction exists linked <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/sep/04/is-there-such-a-thing-as-sugar-addiction" target="_blank">here</a>), I genuinely hope I can spend the rest of my life avoiding it altogether.* Luckily, I've always had more of a garlic-tooth than a sweet-tooth!<br />
<br />
This doesn't mean, however, that I don't like the occasional sweet thing (hence the cheating at that party).<br />
<br />
When trying to decide something of the dessert/sweet variety to revamp, my mind went immediately to the one thing, the only thing I had cheated with since starting this journey: Cheesecake.<br />
<br />
The cheesecake I had at that fateful party was, in fact, Cheesecake Factory cheesecake and the recipe below doesn't compare to how that magical dessert tastes, but it's a place for me to start, a springboard off which I can launch further trials and experiments in trying to recreate the famous and specific flavours of the Cheesecake Factory cheesecake.<br />
<br />
Without further ado:<br />
<br />
Low-Carb Individual** Cheesecakes<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxIer3uVa7cFHWjoeZcxNX96VL4LM7DwBwov79zB_NRqeoZis1YwlUcbDo9HsKZNL5wZWIPXXT_qK3hkFX9RhPlK7GkBWy8ZrQRDZrK-82XOX9ZHfX_J2BHQ6PQaVu1CEoZVvttKj91Apl/s1600/IMG_8741+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxIer3uVa7cFHWjoeZcxNX96VL4LM7DwBwov79zB_NRqeoZis1YwlUcbDo9HsKZNL5wZWIPXXT_qK3hkFX9RhPlK7GkBWy8ZrQRDZrK-82XOX9ZHfX_J2BHQ6PQaVu1CEoZVvttKj91Apl/s400/IMG_8741+copy.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
Ingredients:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>450g cream cheese</li>
<li>100g xylitol (or appropriate ratio of other sweetener)</li>
<li>1 1/2 tbsp almond flour</li>
<li>Pinch of salt</li>
<li>3/4 tsp vanilla extract</li>
<li>2 tsp lemon juice</li>
<li>2 large eggs</li>
<li>140 ml crème fraîche</li>
</ul>
<br />
Method:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Preheat the oven to fan 200C. </li>
<li>Using a hand mixer, beat the cream cheese at medium-low speed until creamy (about 2 minutes). With the mixer on low, gradually add the sugar, then the flour and salt, being careful to scrape down the sides of the bowl occasionally to ensure the mixture is fully incorporated. </li>
<li>Add the vanilla, lemon juice. </li>
<li>Whisk in the eggs, one at a time, scraping the bowl to ensure everything is properly blended. </li>
<li>Add the crème fraîche.</li>
<li>Whisk to blend but do not over-work the filling.</li>
<li>Pour filling into 8 ramekins. </li>
<li>Place ramekins on a baking sheet and put them into the oven.</li>
<li>Bake for 5 minutes. </li>
<li>Reduce oven temperature to fan 90C and bake for 15 minutes more. If you gently shake the baking tray, the filling should have a slight wobble. </li>
<li>Turn off the oven and open the oven door for a cheesecake that's creamy in the centre, or leave it closed if you prefer a drier texture. Let cool completely in the oven.</li>
<li>Refrigerate overnight for best flavour/texture.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I originally made this both with and without a base and both turned out delicious, but because the base I chose is actually a shortbread, it wasn't quite the same as what I as used to so I preferred the cheesecakes without. <a href="https://www.wholesomeyum.com/recipes/gluten-free-shortbread-cookies-low-carb-sugar-free/" target="_blank">The shortbread I used for a base</a>. I hope to eventually develop something closer to the Cheesecake Factory base.<br />
<br />
*Before I have reached my goal size, I plan on thoroughly investigating the "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ketogenic_diet" target="_blank">Keto</a>" way of eating and, considering the results of that research, may switch to that for the maintenance phase of life.<br />
<br />
**Due to unforeseen circumstances, our kitchen is without some large appliances - namely, an oven and hob, both of which were gas-powered. Because of this, I made these in a small batch in my toaster oven. If you would like to make a full-size cheesecake, I recommend you:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Double everything above </li>
<li>Brush the sides of a springform tin with melted butter and put on a baking sheet. </li>
<li>Pour in the cheesecake filling </li>
<li>Bake for 10 minutes. </li>
<li>Reduce oven temperature to fan 90C fan and bake for 25 minutes more. (Gently shaking the tin should give the filling a slight wobble.)</li>
<li>Turn off the oven and open the oven door for a cheesecake that's creamy in the centre, or leave it closed if you prefer a drier texture. </li>
<li>Let cool in the oven for 2 hours. The cheesecake may get a slight crack on top as it cools. </li>
<li>Refrigerate overnight.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-57753344403203692022017-09-26T12:43:00.002+01:002017-09-26T12:43:54.303+01:00Learning to Advocate for MyselfA recurring theme in my life, not being "Good Enough", has reared its ugly head again.<br />
<br />
I am allergic to the wool carpet in our new house. This is a known allergy and we presumed I would suffer a bit when we moved in but had hoped that it would be mild enough that replacing the flooring could wait until we went, room by room, and redecorated the whole space.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, my reaction to the house has been swift and total. Inhalers needed, skin erupting in rashes... the works.<br />
<br />
In dealing with all of this, already feeling low physically (it's exhausting being itchy 24/7) and emotionally (I find I'm still horrendously embarrassed by my eczema, even after more than 40 years with it), I took a backseat. I sat back and allowed Spouse to make decisions about how and when the flooring would be replaced because I didn't want to make waves, I didn't want to add stress where it wasn't necessary. And I started to feel worse. My health, I felt, wasn't being taken seriously. I wasn't being "heard".<br />
<br />
Spouse and I got into a very slightly heated discussion about the flooring and timings, etc, about what <b>I</b> thought we should be doing versus what Spouse thought we should do... And why my needs were being ignored... and it was pointed out to me that I wasn't being "heard" because I wasn't <b>saying</b> anything!<br />
<br />
I had been grumping around the house, miserable, sore, itchy - not <b>telling</b> Spouse how bad I felt, not <b>communicating</b> how much I was suffering.<br />
<br />
I expected Spouse to know - and then was upset to discover that they didn't. Not to the extent that I was feeling it. Of course Spouse knows I'm suffering. It was obvious to anyone who sees me.... What Spouse couldn't have known, however, was how I am feeling, how much it's actually affecting me, how I feel emotionally and mentally because of the situation.<br />
<br />
I briefly struggled to figure out why I would have trouble telling Spouse what my needs were. It didn't take long, though, to work out... In various, large portions of my life, the things I said, when I declared my needs, fell on deaf, impatient ears.<br />
<br />
Throughout my life I had been ignored. Directly, wilfully, deliberately, indirectly, ignorantly, unwittingly... I have been ignored by my most primary relationships. Not all the time, of course. And sometimes, I was simply dismissed.<br />
<br />
Through all of this, I learned. I learned that telling people what I needed, how I felt, what I wanted, even, was an exercise in futility at best and, at worst, in pain. It hurts to be ignored or dismissed and I can't tell you which is worse.<br />
<br />
Now that I'm in my first healthy relationship, I'm having to relearn a lot of my behaviours and responses... I'm having to learn that it's not only OK to express what I need, it's essential, it's vital in a healthy relationship.<br />
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And I'm having to learn that my words will be listened to, that my voice will be heard.<br />
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I am learning that I am Good Enough.<br />
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<br />thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-19491158942620918442017-09-05T12:43:00.001+01:002017-09-05T14:35:23.051+01:0010 Things You Probably Didn't Know About Me...As it's been a while, I thought I'd ease myself back into blogging regularly(ish) with something simple... One of those ubiquitous, annoying "10 Things..." lists.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Bugger off. It's my blog and I can do what I want to, so there!</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJ8UE3imOrdST7wzMV6NHcZEgeiHoe8O4FBlaECp_Y4u9rzo44Dzy1rxE7If8jsFYveZbME_HzQj82S3pEpFhw0JAMmN5L253NEvkI1C4HhAtdb6Zc8-rzKQ79IVM4fWoQE6fsUrClZY_/s1600/IMG_8095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJ8UE3imOrdST7wzMV6NHcZEgeiHoe8O4FBlaECp_Y4u9rzo44Dzy1rxE7If8jsFYveZbME_HzQj82S3pEpFhw0JAMmN5L253NEvkI1C4HhAtdb6Zc8-rzKQ79IVM4fWoQE6fsUrClZY_/s400/IMG_8095.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Potters, Hopton-On-Sea August 2017</span></div>
<br />
Here goes!<br />
<br />
<b><i>10 Things You Probably Don't Know About Me:</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>1. I absolutely loathe photos of me.</b> The above photo was taken by my lovely Sister-In-Law at her insistence. I understand her reasoning, hence why I stood for the photo(s! She took more than one!). Hopefully, someday I'll be able to look back on photos of myself and be OK with them. <i>(Let's see if I can leave that photo there and not chicken out and take it down before this post goes live!)</i><br />
<br />
<b>2. I struggle with the concept of Good Enough.</b> This has been an on-going theme throughout my life and I have actually had some very good, very expensive therapy regarding it. Throughout my life, I have felt that I am a disappointment to others, to myself. It's coupled with a strong sense of Perfectionism/Fear of Failure that means I hold myself to a far higher standard than I hold others and means that I am often overly, and even damagingly, self-critical. I have a fear of starting things, projects, because of this fear of failure - because if I <i>don't</i> start then I can't fail, right?! I frequently need to remind myself that I am good enough, that I am deserving of good things, deserving of being treated well and with respect. I am far better than I was but I acknowledge that I still have a long way to go... and that's <i>good enough</i>!<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>3. My favourite colour is Aurora Borealis (AKA "Iridescent").</b> It's actually a collection of colours; blues, greens, pinks, etc.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The surface of my bed-side table. Glitter under bartop resin.</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">iPhone camera. Unedited.</span></div>
<br />
<b>4. I can't stand the word "toppings".</b> Even saying it in my head makes me feel weird. This makes loving and ordering pizza rather difficult!<br />
<br />
<b>5. I have never eaten shrimp in any form.</b> Does this make me strange(r)?<br />
<br />
<b>6. I am a big child.</b> One of my life mottos is: I am forced to grow old; I refuse to grow up!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Card-carrying member. </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">iPhone camera. Unedited.</span></div>
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<b>7. We're moving!</b> We're moving (further) away from London - eek! When I moved to London in 2004, I presumed that that was it. I fell in love. Love, I tell you!<br />
<br />
I was first an "EastEnder" (but never on the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/EastEnders" target="_blank">soap</a>). Then, in 2009, I moved "<a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/property/3354725/The-great-north-south-divide.html" target="_blank">south of the river</a>" <i>gasp!</i> And, again, became an EastEnder in 2012ish for a short while. Since then, I've lived for about 4 years in Essex, just beside London. London, for the past 13 years, has - at the very least - always remained in arm's reach! I'm not sure how I feel about being a 2-3 hour drive from my favourite city. The implications and my emotions surrounding it are, no exaggeration, bittersweet.<br />
<br />
We're moving to a lovely part of the world called "<a href="https://www.google.co.uk/maps/place/Lincolnshire/@53.1269765,-0.7917456,9z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m5!3m4!1s0x47d62825741ebd27:0x7b91c48293b53800!8m2!3d52.9451889!4d-0.1601246" target="_blank">Lincolnshire</a>". It will be a significant change of lifestyle and will include the chance to develop hobbies, join clubs, exercise more.... All manner of things that the frantic pace of living "down south" doesn't seem to allow.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>8. I love taking photographs.</b> I have loved taking photos since I was a smaller child. We couldn't afford a decent camera so I spent my childhood working through a succession of cheap, crap cameras that used 110 film and did nothing to enhance my ability to take a photo. I even had a <a href="http://collectiblend.com/Cameras/unknown-companies/Micro-110.html" target="_blank">micro 110</a>! How on earth one was supposed to get any kind of quality photos with one of those, I will never know!<br />
<br />
In high school, I had wanted to take a photography class but it required having a 35mm camera with which to take the pictures. Again, the budget didn't allow this. I took it on the chin but was definitely envious of classmates who had access to a decent camera and felt an almost physical ache when I saw the photos they'd taken for the class.<br />
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When I was in my late 20s/early 30s, I was able to afford a decent and expensive (at the time) camera. I was super excited! Then, as life moved on, I never learned how to use it properly. It sat. I played with it a bit. I never really did anything with it other than use it in fully automatic mode, defeating the purpose of having that camera over a "point and shoot" version.<br />
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When we've moved, I plan on snapping more and joining a local camera club (there are at least three I can choose from!). I've recently bought some new lenses, some instruction books, and my desire to take good photographs is now even stronger than ever as I get one step closer and I'm super excited!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Random building in Southend-On-Sea. iPhone camera. Unedited. 19th August 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Potters, Hopton-On-Sea.</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">iPhone camera. Unedited.</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> August 2017</span></div>
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<b>9. I love to sing!</b> Like, seriously, love to sing. <i>Thing 2</i>, however, means that I am convinced I can't sing very well. People who are professional musicians/professors in music have told me that I <i>can</i> carry a tune and I <i>still</i> shy away from singing in front of anyone with whom I am not 100% comfortable around. I was in chorus all through grade school and junior high and a big part of me wishes I had carried on through high school... not because of who I could have been through singing; I have no aspirations... I just lament that I could have continued doing something I love instead of backing away because it wasn't <i>cool</i>.<br />
<br />
When we move, however, there are three local choirs that I plan on investigating and, though it will be a genuine struggle to get the guts to do so, I plan on auditioning for at least one! I know! I'm just as surprised as you are, maybe even more so!<br />
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<b>10. I am <i>slowly</i> writing a book about me.</b> It will be a fictional adaptation based on my life leading up to age 40. Do you know enough about me to tell the difference between fact and fiction?<br />
<br />
What are 10 things about you that I probably don't know?<br />
<br />
<br />thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-42381532519813142162017-04-24T11:01:00.000+01:002017-04-25T12:19:58.962+01:00Long Way Home<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My back
aching with the strain of the extra weight, I pulled the child along in the
sled as we traversed the field. It had been days since we had seen any signs of
human life and I was grateful that the child slept now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She never
really complained – I expected tears, screams of terror for what she must have
been through, for what she must have seen – but all she did was stare at my
eyes when I spoke to her. Approximately 7 or 8 years old, I knew she had to
understand me and sometimes she would acknowledge what I had said or asked with
a quick, singular nod or shake of her head, her filthy hair flying about her
face, sending dirt and dead leaves falling to her tatted t-shirt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her stare
haunted me, her silence scared me even more. It had been some considerable time
since I had had any human companionship and when I had finally encountered another person, a person who understood where they were, that person was
essentially mute. Just my luck.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As we
approached an abandoned house along our path, I gently shook the sled as I
walked, never taking my eyes off of the house. I felt the sled move slightly
behind me and the child let go a small grunt to indicate that she was awake and
saw the house. As we neared the house, she jumped from the sled while it was
still moving and ran to scoot under one of the back windows, hidden, while I
headed to the front door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The house
was empty, thankfully, and there were a few treats left in the cupboards as
well as some not-long-expired sun screen that it certainly wouldn’t hurt to
carry. It was a small mercy that what happened was so sudden that there wasn’t
really a chance for society to melt-down, no riots, minimal looting… A small
grace, really.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I came
back outside, I handed the girl a protein bar and she waited until we had
repacked the sled with our new loot before hungrily peeling back the wrapping
with dirty fingers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now that I
knew the house was empty, I spoke to the child. “No water, I’m afraid. The
people who lived there clearly hadn’t any time to prepare. I did get some boxed
juice, though, and some more matches.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I handed her
the juice and she kept her eyes on me as she drank slowly, carefully, and
handed me back the carton. I nodded as I placed the lid back on the carton and
set it thoughtfully among the contents of the pack in the sled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We had been
travelling with each other since I had come across her in a similarly-abandoned
house just three days before. I had tried everything I could think of to get
her to communicate verbally with me but she simply wouldn’t. It was a little
frustrating to not know her name but walking with someone for the first time in
months was a sort of relief…. At least I wouldn’t be talking to just myself
anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once the
pack was settled and we had each availed ourselves of the outhouse on the
property, we set off once more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Along the
way, as before, I quietly told the child stories about my life before we had
met and what I had hoped to find when I finally made it home. I told her
stories of my own childhood, things I remembered from when I was her age – it
wasn’t difficult, it had only been five or six years but I felt I had grown so
much in that time – I suppose I had.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We travelled
this way for six more days – I told stories to a child who wouldn’t opine, a
form of therapy, I suppose – and we found places of shelter, scarce foodstuffs,
a couple of farmsteads that had pump wells from which we could fill our water
bags. A few of the homes we were able to find shelter in for short times during
the day but I was eager to get home and the places were unsecured from attack,
so we moved on quite quickly. We never stayed the night in any of the homes, it
was too risky.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And still we
had not encountered any further human life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
By the time
the seventh day with the girl came, I was desperate for her to talk. I had been
asking questions all week in the hopes of drawing out a response but the child
remained resolutely quiet. I was grateful, however, that she had at least
deemed I posed no threat. That night we still slept as lightly as before, but
we slept snuggled beside each other. The warmth between us was welcome and, I
felt, added an extra measure of security as, when one of us stirred in the
night, the other woke instantly ready for any danger. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We were
about fifteen miles from home and I had been singing the girl a low, sweet song
I remembered from when I was younger. I was startled when she grunted, just
loudly enough that she grabbed my attention but not so loudly as to alert
others. I looked to her, not slowing my stride, and turned to look where she
was pointing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We suddenly
both stopped. Ahead, was a house, but that wasn’t what worried the girl. As
soon as I saw exactly why she’d wanted my attention, we began moving silently, slightly
sideways to the house, keeping it in sight but hiding ourselves from being
seen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Peering into
the windows of the house was a human. As cautious as I had been when I first
encountered the girl, we watched the human from a safe distance. I don’t know
what the girl was thinking but I was hoping against hope. I’m not ashamed to
say that I fought back tears when the human walked three times around the
house, peering into the windows and sniffing the air before moving on. It
didn’t try to enter the house. It didn’t remember how – it was no longer a part
of this world. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That night I
dreamt fitful dreams, several times waking to the sound of my own whimpering,
the girl hovering over me, the look of concern and fear evident on her face.
Each time, I apologised and tried to soothe her. Each time, I promised I’d be
quieter. Each time, I woke with my heart pounding harder than the last.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
For the
remainder of the journey, I was too afraid to sing, too afraid to hope and too
tired to try to keep up appearances for the girl. As we neared my home, my eyes
weeping with relief, I turned back to look at the child who was suddenly no
longer there.</div>
thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338356403431448501.post-54165915280111204422017-03-10T15:59:00.002+00:002017-03-10T15:59:48.408+00:00The Countdown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZadTmqcbNvSszKwHEg78zE_WqGvWZjSE1ii2eLoCgFGh3alGh-m9eSsYOpzEnnJ1qLE-2wTdIL65dTAHPIyrR-zy06v4CFbKDujWr0Hm0AL8C5uWtG6ld6NkHwKmtQIRUsdEl-BbJmaIH/s1600/pinterest+writing+prompt+used+10.03.17.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZadTmqcbNvSszKwHEg78zE_WqGvWZjSE1ii2eLoCgFGh3alGh-m9eSsYOpzEnnJ1qLE-2wTdIL65dTAHPIyrR-zy06v4CFbKDujWr0Hm0AL8C5uWtG6ld6NkHwKmtQIRUsdEl-BbJmaIH/s320/pinterest+writing+prompt+used+10.03.17.PNG" width="316" /></a></div>
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“10!” The
computerised voice boomed across the halls.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She
whimpered as she lurched to her feet. She wasn’t prepared. She was never prepared for the countdown. Her
bare feet skidded along the cool hardwood floor as she raced to find a safe
place to be when the countdown ran to zero.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“9!” The
voice again, slightly lower in volume this time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Her heart
juddered in her chest. She had managed to find an area that wasn’t close to one
of the speakers, which also meant that she was further away from the seemingly
ubiquitous microphones. She carefully exhaled, trying to calm her pulse as she kept
her pace. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“8!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She skidded
around a corner and ran straight into a giant wardrobe that had been shoved
into the centre of its room. Her knee banged painfully on the expensive,
antique wood but she wouldn’t allow herself to cry out. If he heard her now he’d
know her exact location and she would be finished before the countdown ended. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“7!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She hastily
wiped silent tears from her face with a filthy backhand as she manoeuvred through
another adjoining room and into one of the hidden stairwells in the walls of
the ancient estate. She prayed she could get somewhere, anywhere within the
main house because she was sure he was outside patrolling the grounds
immediately before the countdown.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“6!” The
voice boomed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She groaned
inwardly about having brought herself closer to a speaker and another microphone
but she was far beyond lamenting about the fairness of his little “game”. Her
stomach churned slightly at the mental image of what was to come if she didn’t
make it – and the premise was simple. She had to run and hide while the
automated voice counted down. She had literally only herself and her knowledge
of having been held on the estate for the past ten years at her disposal… He,
on the other hand, had tech, he had gadgets…. Cameras, microphones, night
vision, motion sensors, pressure sensors – he had it all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“5!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Virtually
tossing herself down a flight of stairs she landed with a well-practiced thump
at the bottom and immediately rolled back onto her feet. The lean diet he kept
her on added to the daily exercise she gave herself prepared her for his “game”,
kept her mind and her body agile, ready for the fight. A fight she was getting
better and better at winning over the years. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“4!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She gasped –
He’d changed the timing interval between the two announcements, making them
closer together. This was an unwelcome new development and she momentarily
fretted that it was because he was closing in on her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“3!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She refused
to allow herself to consider it, however, knowing that the “game” wasn’t over
until the countdown was finished. She pushed on, rushing from room to room in
the cellar, past old, redundant boilers and dusty chairs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“2!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She was
desperate to win the “game”. When she succeeded, he rewarded her by leaving her
alone for the night. When he “won”… the reward he took for himself didn’t bear
thinking about. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“1!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She’d numbed
herself to it years ago while he was rewarding himself, but she hadn’t yet been
broken enough not to fight during the game itself, she would never allow him to
break her. So she ran and ran, praying that one day her father would set her
free. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“0!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />thefoundbirdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454389572704475927noreply@blogger.com0