Master of My Fate

Psychologists generally agree there are 412 (but who's counting?) emotions. Of these hundreds of emotions, there are 8 major "negative" emotions and 8 major "positive" emotions. All of this is debatable, of course, but the 8 major negative emotions are fear, anger, shame, blame, regret, resentment, apathy, and grief. The 8 major positive emotions are joy/love, interest, enthusiasm, empathy, curiosity, boredom, laughter, and action. Most people don't think of boredom, laughter, and action as emotions, but when one considers that e-motion is energy in motion, then boredom, laughter, and action are definitely on the list. It is also theorized that a thought precedes an emotion.

Statistics show that the average human being has between 50,000 and 75,000 thoughts a day and that 80% of these are "negative" thoughts. By the time we are 40 years old, we have created and experienced about 730,000,000 thoughts. If 80% of those are negative, that means our minds are "programmed" with and have experienced, in a real sense, about three-quarters of a billion negative thoughts by age 40 (people over 40 can do the math). If we say 5 affirmations (positive thoughts such as "I am beautiful, unique, and loved") a day, which most of us probably don't do, the bottom line is still at least 49,995 negative thoughts a day. Furthermore, most of these negative thoughts have to do with the past or the future. They are not usually about the present moment in which we live, which is the only moment we are guaranteed to have.

Recent studies have shown that suppressing negative emotions (denying or blunting what one feels internally) is not helpful for learning, adapting, interpersonal interactions, or a sense of happiness. Emotional suppression has more to do with feeling an emotion than with expressing an emotion. Many emotions, especially negative ones, while felt internally, are better left unexpressed, but nonexpression is not synonymous with suppression. On the other hand, similar research shows that faking positive emotions does have a salubrious effect on learning, adaptation, interpersonal interactions, and one's own subjective estimation of happiness. "Fake it 'til you make it" is not just an off-the-wall humorous comment on how to"be" in this life. There is a well-known experiment that can lend proof to the assertion. It is about smiling. It has repeatedly been shown that the act of smiling will improve a person's mood even if the person does not feel like smiling. At the very least, smiling frequently will cause other people to wonder what the smiler is up to or knows. The secretiveness of the "knowing smile" can elevate some people's moods all by itself. Faking positive emotion works.

Faking it may, indeed, work with a whole range of positive emotions, but it doesn't work with knowledge deficits. Affirmations and positive thinking don't eliminate knowledge deficits. Mastery does. Mastery is not achieved by magic or magical thinking (e.g., if we ignore our problems, they will go away). Realizing that our errors or mistakes hurt ourselves and others, self-mastery is the real challenge in our lives. Achieving important goals takes time and hard work.

Randy Gage, an author who writes motivational materials, says that "mastery comes from confidence, confidence comes from experience, experience comes from practice, practice comes from commitment, and commitment comes from vision." Success is reading this list backward and working effectively and tirelessly from the vision to the mastery.

There are four levels to the process of self-mastery. The first level is recognizing incompetencies or deficits in oneself. When a person does not recognize or acknowledge a knowledge deficit, that person does not care about improving his/her knowledge or skills. The second level is becoming aware that other people have desirable competencies or knowledge and that these are achievable. That is the first step toward learning. The third level is learning the basics and putting those into practice. Most people fall into this category because they limit their own knowledge and practice their skills selectively. This does not, however, constitute mastery. The fourth level is to assimilate more and more knowledge and skills and to practice using them effectively. Continual expansion of the fourth level leads to self-confidence, and that leads to self-mastery.

The test of self-mastery is to "reality check" knowledge and skills by exhibiting them to other practitioners with more experience in order to receive feedback on demonstrated competencies. Assimilating feedback and using it constructively will promote and enhance self-mastery.

The gold standard to measure the achievement of self-mastery is to ask the question, "Do I feel knowledgeable, skilled, and confident enough to teach this (whatever it is) effectively to someone else?"

There is an old Chinese proverb that says, "A moving hinge does not rust, and running water does not stagnate." When it comes to knowledge and skills and self-mastery, we have to keep moving or we will perish. More is better.

Unconsciousness

After Mother Nature saw to it that my surgery was cancelled on February 8, 2010, by virtue of dumping 4 feet of snow in our region, I was re-posted for Monday, March 1, 2010. Surely we would not have a repeat snow emergency as late as March 1st (we almost did).

My uberfriend and personal nurse, Ruth, flew here from Salt Lake City on the previous Saturday, and we spent Sunday shopping at Whole Foods for the vittles necessary to keep us in the gustatory style to which we have become accustomed for the past 45 years.

On Monday, I drove us to Good Samaritan Hospital on Loch Raven Boulevard in Baltimore. We had to park in a remote lot since all the good parking spaces were already in use by the early-morning shift. I was told to report to the admissions office by 10 a.m. There, the usual paperwork was done swiftly, and we were escorted into the surgical holding area of the hospital, where clothing was removed (Ruth got to keep her clothing), machines were hooked up, IV was started, and vital signs were taken every 5 seconds. Owing to numerous mis- or un-identification leading to the mistaken sawing off of limbs and the erroneous removal of organs, hospitals have finally learned (and it's now the law) to make double-damn sure that the patient is the right patient and the proposed surgery is being done on the right body part. I was asked no less than 10 times to state my name, spell my name, recite my birthdate, and narrate my procedure. By the time I actually went to surgery (where I was asked the above questions twice more), I was fairly confident they knew who I was and what I was there for.

My surgeon and I had previously discussed that this was an operative procedure that could be done using local anesthetic and intravenous sedation, which would allow me to be conscious during the operation. As it turned out and which was quite a shock to my sensibilities, the anesthesiologist in league with the surgeon decided it would be much better if I were placed in a prone (face-down) position instead of a lateral position, and that requires maintenance of an airway and a general anesthetic. I had a momentary fright as I contemplated "going under. " It wasn't what I expected. When that announcement was made by the anesthesiologist in the surgical holding area, I looked at Ruth and said, "Should we do this?" She gave me a quizzical glance for a nanosecond, and then I decided that if I ever had the chance of being pain-free, losing consciousness would have to be part of the process. I said, "OK." Off we went.

Ruth was escorted to the surgical waiting room, and I was rolled on a gurney into the operating room. There I was met by a bunch of masked but friendly OR personnel, including the anesthesiologist. He said, "I am going to give you some Versed now." I asked him if I had to count backward from 100, as is usually the case when a patient undergoes induction. He said, "I don't think that will be necessary." That was the last I knew.

I can't swear to it because I have no conscious memory of it, but apparently the OR personnel managed to get all 292 pounds of me, unconscious, on the operating table, face-down, without dropping me or damaging me in any discernible way. The next thing I was aware of was waking up in the recovery room, trying to talk, pulling the oxygen mask off my face, and saying, "I've been cut." I looked at the clock in the recovery room, and it was 6:20 p.m. My surgery had been delayed because of a heavy OR schedule, and I didn't get into the OR until after 3 p.m. My throat was sore, and my vocal cords were quite irritated from the endotracheal tube that was in there to maintain my airway during surgery. That's the part of a general anesthetic I like the least. It takes a few hours to get your normal voice back, and it takes me that long to stop coughing from the throat irritation. The incision itself is a nothingburger compared to the throat and voice inconvenience. I wanted ice chips, and they were forthcoming immediately.

It wasn't too many minutes later that some kind soul went to the surgical waiting room to fetch Ruth, and she was allowed to stay with me in the recovery room for the two hours they kept me there. My vital signs were excellent at each check. The nurse in charge of me in the recovery room was Julie, and she had a great sense of humor and gave me very good care.

At 8:45 p.m., I was finally taken up to my private room on the orthopedic surgical ward. The first thing I did was get off the gurney under my own steam and go to the bathroom. There is only so much a bladder can hold. Then I got into my bed, and the rituals began. I was hooked up to a PCA pump (patient-controlled analgesia; in my case, IV Dilaudid) and an IV of normal saline. Venodynes were placed on my lower legs (to prevent blood clots while sedentary). I was carefully instructed by the floor nurse how to activate the PCA pump, but I told her I didn't need it and wouldn't use it. She was doubtful about that, but I never did take even one hit off the Dilaudid. I am not a fan of narcotics. I would rather suffer some pain than feel the fuzzy-headed effects of narcotics. Later, the nurse wanted to give me oral OxyContin, but I refused that too. I told her I would take some Motrin if I needed pain relief. They were all surprised, including the surgeon when he learned the next morning that I hadn't had any pain killers after surgery.

Because the PCA pump was hooked up to my IV, the nurses had to come every 2 hours throughout the night to check my vital signs. This is the protocol when a patient has access to a PCA pump, regardless of whether or not the PCA is used. Ruth stayed overnight with me, trying to get a little sleep in the recliner chair in my room. Every time we would doze off, they would come in and turn on the bright overhead lights (interrogation-style lights) and wake us up. One thing that's hard to come by in a hospital is uninterrupted sleep. You have to go home for that.

At 6 a.m., another surgical resident came to make rounds on me. That also woke us up, of course. He didn't contribute much to the process except to look at my incision and to test my motor and sensory parameters. Both were fine. Mercifully, my surgeon rounded early and was there by 8:30 a.m. I was sitting up in bed, and he came into the room and said, "Look at you!" I don't know what he was expecting, but he was surprised to learn that I hadn't had any IV or oral pain medication at all. I told him that I was ready to rock and roll, and he very happily discharged me to home right then and there. In a few minutes, the nurse came in and discontinued my IV, pulled the line out of my arm, and I dressed in my street clothes, Ruth brought the car around, and we were home (with a sigh of relief) by 10 a.m. on Tuesday, March 2, exactly 24 hours after I presented for admission. Nothing could have been better. They gave us a week's worth of surgical dressings so Ruth could change the dressings every day.

And now the food: I had to fast for 16 hours before surgery. On the day of surgery, I was put on a clear-liquid diet after the operation was over. That's the norm. In the recovery room after surgery, I had diet ginger ale and cranberry juice (juice drink, full of sugar and hardly a cranberry). This elevated my blood sugar to 153, so the protocol kicked in where a patient has to get insulin if the blood sugar is over 150. I am glad my floor nurse decided to belay that, and I never got the insulin. A few hours later, my blood sugar was back to 101. On the morning after surgery, I was advanced to a liquid diet, so they brought me chicken broth, Jell-O, Lipton tea, and apple juice. Since I'm a vegetarian, I wasn't going to drink the chicken broth or eat the Jell-O. I don't do caffeine, so the Lipton tea was a nonstarter. I knew the apple juice would elevate my blood sugar, so I didn't drink that either, fearing that would start another discussion about giving me insulin. Sigh. My day nurse decided I should eat something, however, so she advanced my diet to soft. Right before we left the hospital, the dietitian brought me sauted apple slices, apple juice, and two white-flour fake-blueberry muffins. Ruth and I just looked at each other and decided we would eat when we got home. It's a wonder that hospitals still think this stuff passes for nutrition, but short of bringing your own food, which they wouldn't let you eat anyway, they will never 'get it.' Proper nutrition is mandatory for proper healing, but dietitians don't seem to understand that connection.

When we got home on Tuesday morning, we had organic eggs and toasted Ezekiel bread (organic, sprouted, whole-grain bread bought at Whole Foods---good stuff) and real brewed decaf coffee. It was the best meal of my life.

The rest of the week was uneventful. Everything healed up wonderfully. The incision remained clean, dry, and intact. I was walking around the house without a cane. We went to see Alice in Wonderland in 3D. It was marvelous. Ruth did all the driving since I was told not to drive until my skin clips were removed (26 of them in an incision about 8 inches long). Of course, I cheated and drove 3 days before my followup appointment with the surgeon. Nothing bad happened. I drove Ruth to the airport on Thursday morning, March 11, and I drove myself to the doctor appointment on Friday, the next morning. The skin clips were removed, and I was told I could now drive. I smiled. I was asked to come back for a final followup appointment on April 6. No bending, twisting, or lifting in the meantime. I think they mean I should not be throwing 100-pound alfalfa bales around the barn, which is what I did when I was a kid on the farm and which probably contributed to the lumbar spinal stenosis and herniated disks from which I sought some relief with this very operation. Instead of having spinal fusion and laminectomy, I opted for a titanium device called X-STOP. You can watch a video to learn more about X-STOP. It is now covered by Medicare, for which I am grateful. Instead of recuperating for 6 months after spinal fusion, X-STOP recovery is about 6 weeks (or less). It's a great invention. I only hope it works long-term.

That's all for now. I've got to go sling some hay bales and get ready for a dance at Spring Hill.

Click on the hot link below for more information about X-STOP.

http://www.spine-health.com/video/x-stop-interactive-video

Minton plates

http://www.thepotteries.org/potters/minton.htm

Click on the hot link above for a more complete history of Minton plates.

In the 18th century, many of the English potters had a hard time trying to find high-quality materials to make porcelain plates. It was not until the 1740s that they began to use calcined animal bone ash to help give the antique dinnerware both strength and translucency, using various experimental formulas. After much debate and failed experiments, the potters concluded that the best bones to use were those from an ox. The only problem was that until 1796, bone china was illegal. There had been problems brewing between the trading that was done with the people in the Far East, and because of this they found that they were running low on the porcelain that was used to make English antique plates, and they desperately sought a solution to the problem.

A potter from Staffordshire by the name of Joseph Poulson was one of the first to produce new china pottery after the patent for the bone China was disapproved by Parliament. By 1796, he struck up a partnership with Thomas Minton who owned and operated an earthenware pottery factory.

Though they each owned their own businesses, they worked together to create dinnerware for the English people. Poulson made the pottery while Minton, a trained engraver, decorated each piece. Minton had a mind for business, which he learned from his brother, Arthur, and was able to make it successful.

Together both Paulson and Minton created antique plates that were considered to be elegant when compared to most pieces of its day. There are no marked plates and other dinnerware from Minton’s very early works. However, a few of the dessert plates have survived and are recognized by their blue-and-white earthenware pattern for which Minton is known.

Minton used various patterns and techniques, making his pieces diverse and unique. The majority of the early patterns were decorated with an overglaze of polychrome enamels that covered the entire piece. He used skilled artists to paint landscapes and other scenes with exquisite details.

Besides using landscapes, Minton also created some pieces with floral patterns. Some had only one flower while others had groups of them. Other of these types of pieces were designed with exotic birds next to plants that were rich in color and beauty. On the bottom were Chinese decorations and pseudo-Chinese characters.

Each Minton antique teapot, plate, and dish came in various patterns as well as shapes. Some were basic while others had a very unique shape that defined it and matched the period it was made in. Today, Minton plates are still exquisite and can cost anywhere between $200 to $12,000.

For more information on Willow ware, another Minton plate style, click on the hot link below (Wikipedia):

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Willow_pattern

Granddaughter's HB Wish for her Friend

Hey, Miss Sarah J. I guess by your time it's your birthday. I didn't send you anything; I can't call you. Well, I guess I can, but you get my drift. I didn't do a darn thing for you.

But I did ask Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, some random Fairies, the Three Billy Goats Gruff, a Troll, Medusa, Zeus, and Michael Beauchamp, of course, for some favors.

First, I told Santa that I know 100% that you haven't done anything naughty. I left out the illegal camping in the Shenandoah. Anyway, it looks like next Christmas you're set.

Second, the Easter Bunny. I asked him to give you a sunny day when you needed one. So, if it ever seems like the clouds won't clear, just ask the Bunny man to hook you up because he owes me. He almost had a public disaster of drunken misconduct, and I testified that it was a false accusation (which it was not). Anyway, he was having a rough week, so I figured one white lie for the poor guy wouldn't end the world, and millions of kids could keep on getting massive amounts of candy.

Third, the Fairy clan, which has nothing to do with a gay bar. I asked them to give you some of their fairy dust---to fly with, of course. They said no. But they did say they would give you a miracle. And then they told me that there is a mathmatical probability that you have one about once a month anyway, so I guess that means it's no skin off their backs. They're kind of condescending. Anyway, you got a miracle coming your way.

Fourth---oh yes, the Three Billy Goats Gruff. You have safe passage over any bridge for a full year. Then I bullied them into giving you safe passage over bridges for the rest of your life. Pretty good deal. In trade though, I have to give them all my recyclables for the rest of my life (to eat, I believe).

The Troll is an old friend of mine. I met him in the woods of Michigan. Quite a shy fellow, but very dear and sweet. He doesn't look very appealing, but behind his skin is a glowing light of golden geniune goodness. Anyway, he didn't have anything to give, nor would I ask to take from him. It just doesn't seem right. But he does have this special ability where he can travel within the blink of an eye. The thing is, though---you can't see him once he's traveled. He's there, but you wouldn't know it. Anyway, I asked him to check up on you and if you were ever doing something alone that he would join you. So, when you think you're alone, he's there. Talk to him. He's a great listener.

Fifth, I asked Medusa, with my eyes closed, that if you were ever having a bad-hair day, the next day you would have the best-hair day. You see, since her hair can be quite untameable, as you may have noticed, she is very sympathetic to people when they're having bad-hair days. But normally she wouldn't do anything about it. Then I showed her my rat's nest of a hairdo. She felt so sorry for me, and she said she would give me anything I wanted. I told her I got's me a friend in Korea---hook her up.

Sixth, never talk to Zeus. What a skeeve! When I asked him to give you a great and grand birthday present, he wanted to knock you up........ to which I told him that perhaps his gift should be the gift of not impregnating you. He said he could control himself. I don't know, Phoebes---I think he's got his eye out for you. You might be the next Mary Magdalene. But thank god Hera was there. She said she'd keep an eye out that no skeeves would come near you. Any skeeves, Zeus or not. She also said Apollo was single right now, but he is such a player, Phoebes. Just because he's beautiful, it doesn't mean he's not vapid. Anyway, she might try and set you up. Sorry, but that really turned into a mess.

Then there's the best of all. I couldn't get ahold of Michael himself, but I did ask him telepathically to write a new song that would be your song. I don't know if he got the message. But we'll see if his new albumn doesn't have something that rings true just for you.

So, there's nothing material, nothing concrete, but hopefully my gift is one of introverted delight. You might be wondering why I never told you I knew such movie stars and how to get in touch with them. Well, I'm kind of sworn to secrecy. But since I have never spilled the beans and have been a loyal trustee, they lifted my oath for the day, and I was allowed to tell one person.

Ultimately, I hope this brightens your day from so far away. You've got more eyes looking out for you than you'll ever know. But don't get paranoid; it's not like that. They are only there when you want them there.

I love you. Happy Birthday, and Happy Valentine's day. Hey, would you be my Valentine? I've never had one. And I think it's damn time! And there's no one else I would want to be my Valentine. Guys are douches anyway.
Love, E.

Uncle Duane

No one dies who lives in the heart and mind of another. We grieve for your passing, and we will surely miss you. But we understand, Uncle Duane. With love from Ruthie and Diane.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold,
Her early leaf's a flower,
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-Robert Frost

Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004) was a Baltimore housewife and florist who wrote this:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

My Granddaughter Visits Bok Tower in Florida

On Friday, I decided to go visit this place, or sanctuary, called Bok Tower. They call it the singing tower, and it is aptly named. You are not allowed into this phallic cathedral, but I decided that, compared to the outside, the inside is probably quite prosaic. It is a glory of architecture, Phoebes. The stone walls are milky pink/peach swirl. At the top are stone creatures with bodies of men but heads of some sort of bird. They have a few balconies that freckle the tower, which one can only dream of getting to stand on. One balcony has an inconspicuous red door that just begs to be touched, analyzed, and opened. It stands high above, mocking my desires. Do I feel a metaphor coming on?

The windows are not glass; they are more like glazed pottery, with cutouts of monkeys, palm trees, Adam and Eve, and any other random biblical/tropical idea you can think of put together.

The ultimate, though, and the reason I stared at the damn thing for a half an hour, is the gold-plated brass door located at the bottom of the tower. The door is in the shape of an arch. And it looks like they placed a gold quilt on it. There are picturesque scenes in each square, which I could not identify. But I was beyond mesmerized. I felt like I had just stepped into Narnia and that door led to Aslan. The door knob was of a bird’s head, and it held a heavy golden ring in its mouth. I so desperately wanted to touch it, to almost caress it, to know it, as if, behind its strong purpose, sat all the answers. I feel I shall forever be haunted by that door. I feel I will see it my dreams, and its magic and mystery will forever pulse through my veins.

To top it all off, I was not only feeling mystical, but I was hearing haughty music vibrating from the tower, which it is designed to do, but the music only added to putting me into a cathartic peace.

It was a cloudy, warm day, and the wind blew and whispered at me. For the two hours, I was there, in this plant sanctuary that is exposed daily to the vibrating meditations and the mesmerizing power of the tower when I, too, realized I had become hypnotized. I felt the peace echoing through every inch of the place and saying, “The peace is within you; I am not the peace…it is in you.”

I continued to wander around the gardens in my omnipotent state. I let the divinity within blossom in the sunlight of the tower, and I soaked up the musical vibrations like water to the soul. I was the plants, I was the peace, and I was the omniscient knowledge that would not cease. I am not apt to say that a place has power over one’s emotions or a place defines your state, but, through experience, one cannot deny that some places evoke poignant feelings. Perhaps it is a little of both, the state I am in and the state the place is in, that combine to create this melody of moods. Never knowing where it started or where it ends. Never knowing if I am my own placebo and that, by being in a place that I subconsciously know should make me feel that way, this creates the feeling. Then, is the peace within subconsciously projected and hence outwardly re-projected back onto myself? This might be a good time for one of my favorite sayings: "The world is a reflection of yourself." Now this seems to be more relevant than ever. It almost seems like a game, to be aware of the places that move you to a higher state and wonder why you would ever leave them for the places that evoke subconscious feelings of disgust. But I cannot believe that. There is beauty everywhere. Everywhere! Perhaps it is the belief that stems from me that a place is not beautiful. I choose not to be in a state of peace all the time because I choose to perceive my world not in a state of peace. But therein lies the truth, for the world is always at peace. It is only I who can create a state of disdain. Only I can create.

Would one want to create beauty all the time? Or is there a balance in believing in ugliness and beauty? Would I become jaded and soon beauty itself would become ugly? It seems I ask questions to which the answers are irrelevant. Why even worry about it? Perhaps I am making it more complicated than it needs to be. You like some places, and you don't like others. Some days you feel good, and some days you feel bad. Put the two together and you have a state of being. The rest is a circle of thought, about which there is no point to seek the end, for there isn't one. It's a circle, you dumbass!

Ramble, ramble, ramble…I hope I have confused you as much I have confused myself.

Yesterday.....oh, yesterday was perfect. I snuggled up to the TV, because, yes, it does get cold in florida, and I zoned out to “The Client,” a drama about a young, independent, and boisterous boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but thankfully a divorce lawyer, played by Susan Sarandon, was there to save the day and help solve the mystery, after which I decided perhaps I should be productive.

I wandered out to our little 10 x 5’ garden and decided to weed out the half that hadn't been weeded and stake my claim. I am endeavoring to try my black thumb at gardening in the hopes that anything green will come out. The soil is so sandy, though, that I don't know what would be willing to survive in it. Research......

Then, I promptly decided that was enough work for one day, and I slugged back over to the couch and nestled in again. To my surprise, the last Matrix movie was on, equivalent to trash, but there is a small amount of food for thought in it…enough to warrant not getting up to change the channel because we have no remote, so whenever something’s on that I don't necessarily like, I pretty much make myself find a way to like it.

I planned my weekend this way. When asked what I was going to do this weekend, my reply was, “Hopefully nothing.” I wanted a weekend to re-collect myself and prepare for fire.

OK, I will admit I did start a sourdough starter, so I did do at least two productive things, though there is an ad here to "Create an avatar worthy of your features. Play sorority life and show off with how beautiful you are!" Oh, excuse me from my novel. I think I just found my calling! You guys sure are lucky I found something to stop my mind (hence, my fingers) from continuing these endless rambles. Lucky this time; perhaps not so lucky the next.

Sorry, Phoebes, that this turned into one of those letters that originally started out to you, which is why it is written as it is, since I write a certain way when I write you. But since I love what you inspire to come out of me, it then turned into a letter that should be shared with all. So, to all who read this know, it doesn't necessarily stream from me; there is a hidden magic from one of the dearest people to walk the earth. And, don't worry---she knows it’s true. Because I said it, therefore it must be true! We tend to gush on each other. It's a good circle---one I am happy to be in.

OK, so I love you, Phoebes, and I hope you don't mind the sharing of your inspiration, and I love everybody else who drains all their mitochondrial waste just in order to read my epics.
Love,
E or B

Editor's Note: For incredibly detailed pictures of Bok Tower, please visit the following Web site:

http://www.blacksmithing.org/events/Bok2009/Bok2009.htm

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