Tuesday, September 16, 2014

A random train of thought in the middle of the night.

I was going through my pictures looking for one of a train. But I couldn't find any that I've actually taken of the train by my house. So the next best thing is a road. I've taken lots of pictures of roads.


I'm just sitting here. Not thinking too much.
Not doing too much.
The house is quiet.
It's dark outside. 
I can hear a lone dog barking, only suddenly go silent, then suddenly start up barking again, perhaps chatting with the neighbors dog, about the moon, or some strange smell he caught on the wind, or perhaps planning some escapade with his friends once he gets off his chain. 
The moths are trolling outside my window trying to get in. I think they know their days are numbered, and are trying to prolong the inevitable.  I look at them, and smile, happy that they are outside, and can't get in. I'm happy that I am in, and they are out.
Happy that soon they will freeze, and they will no longer torment me.

I know it's late. It's my bedtime. What is my bedtime you ask? Well, it's when I feel tired. 

I am tired. My eyes are droopy. But still something nocturnal keeps me clinging to wakefulness. Something that makes me want to linger longer, and sift through random books, facebooks, random bits of paper I have littering my desk, I search through the fridge, delve into the pantry, looking, searching, hunting, for what?

I don't know. Maybe I'm looking for sleep. Or looking to avoid it. I don't know which. Why is it so hard to go to bed? And why is it so hard to wake?
Maybe its the transition that is hard. Maybe deep down, I like to keep going on the track I'm on, whatever track it is, and switching gears just doesn't come easy for me.
Brush my teeth?
Get into my pajamas? 
That is hard. Very hard.
Oh, unloading that truck full of wood, wrestling a goat, folding stinky, dirty, silage tarps, that was easy. That was day.
But bed. 
Oh that's hard. That's changing tracks.
Tracks. Yes. There are many, especially along my road.
A train hoots six times as it rumbles past my house, shaking my room, and waking up all the light sleepers in the neighborhood.  But, maybe there are no light sleepers. Maybe everyone but me is used to the noise. Maybe I am the only soul along this road who has thought mean and nasty thoughts about the iron beast that wakes me up. Our house is not so terribly close to the tracks. Not like the hotels, and houses that were built practically on the railroad itself years ago. 
Thankfully not. But my house is close enough to the tracks. Too close.
In the daytime, I hardly notice that the trains exist. But when night comes, it's a different story. I will be sound asleep in my bed, when suddenly one comes, and lo, it doesn't cometh quietly, nor does it use stealth in the dead of night. No.
It surges on, rumbling like a tsunami, blaring the matrix theme song on its morbid horn, sometimes honking twelve or more times, depending on what kind of demon is at the helm. Sometimes there are mild toot, toots, or kinder ice cream truck blurbs, other times, there are dramatic phantom of the opera, Na, Naa, naaa, naaaa, NAaa, Na Naaaa's.  

Who chooses these horns, I cannot say? Why some honk incessantly and others just a few? I cannot say either. Only one thing I know for certain, that these nameless souls, these conductors of a thankless job, pass by us too fast to talk, to be seen, yet deeply yearn to be heard. They desperately want the world to know they exist, that they are awake while we slumber. Like a wild coyote they call out to the lonely pack, and the dogs in the neighborhood howl in return.
I know I yowl plenty of times too, especially when my window is open, and the horn slices the night in a thousand tiny shards, honking more than a dozen times, yanking me out of my sleep. Oftentimes my bed shakes as the train passes. Is it a an earthquake? No.

 It sounds as if the train is coming right through my room. I groan, then my sister groans, and then, in my half-wakeness, half-sleepness, I utter exclamations and curses upon the vial train, like I was some sorceress that could cast a spell upon the entire railroad company and turn their trains into silent puffs of smoke.  It always amazes me that I can utter so much, and can complain so much, and still be somewhat asleep. 
           Then, as it passes we both fall back asleep, and the room grows quiet again. Then fifteen or twenty minutes later, it comes again. Even before I hear its horn, I shoot up, and slam the window down.
Whomp!
The sound of the train is still there, but the closed glass masks the churning, bubbling, brew of steel, horn, steam, smoke, fire, engine, wheels, and speed, just enough to smooth out all the hard edges that prod me from my slumber.
Trains. How did they get here I wonder? All that track, all that train? All those miles? Who put them there? People? I did not see it happen. But it is here. And it got here somehow, like electricity, like computers, like the internet, like cars, and roads, and telephone poles.

Like magic, it was here before I was. It happened. I did not see it. We are the benefactors of a time before, we inherit what we did not plant, what I can hardly comprehend, or grasp---phones, coolers, skyscrapers, malls, TVs, even simple things like toasters, and blow-dryers, blow my mind. 
A train I did not grow.
A track I did not help build. 
I did not put it there. And given the chance, I would not try to grow one either.
Especially since now we do not ride in trains anymore. (not the ones by my house, anyway)  I would like them much better if they were more bustling with humanity, with comings and going like before. 
But now, they're always going. Never stopping. And when they do stop its usually to block the road because they've run out of fuel, or their load is to heavy for their engine. 
 
 Trains. 

I had no intention of giving them so much attention in this post. But one went past the house, and got my attention. And it asked me to write about it. And I said to myself, yes, I will write about you, you noisy pesky thing. You have invaded my thoughts more times than I can count. I might as well put those thoughts to paper. Or...cyber paper.

 The trains run through the land, why not invade cyberspace? Churning, tumbling, rumbling, tooting, hooting they come.
Tonight. Yes. The trains run. Always. They are one of the constants in my life. So many things change, people, friends, even family.
But the trains, they come, always, without even asking for them.
They are always there, constantly running, constantly chugging. If they were to stop chugging, who knows, maybe the clocks would stop, and everything would sound very empty. 
Maybe deep down, I like their sound, in a windblown-sort of way. Like I like the taste of hot sauce, because it has spice. But I won't hesitate to complain and wash out the heat with milk.
The train. It's a sound that reminds me of home, of the house by the tracks, the road that I walk along, and more often than not, cover my ears as the trains surge past, and I feel the ground shake, as something more powerful than I pushes through, then leaves.

The howl of the train reaches even your ears, tonight, subconsciously, in your mind, they honk.
Maybe you know some people who honk too, people who have been planted just outside your house along the road, that came there without you asking, lonely people wanting to be heard, running, always running, moving, chugging, too busy to stop, to afraid to. 
But wanting to be heard, desperately.

What do I learn from them? To fear their power? To submit to their noise? Not to park myself where they might run me over? To accept what I cannot change?
Or to simply plug my ears and shut the window when they come?
I cannot stand in their way.
No.
I can not change them.
Maybe they too are searching for something, like me, going in circles, from one thing to the next, wanting to sleep, but not yet ready to stop. Endlessly, running on their track, unable to switch gears for fear they might fall off. 

Trains, they shake our houses, wake us when we want to be sleeping. They are inevitable. Things that come without you asking.
Things that toot, their own horn, over and over again.
 Maybe all we can do is listen gently for a time, smile, and wave as they pass on by. Then walk on, and remember, it's good to sometimes run out of steam.
Then, we can finally sleep.
And dream.
Then wake up. Renewed. Refueled. Full of life.
Ready to find new tracks, old tracks, and run side by side, slow or fast, opening our doors to life wherever it leads us.

And I think I will do that too. My steam is all run out.
It's past two in the morning. My eyes are droopier.
My throat is dryer. 
My fingers feel clumsier. 
My brain is feeling clumsy too.
My head feels heavy.
My nocturnal self has prowled around long enough, clunking out all the random thoughts in my head, growling, and yawning, and roaming back and forth on this not so inky page. I have nothing else to say.

Yes...I think....I'm going to...sleep.
But wait....
        Chug...choo.
             Chug...
I...
            um...
                   er...
                  tired.
                      Goodnight.





 



Sunday, August 31, 2014

Little green apples




I'm finally here.
Sort of. I kind of feel shell shocked from the crazy months that have been spinning by me at lightning speed. 
This summer has been full of kids. Lots of kids of all shapes and sizes. It's been full of mud pies, squirt guns, water fights, marbles, games, blocks, and did I mention, kids? 

Our house seems to be a hotel, bed in breakfast, kid entertaining station, the hub where all things  meet in our family. There's always something going on, going inbetween, going after.

Right now at this moment, there is a pause. And I will relish it. I know all to well that pauses, if left too long on their own will by the excess empty space bring into itself derbies, people, events, and stuff, always. 

Empty spaces have strong gravity pulls. If you don't believe me go clean your kitchen, and wait. 

Some kitchens have longer waiting periods before the inevitable happens. But it always does, sooner than later.

At our house, in our kitchen, with someone always cooking, with someone always making something, it's always sooner. Always. 

Besides being a place where my nieces and nephews like to take  summer vacation, our house is also the house where there will always be someone to rescue someone from something.

Be it someone's lost goat stuck in a irrigation ditch, (which did happen one summer and it was a stinkin billy goat) or someone's stranded at their house, someone needs an ear, someone needs someone to fill in---somehow if we can, and if it's truly needed, we are usually there, especially when it comes to family---they just get first dubs by default. 

The last rescue mission we just completed.  And now our house is uncommonly quiet. But this too is the pull of gravity, just like the silent last hush of summer, waiting for winter to rush in. 

Something is brewing, waiting to descend, some family event, something...

My sister in law's father recently died, so we had five extra kids, and a baby that's never been away from her mom to juggle for a while. I honestly don't ever remember taking care of a baby crying, and carrying on that much for her mum. It was enough to make me reconsider ever having kids. Seriously. 

I hope nobody in my family reads this or I'm in the dog house. 
Oh well. But honestly. It was tough. All night, all day she cried, and cried. I'm sure the neighbors thought that we were terrible people. We tried everything to sooth and comfort her. But she would not be comforted. Nothing worked. That kid was bound and determined to cry her lungs out, and then some. At night I'd lay in bed, and the ringing sounds of her crying would echo in my ears even though she had finally fallen asleep. 
Not until the last day we had her, did she finally start to warm up. 
I don't know what changed. Why she stopped crying. Why she began to giggle and smile, and do normal things that babies do? 

The only thing I did differently was tear up bits of paper to try to make her laugh. And it worked. It wasn't moment later that all her crying stopped. And there was this happy child in her place. It was such a switch I was baffled. That day I witnessed a miracle. Seriously. 

After that, my mom had this notion to put up corn.
This was not any corn, mind you, this was non gmo corn. So we had to put a lot of it up, because who knows if we could get this kind of corn again. 
               So thus ensued a corn fest.
                 Picking corn.
                    Shelling corn.
                       Cooking corn.
                        Chopping corn.
                         Bagging corn.
                              Cleaning corn out of the cracks of the table, and decorning the floors, pans, tables, chairs.
                       Disposing of the corn husks and cobs. Not to mention the people who had to grow the corn, and water it.
                            Why do people do corn anyway? Who thought of it in the first place? It's crazy.
            



By the time we were done putting the corn up, I was sick of corn. And can safely say that I won't be wanting any for a very...very long time. 

Then my mom's been harvesting cucumbers, turning them into hot yummy pickles. Those I can never get enough of. Yum.

Oh, and let's not forget the onions. Got to chop the tops off them and let them dry.


 
 
And don't forget the apples....the picking of the apples, the chopping of the apples, the peeling of the apples, the coring of the apples, the apple pies, apple sauce, and the bottled apples. And these weren't normal sized apples, mind you. These are small, golf ball, sized apples, that no one would be crazy enough to do anything with. 
But because we so happen to love the flavor....because they were so crisp, so sweet, guess what.

APPLES!
APPLES!
And more APPLES!







Oh, and in-between all this, my sister was in a play as the lead role--Sleeping beauty. My mom was helping out with costumes, and our house was littered with bits of cloth, costumes, and random bits of clothes. 
 
My sister, sleeping beauty in a dress my mom so artfully redesigned

 The play.
Now I must make a confession.

I tried out for the play as well, and was cast as one of the good fairies. But then, after reading the script, and going through the schedule, and comparing it to what my summer would be like if I followed through, I had to face the fact that by being in the play, a lot of more important things would end up not done.  So, again, I had to be brave and say no. Had I known the play schedule before I tried out, I would have not been so bold.

That no was really hard no to say. It made me look yellow, made me feel terrible to bale out after the first practice. 
But it would have made me feel worse to be indentured to a play---to spend my entire summer learning someone elses words, saying someone elses lines, while I forsook writing my own words.
  That was a really hard no because I have always liked acting, music, and the connection that comes with creating art with a group of people. My ego really didn't like saying no to that one. Nope.  But I knew it was a lot more polite to drop out sooner than later so that the directer could find someone else to fit my shoes. And believe it or not. He did. He found someone that did a great, fantastic job as the fairy. Watching the play at the end of this summer, I didn't feel bad either. It was really excellent. And I was again reminded that it's okay to say no.

It's humbling as well as relief to know that I am not irreplaceable in all aspects----that saying no sometimes will not cause the cosmos to stop in their orbit, and spin into oblivion. 

I just wish no got easier to say.  
 
Then betwixt everything I had a job I was looking into, interviewing for, but I finally decided that it would eat away too much of my time.  I had to weigh in everything else I would have to say no to if I said yes to this.  
Plus in light of our rescue mission, watching kids, and after giving it good consideration, again I had to say no.

Gosh.

I must be the queen of no. But I find myself saying that word a lot these days, even sometimes to my family. It sure makes me feel mean. Maybe I am? 

But, by golly, sometimes it's just the only right thing to do. Yes, it may be viewed as selfish. But more important than hoards of friends that like to use you, is having integrity, and a few close friends who can count on you, and who you can count on. For me, no has been more oftentimes coupled with integrity---and saying yes, more coupled with my ego.
But that's just my experience. 

I'm just sitting here I wondering what No's I will have to say in the future. And how much more courage I will have to require before I can say it with conviction. 

What no's await me? And coupled with that no, what yeses am I saying yes to when I say no?
Will I be strong? 
Do I have the courage to live what I believe regardless of my ego, and what the world thinks, whatever no's or yeses await me.

At harvest time, when all my no's, and yeses have been gleaned, the things that mattered, things I did, or didn't do gathered into a bunch, what will fly away, like chaff, what will be solid?

Will my harvest of no's be more than that of the yeses because of the greater yesses they led me to? 
Did I make the right decisions? 
Will I make the right decisions?

Will my harvest be like those bunches of small golf-ball sized apples, loading the tree, weighing the branches down, small, simple, but abundant, not particularity wanted by everyone, but full of flavor, and when diced and sliced add up to more than a bunch of large apples.

Gathered into my kitchen, at first, when I started chopping the apples and coring them, I was afraid that we wouldn't get very many jars of apples. I was afraid that all our effort picking them was a waste waste.
Then, as time went on, and my sister, and mom came to help, jar after jar became filled. More jars were needed. More jars were filled. What looked like a measly harvest turned into quarts and quarts.  At the end of canning, my mom said something like, "Maybe the small apples make more, after all."

Maybe that's what most of life is like---moment by moment, they come. Those small, sweet, delicious little things, that yield the most flavor, and greater harvest.  Little green apples, loaded with flavor. It doesn't take much to enjoy them, only a little thought and some action, picking them one at a time until the barrels are full. Oh yes, the larger apples at the top of the tree are nice. You shake them off too. They come in one's or twos. Some, the birds have eaten, some the worms have got to. They looked much more prettier from far off, out of reach. And now that they are on the ground, you see that those large apples you tried so hard to get aren't as grand as you thought.



So maybe, decisions are like that to, some small, some large, some wormy, some bruised, some sour, some tart, some green, some ripe, some sweet, some juicy, some full of flavor, others not so much.
But maybe at the end, it won't matter so much how big your apples are, or how long it took you to pick them, what you picked, but how you picked them, who you picked them with, and what you did with them once you had them. Maybe it's the quality of flavor that counts, and the sweetness that makes apples worth keeping in the end.

 

Eggxactly why raw eggs are good for you!




A treasure trove of eggs my niece and I found hiding behind some straw
Where has the summer gone? 

That solemn quiet of the changing seasons is here yet again.

It's weird how I can always feel it, the wheel turning, and me turning with it.


A pleasant breeze gently caresses me through my window. The grass is greener than it has been in a long time, the weeds taller, the trees still, as if waiting.

And I guess they are.



I don't know when this change happens, only that when it does, I feel it.

I wake up in the morning, and just know.

The night's get cooler. And the birds that woke me before are gone. And I wake up, not because of the sound, but because of the lack of it.



The chickens I incubated and raised in the spring are all grown. I've been so excited to see which ones turned out to be hens, and which ones turned out to be roosters. I thought that the fates would be with me, that maybe only one or two would turn out to be a rooster, and the rest would be hens.

But, low, karma has an interesting sense of humor.

I had my sister look in on my brood of grown chicks.

And, gulp.

The horrors.

Every single one of them, are ROOSTERS! Except maybe two are hens. What are the odds?


I tried to deny it. But the truth is becoming more true everyday.

I've started to hear very loud crows, and unschooled, strange cokadoodledoos coming from the pen as they declare their roosterhood to the world.  Oh joy. I do feel lucky. Had I known they had been roosters this whole time, I probably wouldn't have been so keen on cleaning their bottoms, or making sure they ate liver, and took up residence in my bathtub for a season while they were just chicks, and it was still cold outside.



So, if you know of anybody willing to trade a rooster for a hen, I'd be more than happy. Though, I will be somewhat sad to see them go. They are all pretty friendly. But useless. Which is a bad word on a farm. I am determined that their fate should far more lofty than a frying pan.



So, I must confess. My reason for adding more hens to the chicken coop was motivated because I wanted to get more eggs.

I am selfish.



And why would I want more eggs?

Because at the beginning of this year, I learned the amazing health benefits of eating raw eggs, and I thought that having more hens would be a good thing.
Note, because the rest of this post is about my interesting raw egg yolk adventures, I will pause now before I go any further, and make this disclaimer, and say that I am not a doctor, and anything I write health-wise is purely my own imperfect ideas and human thoughts, not meant to treat, or diagnose anyone of you out there in the world.

Only maybe to inform you of things I have learned and found to be useful to me.  
Okay.
Now back to eggs.
The funny thing is, the first thing people will almost always say on queue every time I bring up eating raw eggs is, salmonella. 
Second red flag.
Everyone thinks eggs will give you a heart attack. That the cholesterol will clog your arteries and you'll die.
Third red flag.
That you'll get fat and blubbery...oh the horrors. 
Maybe you will.
Or not.

I decided to be my own guinea pig and try out the rocky diet to see what horrors awaited me.

Once I learn something new, I usually want to try it out, especially if there's evidence to show that it's beneficial. And because I have no one else to try my experiments on, I am my own test subject.

This works quite well because I know if I die, then that's the worst thing that can happen. No biggie.



I am proud to say that after about six months of eating three egg yolks chocked full of cholesterol, and fatty fats, every day, that I am still alive. My skin is smoother, my completion clearer, my clothes are looser, and my muscles stronger.



I'm still waiting for the heart attack.

*shrugs*



So what's the big deal?

Seriously?



What started me on this raw egg yolk kick, believe it or not, was, no, not an internet article---It was watching the movie, Rocky, for the first time.

Thank you Rocky!


It seriously sounds really oober lame.

But as lame as that sounds, that's what started me wondering if raw eggs were healthy to eat or not.

A clever little spider in one of our chicken's nesting boxes.


I've grown up on a farm, and had farm fresh eggs available for as long as I can remember.

But eggnog was a closed subject for me.

Every time my mom suggested it for breakfast, I ardently protested. Disgusting.

Gags.

Yuck!

I once downed an egg white cottage cheese loogy, and that was the end of my raw egg shakes.

I never drank eggnogs again.

Nope. Never.

I'm kind of weird that way. Once I do something I do it. Once I don't do it. I don't.

I was not going to eat raw eggs here or there, I did not like them anywhere!

And I was never going to drink eggnog if I could help it.

Nope.

But...it's funny, though, how sometimes, never, and nope, and dislike changes into yes, yum, and more please.



Now I like raw eggs here and there, now I like eggnogs everywhere, in the kitchen, on the go, eggnogs give me lots of energy, and...I like snow. (lame rhyming strikes again) 



Yes. I know. I'm sounding lamer, and lamer.

But just stay with me, the story as the story deepens---sort of.






Home grown eggs are so pretty!


So, like I said, I hated eggnog. Loathed the thought of it. *shivers*

Then after I watched the body builder Rocky guzzle those eggs, I began to wonder....

I did numerous internet searches, trying to find out if raw eggs were good for you, and if so why? There were so many conflicting ideas about the matter.



Some said, eggs, heck no.

Some said, eggs, YES!



But all I really wanted to know was why. I like WHY. If I have a good enough why, then I can have a good enough reason to Try, regardless of differing opinions. That's why, whys work so well to get me started in a direction.



The more information I gleaned from the articles, the more befuddled I became.

The more I wanted to learn, the more information I found, until I could not deny the evidence of many people---bloggers, internet foodies, and so forth all claiming that raw eggs were amazing for your body.



Eggs contain tons of lecithin,

They're great for your eyesight, skin, hair, nails, liver, muscles, memory.

Egg yolks are highly digestible. The lecithin in the eggs help to emulsify fats, and clean out your arteries. They are super cleansers, healers. They get rid of the bad cholesterol and up your good cholesterol. They are great for your hair.

Pretty much the elixir of youth in my opinion.

A notable thing that I noticed right off while drinking my egg shakes was my skin being more supple, soft, and firm.

I honestly think they are better than beauty cream I could buy. 



There's a lot of contradicting information out about consuming the raw egg white.

Some people say that consuming raw egg whites inhibit a certain mineral from absorbing in your body. I can't remember what mineral, but an important one, I'm sure.

However if you eat the egg whites cooked, it neutralizes the inhibitor, and you're fine. (Don't quote me on this, go do your own research and see what works for you)



I think it's important when starting any new thing to listen to your own body.

For me, raw egg whites make me run to the bathroom.

So I eat just the yolk, and save the whites in a jar, to make angel food cake, or freeze them for later use.



At first when I started eating raw egg yolks I went overboard and took like four or more egg yolks in a shake. This made me feel really bloated, and well nauseated, and tired.



I went back to reading more information on the web and found out that raw egg yolks are very cleansing to the liver, and gallbladder and can make you sleepy. So you're supposed to start out slowly, one egg yolk a day or so. Also drinking fresh lime juice will also help loosen gallstones if you have any. I personally like to squeeze a fresh lime in the morning and drink that, and then a little while later, take my eggnog. Also taking turmeric is great for cleansing, and a host of other health issues.



After experimenting on what works for me, I took less eggs. But they still made me pretty sleepy. I've read that the reason for this is because they make your body clean out so much, it makes your body pretty tired. So taking a nap right afterward is recommended.



Also, there's the red flag people raise about salmonella.

I agree, that is a legitimate concern. But from what I've gleaned over the internet, it sounds like eating raw eggs from the store is more of a threat. A lot of chicken farms don't let their chickens have access to sunlight, and they have overcrowded pens.

A good recommendation if you're going to eat raw egg yolks is to get your egg from local farmers, from free range chickens that have access to sunlight, and healthy living conditions.  I'll post more links below to different articles that have better explanatory powers than I do about this subject. 

Also do not wash your eggs. Eggs naturally have a protective covering over them, when you wash them it makes them more susceptible to germs. 



What number of egg yolks to eat a day? I don't know. You are your own judge of that.

Three egg yolks a day for me seems to be the right number. And that's what I've done.

I started the egg yolk Rocky breakfast probably about in May of this year, and my sister began noticing the cosmetic benefits in me, so she started taking egg yolks herself.

Then my mom began drinking the shakes as well.

Then, miracle of miracles, by brother who detests eggs in any shape or form, is doing the egg yolk shake too.

My aunt got interested, and I think she's doing it to.

My sister up north started doing it.

So now, I guess I can say I, or more accurately Rocky started a huge egg yolk movement. If there's an egg shortage in the world, its probably because of my family.



:) Smiles. I think it's pretty neat actually. With a lot of health things I do, I don't really notice the benefits. But with raw eggs, I do. So I think I'll keep it up. For so many years I've been looking for something to help me with my skin, and now that I know what I know I wish I had been drinking eggnogs my whole life. I find it funny that the whole world tries to market this complicated serum, this expensive anti aging cream, this lotion, this acne cream that you have to buy your whole life, yet... all along the answer was in my chicken coop.

Simple.

The answer was something inexpensive, very basic.

It makes sense when you think of it. An egg yolk is full of stuff to create a life, bones, feathers, a body, and chock full of minerals.

That's got to be healthy, right?

  

Three things I know help my skin, raw egg yolks, fermented cod liver oil, and turmeric.



Since my sister's been drinking egg yolk shakes in the morning, she's lost about 15-20lbs, and believe me, she wasn't really overweight. You know just the extra winter blubber that's hard to work off.

My mom's lost some weight. And she's complained for years that no matter what she does she hasn't been able to drop any pounds.

And I would say that I have to, my favorite pair of jeans look pretty baggy on me. I've  stopped weighing myself on the scale a long time ago. I think a better measurement is if I feel good, and I feel comfortable.

We all exercise, and have been off of gmo corn, corn syrup, and cutting out a lot of other nasty things like hydrogenated oils, fake sweeteners, and most junk food for a long time, so maybe that has something to do with it. Who knows. Maybe it's a fluke. Maybe it has nothing to do with the eggs at all.



I couldn't scientifically prove anything.

Only that it seems to be working for us. My muscles feel stronger, and my eyes seem to see clearer.

Who knows, maybe we'll suddenly drop over from a heart attack.

It seems so simple. Too easy.

Maybe too simple. But more often than not, the simple things in life are sometimes the answers we've been looking for, but haven't been able to find because we've been looking at the complicated, expensive, out of reach things we can never obtain.



Anywho, I'll let you mull this over, and decide for yourself. Think what you may. I did.



If you're intrigued, below are several articles regarding drinking raw eggs that I found useful and interesting.



Note, that if you decide to drink egg yolks, they do make you very sleepy, and clean out your liver, and if you've had liver problems, I'd recommend that do so some research prior to this diet to make sure that you are fully informed on the pros and cons of drinking egg yolks. Also their is a possibility that they could throw you into a gallbladder cleanse. So be warned, and be aware before you start eating them in large quantities.




I've compiled several links that I thought would be useful if you're interested in learning more. 
If you're biased against eggs, then I suggest you do a google search for reasons why eggs are bad, and you will find plenty. You are, after all are the only one who can decide.

I've had a lot of people ask me how I drink my egg. And let me tell you right now, how you make your own shake is personal. 

Super complicated recipe (snark snark)
At first this is what I did.
I separated the yolks out and mixed them with mixed some milk, vanilla, some honey, cinnamon, and orange juice and blended my eggs up in my blender.
Ta da.

But I got tired of making a shake every morning. Especially when I was in a hurry. So I started cracking the yolks into a cup, mixing  in some milk, cinnamon, and whatever I felt like into it with a beater to get the loogies out, and just bypassed the blender. Some people say it's healthier to mix the egg yolks as little as possible. But I say, do what you can do. Be creative. 
If you can't stand eggs, maybe mix some chocolate into your shake. 
I don't know. Just have fun and enjoy it. It doesn't have to be unpleasant. 

Okay here are some links I found helpful.

Links

Eggs contain a good source of biotin. This place just talks about the health benefits of biotin.




Another biotin egg interesting read




Why eggs are healthy




Liver detox info




Eggs and Choline




Eggs and cholesterol




Lecithin---just something I thought was interesting because eggs have lots of lecithin.




More interesting info on Lecithin




Lecithin and the liver.





Monday, August 11, 2014

Seeking the signature


A couple nights ago, my sister and I decided to take a stroll late at night through the alfalfa field out under the stars. The moon wasn't out like in this picture. So it was dark.
In the west the clouds were building up with random flashes of lightening. Above us the stars shown brightly, and every once in a while we saw a shooting star.
It was one of those beautiful dark nights where we couldn't really see the next step ahead to walk, but we could see the sky, and the stars, so we weren't afraid, we knew where we were, and that we wouldn't get lost. 

My sister and I talked a lot, mused a lot, philosophized a lot. We do that a lot. We talked about ourselves, our unconventional lives, the fact that we love our freedom, and creative time we have open to us--with only ourselves to deride us if we fail or succeed. 

It was a good talk. 
As we looked up at the stars I was again reminded how vast the creator is, and how small our man-made plans, houses, and goals are. 

Then I began to wonder what it was that God wanted us to see when we looked at his creations, the sky, the ocean, the stars?  Did he want me to feel less than nothing when I compared myself to the vast universe of his creations? 

No. I don't believe he wanted me to feel less, nor for us us to look at his handiwork and feel depressed, or estranged to him---but connected, and reminded of the part of ourselves that he created. The part that is just as timeless and fixed and bright as the stars. And that by looking up and remembering, everything that wasn't apart of that timeless eternal greatness would fall away.

That is what I see when I see the stars. 

As a artist, and writer, I see why the creator doesn't jump out of the masterpieces he makes, grabs us, shakes us, and says, "Do you see my work?"

No. He won't do that. He respects us too much.
If the creator is a creative, and I know that he is, one thing a creator never must do is be in your face, saying, "SEE, here I am again, ta da!"

No. I don't think the creator works like that.

Honestly, as an author, I want every word I write to be mean something, to reflect something within me. I know that my words aren't me, that they will be imperfect like me. But deep down, I want the things I create to mean something.

And I think that's what the creator does too, his handiwork is everywhere. His creations aren't him, but they reflect bits and pieces of who he is. Deep down, I think we all want him to overtake us by his fantastic glory, but I believe he cares about our agency far too much to do that. Besides, when's the last time you went to an art show and enjoyed having someone shove a piece of art in your face.

 I think we need space to enjoy good art. Space to see, space and choice to decide if we like what we see---and if we want to see more. I think the creator wants us to see his work. But he won't shove it in your face. And when we see his creation, we see a glimpse into what and who he is. 

As an artist, writer and creative person, I know it would be really bizarre for me to plaster my name over a painting letting it bong out so that everyone can see that this is who made this interesting piece of art. Drum roll please. Yes. In the books I write it would be just as silly to write an author alert message into the story ***** beep, beep, be beep,**** this is the author Stephanie speaking, how do you like this book so far?***hello. I know you are there. Why don't you say anything?***
A message like this would jolt the reader out of the book, making making you, the reader aware of me, but not in a good way. To do this would garner irritation, annoyance, and the reader would probably put the book down, and look elsewhere.
I think the creator knows this. 
He could be bold.
He could be fantastically bold.
He could have his name plastered over every creation. Every miracle, every drew drop, every profound shaft of light that we grasp hold of. But out of courtesy, he does his work quietly, beautifully, perfectly, then, in a small obscure corner, he signs his name, and lets us find him. I believe he does this not to be invisible to us, but so that we may have to look deeper, search harder, so that when we find out who the maker is, we value what we have found even more.

I remember my sister bought a beautiful hand-crafted metal object second hand. She wanted to find out who the maker was, but there was no stamp, no way to track it back to who made it. So she couldn't find out where it had come from. This made her think deeply about making sure she had a stamp, a signature on the things she made, so that those who buy her creations can find the creator.
 Because without a mark, a stamp, a signal, the creator would be lost to us.

Sometimes I feel like I can't find the stamp or signature, no matter how long and hard I've searched, and have ended up lost.  But most of the time when I feel like this, it's because I was looking for his signature in all the wrong places, in artificial man-made objects, in people that were just as plastic, and future goals that had no substance to them. I wanted His signature to be on something it was never on on in the first place.

I think the creator wants us to find him. His signature is there, always, even though it may be hard to find among all the fake replications, and through the clutter of opinion, it's there. He wants us to come looking. We must collect these signatures, like a art-savvy collector, look deeper, think broader, and seek the creator in every blade of grass, every leaf, every thing that is good, true, and beautiful, even in yourself.  His signature is in you. It is up to us to search out that unique, special, timeless part of ourselves that can't be artificially made or produced, only nurtured, and carefully tended. In that special something we will find our passion, our purpose, our reason for being. And hopefully, if we don't get in the way, maybe what we do, in some small way, even in our imperfect state, can point to the creator who created us, and to his signature. 

As an author, I cannot reach out and know each one of my readers personally, just because they may read my books. But if they know my name, they can search, find, and contact me, and then I can contact them because I know they did their homework, and want to find out more---that they liked my books, and appreciated what they contained.
It makes me feel very happy when someone takes the time to say thank you, or to notice the effort, time and dedication I put into something. It makes me want to thank them even more than they thanked me.

Likewise I think the creator is happy when we notice, when we look, and say thank you.
Even when we notice some small thing, I believe he is glad.

I believe true artists don't go searching for compliments for their creations, because to create, to call in to being, is who they are, it is what makes them them, and they create regardless if anyone appreciates what they do. 
But oh, when someone takes time to really look, to wonder, and enjoy, and seek out the creator in thanks, it is very nice. And more often than not, that simple thanks opens the doors to more beautiful creations to be bestowed, and appreciated.

No true artist who feels appreciated will leave the appreciator unappreciated. 
I remember writing letters dozens of famous artists. In the letters I wrote, I appreciated their artwork, and asked them what made them--the artists, successful. Then I sent the letter and waited. 
I had no idea what to expect, or if they'd even write back.

I was blown away when the mailbox was flooded with replies. Some sent thank you cards, others sent small copies/prints of their work, others sent little booklets and really heartfelt letters back, some even invited me to visit if I ever made it their way.
This I never forgot.
It really astonished me. The simple act of just telling them that I thought their artwork was beautiful, that I appreciated them garnered so much more than I ever expected. 

Here I thought because of who they were, they'd never take the time to even notice me, and my little notes. But I was wrong.

Thankful.
Noticing the small things.
Seeking the signature, who made it? 
Appreciation.
Looking deeper.

These things are so very important, and I often forget to look for the signature. I think human nature tents to want signatures written in bold, italics, with a glowing halos around it, and hundreds of spectators to witness it. Then I we can notice. Then we can appreciate. Then we can say, oh yes, there is what we have been looking for. 
That is our miracle we can appreciate.  

As humans we collectively like to place our stamp on things, and claim or dismiss the object of our focus together, regardless of whose signature is on it. On facebook we see only the post that has a hundred likes on it. We miss the quiet profound post that goes unnoticed. In music, in art, in everything we push together in masses, reaching for that, grasping for this, clapping together when something pleases us, or is pushed to the top by chance.
 But rarely do we stand with the one who stands alone. Rarely do we look to the voice that has a different opinion than ourselves. We move together in masses trampling so much good, by going after what one small better.
 All the while the thing we are looking for is not on top.
Not even on the bottom. 
But apart. The cream has been separated elsewhere.
The berries on one bush may be picked clean, but if you stepped away, stopped grasping, you might see that there's a lot more bushes. You need only step back.
 In lonely corridors, in ones, in twos, and without much fanfare. Silent. This is where the magic happens. Just as only one reader can read a book. The creators creations are enjoyed on more personal levels, far way from the crowds, the buildings, the noise, the commotion.

While seeking the master for the great flashes of inspiration,  the lightning bolt of knowing, and the deafening rumble of the thunder, that demands we hear, we miss the glory of silent things that speak in ways that rattle, not our eardrums, but touches our heart. We dismiss ordinary because we have not looked at the unique signature under the treads, where the soul lies. 
I think the creator has many paths, many avenues of light, and possibilities as numerous as his creations for our lives. We need let go of wanting to control everything, to let his all-knowing be enough. 

He is in the details of our life. On every page, in every chapter. He is there. There may be ellipses, page breaks, tab marks, long blank pages, misspellings, typos, imperfections. The story may even veer far from what you planned. You may get writers block. You may feel like nothing you put on those pages matter. You may feel lost, like the characters are never going to make it, that the wise person in your story doesn't exist, and that you have no purpose, that the dragon in your story is too big, that you, the hero may give up.
  
Don't give up.
Look for the creator's signature, you can be co authors of a very beautiful book called your life. 
True artists make imperfections assets, and crumpled edges works of art. If you don't write perfectly, write with passion. 
If you don't know what to write next, wait.
Listen.
Don't be in a hurry.
Maybe the point is not so much where we end up, or if our story ends well. But if we were true to the signature, the truth that is in us, that we look up and live in thanks. 



Just some rambling thoughts, I've been thinking---more to remind myself than anyone.
Signed, 
Steph

P.S Below is a collection of sunsets I've taken over the summer. A lot of them were pretty fantastic do to the fact that there have been so many fires in the area. Another reminder that beauty can even come from smoke.


















































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