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Monday, June 30, 2008

'phew Josh, holy mother, back at the easel and A'Ha's

Well, sing along together to the tune of 'Back in the Saddle Again'...'Back at the Easel Again'...Teehee!

ACTUALLY, I made changes suggested by Mr. Leslie B. DeMille (or at least attempted)...and took heed at Grandma's comment about his hair being the wrong color...and here he is! This incarnation, anyway. My main 'phew, Josh!

Today is daughter Betsy Ross Nobel's birthday...the day started with an update on the new 'nobel' due in late summer. What a kick...sorry betsy...I'm sure you are getting the kikx!

Anyway, delightful day in good 'ole Rogers at the Ross abode. Slow start...did an 'I ching' reading about our (think positive) upcoming move and got a message about maintenance, repair, pride, etc. Randy came in from his fav therapy (washing cars) and said he wanted to open the pool...but first we'd have to clean leaves, weeds, etc. While he engaged in his other fav therapy (napping) I worked on Josh. It never ceases to amaze me how good it is to lose yourself in some kind of creative activity. It doesn't have to be an easel...or wetting a could be cooking, writing, decorating, rebuilding a car, or WHATEVER! For me, it is the easel.

After a couple hours, (and waiting for the spray to hopefully have killed the ticks in the back) we decided to tackle the weeds. (ala advice from Kippy...get dirty). That went quickly, so we decided to remove the cover from the pool. Randy was feeling so good that he tackled a few limbs to clear a better view of the LPGA tournament (this week). He then disappeared for an hour or so (turns out he was dumping the yard debris). 

In the meantime, I settled in on one of the decks, drinking a cool one...and my iPod started playing one of my favorite songs...'Holy Mother' written by Eric Clapton and performed by Eric and Pavarotti...FABULOUS! So good, I listened louder 5 or 6 times, memorizing the words. Made me realize that quiet time, is SO theraputic.  We are way too busy for quiet. Well, quiet except for 'Holy Mother'. For my new friends who aren't aware of the book I helped create 'Mélanger avec Amour' with Kippy Hammond and Jerome Henriquez of La Bonne Etoile in France, I have had several 'epiphanies' while there. Totally don't know why I would try to 'splain' here...except to say that things are quiet there. Peaceful. Like the day I had here (not as exotic)

Except to be grateful...for the fireflies...the sun setting over the Pinnacle lake...a newly cleaned up back yard...and for the glorious song written by Eric...and the awareness that he has had the devastating experience of losing a child. And lived to be such an inspiration to others. I personally don't think this is a religious song per se, Holy Mother might just be a generic label for some higher power...definitely not owned by the 'cat-licks'. Whatever floats your boat, these lyrics are worth reading.

Just hope my art can someday do the same for someone else.

Link to music video:


Holy Mother, where are you?
Tonight I feel broken in two.
I've seen the stars fall from the sky.
Holy mother, can't keep from crying.
Oh I need your help this time, Get me through this lonely night.
Tell me please which way to turn To find myself again.
Holy mother, hear my prayer, Somehow I know you're still there.
Send me please some peace of mind; Take away this pain.
I can't wait, i can't wait, I can't wait any longer.
I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait for you.

Then the orchestra swells...takes it up a notch and then...the angel voice of Pavarotti:

Holy mother, hear my cry. I've cursed your name a thousand times.
I've felt the anger running through my soul; Holy mother can't keep control.
Oh, I feel the end has come, no longer my legs will run.
You know I would rather be in your arms tonight.

Then things get quiet, and Eric and Pavarotti duet the finish:

When my hands no longer play, My voice is still, I fade away.
Holy mother, then I'll be lying in, safe within your arms.

And a hair-raising guitar solo...and chorus.

Find something that makes your heart sing.

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