I noticed it again last night - the cloying smell of somebody's dryer sheets somehow making it's way into my hermetically sealed home. This, to me is an indication that said dryer sheets contain too much scent, but that's hardly news to me. Some days I can barely walk in my neighbourhood without wearing a clothespin.
Yes, my sniffer is a bit hyperactive. It not only itches and runs when perfumes proliferate, it kindly alerts my eyes, lips and ears that they should commence itching too. I can actually taste smells, and the sensation gives me a sore throat. Prolonged exposure gives me a head-ache, and once my eyes begin to water I'm in agony, as I have "Dry Eye Syndrome" and tears make my eyes burn and hurt. If I'm lucky, I can flee the scene of the stinky offense before the skin on my entire face begins to crawl.
There was a time, many moons ago, when I could manage a dab of perfume, but after my second son was born those days ended. I had to stop wearing perfumes, and told my husband to go easy on the aftershave.
I'm convinced there are a lot of people out there almost as "scent-sitive" as I am. Scent free zones are popping up in churches and auditoriums, and unscented products are at long last becoming easier to find. I am grateful that this is the case, and my nose thanks those who have spearheaded these initiatives. Still, society has a long way to go before it begins to grasp the potential problems of an overly scented planet. Personally, I find it hard to comprehend how so few people grasp that there are already abundant scents in nature without adding scented everything into the mix.
Think about it. Most of us shower with soap that has a smell, and then apply deodorant that has a smell (even if it says it doesn't) and some of us are wise enough to stop there. I'm pretty confident that except for those post-treadmill and pre-shower moments in my life I manage to not stink up any room that I'm in. I look for the most gentle scents available in household cleaning products and still my house smells clean - no need for scented candles or air-fresheners. In fact, I would go so far as to opine that layers of perfume in our environment are REALLY bad for us. Everyone seems to have allergies now, and more and more people seem to be developing asthma and similar lung conditions.
"But it's just a little perfume" you might be arguing at this point. I'm sure that's what the managers of Pier One, The Linen Chest, and all those other stores that I (and a whole raft of other people I know) avoid as much as possible think too, but in reality their "incense-sitivity" keeps an entire segment of potential buyers from shopping there. I have gone into those "scented" stores on occasion to see sales clerks gasping for air. Tell me those people aren't having their health compromised on a daily basis!
"But this is a NATURAL scent!" people argue when I tell them I have a hard time with smells. Sorry, but if it came out of a bottle it's more processed than "natural". And even if it is attar hand-wrung from rose petals it may still manage to drive me wild. Last spring I brought a sprig of lilac into my kitchen, and three hours later it was driving me so insane that I had to dispose of it by putting it on the compost heap in the back yard.
I know I won't change the minds of the truly scent addicted out there, but for those of you who wonder why I don't ever use the scented candles you give me, this may be informative. Please people, be scent sensible, and understand that there is a whole sector of society that suffer from scent sensitivities on a constant basis.
And with that thought in mind, I grace you with my latest poetic offering.
De-Scentsitized: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - Novenber 17th, 2012)
Repent, repent, all ye who scent!
Assail my nose no more.
I must pick bone, with your cologne-
it's too strong to ignore.
My nose doth twitch, my ears they itch -
my eyes they pour like rain.
My lungs, they burn - for air they yearn
from scent you should abstain.
I shouldn't grouse, but oh - your house!
I dare not step inside.
Your potpourri is killing me!
(What DO you have to hide?)
With candles lit strong fumes emit
to toxify the air -
still you can't grasp how much I gasp
from what is burning there.
Can you not see I'd rather be
waist deep in cow manure
than have to greet scents cloyed and sweet
you force me to endure?
If to sweet smells my soul impels
I'll go and sniff a rose,
or maybe bake a chocolate cake
to satisfy my nose.
Monday, 19 November 2012
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Communion - with whom - or what...By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 23, 2012
How connected are you - really?
Lately I've been noticed a marked decline in civility. Everyone seems to be rushed, terse, short on patience and manners. All of these factors seem to denote a lack of true connectedness between human beings - in spite of the fact that we're "plugged in" to each other like never before. Interesting isn't it, that I make these observations in an age where everybody seems to be capable of almost instantaneous connection to just about anyone, anywhere on this vast planet. Even the "Luddites" among us, myself included, have bought into the notion that everyone needs to have constant internet access and a cell phone on hand at all times. We are obsessed with the flimsiness of technological connections, so much so that our interpersonal relationships are suffering.
Case in point - in my rush to get out the door on my way out of town for a few days, I forgot two items at home - my cell phone and my watch. Loathe as I am to make such a confession, I'm feeling a bit lost - wondering constantly what time it is and whether one of the (admittedly few) people who have my cell phone number might be trying in vain to call me. And you know what? My phone dependance is probably about one on a scale of zero to ten. I don't like the thing much, and miss the feeling that I can travel incognito, unreachable by anyone at all. Heck, I even downgraded to a more basic model when the first one I got refused to hold a charge. Still, now that I've grown accustomed to being tethered to my portable locator I feel strangely vulnerable without it.
Look around you when you are in any public place. Make note of how many people are fiddling with their telephones. Observe the packs of roaming teens who, while traveling together, are all still managing to rather pointedly ignore the people who are physically present in favor of texting or chatting with those who aren't. Scarier still, go to a nice restaurant with your significant other and you'll see a lot of other couples dining together/apart, each with phones out, ignoring the person they THINK they're spending "quality time" with so that they can check in with Facebook or surf the internet or respond to emails from the office.
Am I the only one who thinks priorities are a little out of whack? Why is it that this false sense of connectedness to an online/over a receiver audience has taken over our commitment to what I call "realtime facetime", not to mention our commitment to our jobs, our responsibilities and our physical health?
We have all become addicted to immediacy and bought into the notion that we need to be accessible to the masses at all times. We are bombarded with electronic stimuli, and starving for a real sense of community and congeniality in our lives. I'd like to think it's not too late to make changes - to learn to check your phone at the door, to limit your after-hours business calls and your time on the computer.
This poem was written as a response to a scene my husband witnessed at an airport, the kind of thing we all see, but seldom notice...
Communion: (Sharon flood Kasenberg - February '09)
A man seen at an airport
in reverential stance
appeared to be in consort
with God upon first glance.
But on closer inspection
I had to heave a sigh -
what first escaped detection
had now captured my eye.
It seemed his rapt attention
was not given to prayer,
but to modern invention
a "Blackberry" was there,
held reverently in his hands
and cradled near his heart;
as he entered his commands
it did wisdom impart.
It's terribly ironic -
the way that we commune -
with all things electronic
we're ever more in tune.
Lately I've been noticed a marked decline in civility. Everyone seems to be rushed, terse, short on patience and manners. All of these factors seem to denote a lack of true connectedness between human beings - in spite of the fact that we're "plugged in" to each other like never before. Interesting isn't it, that I make these observations in an age where everybody seems to be capable of almost instantaneous connection to just about anyone, anywhere on this vast planet. Even the "Luddites" among us, myself included, have bought into the notion that everyone needs to have constant internet access and a cell phone on hand at all times. We are obsessed with the flimsiness of technological connections, so much so that our interpersonal relationships are suffering.
Case in point - in my rush to get out the door on my way out of town for a few days, I forgot two items at home - my cell phone and my watch. Loathe as I am to make such a confession, I'm feeling a bit lost - wondering constantly what time it is and whether one of the (admittedly few) people who have my cell phone number might be trying in vain to call me. And you know what? My phone dependance is probably about one on a scale of zero to ten. I don't like the thing much, and miss the feeling that I can travel incognito, unreachable by anyone at all. Heck, I even downgraded to a more basic model when the first one I got refused to hold a charge. Still, now that I've grown accustomed to being tethered to my portable locator I feel strangely vulnerable without it.
Look around you when you are in any public place. Make note of how many people are fiddling with their telephones. Observe the packs of roaming teens who, while traveling together, are all still managing to rather pointedly ignore the people who are physically present in favor of texting or chatting with those who aren't. Scarier still, go to a nice restaurant with your significant other and you'll see a lot of other couples dining together/apart, each with phones out, ignoring the person they THINK they're spending "quality time" with so that they can check in with Facebook or surf the internet or respond to emails from the office.
Am I the only one who thinks priorities are a little out of whack? Why is it that this false sense of connectedness to an online/over a receiver audience has taken over our commitment to what I call "realtime facetime", not to mention our commitment to our jobs, our responsibilities and our physical health?
We have all become addicted to immediacy and bought into the notion that we need to be accessible to the masses at all times. We are bombarded with electronic stimuli, and starving for a real sense of community and congeniality in our lives. I'd like to think it's not too late to make changes - to learn to check your phone at the door, to limit your after-hours business calls and your time on the computer.
This poem was written as a response to a scene my husband witnessed at an airport, the kind of thing we all see, but seldom notice...
Communion: (Sharon flood Kasenberg - February '09)
A man seen at an airport
in reverential stance
appeared to be in consort
with God upon first glance.
But on closer inspection
I had to heave a sigh -
what first escaped detection
had now captured my eye.
It seemed his rapt attention
was not given to prayer,
but to modern invention
a "Blackberry" was there,
held reverently in his hands
and cradled near his heart;
as he entered his commands
it did wisdom impart.
It's terribly ironic -
the way that we commune -
with all things electronic
we're ever more in tune.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Overspun - Reflections of a Control Freak - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I have talked a lot about how these past few years have been filled with self-examination. I've learned that there are aspects of myself that I am grateful for, that I appreciate and actually love. However, there are others that don't thrill me as much.
Today I hoped to get out and do some shopping. I had a list and was ready to go. Then a quick glance out the window confirmed the weatherman's forecast for rain. Hmmm...wet weather forced me to reconsider my plan. A few degrees cooler and my waterproof jacket would enable me to walk and make multiple stops in comfort, but experience has taught me that warm days make said jacket unbearably hot, so a re-think was called for. Laundry, I thought, would be just the chore! Then I took stock of the amount of laundry in the hamper (towels and pants=laundromat), which in turn made me consider my coinage (not plentiful=a trip to the grocery store for "cash back" to turn into coin) and before long it became apparent that all outings were off the board - especially since the drizzle had turned into a steady stream of wet. Stymied by the cursed weather!!! Oh - the frustration of it all!!!
And said frustration brings me back to those less savory aspects of my character alluded to in my first paragraph. I am a bit (HA!) of a control freak. I want everything to go as I planned. If I could, I would control the very weather itself, in which case our lawn would NOT be dead, as rain would fall on MY cue, twice a week between midnight and seven am. In that same alternate Sharon-controlled reality I would have a published book (that never had to go through the "processes" of finding an agent or making submissions to publishers) - not to mention perfect children, a twenty-three inch waistline, perpetual youthfulness...
Of course everything would be wonderful if I were in control - right?
Wrong. I don't have the answers to world peace (or even inner peace) but that doesn't change the fact that on some level I want to be in full control of everything, or at the very least everything as it relates to me.
So without further ado, here is the story of a caterpillar named Kate, who has a few "control issues" of her own.
Over-spun - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (September '10)
A caterpillar named Miss Kate
was building her cocoon
when Mr. Bee called, "That looks great!
You're sure to be done soon!"
"Oh NO!" replied the caterpill -
"There's SO MUCH MORE to do -
all of this spinning takes great skill -
I'm not yet nearly through!
I want it finished PERFECTLY
before I settle in -
the best cocoon you'll ever see.
Now GO and LET ME SPIN!"
So Mr. Bee droned on his way
and left her to her chore -
while she spun on, all night and day,
she'd spin, then spin some more.
At length along came Lady Bug,
she too began to praise.
But our Miss Kate responded, "UGH!
It won't be done for days!
I spin and spin, but all I've spun
is never really right!
I don't know when I will be done -
It's such a sorry sight!"
And at this rather rude display
poor Lady Bug moved on,
observing as she went her way
all caterpillars gone.
Miss Kate spun on, alone once more -
far too alone, for she
was so intent she did ignore
cocoons in every tree.
No other caterpillars worked
alongside our Miss Kate.
It wasn't that they lazed or shirked,
they knew when not to wait.
As soon as their cocoons were spun
for rest they felt an urge.
Their spinning stopped, for work was done
'til they would re-emerge.
They understood what Kate had missed -
Transforming can't begin
until you learn when to desist,
and stop yourself mid-spin.
It's not the size of the cocoon
that yields a better moth.
Our epic dreams, so oft' a boon,
sometimes must be switched off!
A "Caterpillar Kate" am I
with tales of rhyme all spun.
"Not good enough!" I'm apt to cry -
"Don't read that! It's not DONE!"
I write and write, spin reams of verse
and get into a snit -
grandiose visions are my curse -
I don't know when to quit!
Transforming can be difficult -
at least for me and Kate.
With every effort we find fault,
and so we hesitate.
But when it's time for wings to sprout
or stories to be told,
those who continue to spin doubt
will see no change unfold.
To protocol all must submit
or growth we will impede -
before with wings we fly and flit,
control we learn to cede.
Today I hoped to get out and do some shopping. I had a list and was ready to go. Then a quick glance out the window confirmed the weatherman's forecast for rain. Hmmm...wet weather forced me to reconsider my plan. A few degrees cooler and my waterproof jacket would enable me to walk and make multiple stops in comfort, but experience has taught me that warm days make said jacket unbearably hot, so a re-think was called for. Laundry, I thought, would be just the chore! Then I took stock of the amount of laundry in the hamper (towels and pants=laundromat), which in turn made me consider my coinage (not plentiful=a trip to the grocery store for "cash back" to turn into coin) and before long it became apparent that all outings were off the board - especially since the drizzle had turned into a steady stream of wet. Stymied by the cursed weather!!! Oh - the frustration of it all!!!
And said frustration brings me back to those less savory aspects of my character alluded to in my first paragraph. I am a bit (HA!) of a control freak. I want everything to go as I planned. If I could, I would control the very weather itself, in which case our lawn would NOT be dead, as rain would fall on MY cue, twice a week between midnight and seven am. In that same alternate Sharon-controlled reality I would have a published book (that never had to go through the "processes" of finding an agent or making submissions to publishers) - not to mention perfect children, a twenty-three inch waistline, perpetual youthfulness...
Of course everything would be wonderful if I were in control - right?
Wrong. I don't have the answers to world peace (or even inner peace) but that doesn't change the fact that on some level I want to be in full control of everything, or at the very least everything as it relates to me.
So without further ado, here is the story of a caterpillar named Kate, who has a few "control issues" of her own.
Over-spun - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (September '10)
A caterpillar named Miss Kate
was building her cocoon
when Mr. Bee called, "That looks great!
You're sure to be done soon!"
"Oh NO!" replied the caterpill -
"There's SO MUCH MORE to do -
all of this spinning takes great skill -
I'm not yet nearly through!
I want it finished PERFECTLY
before I settle in -
the best cocoon you'll ever see.
Now GO and LET ME SPIN!"
So Mr. Bee droned on his way
and left her to her chore -
while she spun on, all night and day,
she'd spin, then spin some more.
At length along came Lady Bug,
she too began to praise.
But our Miss Kate responded, "UGH!
It won't be done for days!
I spin and spin, but all I've spun
is never really right!
I don't know when I will be done -
It's such a sorry sight!"
And at this rather rude display
poor Lady Bug moved on,
observing as she went her way
all caterpillars gone.
Miss Kate spun on, alone once more -
far too alone, for she
was so intent she did ignore
cocoons in every tree.
No other caterpillars worked
alongside our Miss Kate.
It wasn't that they lazed or shirked,
they knew when not to wait.
As soon as their cocoons were spun
for rest they felt an urge.
Their spinning stopped, for work was done
'til they would re-emerge.
They understood what Kate had missed -
Transforming can't begin
until you learn when to desist,
and stop yourself mid-spin.
It's not the size of the cocoon
that yields a better moth.
Our epic dreams, so oft' a boon,
sometimes must be switched off!
A "Caterpillar Kate" am I
with tales of rhyme all spun.
"Not good enough!" I'm apt to cry -
"Don't read that! It's not DONE!"
I write and write, spin reams of verse
and get into a snit -
grandiose visions are my curse -
I don't know when to quit!
Transforming can be difficult -
at least for me and Kate.
With every effort we find fault,
and so we hesitate.
But when it's time for wings to sprout
or stories to be told,
those who continue to spin doubt
will see no change unfold.
To protocol all must submit
or growth we will impede -
before with wings we fly and flit,
control we learn to cede.
Thursday, 9 August 2012
Potholes on the Road to Romance...By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Potholes on the path to passion, rocks on the road to romance...all of us have found ourselves (or find ourselves) tripped up from time to time as we travel the trails toward true love. The stuff of romantic literature is mostly pure fiction, because in reality our romances fall somewhere between Harlequin territory and the tales of P. G. Wodehouse. (Which I suggest you read, if you never have - the man was prolific and there are plenty of his books to choose from - but I digress.) "True romances" are tales full of contradiction and miscues and frustration. We trip, we fall, and if brave enough to get up and try again and again, we just may get a crack at that happily ever after.
This month I'm celebrating an even twenty-four years of marriage, and I'm hoping Todd is too! In honour of our anniversary on the 25th of August I'm posting "Herbie's Romance" - a tale with almost as many twists and turns as our own courtship.
Like Hester, (the heroine in said tale), I was mistaken about what I really wanted in a mate. Luckily, I was smart enough to admit that I was wrong. (It doesn't happen all that often - ha! - so I can be gracious when it does!)
You see, about twenty-five years ago I sat my now husband down on a curb and told him in no uncertain terms that romance between us was a no go, and we were destined to remain nothing but friends. It was the same old story - he wanted me, my attentions were elsewhere - and by the time I realized I wanted him too he'd almost refocused his attentions on someone else.
I feasted spectacularly on crow the day I phoned him and told him that I'd changed my mind about the "only friends" thing, and he replied that he was "pleasantly surprised" by my change of heart. Romance ensued, and has (mostly) continued to this day.
So here's to the best man that a girl could ever be wrong (and right!) about....Happy Anniversary Toddy!
(Hope you all enjoy the poem...)
Herbie's Romance - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January '07)
Herbie fixed his sights on Hester, who embodied his desire -
While his starry eyes assessed her he could feel himself perspire.
For 'though his heart was ignited when he looked upon her face,
'twas a passion unrequited - of love she felt not a trace.
Not that she was heartless (really) - but like most in girlish youth
she was somewhat vain and silly and uncivilly uncouth.
All of his attempts to woo her won him nought but her disdain -
witticisms never drew her; she was once heard to complain,
"I grow weary when he chatters, he's intelligent enough,
but speaks much of mundane matters - I don't care about such stuff.
He's a bland and boring fellow ( although Ma thinks he's a prince...)
still, my knees don't turn to jello and to see him makes me wince."
This she spoke, but not unkindly did she view the lovestruck sap
who (she knew) worshipped her blindly - a discriminating chap!
Herbie's friends said he was dreaming, he would never win her hand -
he should stop his endless scheming - true love never went as planned.
"The path of love is rough and hard - " he mused to self morosely,
"It seems that I've in this regard miscalculated grossly.
She won't respond to wit or praise; with these I've not impressed her.
Therefore I must find better ways to woo my darling Hester.
She doesn't like the way I speak - her presence - it confounds me!
Too clumsily her glance I seek whenever she's around me."
Thus he did strive to court by stealth with ink profusely flowing.
(He hoped to restore mental health by worship never showing...)
In secret then he penned her praise with eloquence unstinting -
expounding in such varied ways his hand grew tired of printing!
Then he posted his epistle, but she never did reply.
"Her heart - it's like a thistle!" said he with a heartfelt sigh.
Night and day he concentrated on evicting her from mind,
but to see her he seemed fated and no respite could he find.
"It's no good!" he moaned, despairing, "Hester I just can't forget!
She's been ruthlessly uncaring, but this isn't finished yet!
She protests she's not attracted, yet it seems she's always near -
to my words she's not reacted, but she will not disappear!
She complains that I am boring and that I too often drone
and yet now that I'm ignoring she will NOT leave me alone!
Her behavior so contrary - only warm when I grow cold -
may for her be ordinary so perhaps I should be bold!"
Thus when questioned on intentions where fair Hester was concerned
He did not decline to mention how her interest he had spurned.
"Yes, she once held my affection, now I'm really not so sure -
her flaws merit more correction than my patience can endure.
She's too fluttery and flouncey, and a fearsome sort of flirt -
so abominably bouncy that she makes my poor head hurt!"
He denied his love for Hester 'til to all it did appear
that he must indeed detest her, and disinterest drew her near.
Like a fly in web of spider she was lured by his deceit.
The attention he denied her made her grovel at his feet.
If our hero had been tougher her abasement might amuse,
but too kind to let her suffer, past disdain he did excuse.
Gallantly he sprang to action, scooped his dearest off the floor,
and in proof of real attraction vowed he'd love her evermore.
Herbie held his contrite Hester (not uncivil now at all...) -
Though it took great will to best her, he now held her in his thrall.
In those eyes that once dismissed him, he stood brave, heroic - good!
And without a word she kissed him as a rescued maiden should.
This month I'm celebrating an even twenty-four years of marriage, and I'm hoping Todd is too! In honour of our anniversary on the 25th of August I'm posting "Herbie's Romance" - a tale with almost as many twists and turns as our own courtship.
Like Hester, (the heroine in said tale), I was mistaken about what I really wanted in a mate. Luckily, I was smart enough to admit that I was wrong. (It doesn't happen all that often - ha! - so I can be gracious when it does!)
You see, about twenty-five years ago I sat my now husband down on a curb and told him in no uncertain terms that romance between us was a no go, and we were destined to remain nothing but friends. It was the same old story - he wanted me, my attentions were elsewhere - and by the time I realized I wanted him too he'd almost refocused his attentions on someone else.
I feasted spectacularly on crow the day I phoned him and told him that I'd changed my mind about the "only friends" thing, and he replied that he was "pleasantly surprised" by my change of heart. Romance ensued, and has (mostly) continued to this day.
So here's to the best man that a girl could ever be wrong (and right!) about....Happy Anniversary Toddy!
(Hope you all enjoy the poem...)
Herbie's Romance - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (January '07)
Herbie fixed his sights on Hester, who embodied his desire -
While his starry eyes assessed her he could feel himself perspire.
For 'though his heart was ignited when he looked upon her face,
'twas a passion unrequited - of love she felt not a trace.
Not that she was heartless (really) - but like most in girlish youth
she was somewhat vain and silly and uncivilly uncouth.
All of his attempts to woo her won him nought but her disdain -
witticisms never drew her; she was once heard to complain,
"I grow weary when he chatters, he's intelligent enough,
but speaks much of mundane matters - I don't care about such stuff.
He's a bland and boring fellow ( although Ma thinks he's a prince...)
still, my knees don't turn to jello and to see him makes me wince."
This she spoke, but not unkindly did she view the lovestruck sap
who (she knew) worshipped her blindly - a discriminating chap!
Herbie's friends said he was dreaming, he would never win her hand -
he should stop his endless scheming - true love never went as planned.
"The path of love is rough and hard - " he mused to self morosely,
"It seems that I've in this regard miscalculated grossly.
She won't respond to wit or praise; with these I've not impressed her.
Therefore I must find better ways to woo my darling Hester.
She doesn't like the way I speak - her presence - it confounds me!
Too clumsily her glance I seek whenever she's around me."
Thus he did strive to court by stealth with ink profusely flowing.
(He hoped to restore mental health by worship never showing...)
In secret then he penned her praise with eloquence unstinting -
expounding in such varied ways his hand grew tired of printing!
Then he posted his epistle, but she never did reply.
"Her heart - it's like a thistle!" said he with a heartfelt sigh.
Night and day he concentrated on evicting her from mind,
but to see her he seemed fated and no respite could he find.
"It's no good!" he moaned, despairing, "Hester I just can't forget!
She's been ruthlessly uncaring, but this isn't finished yet!
She protests she's not attracted, yet it seems she's always near -
to my words she's not reacted, but she will not disappear!
She complains that I am boring and that I too often drone
and yet now that I'm ignoring she will NOT leave me alone!
Her behavior so contrary - only warm when I grow cold -
may for her be ordinary so perhaps I should be bold!"
Thus when questioned on intentions where fair Hester was concerned
He did not decline to mention how her interest he had spurned.
"Yes, she once held my affection, now I'm really not so sure -
her flaws merit more correction than my patience can endure.
She's too fluttery and flouncey, and a fearsome sort of flirt -
so abominably bouncy that she makes my poor head hurt!"
He denied his love for Hester 'til to all it did appear
that he must indeed detest her, and disinterest drew her near.
Like a fly in web of spider she was lured by his deceit.
The attention he denied her made her grovel at his feet.
If our hero had been tougher her abasement might amuse,
but too kind to let her suffer, past disdain he did excuse.
Gallantly he sprang to action, scooped his dearest off the floor,
and in proof of real attraction vowed he'd love her evermore.
Herbie held his contrite Hester (not uncivil now at all...) -
Though it took great will to best her, he now held her in his thrall.
In those eyes that once dismissed him, he stood brave, heroic - good!
And without a word she kissed him as a rescued maiden should.
Monday, 2 July 2012
One Tree...By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Nov. 18th, 2010
I've always been introspective , and sometimes get so caught up in my thoughts that I fail to do much of significance. Over the past year and a half I've been more committed to taking action; to trying new things and pushing myself at least a bit farther out of what is admittedly a rather narrow comfort zone.
Last year I wrote a book. I don't know whether it's good enough to ever be published, but instead of whining about wanting to write, I got proactive enough to sit down and do it. I didn't second guess myself constantly or talk myself out of it "because probably nobody would want to read anything I write anyway", which was always my excuse for giving up before. It's progress, right?
This past winter I did something that was equally daring - for me, at least. I made a commitment to spent plenty of time in Toronto with my son, to encourage him as he finishes his course, and to show him (and myself) that we can do difficult things. Spending time away from husband and home frightened me. What if Todd didn't miss me, or he didn't keep the house clean enough to meet my standards? What if I got too lonely or bored? What if I got lost in the "Big City" or I proved to be no real help to Sam at all?
Once again I didn't give in to the negative voices that always encourage me to take the safest, easiest route. I had my own firm convictions on my side, my husband's blessing and my son's approval. (Even if there are times when he craves a bit more "parental neglect", he's still appreciative when I take him out to supper or do his laundry.) It was all enough to make me follow through.
For the record, I know I'm no paragon of virtue or wisdom. I'm seeing a bit of progress in myself as I learn that I can be happy in new situations, change resistent as I am. I'm discovering that variety in life is invigorating. The fact that independence does NOT equal loneliness is finally sinking in. I'm not a wise woman yet, but I maintain hope that someday I will be.
I've recently had another challenge come my way. Last week my mother moved to town - a brave move on her part, since she's reached a relatively advanced age and lived in the same city almost her entire life. It's difficult for me to watch her find her bearings in this new environment, and to see the wistful look in her eyes when she talks about her friends "at home". I'm uncomfortable with being needed by her in this new way, as a navigator and advisor, just as Sam is uncomfortable with needing me, and I'm uncomfortable with needing Todd. But the fact that we do need each other is undeniable.
So what exactly does all this rambling about my experiences this past year have to do with a poem about a tree? Well, no matter how impressive the specimen, no tree really stands alone. Each tree needs the earth to support it and the rain and the sun to provide nourishment. In return it nurtures flora and fauna of various types while it stands, and continues to contribute to the world long after it has been felled.
We are all like the One Tree - rooted, but reaching. We're all interconnected - needing support and approbation on one hand, and needing to offer our own brand of nurturing on the other. Will my contributions outlive me? Hmmm... I don't know, but I like to think that's something I can aspire to.
One Tree: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Nov. 18th, 2010)
Part of the forest, but not quite
with leafy boughs that filter light
one tree stands tall against the sky -
a home for those that flit and fly.
Its roots run deep into the earth
that gave a spindly sapling birth,
and thrived despite harsh elements
'til tree grew high in increments.
Into the clouds its branches thrust
from roots entrenched in dirt and dust.
And though this tree could stand alone,
it was into a woodland sown -
where roots and branches both entwine
with trees of differing design.
I am merely a single tree
in forest of humanity -
though independent, not alone
within the glade where I have grown.
Strong roots I have to nourish me
in rich brown loam of family,
and hopeful sunshine, loving rain
might help me lofty stature gain.
Perhaps someday I'll rise in might,
distinguished by outstanding height.
Until, in autumn of my day
I'll cast my wisened thoughts away
to catch the winds like leaves of gold,
and shelter saplings from the cold.
Last year I wrote a book. I don't know whether it's good enough to ever be published, but instead of whining about wanting to write, I got proactive enough to sit down and do it. I didn't second guess myself constantly or talk myself out of it "because probably nobody would want to read anything I write anyway", which was always my excuse for giving up before. It's progress, right?
This past winter I did something that was equally daring - for me, at least. I made a commitment to spent plenty of time in Toronto with my son, to encourage him as he finishes his course, and to show him (and myself) that we can do difficult things. Spending time away from husband and home frightened me. What if Todd didn't miss me, or he didn't keep the house clean enough to meet my standards? What if I got too lonely or bored? What if I got lost in the "Big City" or I proved to be no real help to Sam at all?
Once again I didn't give in to the negative voices that always encourage me to take the safest, easiest route. I had my own firm convictions on my side, my husband's blessing and my son's approval. (Even if there are times when he craves a bit more "parental neglect", he's still appreciative when I take him out to supper or do his laundry.) It was all enough to make me follow through.
For the record, I know I'm no paragon of virtue or wisdom. I'm seeing a bit of progress in myself as I learn that I can be happy in new situations, change resistent as I am. I'm discovering that variety in life is invigorating. The fact that independence does NOT equal loneliness is finally sinking in. I'm not a wise woman yet, but I maintain hope that someday I will be.
I've recently had another challenge come my way. Last week my mother moved to town - a brave move on her part, since she's reached a relatively advanced age and lived in the same city almost her entire life. It's difficult for me to watch her find her bearings in this new environment, and to see the wistful look in her eyes when she talks about her friends "at home". I'm uncomfortable with being needed by her in this new way, as a navigator and advisor, just as Sam is uncomfortable with needing me, and I'm uncomfortable with needing Todd. But the fact that we do need each other is undeniable.
So what exactly does all this rambling about my experiences this past year have to do with a poem about a tree? Well, no matter how impressive the specimen, no tree really stands alone. Each tree needs the earth to support it and the rain and the sun to provide nourishment. In return it nurtures flora and fauna of various types while it stands, and continues to contribute to the world long after it has been felled.
We are all like the One Tree - rooted, but reaching. We're all interconnected - needing support and approbation on one hand, and needing to offer our own brand of nurturing on the other. Will my contributions outlive me? Hmmm... I don't know, but I like to think that's something I can aspire to.
One Tree: (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Nov. 18th, 2010)
Part of the forest, but not quite
with leafy boughs that filter light
one tree stands tall against the sky -
a home for those that flit and fly.
Its roots run deep into the earth
that gave a spindly sapling birth,
and thrived despite harsh elements
'til tree grew high in increments.
Into the clouds its branches thrust
from roots entrenched in dirt and dust.
And though this tree could stand alone,
it was into a woodland sown -
where roots and branches both entwine
with trees of differing design.
I am merely a single tree
in forest of humanity -
though independent, not alone
within the glade where I have grown.
Strong roots I have to nourish me
in rich brown loam of family,
and hopeful sunshine, loving rain
might help me lofty stature gain.
Perhaps someday I'll rise in might,
distinguished by outstanding height.
Until, in autumn of my day
I'll cast my wisened thoughts away
to catch the winds like leaves of gold,
and shelter saplings from the cold.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
The Sweet Life: Biography of a Baker...
I love to bake - which isn't exactly news to anyone who knows me well. I love to bake so much, that in spite of the fact that it's a mighty hot day out there, (and up here in my son's apartment), I am posting this blog as the scent of apple cinnamon muffins fills the air. Whatever the weather, a girl still has to eat, and I thought the muffins would be a nice accompaniment to the quinoa and spinach salads I've planned for my supper.
My love affair with baking goes back a long way. I have very early memories of watching my mother bake pies and cakes. (Mom bakes pies that can't be beat!) She quickly sensed my interest, and allowed me to "help" with her baking endeavors. I remember one incident where I got to roll out my own glob of pie crust and bake it in my doll-sized tart shells. These very tough and over-worked little gems were filled with jam and presented to my father at supper time. He seemed impressed that I'd "made them myself" and said they were great. (Which was sweet of the guy, considering the fact that he was used to my mother's divine crusts - so it's likely that he just wanted to encourage my interest in culinary arts.)
By the time I was ten or twelve I was baking often, progressing fairly rapidly from cake mixes and simple recipes to cookies, which according to my younger brother I excelled at. He would often come to me with requests to bake him cookies, saying. "Yours are better than Mom's, Shar - they're chewier!"
As a teenager I discovered a passion for baked cheesecakes, and during my twenties became proficient at baking them. My thirties were spent mastering pies and tarts. My husband doesn't "do" fruit, and Sam won't touch fruit that's cooked, so my early pies were all of the cream variety. Dan however, soon let it be known that HE would appreciate the odd apple or pumpkin pie. (Who are we fooling here? My younger son, like myself, has never met a dessert he doesn't appreciate.) I will admit that my apple pies are a bit inconsistent - in part because I make them on a whim and seldom use the best baking apples. (And there was the one time that I used salt instead of sugar, which is a favorite story of Dan's. The poor kid actually choked down several mouthfuls before I got a taste and told him to toss the rest out!!)
So over the years I've become a good enough baker that a few friends have dubbed me "The Pastry Queen", which is flattering to say the least. It's good that I'm a decent baker, because my cooking skills remain fairly rudimentary. (I have mastered a shortish repertoire of "company meals", and when those aren't on the proposed menu I apologize in advance.)
"Main course may be iffy" I tell invited guests, "But dessert will be good!"
In spite of how much I love to bake there was one area that left me feeling daunted. For several years I refused to even attempt to make a loaf of bread. Finally, about four years ago I gave in to Todd's request to try making cinnamon buns. My first attempts were less than stellar, but after repeated efforts and recipe changes (and my discovery of a superior brand of yeast), I think I've finally got it down.
I hope that some day I'll be able to pass on my baking skills to another generation, just as my mother passed hers on to me. To date, it hasn't happened. Sam showed brief interest in learning to make cookies, but quickly got discouraged when he learned that you can't just throw everything into the bowl at once and stir it together. Dan is the least domestic male on earth, and only cares that food appears before him. MAYBE someday there will be grandchildren - maybe even a long overdue female child who will want to bake with Grandma. That would be the sweetest thing ever in a life that is already pretty sweet!
The Sweet Life: Biography of a Baker (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - June 12, 2012)
In childhood I helped Mother bake
by coating pans with grease,
and sometimes flour I'd sift and shake
as duties did increase.
By ten I could bake from a mix;
make simple recipes-
before too long I learned some tricks
and taste buds I could please.
My teenage years were filled with treats
to tempt most any tongue -
my praises, for producing sweets
were oft' by others sung.
It took a while to master pie -
(Good crusts are difficult)
One, apple-filled, I can't deny
was seasoned well with salt!
Through practice crusts have passed the test,
they're flaky and they're light:
My bread, I fear, was not as blessed -
Took years to get THAT right!
Those yellow packets filled with yeast
would NOT cooperate -
though leavening I did increase
loaves barely did inflate.
Persistence once again has paid -
now all will go as planned -
since change to recipe was made,
and yeast? Another brand!
Now I can make a loaf or bun
with texture light as air -
and gooey rolls of cinnamon
I almost hate to share!
At fifty I've acquired the skill
to decent loaf present -
Of home baked buns we eat our fill
and husband is content.
My love affair with baking goes back a long way. I have very early memories of watching my mother bake pies and cakes. (Mom bakes pies that can't be beat!) She quickly sensed my interest, and allowed me to "help" with her baking endeavors. I remember one incident where I got to roll out my own glob of pie crust and bake it in my doll-sized tart shells. These very tough and over-worked little gems were filled with jam and presented to my father at supper time. He seemed impressed that I'd "made them myself" and said they were great. (Which was sweet of the guy, considering the fact that he was used to my mother's divine crusts - so it's likely that he just wanted to encourage my interest in culinary arts.)
By the time I was ten or twelve I was baking often, progressing fairly rapidly from cake mixes and simple recipes to cookies, which according to my younger brother I excelled at. He would often come to me with requests to bake him cookies, saying. "Yours are better than Mom's, Shar - they're chewier!"
As a teenager I discovered a passion for baked cheesecakes, and during my twenties became proficient at baking them. My thirties were spent mastering pies and tarts. My husband doesn't "do" fruit, and Sam won't touch fruit that's cooked, so my early pies were all of the cream variety. Dan however, soon let it be known that HE would appreciate the odd apple or pumpkin pie. (Who are we fooling here? My younger son, like myself, has never met a dessert he doesn't appreciate.) I will admit that my apple pies are a bit inconsistent - in part because I make them on a whim and seldom use the best baking apples. (And there was the one time that I used salt instead of sugar, which is a favorite story of Dan's. The poor kid actually choked down several mouthfuls before I got a taste and told him to toss the rest out!!)
So over the years I've become a good enough baker that a few friends have dubbed me "The Pastry Queen", which is flattering to say the least. It's good that I'm a decent baker, because my cooking skills remain fairly rudimentary. (I have mastered a shortish repertoire of "company meals", and when those aren't on the proposed menu I apologize in advance.)
"Main course may be iffy" I tell invited guests, "But dessert will be good!"
In spite of how much I love to bake there was one area that left me feeling daunted. For several years I refused to even attempt to make a loaf of bread. Finally, about four years ago I gave in to Todd's request to try making cinnamon buns. My first attempts were less than stellar, but after repeated efforts and recipe changes (and my discovery of a superior brand of yeast), I think I've finally got it down.
I hope that some day I'll be able to pass on my baking skills to another generation, just as my mother passed hers on to me. To date, it hasn't happened. Sam showed brief interest in learning to make cookies, but quickly got discouraged when he learned that you can't just throw everything into the bowl at once and stir it together. Dan is the least domestic male on earth, and only cares that food appears before him. MAYBE someday there will be grandchildren - maybe even a long overdue female child who will want to bake with Grandma. That would be the sweetest thing ever in a life that is already pretty sweet!
The Sweet Life: Biography of a Baker (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - June 12, 2012)
In childhood I helped Mother bake
by coating pans with grease,
and sometimes flour I'd sift and shake
as duties did increase.
By ten I could bake from a mix;
make simple recipes-
before too long I learned some tricks
and taste buds I could please.
My teenage years were filled with treats
to tempt most any tongue -
my praises, for producing sweets
were oft' by others sung.
It took a while to master pie -
(Good crusts are difficult)
One, apple-filled, I can't deny
was seasoned well with salt!
Through practice crusts have passed the test,
they're flaky and they're light:
My bread, I fear, was not as blessed -
Took years to get THAT right!
Those yellow packets filled with yeast
would NOT cooperate -
though leavening I did increase
loaves barely did inflate.
Persistence once again has paid -
now all will go as planned -
since change to recipe was made,
and yeast? Another brand!
Now I can make a loaf or bun
with texture light as air -
and gooey rolls of cinnamon
I almost hate to share!
At fifty I've acquired the skill
to decent loaf present -
Of home baked buns we eat our fill
and husband is content.
Friday, 20 April 2012
In the Wee Hours - Advice to Insomniacs Everywhere
In the Wee Hours - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (May '09)
I waken and my brain's abuzz -
the reason for this is because?
(And as I lie alert in bed,
I run through this list in my head...)
I heard a noise?
I have to pee?
Is it too bright? (At ten to three?!!)
Was it a dream that made me wake?
Do head or shoulders/knees/toes ache?
Am I too cold?
Am I too hot?
Do I feel hungry? (I think NOT!)
There seems no reason to explain
this over-taxing of my brain.
All that I know is I feel wired
at hour when sleep is most desired,
and thus I wallow in despair -
This isn't right - it isn't fair!
My loved ones all serenely sleep
while I lay multiplying sheep!
I WON'T get up and rouse the house,
I'll stay here quiet as a mouse
and boring tome I will accost
'til consciousness again is lost.
As pages turn I start to yawn -
I nod-
and then
at last
I'm
gone.
Ahh yes - Insomnia. We all experience it from time to time. Some of us experience it a lot...I've had "sleep issues" for longer than I remember, at least according to my mother, who I accept as an expert on the topic.
When I was young I had trouble getting to sleep, but somewhere along the way that changed. Now I usually drop off quickly, but after three or four hours my brain gets some misguided signal that it is now well slept, and thus I should commence solving the problems of the world.
I have developed some tried and true strategies for coping with the state of wakefulness in the wee hours, which are as follows:
1) Never assume that because you're awake anyone else in the house (or the apartment next door) cares a fig or wants to be awake too. (Rousing your spouse with a plaintive cry of "I can't sleep" is counterproductive to a happy union.)
2) The "to pee or not to pee" dilemma becomes even more of an issue as we age. Honestly people, by the time you're fifty you PROBABLY DO need to pee once you've been in bed that long. Just get up as soon as you wake up and get it over with once and for all.
3) Relocate if you are still awake twenty minutes after you peed. (That is, unless you can lay very still and quiet or you have a super duper mattress that can have a bowling ball dropped on it without waking up the person on the other side of the bed. Even then, it might be a good idea to move on...)
4) And the reason it might be a good idea to find a comfy couch is that human beings awake at three in the morning make more NOISE than a bowling ball dropped on the mattress, and because if your brain is trying to work out the mysteries of the universe it needs something trite or boring to numb it into submission.
5) Keep a stash of really dull books near your favorite couch. "How To..." manuals work well, and it can be useful to frequently review things like how to how to set the oven's self cleaning mechanism. Old computer manuals work well (DOS anyone?) as do math textbooks, or any other textbooks that you found too boring to actually read when you were supposed to. I recommend "Middlemarch". (I know it's a classic, but it put me to sleep for a solid year before I got through it. Todd swears by a scholarly tome entitled "James, the Brother of Jesus".)
6) If you are lucky enough to not own anything REALLY dull all the way through, simply put bookmarks in the most plodding and annoying parts of books you otherwise enjoyed, and read ONLY the selected passages when you need a good "put me down". I recommend the chapters in the scriptures that have pages on end of "and so-and-so begat so-and-so...", as well as the fifty page history/description of the sewers in Paris in "Les Mis". Readers Digest articles like "I am Joe's Spleen" are also a helpful resource to have on hand.
7) Do NOT make a snack for yourself. Your waistline probably doesn't need it, and in case you've forgotten, the microwave makes noise!
8) If your eyes begin to feel droopy and your brain reaches that pleasantly mushy state where it truly does NOT wish to think, you may return to the marital bed or hunker down where you are.
Sweet dreams!
-Sharon
I waken and my brain's abuzz -
the reason for this is because?
(And as I lie alert in bed,
I run through this list in my head...)
I heard a noise?
I have to pee?
Is it too bright? (At ten to three?!!)
Was it a dream that made me wake?
Do head or shoulders/knees/toes ache?
Am I too cold?
Am I too hot?
Do I feel hungry? (I think NOT!)
There seems no reason to explain
this over-taxing of my brain.
All that I know is I feel wired
at hour when sleep is most desired,
and thus I wallow in despair -
This isn't right - it isn't fair!
My loved ones all serenely sleep
while I lay multiplying sheep!
I WON'T get up and rouse the house,
I'll stay here quiet as a mouse
and boring tome I will accost
'til consciousness again is lost.
As pages turn I start to yawn -
I nod-
and then
at last
I'm
gone.
Ahh yes - Insomnia. We all experience it from time to time. Some of us experience it a lot...I've had "sleep issues" for longer than I remember, at least according to my mother, who I accept as an expert on the topic.
When I was young I had trouble getting to sleep, but somewhere along the way that changed. Now I usually drop off quickly, but after three or four hours my brain gets some misguided signal that it is now well slept, and thus I should commence solving the problems of the world.
I have developed some tried and true strategies for coping with the state of wakefulness in the wee hours, which are as follows:
1) Never assume that because you're awake anyone else in the house (or the apartment next door) cares a fig or wants to be awake too. (Rousing your spouse with a plaintive cry of "I can't sleep" is counterproductive to a happy union.)
2) The "to pee or not to pee" dilemma becomes even more of an issue as we age. Honestly people, by the time you're fifty you PROBABLY DO need to pee once you've been in bed that long. Just get up as soon as you wake up and get it over with once and for all.
3) Relocate if you are still awake twenty minutes after you peed. (That is, unless you can lay very still and quiet or you have a super duper mattress that can have a bowling ball dropped on it without waking up the person on the other side of the bed. Even then, it might be a good idea to move on...)
4) And the reason it might be a good idea to find a comfy couch is that human beings awake at three in the morning make more NOISE than a bowling ball dropped on the mattress, and because if your brain is trying to work out the mysteries of the universe it needs something trite or boring to numb it into submission.
5) Keep a stash of really dull books near your favorite couch. "How To..." manuals work well, and it can be useful to frequently review things like how to how to set the oven's self cleaning mechanism. Old computer manuals work well (DOS anyone?) as do math textbooks, or any other textbooks that you found too boring to actually read when you were supposed to. I recommend "Middlemarch". (I know it's a classic, but it put me to sleep for a solid year before I got through it. Todd swears by a scholarly tome entitled "James, the Brother of Jesus".)
6) If you are lucky enough to not own anything REALLY dull all the way through, simply put bookmarks in the most plodding and annoying parts of books you otherwise enjoyed, and read ONLY the selected passages when you need a good "put me down". I recommend the chapters in the scriptures that have pages on end of "and so-and-so begat so-and-so...", as well as the fifty page history/description of the sewers in Paris in "Les Mis". Readers Digest articles like "I am Joe's Spleen" are also a helpful resource to have on hand.
7) Do NOT make a snack for yourself. Your waistline probably doesn't need it, and in case you've forgotten, the microwave makes noise!
8) If your eyes begin to feel droopy and your brain reaches that pleasantly mushy state where it truly does NOT wish to think, you may return to the marital bed or hunker down where you are.
Sweet dreams!
-Sharon
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