Today I enjoyed the productivity of a snow day - read a book, baked banana bread, sat on the back porch enjoying the snow falling with a cup of tea, and now I am writing my first blog of the new year. The snow blankets the ground in silence. All but the birds are still and quiet. It's a wonderful time to breathe. Tomorrow we should have a snow day from school. Our seniors deserve a respectable day of snow. When they were born, 18 years ago, we had a huge snowstorm on February 9. If only my students could have another just like that winter to usher them out of their senior year. Their last of 13 years in public school has been lackluster. The greatest achievement of childhood, graduation, has for some been an early option to just get out and ending the disappointment early. There's no great celebration of gathering together with classmates in pep rallies or dressing up for dances. Life has kicked the fair concept out of bounds and the game doesn't make sense anymore. Our class is finishing up Heart of Darkness. We've been talking about the journey to the empty hollowness where reason is out the window and rash violence is designed to quench lusty appetites for control. The quote we keep going back to states, "The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretense but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea - something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to...." Joseph Conrad wrote these words reacting to the raping of the Belgium Congo he witnessed. The surprising nature of a human's capability to cruelty over another is timeless. While written 100 years ago, the relevance shows itself today. Scary is the language of late. I look out into the current state of silence, and can't help but wonder if the silence is really peace or just waiting for the storm. I met an amazing man, a survivor of the Holocaust. He shared that it wasn't the German government that ruled havoc in Poland against the Jews. It was neighbors. The German government only gave permission, but neighbors are the ones who hauled a man they had lived next to for years into the street and killed with a hose forced down his throat. Neighbors, who are meant to love one another, hold great responsibility to be watchful: not for the permission to do harm, but for the opportunity to look out for one another, to take care of each other. Conversation is needed. A time of healing must come, but not through silencing and fear. Show me true acts of kindness, and I will listen much more readily. Show me the beauty of selfless love, and I will come to stand by your side. Show me you're willing to work hard, and I will believe what you say. Only then can we value and respect each other. Only then will we find space and time to breathe and reset ourselves. May our lives once again make sense through quiet reflection and individual commitment to do good rather than not.

Today is the fifth day of Christmas, December 29. Today's the heralded day of five golden rings held in great esteem of what the true love brought. PNC estimates the worth of the twelve days at $16,168.00; $945.00 used to purchase the five golden rings. However, why would the creator of the song suddenly switch from poultry to precious metals on Day 5 and back to poultry for two more days? The tradition states that the five golden rings represent the code Catholics created to maintain the catechism of their youth during persecution years in England. The five books of the law of Moses, or the Torah, laid foundations for the awaited promise of deliverance from sin's sorrow. Yet that still doesn't explain the logical leap from calling birds to geese a laying. When I lived overseas, this conversation came up with one of my British friends. Her answer came in the form of game birds. Pheasants have a golden ring around their necks separating their brilliantly colored heads from their more common barred back feathers. This makes sense as a logical procession lost over time. The line of gifts from a true love start small with a partridge and progressed to the largest land fowl of seven swans a swimming. The swan is the delicacy of the queen and kept for special feasts. The queen herself owns all of the mute swans that are unmarked in Britain's open waters. This would then be the highest, most royal meal to feast upon for the celebration of the King of Kings. Up until 1998, the act of eating a swan was treasonous as the privilege of eating a swan belonged only to her majesty. A Welsh friend regaled me of a swan dinner she once saw. The swan's skinned form was arranged around the baked meat on the table complete with feathers, looking as if it was real swimming on the platter preserving the elegance as a centerpiece. But I digress. We were talking about pheasants. A few people may declare the "Twelve Days of Christmas" as their favorite, but most children love to belt out the repeating verses to get the joy of being seasonally annoying. The fifth day is held long and hard for the emphasis to ring through the chorus. What is the call of these rings that sing in our ears? The call is to ground ourselves in a foundation of truth. The fact remains, without questioning gaps in logic, or glitches in our understanding, we miss on the richness of knowledge that makes history fascinating. We miss the chance to shift our perspective, viewing the picture before us more holistically. If each individual pledged to seek the truth hidden in the layers of public portrayal, we would have a society deeper and more invested in the richness of being a community with a timeless value. For more information on the royal swans, see these sites: https://vintnershall.co.uk/swans/ https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/fascinating-history-british-thrones-swans-180964249/#:~:text=It%20took%20until%201998%20for,to%20keep%20or%20kill%20them.

Felix, my daughter's cat, is staying with us from Thanksgiving till her return for Christmas. His groove fitting in has brought tumultuous reactions from Bonnie our resident cat. Felix brands his own sense of inclusivity. He thunders through the house chasing Bonnie only for her to lie in ambush plotting to jump him in defense. He bounces, leaps, swats, irritates, and generally recreates Bonnie's otherwise serene state of mind. Before Felix, Bonnie's greatest concern was her feeding schedule. Since Felix, she has stared chaos in the face, knows its name to be Felix, and now she spends time looking rather confused. Felix's past summer defined the realm of out of control. His housemate, Gwen, recovered from surgery removing cancer in her hind leg. The onslaught of anxiety and trauma inflicted on the little house due to Gwen's battle with this fear inducing disease threw his world into an unsafe feeling of being lost. Felix suffered and became insecure increasing his obnoxious capacity as a result. Of course, I get the calm side of Felix. When I am getting ready for work, he joins me curling up in the sink. He sits with me and enjoys being quiet together. His sense of balance is beginning to return and after a couple of weeks, Bonnie's hissing has diminished as well. In the midst of turmoil, a sense of peace has been found when life seemed too much for a little kitty. Each year, about this time, my thoughts turn to the Nativity. I find much comfort and balance when considering the weight a young woman named Mary carried to bring peace into the world. I imagine her, nine months mysteriously pregnant, on a 13 day journey riding a donkey because the government decided to organize the citizenry forcing the march to her husband's homeland. Nothing was prepared there for her. No room, no family, no plan met her in her last days before giving birth. Can there be a more disconcerting moment for a new mother than to have nothing ready for her child? Thinking only of Mary's ride on the donkey brings a tremendous sense of discomfort. I rode on a motorcycle cross continent once when I was newly pregnant. I frequently wanted to stop and didn't feel well. She sat, swollen belly pushed into her diaphragm, being rocked and shifted across the road with numerous hoards able to move faster and claim what rentals awaited in Bethlehem. The noise stands out to me. The noise not just of the travel and bustle of people, but the internal noise of questions, concerns, doubts, fears that seem to fall down upon me each December. The noise that quietly shouts, "How much more?" Mary heard that strain as well. She was human asked to take on the responsibility of nurturing the ancient prophecy. Everything must have seemed rather out of control. I look to her example when I set up the Nativity. The artist painted her face as placid and pretty. She seems passively resigned, but that can't be her whole story. What I need to see is the heart of a mother learning that her sacrifice is going to be all right and that her family is going to make it through. Mary's song to me in the days of December is one of ultimate grace and guidance. There is peace to be found even in the night belonging to chaos and change. There is hope to be had even this year in 2020.

This evening marks the arrival of St. Mikuláš. In Hungary he brings treats to children who leave their boots at the window. In Czech, he brings treats and leaves them in a stocking. If a child is naughty, then coal can and will be left behind. This happened to my husband one year. He felt even more disappointed when his piece of coal went into the fire keeping the house warm. In Prague where I spent a couple of winters, costumed characters of Mikuláš and his angel and čert travel the streets. The angel gives gifts of clementines or a piece of candy. The čert, or little devil, is said to put the naughty children in his sack and carry them off to Spain. For me, this holiday helps to launch the advent season. My mood is more hopeful filled with the excitement the children had. To the people of Czech and Hungary, where Mikuláš actually visits, they do not see him connected to Christmas at all. He is separate and maintains his very own day and entity of surprise. What is left in the boots and stockings also is not the same that Americans cram into the stockings at Christmas. Aside from the difference in materialism, the one problem my family typically experienced is that my children weren't raised in the Czech Republic. While classmates waited till Christmas and discussed Rudolph and Santa, my children sat quietly wondering about their family. I wondered if I did them a disservice not going with the populace. After all of these years, I have decided that traditions are simply what connect the older generations to the younger ones. Quirks in the traditions are what make the family memories special. To be unique and different takes a lot of courage, but the rewards create family ties or threads that help to bind relationships when differences develop gaps in knowing how to relate. The time spent as a family forges foundations where no one else will know you ever quite the same. The years of working through family jokes and understanding how the strengths of brothers and sisters compliment you own provide an outlet to truly be a side of you that no one else will bring out from you. That's family. My children can always tell when I am talking with my sister on the phone as our voices change. I've noticed the same among them. When gathered around the table or coming together for a family time, remember you are sharing a side that most will never see. That's the privilege of being born together in one group called a family. When called together, we see a side of ourselves that we never truly understood or accepted. Family does that - they take us as we are and let's us shape a history together. Happy Mikuláš May you open the gift of family this beautiful season of reflection and preparation.

Had a few obstacles thrown out as hurdles, but this past week, I had my first ever book launch and it was wonderful. We took lots of precautions, had two young gentlemen keeping count at the door and they made sure no more than 25 people came into a room that holds a 300 capacity. We posted alphabetical time slots so A-G came from 2-3pm, H-M came 3-4pm, N-Z came 4-5 pm. All food was created by my dear friend in individual packaged portions. Pictures and recipes are being uploaded to a page on my website. We went with the Iceman theme and had ice pillar candles and white trees and iced globed candle holders around the room. No table cloths were used so the tables could easily be wiped down. A fire was going in the fireplace and outside around a fire pit. It was a great day! The people who came wanted to celebrate with me. The encouragement coming out of isolation as a writer to be with those who are excited for me made such a difference to the doubts and nerves I've had waiting for Iceman Awakens to release. To finally talk about my journey as a writer and read my two favorite sections with each backstory completed my initiation as an author. After five years researching, trying to recreate a time period we know so little about, I am ready to stand. There will come naysayers, who believe they could do better, but I know who I am; I'm baptized as an author. I am Awakened.

Thanksgiving comes as the darkening of the days lengthens. A month till the Winter Solstice creates an early retreat from outside into the quiet of the question - what to do with myself? Thanksgiving this year, comes with the challenge of being grateful as restrictions take one more thing away. Thanksgiving is a tradition, a holiday of recentering. Generations old and young meet in the middle and life is cultivated, deepened, enhanced. Growing up, our family only gathered as the immediate members. I envied those with large gatherings of cousins, aunts and uncles. We were small, six in total. Remembering back, I think of the seasons of change represented in the family. When my grandmother moved into the nursing home with Alzheimer's her seat was empty. When my oldest sister went to college down in Texas and we were in Michigan, her seat was empty. When my other sister married the changes continued. Yet Thanksgiving marked more than the shifting members. Thanksgiving meant a moment of focus on what I was really thankful for. This year above all else, I am thankful for hope. Found in hope is the essence of all small wishes and possibilities. When we hope, we are the closest to dreaming with our eyes wide open. We walk in belief that everything will work and in the end we'll find our way. Hope is pure in the power to just keep going. That's why I have placed a Hope sign in my window so I see it every time I look outside from my vantage point in my chair. Lately I've heard echoed the sentiment that we can't wait for 2020 to be over. Disappointment awaits holding onto this hope. A magic switch or restart button is not waiting on the eve of the new year. That's not how life works. That's not really directing hope in a beneficial way. When we focus our hope inside, the desire to become a better person places us in a position to achieve our goals. Instead of waiting for everything outside us to change, the hope inside waits for us to find the time to reflect and regroup. Hope is small, but mighty just like the true treasures in life. The grand makes an impression, but the little calls us to listen. Our lives are filled each day with little wonders, blessings, tokens of kindness. Overlooking these small gems creates discontent waiting for the prize of the day. Each day is truly a gift filled with many many little blessings. Silently each little seed of goodness experienced daily is sown into our hearts waiting for us to take notice and grow a grateful grace inside. Focusing our hope on what we have to be grateful for prepares our hearts to be humble. It's a humble heart that is ready to receive the greatest gift of all - abundant life worth living. Romans 5: 3-4

Life creates obstacles that cause us to wait. As a child we see the adult torture tactic of making us wait for birthdays and Christmas. Anticipation enhances the time spent together as a family. As an adult, waiting causes us to feel out of control. I find I am more impatient trying to navigate waiting these days. I've always been told never pray for patience because then you'll be given many reasons to practice being patient. Now that I have gone through the past nine months trying to patiently wait for this book, I have an improved vision of what acquiring patience means. It means hope. Hope requires faith that everything will work out just fine. Hope brings us to believe in possibilities not realized. Hoping is the closest thing to dreaming with our eyes wide open. Today my book launches - the accumulation of dreams from over 20 years ago. This particular story sat in the back of my mind percolating, pondering possibilities for the past twelve years. Five years ago, I got serious about doing something about that dream. I had taken a writing class and had to produce a short story to earn the grad credits needed for recertification. My professor jotted down a little note to let her know what I did with that story. Sometimes I find that hope or dreaming is for other people. It won't work out for me. That's the lie I believed for 20 years. There will be time. I'll get around to writing. My children were little and I was fighting to carve out work and holidays and a home. I didn't have the focus to believe in what was lying patiently inside waiting for me to just try. My life as a writer was the one waiting for me to believe I am able. Today is a day to celebrate and let what is dormant inside be free! May what God has gifted return to me tenfold. Iceman Awakens is born.

Recently courage has been on my mind. One of my slogans for Iceman Awakens is courage carries doubt on its back. All courage exists inside waiting. All courage must face the unknown of risk facing what's known of fear. What keeps us from reaching deep inside to find the courage to stand? One of the characters of the Wizard of Oz is the cowardly lion, quite the oxymoron of symbols. Lions are one of the top predators of the wild. They know who they are. They know their role in life. They don't question what other antelopes or gazelle or monkeys are supposed to do. They know. That's part of what makes a lion or an eagle admirable - they are the top and they accept the responsibility to maintain that circle of life we are all apart of. The reason I have a hard time embracing my inner courage or my inner lioness is not because I am not strong, but because I have a false sense of my role in life. We are taught to play nice, share, tell the truth, be kind unwind. That's what we are told and these are good qualities to help humanity coexist. But how well are we really coexisting? Currently an atmosphere of anger is being pacified through waiting. Anger is a trait not encouraged in polite circles. Anger's passion is intimidating and not a sign of civilization or refinement, but deep inside when life feels out of control an anger simmers. The emotion itself is a powerful expression of being alive. To be angry indicates a caring, a vulnerability of pride and this shows we feel and are fired up. To be perpetually angry, however, like the state we find around us of late, begins to implode, to turn in upon that life spark, and drown out what we truly understand and believe through a distorted lens. Courage is required these days in remembering what is really important to us, what we believe is true, what we value as essential as air to breathe. Just pacifying ourselves through a false sense of being kind doesn't heal the festering of not being at peace with who we are. If we are to heal as a nation or a people, we need to first define and understand who we are as individuals. We learn what we are capable of, both good and bad, when the pressure is on. This past August when we went back to school, I had no idea what I was truly capable of. It was hard. It really hurt, but now I know. I can do so much more than I believed possible. I have a better understanding of myself and my role, or what I offer to those around me. I found my courage to stand in the face of chaos and turmoil. As a result, I can reach out a hand to others struggling around me. If we are to grow from our current state of existence to a true understanding of coexistence, we need to first coexist within ourselves with a better understanding of who we are and what we believe. Only then, when we are at peace with ourselves, will we be able to accept others who are different around us. By standing as individuals, we actually unite as a stronger sense of one humanity.

I have two favorite memories of college biology: how living organisms are classified and the color of leaves. The true color of leaves is present all spring and summer. Buried under the layers of chloroplasts lies the deep reds, oranges, yellows, and browns that leaf lovers long for with the cooling Autumn winds. Chloroplasts' purpose feeds the tree by soaking up the sun's rays into those green cells. As the extended time of the sun fills the battery like cells, the green begins to slip away, or fall off allowing the leaf a moment of colorful glory before separating and falling to the ground; its job done. Poet e .e. cummings wrote his poem l(a. His words hang in my classroom. Students stare at the trailing letters pondering the code, musing any meaning. His poem reads l(a le af fa ll s) one l iness To look at this poem, start with the idea of falling and let the letters and the parenthesis mimic the falling nature of the leaf. A fun side note, the typewriter Cummings used contained only one key to press both a numeral 1 and a lower case l onto the page. My grandmother's typewriter had the same function. One alone falls. Together on a tree, leaves' color create a majesty inspiring numerous paintings and poems. Autumn is the leaf's time to shine. In like fashion, the true color that comes after we shed the weight upon our shoulders and look up reflecting our inner growth is stunning. We've all weathered storms. We all walk the path of loneliness. Our heartache unites us more than divides as we cling to the tree of life side by side and radiate personal growth and understanding fed by the heat of life's crucible. Our individual stories feed the whole tree giving courage and comfort. We are not alone. Today's plans include a walk. The time to reflect, look up, and gather leaves as I go will bring what I crave most: a sense of peace that life is in balance. Each leaf reminds me to be true to how I am designed. Each leaf reminds me to let go, show my true color, and shine. When I want to cry or stop being positive because the days are too much, I try to remember to look up and know this shall pass. What I choose to do with this time shall imprint my life as long as I walk this earth. "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven" Ecclesiastes 3: 1 (KJV)

My husband's hobby stems from the hills of Moravia where his uncle has a wine cellar filled with his wine. The climate in Czech, much less humid, produces a nicely flavored wine. The hills of Eger, Hungary further south have some of the sweetest whites making their famous Tokaj in three levels of fine dessert wine. My husband enjoys reds. He grows the whites for me. Virginia brings the sun, heat, growing season - everything a grape needs to arrive at the right level of sugar for harvest. Virginia brings mildew, Japanese beetles, black rot in a heightened fashion. Virginia creates a challenge. Self-taught, my husband grooms and coaxes the land. He watches and protects as his crop of a hundred vines begin to swell, the skins showing fullness. This year the whites, like Traminette, struggled and had to be taken early. Only five gallons produced. The reds, his Chambourcin did much better. Ten gallons pressed using the vintage wine press he restored. My friend had the press holding plants and dirt as a decoration. We traded a saddle for the press and my husband's surprise at his birthday told me I did good. Growing grapes for wine takes time. The real challenge begins once the harvest has been pulled. Last year, a bad year for reds, the five gallons stayed in the carboy till our son's graduation from college in May 2020: the worst possible year to celebrate any monumental achievement or rite of passage. We sat outside, al fresco with his best friend's family and enjoyed lasagna and my husband's wine. Moravia has flavorful wine, but this batch, the batch that stayed in the same carboy thinking about life for months staying at just the right temperature, was a fine, fine tasting wine. The color rich and deep and the flavor rival of any I have had in France or from California. When the remaining wine was bottled separately after the dinner, however, and stored in individual bottles the flavor changed. Richness comes from staying together, blending together taking time together. Depth of character develops through time spent soaking up the essence of each other's pressed goodness. The same is true of us as a people. Father Robert Capon wrote, "God makes wine. Only the ungrateful or the purblind can fail to see that sugar in the grape and yeast on the skins is a divine idea, not a human one." We will grow in goodness and grace, when we recognize through thankfulness the divine in coming together, working together, sweetening the hardships together, and ultimately being pressed together, so we have something more than ourselves of value to offer the world. May our lives be like a fine wine from vine to the table for all to enjoy.

Last night ended happily. My heart enjoyed tapping into the different people I met at our local Oktoberfest. Social distances observed, my mask on despite being outside, I talked and interacted with complete strangers in a capacity longed for these past several months Little Emma stopped by my book table. We talked about mummies and research. I told her about indigenous people groups. She absorbed what I said and I took in her beautiful innocence. Emma is 11 years old. I met Dolores at 84. Dolores served as a marine for 21 years starting back in 1957. She was kicking butt and taking names on many continents before I was even born. She showed me her original military id. Gorgeous and dangerous - that's Dolores. She's an amazing icon of girl power. I met Tai, who escaped from Vietnam with his family back in '75. They lost everything - left behind what couldn't be carried. He used to be a gymnast, a French chef's assistant, martial arts student, oil painter...the more he talked, the more I saw the strength of growing up in a country that emphasized dexterity of hands combined with the tragedy of exile to rebuild, reinvent, and flourish. Tai knew the meaning of true grit. Two of my students stopped by to say hello. Seeing them in person was joyous. We are together for the second of a two year course in research. Their smiles and beautiful faces weren't distorted with a computer screen stuffing them into a tiny, talking square. Their vibrant embracing of life has been missing in my classroom. Diana took a moment to inquire about writing a book. She's a writer and her stories are about to be told. The more opportunities I had to connect with people, hear their stories, learn from them, the more I began to understand how quarantine has robbed us of a vital truth in our existence. In class, we always look at how meaning is made. Bottom line, meaning does not evolve from just one person. It takes two. Somewhere in the possibility of being misunderstood lies the bridge to connecting one soul to another, an experience's understanding with an unrelated experience sharing a similar impact. Somewhere in the coming together of two minds, meaning shapes and pushes into being uniting us, helping us grow. To relegate stories only to books misses out on the potential meaning we meet every single day. Lives that bump into our lives carry stories of conflicts overcome, failures learned, growth through disappointment and heartbreak. I tell my students we read to know we are not alone. Reading allows us to connect on a very intimate level where vulnerability can be risked. A book's grace can be found by closing the cover and walking away when the connection doesn't hold. A book's strength lies in the power to make us feel, to stir in us a recognition of the strength and power to overcome. In a book, two strangers connect finding common ground on the imagination's playground. Meeting another in the middle completes our sense of community. In quarantine, we have been only half ourselves. Times of isolation provide opportunities for reflection and personal growth. However, seeing others at some stage in their own characterization and development through their own conflicts and obstacles inspires and encourages us to be that same role model for someone else watching our lives. Though not bound by a cover and not made up of pages, each of our lives share the stories of who we are - who we are still becoming. Life will make much more sense when we come together and share our stories one with another. If meaning and purpose are cloudy and distant, pick up the phone, write an old fashioned letter, take a moment to connect in the safest manner for you, and breathe in the stories of the lives that bring richness to our day to day. The act of picking up a book is only slightly different than the act of saying hello. I for one can be found again this afternoon from 4-8 pm, properly social distancing, but soaking up the stories that stop by to say hi.

Ötzi was real, is real. His life is a mystery and an inspiration. The finding of his corpse back in 1991 turned our knowledge around. Previously we believed people groups living over 5000 years ago in the Neolithic era were primitive, simple folk, not nearly as evolved or intelligent as we are. After all they hadn't discovered Bronze yet. Ötzi's existence, however, resurrected many questions of how much we underestimated him and his people. His mummy challenges how much we still have to learn. Iceman Awakens is completely fictional, but years of research have gone into the details and framing of the character Gaspare, the young Iceman. Some of those details found in the story are listed here. Chealana, his wolf, is his faithful companion. On the corpse of his mummy was found a form of canine hair indicating questions about the domestication of the canine species. He was 43-45 when he died, but if he did have a pet/domesticated dog, why not a wolf? His name Gaspare is a form of the word gaspar, which is adapted from the semi precious stone jasper. Many theories surround his status and role in his society, but there seems to be agreement on the fact that Ötzi was most likely a holy man. Jasper, the stone, was often found in association with ancient holy men and archeology of the past. Both the stone and his name infuse this idea of holy man into the story and his destiny that he is learning during his coming of age rite of passage. If he was a holy man, then he needed to find that calling at some point. Over 12 rites of passage of ancient tribes were consulted to consider what might be activities deemed symbolic and worthy of a man in the tribe. This set Gaspare's age for the novel at 13 years old. Following books in this series are focused on getting him to the mountain where he was murdered, but the main focus of Iceman Awakens was to breathe life back into his society and culture and lay the ground work for how he was positioned in life to end up murdered in such a merciless manner. Next week I'll add more details into the back ground of how the story Iceman Awakens was framed by history of a man misunderstood and unknown except as Ötzi, the Iceman