Tammy Sandel, Guest Poet

I do not write much poetry myself,
but I have plenty of friends who do.
Today I have the pleasure of sharing with you some poems -- about
childbirth, childhood, motherhood,
and eating what's put before you --
written by one of my talented friends:

Tammy Sandel
[BBA, MBA,
Certified Doula (DONA),
Poet, Prankster, Mom]

tammysandel@yahoo.com
www.lafayettedoulas.com


Postpartum Visit

Three days after I attended the birth as doula, I visited this new mother and her little one at home…

Radiant
You hand me your sleeping newborn
And his warm weight thumps against my heart
Flying me back to when I held my own tiny son
(I hold him still, my lap overflowing with legs and arms and words).
Your boy works the indescribable magic
That brings motherhood and family and friendship to a sparkling point of light
That smells like new skin
And feels like truth.
Your trust helps me remember
That your child and my child
Breathe the same air
Gaze at the same sky
Reach out in the same emptiness
To nestle in a safe place.
And love from me is love from you
In an endless circle of women
Holding each others’ hands
And babies.

By Tammy Sandel, CD(DONA)

Tammy Knox Sandel is a birth doula in West Lafayette, Indiana, where she shares a home with her husband, two sons, and three animals. She works to notice, amplify, and celebrate relationships and connections through the experience of birth.
***
west side CVS

three moms are at the photo kiosk
touch-screening
smiling, nodding,
murmuring to themselves
as faces flash by –
baby-plump, gap-toothed, prom-bound
compact little squares of time

i know these
women on stools.
i got here first today
then sally from the blue room,
who used to greet me with a smile and read stories to my son
and kim, the master scrapper,
who helped me learn to PTO

we chat briefly, learn that all 3 of us know all 3 of us,
learn fast about important things:
a daughter’s graduating,
the boys are playing baseball,
good to have both kids at one school

as my pictures print,
i shop
for toilet paper, toothpaste, deodorant
and realize in beauty that I lost a greenbag somewhere
a tall man smiles and hands it over
“in the liquor aisle,” he replies
betraying my selection of
cheap and delicious red wine
oh well.

i finish, look forward to
remembering
with my 68 shots of science projects, easter outfits,
and spring break in chicago.
i am so proud to be “mrs. sandel”
whose order is now ready at the counter
who swipes her reward card
and pays the nice man who found my bag

i peek at the photos
and softly pat my own back
for doing this errand
releasing them from the camera
for noticing and celebrating
and chronicling these moments
of an ordinary
extraordinarily sweet life.

tammy sandel, april 28, 2009

***
Bon Appetit

On a quiet stretch of country
I see you down the road –
Patient turkey vultures
Looming like giants
above the wooly worms.
If you have to take your supper
In the middle of the street,
Get someone to come with you, right?
Enjoy the company
While you feed your young,
And accept the interruptions
with gratitude for the food.
Hunched inside your black housecoats
You meander and strut
Deliberate,
Calm,
Keeping watch
‘Til I’m close enough for someone to sound the alert:
“Hey ever-bod-ee!”
And it’s heavy lift-off in
3…
2…
Whoosh.
Then you all just hang
Chill
Still and colossal on the fence
Waiting for the quiet
So you can go back to work
And clean your plate.

Tammy Sandel, September 1, 2009

***
Parting words from Tammy:
Learn things. Have fun. Do some good.

Pierced Ears

More Asymmetrical Favorites
[Following earlier mismatched
socks and earrings]

You don't have to have pierced ears to wear fun earrings,
but it does make it easier!
And French hooks are the easiest of all.
In the following poem, Tammy Sandel traces her girlhood journey into pierced ear status. Her narrative captures my own lobal coming of age experience precisely, with the exception that I was not 12 but 27 (always a slow starter) before taking the leap for pierced ears.

artiface.

Merle Norman 
was the good make-up
and you had to go in
to, go inside the shop to buy it
right next to Allee’s Jewelry
with the good diamonds,
the add-a-pearls,
the good china and wedding registry

i mix this up a little bit in my mind with the pink Mary Kay house parties and the glossy catalogs
from the Avon Lady at our front door,

but Merle Norman was definitely an actual store of makeup
and also the place to get your ears pierced
when your parent (mother) said okay,
when she drove you there and parked on the town square,
walked in with you to the tidy room with pretty chairs and mirrors like a beauty shop
for a rite of passage like a bat mitzvah for us Southern Baptist girls —
i had to be twelve years old
to get one stud in each lobe

(i mix this part up a little bit with the edgy as heck second piercing i got with a college roommate and the much later tattoo).

way back then i was always startled to see small gold studs in the fairy perfect ears of baby girls,
those lucky Catholic
Mexican sweethearts with amber skin
flashing golden ears and
innocently showing off,
nowhere near twelve years old!
their parents (mothers) having made the decision for them well in advance of puberty,
perhaps to spare any anxiety or remembered pain
(like circumcision logic for a newborn boy),
perhaps to preempt tween earring pleas,
or maybe because she wouldn’t need earring communion with all the other rites of her faith

i never really asked
(next time i’m going to ask)
now, today, i wonder who drives our girls (boys, beloved non-b’s) to
um, the mall? for their first piercing
does a parent give permission,
encouragement,
funds?
do they hold their hand and let them squeeze when a silver piercer pops like a staple gun
or when, as my grandmother did it, someone slides a needle through ice-numbed skin into a
waiting cork?

how do they decide where to go?
(Merle Norman’s gone but maybe “piercing parlors near me” works)
and what to pierce?
there are so many options now
there are so many decisions;

does it still hurt?
next time i’m going to ask

i love the freedom to decorate a body with flash and color and marks of meaning
secret and full
and i love as well
the clean slate of a body wearing only (only!) the marks of a life

every one of us so lucky to have ourselves a life
i’ve lucked on into the negotiated ages of ear piercing and driving, consent, voting, drinking, and well beyond,
my skin growing ever more decorated, fragile and fine,
age spotted stretched and thin,
but still strong, still supple enough to hold
all my wonder and delight
i know it’s personal,
but face it, we often put it right out there
for all the world to see,
dangling from our ears
glossing our lip
riding a nostril
wearing it on our sleeves

and personally i’m loathe to miss a chance to notice it all,
to convince you you’re beautiful,
and simply (profoundly) to connect

so…
tell me the story of that fierce scar
which lipstick shade
who styled your ring
designed that knot
your eyebrows slay
what language script is on your arm?

i can’t help seeing you
with your blaring jewelry body beauty art

and you don’t have to answer,
but next time i’m going to ask.  

###
~Tammy Sandel
Summer 2023

A few weeks after Tammy shared her fabulous poem with me, I came across this corroborative passage from Willa Cather, written in 1913, referring to 1880 or so:

“Marie [dressed up for a fortune telling party] wore a short red skirt of stoutly woven, cloth, a white bodice and kirtle, a yellow silk turban wound low over her brown curls, and long coral pendants in her ears.  

Her ears had been pierced against a piece of cork by her great-aunt when she was seven years old.  In those germless days she had worn bits of broomstraw, plucked from the common sweeping-broom, in the lobes until the holes were healed and ready for little gold rings."
~from O Pioneers! (125-26)

In 1984, my sweet sister - in - law took me to
this jewelry store in Germany to have my ears pierced.

I still have the tiny box that the piercing studs came in.
[shown here with a few more mindful mis-matches]

Additional Earrings
Above designs by Lizone
"A Jewel for Mom"
Ocean City Art
"More Mummy Earring"
Diamond Studs Are Forever

See Next Post:
"esquiline venus." by Tammy Sandel

Venus Stopped Me in My Tracks

Venere Esquilina
1st-century AD Roman copy
of a 1st century BC Greek original
Anonymous Sculptor
Rediscovered in 1870

Note from the poet: "unlike Michelangelo's David (the one thing i wanted to PLEASE PLEASE MUST SEE on my Italy trip last week - and ohhhh, phenomenal), i had never heard of this statue before seeing her in person in Musei Capitoline. she glows. she simply stopped me in my tracks to dance along my soul."

esquiline venus.

fall into
the earth scented cushion
of my lap

i will stay here
still and soft,
brown and marble moss

i am rooted to ground
buried with rock and quill

here

i will receive
your joy insecurity pain,
here i will receive your
regret, your
hope

i will hear your question
yearn
and stay virtual silent
till the answer sings
to your own inner ear

the confessional
behind my knees
will absolve and cleanse your
pleas(e)

when you stand back up
you will be
natured
nutured whole
again

you will be

sculpted

returned to yourself
through a goddess
vessel
affirming chi

beware the rattle bones
the pulling
ornaments of favor
without heart

beware the candy
of distant sweet

ignore the broken limbs.
i mourn the iris of your eye
the heat of your chest
your belly fire

i mourn the days
we walked the loch
and did not taste or see...

get up

get up now

get up and breathe
and want me

polish and
pedestal me up

get up, my human,
break fast
and be.

###
~Tammy Sandel
Autumn 2015

Now here's the thing:
Tammy's timing of sending me the Venus was perfect!
When she texted me the above photo and poem from Rome,
I was in Maryland, standing in front of this very statue,
whose arms seem to echo those missing from the Esquiline Venus ("...frequently restored in paintings but never in reality."):

That kind of morning...

See Previous Post:
"artifce." by Tammy Sandel

Strip the Willow

[click to hear samples on amazon]

New Fortnightly Post ~ "Every Chocolate Flake"
featuring the poem "Strip the Willow" by Tammy Sandel

strip the willow

I keep going back
to Scotland
which I can only always describe
if people know and care to ask
as Magic

Here’s how you get there:

First,
Journey many hours in the air
then more on a train
where people speak your language
and if you listen hard
you can almost understand

Ride your train through towns
with ancient names
that bloom on your tongue
as you try to roll Glaswegian R’s

Pass sheep inside a stacked stone fence
sometimes a dog running herd
or a shepherd with a staff
and Scottish temper
hurling the staff at fast cars who spook the flock

Other men on this trip nod and tip their hats
like Texas cowboys at the VFW,
wanting nothing but to help you
find your way

The air smells of peat and hops
but you won’t know that yet

You arrive in the dark and sleep late
waking up to a gardener whistling
“Cracklin’ Rosie”
happy tune to welcome
a bright new day

Your clean your teeth
with water so icy it must be pure
and take breakfast
with a lovely girl,
your first Louise

You call home at a decent hour
from a plexiglass phone booth
repeating the numbers twice
distracted by the purring Irish accent
in the booth next door
assuring your parent-loves that you are safe and happy
and you are

You are here to LIVE
to dig in, drink deep
soak up every scrap of knowledge from class
and country and Meadowlark
(even the pub name sounds pretty)

What will happen next?

You cross a small bridge
with other students travelling
one single path to class,
swans swim on the loch below
a castle shimmers beyond
seriously

You search their faces
want to know them, their accent and fashion
and you open yourself like a daisy
bringing all you can to the surface
to be shared straight away
so you can meet them, eat them all

You ride horses with Norwegians
study marketing with the French,
opera with the English,
and share coffee with the professor
who turns out to have a different idea
of cultural exchange
well, that’s experience, too

You walk in the drizzle
noticing patterns,
join the old women limping their way
to worship in an old stone kirk
kneel to strolling Westies
who pause a moment before trotting
back to their master

You take a job on Thursdays
noticing rhythms,
serving single malt to blokes
who take squinting measure of their glass
and American-you
discussing their politics and futbol
and once, the mystical power to heal

Finally convinced of successful outreach
you let in some other Yanks
just a few
who prove as interesting and layered
as Mumford & Sons
modern gospel
yearning, jubilant
triumphant horns over bluegrass over bass;
their family stories and characters
draw you in,
warm your belly
and inspire

They teach you the accent and fashion
of your home country
that magnificent, arrogant one
that you alternately hold tight and apologize for

And some teach you by learning with you
jumping in to Strip the Willow
whirling ceilidh dance of
laughter in a big wide barn
celebration of freedom and joy and youth

Tall and rangy Montana
gathers you up like hay
gives you a greater sense of yourself
of your power and insecurity
the way a mirror reflects the beauty and the flaws

A person can do this
just like a place

So in Scotland, you meet
music from voices past
ideas of future film
words
all of which you somehow already know;
a boy climbs through your window with the moon
stretches his long limbs over yours and
helps you weave a blanket of duvet, wool, and sky

Now
When I remember who I am sometimes
it’s that girl in Scotland
that long-walk every day girl who sought out the wonder,
the soul behind the eyes
who was blessed to have beginner’s mind
come easily

I still see all the shades of mist
and I’m never ever certain of any one thing, for sure
except for love and magic

In Scotland
there were vignettes of simple, stunning beauty
all the time
I climbed Dumyat and
took communion with a lab,
found the heather
and tasted every chocolate Flake;
I knew ‘rapture from an orange
and ecstasy from a blade of grass’*
and it never went away

Why does it happen when it happens?
How’d I get a gift like that?

Is it a specific place we must find,
a person we must know, or
the ripening of our own body inside our skin?
all those things, or none of them
and a commitment to saying yes

I heard bagpipes in the distance
and was completed,
or transformed,
or maybe just returned with gentle magic
to myself.

tammy l. knox sandel, 8/17/13

* Leo Buscaglia, who is (also) not Scottish

For this poem and more
please see my new post
"Every Chocolate Flake"
on the
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A fortnightly [every 14th & 28th]
literary blog of connection & coincidence; custom & ceremony

Highland Wedding at Blair Atholl, 1780
by Scottish painter and illustrator of historical subjects,
David Allan, 1744 - 96
[learn more about this painting and the ceilidh dance]

Heartfelt

In observation of Valentine's day, I am posting some excerpts from the heartfelt poetry of my multi-talented friend Tammy Sandel. These two poems are filled with visceral images of pumping, bleeding hearts at work. In the first poem, the vivid -- i.e., filled with life! -- motif of red thread, red note and red word connects the reader to the poet's creative energy. The opening lines run like this [emphasis added]:

Red Note*
A blood red thread runs through the chapters of my life, stitching them together, feeding the future from the past like an artery.
Some of my chapter titles are the names of men. Of boys. Of my boys. Of animal friends. Some are titled with women's names, those women who invited me into the intimacy of birthing their child.
And some chapters are simply Moments. . . .

and

Zoom Hover Reverse.**
(tlks 12/12/14)
Alternate realities put me in the center of a Venn diagram. The intersecting circles pen me in with iridescent wings.
Living labile demands strength. Trying to notice and feel and say every thing to every one you love? Zoom.
Wishing, dreaming, imagining is exhilarating. And time consuming. Hover.
Second guessing, guilt, and regrets exhaust. Reverse.
Do you see that I feed you with the meat of my racing heart?
It's the only way I know how to be. . . .

Tammy, thanks for sharing your poems!

To read these poems by Tammy and more,
check out my current post

~ "Heart of Hearts" ~
@ The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Present from my sister- in- law Tina a couple of years ago:
Miniature Heart - Shaped Le Creuset!

Mini Saga ~ Grandpa Lindsey

A Girl & Her Granddad

Paul Jones Lindsey
4 November 1895 - 11 June 1983
More about Paul: FN & QK

Maybe you already know about this writing exercise, but I only learned of it a few months ago when my friend -- poet and earth - mom and all-round goddess -- Tammy Sandel texted me one day and said, "Let's write some mini-sagas!

A minisaga, mini saga or mini-saga is a short story based on a long story. It should contain exactly 50 words, plus a title of up to 15 characters. However, the title requirement is not always enforced and sometimes eliminated altogether. The form was invented by writer Brian Aldiss (1925 - 2017) at The Daily Telegraph, which has held several mini-saga competitions, as has BBC Radio 4.

Minisagas are alternately known as microstories, ultra-shorts, or fifty-word stories. The concept truly induces the writer to choose each word with utmost care. Prepare to edit severely! I'm posting mine today in honor of my Grandpa Lindsey's 130th birthday. I could be wrong about this, but I always thought I was his favorite; maybe he made every kid feel that way:

Presents for Me
Because I really wanted them, Grandpa bought the black corduroy sneakers with red plaid saddles -- like the classic black and whites -- except better! Mom asked, what about the other kids? Another time, he arrived, orange cowboy hat on head, little  brown purse on arm.  For me?  No, mine, he laughed!

*************

That's it!
I hope it captures the essence!

I no longer have the shoes or the hat,
but I do have the purse. It may not look like much,
but I felt super stylish back in 1965!
I think it was already vintage then
-- now even more so!

Something else that Grandpa got for me — just because I really wanted it — was a Springerle rolling pin. I’ve had this rolling pin nearly 60 years, even though I’ve only made the actual cookies a few times. I guess I love it for the memory more than for the cookies. I was only a child, but I saw that rolling pin and couldn't stop asking for it until my grandpa finally surprised me with it!

Perhaps it's time to make another batch of Springerle
-- maybe this Christmas.

Photos from Previous Posts

Riding the train to Kansas City in 1966

Sitting on the front porch in 1981

Recent Posts about Grandma Lindsey
Sewing Box Lost Forever & Belonging to Rovilla

More about Rovilla
FN & QK & KL

Cadbury Flake

"In Scotland
there were vignettes of simple, stunning beauty
all the time
I climbed Dumyat and
took communion with a lab,
found the heather
and tasted every chocolate Flake . . ."

from the poem "Strip the Willow"
by tammy l. knox sandel, 8/17/13

~ excerpt from my current fortnightly blog post ~Tammy's reference to "every chocolate Flake" spoke to my heart. I was not in 1979 a fan of the Flake, though I have since become one, as it is a favorite of my English relatives, including my husband and sons. Back then, however, what Kathy and I loved to buy at the British Rail newsstands were Twix Bars and Mini Babybel cheeses, two novelty snacks not widely available in the United States at the time. Somehow I knew exactly what Tammy meant about the memory of a chocolate treat that comes to symbolize everything new and unique and untried about "a specific place we must find." Or perhaps a place that we have actually found; or an old, exciting time when there was just so much to learn!

Tammy's poem led to a day spent thinking about Flakes and Twix; old friends, new friends, children of friends, and young womanhood. At the close of that day, I was looking in the pantry for some chocolate chips to add to a batch of zucchini bread ('tis the season), and -- to perfectly round out a series of connections and coincidences -- what did I discover and use instead? A package of very crumbly (even more so than usual) Flake Bars, no doubt left over from Gerry's parents' last visit.

Believe it or not, Tammy is not the first author I know to have incorporated a reference to Flakes in her writing! In Gladys Reunited: A Personal American Journey, Sandi Toksvig -- herself a master of the literary coincidence -- describes bringing a friend in the United States a package of Flakes from England:

I had brought her a gift of Cadbury's Flake -- a chocolate bar
that crumbles the minute you unwrap it. She was thrilled.
'We don't have it here. Your mom actually turned me on to them.
The first time, I said, "It comes like this?" It's a mess.
You have to work at them. Great when you're cooking.'

(109; see also
"Birds of Pray" and "Opal: In Love with the World")
Turns out I'm not the only one who uses Flakes when baking! I like it that Sandi's friend had the same idea; and she's right -- they do make a mess and you have to "work at them." Yet, Tammy's advice is undoubtedly the best of all: forget the mess, go for the experience, learn all you can, jump in to "strip the willow" and taste "every chocolate Flake." Just say Yes!

For the rest of Tammy's poem . . . and more
see my current post
"Every Chocolate Flake"
on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A fortnightly [every 14th & 28th]
literary blog of connection & coincidence; custom & ceremony

New Fortnightly Post Coming Tomorrow:
"Do Not Worry, Do Not Hurry, Just Eat Curry!"

Plenty to Read

"But will you woo this wild cat?" *

Fuqua & Complete Works
of Shakespeare in Two Volumes
These books were a graduation present to me from
my friend Marietta when I graduated from highschool.
My friend Joni gave the Complete Sonnets to finish out the set!
They knew me well!

**********************
Bringing you up to date on
kittislist.blogspot.com

October: The Not So Grand Test of Virtue
George Orwell & Wayne Muller

September: Paper Roses, Paper Moons, Paper Towns
John Green: Queries & Favorites

August: Guest Blog: HiyaKiyah
Kiyah Rosenbluth on Paper Towns, The One and Only Ivan,
and Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

July: Guest Blog: Critical Mode
Tammy Sandel on The Agony and The Ecstasy
* Thanks to Cousin Nick for this caption!
~ from The Taming of the Shrew (I, ii, 169)

Holiday Barns

Thanksgiving

Harvest Sunset

Red gold of pools,
Sunset furrows six o'clock,
And the farmer done in the fields
And the cows in the barns with bulging udders.

Take the cows and the farmer,
Take the barns and bulging udders.
Leave the red gold of pools
And sunset furrows six o'clock.
The farmer's wife is singing.
The farmer's boy is whistling.
I wash my hands in red gold of pools.

A few more favorites
from Tammy Sandel's
"Barn Heart Series"

Christmas

Improved Farm Land

Tall timber stood here once, here on a corn belt farm along the Monon.

Here the roots of a half mile of trees dug their runners deep in the loam for a grip and a hold against wind storms.

Then the axmen came and the chips flew to the zing of steel and handle the lank railsplitters cut the big ones first, the beeches and the oaks, then the brush.

Dynamite, wagons and horses took the stumps--the plows sunk their teeth in--now it is first class corn land--improved property--and the hogs grunt over the fodder crops.

It would come hard now for this half mile of improved farm land along the Monon corn belt, on a piece of Grand Prairie, to remember once it had a great singing family of trees.

Both poems by Carl Sandburg (1878 – 1967)

Barn of My Heart

Happy Birthday ~ Emily Dickinson
Born this day in 1830
[died May 15, 1886]

#178 ~ I cautious, scanned my little life

I cautious, scanned my little life—
I winnowed what would fade
From what would last till Heads like mine
Should be a-dreaming laid.

I put the latter in a Barn—
The former, blew away.
I went one winter morning
And lo—my priceless Hay

Was not upon the “Scaffold”—
Was not upon the “Beam”—
And from a thriving Farmer—
A Cynic, I became.

Whether a Thief did it—
Whether it was the wind—
Whether Deity’s guiltless—
My business is, to find!

So I begin to ransack!
How is it Hearts, with Thee?
Art thou within the little Barn
Love provided Thee?

~ Emily Dickinson [emphasis added]

My friend Tammy Sandel takes these stunning photographs
and then captures the personality
of each Indiana barn with a unique name.
The two shown here are from her "Barn Heart Series"

Tammy has also inpsired me a couple of times
with my own barn - naming:
Kittredge & Portia

Refinishing

Rough ~ Sanded ~ Polished
Floor Refinishing Project ~ Philadelphia ~ 2001
Oak.

My belly is an acorn
Of round, sweet meat

Smooth, silky
A heart carved into fur

I can feed the squirrels
Which feed the hawks
Which oversee--
Floating their mighty feathers
Down to earth
As a reminder,
As a sign:

Do not give up
Someone cares

I can lie still
Waiting
Full of promise
In the dirt

I can sprout
And grow
Reach heights and girth
And nobility
Beyond my now,
Beyond yours

Eventually
I can be
Someone you walk on
Her satin-grained,
Robust
Lines
Her oaky flavor
Her gold

What was the floor before she was underfoot?

Hostess to the owls?

Mistress to moss?

Does she miss that life?

Does she warm instinctively, simply yearning for your sole?

~ by Tammy Sandel

"satin - grained, Robust . . . gold . . . underfoot"

For more poetry from Tammy,
check out my current Fortnightly post
~ "Heart of Hearts" ~

Saving What We Love ~ Stronger Tomorrow

"What does it matter if I’ve been
discouraged or encouraged over the years?
This thing’s got to be done. It’s not a question
of how I feel from moment to moment. . . .
Be depressed, discouraged, and disappointed
at failure and the disheartening effects of
ignorance, greed, corruption and bad politics,
but never give up."

~ Marjory Stoneman Douglas ~
(1890 - 1998)

Read more -- about this amazing woman after whom the Parkland, Florida, high school is named: American journalist, author, women's suffrage advocate, conservationist and defender of the Everglades

“That's how we're gonna win.
Not fighting what we hate, but saving what we love.”
~ from The Last Jedi

“The Last Jedi . . . also features a significant new character named Rose Tico (Kelly Marie Tran) who . . . doesn’t want her sacrifice to have been in vain. . . .

"Rose is a wonderfully sneaky character, in that she’s set up as a plucky sidekick but almost immediately becomes a crucial teacher, and equal partner, for Finn. Her certitude about the Resistance is not tied up in a noble idea of heroism, but in her understanding of what they’re trying to overthrow. . . .

'That’s how we’re gonna win. Not fighting what we hate, saving what we love,' she tells Finn. It’s a motto that might sound trite, but it’s a beautiful summation of what Johnson is trying to grapple with. The First Order is evil, yes, but the Resistance isn’t just good because they’re against them; the rebels are also trying to create a better world, and to protect a cause the rest of the galaxy can rally to. It’s a message Johnson drives home with the film’s final image—one of the stable boys on Canto Bight, sweeping the steps for his master, and looking up at the stars, dreaming of a more hopeful future."

Read more: "The Last Jedi's Biggest Storytelling Innovation"
By David Sims

A Barn Named Kittredge ~ Kitti for short!
[name provided by Tammy Sandel]

"May our minds be stronger tomorrow."
~ from Brigsby Bear
"But it soon becomes apparent that the conversations would only be normal if the child were 8 years old and the family belonged to a cult. James’ only conversations revolve around Brigsby Bear, never mind the weird handshake ritual of the family when they say in unison, 'May our minds be stronger tomorrow.' They wear gas masks to go outside, which James does on occasion. . . . James can’t help but relate everything he sees to Brigsby Bear; he won’t stop talking about it.

"His parents try everything to divert his attention from the show and dismiss it as unimportant. . . . But James is fixated and will not abandon his love for Brigsby Bear. Fortunately for him, his new friends find James’ favorite show entertaining and his enthusiasm contagious. One by one, those around James learn to accept his obsession and jump on board . . . ."

Things to Track Down

1. Quotation along the lines of:
"Mental health = a commitment reality."

2. A video example of human cooperation
-- I think shown by Christopher Hitchens --
of a toddler holding a door open for an adult
with an armful of books.

Gin-gle All the Way

Whimsical New Year Cards
From I Love and Love Design Studio

Gotta love the the way that both
Amy and Tammy use "gin" as a verb!

Gin the Essence

the red of a single berry
the edge of a flake of snow
the biting scent of pine tree
the warmth of fire glow

if i could gin the essence
of this holiday i love
i’d wrap it as a present
through me, from Him above

to notice and to listen
to feel, and smell and taste
to savor love’s beginning
a babe in our embrace

i’d call us all to dinner
a feast with candles high
and dance my joy unending
with lusty lullaby:

merry! happy! shining! hope!
i. love. you.

t. sandel, 2009

More Fun Cards by my niece Amy

Amy mailed these to us from the UK on a Friday
and they arrived in Virginia on Tuesday -- 4 days!

When we confirmed safe arrival, Amy wrote:
"No way!!! It's a Christmas Miracle!!!
My customers in the UK haven't even received their orders yet!

As I was saying: Season of Miracles!