tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27899021908729018112024-03-12T21:09:15.480-07:00A Running CollectionI'm collecting. Collecting oxygen on runs, toys from the floor, voices and laughter from my children, music from my husband, veggies from the garden, stories to write, and friends to share it all with. Here is my collection.Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.comBlogger333125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-72746819457523795562020-12-24T13:47:00.007-08:002020-12-24T14:15:54.459-08:00The Cattle Are Lowing<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">We’d waited since February for her to calf. By November 20th, all eyes stayed on mama cow - Trahlyta. Her due date was close and we were more than ready. The waiting wrung our patience. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">October was wet and boggy and Trahlyta looked sick. We discovered rotting flesh in her foot. Foot rot set in from standing on soggy ground day after day. George and the children tended to her around the clock as they cleaned out oozing infected sore and cared for her hooves. We’ve had her since she was a few days old. The children raised her. She’s part of our family. And, she’s our first cow to calf. She held the keys to our own dairy supply and to our tender hearts as we watched her stay under the weather. All we could do was wait and make sure she stayed healthy and it wasn’t as easy as we expected. But now, her hooves were healthy and her belly was swollen and we were waiting. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">On the morning of the 24th, I rushed to the window at the first day light. Down by the creek, I saw Trahlyta and a red calf standing together. The day was here. The calf was here. The calf was tiny and weak and wouldn’t nurse. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Suddenly, I wanted to go back to the waiting. That was easier than watching the calf grow weak and stumble about unable to nurse. George and Amelia and George Wilder worked to get the calf to cling to an udder, but he wouldn’t. They rushed off to Tractor Supply to purchase a bottle and a bag of colostrum and back again to try a bottle. Why didn’t we prepare ahead of time? We didn’t know what to expect. We didn’t know what was coming. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Amelia gave him the bottle and he took it. We rushed out the next morning to see if he had made it through the night. He was there alive and weak. But she kept working with him and Trahlyta and the calf that day. And the next. There was some wrangling between children and mama cow and calf, but the calf got the hang of it and by day three, he came skipping out of the barn, curious and flighty. Hannah said his name should be Oliver.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjneTKVF5ePES5A9D1wM_VsNuoQSLebcsO_6OJlvRzAfCImep5g3yc-lortGo6458T6a2WJLNHBYaEVzFZpLJqRmflVWVijU1CTsWnazHIzGzJvBxaIbKCkOe52XdEE_zi05S3Xu_tTvhmu/s2048/EBF4E911-BE80-45A1-8EA6-0D666CDFEF98.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjneTKVF5ePES5A9D1wM_VsNuoQSLebcsO_6OJlvRzAfCImep5g3yc-lortGo6458T6a2WJLNHBYaEVzFZpLJqRmflVWVijU1CTsWnazHIzGzJvBxaIbKCkOe52XdEE_zi05S3Xu_tTvhmu/w300-h400/EBF4E911-BE80-45A1-8EA6-0D666CDFEF98.heic" width="300" /></a></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I stood in the door of the barn watching Oliver suck mightily. Trahlyta lowed over him with soft guttural mama sounds. Soothing sounds. Careful noises. Instinctual melodies sounds a creator formulated to bring peace even in a lowly stable. And in that very instant, I knew there was no mistake that the Christ child was born in a barn. Where dust and hay and piles of poop litter the floor. The king of the world birthed in a dark stable. A most holy place. A place where daily, life and death collide. Where a giant beast gently sings to her young calf. Very little light breaks through, but in the places where it does, we can see the miracle before us as Oliver nuzzles near his mother. Shepherds would understand the holiness found here. Glory to the new born King. </span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The waiting for Christmas is grinding and exciting. We pull out Christmas and place it in the places that CHristmas goes. We bake and share the baking and eat one extra because the flavors are more than just delight, they are memory. We make sure to get all the right gifts, and we plan to be with the people we love the most. We light candles and sing. We have calendars and chains to count down the days. The day arrives and we explode. The crescendo! Gifts around the tree. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">By noon, we want to return to the waiting. The waiting, suddenly, is less messy, less involved. The what was is easier. We want to go back to the waiting because the finale left us with something that actually needs feeding and nourishment and love and patience and time and energy and hope and a future and a continued sense of purpose. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-e617833c-7fff-7c87-3d01-76073d354dbb"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinm41k2-UpDz5NNOYf9cOid5BBZCau5ga3frnHkC1P7KBzFHNHZ4PkUSf7u_8BaQTPe7mm1Z57qIbJaKQgM5X6qt3Sy-iCWxtvvpmUuiB7n_l04TQdFQRNGkC2TBpY5UI_F4FfumdVx8N/s2048/EC9ECA0E-CD34-4576-A951-DDCB9C4968EC.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinm41k2-UpDz5NNOYf9cOid5BBZCau5ga3frnHkC1P7KBzFHNHZ4PkUSf7u_8BaQTPe7mm1Z57qIbJaKQgM5X6qt3Sy-iCWxtvvpmUuiB7n_l04TQdFQRNGkC2TBpY5UI_F4FfumdVx8N/w400-h300/EC9ECA0E-CD34-4576-A951-DDCB9C4968EC.heic" width="400" /></a></div><br />This year, as we sing of hope and joy and the arrival of our savior, take the savior with you. The fragile baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes in a manger is alive and well and has come out of the barn.<p></p>Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-50983405272272754712020-07-11T07:32:00.004-07:002020-07-11T07:56:20.715-07:00Making A Mess<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We have a giant garden. We actually have three, make that four, no five places where vegetables or herbs are growing. I’ve posted glorious pictures of the produce and declared how resourceful we are -- our own backyard grocery. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I write these words, everyone else in the family is sitting at the kitchen table stringing gallons of green beans, debating over what in the world we are going to do with all of the squash and growing giddy with excitement that we finally have enough okra to pickle. The window sill is lined with almost ripe tomatoes, and the cucumbers are coming in steadily. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPh7TUoQLnKkC5qXTsHeCcvC3Fn2UUavWpuYsMkOfpXcnGJheCR9JMawiCMUyDr2wrLm9RwUQ5kPcZbN90TJ4tQx6n0HC2mmENPu5xXssJgjST_3zjkBpnduUAgwL0MKYU62CeuC489N2y/s1600/22ll%252B%2525GRSoyuVRi4eYXjfQ.jpg" 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/AVvXsEiPh7TUoQLnKkC5qXTsHeCcvC3Fn2UUavWpuYsMkOfpXcnGJheCR9JMawiCMUyDr2wrLm9RwUQ5kPcZbN90TJ4tQx6n0HC2mmENPu5xXssJgjST_3zjkBpnduUAgwL0MKYU62CeuC489N2y/s320/22ll%252B%2525GRSoyuVRi4eYXjfQ.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcaurhCCL4nk3N1IE9nKKx3DODz58twTEofE-Hr8AFb-VDzmvJuo6ICltTN5o__LMxBMCSyWmL42ZZiwTbuc3DEmCQKNw9-HXnsuUbnmRSCBw3jjn99pUwqm0SSO5b6dA3W9M6Ka214-r/s1600/0kWzfdFLRsKqXJ%2525WGhbDfQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px; 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/AVvXsEjgcaurhCCL4nk3N1IE9nKKx3DODz58twTEofE-Hr8AFb-VDzmvJuo6ICltTN5o__LMxBMCSyWmL42ZZiwTbuc3DEmCQKNw9-HXnsuUbnmRSCBw3jjn99pUwqm0SSO5b6dA3W9M6Ka214-r/s320/0kWzfdFLRsKqXJ%2525WGhbDfQ.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We spent all of spring waiting and watching tiny starts push their way up out of the soil and lost sleep rushing to their aid when frost threatened their tender leaves. We planned out rows, neat little rows. We snatched away any and all weeds before the even had a chance to bully our plants. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is now mid July. Our gardens are officially wild jungles. The squash plant has dinosaur leaves shoulder high with tiny hairs that make our skin crazy itch. The beans are so far over our heads that there's three feet of beans we can’t even reach. The term "mess of beans" is no joke! And the beans we can reach are home to thousands (literally) of Japanese beetles that dive bomb our faces and ears and hair and shirts. And Mexican beetle larvae chew away at the leaves the Japanese beetles haven’t already demolished for breakfast.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSIjzmKEnjRAIWT4Vm-Y4Yyv8UrLuarIR9IrzsEGhdsOmC1OdX7Z_L-fNXriBK2SWMcfu4PMB9gLpXEXgivsFYuWVMcNZRp_0YC1woGz1n4-cdhdhTjhTOspx23cjV6FjedjUaw2OpguG/s1600/TO8p3uitSgWK%2525bzhmSlEoQ.jpg" 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/AVvXsEgtSIjzmKEnjRAIWT4Vm-Y4Yyv8UrLuarIR9IrzsEGhdsOmC1OdX7Z_L-fNXriBK2SWMcfu4PMB9gLpXEXgivsFYuWVMcNZRp_0YC1woGz1n4-cdhdhTjhTOspx23cjV6FjedjUaw2OpguG/s320/TO8p3uitSgWK%2525bzhmSlEoQ.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWhRlH5WDZJsK9J-Atp4SEGbQxR1wgImq74ae0KrQBHxQhu5sKmByRS4xuPxlx54b68vD3Hqv3YB9XxJzjniqJdzkYPLjMiGgJOGSCj4OGpKj-dgBL6KyeR770IsymwCz8pDIzrYSikU9_/s1600/uoO6w6waTQeXeOK%252BomgbCA.jpg" 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/AVvXsEgWhRlH5WDZJsK9J-Atp4SEGbQxR1wgImq74ae0KrQBHxQhu5sKmByRS4xuPxlx54b68vD3Hqv3YB9XxJzjniqJdzkYPLjMiGgJOGSCj4OGpKj-dgBL6KyeR770IsymwCz8pDIzrYSikU9_/s320/uoO6w6waTQeXeOK%252BomgbCA.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The tomato plants sprawl and are so heavy with fruit and leaves that tying them up is useless, so they reach more fingers out into more space. The pumpkin plant that voluntarily appeared in the midst of it all has three giant beautiful pumpkins growing from 100 feet of sprawling vine that is now taking over the yard. The okra took four months to get to knee high and in one week, I’m ducking underneath it’s leaves to harvest the okra. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s a wild mess. A mess of weeds and plant. We can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. It’s useless to weed, it’s useless to control, so we duck and climb and itch and laugh and hunt through green on green for red tomatoes and hope we’ve found all the zucchini, which we won’t, until it is as long as a baseball bat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You can’t even tell we actually created neat rows, or that there was planning and purpose involved in the first stages. There are no more tender shoots. Only deep green tough leaves that can withstand July’s hottest days. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our gardens do not belong in a magazine. There is nothing neat and tidy about them. They are not cute. They are wild. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, they are fruitful. We are filling our bellies and our freezers and sharing with friends and strangers fresh chemical free produce that has only travelled between garden and table. Our children participate in all of the work and the eating and the processing. It is our life. Our messy, fruitful life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We often want what we do to look picturesque. To stay flawless. To have neat and tidy rows. But sometimes that isn’t what brings out the most fruit. Yes, Chip and Joanna Gaines have managed both of these well and I’m sure it can be done. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But this is a reminder, to myself most of all, that our lives, even the mess I feel like I am making can produce a bounty of harvest! The work we put in might not always end up producing exactly what we had in mind, but it is producing. But, if I had not stayed up late or been up before the sun to protect the tiny shoots, I would not have the produce. So now, as I look at the wild untamed garden, I need to remember, we did the work early and although we can’t keep the weeds back, the plants are strong enough to ignore their existence. They are the ones overcoming. When I look at my children, work, marriage, my place in this wide world, faith, friendships, struggles, successes -- I’m messy. But my life is full to the brim -- a giant jungle of delight and health and love and underneath all those giant leaves I can find fruit, even baseball size fruit. </span></div>
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Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-31969173424170137892020-05-10T07:59:00.001-07:002020-05-10T09:44:46.142-07:00Mother's Day Garden Rescue <div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">At 5 a.m. this morning, I felt a cold breeze brush across my forehead from the window above me. Immediately I remembered we didn’t cover the tomatoes. Or the squash. Or the basil. Or any of the fragile life tender green and growing. Growing because we planted it and because we watered it and because we want it to feed us and because our family has spent countless hours prepping soil, dragging water, and watching the weather closer than the Weather Channel. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There have been five other nights that we remembered to cover the plants in preparation for a coming storm or freeze. We’d already been up in the middle of the night rushing to protect it all as the winds whipped at us. We had found every last bucket and canister and jar that would cover our precious starts. Most of our work felt in vain because we hadn’t had a frost or a wild storm actually do enough damage for the shelters to make a difference...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Truth -- I was frustrated because we had covered all the plants the night before and there wasn’t a freeze. Now the yard was littered with the flotsam and jetsam we’d used as miniature shelters. I didn’t want to do it all again, and just like the night before, there was a freeze warning, but the temperature wasn’t going to dip that low, I was sure of it. I didn’t want to spend the time on this again.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the breeze blowing through the window was too cold. I threw on some clothes, grabbed a jacket, and slipped on some Chacos. The cars were already covered in frost and I could see it forming on the roof. I had to act fast. I ran around gathering all the canisters that were everywhere. I grabbed tarps and sheets and started gently tending to each plant. In the dark, I shook the heavy dew off of giant squash leaves and tiny basil plants that was getting ready to freeze. I blew my own warm breath on tomato leaves before gently placing a random container over them to protect the sprawling green. Half way through, my toes were frozen solid, I ran back inside and replaced my Chacos with socks and boots. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Already the temperature had dropped lower and I knew I had to move quick. We have four different garden plots, and thirty plants that needed help, but by 6:15, as frost settled on the grass, I was finished and cuddled up in a chair with a cup of coffee. The plants were safe. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One by one four kiddos made their way down the stairs. Tired eyed and content they either curled up by the fire or bundled up to check on the animals outside. After breakfast, I headed back out to uncover all the plant babies. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I uncovered those plants and the sun warmed my back, I thought about my own kiddos. These living things I’ve poured my life into. My energy. My heart. My mind. My entire being I’ve given to raising these precious creatures. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Growing kids is hard work! I feel like I've been awake since January of 2006 -- when my first child entered this world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lately, I've felt a little like I’m at that place where I don’t want to go pick up all the flotsam and jetsam and cover the plants again. I don’t want to put the extra effort into maintaining and nurturing. Especially when it seems pointless. I’m at the phase where it feels like I’ve done so much tending, so much nurturing, and so much watching. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, when the wind blew cold, I was up. I knew I would get up no matter what. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know what -- I am abundantly blessed. As I watch my children laugh and play and create -- the wind isn't blowing cold at all! The wind is still and the air is sweet and they are growing beautifully. I can rest and watch and tend most of the time. But, I remain ready with my buckets. I will rush and rescue when they need to be covered and rescued. I will to grab my jacket and run out in the middle of the night to stay close and tend.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some of you are in the middle of rushing to grab buckets, rushing to blow your own breath and life into your child day in and day out. It is exhausting and it often seems pointless. But you are doing the right thing! You are giving them all the strength they need to grow and stretch and create.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Moms, you know it. Even when we are tired, we can move and we can move quick. That is what makes us moms. Today. If you are tired. If you see a mess everywhere, if you feel like all the effort you have put in is pointless. Stop. Watch your gifts. Watch the growth. Let the still day reveal to you that your children are worth the waiting up and the staying up and the getting up and the cleaning up. Because all that work and effort -- produces fruit!</span></div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-87705910973348312402020-04-29T11:27:00.004-07:002020-04-30T03:29:23.534-07:00Make Some Meal Magic<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our food supply had dwindled. We were trying to wait as long as possible to go back out for food. There were some cans of tomatoes, a can of coconut milk, some potatoes, two cans of chickpeas, some rice, and we always have eggs. George bravely agreed to take this one on. He pulled out a vegetarian Indian cookbook (one of our three cookbooks to choose from) and then the smells started coming from the kitchen. Fortunately our spices are plentiful and the magic began. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Exquisite smells floated through the house. We could hardly wait. George announced that this meal had courses. We would start with a tomato curry soup served with a boiled egg, followed by potato dal cubes in a creamy coconut sauce. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As we sat to eat, I realized we were about to taste a pile of interesting, unique, and new flavors. As four curious kids sat around the table, I had an idea. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Let’s pretend we are food critics and we are going to write an article describing these dishes!” I suggested. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We needed descriptive words. We couldn’t say things like, “This is good” or even “This is delicious” or worse, “This tastes terrible,” or “I don’t like it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We needed specifics. I even grabbed the dry erase board and an expo pen to take notes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The kids immediately sat up straighter. Their spoons seemed to move from bowl to lips much more gracefully. They were ready to critique!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We had a tart, thin, spicy but good, flavorful satisfying tomato curry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The potato dal was creamy and bitter with a crunch, potatoey and saucy. It was mild and comforting, like something you might eat if you were sick -- to get better.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">There was not a drop of food left. They ate every last bite. </span></span></div>
<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-63386016136674453522020-04-09T15:30:00.002-07:002020-04-09T15:47:53.277-07:00The Hard Work Of Waiting<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Have you ever planted a seed in the ground? You stick it in the earth and wait. If you give it water and make sure it has enough sun and good soil, it will sprout. There are two minuscule leaves that first appear. Do you know what they are called? They are called cotyledon. Once they have stretched their little green selves as far left and right as their little arms will go, the next set of leaves arrive. The first set look different than the rest. Spinach makes long slender leaves. Kale, little round guys. Basil, a heart shaped set - of course! A cucumber's first two leaves sort of look like a cucumber, very unlike their other leaves. </div>
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I love to watch those leaves appear like a miracle. It will be another 60-90 days before the flower and fruit appear. </div>
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During that time, we can't give up on those precious leaves. They are vital nutrients for the entire plant. They are tender and fragile. They need just the right amount of water and heat and sun. Too much or too little and they will shrivel.</div>
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With consistant water, heat and light, we can eat kale and spinach within two weeks. The squash, cucumber and tomato will take all of those two months. But what about the oak tree? Even the oak starts as two tiny leaves. </div>
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Thirty years will pass before those two leaves turn into shade on a summer day. Oh but that shade! </div>
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So we wait. We wait ten days. We wait two months. If we want to eat asparagus, we have to wait two full years for the plant to mature and create food to eat. An apple or orange tree will supply us with a harvest in five years. But they all start with two tiny leaves. The cotyledon.</div>
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This spring, I've sort of had a bit of an obsession with these cotyledon. I even catch myself saying the wild word in the middle of dishes, school work, laundry folding, running, or cooking.</div>
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I've taken pictures of every cotyledon I see. Even the poison ivy. It starts off as three leaves. I've done my research. There are no two leaf poison ivy cotyledons. They are hell from the very beginning, but at least they give their warning. And on top of being three leaves - the tell tale sign you've encountered the devil himself disguised as a leaf of three, the three leaves are red! They are warning us - stay away!</div>
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Seasons of wait push us. They change us. Our entire focus can become something entirely different. We might buckle down to hold on for the ride. We might reach out around us. We feel scared. We have lost. So many have lost. Jobs, income, health, and even loved ones. It is super scary to walk this road. I can't even comprehend the loss that so many families feel. It is beyond me the time and energy and care doctors and nurses and the lady at Walmart who delivered my groceries so thoughtfully into the trunk of my car are giving. </div>
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I have four children, two cows, two sheep, two pigs, one cat, and 100 chickens that need food everyday. Managing their food supply is a full time job right now. Managing a day again at home isn't that different for us, but for so many, you are sprouting your very first cotyledon. </div>
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We all are. These little tiny leaves are so fragile. They require more than we ever imagined to stay healthy and alive and strong. </div>
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Our journeys look so different like those first two tiny leaves. But we have to try and make it to the next set of leaves. For our families and our children and our friends and our world. </div>
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Last night, at 3:00 a.m., the winds were so strong that I was awake in an instant. I remembered that we had piles of precious sprouts outside. My sudden wild movements woke George and we stumbled down the stairs and into the darkness to collect trays of cotyledon and piles of new tomato starts and bring them into safety. Then we found buckets and containers to put over the tops of the ones in the ground and hunted down bricks to secure the buckets from the wind. At 4:15, we crawled back into bed. When the roosters and kiddos reminded us it was day, the dreary fell heavy. Our youngest is five now, so it's been some years since a baby kept us up in the middle of the night. But our baby plants did. Our food did. </div>
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Your cotyledon might be homeschooling for the first time, cooking more than ever, working from home with littles, working from home alone, waiting for food, waiting for test results, waiting to get work. We wait together. And hope for the next set of leaves. </div>
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Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-26571036636533777622020-03-23T04:02:00.002-07:002020-03-26T16:57:19.594-07:00Love Them. Feed Them. Talk To Them. The Rest Is Icing On The Cake. <br />
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We've been homeschooling for ten years. At LEAST once a week I think that homeschooling is the worst possible thing on the planet. I look at my kids and think, "I've got nothin'!" It is scary. It is hard.<br />
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How many hundreds of times have I called my extremely patient husband and yelled, literally screamed into the phone, "I CAN'T DO THIS!"<br />
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There was a day, in the middle of a lesson that wasn't going well at all, that I walked out the back door, walked to the pool, jumped in fully clothed and yelled as loud as I could under the water.<br />
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I got back out of the pool, calmly walked inside, changed my clothes and continued with the day feeling much relieved.<br />
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George, my husband and biggest cheerleader - also a major part of our homeschooling life, is diligent to walk me off the cliff of homeschool despair. When I feel like I am failing our children, he offers me this morsel...<br />
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Before I give you his advice, I would like to mention at this point that George has a doctorate in education. He has devoted his life to encouraging children to engage in their world. His work is literally teaching teachers to teach in this way. He is an educational guru. There are books on education with his name on them. He has written articles galore. He has a TedX talk, newspaper articles, news stories, and presentations all on education.<br />
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His advice: "If they have been fed, if you have loved them, if you talked to them, then you are rocking it. Just keep doing this, the rest is icing on the cake."<br />
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No Joke people.<br />
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I'm going to go ahead and make a startling prediction. Test scores this year are going to be 1000X higher than they have been in years. Kids are going to posses more knowledge. They are going to become a research project for every educational institution on this planet. Why? Because. If you can wake up and keep your child safe, feed them some food, love them and talk to them - the rest is icing on the cake. Kids are sponges. They will absorb what we feed them. Feed them love, feed them food, feed them life and words and and their environment becomes their classroom.<br />
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They might fight you. In the last few days I've had two kids that have thought my idea for learning was not their idea for learning. I had to remember George's advice and step back from pushing the learning button and just be. In that time, they made yogurt with George, we painted pictures of a duck named Petunia, and we read about Salva in A Long Walk To Water. There were some math equations and vocabulary words and writing assignments accomplished in there and the 8 and 5 year old started learning Ozymandias by Percy Shelley.<br />
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Talk to them. Slow down. Think about your learning curve and how automatic complex things have become for you. Think of ways to get kids participating and talking with you about the knowledge that you have that allows you to function day to day. This doesn't have to be fancy. Talk to them about it!<br />
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The thing is, some days I don't even feel like I've managed those three things. It's 2 p.m. and I've forgotten to stop for lunch. I've looked at my kids and had very little love. I've definitely not had words. We will fail, but we can get back up again and try the next day.<br />
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Parents, this is it! And if you do actually laugh while you're at it, that is extra icing on the cake. You've got this!<br />
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<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-81760571216221041082020-03-16T19:21:00.002-07:002020-03-16T19:40:23.974-07:00Twenty Four Mondays: Don't Stop Being Brave<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 12px;">Last week, after working through a small set back, after a long hard run working my way back up to an even longer run, the news came that the race, for the first time in the history of the race, wasn't going to happen in seven Mondays. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(117, 117, 117); font-size: 12px;">Last week, these were the last words I wrote...</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 12px;">The good news that we all can take with us is that we are NOT in control and we don't have to be. It is important to practice discipline while training for this race. It is good to be ready, but in the end, God is in control. God is the one that has all the stars and planets aligned. He has all the days counted out. And one thing I know for sure. God is good. He is good if my toes are rotting and he is good if they are crossing the finish line. </span></blockquote>
<span style="color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">And, this is more real to me today than it was last Monday. Is it frustrating? Yes! It is! Not only was I training better than ever before even with a set back, but I was having a blast sharing the journey with you all and working to challenge myself in areas of my life that needed to wake up. I wanted to reach into the areas of my life where I needed to drop the fear, drop the anxiety, drop the giving up, drop the lack of energy, and drop the weaknesses and take on bravery, take on new projects, take on things that are hard for me, and take on joy, confidence and strength. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">When I'm running, I am brave and strong and happy and confident, but when I'm trying new things or trying to reach out into the unknown, I want to crawl into my shell and stay there. This training has served as the catalyst for me to reach out to you and to get out of my shell and be brave, even when it is hard. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Just this last weekend, I finally made the dress with my daughter. To be honest, if I had to train for a race that isn't happening just to give me the courage to sew a dress with Amelia, it was worth every single mile. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Now, I have 24 more Mondays to keep being brave and you do too! We actually have the rest of our lives to go miles that might not take us to a starting line, but the miles are worth it. Keep pressing forwards, keep finding the challenge, keep going even when it is uncomfortable, keep going even if you mess up! Keep going even if the race isn't happening!</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">I won't stop running. I'll be on the road running miles on miles on miles. They don't look the same as marathon training miles, but I don't need a marathon to do what I love so much. My goal for the next 24 weeks is to find ways to love this life and create and build and move in this life in ways that are strengthening me and challenging me toward loving, giving serving, and creating for my family and my </span></span></span><span style="color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">community. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Don't stop moving towards your goals. Don't stop being brave. Don't stop reaching outside your comfort zones! I can't wait to hear what you've been trying! What goals have you've set and achieved? What new ideas do you have? What new dishes have you cooked? I made falafels, I made spicy pork noodle soup, and I made cream of tartar sauce to go with the cat fish that we caught yesterday in our neighbors pond! I've never made any of these things and they were good and it wasn't too hard! </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #757575; font-family: "helvetica neue";"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Stay safe. Keep being brave. And remember. God is in control AND he is good.</span></span><br />
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<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-81070138714523138552020-03-09T18:57:00.000-07:002020-03-12T06:02:55.330-07:00Seven Mondays: A Set Back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Marathon training reaches deep into the furthest places of the mind, body, soul, and heart and courage and endurance and patience and tenacity and whatever it takes to get to that day where you wait to start running and hope that all that you did — all of the woven pieces stay together long enough to get to the finish. </div>
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I feel like I’m careful about everything. Careful about sleep, food, cross training, weight training, stretching, timing runs, shoes, pace, sunglasses, cool downs — all of it. I try to remember to not go barefoot outside during training and I definitely wear shoes that won’t mess with my feet. </div>
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I’m not sure what happened, but something happened. The second toe on my left foot is angry. It is so angry that I feel it when I sleep, when I’m awake, when I walk. It is red and purple and weird. It is tingly and tender. It is swollen and huge. I can’t fix it. I’ve tried to rest. I’ve tried ice, heat, oils, balms. I tried digging into it to see if there was a splinter. No splinter. If there is a suggestion, I’ve tried it. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 12px;">I can’t run. My entire body I’ve minded. I’ve taken care of it with enthusiasm and consistency and discipline, but I didn’t know my toe was going to do this. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to do anything but wait. </span></div>
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This weekend was the weekend to take it up to 17 miles. I am already feeling the pressure to get the miles behind me. I can feel I’m losing the edge that I held just 10 days ago. </div>
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When training started, the biggest concerns were failing knees or hips. I was aware of injury. </div>
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Marathoners are super self controlled and super disciplined. You can’t get out there and run for miles and miles without this capacity. Sometimes we depend on that too much. We think if we stay controlled, we are in control and can stay strong. But this toe is totally out of my control.<br />
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A second toe flared up! When I woke up Sunday morning with another swollen toe, my first reaction was to stay in bed all day. What in the world was wrong? I had already decided my toe must be broken and resigned myself to consider how that would alter everything if not the good bye to race day. Instead, I was rotting away and it was starting in my left foot with the second and fourth toe. </div>
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Well, I know that we are not supposed to google symptoms, but I had called my doctor friend 5 too many times and sent him at least 10 pictures of my toes and thought I would give him a break from this terrible toe conundrum. Googling symptoms is choosing to turn down a long dangerous road named Mental Death and Destruction Drive; however, this time, there, on the long lists of gross swollen toe images, I saw something.<br />
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There, among the photos and the wonderful gross words underneath them, I saw a word and that word was underneath a toe that looked most like mine. I googled it. Chilblains. And there it was: the answer. Basically, running in cold wet weather conditions without properly warming up and warming down decreases the blood flow and leads to this lovely condition called chilblains. Swollen, itchy, weird feeling toes that swell up and turn purple. And it often happens when the foot is restricted in a shoe that is too tight. I immediately informed my sister who immediately knew someone that had chilblains. She checked with her about the symptoms she experienced and it was a perfect match. With this wonderful diagnosis, I was elated! And I'm sure my sister is relieved that she doesn't have to look at another 25 pictures of my gross toe. </div>
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Fortunately when my new shoes arrived last week, I tried to run in them but it was too uncomfortable. I had already decided to order a half size larger to see if that would help, they arrived today. This move to change shoes is huge because it is NOT in the plan to change shoe sizes right now! Read last week's blog. I wrote an entire blog LAST WEEK about shoes! <span style="text-align: center;"></span></div>
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This morning the sun came out and it was warm. There was no wet or cold weather around. This morning, new shoes were ready to go. This morning, after stretching and warming up my body from head to toe and keeping on gloves and a long sleeve shirt to keep my body warm, I took off for a seven mile run. It was glorious! It worked. My toe didn't hurt and the shoes felt right! I should have switched months ago.</div>
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I am beyond relieved that there is not a break in my toe. It is frustrating to think that moving to a cooler climate is going to change the way my body responds to runs, but there are ways stay on top of chilblains. I'm learning that this race is still not in my control. There are thousands of factors that can keep my toes away from that starting line. But, I want to enjoy the process. It is looking different than I imagined. My calculations are off. But, now, it's time to press on. It's going to rain for the next few days so this means no long runs. This means waiting even longer to get in a much needed long run. </div>
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A dear friend reminded me that we never know if these little set backs are actually the thing that is taking us forward - the thing protecting us from something that would knock us off course entirely. This little set back pushed me around mentally and physically and emotionally. I'm not as strong as I want to be in these places. The good news that we all can take with us is that we are NOT in control and we don't have to be. It is important to practice discipline while training for this race. It is good to be ready, but in the end, God is in control. God is the one that has all the stars and planets aligned. He has all the days counted out. And one thing I know for sure. God is good. He is good if my toes are rotting and he is good if they are crossing the finish line. </div>
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Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-92026710050192616102020-03-02T19:23:00.003-08:002020-03-02T19:23:52.529-08:00Eight Mondays: Shoes.<br />
This morning was the morning. The morning to buy the shoes that will go to Boston. The shoes that will glide over the giant word painted in bright blue and yellow - START, and hopefully 26.2 miles later cross the FINISH in the same bright blue and yellow letters.<br />
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This was a thoroughly calculated move. I purchased Brooks Women's Ghost 12 running shoes size 8.5. The shoes cost $121 with the $8 discount I had from Amazon points.<br />
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In November, I ran 27 of 196 miles in a 36 hour relay race. As I neared the day of the race, I knew my shoes were nearly worn out. I waited one run too long to buy a new pair, which meant I had to run in new shoes for the race. I tried running in the old ones during my first leg and immediately I knew it was a bad idea. The better idea was to run in the new shoes. This might all sound like too much information about a pair of shoes, but hang with me for a minute.<br />
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This will be at least my 12th pair of Brooks Women's Ghost running shoes in three years. I know how they fit. My foot knows how they fit. I wasn't going to rub blisters, it wasn't going to be a problem. They felt great. The calculation began. If I could stretch the pair of shoes from that race to six weeks before Boston, I would only need to buy one more pair. That pair would get me through two long runs and still have plenty to give for Boston.<br />
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It was risky. It meant keeping that relay pair as my running shoes one month longer than normal, but I'd made it. I had saved the money and was ready to order them this morning. I bought the exact same pair. The same color and everything. There are ten color choices, but this isn't time to change a thing, not even the color.<br />
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Shoes. They are the most crucial item for running long distance. I won't run if I don't have the right shoe. The risk of injury is too high. I strike on the outside edge of my foot, but I roll my ankle inward after every strike. Every shoe is worn in exactly the same spot. There is an entire language associated with this. Pronation. Supination. Strike point. Weight. Padding. Support. Shoes<br />
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Shoes. They are worth the investment. It is worth knowing exactly which shoe will do the job. It is worth understanding which shoe will work best for my foot.<br />
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As I ran my last run in my old shoes this morning (Old isn't the right word. They look brand new and they are only four months old, but for right now that is what we are going with) I had already bought my new pair and already giddy with excitement about their arrival. I'll probably even take a picture of my feet with those new shoes on and send it to my sister I'll feel so sentimental. I started thinking about how I'm so willing to invest in shoes for running. I don't even have to think about it, I am that confident when I purchase them. I just do it.<br />
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But, if I were to try and buy the right paint brushes for a painting, the right fabric to recover a chair, the right tools to change out a spark plug, the right dishes to make creme brulee, the right equipment to keep track of all the racers during the Boston, the right flowers to make a bouquet -- I'd be up a creek. I wouldn't even know where to start.<br />
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The truth is, I live with a lot of fear. Fear of trying and failing. Running works well because I know I'm not going to fail. I don't have to make any decisions, I know what to do. My dear George is willing to try almost anything. He will watch a pile of youtube videos and the next thing I know, the dishwasher is as good as new, the car works just fine, the pool pump is up and running, the front porch is redone, the wall is cut out and a door is there, the table we need for extra guest -- he made it. And that fiddle, and banjo and guitar and piano. He can play them all! He doesn't fear failure. He doesn't fear trying. Trust me, I've been through the learning to play the banjo year. And the fiddle. He doesn't give up!<br />
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We all have passions, talents, gifts, or artistic veins running through us. Most of them take some investment. They take something more than just going out and doing it. We have to invest time in projects, in community, in the tools we need to do what we do best. I often convince myself I don't need to try or I should just let it go. But, never would I do that with a pair of running shoes!<br />
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Be determined to invest in your passions. Be determined to work on learning something new. This week, my goal is to teach myself how to do something. Even if I have to buy a tool. Even if I have to take some time to watch a few youtube videos. Give it a shot. Don't be afraid to invest in learning, doing, creating, buying a few tools, talking to new people, watching some "how to" YouTube, making, composing, writing, painting, laughing! I'm not kidding. You can watch videos on how to be a comedian, I'm sure. Or just watch a comedian. That might work too.<br />
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If the metaphorical shoe fits, wear it! Wear it a lot. Wear it out so fast you have to buy a new pair every three months. Wear them with excitement!<br />
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I would love to hear from any of you out there that are finding some bravery. I'd love to hear your stories! What fears have you overcome? Are you learning something new? How do you challenge your mind, your heart, your soul, your body? Let's be brave!<br />
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<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-4839595043932437712020-02-24T17:01:00.001-08:002020-02-24T17:22:55.943-08:00Nine Mondays: Stretch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the fourth grade, we went as a class to gymnastics at the YMCA once a week. There were people finding life one day at a time at the Y. It was a busy place. I remember the smell of the cafeteria. Food smells, books, pools, gymnasiums, couches, chairs, beds -- all of this at the YMCA.</div>
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We were a tiny class from a tiny school and it must have been part of our P.E. requirement. The girls in my class surely took gymnastics outside of our P.E. requirement because they were bending and jumping and flipping and balancing all over the place. I was pretty excited about the foam pit and the trampoline, but not the split, not the flip, and definitely not the balance. At ten, this was not natural. This was hard. </div>
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Fast forward thirty plus years. Stretching and bending is a regular part of my life. I set the alarm early enough for space and time to drink coffee, pray and stretch. Maintaining core strength is crucial. Muscle care is a must. Muscle recovery, at this age is absolutely essential. It's all about a slow and steady hold and bend. I pay attention to all the muscles from head to toe. </div>
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The more often I make time for it, the more flexible and relaxed those crazy tight muscles become, and the stronger and healthier the core carries on from day to day. It is crucial. It is the backbone - literally of this crazy crave to run long distance. It helps me to stay able, present and active. If my neck hurts, I stretch. If anything feels off -- hips, arms, legs, head, fingers (not a joke) toes - oh yes, feet, ankles, calves ... stretch it out.</div>
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Flexibility. Easier said than done. It has become a twenty year commitment to move and bend and shape each muscle. </div>
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And here it comes! Oh yes. This lesson is too easy. Isn't life this very thing? Isn't it all about bending and flexing? It is a daily letting go of the what feels good - "the easy" - and leaning into the challenge. It's a push against the discomfort and attempt to rise above. It is a discipline. It is a choice. It isn't hard. It can be as easy as a two minute commitment to reach for the sky, to reach for the earth, to reach into what is around you and feel the stretch. And this little commitment leads to big achievements. </div>
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As a 10 year old at the YMCA, I was confused about what this stretching was. At 43, it isn't confusing at all, it is routine. There are 1,000 pieces of this life that I wish the routine would seep into. Pieces that aren't flexible at all! I'm stiff as a board and awkward like a fourth grader at the YMCA on the balance beam. But, I'm gonna wake up and drink coffee, and pray and stretch, and hope that I can keep stretching in all those stiff places and reach further than I ever even imagined possible.</div>
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So for this week. I encourage you to stretch. Stretch your body. Stretch your mind. Stretch your heart. Stretch your work and your words and your ideas. Stretch your patience! Oh my word. I have four kids. My patience is stretched everyday and I'm still stiff as a board at 5 p.m.! But, if I'll just stretch my patience a little bit, if I just look around and see the puzzle, the project, the play, and the perseverance of a five year old. If at that point I can smile and be glad at the disaster and the undone everything, then...that is real flexibility. </div>
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Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-49947558300788756462020-02-17T18:50:00.001-08:002020-02-17T18:50:26.427-08:00Ten Mondays: LaborIt was the Kiawah Marathon. Mile 22. Everything hurt. My stomach was in shreds. It took all my focus to take the next step. Move. That was all there was left to do. There was no crowd. It was silent and still and cold. There were no women anywhere near me. There were several men running the same pace through the empty streets. We were plodding. It was silent. We were in pain. I had an idea. They might be interested to know -- this feels like labor! So, the very one sided conversation began..."He guys, if you were ever wondering what labor feels like, this is it!!" For some reason, I was sure they would say, "No way. Tell me more." They didn't. So, I just shared a little bit about the pain that we were all sure to be experiencing at this point in the race. Now they could tell people they understood labor! I don't think that was important to them at mile 22. It was my first marathon after birthing two children and comparing the two, was of course, a great way to pass mile 22. These men had no interest in discussing labor pains.<br />
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Labor pains. Kiawah is in December. In May of that year, we miscarried at 18 weeks. At 18 weeks we went in for a check up. Things had not felt exactly right, but even after phone calls with the doctor, everyone decided I was just tired and dealing with morning sickness... However, at the check up, there wasn't a heart beat. And the ultra sound showed a mass that wasn't right. It was a molar pregnancy. A pregnancy when the body makes tons of cells, but the wrong cells. But I had a baby and wrong cells. Wrong cells are a lot like cancer. So, to be told that your baby will not make it and that you have cancer all in one sentence strikes unexpected and unrelenting and unraveled we became.<br />
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New realities set in. We were suddenly grieving the loss of a child and looking at the possibility of chemo treatments. Thankfully, the wrong cells were successfully removed during surgery and all of the levels that are supposed to be level were. But there was an emptiness. We were grieving for our lost child and longing to try again. The doctors said, "Whatever you do, don't get pregnant for at least a year. A year! I wanted to get pregnant immediately!<br />
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It was the year of creating distractions. The year to learn how to surf. It was the year to run, to swim, to run some more. To bike. To do a triathlon. To train. To train some more. To play. To move. To do. To pour into my children. To mourn. To think about anything other than having a baby.<br />
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Kiawah meant closing in on the end of the wait. Kiawah meant we were making it. Kiawah meant one step closer to a baby. Those last four miles would lead to the final four months of waiting. And that spring, I was pregnant with our William.<br />
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Four years later, it was time to wean child number four. My sister, my brother-in-law, my niece and I all signed up to run the Wilmington Marathon. It would be the first for Emmie my niece. It would be the first for my sister after hip surgery. It would be my first after my fourth and final child and it was the perfect timing for a weaning weekend. So, the training and weaning went together.<br />
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At mile 13.5, I fell into step with a girl. And that girl was weaning her first baby. By mile 22, we were telling our labor stories. We explained contractions and complications and pain and the sheer ecstasy at the sound of a crying child that signals the end of labor. Step by step, minute by minute, pushing ourselves to mile 23, 24, and 25 we never stopped talking about labor. Strangers, yet runners/weaning mothers, together pushing each other faster and better than we ever thought possible. Strangers aware that this was like labor. We crossed the line and I turned to cheer my sister and my niece across that line in pouring rain.<br />
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And for you too. Whatever hard thing you have to do. Whatever difficult circumstance you face. That is your labor. Don't give up. Breathe through the contractions, the moments that make you cringe. Push through the pain - because on the other side, there is beauty. There is hope. There is accomplishment. The pain in the process is taking us all to accomplishments great and small. This life is hard. It isn't easy, but there are glories all around us. Look and find them and press on! "This is what labor feels like!"<br />
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<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-10842279476831869992020-02-10T18:01:00.001-08:002020-02-10T18:43:32.271-08:00Eleven Mondays: Out And Back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Most every run these days is an out and back. There are not that many loops around here -- or side roads for that matter; therefore, running involves heading out for a certain number of miles and turning around and coming back. This might seem like an excruciatingly long boring way to log miles, but it is also the way to guarantee miles. Because, not matter what, I can't quit or I'm stuck. I can't cut corners, I can't give up. The choice is made in the first part of the run. The choice is made at mile three to go six, at mile six to go twelve. And every up hill guarantees a down hill and every down hill -- up you go on the way back. On my last long run, by the time I made it to mile seven, I knew I'd made it -- 14 miles was in the bag. Because there was no sitting down. There was no quitting - there was only moving. To get back home, to be done, I had to move and run those seven miles!</div>
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I didn't start by running seven miles out. I started with two. You can start with half a mile, a quarter of a mile, the end of the driveway! There is a way out of the slump. There is a way out of the frustration of the not getting it done. The not deciding to move, to do a project, to talk to a neighbor, to ask for forgiveness, to write that letter, to put up that phone, to save that money, to learn something new. Because once you're out there, once you've made a move -- no matter how small, you can keep going and you're half way there! </div>
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I'm the queen of not making the move out. Getting out of my comfort zones. No way. Not gonna happen. There are lots and lots of comfort zones that I do NOT want to leave. No way am I getting out of this place of complacency, no way am I going to get out of this funk of worry and fear and anxiety and dread. No way am I going to make that phone call. Heck no, I will not attempt to figure out how to do this task, the project, this self control ... it is going to be too hard. Too much energy and effort. What if I fail???? Fear of failure weighs me down. I might be able to run all day, but I do not want to get out of a lot of places. </div>
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So today, ladies and gentleman, get up and get out. Move. Move from the place that says you can't to a place that says you can. It can be just a few steps, but take them. Don't take the route that allows for short cuts or quitting! Just keep moving out! I'm right there with you. Let's move!</div>
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<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-64015559274315460372020-02-03T17:39:00.001-08:002020-02-03T17:39:10.159-08:00Twelve Mondays: Resistance Training<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">A week ago, I ran 12 miles with an average pace of 8:28 minute miles. This wasn’t bad, especially for the giant hills around us, but I know I'm at the cusp of taking it to the next level. There is one way I know for sure to improve my time. Resistance.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The elliptical is my go to for cross training. It gets the job done and its easy on these old knees. The settings usually stay put. Resistance -- 5. Incline -- 3. I did one little thing this week -- moved the resistance to six. This simple change meant big burn believe it or not. Burning lungs, burning legs, burning arms. But, it is the resistance that pushes the body -- that takes the body further than it thinks it can go. The push gives power.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One week later, I ran 14 miles at an 8:03 pace. Twenty five seconds off each mile! This is crucial. This took the entire training process to the next level. And the only change was resistance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Recently, a very wise woman explained the push our children give us. The resistance. They push against the rules, the minutes, the food, the plan, the learning, the discipline, the clothes, the baths!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This feels exhausting. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She explained how these precious children are feeling out where we will be when they push. They are looking for resistance. The resistance, ladies and gentlemen, our children are LOOKING for it! The resistance will make them stronger. It will make you stronger. And it will burn. It will sting. It will take you to the end where you give out and don’t want to push, but we can be there as resistance. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And it doesn’t even have to be big. I moved the resistance one tiny bit and it made all the difference. Hopefully, it will make the longer challenges feel less intense. If you are fighting bed time, snack time, meal time, play time, date time, school time -- whatever you are working on, stay in the game, it will pay off!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, this week, my focus is embracing the resistance. But -- kids are not the only thing out there pushing. Jobs. Friends. Family. Bank accounts. Decisions. Sickness. Moves. I’ve really been a bit of a coward here. I have hated the push. I want to run far far away from the challenges, but this week, I’m leaning in -- I’m taking it to a six. If you are exhausted. If you are done. If you are weak. Lean in and push. Feel the burn. Feel the resistance and let it take you to the next level. Take it to a six!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <b>Update On Last Week's Challenge</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Thirteen Mondays: Make A Plan...</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-align: center;">Last week I focused on making a plan. For you diehard calendar peoples, I’m sorry this might be hard for you to understand. Planning doesn’t come naturally for this mama. Last week, the focus was “making plan”. </span></span><br />
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<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All of us need a plan. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Whatever your plan might be, it takes work to make that happen. I am learning how absolutely critical planning is. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last week, I planned two things -- One: paint a wall waiting Two: find a dress pattern for my daughter. How did that go? You ask. </span></div>
<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Painting happened. It happened for a lot of hours of my Saturday and Sunday. It wasn’t a wall, it was a set of windows that were brown and needed to be white. It was extremely complicated and involved a lot of corners and windows getting painted shut and wiping up messes, but that job is done. The evolution of this painting project occured when I realized all the supplies were at hand for the window painting; therefore there was no excuse except to dive in. And I do dive into painting. It is all over everything and in everything and messy and complicated. The job isn’t quite finished, but the windows do look happy and there isn’t a mess and the windows actually open. </span></div>
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<b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The second task -- the dress pattern. This, my friends, was not as easy as it seems. Certainly this is because I am not practiced in dress pattern finding or maybe dress patterns are just awful. So, if you know of a good dress pattern...send it this way!!! The idea was that a plan was made and I did it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Baby steps. </span></div>
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Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-44144296647723323402020-01-27T14:28:00.003-08:002020-01-27T16:22:31.197-08:00Thirteen Mondays<br />
There are thirteen Mondays from now until the Boston Marathon. It will be the third time I line up with herds of humans to run 26.2 of the most coveted miles on the planet.<br />
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And this is the crazy thing. I'm a mom with four kids. I look like a skinny turtle-chicken when I run and I'm posting a picture to prove it. I don't train the right way because I don't like rules and I sort of just make up my plan as I go. There are at least two marathons that I lined up for and I had only run 14 miles as my "distance training"-- but I was in my 20s and there wasn't a lot of easy to access information about the importance of training. But my body begs me for miles and I give in because I can and for that I am forever glad.<br />
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For my entire life I've loved running. There are very few miles in the 1000s of miles I've pounded out that I did not want to be running and I probably found out the next day that I was pregnant. Yes, you now definitely know I am not of the right mind.<br />
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But I feel the most in my right mind when I am running. Because that is when everything rolls away and it is feet and earth and lungs and legs. This morning, I had time for a short run. Just four miles. But I knew it was Monday and I knew that in 13 of these I will be ready to go.<br />
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I do train now. I'm 43, not 23. That changes my approach and as it turns out, training pays off. At 41, I ran my fastest marathon; therefore buying my ticket to the starting line at Boston.<br />
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So, for the next thirteen Mondays, I'll post stories that take us to the line -- because although you might not be a runner, you're probably a dreamer and you have your own line your aiming for ... I'm preaching to my stubborn self here. I might be able to work up to a marathon, but there are other things I'd like to work on building up to accomplishing. So here it goes.<br />
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<b>Making A Plan</b><br />
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This is something that doesn't come naturally to me at all. This helps the "Not Following A Marathon Training Plan" make sense. I think I fear a plan. That means follow through. That means showing up. That means possible failure and the thought of failing is paralyzing. I literally freeze. Please please don't ask me to be in charge. Please please don't make me be the one to decide! My vision gets blurry and my brain turns to mush. Decorating decisions - PURE HELL! Family trips - JUST LOAD UP! Dinner - It's gonna be good, but I just sauté an onion and start adding stuff to it until its a meal!<br />
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So, on this Monday. Thirteen Mondays before race day, Let's make a plan. If you need to get in shape. Make a plan. Not a big one. Get up and move. Take a walk. Think, "I'm going to run one mile before next Monday." It might even be, "I'm going to not eat anything after 8 p.m." Or "I"m going to make that phone call." Maybe its, "I"m going to check one thing off this list."<br />
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Running isn't difficult for me, but so much is. Before next Monday, I'm going to paint the wall that needs painting and I'm going to find a pattern to sew a dress for my girl that wants so much to sew a dress. That is all. That isn't much, but it is a plan.<br />
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And that, ladies and gentlemen, will get you to the line!!!<br />
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<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-39582874921977461382020-01-15T11:49:00.002-08:002020-01-15T11:52:22.268-08:00Who Is Your Hero?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who is your hero? I’ve had a pile of heros in my life. Women with "I can do anything" attitudes and men that were invincible -- Michelle Akers. Mia Hamm. Brandi Chastain. Runners. Eric Liddell. Paula Radcliff. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-bcf10a02-7fff-c546-2c8c-5e5623672933" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can’t ice skate. It’s ugly and no one should ever see that happen ever, but Debbie Thomas -- I think she was every child’s hero during the 1988 olympics and we all wanted to ice skate.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are others. John Steinbeck. His cha</span><span style="text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">racter and story development suck me into another world. Corrie ten Boom - she survived concentration camps with joy! They are my heroes. Heros are people that are not afraid and if they are they stare it down until it breaks to pieces. People that overcome hardship and rise above the world beating them down are heroes. People that seek truth and don’t stop till they have it. My hero.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I recently watched the documentary on Alex Honnold. He solo, free climbed El Capitan. A tremendous feat of will power, strength and mental focus. I sort of think he is crazy, and I don’t want to solo free climb a 3,000 foot cliff, but I did try to do pull ups over and over again at the park with the kids a few days later, and the jungle gym climbing wall became a giant sheer mountain face to summit -- which I did and I felt like Alex.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have another hero. She’s always been my hero. My dearest Aunt Marti. Over twenty years ago she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. From the very beginning she was determined to be stronger than the disease. She was determined to fight back. She took voice lessons to keep her vocal cords strong. She worked her hands. She worked her legs. She travelled all over and took the world in. She sewed. She never stopped sewing. Quilting mainly. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, in her mid 70s, everyday throws her a battle that she wakes up and fights. She pushes to rise. To dress. To eat. Even though every single thing she does is focused work to communicate between brain and activity. Between food and fork and mouth, between hand and pencil, between foot and floor. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This summer, I flew to visit with her. She looked at me straight away and asked how I felt when I saw her. Who asks that? Who is strong enough and bold enough to work together words to ask hard questions and seek real answers. I was expecting her to be unable to communicate at all, so I was able to say, “You are doing amazing!” My Aunt Marti lives in an assisted living facility. The people there are dear and are fighting their own battles and working to wake each day and go. And she greets them. She invites them to eat with her, she asks how they are and knows about their families. I went with her to a music and movement class. It is slow. It is old music collected by a young man willing to take time to put together music ages old and slowly walk through simple movements for an hour of a Tuesday. She wants to go. She participates. She moves. Slow movements. Awkward movements. But always willing and never saying, “I can’t” or “This hurts”. Never embarrassed that nothing works right. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, right now. My hero, is my Aunt Marti. While I was with her, her sweet friend came by to visit. As we sat there in a small room chatting, this dear lady explained how they had become friends. Apparently she noticed my aunt’s gorgeous quilting. My aunt said, you can do this. She said, "No way." Aunt Marti said. “Come to my house, I’ll teach you.” With shaking hands and feet and legs and head. With an unstable body -- an unwilling body -- she taught someone how to quilt. Her sweet friend -- quilts all the time. She carries on what my aunt can’t do anymore. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; white-space: pre-wrap;">We talked slowly. We walked slowly. We ate slowly. But we took on the day. She even took us to Happy Hour. I have to admit that when I have a neck ache, I am not about Happy Hour. I am about worry and frustration and sorrow. When my hair is falling out every day more and more, I don't have nice things to say. When my knees hurt, I think the world is ending. She is in a wheelchair and wobbly and inviting others into a world to chat and be together and eat and drink and enjoy the weather. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While I was there, we went for a drive. I held onto my Aunt’s bag for her. A bag she had quilted when her fingers still heard her brain. And I knew right then how strong she is. How brave she is. How determined and unafraid she is. </span></div>
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<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-64223280567341293232019-09-27T15:08:00.004-07:002019-09-27T15:08:43.687-07:00Break Down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Moving means things are not where they should be. They are not what they should be. They are not when they should be. So meals and toys and tools are displaced and misplaced. So, when I heard her cry, I knew that it wasn't because someone had taken something from her or told her she couldn't do something or looked at her sideways. She was in pain. She was really in pain. We looked closely at the leg that had met the ground under the bar of a plow attachment. It wasn't swollen. It wasn't cut. So we waited to see if she would walk on it and she didn't. Off to Quick Care, then the Children's Hospital of Atlanta, and then the orthopedist. Because it was broken. It is broken. So slow down. Be still. Wait. Be a bridesmaid. And she is being so so brave. Not grumpy. Just finding new ways to play and participate. She is out of the cast and into a boot. She can take a bath and sleep without it and for that we are all so very glad.<br />
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<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-66680403420304639202019-09-19T16:38:00.000-07:002019-09-19T16:46:19.779-07:00The Not First Day Of SchoolFirst day of school photos and ideas roll me over. Capturing kids posed has never really worked well in our family. We would have to stop what we are doing and brush hair and change clothes or put on clothes. And as the heat pounded down and as we sorted supplies and set up shop, I couldn't capture a minute. I don't know that I wanted to. It didn't seem very romantic or real or realistic.<br />
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Weeks have rolled by and we have found a groove. And we have also found some serious things that needed revisiting, revamping, reconsidering and so forth. We've explored Antarctica, Camels, Birds of Prey, Algebra, multiplication (William's crazy smile below captures the moment he discovered that skip counting is multiplication), the letter G, molecules, words, verses, poetry, art, acting, making google documents, making music, painting, baking, studying the seasons, learning how to tell time...<br />
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And with that, I've collected some images and movement. If you were here, you would see what appears to be an ordered system followed by a pile of chaos and tears, chased by a miraculous moment of insight and discovery, ending with fears of failure. And George and I are in the mix of it all making sense of it as we go -- humbled by the opportunity, excited for the future, and waiting to see what comes next.<br />
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<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-22778893861230963162019-07-14T07:18:00.001-07:002019-07-14T07:18:16.273-07:00What Running Looks LikeWhat does it look like to get up early and run? <div>
I set my alarm for 6 a.m. and then hit snooze at least three times. </div>
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Finally, I crawl out of bed and start the coffee. </div>
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I used to go without coffee, but after forty, I can't do that as easily.</div>
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If George is awake, we chat and think about the day. If not, I stretch and catch up on the news, and social media and check the weather. Ask any runner - we check the weather like we are paid employees of the weather channel.</div>
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Once I've finished my coffee, I get dressed. </div>
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I've started laying out my running clothes the night before. </div>
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Digging through drawers in the dark is just not acceptable at this time of day. </div>
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I've learned that good socks are crucial. </div>
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I wear Balega socks most days. But if those are dirty, some old Feetures work just fine. I never blister and my feet feel supported.</div>
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I never get tired of putting on my shoes. It is the sweetest feeling to slip </div>
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into a pair of Brooks Ghosts and tie them snug. How many Brooks Ghosts have I had in the last four years? Oh, I can say with confidence that it is at least fifteen. It is crucial to change out my shoes every three months. If I don't, I'll get hurt. This might be old age too! But, it is really important to run in good shoes. </div>
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I'm usually hunting a hair tie at this point. Once again, digging for one in the dark is maybe one of the more annoying things in this life, so I try and remember to put a hair tie out the night before.</div>
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So as you can see, there is some ritual here. It's been years in the making. It takes more time to get out the door than it used to, but it is always always worth it. </div>
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Speed: I've learned that a morning run is very different than a speed workout. I have to separate the two or I would dread running. I don't gain speed by trying to push it on morning runs. The speed comes from specific drills, weight training and cross training on the elliptical and the bike. I still use a Garmin Forerunner 35 watch though. I am aiming more for consistency. If I am consistent then that is what matters. </div>
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I'm slow. Sometimes really slow. I'm soaking in the day. By mile three, I'm usually in a bit of a trance. I think about anything and everything and my mind explodes with ideas and decisions and stories and prayers and direction. I don't listen to music. I don't listen to podcasts. I listen to my surroundings and to whispers from God. He constantly whispers to me while I'm out there running. I see the sun rise and thank God for another day to walk this earth and hope to make the most out of it. Sometimes I dread the end of a run, because, when I'm running, I'm not failing. But the biggest gift from each run is the strength I receive for the day. This is what running looks like.</div>
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Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-58214503225006066092019-07-13T10:03:00.001-07:002019-07-13T10:03:12.492-07:00Birds Of A Feather Stick Together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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These two sweet friends share birding, egg collecting, building structures, cooking over fires, identifying and eating edible plants, art, and matching dresses. Distance might be the only thing keeping them from building an entire village and living a self sustained life. They will be world changers -- as they are always thinking of their environment and how to use every piece of everything they see. Waste is not what they want. They want to create. Their minds and their voices don't rest - even apart, they write letters full of questions and answers and ideas. They are a beautiful picture of friendship.</div>
<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-49640006654695326622019-07-13T09:44:00.001-07:002019-07-13T09:44:37.000-07:00Straw Bale Structures<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Summer time is hay time. Fields and fields of hay cover the country side — anytime we have left grandmother's to go anywhere— we have watched tractors cutting, fluffing, raking, baling, and collecting. It almost looks fun! And right here, in grandmother’s back yard, there was plenty of hay — as high as our chins — that needing cutting and fluffing and raking and baling. </div>
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I stayed on kitchen and laundry duty in the cool while George and willing children worked on the hay. Out there on the tractor, there is a lot of room to think and imagine. And the hay is right there looking available. Hay is definitely food for animals, but it has a few other uses too. I’ve certainly sat on one used as furniture at a wedding. I have picked pumpkins at the pumpkin patch off of hay bales, and I’ve been on hay rides…</div>
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George has grand ideas for all things, even the lowly hay. He and the children gathered the bales that a friendly neighbor happily helped us bale, and set to building. Two days later, they had built a little straw bale house with a reed roof from the reeds they collected by the pond. </div>
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George Wilder was in charge of building the roof frame, which they built from scraps of lumber in the barn. </div>
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While George Wilder built the frame, Amelia collected bundles of reeds called <i>shocks</i> from the pond. The shocks became the layered thatching.</div>
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William helped cut reeds, helped keep track of the string to bind the shocks, helped straighten the bales and helped balance the roof with lots of roof sitting. Roof sitting is a thing. </div>
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When it was time to move the roof from the construction site to it's new home, the thatching grew heavy causing the roof to tilt, therefore it became a job to stand on the other side to balance the structure during the move. </div>
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The little house is perfect for play and to admire. George shared images of beautiful homes built with straw bale construction and there is a book floating around describing how to build with straw bales...This is only the beginning.</div>
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Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-66969406517075314172019-07-13T08:49:00.001-07:002019-07-13T08:51:56.427-07:00Moving<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I keep thinking of all the things to write, and then when there is a window to sit still and place fingers to keys - nothing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing comes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The thought blob grows and grows and I don’t even know what chunk to start with. It’s like trying to start a new project, a new diet, a new workout plan, a new hobby, or a new habit. It feels like trying to play an instrument after not touching if for too many years. It is squeaky and choppy. But, I really don’t want to let another moment slip by — another opportunity, so here is my squeaky and choppy beginning…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We are moving. After seven years in Tallahassee, our path clearly and surprisingly changed direction. We love adventure. We’ve always had crazy ideas and gone with them and they’ve all been wonderful, but this feels very different. Good? I’m going to say yes, even though it doesn’t always feel good right now. As we’ve grown a family and a farm and a cherished community, and completely rebuilt an old farm house that is simply a sweet place to be, my bravery and desire to make changes has dwindled significantly. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Recently, we went on a hiking trip. While we were hiking, Hannah lost her sweet stuffed sheep and friend. She cried and cried and mourned the loss. She was convinced we could go back for it. She was sure someone could just find it and mail it to us. The truth was, we couldn’t go back for it — it was miles away, and there was no way to announce to all hikers to be on the lookout for a tiny stuffed sheep. My mama heart wanted to run back down the path and retrieve sheepy, but I knew that wasn’t in the best interest of our large group. I wanted to make a sign out of something, anything, “MISSING SHEEP! Here is our address! Please send back!” But, that was not possible either. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">So we talked about sheepy and were sad with her. Before long, she was fine and enjoying our hike. And, the next time we went hiking, she brought her stuffed dog, Violet, along. This time, we made a leash and attached it to my pack and worked as a team to make sure Violet stayed with us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">I feel like I’ve lost my sheepy. I want to go back for it. I want to make signs that say, HELP! LOST! I want to go running back for sheepy. Right now I am doing a lot of trail sitting wishing I could have my sheepy back. Moving forward freezes me, moving back is not an option. I have a wonderful support crew offering tons of encouragement and also being sad with me. The limbo is harder than I ever imagined, but I know that our new experiences will add to our incredible adventurous journey. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">George has a wonderful job at Young Harris in North Georgia. It is humbling to admit we have been slow to formulate a plan. But cows and chickens and tractors and children and family and time fill that flow full of lumps and bumps and challenges the keep us from being so fluid. (Yet, even since I wrote most of these words, so much has fallen into place and I my bravery is returning!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">In the meantime, George has an incredible gift for making the most of every minute no matter what. He has created wild and wonderful projects for our children and for our family. We still lack a single dull moment. His never ending strength and compassion and courage are carrying my frozen self along. He is helping me thaw out in July.</span></div>
Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-46237005038109568162019-04-27T16:55:00.002-07:002019-07-13T08:42:01.504-07:00How Do You Google?<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Let’s face it. We live in a google world. Google has placed information at our fingertips. Google can answer almost any question. As a home school mom, I am a big fan. We google everything. Recipes, stories, math problems, science inquiries, historical facts, music, news, weather, anything. </div>
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Recently Hannah asked me about panda bears. My google history followed her string of questions: What does a panda bear’s teeth look like? What does a panda bear eat? What does a baby panda look like? What do other bears look like? What does a black bears teeth look like? What do they eat? How do they catch fish? Why do they like to eat fish? What else do they eat? Where do they live? Why do they like honey? Can I see one getting honey? </div>
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For every question, we got a solid answer, pictures, video footage, graphs, charts — you name it, we got it.</div>
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Google has helped us on the farm. When we brought home baby calves, I spent an hour watching videos on bottle feeding a calf. There are wonderfully informative videos and tutorials out there on bottling a calf. There is actually a technique and it actually is quite effective.</div>
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Google has turned George into a magician. He can fix anything. He does fix everything. If we ever need to fix anything, including our iPhones, we simply look it up and there will be delightful directions on how to repair, reconstruct, rebuild, build, restore anything from a leaky sink, a car axle, our pool pump, heat, air-condition, the tractor, the dishwasher! Seriously, George has kept our iPhones going for several years now. We just order the screen kits or battery kids or speaker kits and he watches a video and we are back to as good as new. </div>
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Googling is very helpful when we are traveling, especially because we do not ever plan ahead and don’t have a clue where we are going or what we are doing. We just follow the road — and google. We can find fun parks, breweries, trails to hike, campgrounds, views, and food. It has made our road trips most exciting.</div>
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Googling is also helpful when I am not feeling great. I can google my symptoms and I quickly discover that I’m dying of at least 15 diseases. Usually I can narrow it down to one or two and then decide that I actually don’t feel so bad.</div>
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We’ve even scored some extremely helpful marriage advice and raising kids advice by simply googling questions about our issues. </div>
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There is one piece of the google story that I haven’t mentioned yet. I am the worst googler. I think I throw all the algorithms off when I google. This basically means it takes me twice as long to find anything as it does for George. I talk to google like it is a person. “Hey, google, how do I learn how to braid my daughter’s hair?” Or, “What can I substitute for brown sugar in my muffin recipe?” Or, “How can I not be so angry?” </div>
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That is actually one of the last things I googled. But this time I got some really good advice. As I was sharing it with George — how I intended to practice my new found advice on anger management from google — he asked me, “How did you google that? I have to know!” </div>
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Perhaps I need to ask google the most effective approach to googling.</div>
Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-67284040841284761152019-04-19T11:49:00.002-07:002019-04-19T12:24:33.051-07:00The Most Important Hour<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Good Friday. Our mother had us sit out the noon hour in complete silence. Alone. We always dreaded the hour. It felt like a forever sixty minutes. I’m pretty sure we didn’t eat lunch either. To my mother, this hour was the most precious hour of the year. The most important hour to pause. The most meaningful moment. The one hour since there was evening and there was morning that counted. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And, it wasn’t actually awful. It was peaceful. It was an hour I wasn’t going to get into trouble for abusing a sibling or getting into something I shouldn’t. Because, I think, we actually understood it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Understood that across time and space and eternity, there was a man that dropped every last drop of his blood and let out a last breath -- for me. For Me! He took all the disgusting mess that I am and absorbed it --along with the mess of every other human -- on that cross. In that hour, the earth lost hold. It fell apart. It was dark. There were earthquakes. Weird stuff happened. A giant curtain ripped between the most holy and man. He suffered the worst and I suffered through a quiet peaceful hour - one lost meal while one man lost his life.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And when the hour was over, we were released from our silence. We started to clean our house. We started to prepare. We always put new sheets on our beds. We cooked. We ironed outfits that my grandmother made for us. We got ready. We knew what was coming. The dying part was finished. And knowing what was coming made that last hour the most powerful ever.</span></div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-30212915885080923592019-04-16T14:15:00.001-07:002019-04-16T18:03:55.517-07:00Hobo Camp<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It was a craigslist find. Last summer, Amelia was hoping to add a few chickens to her menagerie. We did a little hunting on craigslist and made a few calls. When we finally found what we were looking for, we started discussing, with the friendly voice on the other end, where to meet. He suggested I bring the children and plan to stay. He thought it would be worth their time to check the place out. I didn't really register what he was talking about...</div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">The next afternoon, George headed out with the kiddos to collect chickens. They stayed gone for quite sometime. Five hours later they returned with piles of stories and excitement galore. They had just visited Patrick's Hobo Camp. There was tomahawk throwing, archery, blowguns, rope tying, gardening, and supplies for whatever project you might want to try. In every direction, there was something to do and learn with clear directions on how to do it. Patrick was eager to teach it all to them.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">That next Sunday, we headed back to Patrick's place. We drove twenty minutes out of town and down a dirt driveway into an outdoor paradise. Gardens, orchards, chicken coops, archery, food prep, metal work, anvils, tools... All of this, made out of treasures made from another's trash and organized perfectly. Most items, I would think old and rusty and done for. But, Patrick used all of it to create, make, teach, learn, build, and survive. </span></div>
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The children spent hours throwing knives, tomahawks, shovels, and other objects into targets Patrick had made. He was very thorough at teaching them how to always stay safe. Take it slow. Communicate, pay attention, focus, use your strength, keep trying, share the space...</div>
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He sent us home with produce -- some we had never even seen before, and new knowledge and skills.</div>
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The children asked every Sunday if we could go back. Not just so that they could keep throwing and shooting, but so that they could help. We returned several times to work in the gardens, collect produce, sing, and throw...but mainly to be in the presence of Patrick. A true teacher. A real renegade. Actually surviving on his own. </div>
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Patrick recently passed away. It is hard to loose him. His life was full and raw and real and he shared it so openly. We are so very thankful that we had the opportunity to know Patrick.</div>
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<br />Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2789902190872901811.post-90292632187772940212019-02-28T14:22:00.000-08:002019-02-28T14:22:02.586-08:00Surfing On A Dinosaur<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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The days have seemed long and wrong. Even though I live in Florida, and I’ve been barefoot most of the month, everything is blooming and I’ve even watched my kids swim in the pool a time or two, I’ve had the winter blues. Deep winter blues. I might as well live in Siberia — in a yurt. </div>
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The days seem to drag on endlessly with nothing real marking the coming and going and doing. My glass has been totally half empty. The grass on my side looks really really brown. And the crazy thing is, we literally have the greenest grass around because George plants winter rye and it grows vibrantly green right through the dullest days. </div>
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I reported to George my deep discouragement. Most of it falls on my feelings of never measuring up - for not having firework homeschool days and children inspired to a cheerful “yes ma’am!” and “I’ll be right there!” </div>
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Instead, it has felt like very boring, dull, non thoughtful, day after day days of kids droning through their lessons and more “It’s not my turn to empty the dishwasher,” and “Let me just ride my bike down the driveway one more time.” And mess and distress and four kids doing this pile of stuff - Every. Single. Day. And it feels like there isn’t ever enough time to get everything done. Piles here and there and laundry rotting and getting washing again and meals unplanned and prepared haphazardly. </div>
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George was trying to inspire me one night. Encourage might be a better word. Or maybe even drag me out of my slump. I wasn’t going to participate and went straight to bed. </div>
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The next morning I woke up early. There were notes on the counter. One for each child and one for me. </div>
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They all had questions and assignments and ideas for the day. My assignment was to draw a calendar of the month of March as a dinosaur and put myself somewhere in the picture. My immediate thought was that I would put my body mangled beneath the giant legs of such a dinosaur. I didn’t want to draw my month of March dinosaur. I could’t even think to put pencil to paper. But, after the kids eagerly tackled their cards all morning and reported back wonderful ideas and thoughts and sketches and notes, I was ready to try. </div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Right before I attempted to draw myself in a tangled mangled mess beneath the dinosaur, a heard a little voice deep inside say, “Surf that beast.” My artist skills are limited, but I knew that was where I was going in the picture. I’m going to surf right over the top of March. March begins tomorrow and I’m ready to ride. </span></div>
Elisha Boggshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06347658788975285375noreply@blogger.com0