How-dee. I am going for a bit of a 'tmi' approach today. That is to say 'to much information' as it were. First and foremost I let my light red arm pit hairs grow out beginning about two years ago. The great armpit hair re-set. 2020 was such a year of breaking all conventions. I love my arm pits EVEN more now. It is fun to use my sister-in-laws soap. She has a company called 'Dirty Kitty'. No aluminum 'antiperspirant' either. No clogged pours. No altzheimers...
Anyway, foaming these babies up and washing all that natural bacteria down the drain has been wonderful. I love to step into the shower, put my face up to the water all: 'Hidden Messages in Water' style. Water is the healer. We don't take it for granted this amazing turning of the tap and presto there she flows. I love water. When I remember to let each drop heal me I have a much better shower experience and a BATH? Wowza. That is a lot of drops of healing water surrounding and submerging its healing into my skin. Add some epsom salt, baking soda and sea salt and twenty minutes later you can see what it actually pulls out of your skin if you use a flash light in the tub water. The water has to be very hot. And you must stay in for 20 minutes.
Soon I'll give you all an update on the 'no more shaving of legs' that seems to be commencing. I just feel lazy and I have a -not so secret fantasy- of getting all the hair waxed for summer if I really feel the 'need'. But somehow, I doubt the sharp shaving blades of summer will be very important when the time comes in the coming summer season. I'll be too busy in the garden to care about my light red leg hairs. My legs ARE extra warm. Plus, I am wearing my wool socks these days. God bless everyone. Much love, Lizzie
It's Irish German tea time with yours truly today. The good news coming in the form of a genealogy time line that showed me a line going back to Germany. That's news to me. When I was in high school in Anchorage Alaska I took high school German with Mrs. Buchanan. She was a dear heart and let me slide past her grading system with a singing of Stille Nacht (Silent Night) at Christmas time. Her sister was on the other side of the wall at this point in time and I recall years later hearing about the wall coming down and hoping she was reunited with her sister whom she had not seen for well over twenty years when I was her student. Anyway, I'm German. Just a touch. It is showcased in my mean streak. Beware.
America the beautiful. The melting pot. My family's blood line made it all the way West. Oregon Country. I am grateful. I visited Ireland in 1997 and traced roots all the way to a tiny little town where the literal stone house of my ancestors still stands. I asked why the windows were so very small and was told that the English would tax the amount of light that came through the window. Yep good old England. That's where we escaped from folks I mean immigrated from. We the people.
Springfield, Oregon March 1965. It was a small apartment on the hillside above the mill. They had been married about a year. She was in nursing school and he had had a car accident and was in traction for six weeks when they met. There are stories of how she had got on stage at a bar somewhere and sang songs to an impromptu audience. His father owned a cafe where he had worked all through school before enlisting. His mother had died in his arms and then he met a nurse who would become his wife. Drinking alcohol was the norm and his car accident was the result of a partying escapade with his sister and her husband.
I regret not driving dad to Springfield before he died so that he could show me the apartment or at least where it was. That's where I was conceived after my parents had been married a year or so. Dad died though and even though my mom is alive she would be unable to recall the apartment as she barely recognizes my brother and I at this point. Dementia is kind to her but cruel to us who want to feel her know us, remember us and love us. I sing to her and she knows me. I cling to her, smell her, hug her and feel her. My mom who I love.
It is winter now and I live in the next town over which is the place I was born. I am getting ready to gather spit and get a DNA read out to trace my history. I know we go way back in England to a village near Stonehenge. The oldest of lines to the Vincent clan. On the other side there are roots to Holland, Ireland and Norway. My brother's DNA shows roots to Scotland and I am thrilled to see what my blood line reveals. My mom will spit also so we can go back even further.
New years eve this year was spent with good friends and midnight turned into 2022 at an Irish pub here in my hometown. We are good in health thanks to natural immunity. Farewell 2021. You took my father. Gratitude, ascorbic acid powder and kind friends saved me from the wretched virus last year. God is good.
Hello again dear hearts. Last night I dreamed of David. He was performing in a band at a strange country fair kind of place and he had anticipated seeing me and then when I arrived at the outdoor venue he saw me right away. I was wearing a long dress and I looked beautiful. We were in a kind of love that was time tested and we didn't speak to each other until the dream was almost over. The dream brought back many memories and a few old friends made cameo appearances in the dream. John and Annie were there and there was music and passion. I was glad for a good dream. I listened to bi-aural beats for sleeping on Youtube because I have been having bad dreams. The link to the video is below. After falling sleep to this I had a great dream and rested really well in the night. So sweet dreams everyone. Love, Elizabeth
Hello beloveds. Drinking Dragonfly hot chocolate nestled in front of the fire. The new year 2022 is cruising by. Just finished chapter one of the book 1984 and I am listening to a recording of a woman reading it. Why did I not read this novel when it was assigned to me in junior high or was it high school? It slid by during my education. Maybe it was with a dreamy forethought to save this book until it was really weird to read it later in life when the patterns in the book were actually playing out in real time. How did George Orwell come to the depth in his fictions? His imagination must have been vibrating in a queazy futuristic, paranormal, future-knowing kind of way. His real name was Eric Arthur Blair. In 1927 he had begun to live in England again and told his friend he was deciding to be a writer full time: he decided to write of "certain aspects of the present that he set out to know" and this I believe suggests that he had a distinct willingness to study and write of what totalitarian rule and democratic socialism could look like. He took up the pen name Orwell before writing 'Animal Farm' and '1984' because "It is a good round English name." The name George was inspired by the patron saint of England, and Orwell after the River Orwell in Suffolk which was one of Orwell's favorite locations. Well anyway, I am excited to start chapter two so I am off and away.