Feeling blue? Take a look at this amazing life

Love is all you need: around the world

Hanky alert!

Sometimes human ingenuity and creativity strikes me near speechless. This is one of those time.

What can we learn from the sheer coordination effort of a project like this? What can we learn about people all over the world singing the same song, in the same voice, in the same key? Beautifully, I might add.

Perhaps something so huge that is seems tiny, our shared humanity. Our commonality is so much greater than our differences.

I wish that our singing could be heard above the bombs and gun fire. And, for a few minutes it does.

Thanks, mom, for passing this along. She has an amazing knack for knowing what is blog worthy and worth passing on.

Peace

A child's last wish

I just received this e-mail from cousin in Minnesota.

Diana Harrison Biorkman (friend of a friend) has a 5yr. old son who is in the last stages of a 2 1/2 yr. battle with Neuroblastoma Cancer. The family is celebrating Christmas next week and Noah's request is to get lots of Christmas cards. If you have a moment could you send an extra Christmas card to:

Noah Biorkman
1141 Fountian View Circle
South Lyon, MI 48178

Such a small and simple request that we can do for someone. If you know anyone else who might be willing to send Noah a card, please share his address. Wouldn't it be neat to receive so many well-wishes and Christmas greetings from around the US?

Tomorrow is a holiday but I am going to get one put together to mail on Thursday.

What do you say folk?

Can we surprise a brave little kid and give him his wish?

Good bye notes

How would you say goodbye to your family? Its hard to even think about. What if you were 6 years old and had brain cancer?

Elena Desserich wasn't really supposed to know she was dying, her parents didn't want her to dwell on it the last days of her life. Her parents always told her the treatments were making her better. They always remained hopeful so Elena could live around optimism.

But the brave, beautiful, sweet, charming, artistic Elena did loose her fight with brain cancer. She did end up having to leave her family and left a hole a mile wide.

Her family started finding the notes right away; tucked into drawers, in a briefcase, with the Christmas ornaments, under things. Little notes from a little girl, mostly about how she loved her family and sister. Colorful drawings with hearts, she left hundreds all over the house and the family is still finding them.

According to an interview with the Today Show, her parents explained, “It wasn’t just a random collection of notes. She was actually hiding these notes for us,” her father said. “It was her way of letting us know that everything would be OK,” added Brooke. “You hope that it never ends.”

They found so many note, they wondered what to do with them. Such a pure, honest display of love and bravery, they felt they should share them. Maybe they would bring hope and solace to others who had to say goodbye to their families or had lost a child of their own.

The parents compiled them and posted them to an on-line journal, then self-published excerpts in a book that included reproductions of many of Elena’s notes. After selling several thousand books in just a few weeks, HarperCollins bought the book and published it, with proceeds going to the charity founded in memory of their daughter, The Cure Starts Now.

Life offers so many lessons and sometimes the most profound teachers are children.

I wish I didn't care

I wish I didn't care
By Nancy Greggs:

I wish I didn’t care that some children sleep
Hungry and cold, too weary to weep
Too hopeless to know that others could share – but won’t
I wish I didn’t care

I wish I didn’t know that some people die
Alone and friendless, without knowing why
Wanting to question why no one is there – but don’t
I wish I didn’t care

I wish I didn’t see what’s there on the news
Meant not to enlighten, but just to amuse
Designed to remind me what I could do – but can’t
I wish I didn’t care

I wish I didn’t know in my heart
That I am meant to do my part
To speak, to write, to sing, to plan
To do whatever it is I can
To give, to teach, to help – assist
Those who fight, speak out – resist
I wish I didn’t know I could
Change the world – if only I would
I’d be free, and unaware
If I could just not care

This is my burden, this is my task
To have to wonder, deign to ask
Why some have what is deemed their lot
Why some are valued, and others not

I wish I didn’t care about it all
Who lives, who dies, who heeds the call
Who listens, who hastens, who risks the fall
Of the concept, the dream
That we can be all that we seem
And never falter on our way to where we’re going, if only we go there together

I wish I didn’t care that my brothers are mine
That my sisters are sisters, subdued but sublime
That they are in my keeping, as I am in theirs
I wish I didn’t care.

But I do. And so do all of you.

It’s not about who they are; it’s about who you are.

Just care. A little goes a long way.

So try it.

Another moment in subversive speeches to students

Did anyone else cry at this speech? I read it and cried. Then saw it and cried.

Sheesh.

Why do I have to be differnt?

This is why I blog about my kids...

...to make it easier to remember the little things; the day to day, small stuff of life. I write my blog so that I can share it with my kids someday when they care enough and so that I can relive it for myself. You know. Completely selfish reasons.

Thanks for sharing in it. Check out this wonderful essay. She says it so well.

Hat tip to gal pal, Judith, for sending it to me!

by Anna Quindlen

If not for the photographs, I might have a hard time believing they ever existed. The pensive infant with the swipe of dark bangs and the black button eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll. The placid baby with the yellow ringlets and the high piping voice. The sturdy toddler with the lower lip that curled into an apostrophe above her chin.

ALL MY BABIES are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.

Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach., T. Berry Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories.

What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations --what they taught me was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.

Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout.

One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 2. When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow.

I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did-Hall-of-Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, "What did you get wrong?" (She insisted I included that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I included that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be.

The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me.

I was bound and determined to learn from the experts.

It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

Happy Mother's Day: all species

Jasmine: a dog gives back

In 2003, police in Warwickshire , England , opened a garden shed and found a whimpering, cowering dog. It had been locked in the shed and abandoned. It was dirty and malnourished, and had clearly been abused.

In an act of kindness, the police took the dog, which was a Greyhound female, to the nearby Nuneaton Warwickshire Wildlife Sanctuary, run by a man named Geoff Grewcock and known as a willing haven for Animals abandoned, orphaned or otherwise in need. Geoffand the other sanctuary staff went to work with two aims to restore the dog to full health, and to win her trust.. It took several weeks, but eventually both goals were achieved...

They named her Jasmine, and they started to think about finding her an adoptive home.

But Jasmine had other ideas. No-one remembers now how it began, but she started welcoming all animal arrivals at the sanctuary. It wouldn't matter if it was a puppy, a fox cub, a rabbit or any other lost or hurting animal. Jasmine would peer into the box or cage and, where possible, deliver a welcoming lick.

Geoff relates one of the early incidents. "We had two puppies that had been abandoned by a nearby railway line. One was a Lakeland Terrier cross and another was a Jack Russell Doberman cross. They were tiny when they arrived at the centre and Jasmine approached them and grabbed one by the scruff of the neck in her mouth and put him on the settee. Then she fetched the other one and sat down with them, cuddling them."

"But she is like that with all of our animals, even the rabbits. She takes all the stress out of them and it helps them to not only feel close to her but to settle into their new surroundings.

"She has done the same with the fox and badger cubs; she licks the rabbits and guinea pigs and even lets the birds perch on the bridge of her nose."

Jasmine, the timid, abused, deserted waif, became the animal sanctuary's resident surrogate mother, a role for which she might have been born. The list of orphaned and abandoned youngsters she has cared for comprises five fox cubs, four badger cubs, 15 chicks, eight guinea pigs, two stray puppies and 15 rabbits.

And one roe deer fawn. Tiny Bramble, 11 weeks old, was found semi-conscious in a field. Upon arrival at the sanctuary, Jasmine cuddled up to her to keep her warm and then went into the full foster-mom role. Jasmine the greyhound showers Bramble the Roe deer with affection and makes sure nothing is matted.

"They are inseparable," says Geoff. "Bramble walks between her legs and they keep kissing each other.. They walk together round the sanctuary. It's a real treat to see them."

Jasmine will continue to care for Bramble until she is old enough to be returned to woodland life.

When that happens, Jasmine will not be lonely. She will be too busy showering love and affection on the next orphan or victim of abuse.

April is Autism awareness month: #1

Meet Rory. He has something to share with you.

Survival instinct

From: www.hoax-slayer.com/prosthetic-leg-pony.shtml

Meet Molly. She's a grey speckled pony who was abandoned by her owners when Hurricane Katrina hit southern Louisiana . She spent weeks on her own before finally being rescued and taken to a farm where abandoned animals were stockpiled.

While there, she was attacked by a pit bull terrier and almost died. Her gnawed right front leg became
infected, and her vet went to LSU for help, but LSU was overwhelmed, and this pony was a welfare case. You know how that goes.

But after surgeon Rustin Moore met Molly, he changed his mind.He saw how the pony was careful to lie down on different sides so she didn't seem to get sores, and how she allowed people to handle her.She protected her injured leg.She constantly shifted her weight and didn't overload her good leg. She was a smart pony with a serious survival ethic.

Moore agreed to remove her leg below the knee, and a temporary artificial limb was built. Molly walked out of the clinic and her story really begins there.

'This was the right horse and the right owner,'Moore insists.

Molly happened to be a one-in-a-million patient.

She's tough as nails, but sweet, and she was willing to cope with pain. She made it obvious she understood that she was in trouble.The other important factor, according to Moore, is having a truly committed and compliant owner who is dedicated to providing the daily care required over the lifetime of the horse.

Molly's story turns into a parable for life in Post-Katrina Louisiana ...

The little pony gained weight, and her mane finally felt a comb.

A human prosthesis designer built her a leg.

The prosthetic has given Molly a whole new life, Allison Barca DVM, Molly's regular vet, reports.

And she asks for it. She will put her little limb out, and come to you and let you know that she wants you to put it on. Sometimes she wants you to take it off too. And sometimes, Molly gets away from Barca. 'It can be pretty bad when you can't catch a three-legged horse,' she laughs.

Most important of all, Molly has a job now. Kay, the rescue farm owner, started taking Molly to shelters, hospitals, nursing homes, and rehabilitation centers. Anywhere she thought that people needed hope. Wherever Molly went, she showed people her pluck. She inspired people, and she had a good time doing it.

'It's obvious to me that Molly had a bigger role to play in life, Moore said. She survived the hurricane, she survived a horrible injury, and now she is giving hope to others.'

Barca concluded, 'She's not back to normal, but she's going to be better.To me, she could be a symbol for New Orleans itself.'

Unwritten

My daughter is just on the threshold of the i-pod years. At 10, she dips in and then almost as quickly recedes back to her 429 stuffed animals, cat's cradle and the comforts and routines of childhood.

During one of her recent sojourns, she downloaded "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield; a hauntingly beautiful pop song that I am sure we have all heard before. Click here to see the music video. Molly says that she heard it for the first time when she was 8 on an east coast airplane trip to see Jake's parents. She was bored and was cruising the in-flight headphones, stumbled upon it and has loved it ever since. This I believe, the kid has an amazing memory.

Well, i-tunes is easy enough to figure out in the end with luck, help and a kid nearby. Molly got i-tune bucks for Christmas so she spent some on this long beloved and remembered song. I haven't heard it since because the i-pod is either lost, misplaced, forgotten or in her ears. Usually in that order.

But, tonight she told me at dinner that the song had inspired her to write a story. Very solemnly with all seriousness, she said, "There is a life story in this song and I am going to write it."

"The story is about a girl who is born partially blind and as a newborn is struggling for her first breath. All the adults are freaking out but a small boy believes that she will make it. He is an optimist." she explains.

"The mother tears spill onto the baby's face because she thinks the baby will die but the mother's tears miraculously restore her sight."

"It is a life story and I want there to be a romance and it will end with her having a baby of her own."

She said she already wrote the prologue, which is from the optimistic boy's perspective. She stopped because she ran out of paper not because she ran out of ideas.

I don't really know what to say to all this. I am dazzled, proud, amazed and perplexed. As a parent, of course, we always, ALWAYS encourage our kids when they go off on these whims. But, it got me thinking about where does true inspiration comes from and how it is fostered? How do we keep it going without forcing or pressuring? When does encouragement turn into fawning, gushing over-praise? I doubt there is a parent out there that can be objective about their own kid. There in lies much of the struggle; no one else can really help with this job.

"Wow, Moll. I want to read that story." I added the slightly lame comment, "I will always make sure you have more paper for your ideas." It seemed like a promise I could keep. She takes it in stride, I am not in her way. She is creating, tasting, experimenting with and living different lives in her head corralling them to eventually give them life on a page.

Special gifts series, Part 4

Bless his sweet little heart.

Special gifts series, Part 3

Special gifts series, Part 2

Just amazing!

Special gifts series, Part 1

The internet is a wonderful place. It makes it so easy to share profound and inspirational ideas and stories.

That is what I would like to do with this series; share stories of truly exceptional, special people. So, here is the question to you; Is there room in this big, beautiful world for everyone and their own special gift? I sure hope so.

Jake said this film was the most powerful thing he has ever seen. What do you think?

Animal School

As parents we are constantly reminded of the amazing differences and uniqueness of our children. All children. One of the most beautiful, haunting and profound depictions of this is a little movie called Animal School.



This is the You Tube version but feel free to clink on "Animal School" in this post and it will take you to the high quality original at the Raising Small Souls website.

Quiz after the movie:

1. How many hankies?

2. What animal were you when you were in school?

3. Do you recognize your kids in the animal school?

Place your answers in the comments. : - )