tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33561078537961072672024-03-14T13:32:17.735-04:00Robin Kramer WritesHumor. Faith. Parenting. Daily Life.Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.comBlogger1213125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-1095033166616397722024-03-14T09:26:00.003-04:002024-03-14T13:31:46.329-04:00Adorable DIY Earring Display Hanger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRq-pjaLlfkmHBPVkNwwG67clwBNendxLrjfdyhqqdKPequN5JgVoYl1DBUS-TarMY-EyKkFk_5jSZ-YvgDM_qniaLn_bqRlKbWrWDiu0f9TxFK3yiPx9L7n7xgofsOdKJZHhVstj8go_EGIV_Y7TKv5aZqPXEbGpyjTCDVC3_cGc9RGEYDY0Mpbz3a-kR/s3859/20240131_201613.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2894" data-original-width="3859" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRq-pjaLlfkmHBPVkNwwG67clwBNendxLrjfdyhqqdKPequN5JgVoYl1DBUS-TarMY-EyKkFk_5jSZ-YvgDM_qniaLn_bqRlKbWrWDiu0f9TxFK3yiPx9L7n7xgofsOdKJZHhVstj8go_EGIV_Y7TKv5aZqPXEbGpyjTCDVC3_cGc9RGEYDY0Mpbz3a-kR/s1600/20240131_201613.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br />I made a new friend last year. She's beautiful and kind, spirited and joyful. She wears dangly earrings adorably and naturally, versus how I feel when I've attempted the feat: </span><i style="text-align: left;">oh look, here's a person trying to pull off dangly earrings.</i></p><div><br /></div><div>She's utterly charming, right down to her earrings.<br /><br />Tomorrow is her birthday, and in order to celebrate her, I created a earring holder so she can display her collection in a streamlined fashion, versus keeping them tucked in a drawer. I started by finding a simple square picture frame. (From Goodwill, of course — I'm a thrifter by nature.)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga26CwVTAoIYwrORFrlLnXOAadbNz6koPqPcBpAkVKCJ7ndBNxhWPj9BZq4RwLb2YOMXJJtjV0A0TEfD0h960CerUywro-WSV-EL7ijJLmPIRoypkfRtMEbwzY96mUi0E4FBV5imV6PoINKmdWEF3dvDXu6NfFy2z-ujdNBZHEaNyaoin7gQwUGrGw9-c2/s4032/20240131_150548.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga26CwVTAoIYwrORFrlLnXOAadbNz6koPqPcBpAkVKCJ7ndBNxhWPj9BZq4RwLb2YOMXJJtjV0A0TEfD0h960CerUywro-WSV-EL7ijJLmPIRoypkfRtMEbwzY96mUi0E4FBV5imV6PoINKmdWEF3dvDXu6NfFy2z-ujdNBZHEaNyaoin7gQwUGrGw9-c2/s1600/20240131_150548.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div>After disassembling the frame and removing the glass, I used needle-nosed pliers to detach the metal prongs that held the original frame backing in place.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZSWmKUeKGRcZdsMX2BiD92n6LtnFu54V5EC-GR8y3X1k41p1Ghx3Zsyc_N2Ejg6FeZD7QPms0kmfOHrwGcSlu8mG9EuCsgDIzGBvw4g3kShEu_XNNFzNc9wIy1-eY2g4mBvti7DMhAOggRRJFpQv5vfVPlbQlwSc7cPN0MVg_U93FuI6A3XgUJnk1sBRt/s4032/20240131_150629.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZSWmKUeKGRcZdsMX2BiD92n6LtnFu54V5EC-GR8y3X1k41p1Ghx3Zsyc_N2Ejg6FeZD7QPms0kmfOHrwGcSlu8mG9EuCsgDIzGBvw4g3kShEu_XNNFzNc9wIy1-eY2g4mBvti7DMhAOggRRJFpQv5vfVPlbQlwSc7cPN0MVg_U93FuI6A3XgUJnk1sBRt/s1600/20240131_150629.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div>I carefully wiped the frame clean to remove any debris, let it dry, then spray painted it with two coats of ultra matte black paint.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyemcVIK_W2OFXaJ1PMpo14nfyMzR9Fha7eOcs9NHMYz9heaS7_anzAQHwHx1vlsa93HeC_CZtfhl9ZtsPNyvLnKWVTYEBP13-IQO5c3vby-w6sgJslOsNCcl9GWlqtBp-H3b2SYH6zwLl6zDkSNftXwpH2ZlEoZVwBwG2aSqssB1CTCzL1EVmfBAAi3nV/s4032/20240131_154814.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyemcVIK_W2OFXaJ1PMpo14nfyMzR9Fha7eOcs9NHMYz9heaS7_anzAQHwHx1vlsa93HeC_CZtfhl9ZtsPNyvLnKWVTYEBP13-IQO5c3vby-w6sgJslOsNCcl9GWlqtBp-H3b2SYH6zwLl6zDkSNftXwpH2ZlEoZVwBwG2aSqssB1CTCzL1EVmfBAAi3nV/s1600/20240131_154814.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div>Then the real fun began. I cut a piece of plastic mesh to fit the dimensions of the frame (mesh is carried at any craft store), then carefully used my staple gun to tack the mesh to the back of the frame. This ensured that the staples wouldn't be visible from the front.<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie9f5ZJa8Eorwsan6QEVuP2v4xnoBtXdxSvzjMse0rS58V2Zazd4DFitQZmZFdz5mIgUV9_r6zgag2Ohq5dkiKKx_H9ssfiLW8RK_RyD_xR7s_0ukwxWltQDg2nDNE63ah-1pgkovPl0R0Gq6Jjv_JvgMly0c5aWZDz77uIVUTcB5CorxW8B5wKchEvW5L/s3775/20240131_201229.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2831" data-original-width="3775" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie9f5ZJa8Eorwsan6QEVuP2v4xnoBtXdxSvzjMse0rS58V2Zazd4DFitQZmZFdz5mIgUV9_r6zgag2Ohq5dkiKKx_H9ssfiLW8RK_RyD_xR7s_0ukwxWltQDg2nDNE63ah-1pgkovPl0R0Gq6Jjv_JvgMly0c5aWZDz77uIVUTcB5CorxW8B5wKchEvW5L/s1600/20240131_201229.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br />The result: a streamlined and sleek frame that can be perched on a dresser or hung on a wall so my friend's dangly earrings can be displayed as artwork.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmYSdtiIaBXZjfqU4ZqeYyq36R7vxxU2IXgmBHz3u4EzfHJUx0VV9RiGycN4Byxzr0kGioPBM8v8IS_naVX0Wn05FiEs8INiSAra2FRAcM5rugFxYjMOmGh227t-9gw-v-iMTg_xO6IfGnqz7ISwmCsxuCzWGnfe9LJL0ChIrA37Ql4KUz_9OYItlcbmDj/s2957/20240131_201553.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2238" data-original-width="2957" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmYSdtiIaBXZjfqU4ZqeYyq36R7vxxU2IXgmBHz3u4EzfHJUx0VV9RiGycN4Byxzr0kGioPBM8v8IS_naVX0Wn05FiEs8INiSAra2FRAcM5rugFxYjMOmGh227t-9gw-v-iMTg_xO6IfGnqz7ISwmCsxuCzWGnfe9LJL0ChIrA37Ql4KUz_9OYItlcbmDj/s1600/20240131_201553.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdNOXdKu8i_HgUdDxApDsch00LABDZLQKSL64xBo7kt12g7Fch9ml6rM9cLl6dCmsrmsMG_ZNKlJyKtgTnFRr0CFDhLA1YNFeGVjKiRKmsJvehDRDtuTKy7Q6VW0JH6F5z5gCY4C_k4Rs6UdlXpVu9dPPCuruJ3dPARpri_8bYjeVSph7DxSzx7p3fUSwA/s4032/20240131_201548.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdNOXdKu8i_HgUdDxApDsch00LABDZLQKSL64xBo7kt12g7Fch9ml6rM9cLl6dCmsrmsMG_ZNKlJyKtgTnFRr0CFDhLA1YNFeGVjKiRKmsJvehDRDtuTKy7Q6VW0JH6F5z5gCY4C_k4Rs6UdlXpVu9dPPCuruJ3dPARpri_8bYjeVSph7DxSzx7p3fUSwA/s1600/20240131_201548.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div>Dangly earrings are too cute to be hidden in a drawer, after all. <br /><br />Wishing my sweet friend a very happy birthday!</div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-20367417339394972642024-02-15T19:24:00.005-05:002024-02-15T19:27:14.474-05:00Geese, Golf Carts, and Unexpected Laughter: A True Story About Depression<p>For a fair stretch of time a few years ago, I was <a href="https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2023/02/stacking-wins.html" target="_blank">depressed</a>. I still functioned in the ways that you're expected to function when you're an adult. I worked. I parented. I showed up. But I was a shell of myself. <br /><br />I'm a positive person by nature, and I have strong faith in the Lord. These factors aren't mutually exclusive from depression. With every bit of resolve and emotional fortitude left in me, I tried to not appear like I was struggling, even to myself.<br /><br />I still remember the afternoon when I realized how long I had been lurking in the shadows and how dark those shadows had grown. My husband had invited me to ride along in the cart when he went golfing. (If golf were a love language, Joel would speak it fluently.) I accepted the invitation.<br /><br />I don't recall if he played all 18 holes or just 9, but I do remember that we encountered a flock of geese wandering the course, which apparently is common on a golf course. <i>Flying rats</i>, Joel had called them. Then he steered the golf cart toward the next tee box, cutting through the middle of the gaggle of geese so they parted ways, honking and lifting a few feet off the ground, as we drove through their midst.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVF7gRBsDc71BYBc7H_Z0oLu40izHj0NMmndAjCV98gwuaESJdJn1ymsa4MRZ5a72g-P6IsXZ9pvb6dqUkjnL2zDqFvXf7zsexDtFGP6QK5R0m8wNrsqFzu2gDIOBXQPIV-7DU0DD8Fl7qnVf7krPPuef4-zcb4jXwXS-nJ58FuaUwKlDa_44BlzvQTK4y/s600/geese%20golf%20course.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="600" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVF7gRBsDc71BYBc7H_Z0oLu40izHj0NMmndAjCV98gwuaESJdJn1ymsa4MRZ5a72g-P6IsXZ9pvb6dqUkjnL2zDqFvXf7zsexDtFGP6QK5R0m8wNrsqFzu2gDIOBXQPIV-7DU0DD8Fl7qnVf7krPPuef4-zcb4jXwXS-nJ58FuaUwKlDa_44BlzvQTK4y/s1600/geese%20golf%20course.png" width="590" /></a></div><br /><p>Something about the scene, I'm not exactly sure what, struck me as comical. I smiled. It was a genuine smile. Then, inexplicably, the situation morphed from mildly comical in my head into oddly, irrevocably, <i>ridiculously</i> comical. I mean, all those flapping geese wings! The honking! The random way they scattered! My smile brimmed over into a laugh, and the laugh wasn't forced or fake. I couldn't stop my shoulders from shaking and my chest from heaving in laughter simply because Joel had driven our golf cart between some geese.</p><p><br />While Joel walked to the tee box and I wiped tears from my eyes from my weird display of laughter, I noticed the blue of the sky and the green of the grass and the pleasing way the fence edged the side of the golf path. My breathing felt fuller, as if my lungs had been released from constriction. More than I could express in actual words, I felt something in my heart: <i>I'm feeling a real feeling right now, and that feeling feels happy. This feeling had been absent for so long I hadn't known if I was capable of feeling it again. <br /></i><br />That's the moment I realize that I had been depressed. The resurgence of a normal feeling — in this case, happiness — even from such a peculiar source (honking geese, really?), highlighted that I hadn't had normal feelings in quite some time. I had been wrung out, hollow, numb. But here I was, shoulders shaking and tears brimming from laughter.<br /><br />None of it made sense, but it was <i>something</i>, and <i>something </i>felt better than <i>nothing</i>, which had been my default. <i> <br /><br /></i></p><p>Since then, life hasn't been all rosy, of course, because life is <i>messy, </i>and people are messy, and circumstances can be hard. But I confidently can say that it's much better — or, more aptly, that <i>I'm</i> much better. I talked with my doctor to address the physical elements of depression. I sought guidance from a trusted counselor. I'm in much closer community with an amazing group of faithful friends than I was then, which has been invaluable. (Good friends love you through your things, and in turn, you love them through their things right back.) <br /><br />And <i>God</i>. Oh, the care and goodness of God to handle all my feelings and prayers, all the chaotic emotion and numbness that I flung his way and cast at His feet. What healing he's brought to my heart. Along with the psalmist, I can testify that the Lord is the <a href="https://biblehub.com/psalms/3-3.htm" target="_blank">lifter of my head</a>.<br /><br />The void of feeling, the numbness, the dearth of happiness — it wasn't permanent. It was temporary. I'll never forget that first glimmer of hope, one that came in the weirdest of ways: geese, a golf cart, and unexpected laughter.</p>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-6993005264491778032024-02-07T19:32:00.023-05:002024-02-19T14:26:42.702-05:00Just Go to the Concert<div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LfzD_iR-lpcbm15mgdm6VpSMQiZ5cxnxZRDQ2PkuED3xmJ8fORc6nXQmowE2XJn3Fw6NYfYpAPpnK7cMLMTd5MZ3hOaCDuL2pzDOIJ2VtlmxTTY22uhsE-_L0vGYnB26krXUeHQIhMfAD8jWEUiVNOx9AhJbNvzw2kyfUSbgWYhxQfNz3zK1AhEMhKg-/s1080/NeedtoBreathe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="1080" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LfzD_iR-lpcbm15mgdm6VpSMQiZ5cxnxZRDQ2PkuED3xmJ8fORc6nXQmowE2XJn3Fw6NYfYpAPpnK7cMLMTd5MZ3hOaCDuL2pzDOIJ2VtlmxTTY22uhsE-_L0vGYnB26krXUeHQIhMfAD8jWEUiVNOx9AhJbNvzw2kyfUSbgWYhxQfNz3zK1AhEMhKg-/s1600/NeedtoBreathe.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br />Have you ever listened to the band NEEDTOBREATHE? Even after over twenty years of incredible music, they're sometimes described as the "biggest band you've never heard of." <br /><br /></div><div>I've always wanted to see them in concert. A few months ago I had the chance. My oldest daughter texted me when the band released their upcoming tour dates, asking if I'd be interested in going with her and two college friends to see them. The catch? The concert was scheduled for a Wednesday night in a city three hours away. Even so, I checked my work calendar. It was the worst potential Wednesday of the semester to do such a thing, but after a few minutes, I texted her back:</div><div><br />"Absolutely. Get the tickets."<br /><br />Was it a long day of work, followed by six hours of round-trip driving? Of course. Was I tired the next day? Undoubtedly. After gushing for a half hour about the concert, did the three teenagers with me fall asleep in the car on the way home, leaving me alone with my own thoughts for the rest of the long drive? Yes, they most certainly did.</div><div><br /></div><div>Was it worth it? Absolutely.<div><br /></div><div>Even now a few months later, I occasionally reflect upon that night. It's the only Wednesday evening of the entire fall semester I specifically remember. It would have been easy to skip if I based my decision on convenience alone, but really, how could I have passed up the opportunity? </div><div><br /><div>Of course, I've missed other opportunities, like one night in college when my roommate asked me if I wanted to go Christmas caroling at Joe Paterno's house, which was slightly under a mile from our dorm at Penn State. Of course I wanted to go, but it already was late and I had been studying for a final exam I had at 8 the next morning.<br /><br />I still remember how my roommate and friends stomped snow off their boots as they entered our dorm two hours later. I hadn't moved from my desk. "How was it?" I asked.</div><div><br />The group was so excited that each person talked over the others:<br /><br /><i>"It was amazing!' <br /><br />"We were so nervous to ring their doorbell that we stopped at three other houses to practice." <br /><br />"Sue Paterno opened the door and she was in her bathrobe. She stepped outside in her slippers to plug in their Christmas lights!" <br /><br />"Coach Paterno asked where we were from and we all said, 'Penn State' at the exact same time. He laughed and said, 'I gathered that. Where are you girls actually from?'" <br /><br />"I can't believe it started snowing as we were singing. It was magical!"<br /></i><br /></div><div>This took place over two decades ago, but I still remember particular details, like how Joe draped his arm around Sue's shoulder as they stood in their front doorway, backlit from the warm glow of light in their house, and snow started to fall while my friends sang <i>Silent Night</i>. <br /><br />For the life of me, the one thing I can't remember is what class I was studying for.<br /><br /></div><div>Sometimes you need to choose the less convenient, but <i>better</i>, option. I don't remember the final exam that happened then, and I won't remember run-of-the-mill Wednesday nights that happen now. But I'll always remember this one particular Wednesday night when I traveled to Pittsburgh to watch NEEDTOBREATHE in concert with my nearly nineteen-year-old daughter and her two friends. </div><div><br />If there's ever another opportunity, I hope I'd do the exact same thing again. Just go to the concert.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOZ5VKo2P-aoFNff2o_A9fg-VvsSNAI3nU0NMY4vRLDKog6_1R7VbBNDa5jeG_9iKgoJMjE0PJSJCnMa7g8FqXOhQbj2viSy7bVA3b9rNhk1LDs6alM-l1DcPX58ZQ3ujVAu38mrq6ILS3W-PK9CHJBfHMlslKEo09gIdPmzk3dHPdQZT9BWXpCEXMciy/s853/Screenshot_20240207_183427_Gallery.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="853" height="405" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOZ5VKo2P-aoFNff2o_A9fg-VvsSNAI3nU0NMY4vRLDKog6_1R7VbBNDa5jeG_9iKgoJMjE0PJSJCnMa7g8FqXOhQbj2viSy7bVA3b9rNhk1LDs6alM-l1DcPX58ZQ3ujVAu38mrq6ILS3W-PK9CHJBfHMlslKEo09gIdPmzk3dHPdQZT9BWXpCEXMciy/s1600/Screenshot_20240207_183427_Gallery.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><b>Never heard of NEEDTOBREATHE?</b> It's high time to remedy that. They've released too many incredible songs to list even a fraction of them, but you can't go wrong with this sampling of seven. Seriously, pause everything else you need to do today and do this first. <i>Do it</i>. Do it now.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61Wm_qlVD4Q&list=RD61Wm_qlVD4Q&start_radio=1" target="_blank"><b>Brother</b></a> (perhaps their most widely-known song, for good reason)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWt9dxgom8A" target="_blank"><b>West Texas Wind</b></a> (sung poetry that'll make you feel all the feels)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqifjBtNzLw" target="_blank"><b>Banks</b></a> (a love song with a <a href="https://youtu.be/fqifjBtNzLw?si=8rwvF0dVIDMwu5Bl&t=175" target="_blank">growl at 2:56</a> that's absolute perfection)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tE3Fp8C_ufg" target="_blank"><b>Hard Love</b></a> (amazing vocals, amazing lyrics)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNm02wt4m60" target="_blank"><b>Carry Me</b></a> (sounds like a prayer I want to pray daily)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PN-BMHi5L8" target="_blank"><b>Lay 'Em Down</b></a> (one of their oldest, but what a <a href="https://youtu.be/3PN-BMHi5L8?si=hqC20EGNnPv6tH_S&t=130" target="_blank">wildly satisfying drop at 2:15</a>)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGF-MGGLpB0" target="_blank"><b>Multiplied</b></a> (also from the archives, and one of my personal favorites)</div><div><br /></div><div>Actually, let's make it a sampling of eight songs, with this incredible, stripped-down, ruggedly live version of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EvuZLWnNA3w" target="_blank"><b>Survival</b></a> (featuring Drew and Ellie Holcomb) that, as the kids these days say, absolutely <i>slaps</i>:</div><div><p></p></div></div><br /><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EvuZLWnNA3w?si=68rRZsf7KaTUUaND" title="YouTube video player" width="450"></iframe></div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-51820933356665243692024-02-03T14:13:00.007-05:002024-02-07T15:48:41.538-05:00Perfect Peace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5KpqNfJ2va7yGYXniKqKWEYdaVzqoGIPGFn3QAbId4SwVoN7QPjRuekGryIu1kJr4Tip24IigJ14XMgRNKzZIlfGeqb3GB9p9XtnzMIdoXvyg2c2PIHLxq5iFHlmfvA1vnUULKaKeYgxKhKacUDlLXnoZb-_N5nWxCZLEYogLBtjUIuT7RR474lODx3R/s2425/sunguk-kim-JhqBxsORuXA-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1698" data-original-width="2425" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5KpqNfJ2va7yGYXniKqKWEYdaVzqoGIPGFn3QAbId4SwVoN7QPjRuekGryIu1kJr4Tip24IigJ14XMgRNKzZIlfGeqb3GB9p9XtnzMIdoXvyg2c2PIHLxq5iFHlmfvA1vnUULKaKeYgxKhKacUDlLXnoZb-_N5nWxCZLEYogLBtjUIuT7RR474lODx3R/s1600/sunguk-kim-JhqBxsORuXA-unsplash.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div>A few days ago, I watched the opening episodes to season four of <i>The Chosen</i> at our local movie theatre. I heard about the series in passing a year ago, but I only began to watch for myself last fall when three separate people told me how deeply the show was impacting them over the series of three days.</div><div><br /></div><div>After a few episodes, I understand why its reach is wide and profound. (If you haven't watched, I can't recommend it enough.) In the most recent episodes, we witness a brief exchange between Peter, the disciple, and Gaius, a Roman centurion. As Peter leaves, he offers the customary Jewish departure, "Shalom, shalom."<br /><br />Gaius asks a question that we, as viewers, might have asked ourselves, "Why do you say it twice?"<br /><br />Peter responds that "shalom" once is peace, but "shalom, shalom" is perfect peace, complete wholeness.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've followed Jesus for thirty years, and I'm still in awe of His gift of peace. A few weeks ago, over an Olive Garden lunch of soup, salad, and breadsticks, a friend told me about her husband's recent surgery which removed a malignant tumor. During the whole process — the discovery of the tumor, the leadup to surgery, the waiting for results on the tumor's malignancy, the post-op checkup — both she and her husband had remained in complete peace.<br /><br />She told me, "I knew it was serious, but somehow I never was upset. Neither was my husband. I wondered whether we should be more worked up about it." As my friend reflected, she only could attribute it to the perfect peace of God, a peace that passes all understanding, a peace that guarded their hearts and minds.</div><div><br /></div><div>What kindness from the Lord. <br /><br />I've had many days when I'm grasping for whisps of peace in the midst of turmoil, confusion, or grief. Many times, my level of peace feels like the "shalom" (not "shalom, shalom") variety: peace-<i>ish</i>, but not quite perfect in its wholeness. <br /><br />But peace isn't the absence of struggle, pain, or hardship. It's the <i>presence</i> of God, even in the midst of a storm. I can trust a God who is both powerful <i>and </i>close, both all-knowing <i>and</i> intimate, both unsearchable in His greatness <i>and</i> deeply caring.<br /><br />Whether or not I see it in my circumstances or feel it in my emotions, God's peace is perfect, complete, and whole. It's deeper than what's happening around me or even within me. It's a peace anchored in the Lord himself, who doesn't shift like shadows, who remains a strong tower and fortress, who understands and comforts those who grieve, who upholds us with his mighty right hand.<br /><br />Shalom, shalom, indeed.</div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-4425512932029378372024-01-22T21:17:00.005-05:002024-01-22T21:22:49.338-05:00Walking in Winter<p><b>There's no bad weather, only bad clothing.</b><br />Scandinavian Saying</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RjFJmPZd2og1ydb7qzuEwuhf7Yv0x9lWqNYKfwFisfAD-96W9a_uz8wXWkEYJgJolYmSnPwbvFR1mInwqSleAtaI8WQ_HuNx3zPCJYyLDKWHhQuIuRhG0MWyb6lxawBYJqq6qLmKHD9bprVBl94iDDUtMgPD07aE6LjkvzVI09n9XVNHqbehLhyphenhyphenitWor/s4032/20240122_171927.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RjFJmPZd2og1ydb7qzuEwuhf7Yv0x9lWqNYKfwFisfAD-96W9a_uz8wXWkEYJgJolYmSnPwbvFR1mInwqSleAtaI8WQ_HuNx3zPCJYyLDKWHhQuIuRhG0MWyb6lxawBYJqq6qLmKHD9bprVBl94iDDUtMgPD07aE6LjkvzVI09n9XVNHqbehLhyphenhyphenitWor/s1600/20240122_171927.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><p>I'm grateful I live in a location where I experience all four seasons. Some people love winter. Others hate it. I fall into the category of people who tolerate winter well. Trust me, in a few months when the weather finally breaks, I'll welcome spring with arms wide open, but now, I'm holding steady and enduring with good cheer. </p><p><br />I've never been into winter sports, though. I don't ice skate, I don't ski, and I don't snowboard. Given this, most of my winter exercising has been done indoors at the gym to shield myself from the weather. But given some current <a href="https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2024/01/frozen-shoulder-why-hello-again.html" target="_blank">troubles with my shoulder</a>, I can't go to the gym or do much vigorous movement, which leaves me with one main option: walking.<br /><br /></p><p>I've always enjoyed taking walks when the weather is warm, but I've never been a person who takes daily <i>winter</i> walks. It's not as bad as it seems. For one, last Christmas my husband bought me a heated vest, and this thing is <i>legit</i>. It feels like I'm wrapped in a heated blanket, yet in a socially acceptable way. On occasion, I've even been known to describe it as "life-changing." You might think I exaggerate, but I've said what I've said.</p><p><br />Besides the heated vest, there's another reason why winter walks aren't bad: winter is surprisingly beautiful when you're exposed to its beauty. This evening, for example, I witnessed this sunset: <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjccGAki8sbdZRLoV8FmTb2NWSo4dEGJLbf5b7odg2OLp8WmqnJCkRc-tLACgd3_BZjy0dKwfYeZYKYTG2epEtZmwaX4pFpRD8ehW7AGZ9pUkQ2WVIvlLtuwaa29DaH2pZhehkRNEMR5XRMB-iggh3LetL8sib9Kskq2oOYE0KIrMiNHhqJ3r0HjpQ1pncw/s3398/20240122_172109.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2548" data-original-width="3398" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjccGAki8sbdZRLoV8FmTb2NWSo4dEGJLbf5b7odg2OLp8WmqnJCkRc-tLACgd3_BZjy0dKwfYeZYKYTG2epEtZmwaX4pFpRD8ehW7AGZ9pUkQ2WVIvlLtuwaa29DaH2pZhehkRNEMR5XRMB-iggh3LetL8sib9Kskq2oOYE0KIrMiNHhqJ3r0HjpQ1pncw/s1600/20240122_172109.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even on days when the sky looms dark, there's something tranquil and serene about its starkness. It's hushed and peaceful. I catch whiffs of the wood stove smoke from the house on top of the hill, which just might be one of the best smells this earth has to offer. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YvMxBCxmnXyN4XjHfFJ3b7gkegxhu_ojwOD84b2W514ml7FEugS4RSiLoqPdQLD4r5_ec3R2NZMTvxKXgRAL16xlbQ6agrBIhfluWIX5_zap2NZI_o4ntmfQfzm82ZlMA3VGFD6nVzizvjmAdraF4igIyxuLMDurt4UuOzZ9w1WaCUtMOf4QZsU4IfOk/s4032/20240108_170616.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YvMxBCxmnXyN4XjHfFJ3b7gkegxhu_ojwOD84b2W514ml7FEugS4RSiLoqPdQLD4r5_ec3R2NZMTvxKXgRAL16xlbQ6agrBIhfluWIX5_zap2NZI_o4ntmfQfzm82ZlMA3VGFD6nVzizvjmAdraF4igIyxuLMDurt4UuOzZ9w1WaCUtMOf4QZsU4IfOk/s1600/20240108_170616.jpg" width="590" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">When I'm warm and comfortable inside, I sometimes want to stay that way. Inertia is real. Still, I head outside because I know this to be true: I've never taken a walk and felt worse for it. Especially not now with my heated vest.</div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuULiDztIpeMnp5M1dmc09iFRk9-TFibd6vZbD6XPGVRVaBvXdVgCiJMABFD9ejTE6kmbl4IFWB9h7y2XZQI-ic2YOLm-7XceBMFGlHbIEun5UWLTMtnbADmtn0hNnVZABvYsfYIH1l6UfAJZtfbk-FS9OWY587a6cWw79KRdA0CLHYCKHAr0WJkL5BFXP/s4032/20240122_173041.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuULiDztIpeMnp5M1dmc09iFRk9-TFibd6vZbD6XPGVRVaBvXdVgCiJMABFD9ejTE6kmbl4IFWB9h7y2XZQI-ic2YOLm-7XceBMFGlHbIEun5UWLTMtnbADmtn0hNnVZABvYsfYIH1l6UfAJZtfbk-FS9OWY587a6cWw79KRdA0CLHYCKHAr0WJkL5BFXP/s1600/20240122_173041.jpg" width="590" /></a></div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-70403380622047755322024-01-19T15:50:00.000-05:002024-01-19T15:50:41.595-05:00Snow Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEoeVCbW4_I6o8ST1Sz0DVPsGfaiIviturTBtXi3P0e9EUwmoBOxkNKB7TjggnXZFBVJp8F8t3Gw-v_V1ueTGS9i4fDckIn-J6H5W4UOFJZ15PK372VE5wFg0iAlYSv94bbJqc5KDNU-qvhMx8HmzEUWwlsI72r9OioOpQw2VaLrfXBia7zmFeu9PKNeL/s1280/heart-3825101_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEoeVCbW4_I6o8ST1Sz0DVPsGfaiIviturTBtXi3P0e9EUwmoBOxkNKB7TjggnXZFBVJp8F8t3Gw-v_V1ueTGS9i4fDckIn-J6H5W4UOFJZ15PK372VE5wFg0iAlYSv94bbJqc5KDNU-qvhMx8HmzEUWwlsI72r9OioOpQw2VaLrfXBia7zmFeu9PKNeL/s1600/heart-3825101_1280.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><p><br />At the risk of sounding old, I'm going out on a limb to say that schools these days are getting soft. Even the university where I teach — a university that used to never, and I mean <i>never</i>, cancel classes — canceled classes this week. <br /><br /></p><p>Did we actually get snow? Well, yes. We got some snow. But did we actually get SNOW, like <i>real</i> snow, full-on drifts and piles of snow, or pelting onslaughts and avalanches of snow that would necessitate a cancellation? Not even close.<br /><br /></p><p>So what's a girl to do? I'll tell you: I'm going to wear sweatpants, and I'm going to stay cozy, and I'm going to drink tea and pet my cats and read a book. I'm going to utterly enjoy whatever cancellation is granted, whether it's warranted or not.<br /><br />Life is hard enough sometimes. If snow cancellations is one area where it feels a little softer, so be it. I'll manage in my slippers.</p>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-63986726702711079772024-01-15T21:27:00.005-05:002024-01-15T21:29:09.114-05:00Celebrating Cat Adoption Days<p>On our refrigerator calendar, today's square is flanked by two special days: yesterday marks the one-year anniversary of adopting our cat, Chip, and tomorrow marks the three-year anniversary of adopting Peanut. As someone who never owned a pet until adulthood, I'm still surprised by how much joy they add to life.<br /><br /></p><p><a href="https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2022/01/adoption-anniversary-one-year-with-cat.html" target="_blank">Peanut,</a> a diminutive cat who fits her namesake, continues to be sweet and shy and (in my humble opinion) the most adorable thing ever. <a href="https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2023/02/introducing-chip-love-at-first-sight.html" target="_blank">Chip</a> continues to behave like a dog. They're a good mix. <br /><br /></p><p>Of course, Peanut often guards my laptop when I need to work. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Yf0NB-DVBX6402kZxd8iECisu697qQnym4YxMxO_Cq3U6jftU52i-mhh-kZuNdVC_8enU1fctdCqARBJvzGViUSTj-ajSYCKB49sOomVSpu50znjL4QLfQNU06iSwWq_WXlwOR3JbA4U2zhgaj8SB_PRwh3CtHiFu_0QR4lURMQXeulBNLFxyRRvr314/s4032/20231025_210645.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Yf0NB-DVBX6402kZxd8iECisu697qQnym4YxMxO_Cq3U6jftU52i-mhh-kZuNdVC_8enU1fctdCqARBJvzGViUSTj-ajSYCKB49sOomVSpu50znjL4QLfQNU06iSwWq_WXlwOR3JbA4U2zhgaj8SB_PRwh3CtHiFu_0QR4lURMQXeulBNLFxyRRvr314/s1600/20231025_210645.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><p><br />And, on occasion, she tries to fit into a lunch box.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaNbh83o9NeI-dSjgYGMu44_-_8fMqcSE2hFkUbsPAuDsITYkzC3uNnuJ3cxLmGhdLQQEhQjTLDJ7KBfiMBUQ5XxvutU_iOfwzC-2HhtXpwAizXfRv1fg_KzJMbBGG8DV326MeOIpMXH0s_IvX9KQJh5zevVnxcZOJEZKxVEEmumOuvGC9KssD6RG6lem/s4032/20230812_152529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaNbh83o9NeI-dSjgYGMu44_-_8fMqcSE2hFkUbsPAuDsITYkzC3uNnuJ3cxLmGhdLQQEhQjTLDJ7KBfiMBUQ5XxvutU_iOfwzC-2HhtXpwAizXfRv1fg_KzJMbBGG8DV326MeOIpMXH0s_IvX9KQJh5zevVnxcZOJEZKxVEEmumOuvGC9KssD6RG6lem/s1600/20230812_152529.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><p><br />Most recently, Peanut has taken to extending her paw and gently placing it on <a href="https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2024/01/frozen-shoulder-why-hello-again.html" target="_blank">my bad shoulder</a>, as if she senses I'm hurting. How she knows this, I can't fathom, but it's comforting.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xp6K2H5BnXdyu2VtNzzBIE7eyB8Mw40xx87ZGAgun38EyM8ip6PG37y5U_bXzHa-HOdZH7MxQFT0T50gxivIh0KS0aSn11Sn4gvJjm5YaSoH01xaM-fmMLFtCmVk2J0hMbbrE8mR8ZYEk0WORMsVU9ukwzGEMr-bKGrz-Wx42p7VrPSFFagHPwIvYGlx/s4032/20231129_215352.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xp6K2H5BnXdyu2VtNzzBIE7eyB8Mw40xx87ZGAgun38EyM8ip6PG37y5U_bXzHa-HOdZH7MxQFT0T50gxivIh0KS0aSn11Sn4gvJjm5YaSoH01xaM-fmMLFtCmVk2J0hMbbrE8mR8ZYEk0WORMsVU9ukwzGEMr-bKGrz-Wx42p7VrPSFFagHPwIvYGlx/s1600/20231129_215352.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>In contrast, Chip has no such internal sensor, but he's delightful, too. He's relentlessly friendly. He runs crookedly, like he can't entirely figure out how to propel himself forward in a straight trajectory. We occasionally ask him, "What are you thinking about Chip?" and then playfully answer that he doesn't think. This seems to fit who he is. If he spoke, he very well might sound like a middle school boy. <i>Bruh</i>. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvJexx2URVnM5aZJbjvFxdXXvWn0jCoMbNcptugaKixEMegEeZec94K8icLCt5biis_yIDJN4DFl_Gy_UQQXPEgrNDQsdJDNgzxt0KWSAe5Vmt_i6Wube7wnu612HubjxN2rS_Nyf1MQ9PayzjY3Nyf4HnOixHFH18NB35-9OwHk8eHWL2geqgEEMpWPm8/s3697/20230607_210021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3697" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvJexx2URVnM5aZJbjvFxdXXvWn0jCoMbNcptugaKixEMegEeZec94K8icLCt5biis_yIDJN4DFl_Gy_UQQXPEgrNDQsdJDNgzxt0KWSAe5Vmt_i6Wube7wnu612HubjxN2rS_Nyf1MQ9PayzjY3Nyf4HnOixHFH18NB35-9OwHk8eHWL2geqgEEMpWPm8/s1600/20230607_210021.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>Happy adoption days</b>, Chip and Peanut. I'm grateful you're in our lives.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb822t10-cXgNrjUozSXEMo8aSxUWchTnqYJPQ9lxYGxjrBcSDRb9gj8fk3A8-xYzKB7iQYMj3MfY4Oe8R8_PEUrXY6QhIiqsQm58dfCt6CluZeVP2lGExnZgjcGUt_LqAEWrvKOJxzP-0etVmtSRp6shKIZa3GeTnewCQv9ZJGByo4_Zr34jLi6gX1U0y/s1772/20231027_161129.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1772" data-original-width="1739" height="590" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb822t10-cXgNrjUozSXEMo8aSxUWchTnqYJPQ9lxYGxjrBcSDRb9gj8fk3A8-xYzKB7iQYMj3MfY4Oe8R8_PEUrXY6QhIiqsQm58dfCt6CluZeVP2lGExnZgjcGUt_LqAEWrvKOJxzP-0etVmtSRp6shKIZa3GeTnewCQv9ZJGByo4_Zr34jLi6gX1U0y/s1600/20231027_161129.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br />Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-12636064774485292062024-01-11T19:25:00.004-05:002024-01-11T19:37:50.702-05:00Frozen Shoulder, Why Hello Again.<p>Once again, I'm going to have to put my dreams of competing on <i>American Ninja Warrior</i> on hold. I've been diagnosed with frozen shoulder. Again. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-ktkXOEImMoCpI3GtTo3Mi8csApa7Cvwrp_goIHqTAhSQMCLj6Xt9mWZBF2-OuSQZwiWTl6oeE0MwZhoKaquqg6aqJxd1XIghyphenhyphenm5Rh_AMQkzgUg9xeby6rNq7catEK7YoacqwUbiZP3Xt_Haau-Hi2dEa04UnbdsAo0HDxNsHVtP9enVpZZruNX_DDXU/s6144/close-up-woman-pain.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="6144" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-ktkXOEImMoCpI3GtTo3Mi8csApa7Cvwrp_goIHqTAhSQMCLj6Xt9mWZBF2-OuSQZwiWTl6oeE0MwZhoKaquqg6aqJxd1XIghyphenhyphenm5Rh_AMQkzgUg9xeby6rNq7catEK7YoacqwUbiZP3Xt_Haau-Hi2dEa04UnbdsAo0HDxNsHVtP9enVpZZruNX_DDXU/s1600/close-up-woman-pain.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>My <b><a href=" https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2018/11/three-lessons-im-learning-from-limited.html" target="_blank">first bout of frozen shoulder</a></b> occurred pre-pandemic, five falls ago to be exact. It started with minor pain and stiffness, but within two months, I had lost all ability to raise or rotate my right arm, making daily tasks like getting dressed, washing my hair, or sleeping a painful challenge.<br /><br />For the sake of diversity, this time my left shoulder is affected. In good news: I'm right-handed, so I can still use my prominent arm freely. This is a plus, although with my left arm out of commission, I'm unable to normally reach for my seatbelt or, as I discovered last week, to pay the hourly fee at a parking garage kiosk without first opening my door and climbing out of the car.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over the holidays, I had a conversation at a college football function with friends of ours, a former NFL player and his wife. He shared how he recently strained his shoulder while lifting heavy equipment into his truck bed. I winced, asked what his diagnosis was, and told him that I had frozen shoulder. He replied, "Frozen shoulder? I don't know how to say this, but that sounds not real."<br /><br /></div><div>I get this. The phrasing sounds benign, but saying <i>adhesive capsulitisis</i>, the official term, not only sounds fake but also pretentious,<i> </i>so I'll stick with the colloquial "frozen shoulder," as if Elsa accidentally "let it go" with a chilly blast toward me.<br /><br />The internet hasn't made me feel better, either. A quick Google search on "frozen shoulder recovery timeline" shares depressing things like this:<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Stage 1 (Freezing):</b> Slow onset of pain last from 6 weeks to 9 months. As pain worsens and radiates down the arm, the shoulder loses motion, hindering mobility and daily activities.<br /><b><br />Stage 2 (Frozen):</b> Slow improvement in pain, but immobility remains 4 to 9 months.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Stage 3 (Thawing):</b> Shoulder motion slowly returns to normal over a 5 to 26 month period.</div><div><br /></div><div>Essentially, given where I currently am in this freeze-thaw process, if I level out immediately, I could "return to normal" as soon as November or at some point 39 months from now, which will be right around when my college freshman is a college graduate. </div><div><br /></div><div>Give or take, of course.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>When I saw an orthopedist last month, he asked if my pain stemmed from a sports injury. I was tempted to quip, "More like a sports bra injury," but given that he was a young male doctor, I didn't think he'd find my womanly perimenopausal humor funny, or even understandable, but <i>gah</i>, have you ever tried to put on a sports bra with frozen shoulder? Impossible.</div><div><br /></div><div>So now I stay the course. I move more gingerly than I'd like to move. I see an excellent physical therapist twice a week, do exercises morning and evening, and have a nightly appointment with a heating pad before awkwardly propping myself up on pillows to attempt sleep. I also I remember the <a href="https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2018/11/three-lessons-im-learning-from-limited.html" target="_blank"><b>valuable lessons I learned last time</b></a> and <a href="https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2019/01/never-underestimate-small-gestures.html" target="_blank"><b>sweet moments of care</b></a>, knowing that all things, including frozen shoulder, are temporary.</div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-26721670276146771552024-01-08T16:31:00.011-05:002024-02-25T09:16:05.388-05:00The Second College Drop-OffThis past weekend, my oldest daughter moved back into her dorm for her second semester of college. I wrote about <a href="https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2023/08/did-you-pack-umbrella-and-other-things.html" target="_blank">the first college drop-off</a>: a process filled with rolling carts and stacks of clothes, desk lamps and extra-long fitted sheets, Command-hooked twinkle lights and posters for the cinderblock walls, school supplies and four-by-six area rugs between the beds.<div><br /><p>I wasn't prepared for it, but this second drop-off hit harder. I hugged her goodbye in the parking lot, then watched as she wheeled her suitcase and hoisted her backpacks, one on her back and one on her front, as she followed my husband, who carried her laundry basket of winter clothes.<br /><br />You see, the winter break had felt so incredibly <i>normal. </i>All five of us had been under one roof. We resumed the familiar rhythms: I bought snacks that she liked, and she immediately reverted to her habit of leaving her dirty clothes on the bathroom floor after she showered. On evenings when she hung out with friends, we waited until she returned home to turn off the outside lights and lock the front door. It was just like old times.<br /><br />But as I watched her recede from view down the sidewalk, I realized that her default absence, not her daily presence, is the new normal for our family now. The winter break was a <i>break </i>from the routine, but this? This is the reality; this is the routine. </p><p><br />That's why the second college drop-off hit harder than the first. I know how quickly semesters pass, which is why I know how the breaks between those semesters pass even more quickly. Even though I've always known it, this second drop-off reinforced that our time with our kids is finite. We raise them so they can leave and live their lives, as it should be. Circle of life stuff.</p><p><br />Still, I'd like to add that before she turned the corner and disappeared from view entirely, she looked back over her shoulder and smiled. I'll take it and treasure it in my heart.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kxmYoxvYNqGddRGC-RykoGIkWqraYnagf0sn1vLWeLTUB0B8h3W1TKVAN6iv45YFk_QuvhJgeY9jUWv3SyBoxWjbq_qn2ZmA_qtg2FYRU5gU7oBVfEnux_4e2lQSXu07im6FhS_f_gfjS0XWQyr3nCzjg8Tq-x6MKVtQFlg6vWy8bdh0u411TrsD5PFL/s796/Screenshot_20240108_160423_Gallery%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="484" data-original-width="796" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kxmYoxvYNqGddRGC-RykoGIkWqraYnagf0sn1vLWeLTUB0B8h3W1TKVAN6iv45YFk_QuvhJgeY9jUWv3SyBoxWjbq_qn2ZmA_qtg2FYRU5gU7oBVfEnux_4e2lQSXu07im6FhS_f_gfjS0XWQyr3nCzjg8Tq-x6MKVtQFlg6vWy8bdh0u411TrsD5PFL/s1600/Screenshot_20240108_160423_Gallery%20(1).jpg" width="590" /></a></div></div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-67689269326079838202024-01-04T19:44:00.007-05:002024-01-05T11:13:13.703-05:00Let's Chat: Hello 2024<p>Happy New Year, dear readers! The end of 2023 slipped away with a host of activities: wrapping up a semester and submitting final grades, traveling and returning home, preparing for Christmas, actually reaching and celebrating Christmas, more traveling and returning home (again), then ringing in the new year. It's now 2024. Let's go!<br /><br /></p><p>And by <i>let's go</i>, I mean, sit right there and don't go anywhere. Make yourself comfortable. Join me on this first installation of a <b>Let's Chat</b> post, 2024-style. We'll meander between topics, letting the conversation take us where it wishes. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiSGQpk-EY9u5c1SOE2NnUOdHK-K1Mrmd4t8URH5YdMpfVmAWmbxaSjvHNIiRAj2TxVE_eRT9ThM5jWQj_oLhyphenhyphenX7KLgn9iA_PE3XJM77lXW6d6_ymNx1E-XcO7paPNuBhxw958sPBHlsEeUtBzDt7iRl-7Kw_jLpW3t0LIR1CFcIUemCP9DoRnnHxarhp/s1280/new-years-day-8431888_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiSGQpk-EY9u5c1SOE2NnUOdHK-K1Mrmd4t8URH5YdMpfVmAWmbxaSjvHNIiRAj2TxVE_eRT9ThM5jWQj_oLhyphenhyphenX7KLgn9iA_PE3XJM77lXW6d6_ymNx1E-XcO7paPNuBhxw958sPBHlsEeUtBzDt7iRl-7Kw_jLpW3t0LIR1CFcIUemCP9DoRnnHxarhp/s1600/new-years-day-8431888_1280.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><b>Changes of Scenery. </b>I mentioned that I traveled twice around Christmas: once from Pennsylvania to Florida and back to visit my parents, then from Pennsylvania to Georgia and back to attend the Peach Bowl. When I first arrived in Florida, my immediate response was that it wasn't real. Blue skies, sunshine, and palm trees in December? Is this some wonderful hoax? After a day, however, the tables turned and I began to believe that my real life in Pennsylvania where I'm an employed person who does mundane things like making grocery lists wasn't real, either. <br /><br /></p><p>All of this was very confusing. Reality and alternate reality were working at odds. I chalked it up to the fact that, apparently, I'm like an infant who can't remember that her hand exists when it's covered up by a blanket. When I'm in Pennsylvania in December, places like Florida don't exist. They're covered by a blanket. And when I'm in Florida in December, places like Pennsylvania don't exist. Blanketed, all the way.</p><p><br />I'm back in Pennsylvania for the long haul now. Hello darkness, my old friend.<br /><br /><b>Another Semester Starts. </b>Another semester always starts. That's just the nature of semesters. They're like tides, either coming in, or going out, or occasionally pulling you under. We start on Monday. I'm not going to endeavor the mental gymnastics to tally how many semesters I've started, and I'm certainly not going to bother with the distinction of how many of those were in the role of student instead of instructor, but suffice to say, it's a lot.<br /><br />Everything is prepared, as it should be. This is not my first (or tenth, or twentieth) rodeo, given that semesters come in fall, spring, and summer varieties and I've taught all of them for a gazillion years. I've finalized my syllabi. I've published my Canvas sites for each class. I've visited each of my classrooms, walking up and down each row, running my hand along every desk <a href="https://www.robinkramerwrites.com/2019/01/every-semester-do-this-first.html" target="_blank">to pray for each student</a> who will be sitting in them next week. I'm ready to go.</p><p><b><br />Goals and Stuff. </b>I've never been a person to make New Year's Resolutions, but this year, I have a few. For the sake of accountability, let me itemize them:<br /><br /></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b>Give up Dr Pepper.</b> Granted, I've given up Dr Pepper before, but I fell off the wagon so hard during the pandemic that I would have taken Dr Pepper through an IV if you would have offered it to me. You might be like, "But Robin, wasn't the pandemic four years ago? Haven't you gotten past that yet?" and I would say <i>yes</i> (to the pandemic being four years ago) and <i>no</i> (to not getting past it.) But now it's time. Even though a part of me is crying as I type this, I'm prepared to swear off happiness in the form of delicious liquid sugar running through my veins.<br /><br /></li><li><b>Write more</b>. Years ago, I wrote amply and effusively. It was a practice, a discipline. Let's blame everything on Covid at this point, because at the same time the pandemic (and my Dr Pepper usage) spiked, my writing tanked. Of course, goals need to be concrete. You can't just "write more" or "get healthy" or "eat better," but rather you need a plan. Given this, my plan is to form a habit of posting twice a week on this humble blog. (Mondays and Thursdays sound nice.) <br /><br /></li><li><b>Use a planner. </b>Why I'm blaming this on Covid, I don't know, but somewhere along the line I went from a person who had a planner (think: organization and structure!) to a person who wrote things down on scraps of paper, to a person who had occasional thoughts that flitted in my head like Post-It notes being rustled by an oscillating fan -- tentatively sticking there, but potentially blown away at any moment. Somehow, in my currently hopeful January frame of mind, I think a planner will definitively change things, that it will revive the best and most disciplined parts of me that have been dormant. I'll keep you posted.<br /></li></ul><div><br /></div><div>How about you, dear reader? How has your new year started? I hope you are well in every way possible, and please let me thank you for joining me here at <i>Robin Kramer Writes</i>. You could be reading anything, but you're here. I'm honored.</div><div><br /></div><b>And now, 2024. Let's do this!</b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbWtxlkWX_fdj2taXntfH1CR5ahftkk28ROCeRQqF49oLywOK9JFJmcccrrxXG1XVmid9ZSYBjn3pgTOHmhajd5hgjw62koyfzTuuzrLG5Ht8lyt0TBZOXSKfSXKfJ0jJ4BrzNU31riGfaDdLTXQqCd0ThZ9nSjJiowXGGouubIkzdQGewlnSNrIGVaxu/s2944/20231209_150842.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2208" data-original-width="2944" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbWtxlkWX_fdj2taXntfH1CR5ahftkk28ROCeRQqF49oLywOK9JFJmcccrrxXG1XVmid9ZSYBjn3pgTOHmhajd5hgjw62koyfzTuuzrLG5Ht8lyt0TBZOXSKfSXKfJ0jJ4BrzNU31riGfaDdLTXQqCd0ThZ9nSjJiowXGGouubIkzdQGewlnSNrIGVaxu/s1600/20231209_150842.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><b><br style="background-color: white;" /></b><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.5px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></div><p></p></div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-89693399491827931752024-01-01T17:50:00.002-05:002024-01-03T18:02:00.279-05:00The New Calendar<p><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;"><b>A glimpse into my uncensored thought process when buying my 2024 calendar:<br /><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvAQXN_c6a8Pp4mMXf_fC6qSvJsR_Cb_mNDEympPg-bJBLizkeg7JCLHJC8DA22aODXtQASZyZQysYb-MsiNQVNcREv-0v1xHLPjrXzf4tDUhzj7zCRDtOLphxW2FIWHeMCn-Yf19SmqII7gEevsSuKwbmxz84421d26GQivjK01aa4ZyWcWHdMGgQ1ER/s2048/Calendars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvAQXN_c6a8Pp4mMXf_fC6qSvJsR_Cb_mNDEympPg-bJBLizkeg7JCLHJC8DA22aODXtQASZyZQysYb-MsiNQVNcREv-0v1xHLPjrXzf4tDUhzj7zCRDtOLphxW2FIWHeMCn-Yf19SmqII7gEevsSuKwbmxz84421d26GQivjK01aa4ZyWcWHdMGgQ1ER/s1600/Calendars.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Practical Me: Choose the black and white option.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Decorative Me: But this other calendar is more colorful and has whimsical drawings of plants along the borders.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Practical Me: Black and white always works. Are you sure you like plants that much? This is a 365-day commitment, you know.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Whimsical Me: You're in a rut. You should try something new besides black and white. Plus, plants are cheerful. Live a little, woman!</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Practical Me: But that font on the plant calendar is ALL WRONG. I mean, it's not as bad as Papyrus or Comic Sans, but clearly, it's not going to win any typography awards. Can you emotionally commit to a bad font for 12 months?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Decorative Me: Point conceded.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Practical Me: I should note that the black border will blend nicely into your refrigerator. You won't even notice this version once it's hanging up.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Decorative Me: But isn't that too predictable? Won't you want some life and color during those doldrum months? On top of that, can you even consider this a "transition" to a "new" calendar if it looks just like last year's calendar?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Practical Me: Oh. Ooof. I hadn't considered that. (pause). </span><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Really, Robin. This is just a calendar. Just. A. Calendar. This is not a lifelong commitment.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Irrational Me: Well, technically, it's still a pretty big commitment. It is a whole year, after all. You better get this right. You're going to be dealing with this choice for 365 sequential days.</span><div><br /></div><div>Detail-Oriented Me: Actually, try 366 days. It's a leap year, you know.<br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Exhausted Me: I can see you're stuck, so let's simplify things. Look here at this entirely new third calendar option for you to consider. That'll help.<br /></span><br />Every Other Part of Me: That doesn't help at all.</div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-6197632115148103302023-11-25T15:30:00.001-05:002023-11-25T15:30:42.632-05:00Staring at Nothing in Particular<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JhEiCyMafrOLuG5nEZ_mNsdtxgkAqRPf8XbBokmmr1s7thYdd09KCz1b8xs-eS1JE71HvCc0N2RnTMNUqH1-wyoYz7Y6KNWMcXo-d7hQrZimXCNRV40U_HxaLRV1fgS41e0txBxuNdCPZridT2J6LT9uTKbeEbe16JyQCUF2UR3rUT0PYSL87fUVquSf/s1280/pantry-6033796_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="403" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_JhEiCyMafrOLuG5nEZ_mNsdtxgkAqRPf8XbBokmmr1s7thYdd09KCz1b8xs-eS1JE71HvCc0N2RnTMNUqH1-wyoYz7Y6KNWMcXo-d7hQrZimXCNRV40U_HxaLRV1fgS41e0txBxuNdCPZridT2J6LT9uTKbeEbe16JyQCUF2UR3rUT0PYSL87fUVquSf/s1600/pantry-6033796_1280.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>I've recently found myself walking into rooms in my house and just staring. Staring at what, you ask? Most often, nothing in particular. I'd open the pantry and stare, wondering why there was a canister of oatmeal and a bag of egg noodles on the same shelf where we stored our batteries, super glue, and a bin of assorted pens.<br /><br />I'm generally an organized person, but this didn't make sense. I didn't have energy to make it make sense, either, so I'd just stare. Occasionally, I'd deliberate if the partially used bag of marshmallows leftover from a summer campfire should be thrown out, or if I should buy Rice Crispies to make Rice Crispie treats. But then would I end up with a partially used box of Rice Crispies? Would I ever get the ratio of cereal-to-marshmallows exactly right, or would I always have some annoyingly small about of one or the other left over? <br /><br />I'd shut the pantry. <br /><br />The weeks leading up to Thanksgiving are a slog, work-wise, and I feel the effect of this cumulative fatigue at moments like this when Rice Crispie treat contemplation is too much to manage. <div><br /></div><div>Over the past 13 weeks I've spent so much time sifting student work through criteria. It's constant weighing, considering, and evaluating, My last task was reading a batch of 75 student topic proposals. This takes about 6 or 7 focused hours, plus break times where I stand to stretch, change the laundry from the washer into the dryer, or open a closet and stare, wondering vaguely if I should upgrade my hangers. <br /><br />I suspect that I think more carefully about my students' topic ideas than they do. This isn't for true all students, but it seems to be true for some. During these points, I stare out the window into my yard contemplating all of my life choices. </div><div><br /></div><div>Once I finished commenting on the final proposal, I shut my laptop and put it aside so I wouldn't see it. Out of sight, out of mind. <br /><br />Then I let myself fully sink into Thanksgiving break, and great things happened. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I watched a movie and read a book. I put away fall decorations and put out Christmas decorations. I went through the pantry to organize all the contents, then the closet, then the bookshelves. Joel joined the action. Together we sorted, tossing unneeded boxes from old phones, random cords that had no discernable purpose, and obsolete paperwork. We spent hours raking leaves and working in the yard.<br /><br />I realized that I hadn't been tired of <i>working</i>; I had been tired of <i>thinking</i>. <br /><br />You might be pleased to know that our oatmeal is no longer stored beside our batteries. In fact, I'm so happy with my newly organized pantry and closet that I keep inventing reasons to open them, just to appreciatively gaze at their sensible arrangement.<br /><br />Life makes more sense when you take a break from <i>thinking </i>so you can think about other things. </div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-44605055241798287672023-11-05T14:52:00.001-05:002023-11-06T10:58:52.378-05:00Get Just One Thing In OrderI love watching trees turn colors in the fall. Technically, of course, these changes mean that the leaves are about to flutter en masse to their crunchy deaths, but golly, it's a beautiful process to behold. <div><br /></div><div>Yesterday I devoted hours to these leaves. I blew them. I raked them. I repeatedly dragged piles of them on a tarp to the curb so when the township's leaf-sucking truck drives by, we'll be ready. More leaves kept falling while I worked, which somehow felt like celebration (look, it's confetti!) and mockery (look, you'll never finish this task!) all at once.<br /><br />When I finished the blowing, raking, and tarp-dragging, I entered a final stage of leaf-conquering by cutting the grass, which ground up and mulched leaves that I had missed with the first steps.<br /><br />After a few hours, I had a pretty substantial pile.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoXnz2pl7nlAt6_N27H07NEJO8JYoByyABtU_jmGD22ROB0fZ_YDzYE0iPD4ZSwX262kQpgTpK9_I1SmHQpdH0SA1ocv11Vfysm0rWLO3gTmz-cSNUHMiXeCnkv51jUVSjtaTBVM8uvZLAUrRhWQ8iB1KgIyyi2pgpM6OxUy39JhAI6H8JYC0l66Bgi9g/s4032/20231104_153255.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoXnz2pl7nlAt6_N27H07NEJO8JYoByyABtU_jmGD22ROB0fZ_YDzYE0iPD4ZSwX262kQpgTpK9_I1SmHQpdH0SA1ocv11Vfysm0rWLO3gTmz-cSNUHMiXeCnkv51jUVSjtaTBVM8uvZLAUrRhWQ8iB1KgIyyi2pgpM6OxUy39JhAI6H8JYC0l66Bgi9g/s1600/20231104_153255.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div><br /></div>While this yard work was definitely <i>work</i>, it felt therapeutic. Unlike my day job, this type of work gives space for my mind to wander. I immediately see progress, with distinctly satisfying "before" and "after" changes. On top of that, after a stretch of rainy weekends, the weather was perfect -- crisp and dry with sunshine, not damp and dreary or overly cold. <br /><br />Each time I upended the tarp to shake more leaves into the larger pile, my eyes took in the scene. I drank in the sights like I was trying to commit them to memory before November settles in earnest and eventually all remaining colors mute into winter's grays and browns.<div><br /></div><div>Once I finished and rolled the lawnmower back into its space in the shed, I slowly paced the yard to inspect my work: the turned-over garden, the cut-back plants, the orderly grass with its perfect lines from the mower. <br /><br />It was <i>so pretty</i>. I was <i>so happy</i>.<br /><br />The leaves kept falling, but now they were landing on ground that already was in order. It was like when my children were little and the difference between when they dumped out a bucket of Legos on a messy floor that needed to be vacuumed, versus when they dumped out a bucket of Legos on a freshly-vacuumed floor.<br /><br />Somehow, it makes a difference. A mess on top of another mess can feel like too many messes to handle. <br /><br />Sometimes, you need to get just one thing in order, then everything else feels better. Yesterday, for me, that one thing was these leaves.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TFiRDIWmOPdvW_6ZZ0zT9YFDkPVfTM38842KX0cIY6rqOe87mWLpWQJ9NwNDcvxbSnCA-3Qfy3cYyiSnELqBgJhP47OkHRlqFRE12t0a3-5DMZxwaYGb-oz1RXYYEvsQ3-WR8nb13YYmaFF4Ghvbqs-MAVm0wLKn7bnyJ1LUHXvpdsprKW6a2MnTbWJJ/s4032/20231104_153236.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TFiRDIWmOPdvW_6ZZ0zT9YFDkPVfTM38842KX0cIY6rqOe87mWLpWQJ9NwNDcvxbSnCA-3Qfy3cYyiSnELqBgJhP47OkHRlqFRE12t0a3-5DMZxwaYGb-oz1RXYYEvsQ3-WR8nb13YYmaFF4Ghvbqs-MAVm0wLKn7bnyJ1LUHXvpdsprKW6a2MnTbWJJ/s1600/20231104_153236.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-55009063763875598872023-10-25T20:20:00.005-04:002023-10-25T20:54:56.345-04:00When Weird Dreams Feel Weirdly Real<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNI6QK7BygXkPD-tMiHj1cAvp9glAsDcvJk2KbYZx_OSm_cBkZt3nEVm1rxQEUmEhUz9x26fkGzvEo9Bi8aPRHGFE_mnvUMi_Uo9YqqIejWTygXxgwKw_dJOHRDYN5KX8q6u74LcHbDKgCYiwy2fNC-FZobEszGCycgRTmT3KsKIrxQv8miyBIxsPhbGHk/s1280/water-263825_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="1280" height="403" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNI6QK7BygXkPD-tMiHj1cAvp9glAsDcvJk2KbYZx_OSm_cBkZt3nEVm1rxQEUmEhUz9x26fkGzvEo9Bi8aPRHGFE_mnvUMi_Uo9YqqIejWTygXxgwKw_dJOHRDYN5KX8q6u74LcHbDKgCYiwy2fNC-FZobEszGCycgRTmT3KsKIrxQv8miyBIxsPhbGHk/s1600/water-263825_1280.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><p><br />Last night I dreamed that I had been signed up to compete in a 32 mile swim. From the get-go, you'd think I'd question this, but Dream Robin accepted the assignment with minimal examination. Other swimmers showed up to the event wearing streamlined wetsuits. I wore jeans. I also wore only one shoe. Naturally.</p><p><br />Did I show any concern that my jeans would be heavy when submersed in water, making them a highly unsuitable clothing choice to swim 32 miles? No. Did I wonder why I had only one shoe? No. Did I at least have a sensible backstory to explain where I lost the other shoe? Also no. Despite this shocking lack of awareness, while I was standing on the bank of the nameless river waiting for my turn to jump in and start swimming, I do recall being quite upset that I didn't have a pair of goggles. I asked the swimmer beside me if there was a Wal-Mart nearby where I could buy a pair of those plastic mask goggles that cover your nose and leave an oval imprint on your face when you lift them up to clear out the fogginess. They shook their head, then looked away from me without a word.<br /><br />I don't blame this dream person. I wouldn't know how to converse with me in this situation, either.</p><p><br />I'm not a great swimmer in real life. Technically, I'm safe enough to not drown in the deep end of a pool, but nobody's going to confuse me with a skilled open-ocean swimmer. Yet somehow, Dream Robin didn't seem daunted by this 32-mile challenge, even though I hadn't trained and only found out about the race that morning. <br /><br />In the ways that dreams morph without explanation and refuse to adhere to either reality or physics, the river ran up a mountain and then shifted into a muddy creek where the water only came to my waist. I waded this section with my arms aloft, somehow now hoisting a military bag above my head to keep it out of the water. At one point during the race, I had to float feet-first through rapids. At another point, I was required to get out of the water, hike a steep section of the Appalachian Trail, then restart swimming in the Pacific Ocean. (Geography doesn't matter in dreams, either.)<br /><br />I was still in the water when my alarm went off. It's weird when you wake up tired because you were swimming all night. <br /><br />Perhaps there's some symbolism buried in this dream that pertains to my life right now. Maybe it's a strange parable about steadfastness when the waters are murky, or perseverance when the tides want to pull you under, or grit in the face of adversity, or the simple truth that progress comes with every step (or every stroke), no matter how small or tough.<br /><br />Or maybe, it's just a reminder to make sure I'm wearing both shoes before I leave the house.<br /></p>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-32020863052981019802023-10-01T12:50:00.005-04:002023-10-01T16:15:43.465-04:00I Almost Canned Stuff (and other reports from September)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfaiUQ7AttIW6YQaAJO5Rc9tizganv_9KJjD-QraRYjuLQs3ZPaHQcFj3zH5Hwjcz705tDfJykRrYuVs_qRg3Cyj89VIWnf3kbzAI8zLnukplSl4Q_FguN5qxKpZDGrRn8tppyOHzuZtzb2d5BoZ7TpGxCLNe6KM_gfxg5wMjJPVBWtBqUK9SnFy63Y8mo/s4032/20230926_150358.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfaiUQ7AttIW6YQaAJO5Rc9tizganv_9KJjD-QraRYjuLQs3ZPaHQcFj3zH5Hwjcz705tDfJykRrYuVs_qRg3Cyj89VIWnf3kbzAI8zLnukplSl4Q_FguN5qxKpZDGrRn8tppyOHzuZtzb2d5BoZ7TpGxCLNe6KM_gfxg5wMjJPVBWtBqUK9SnFy63Y8mo/s1600/20230926_150358.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><p><br />Today I flipped the calendar to October, which is a particularly satisfying calendar flip. September hints at the promise of fall, but October delivers on the promise.</p><p><br />Right now, in fact, I'm sitting on my front porch, still reflecting on the message from church this morning. The faint breeze makes me grateful for my cardigan, and the orange-tinged tips of trees make everything feel cozy and right. I agree with Anne of Green Gables: "I'm so glad that I live in a world where there are Octobers."<br /><br /></p><p>We've been on a roll the past few weeks. I've taught my classes, which are going well. We've rented our house for home football weekends, which has required extensive cleaning (satisfying) and extensive laundry (necessary). In waves and spurts, I've embarked on organizing kicks: going through our closet, cleaning out a pantry, and sorting a medicine cabinet. I've capitalized on the beautiful days tucked between rainy stretches to cut the grass, start the process of putting the gardens to sleep, and spray paint DIY projects in the driveway before it gets too cold.<br /><br />I've also picked pears. A few years ago, Joel planted a pear tree in our back yard. This is the first year that it's produced an actual harvest. Somehow, I'm always shocked when things grow, when this process of fruit and vegetable "production" actually works. I don't know why I'd expect differently, but when I pick apples from my apple trees and pears from my pear tree, it's always with a sense of wonder tinged with disbelief. <br /><br /></p><p><i>We grew stuff. How did this even happen?<br /><br /></i></p><p>This leads me to two weeks ago when I gathered all the large bowls and baskets from my house and carried them, along with a picker resembling a lacrosse stick that I borrowed from my neighbor, to the far side of my yard. This same neighbor also had loaned me a few dozen Ball mason jars and lids, along with verbal instructions on the sugar-to-water ratio for simple syrup that sounded easy enough even though I knew I'd never remember it. As she sent me on my way, I could tell she had great hopes I'd become a person who cans fruit.<br /><br />And I tried. Well, I sort of tried.<br /><br />I picked lots of pears. I filled bowls and baskets with them. I carried them into our kitchen, rinsed and patted them dry, then inspected for soft spots. This was on a Thursday. We were renting our house the next day, so it didn't seem like an opportune time for a first venture into the canning process. I relocated everything to the garage, trusting I'd pick up where I left off once we returned to the house on Sunday.<br /><br />Sunday came and went, filled with church, post-rental cleaning and laundry, a trip to the grocery store, and who-knows-what-else. Monday came and went, too. As did several other days. <br /><br />When I finally went to check on my pears, thinking that I'd bring the bowls, baskets, and mason jars back into the kitchen, that I'd finally commit the recipe for simple syrup to my memory, that I'd boil and seal jars to my heart's content, I had one thought:<br /><br /><i>I don't even buy canned pears from the grocery store.<br /></i><br />I mean, I like pears well enough, I guess. But I've never actually sought them out in canned form. Not once have I entertained a hankering for canned pears so deeply that I've needed to get to the store right away to satisfy that craving. <br /><br />As I stood there with my illusions of homesteading crashing to the ground around me, I thought, "Yeah, no. I'm good."<br /><br />I've eaten the pears with my lunches, shared them with neighbors, and made a pear tart. These assorted uses seem even nicer than canning them. <br /><br />Who knows? Maybe I'll eventually be a person who cans. Maybe October is my month. Or maybe I'll return the fruit picker and the clinking, empty mason jars back to my neighbor with a shrug of my shoulders. I'll hand over a few ripe, uncanned pears as an offering of apology.<br /><br />So, yeah. I almost canned stuff. Somehow that feels enough.</p>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-44973609925254749492023-08-30T11:16:00.003-04:002023-08-30T11:16:30.109-04:00Beyond Measure: Post Talk Update<p>The weekend before the semester began, I had the pleasure of speaking at a women's event about rooting our worth in what matters. It was a wonderful evening with women from over 25 churches in attendance, which always warms my heart.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYW8Savd81pSPDq6DUze79h8VmIOCmBY9J1qfFvhu_F24xLRHypRAoz-qYg0oXn15V8kHaRTXzcAQtsGWHYNpwUgAj-N39N0KGNbDIFOo0tmKalDpVUE_tvBV8MclRSo9B3g31fYj0uRaYioXKeCrAqnTCrf1Rqw_F5gVXVdsFeiqXk8-ZuWuCr-JCLtru/s798/Beyond%20Measure%20Image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="798" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYW8Savd81pSPDq6DUze79h8VmIOCmBY9J1qfFvhu_F24xLRHypRAoz-qYg0oXn15V8kHaRTXzcAQtsGWHYNpwUgAj-N39N0KGNbDIFOo0tmKalDpVUE_tvBV8MclRSo9B3g31fYj0uRaYioXKeCrAqnTCrf1Rqw_F5gVXVdsFeiqXk8-ZuWuCr-JCLtru/s1600/Beyond%20Measure%20Image.png" width="590" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div>Within the first few minutes of talking, two things happened simultaneously: </div><div><br /></div><div>(1) I realized that I need to commit to having my reading glasses with me at all times. I no longer can easily read without them, and I didn't consider this middle-aged reality until I already was on stage with notes that now, apparently, were scrawled in hieroglyphics.<br /><br />(2) I had a clicker so I could advance the slides while I was speaking. One of the awesome tech people did not know this, however, and she also had a clicker so she could advance my slides while I was speaking. This made me briefly question my sanity. <i>How are my slides moving when I'm not clicking them? Is my vision really that bad? What is happening?<br /></i><br />These are real thoughts I think while I'm on a stage and other, entirely different words are coming out of my mouth. It's kind of impressive. At any rate, the slides don't appear in the video, so you'll have to trust me that they not only were awesome, but also well timed.</div><div><br />You can <a href="https://vimeo.com/856472353/87fca73a6b" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">view the talk here</a>. I hope that it encourages you today! My dear friends, remember this: you are loved beyond measure.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtrPeRD_iDJwW-gtder3nPQ6s9UJ7P25rXJU1ChyvV3MxslNpDumKqLr1l8s2g22Daj0Unpp2aUz5LLrQHzRcXUKeqA4tP0xgfyz27TKNrgb3ihuGNuG7EgBqb7hxrU6el2vmXZkaOSR7m4FJ3VgwpJEkIstojUPDPYKtrHdy_TcHYuDkoQoQFyz_PvWo/s1920/Screenshot%20(30).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtrPeRD_iDJwW-gtder3nPQ6s9UJ7P25rXJU1ChyvV3MxslNpDumKqLr1l8s2g22Daj0Unpp2aUz5LLrQHzRcXUKeqA4tP0xgfyz27TKNrgb3ihuGNuG7EgBqb7hxrU6el2vmXZkaOSR7m4FJ3VgwpJEkIstojUPDPYKtrHdy_TcHYuDkoQoQFyz_PvWo/s1600/Screenshot%20(30).png" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-68034829846329377102023-08-24T20:27:00.010-04:002023-08-25T13:32:25.779-04:00"Did you pack an umbrella?" And Other Things Parents Say When Dropping Off a Child at Their Dorm<p>When I count all my years of education, including both my years as a student and my years teaching, I've completed 40 first days of school. I've endured this rigamarole 40 times. FORTY TIMES. Four-zero.<br /><br />Forty is a lot of first days of school. Back in the day, I was just a kid learning my teachers' names, figuring out my class schedule, and hoping I had friends during my lunch period. Now, I'm just a middle-aged Associate Teaching Professor who learns my students' names, figures out my class schedule, and is happy to eat my lunch by myself, quietly, in between classes, perhaps while sitting on a bench under a nice tree on campus. I come home to hear about how my own kids navigated their own first days.<br /><br />This year's back-to-school routine feels more poignant than ever before. You see, last week we moved our oldest daughter into her dorm. I've been teaching college students for 18 years. Now it's finally happened: I'm the parent of a college student. As I write, she's nearly one full week into her college experience. <br /><br />She's grown up in this university town of ours, and the fact that she's now attending college here is fraught with its own complexities. Not everything is new to her, which is good and bad. While there's comfort in familiarity, there's also concern that college will merely feel like 13th grade, that it will be <i>too</i> familiar, too close, too <i>been there</i>, even if she hasn't <i>done that</i>.<br /><br />That's why we felt it was important for her to live in a dorm. Of course, the dorm is a mere 3.1 miles from our house and her room is the size of a Wheat Thin, but it's her own Wheat Thin and it's away from us.<br /><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfQ3aeW7_EVZptua6g2Uvy6bm6Zo2-1QwF2pIDpBh8CkhnURD1l4ZBEpRj_uXn1kOpuS2sHSPYsi9mbChNnSuNM9Zh060Q4mXhR_3HWMnv3O9uIPmUKoB4Er6Kiri76iKOjTuAZQ6qkkEg8fRR7aJHxw3jRlKcbbfvuD4qT3XMR5G3KA7zGsP4dhYr6m3/s800/Dorm_Room-800x600.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmfQ3aeW7_EVZptua6g2Uvy6bm6Zo2-1QwF2pIDpBh8CkhnURD1l4ZBEpRj_uXn1kOpuS2sHSPYsi9mbChNnSuNM9Zh060Q4mXhR_3HWMnv3O9uIPmUKoB4Er6Kiri76iKOjTuAZQ6qkkEg8fRR7aJHxw3jRlKcbbfvuD4qT3XMR5G3KA7zGsP4dhYr6m3/s1600/Dorm_Room-800x600.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /> <br />What an experience for her — and for all 8,000 new first-year students at our university. They're paired with a stranger who becomes a roommate, and they're now working through the nuances that happen when two people with different personalities, schedules, preferences, and idiosyncrasies suddenly share a tight living space.<br /><br /><p></p><p>As I carried plastic bins of my daughter's earthly possessions into her dorm, I considered how this exact process was unfolding with thousands of others: rolling carts and stacks of clothes, desk lamps and extra long fitted sheets, Command-hooked twinkle lights and posters for the cinderblock walls, school supplies and four-by-six area rugs to make the room a little more soft and homey, a little less sterile and impersonal.</p><p><br />I overheard snippets of conversation, snippets that likely have been and will be repeated again and again through the millennia of parents dropping off their kids at college: "I told you that you should have taken an upright laundry basket, not that big one," and "At least your dorm is close to the dining hall," and "Your roommate seems nice," and "Did you pack an umbrella? I don't think we remembered to pack an umbrella."<br /><br />Underneath these obvious remarks about the new surroundings, and the inconsequential commentary on what items were forgotten at home, lies the deeper sentiments:<br /><br /></p><p><i>Please make good choices.<br /></i><i><br />I love you.<br /></i><i><br />I'm excited for you, and I'm a bit nervous, too.<br /><br /></i></p><p><i>I already miss you. This is one of those important markers signifying that life will never quite be the same again.</i></p><p><br />Even though my daughter is still <i>so close</i>, I know how this story goes — or, at least, how we've been planning and preparing for this story to go for the past 18 years. We raise our kids so they can leave us. We raise them so they step foot into this vast world on their own, even if they might call to ask questions about laundry. We raise them so they will venture out with confidence and competence and a good head on their shoulders.<br /><br />This process somehow feels unequivocally set into motion when you first drop them off in their dorm room while pestering them with inane comments about umbrellas.<br /><br />Thirteen years ago when she started kindergarten, we had a newborn and a two year old at home. Those were wonderful, harried, glorious, exhausting days. My husband and I both worked full time, so we alternated our hours on campus and our hours at home. It was an era of constant juggling, a season of swapping cars and car seats. We somehow made it work, though I'm not quite sure how.<br /><br />One particularly tiring afternoon, I made a chart in the back of a notebook. In each row, I listed a year and what age the kids would be during that year. Three rows down, it signified three years later when our middle child would start kindergarten. Five rows down, the chart signaled that the youngest would join the ranks of school-attenders.<br /><br /></p><p>That afternoon, when I was nursing a baby, and playing with a toddler, and grading assignments, and trying to figure how I was going to mobilize everyone to the bus stop to pick up the kindergartener while maintaining nap times, I believed that the next five years would span eons. It would be an eternity until my kids were all in school, until I had a moment of breathing room, until my days opened up again.<br /><br />And it was. And it wasn't. Those five years somehow were both fast and slow, rushed and drawn out, blink-and-you'll-miss-it quick and painstaking long all at once. <br /><br />That's why I know something now that I didn't know then: when our oldest hits a new milestone, it's both feels both forever and immediate until our youngest hits that milestone. Then, it was entering kindergarten. Now, it's entering college. <br /><br />We're dipping our toes into an entirely new stage of parenting.<br /><br />So, as we made trips from our van, up the elevator, and into our daughter's dorm with our arms full of her shower caddy for toiletries and granola bars for snacks, it felt familiar and different all at once. She might still be close, but this is a significant step. And since I didn't quite know what else to say when I hugged her goodbye and drove the short distance home, I said what I could:<br /><i><br />I love you with my whole heart. <br /><br />I'm so proud of you. <br /><br />Did you pack an umbrella?</i> </p>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-36648420870779997952023-08-04T14:22:00.002-04:002023-08-04T14:25:24.391-04:00Let's Chat: August: The February of Summer<p><i><b>People</b></i>. I am not sure where the last month went. This is unnerving because I was with myself the entire time, but I'm finding it hard to give an account for everything that went down during the month of July. It's time for an official <b>Sit and Chat</b> post to get reacclimated.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9YMXSCFjJRwlqCLiMMIISCz0Rot9rUl7xbWrTiFwzChKz2T5mHllmL7U9wQS6p6j_iZYr0VJnwoPyuvA2LU3CSiz5IHqt2QbF0bthdBsVUL49rzvUWSdti2chf4ZXM1gPuwaCN3fDCJtxiOhYUEXwom_hNv4BkCFLK3Ys9jQcGjByKFpGZ3N9i97h7VyO/s5796/jason-briscoe-jJDyk_7LXuw-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5796" data-original-width="3864" height="650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9YMXSCFjJRwlqCLiMMIISCz0Rot9rUl7xbWrTiFwzChKz2T5mHllmL7U9wQS6p6j_iZYr0VJnwoPyuvA2LU3CSiz5IHqt2QbF0bthdBsVUL49rzvUWSdti2chf4ZXM1gPuwaCN3fDCJtxiOhYUEXwom_hNv4BkCFLK3Ys9jQcGjByKFpGZ3N9i97h7VyO/s1600/jason-briscoe-jJDyk_7LXuw-unsplash.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>The Slower Pace of Summer. </b>In July, I take off from teaching and days have a way of blurring into one another. Things happen -- my family visits, I hold my annual yard sale, I work in the yard, I tackle house projects that I had been putting off -- but they happen at a slower pace. I wish that I could tuck a few of these summer days into my back pocket and pull one out when I'm in the thick of the semester in need of some leisure, but alas, life doesn't work that way. I'm trying to savor it all now.<br /><br /><b>Zucchini All the Time. </b>We've hit the point when my garden is exploding. Right now, my cilantro and basil are thriving, and we're eating zucchini, in one form or another, nearly every day.<br /><br /><b>A New Stage of Life. </b>I already have a gut feeling that August will move quickly. August is the February of summer -- the month when we're most apt to be tired of the current season, ready for the next season, but still not there yet. In a few weeks I'll start my 19th year of university teaching and our oldest daughter will start her first semester of college. We'll begin to get oriented to life with two kids, not three, at home. I haven't wrapped my mind around this yet.<br /><br /><b>The Annual Weekend. </b>Each August for the last decade, my dear friend and I plan a weekend to get together at her house in Morgantown, West Virginia. It's total indulgence: we talk for hours, take hikes, watch movies, and order take-out. Sometimes we go shopping. Other years we've done something exciting, like zip-lining or (attempted) water-skiing. I'm actually headed to visit her now, and I'm actively composing a mental list of all the topics we urgently need to discuss, and a list of all the topics we leisurely need to discuss, and I'm already thrilled about all the topics we won't even plan in advance but will still discuss.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There's so much to be said for good friends. Thank God for people who know you the best and love you the best.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As my life falls into more routine, as it's apt to do in the fall, I'll be more present here on the blog. Thank you for sitting and chatting today!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-38228383532859474302023-06-30T21:54:00.002-04:002023-06-30T21:55:53.397-04:00Don't Resist What Actually Refreshes<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcUkMsqTSOPLrDjrLZFQC5UHZ5jL4DFghZhFsiEY5GDJj9NL5aob_FAPW_hRxx1qPg1IOQViU5zWe-sxoDAXWS1Nc5KVe_6ejTh_7nriaSQaZxGc_tsMySJ-pAqYUKwt1UQ5DCQib8wEVDnEo_Por9jIIa1Nv4dhZ42tApq9hE6PUTdMzHTdLwwLiA3ibl/s3939/20230630_125654.jpg" style="display: inline; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2954" data-original-width="3939" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcUkMsqTSOPLrDjrLZFQC5UHZ5jL4DFghZhFsiEY5GDJj9NL5aob_FAPW_hRxx1qPg1IOQViU5zWe-sxoDAXWS1Nc5KVe_6ejTh_7nriaSQaZxGc_tsMySJ-pAqYUKwt1UQ5DCQib8wEVDnEo_Por9jIIa1Nv4dhZ42tApq9hE6PUTdMzHTdLwwLiA3ibl/s1600/20230630_125654.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our family just spent a week at the beach in Virginia,. The weather's been hot, but not muggy, and the ocean's been cold, but not frigid. A perfect combination. <br /><br />Each day I've sat on the beach reading from the stack of books I brought. Each day I've waited until I was <i>thoroughly</i> hot so I'd be ready to take the plunge into the ocean. Each day I've stood at the water's edge and sucked in my breath when the waves first hit my feet, then my shins, then my thighs. Each day I've reasoned with myself, "Robin, you're hot. The water's refreshing. Just get in the water. Just take the plunge."<br /><br />But it was just yesterday that I noticed the irrationality of this process: I'm hot. The water's refreshing. And yet, I hesitate to enter. I balk at the exact thing that's going to help just because it shocks my system for a moment.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I felt the gentle nudge of God as I considered this. It wasn't just about the ocean. There are many times when I know exactly what I need—sleep instead of caffeine, time genuinely connecting with a friend instead of scrolling on my phone, running to the Lord in prayer instead of numbing myself with distraction—but I stand at the edge, slow to take the plunge because I perceive it'll be a shock to my system for a moment. In the process, I'm depriving myself of the one thing that will offer real refreshment.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So today I just got in the water. And, as expected, it was glorious. Why would I ever delay such goodness?<br /><br />Let's not resist what actually refreshes.</div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-66335277523972152532023-06-07T14:45:00.007-04:002023-06-07T14:52:13.597-04:00But As For Me<p>Right now, Canada is on fire. Although it's hundreds of miles away from where I'm sitting on my front porch in central Pennsylvania, our skies loom heavily, nearly dripping with languid haze, making me want to blink hard or wave my hand in front of my face, in hopes to clear my vision and swipe away the fog.<br /><br />Amazing how something so far away can still hit close to home.</p><p><br />The other day I was reading from Micah, a book in the Bible I rarely visit. I was struck by a statement in chapter 7:<br /><br /></p><p><i>But as for me, I watch in hope for the Lord.<br />I wait for God my Savior;<br />my God will hear me.</i><br /><br />What a powerful declaration. I focus on the boldness of the opening words: "But as for me." These are the types of words that drive a stake in the ground, the types of words that draw a line in the sand. <br /><br />No matter what others do, no matter what comes my way, no matter how I feel, no matter what things look like, I will do this: I will watch in hope for the Lord.<br /><br />Right now, I'm watching in hope for the Lord in regards to many things. To be honest, I feel like I'm watching for God through a haze. On the surface, I don't visibly see Him at work in the circumstances. Nothing seems quite clear. I want to blink and have the situation look less obscured. I want to swipe my hand in front of my face, like I'm brushing away the blur, and have something visibly shift with my surroundings.<br /><br />But, like Micah, I also wait.<br /><br />I wait in the midst of these unclear situations, knowing that God, my Savior, hears me. <br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHdTX7MeK7Y-LrEJdNMprpxg5D2nSsiNElPUR8ZxFktPKcqx-x8ZnmOf25U8XoC8ae640U6mjL56J2OnRR2Nb67OCHde8tAdzK4bOgxjNzfKjURcGqKKRllzxS-9__e9R0JOiWnjhSu34TYBfRcVESus47ZGJoSC6I0bHar9D8lWL9CYlhRKVHEAVSA/s2626/miti-BXl6AM-ZO6M-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2626" data-original-width="1920" height="620" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHdTX7MeK7Y-LrEJdNMprpxg5D2nSsiNElPUR8ZxFktPKcqx-x8ZnmOf25U8XoC8ae640U6mjL56J2OnRR2Nb67OCHde8tAdzK4bOgxjNzfKjURcGqKKRllzxS-9__e9R0JOiWnjhSu34TYBfRcVESus47ZGJoSC6I0bHar9D8lWL9CYlhRKVHEAVSA/s1600/miti-BXl6AM-ZO6M-unsplash.jpg" width="490" /></a></div><p></p>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-31172073829174125932023-05-28T18:12:00.002-04:002023-05-31T11:00:23.218-04:00If You Don't Stop and Look Around<p>I don't always quote iconic 80's movies, but today I'm remembering a particular scene in <i>Ferris Bueller</i> when he offered this wise advice:<br /><br /><b>Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.<br /><br /></b>This advice seems apt right now. You see, the month of May is a bit crazy. It's crazy because the kid's school year is dying down, and by <i>dying down</i> I mean <i>amping up</i> with a dozen-or-so end-of-year celebrations ranging from final track meets, to final choir concerts, to prom, to awards ceremonies, to emails from teachers with Sign-Up Genius links to bring in <i>something </i>for some class party / event / thing. </p><p><br />In our household, May also is a month of birthdays. We celebrate three birthdays over a span of eleven days. There's cake, then more cake, and then more cake after that. This May, specifically, marked the threshold where our youngest turned 13, so Joel and I are officially parents of all teenagers. We feel this.<br /><br /></p><p>To keep May hopping, I finished spring teaching, took a week's pause after finals week to prepare our house to rent it for graduation weekend (which requires cleaning the house to the point that it looks like we no longer live in it), and then started summer teaching, which runs at an accelerated pace so we can cover fifteen weeks of content in six weeks.<br /><br />This, I have discovered, is just the nature of May. It moves pretty fast.<br /><br />But there's today. Today has been a slow day, a heart-stopping beautiful day when the weather must be a precursor of the climate in heaven. The grass is cut and the peonies are in full bloom. The breeze carries sounds of kids playing down the street. Chores are done. There's no immediate work to attend to. <br /><br />It's peaceful and calm, slow and savored. It's a gift that I don't take for granted. Even as I write from my back porch, I linger between sentences to let my gaze wander. If I don't stop and look around, I'm going to miss it.</p><p><br /></p><p>I don't want to miss it.</p><p><br />I'm trying to do the same during this season of life. Our oldest daughter graduates high school next week. Someone with younger children recently asked me how this feels. She's attending college close to home, which helps to mitigate some of the feelings that parents must feel when their child moves far away, but I still have feelings.<br /><br />There's joy, of course. She's worked so hard, grown so much, and she's ready for the next step. There's surprise. I mean, people tell you that 18 years go fast, but when you actually measure the span from newborn to emerging adult with a milestone one evening where they wear a cap and gown, you realize that those people were right. It goes fast in the way that 18 years can go fast -- which is not at all, and entirely so, all at once.<br /><br />Of course, the feelings wouldn't be complete without the loving concern about all the next steps and challenges: adjusting to college living, working through inevitable moments of frustration when living with a roommate in a dorm room the size of a Wheat Thin, making decisions about the future. When my thoughts wander, I find them circling over the same themes: <br /><br /><i>Have I taught her enough? Have I shared what I want her to know deep in her core about how much we love her, and how valuable she is, and how she can trust God with every single one of these steps into adulthood?<br /></i><br />I hope so. I really hope so.<br /><br />There's also sadness intermingled with such joy that it's impossible to separate one from the other. My face gets confused with all the signals from my brain and heart. My mouth smiles and my eyes cry because it's all true: this person I loved before I laid eyes on her, this baby I carried, this toddler I hoisted on my hip, this kindergartener who wore a backpack nearly the size of her body, this elementary school child who learned to read and ride a bike and master the monkey bars on the playground, this middle schooler who threatened my sanity, this high schooler who passed a driver's test, had her first fender-bender, competed in hurdles, gave presentations, took AP tests, stayed up late doing homework, and came home late after hanging out with friends, this <i>young woman </i>who's lived her life with some high <i>highs</i> alongside some inevitably low <i>lows</i>, is taking her first steps out the door.<br /><br />So, how do I feel?<br /><br />There aren't enough words. I feel it all. It's joyful and surreal. It's good, and sweet, and aching. It's a reminder that life moves fast, and that it's important to look around, to feel these feelings deeply, to let myself smile and laugh and cry.<br /><br /></p><p>I don't want to miss any of this.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7ZdLd9MoCBssoAnA_PZHc8s32-Bxea_nsGbaHOubrdnD5V856pdgVpD9ONvEIKWU1U23xEDlg1KiTWk50z9bSlEWEJIid2Md4c1KZ8xKhaCJ0p-HGwivGw7AlvnytNJsrNs9E1m2tVHB3HJdjGTZ5cuNLI2EaVDlMtV04-OlHHgN7MyD3XVQNIG1LA/s4032/20230520_155444.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7ZdLd9MoCBssoAnA_PZHc8s32-Bxea_nsGbaHOubrdnD5V856pdgVpD9ONvEIKWU1U23xEDlg1KiTWk50z9bSlEWEJIid2Md4c1KZ8xKhaCJ0p-HGwivGw7AlvnytNJsrNs9E1m2tVHB3HJdjGTZ5cuNLI2EaVDlMtV04-OlHHgN7MyD3XVQNIG1LA/s1600/20230520_155444.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-16281974644556484532023-05-02T11:26:00.002-04:002023-05-02T12:46:52.917-04:00The Start of May<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSCSv_PhwrZtrhlmHCRCjMBwS8IqcokmWtKmvzTuR4ZiNe68qxp7KyIG64THEcqzVzTmofsItN3_oAysEZVEjSaxOgeOnAhv00CSQoDijrSO2lvbGk6CAA51G9pNrATWEJr-3IUzryKTwMHdmWdMbocWUFZ2fuDKZknj8jyc81JKZSs05uWLEU3l6ug/s1920/peony-g60aff1d92_1920.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1021" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSCSv_PhwrZtrhlmHCRCjMBwS8IqcokmWtKmvzTuR4ZiNe68qxp7KyIG64THEcqzVzTmofsItN3_oAysEZVEjSaxOgeOnAhv00CSQoDijrSO2lvbGk6CAA51G9pNrATWEJr-3IUzryKTwMHdmWdMbocWUFZ2fuDKZknj8jyc81JKZSs05uWLEU3l6ug/s1600/peony-g60aff1d92_1920.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><p><br />Ah, May has arrived. I like the month of May. I like that the semester ends. I like that peonies bloom, that I can smell lilac in the breeze, and that the world comes alive. I like that I get to start cutting the grass, that we mulch our flower beds, and that living spaces spill over onto back patios and front porches. </p><p><br />With all that said, that's currently not what May feels like. It's 40 degrees outside. It's also wet. A <i>will-anything-ever-feel-dry-again?</i> wetness. There have been multiple daily torrential downpours, intermingled with slow stretches of lackluster rain, punctuated by moments of hail. <br /><br />Welcome to May.<br /><br />If I had my druthers, the start of May would be vibrant and sunny, fresh and fun, comfortable and carefree. But, as we all know, we don't control the weather. <br /><br />There's so much we don't get to control. I recently was talking with a friend who's facing some serious challenges in her personal life. I understood. Same here. Even though the particulars of our circumstances are different, she and I share a similar bottom line: we both have chapters in our lives that we hadn't envisioned and wouldn't have chosen for ourselves. <br /><br />This is universally human. We wouldn't have chosen illnesses and cancer diagnosis. We wouldn't have chosen hardships in marriage. We wouldn't have chosen infertility or miscarriages, heartbreaks and bullying, wayward children or job termination, addictions or anxiety disorders, house fires or losing loved ones too soon. We've all lived life events we never would have written into our own stories willfully, but those stories have come nonetheless.<br /><br />If we had our druthers, things would be more vibrant and sunny, fresh and fun, comfortable and carefree. But, as well all know, we don't get to control all the twists and turns of life.<br /><br />So today, on this second day of May, I accept the blustery temperature, the rain squalls, and the cloud coverage. I'll work inside and choose contentment, rather than lamenting that I can't work outside. I'll steal a moment to sit and read, curled up under a blanket on my couch, instead of in the wishing I was reading on my porch with my sunglasses on. I'll remember that these few rainy, cold days in May are temporary. It's not going to stay this cold and damp forever.<br /><br />That's the same with life. When we face hard times, they feel immersive, as if there's 100% circumstantial cloud coverage. But hard times don't last forever. I love this advice from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WIJKvlG9Lcw" target="_blank">Kristina Kuzmic</a>:<br /><br /><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;"></span></p><blockquote><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">So here's a tip: add </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">right now</i><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;"> to whatever is frustrating you about parenting or life in general so that you're not putting a permanence on it. You're realizing that whatever is difficult right now doesn't have to be difficult forever. So, for example, 'I'm not getting enough sleep </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">right now</i><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">. My toddler is throwing daily tantrums </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">right now</i><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">. My teenager acts like he hates me </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">right now</i><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">. This divorce is so excruciatingly painful </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">right now</i><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">.'</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;" /><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">This is right now. This is not forever. You are not stuck. A bad year or two or five doesn't equal a bad life. It equals a bad year or two or five. Hard parenting days won't last forever. Hard life days aren't permanent either.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;" /><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">It's not permanent. It's </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">right now</i><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;">."</span></blockquote><span face="Raleway, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.5px;"></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Sure, the start of May has been wet and cold. But it's not permanent. It's just right now.</p>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-61701962869901867332023-04-17T15:40:00.004-04:002023-04-20T11:39:57.098-04:00If You Have Something Nice to Say<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4y5iHfm70K-umZGqmHT6S6JxmtEXL-oU-PRh_ntddvyEImq3y0vFRePOtCOgbCsVMVAUUN1CE3rtyHQh3CKRnL5ScyzPjGaiimXvRnUOy4lQXX6FHs-QMF9xHYbka9BzLpRVA2CNRMS4GL3IHDoLNR81OBxKZoEZ7RAQg19ThRW-7QyPnG9TRtNb8w/s1280/speech-gb3fd4e13e_1280.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1168" data-original-width="1280" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4y5iHfm70K-umZGqmHT6S6JxmtEXL-oU-PRh_ntddvyEImq3y0vFRePOtCOgbCsVMVAUUN1CE3rtyHQh3CKRnL5ScyzPjGaiimXvRnUOy4lQXX6FHs-QMF9xHYbka9BzLpRVA2CNRMS4GL3IHDoLNR81OBxKZoEZ7RAQg19ThRW-7QyPnG9TRtNb8w/s1600/speech-gb3fd4e13e_1280.png" width="500" /></a></div><br />This past weekend at church, I sat a few rows behind a friendly married couple that we've known, at least on an acquaintance level, for years. Their adult daughter and son-in-law arrived a few minutes later and sat beside them. I loved the greeting that ensued: warm hugs, the mom rubbing her daughter's back, huge smiles. Such tangible displays of affection.<br /><br />I've noticed this about this family before. They love each other. They <i>like</i> each other. It shows.<br /><br />On the back of my bulletin, I scrawled a little note to my husband, "The bond between members of that family always warms my heart. So evident how much love there is!" <br /><br />He read it and nodded. He had noticed, too.<br /><br />After service, I waited for the woman and handed her the note, telling her, "I just wanted you to see your family how others see you."<br /><br />Then I went on with my day. Honestly, I didn't think of the encounter again until I noticed that she had tagged me on Facebook with a picture of my messily written note and this message: <br /><br /><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>A sweet friend h</b></span></i><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>anded this to me on our way out of church. It’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said about our family. So appreciated. Made my year!!!</b></span><br /></i><br /></span><p></p><div>My heart! Do you know how simple it was for me to pass this note to her? It was such a small thing! And yet, it clearly was meaningful to her. <br /><br />We all know the adage, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." But this small encounter reminds me that the opposite corollary might be equally important: If we have something nice to say, say it.<br /><br />We think nice things about people all the time. Once again, I'm reminded that it never hurts to say it.<br /></div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-5338696839456324312023-04-11T13:22:00.003-04:002023-04-11T17:41:25.950-04:00On Having a Favorite Tree<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZ2ek3mx0063ZSmZAarkwfMl9C1_nh3c0awFPRRauBg5TWl1I2-Or3P2BfafgG9ys7dhoGYXUwSeoykaxPf403Mw1Rq9JEZ3_cQZiwT46uIN5jzHtYw0jmWkRUtLoCU4I1bQJ__Osegdjv4HP0NNw0OCxluTpvw62W9ayx4-RYiiBM_y7LfEeipJQ2A/s4024/20230411_111953.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2921" data-original-width="4024" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZ2ek3mx0063ZSmZAarkwfMl9C1_nh3c0awFPRRauBg5TWl1I2-Or3P2BfafgG9ys7dhoGYXUwSeoykaxPf403Mw1Rq9JEZ3_cQZiwT46uIN5jzHtYw0jmWkRUtLoCU4I1bQJ__Osegdjv4HP0NNw0OCxluTpvw62W9ayx4-RYiiBM_y7LfEeipJQ2A/s1600/20230411_111953.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm going to go ahead and state the obvious: I used to be young, and now I have a favorite tree. I get weirdly excited about this particular tree, you see. It's along a road leading to the elementary school my children used to attend. You can pass this tree all winter long and not notice it. You can drive by it all summer without a glace.<br /><br />But in spring, you notice this tree. You gawk at this tree. You want to let out a low whistle of appreciation for this tree. You annoy your pre-teen (who, for the record, is too pre-teen-y to find it cool to have a favorite tree, although she'll concede that this one is nice) by making her open her window and use your phone to take a picture while you drive by at a snail's pace. <br /><br />This tree deserves being noticed. This tree deserves being captured when its in full bloom.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /> </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Tuesdays I don't go onto campus. Instead, like a throwback to Covid days, I work from home. I grade assignments from my kitchen table, still wearing the exercise clothes from my morning visit to the gym. To break up working, I do other types of work: starting and folding a load of laundry, collecting trash from all the bins and rolling the trash cans to the curb, making sure we have all the groceries needed for the remaining meals this week. These household tasks serve as a buffer, a needed break of doing something productive with my hands instead of my mind. Then it's back to actual work at the kitchen table.<br /><br />Today, however, I wanted to take a little detour outside of the house. I drove to visit the tree like I'd visit an old friend. It's a mere 10-minute round trip loop from home to the tree and back again, but I took a few extra moments to park my car on an adjacent road, walk toward the tree, and savor the view.<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />These blossoms don't last long, you know. My eyes wandered from the trunk to the knobby, strong, sprawling limbs. I noticed how the breeze caused the faintest rise and fall of branches, like the tree was shyly waving in greeting. I wondered if this tree is one of the homeowner's most prized possessions, a treasure akin to Jim's watch or Della's hair in O. Henry's <i>Gift of the Magi</i>, something they'd never brag about, but take great pride in owning. <i>We're the people with the tree, </i>I imagine them saying.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Of course, I have to move on. My work from the kitchen table calls, but this detour was just what I needed today.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bitVC_7eVAcujO_6H3e6qQmjJ3hOH4VNplVITB8JW0F30mNluivJolm8Jre3W_71g6-3d6-dNKOLwZnioEe0WI0Bv9BG9-JzcZo8ijmRflt2S9oYd1PM8GUHJQyA8wck-9aJNpCmfDlbDxkx6Fr4BrtgB1ytpM0olLjjEqwKox4Yl-yPVwyYT-Q8Uw/s4032/20230411_112029.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="690" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bitVC_7eVAcujO_6H3e6qQmjJ3hOH4VNplVITB8JW0F30mNluivJolm8Jre3W_71g6-3d6-dNKOLwZnioEe0WI0Bv9BG9-JzcZo8ijmRflt2S9oYd1PM8GUHJQyA8wck-9aJNpCmfDlbDxkx6Fr4BrtgB1ytpM0olLjjEqwKox4Yl-yPVwyYT-Q8Uw/s1600/20230411_112029.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /> <p></p></div>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3356107853796107267.post-37629406835261434962023-03-29T17:32:00.003-04:002023-03-29T19:07:54.083-04:00Just Start<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFTadeYRqmj5MK0FDQEzzSPRyXu_8kbELq7_ONiBMax3ZtjYpPrx9PPOWytdkYX0kXy8xqmghf0uEMg9QUwUa6Ob_oSb0G7Uieqn01SwR-rJ7o1BEwEL2TVNjNRtjNU0_93ZZQGiwZ9drrhrlakoBuEfwONQEEAALVnBQNrKzGkz8V2alFCpvhN_b4g/s3264/jon-tyson-r9T0LZv8xWQ-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="630" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFTadeYRqmj5MK0FDQEzzSPRyXu_8kbELq7_ONiBMax3ZtjYpPrx9PPOWytdkYX0kXy8xqmghf0uEMg9QUwUa6Ob_oSb0G7Uieqn01SwR-rJ7o1BEwEL2TVNjNRtjNU0_93ZZQGiwZ9drrhrlakoBuEfwONQEEAALVnBQNrKzGkz8V2alFCpvhN_b4g/s1600/jon-tyson-r9T0LZv8xWQ-unsplash.jpg" width="580" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>It's inevitable. Each semester I reach a point when it feels like I have grading to complete all the time. And when I say it feels like "all the time," I mean <i>All. The. Time</i>. In perpetuity. Unceasing. Continual. Never ending. Forever and ever and ever, amen.<br /><br />Last night, I actually <i>dreamed </i>that I was providing feedback for students on an assignment. I was terribly disappointed when I woke up because, apparently, grading completed during a dream doesn't actually count for anything. <i>Come on, man! </i>I worked all night long but have nothing to show for it.<br /><br /></p><p>I'm tired. Assignments pour in like a deluge. Yesterday's to-do list bled into today. I suspect today's to-do list will bleed until tomorrow. My shoulders are tense, my brow is furrowed, and my resolve is weakening. I want to either (a) take a nap so I can temporarily forget about the grading, or (b) clean all my closets so I can temporarily convince myself I'm being productive, even if it's not productive in the right way.<br /><br />I've been in this place before. I'm no stranger to a semester's cumulative fatigue. Grading is time consuming and laborious, yet it's an essential part of my job that I take seriously. Still, it's hard right now.<br /><br />Even so, I do one entirely unglamorous thing that always helps: I start. <br /><br />I just start.<br /><br />I don't need to grade all the assignments tonight. I don't need to complete them all tomorrow, either. Right now, I simply need to start and grade one. Then I start again, and I grade one more. Then one more. Like putting one foot ahead of another, eventually I'll cover some distance.<br /><br />I'll likely succumb at some point over these next few days and take that nap. It'll be a healthy coping mechanism. I've already organized my pantry. (That was yesterday's diversion, and yes, if you're wondering, it was wildly satisfying up until the point when I conceded to myself that having my spices perfectly lined up wasn't actually my most pressing task.) <br /><br />Even so, regardless of how many diversions might crop up, I keep reminding myself to start. <br /><br />Just start.</p>Robin Kramerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09902099859770996417noreply@blogger.com0