For the first time, I actually have a New Year’s Resolution.  Like many other bloggers, I’m eschewing making a whole long list of things I want to accomplish.  Instead, I am choosing to claim a word as mine and live to it for all of 2013.

After spending a great deal of time on my Christmas stay/sewcation, I learned something pivotal about myself.  And, unfortunately, that is I tend to be stingy.  Oh, I’m not stingy with my money, but I am stingy with my time.  I’m a recluse out of choice.

So, this year, I am choosing the word “Abundant” as a guideline.

Abundant in my praise.

Abundant in my love.

Abundant in my delight.

Abundant in my work.

Abundant in my time.

2013 will see me working towards sharing… abundantly.  Even when I’m feeling pinched and stingy.  Maybe, even, especially when I’m feeling pinched and stingy!

How about you?  Do you have a resolution or a word?

I’d really love to see your comments on the projects I do and the ideas I have.  I learn more from critiques than praise, but, honestly, I adore praise (and who doesn’t?).


Bookcase Week – Part Four – Thankful

I was a bright enough little girl.  Active, eager… all of the things a small person who is surrounded by love grows to be.

But I could not read.  Not a word.

My grandmother and two aunts were teachers.  It must have been embarrasing to them to see me struggle.  And I did, indeed, struggle, no matter how much they helped.  Over and over, my Dad and Mom would sound out words for me, fingers gliding under the letters.

Nothing helped.

Until, one day, I eagerly ran to my grandfather to read him the one page I had memorized.  (I was bright… and had a good memory!)  He sat down in his chair and took me onto his lap.  I “read” my page.

The, he turned the page – and told me to keep reading.  I couldn’t.  And I told him so.

Quite abruptly, he took me from his lap, turned me to face him and said, very sternly “I NEVER want to hear you say you can’t do something.  I want to hear you say you will try.”

Then, he put me back on his lap and opened the book again.  Together, we read the next page.  I remember the letters seemed to move and squirm, turning from something undecipherable into WORDS!  I could read.

And I did.  Everything I could get my hands on – regardless of appropriateness.  By the end of grade three, I was reading junior high school novels and, by grade six, I was reading high school material.

I was diagnosed with dyslexia in my first year of university, 11 years after the afternoon with my grandfather.  Somehow, in the short little time he spent with me that day, he gave me the tools and courage I needed to be a “self-corrected” dyslexic.

My grandmother, my aunts, my parents – they all gave me the framework I needed for that experience, I’m sure.  But, in my heart, when I think about that moment – the moment when the squiggles became words and my brain caught fire with the love of them, I KNOW it was one of my grandfather’s most precious gifts to me.

And so, I am thankful.  For my literacy.  For the authors who string letters into words into sentences into stories into books for me to devour.  For the ability to learn by reading what others have written.

Mostly, though, I am thankful for the family that loved me enough to get me to that point.

Particularly Pepe.

He taught me to waltz, too, but that’s a different story!

I’d really love to see your comments on the projects I do and the ideas I have.  I learn more from critiques than praise, but, honestly, I adore praise (and who doesn’t?).

Thanks for stopping by.