Source: Advent Poem: The Season of Hope
Source: Advent Poem: The Season of Hope
I cannot WAIT!!
I love this…just…
See…we did this, told beautiful and magnificent stories of Santa. In fact, I wrote an origin tale about Santa Claus that even involves the Baby. I tromped around on rooftops, and I walked on the carpet in ashes to leave boot prints…
…and the coup de gras? I told the kids that some parents understood that Santa had such a big job that they wanted to help share the burden of reaching all children to give gifts so they themselves took on the mantle of the jolly fat man…and in essence did indeed become Santa Claus.
I loved those days…every magical miracle moment. I stayed up all night long setting up race tracks and laying out Polly Pockets.
My dear friend and brother John writes about this so well, so eloquently…please head over and enjoy.
I tend my fires and tell my story…
the story of
this quirky girl
and stuck in time
that is not time, so
unreconciled to time
so bound up in its realm.
I am strapped there
on Your wrist (watch)
a condor in a cage
passing from quick present
to some furious future
and thus so fast becoming
dim, and dark, and past
and wondering if I amever? present?
ever a moment?
ever a significant occasion
or an immeasurable quality?
I want real time!time which breaks through
with a shock of joy
like a leap into Crater Lake
on a snowy New Year’s morning,
time where we are completely
un-self conscious and far more
real in some eternal now
I thirst for a moment jeweled!
so sweet or magnified
it seems to stop time
but doesn’t because time
becomes a point so limply moot
and thus no longer dirty moat
between me and my true self
And here I sit, beside time’s bonfire
and sparks fly up
and away so quick
to join the stars
and glimmer and
I poke at this fire
hot and tender
and tend it…
with my tinderand wonder how to be
here in this already
and not yet, between
That Eternal Now
and this one,
and the One
Who There Inhabits?wonder how to be aware
of life while I am living it?
wonder how to limp courageous
and relinquish all control
of self and self awareness?
wonder how to laugh courageous
and look for glory
in the storied
wonder of the ordinary?
wonder how to live courageous
and be surprised by One
who dares draw near?
wonder how to love courageous
and take off rings and watches?
I burn calendars and open
my heart uncanny,
to see eternity in
the midst of time
to go to Bethlehem
today and everyday
in this time and place
where glimpses of the eternal
come quiet, unexpectedly
they come and they upset
our every notion static about time
and all we discover there within.
my Uncanny Peculiar
Uncomfortably Strange Heart
to the story of All and Ever
to live somewhere between
the already and not yet,
caught and held
by the One who
dwells within Outside.
And so the fire burns away the moments
And we must choose our portion:
whether here we tarry or if
we choose to journey
Pregnant by some God
To Go To Bethlehem
believe in a virgin birth?
implausible, absurd, immature!
a miracle problematic and troubling!!
inconvenient, that! disruptive!
Why, I don’t prefer it!
go walk on water, or multiply yeasty slices!
but inside…my body…my body…MY body!?!?
Nay! Do as You please with Yours but
git Yer greezy paws offn mine!
(it’s my precious!)
what’s that? why not?
Why not this birth inconvenient and impractical?
Why…because there is no mystery about this whole mess!!
somehow, somewhere, sometime, someway
there was a soup
(not mine, I assure you, and whose?
well that ain’t my department!!)
a group of molecules
(from somewhere, sometime, someplace)
got together without knowing
(because: before knowing, ya ken?)
they just got together and became self-replicating
(i don’t know about that…
but we have that problem yet today:
self replication…ah self, you cursed demon!)
Hmmm…this sounds ummm,
well, I don’t want to be a smart ass
but I will risk becoming a talking donkey
and ask you:
If there was a Virgin Birth, what happened?
Molecules insensate unknowing
tasting soup without primordial tastebuds
and becoming out of nowhere
the Bread of Life?
And that’s different…how?
(except it excludes Love, oh such Love contained therein!)
Our smartest blindest tell us this:
‘…the universe can and will create itself from nothing.
Spontaneous creation is the reason there is something
rather than nothing, why the universe exists, why we exist.’
(ima duck my head now and giggle!
and the tome called The Grand Design…
by a not-Who
in a not-Where
for a not-Reason
lol…molecules just laffed out loud)
Look: this never happens, not anywhere.
So, accepting that mystery, well then
we’re all the same and somewhere we leap
‘Cept I leap at Mama…not molecules.
I eat of Miracles, not primal soup,
but I will dunk such Living Bread
as given to me
into the cup of suffering
for the sake of Love
and a Baby
born of a virgin
and my Mama dancing.
Today hubbub and hustle
tramways trollies and trellises
crammed with travelers, trophy-takers and talkers
the cacophony joyous ascends, surrounds, spreads
and in this din great tidings of cheer resound
and rebound, and return round again.
But at the core, where I sit,
(you are sat there too, you know. Just listen)
it is silent. The Quiet is here.
Thick. Palpable, wooly white and
smelling of seasoned woods and wet forest kneeled
and of the hush in the heart of the Snow-Covered Fields.
It descends, swells, covers and crawls
(on feet like Sandberg’s cat)
and fills the core of cheer with substance
For here it is we sit and wait,
for the coming of our Heart
Their meaning to our Core impart.
And as the night stretches out and goes on
and the din dies down exhausted and content
the silent sound of labor has begun.
The shriek of sweat trickles down
(fingers down life’s blackboard revealing white beneath)
her face, contorted in composed intent concentration
Bearing down, the groaning of contractions
and the towering soundless shouts of no one there with her
except her earnest clumsy man so loving, so full of silent fear.
*me sat here, throat lumpified and choked,
mummified and heart stokes,
smoke stacked up, backed up
and no where to go but inward,
no words to say no deeds to do
no place to go no getting away
no arriving new just sat here,
The silent moment flexes hard and pushes
Her face a rictus of the wrenching passion
of the passage of a God, her baby
and then deliverance and everything on pause
every heart breath held and chest unmoving
until the night is pierced by One Small Cry that echoes still
across our darking skies,
in the fullness of Anticipation
In the Season of Silence, this Holy Present Silence.
For Part TEN, click HERE
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
“Now, now,” protested the old man. “It’s time for bed, you fuzzyheads! Come into my arms and I’ll carry you to your room.
“Oh, Grand-pa!” they wailed, but they obeyed.
He hoisted them like they were babes and turned to leave the fire’s light. He hesitated, and then he strode over to a dark, lifeless lamp, and stood still a moment. The Children, one under each arm, looked at each other excitedly and held their breath.
And then…the old man breathed on the lamp…WHOOSH…and laughed as light
leapt up in the lamp in answer to the call of his breath.
The old man laughed and danced around the room, swinging the children high and breathing upon lamp after lamp
until the whole room had blossomed, ablaze in light, and then he whisked the children out of the room and whirled down the hall to their beds.
***** ***** *****
Some time later, he emerged.
“Hello Father”, came a deep, strong voice.
The speaker was a tall, noble man with grey streaks of wisdom in his beard and a golden crown upon his head.The old man looked up and grinned. “Hello son, err, Your Highness,” he bowed with only a hint of teasing.
“Kids settled in, Father?” asked the King. “I was just coming to tuck them in.”
“Oh yes. I expect you’ll find them ready and waiting. Ready and waiting”.
The king looked at his father…all dressed beautiful red—like blood—and hair white as snow and shinning bright.
“You’re putting’ on a little weight, there Father. Your belly looks like jelly!’
“Aye, that it does, son, that it does. Too much ale and good cooking’ I guess.”
“But you look healthy, dad. By the Star—you look like you will live forever!”
The old man threw back his snowy head, pulled his crimson cloak around him, and roared in delight.
“That I may, son, that I may”.
blazed on in glorious heavenly echo of the light of his passing.
The King stood and watched him until he disappeared round the corner, and the echoes of his laughter faded in the distance.
“Behold, the Light King”, he said softly. “Behold.
He turned and went in to his children.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
For Part TEN, click HERE
The sound of raindrops
and the smell of fir branches…
I was lapped by time.
I am mindful of
many things I hold in faith,
committed to God.
In this reverent mist
silver memories descend
gentle on my face.
I think of my heart,
its four chambers birthed from me
leaving Their Promise
soft there inside me,
layers of a tight red rose
blossoming each day
It’s these Christmas gifts,
given in deep love, bright hope
Of that final gift…
…of arriving home,
every Promise made fulfilled,
All Things Then Restored.
Hi Constance…so many fun holiday movies to watch!
Okay, I admit it…I am a sucker for all those cheapo ABC Family TV movies, Christmas Romances one and all…but there are some classic ones to boot. Ya know, the first 2 Home Alone movies are pretty dang good. Of course I love any version of A Christmas Carol, and it has been my life long vow since I was a 5th grader to keep Christmas better than Scrooge did, after his visitations, that is. I love A Christmas Story and my word Christmas Vacation is always always funny and poignant…way too many phrases are now part of Jane and my vernacular
“I don’t KNOW Margo!!”
And then you get to the true classics…Miracle on 34th Street, White Christmas, and others…
…and then the one.
The one that I dread. The one that has defeated me, every year since the first time that I saw it when I was about 7 or 8 years old.
It’s A Wonderful Life.
Now this is a wonderful movie, objectively speaking. No question. I have watched it at least 30 times or more…and every single goddang time…I want to die afterwards.
Why? I can hear you asking me that…why, ‘Rissa? WTF??
Well, I will confess to you why. Because I am convinced that if I ever saw what George Bailey saw…life without me ever having been born…well, I have always been certain that everything would be better and everyone around me better off. It would be the opposite of what George Bailey experienced.
I know it isn’t a rational thing to believe…I have dissected these thoughts ad infinitum, and they still kick my butt…every single freaking year.
So this year, I am going to leave the old Savings and Loan to the Baileys. I think I will watch “All I Want For Christmas” instead…or “Miracle…” Hey, it is at least bluntly honest when Susan Walker says “I believe…I believe. It’s silly but I believe!”
Ya cannot stop me, Brother! 🙂 Here is a comment AND a like!
*Charissa giggles and feels good*
See??? Giggles!!!! Seriously, Constance check out his poem. Delicate, nuanced and thoughtful as always.
Hi Constance…so last year at Christmas time, I published here a long original Christmas story, called
Clicking on the link will take you to the post in its entirety.
This is the Christmas story written from the perspective of one of the 3 Kings who goes on a journey with the other two, following that brilliant steady star that had appeared. But the king is dying, from some ailment unknown, and so brings along the supplies needed to bury him in the likely event that he died on the way. And if he made it, well, he would make those burial spices his gift to the royal personage that the star in the heavens spoke of. After all, the spices were quite valuable.
Along the way, the king is abandoned by his companions when he has a seizure and they think he has died, and he is discovered laying unconscious in the fields of some shepherds. They have just experienced some extraordinary events of an unprecedented nature and as they share these things with the king, they discover that their destination is the same place, the same Person, and so they set off travelling together.
They meet this Person, and something astounding happens to the King…and he Becomes…
…well, you will just have to read it to find out, now won’t you?
Here is the killer to me though: this story moves me as much as anything I have written…ever.
And yet only one person pushed “like”. And historically? Other than when I read it out-loud to my kids when they were little, I have never received any sort of response to it!! No response of any kind. Not one time has anyone said “omg that is the most boring stupid thing I have ever read”…or “omg that was delightful!”
I even solicited input from readers a few days after posting it here…and what is totes ironic is that the post soliciting comment got a few likes. Apparently, my plea for feedback was more interesting than the story itself! But as per usual, no comments on the story.
Hey, I can deal with being told that I sucked and just am a very bad writer…I can deal with hearing that the story needs work and were I to ever to get any feedback on it I would work it in rewrite until it sang. But apparently it isn’t even bad enough to create even that reaction!! Giggles…now that is bad!!
Well…screw all that. I like the story. It is fabulous, imaginative, inclusive of diverse elements and taps into the Mythos of Christmas. It touches on the Mystery of it, the Magic of it, and the Majesty of it. Whether or not I wrote it very well has nothing to do with the story and what I saw when it came to me.
Maybe the problem is that it is a bit long? It takes a while to read it. I have heard that the modern mind has a short attention span (makes me so G Damn happy that Tolkien did not write in our day, or I likely would never have read TLOTR because no one would have published it!), and that is one way that I am very much not like modern minds, for mine is convoluted, complex, intricate…my thoughts and ideas take notions, nudges and knowings and weave them carefully. And of course then there is the whole issue of being guilty of producing too much content.
Whatever. I am who I am. I am what I am, and I am not going to apologize for that, any more than the mighty Mississippi apologizes for feeding the sea. I like the story so…
…so this year, I am going to re-post it here, but just a little bit each day.
Maybe it’s good…maybe it isn’t…who really knows? But between now and Christmas, I will dribble it out here. And if you want more? Well that is the cool thing about blogs…you can go back in time!
It has to be!
It floats here,
Azure in my silver
longing heart unsinkable
and it’s scarlet voice calls
from Beyond into beyond,
to that Place
I have never been
but can describe
oh so very well,
down to tittery wine
that brings all joy
but never leaves
hangovers in its wake
and the drippy bread that breaks
crusty with truthful crunch
and fills you up
without filling you out.
Slow down, to open
quick windows of awareness
and be of thick spiritual health.
Find jubilant quiet Mystery
inside stillness’s expectant embrace,
the only Place that God’s own Face
can safely show Itself, It’s Grace.
Where only They can fit.
But Mystery, even a disruptive one
(no…especially a disruptive one!!)
is well worth
This Mystery is rich enough
to make us stop and wait,
and is poor enough
to catch out all pretenders
greedy for gain alone
and thus lost of soul.
If you cannot hear it
you will miss it.
of lists and budgets
and endless holiday labor
and fretful commotion and
empty your heart
and your hands of stuff,
of chaos, of injustice and
hatred, death and despair.
It’s the season of Expectancy
so heavy in the air, and that is
miracle enough, from there…
from Blue…and from Beyond.
I set off on this journey full of hope.
And wrapped in splendours of belonging here…
or there…it doesn’t really matter there or here
which far exceeds being nothing nowhere
But as I walked the crowds all fell away
and cruel branches raked across my face
disfigured me, tattooed with brutal scars
my garments stripped and used to block the stars
and so my world grew dim and I alone
and my companions left me trapped within
The last straw to which I desperate, clung
was dashed from my hands, hope was trashed and flung
to the four winds and blown away in dust,
left me un-moored, an object of disgust.
But hope is funny, indomitable
and it is sneaky, looking empty, full
and when I dried my eyes, what did I see?
But hope returned to heal and rescue me.
That Absent God so silent and so cruel
had made a move, become the Supreme Fool
and suffered as a lost and lonely peasant
and in absence became Supremely Present
It’s Here, in this fog, everything in shroud
Listen, hear that coming footfall loud
Lion, Lamb and Baby through the smoke
Paying every Promise that They Spoke
There…wet…thin…starving and alone
that’s me abandoned wet, drenched to the bone
and nothing beautiful, nothing of worth…
to this manger…that’s me…comes Christmas birth
To a meeting long destined,
long remembered and yet
ironically never lived…
well, that is not quite true,
my Heart, T’was lived
you in your chamber,
in the air…and me?
Marooned and shipwrecked
Nothing to give except this scrap
of paper brittle…it’s a map
to an island lost at sea
X marks the spot to look
Yes? You know where to dig, right?
in the hubbub, hullabaloo,
Reunion waits for me and you…
That towering act of redemption
Resounds throughout all of creation.
so with that in mind…
a perfect advent season
would involve this place
that has this room,
and other corners
full of cushions
and spice piney boughs
(and incense heart bows),
and it would be
a small place so large
you and me, and
of what could be,
silence would be
such sweet symphony
as voices ancestral
and ancient and future
speak in silken tones sonorous
and thunderous tenors trumpeting,
the old grandmother clock
slowly keeping time
(I am so grateful
who keeps time,
she saves it up
for us, dear)…
and then this room unfolds in space
to wonders in this magic place
of fireplaces stoked with wood
and laughter warm and food so good
and families mingled full and wild
and always watching is the Child
who designated you and me
and whom we love, and that big tree
there, frosted perfect with excess
surrounded with the gifts to bless
each other and to bless Them too
Reunion there…of me and you.
This is my heart’s Christmas wish
Reunion is it’s serving dish.
Where is the promise and news of The Coming?
Where are the answers we need?
Where is the end of suffering and fighting?
Where is the peacemaker’s pen?
When will we find deep reconciliation?
When will our cynical lies
Cease and desist so true transformation
Delivers us from deadly despair?
Is there a hope in remembering Advent?
Waiting for God to show up?
Is there a reason to watch and to wait
For a God who arrives in disguise?
Advent proclaims God is born in the manger
Of waiting for Them to appear,
But as what? A King Mighty? A Warrior? A Sovereign?
A helpless baby laid there?
Shall we accept Advent’s great Invitation
And wait for this God to draw near?
Shall we allow our masks to fall away
And lift up hearts and our faces bare?
Dare we celebrate Christmas instead of consuming
like ravenous wolves on a Kill?
Will we with shepherds and Kings and with peasants
kneel and beseech the Babe there?
“The celebration of Advent is possible
only to those who are troubled in soul,
who know themselves to be poor and imperfect,
who look forward to something greater to come.
“For these, it is enough
to wait in humble fear
until the Holy One Himself
comes down to us, God
in the child in the manger.
The Lord Jesus comes.
“When once again
Christmas comes and
we hear the familiar carols and
sing the Christmas hymns,
something happens to us…
“The hardest heart is softened.
We recall our own childhood.
We feel again how we then felt,
especially if we were
separated from a mother.
“A kind of homesickness
comes over us
for past times,
and yes, a blessed longing
for a world without violence
or hardness of heart.
“But there is something more—
a longing for the safe lodging
of the everlasting Father.”
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, December 2, 1928
I am busy today…cooking, visiting with my baby and her father, watching the parades and a little of the football games. So I most likely will not have a lot of time to think of some post regarding Thanksgiving. Certainly in the midst of much loss, I do find my heart Thankful…though I am mystified as to why.
Well, John says it better than I could have or would have. He writes this with his heart blood and underlines it with his faith. Read and contemplate the core of thankfulness and the pulsing heart of this day.
Thank you John…I am thankful for you,
This is a time when even the most calloused and cranky of us steps back, takes stock of life, inventories the beautiful people and the sweet stuff we’re surrounded by, and gives thanks.
These gratitude lists are usually filled with things that most people would consider blessings. They’re made of friends and promotions and gifts and favor and celebration and recovery and success.
Maybe your year hasn’t felt that filled with such things, though.
In fact, you my have had a downright terrible year, or a really painful season, and maybe right now you’re bitter and exhausted and worried and grieving, and the blessing storehouse is feeling rather empty. Maybe giving thanks is a very tough sell right now.
Let me suggest an alternative.
“This has been the worst year of my life.”
I recently found myself saying this phrase out loud to a group of friends, when caught off guard and asked what I…
View original post 1,164 more words
When I got home,
my thoughts were milling
like sheep round the shepherd
come to lead them to pastures green and waters still,
milling around you, around blessings, around treasure
my icons, symbols metaphors hung
on walls to glorify the ordinary and
reveal the one and only state
i shared them with you.
then I went outside and picked tomatoes
in the breezy busy day,
early in autumn’s business
and not yet serious
about this fall into splendour.
I heard Mama rustle in the blue spruce
and then in the buzzy bees
in our strawberries
low and humble.
and then I knew what I want for Christmas.
I want to serve you and R Christmas Dinner…
my Prime Rib grilled and salty,
hot and tender and
dripping garlic splendour,
smoked turkey toothsome
and stuffed with a riot
of savory sage elements
and candy ham, salty salty
overlaid with maple glaze
and all the sides.
(potatoes mashed, candied, salad, cheeses, pies, green beans overlayed with crunch
I will show you wine, for real)
I want to share this Communion with you
as we laff into the night
and welcome yet again
the Babe into
this Prison Camp world
and shout to the ages
Ollie Ollie Oxen Free!!!
and all around us lights
and the thick green smell of
Hope eternal and renewed
and ornaments and baubles
adorning the Person of
Yeah… That’s what I want for Christmas
This is a song I wrote years and years ago…the girls were young, and in our family Christmas is a big deal…intentionally so. In fact, I think that any of you would love Christmas if you ever were to celebrate it with us. But that is a post for the holiday season. I ran across this song in my files I am slowly combing thru, and it made me remember when my girls and I were skipping thru the mall, in Nordstroms, I think! And we were singing it at the top of our lungs!
They were wearing Christmassy things, and I was doing my best with what I was allowed, in a velvet crimson vest with silver buttons embellished with lion’s heads. People stopped and stared, and then we heard applause in our wake…but us? We didn’t care, and skipped along caught up in the joy and wonder and excitement of The Hope of Glory making His appearance at last, in the flesh!
It is in waltz time, uptempo and rolls along like angels’ songs raining down! And if I recall correctly, I believe that the text I used was the wonderful Isaiah 9 passage, with some helper verses thrown in!
All the angels are singing,
They’re singing a heavenly song!
For unto us a Child is born,
Emmanuel is His Name!
Those who suffer in darkness
Shall walk in His marvelous light,
For He has shattered the covenant with death
Emmanuel is His Name!
Singing Glory to God
And on earth, peace, goodwill to men!
Glory, Glory to God in the Highest!
Glory to God in the Highest!
Glory to God in the Highest,
Glory to God!
The government rests on His shoulders
For He is Almighty God!
Wonderful Counselour, Prince of Peace
Emmanuel is His Name!
He’s the Everlasting Father,
The Dayspring from on High!
Arise, shine, for your Light is come,
Emmanuel is His Name!
And I sit, pondering today,
tomorrow, but yesterday
Yesteryear looms large.
The shadow cast of those events shines
inverted and bright
Light on Darkness Backdrop.
Crystal clarity and
pure purpose precipitated,
I face fears,
uncertainties and self-centered acts
that will wound and rend.
People of agenda which is
dark on light’s backdrop,
people of ignorance
who assume all things.
My heart quakes,
my bones are water,
my thoughts are anxious acid
that etches my soul.
I pray thee,
Precious Christ Child,
cover me in such a way
that all that is
etched away leaves you
Shining thru me
The Christmas Star.
“Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”
I am selling some of my collectibles on ebay…please check out my auctions of Harmony Kingdom items, various books, and Christmas decorations such as authentic vintage German Nutcrackers and Smokers and Pyramids (or Windmills). They are pretty nice things, and the money will go towards helping me out with future medical costs.
http://www.ebay.com/usr/litehous hopefully that link will work, or if it doesn’t then go into ebay and search for my user name litehouse, and/or Harmony Kingdom.
Thank you so much,