tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56385487527666758342011-04-21T14:16:07.960-07:00Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.comBlogger211100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-14424979637483652612009-05-03T21:31:00.000-07:002009-05-04T01:04:56.441-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf52pGjWshI/AAAAAAAAAOU/lvdBuMU_TaQ/s1600-h/sagrada+familia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf52pGjWshI/AAAAAAAAAOU/lvdBuMU_TaQ/s320/sagrada+familia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331829457358860818" border="0" /></a>Europa! One month from today I will be chillaxin in Barcelona, sipping my <span class="def">café, and absolutely loving life. Andy and I will be flying into Barcelona on June 3rd, and out of Paris on June 16th. The time for our departure is quickly approaching, and each day I'm getting a bit more excited.</span><br /><br /><span class="def">Our plans include some of this:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AFLyVchI/AAAAAAAAAPU/UsX7S4DZ8-8/s1600-h/siurana.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AFLyVchI/AAAAAAAAAPU/UsX7S4DZ8-8/s200/siurana.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331839835404857874" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AFaFUJ_I/AAAAAAAAAPc/BSoHMiMQg5I/s1600-h/siuranaOD.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AFaFUJ_I/AAAAAAAAAPc/BSoHMiMQg5I/s200/siuranaOD.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331839839242561522" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AFgEFokI/AAAAAAAAAPs/c1Tx-lsBxTc/s1600-h/pyrenees.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AFgEFokI/AAAAAAAAAPs/c1Tx-lsBxTc/s200/pyrenees.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331839840848028226" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AF_laG3I/AAAAAAAAAP0/CjEjIfAhtKs/s1600-h/louvre.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 134px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AF_laG3I/AAAAAAAAAP0/CjEjIfAhtKs/s200/louvre.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331839849309281138" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AFRYThuI/AAAAAAAAAPk/knqZP7XMq0c/s1600-h/beach.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AFRYThuI/AAAAAAAAAPk/knqZP7XMq0c/s200/beach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331839836906292962" border="0" /> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AzVC8zaI/AAAAAAAAAP8/MN5Z15oCFEU/s1600-h/musee+d%27orsay.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 138px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6AzVC8zaI/AAAAAAAAAP8/MN5Z15oCFEU/s200/musee+d%27orsay.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331840628164447650" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And a lot of this: (but don't tell Andy, he laughs at me every time I bring up the subject of pastries)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6DGkpNJ6I/AAAAAAAAAQM/iUaPzC3ud8M/s1600-h/pastries.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6DGkpNJ6I/AAAAAAAAAQM/iUaPzC3ud8M/s200/pastries.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331843157792204706" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6DGpKZlII/AAAAAAAAAQU/QJw5FQocUk8/s1600-h/wine.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6DGpKZlII/AAAAAAAAAQU/QJw5FQocUk8/s200/wine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331843159005172866" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6DGrSEg1I/AAAAAAAAAQE/vehulh_OgYU/s1600-h/crepes.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Sf6DGrSEg1I/AAAAAAAAAQE/vehulh_OgYU/s200/crepes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331843159574217554" border="0" /></a><br /><br />As I've been researching and planning the trip, this song has been running through my head (fitting, as it's a song about a song being in the singer's head). It is by my favorite French artist, Edith Piaf.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;" >Padam... Padam...</span><br /><br />Cet air qui m'obsède jour et nuit<br />Cet air n'est pas né d'aujourd'hui<br />Il vient d'aussi loin que je viens<br />Traîné par cent mille musiciens<br />Un jour cet air me rendra folle<br />Cent fois j'ai voulu dire pourquoi<br />Mais il m'a coupé la parole<br />Il parle toujours avant moi<br />Et sa voix couvre ma voix<br /><br />Padam...padam...padam...<br />Il arrive en courant derrière moi<br />Padam...padam...padam...<br />Il me fait le coup du souviens-toi<br />Padam...padam...padam...<br />C'est un air qui me montre du doigt<br />Et je traîne après moi comme un drôle d'erreur<br />Cet air qui sait tout par cœur<br /><br />Il dit: "Rappelle-toi tes amours<br />Rappelle-toi puisque c'est ton tour<br />'y a pas d'raison pour qu'tu n'pleures pas<br />Avec tes souvenirs sur les bras...<br />" Et moi je revois ceux qui restent<br />Mes vingt ans font battre tambour<br />Je vois s'entrebattre des gestes<br />Toute la comédie des amours<br />Sur cet air qui va toujours<br /><br />Padam...padam...padam...<br />Des "je t'aime" de quatorze-juillet<br />Padam...padam...padam...<br />Des "toujours" qu'on achète au rabais<br />Padam...padam...padam...<br />Des "veux-tu" en voilà par paquets<br />Et tout ça pour tomber juste au coin d'la rue<br />Sur l'air qui m'a reconnue<br />...<br />Écoutez le chahut qu'il me fait<br />...<br />Comme si tout mon passé défilait<br />...<br />Faut garder du chagrin pour après<br />J'en ai tout un solfège sur cet air qui bat...<br />Qui bat comme un cœur de bois...<br /><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-1442497963748365261?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-87855106483570077402009-04-21T14:17:00.000-07:002009-04-27T22:33:25.003-07:00It's been well over five months since Andy and I moved into our condo, and we've finally plugged ourselves into the world wide web! (The term "slacker" would apply well here). Despite our lack of access to this bottomless pit of information (or maybe more because of it) we have been quite busy. This winter was full of work, school, and lots of play. For me, it was a winter of firsts: the first time ice climbing, the first time backcountry skiing, a new addiction to crack.... climbing, that is. We've been heading out of town as often as we can with our busy work schedules. In February, we headed to Ouray, Colorado, for my induction into the world of ice climbing. We spent all of our time at the ice park, but I really started to enjoy the medium. I'm already looking forward to getting a full season of ice climbing in next year.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5Cq3a3k_I/AAAAAAAAAMs/Y6gy7GBlkYU/s1600-h/IMG_1368.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5Cq3a3k_I/AAAAAAAAAMs/Y6gy7GBlkYU/s320/IMG_1368.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327268713424458738" border="0" /></a><br />Andy and Me in the Ice Park--Ouray, Colorado<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5DchES1gI/AAAAAAAAAM8/Yag5AkETrAQ/s1600-h/IMG_1372.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5DchES1gI/AAAAAAAAAM8/Yag5AkETrAQ/s320/IMG_1372.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327269566417655298" border="0" /></a><br />Andy making his way up<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se47_3oHweI/AAAAAAAAALE/bfP2eOgxATQ/s1600-h/IMG_0124.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se47_3oHweI/AAAAAAAAALE/bfP2eOgxATQ/s320/IMG_0124.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327261377675903458" border="0" /></a><br />Coiling the Rope<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5DcSgse7I/AAAAAAAAAM0/FNVVpyHKoLI/s1600-h/IMG_1370.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5DcSgse7I/AAAAAAAAAM0/FNVVpyHKoLI/s320/IMG_1370.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327269562510244786" border="0" /></a><br />View from the Ice Park<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5DdJPAWPI/AAAAAAAAANE/P-K6tzPLTK4/s1600-h/IMG_1373.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5DdJPAWPI/AAAAAAAAANE/P-K6tzPLTK4/s320/IMG_1373.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327269577199999218" border="0" /></a><br />Totally Free<br /></div><br />In between vacations, and whenever our work schedules would permit, we have been heading into our beautiful backyard for alpine touring (and, more recently, road biking).<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se47_tjKbGI/AAAAAAAAAK8/UKK7wlGabpQ/s1600-h/IMG_0065.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se47_tjKbGI/AAAAAAAAAK8/UKK7wlGabpQ/s320/IMG_0065.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327261374970752098" border="0" /></a><br />Big Cottonwood Canyon--Bear Trap<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se45wR2nwnI/AAAAAAAAAK0/C5pIWwtkPGc/s1600-h/IMG_0069.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se45wR2nwnI/AAAAAAAAAK0/C5pIWwtkPGc/s320/IMG_0069.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327258910814880370" border="0" /></a><br />Ready to Go<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5AximQbNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/BKtTOsvFtOw/s1600-h/IMG_0354.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5AximQbNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/BKtTOsvFtOw/s320/IMG_0354.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327266629070908626" border="0" /></a><br />Headed up for Turns--Reynolds Peak<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5AxH_qpEI/AAAAAAAAAMM/CIv9i1_VM8Y/s1600-h/IMG_0348.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5AxH_qpEI/AAAAAAAAAMM/CIv9i1_VM8Y/s320/IMG_0348.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327266621929727042" border="0" /></a><br />Fresh Tracks--Reynolds Peak<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5CqoyxyVI/AAAAAAAAAMk/twyQ5J5LSB4/s1600-h/IMG_0358.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5CqoyxyVI/AAAAAAAAAMk/twyQ5J5LSB4/s320/IMG_0358.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327268709498210642" border="0" /></a><br />Wanting More<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5CqfwUkjI/AAAAAAAAAMc/nJhQt9C9BCI/s1600-h/IMG_0355.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5CqfwUkjI/AAAAAAAAAMc/nJhQt9C9BCI/s320/IMG_0355.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327268707071988274" border="0" /></a><br />Reynolds Peak<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">In March, we headed down to the Moab desert for a multisport adventure with some friends. We started at Indian Creek climbing the awesome sandstone cracks, and then headed into the La Sal mountains for a backcountry hut ski trip.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se49rdn5EYI/AAAAAAAAALk/cN83Dl9J_ls/s1600-h/IMG_0246.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se49rdn5EYI/AAAAAAAAALk/cN83Dl9J_ls/s320/IMG_0246.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327263226121490818" border="0" /></a><br />At the Creek<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se49q0tlfyI/AAAAAAAAALU/3xvYq1GeBOk/s1600-h/IMG_0225.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se49q0tlfyI/AAAAAAAAALU/3xvYq1GeBOk/s320/IMG_0225.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327263215139520290" border="0" /></a><br />Me on an Unnamed Climb at Scarface Wall<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se49rGBIxBI/AAAAAAAAALc/Z8gcOkPJmDA/s1600-h/IMG_0241.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se49rGBIxBI/AAAAAAAAALc/Z8gcOkPJmDA/s320/IMG_0241.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327263219784926226" border="0" /></a><br />The Beauty that is Indian Creek<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se48AIjQ42I/AAAAAAAAALM/0iPvqQviIaI/s1600-h/IMG_0213.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se48AIjQ42I/AAAAAAAAALM/0iPvqQviIaI/s320/IMG_0213.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327261382218933090" border="0" /></a><br />Headed to the Top<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se4-78Fr7QI/AAAAAAAAALs/YDMkpdMWD7Q/s1600-h/IMG_0262.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se4-78Fr7QI/AAAAAAAAALs/YDMkpdMWD7Q/s320/IMG_0262.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327264608689057026" border="0" /></a><br />The Hut<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se4-8UAXhgI/AAAAAAAAAL0/a0HmCfHIyuw/s1600-h/IMG_0273.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se4-8UAXhgI/AAAAAAAAAL0/a0HmCfHIyuw/s320/IMG_0273.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327264615109199362" border="0" /></a><br />Destination: South Peak Summit (11,817 Feet)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se4-8uK922I/AAAAAAAAAL8/LZh6Acu0IiI/s1600-h/IMG_0299.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se4-8uK922I/AAAAAAAAAL8/LZh6Acu0IiI/s320/IMG_0299.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327264622132976482" border="0" /></a><br />Summit!<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5Aw2h30iI/AAAAAAAAAME/VgLO6OHittI/s1600-h/IMG_0322.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/Se5Aw2h30iI/AAAAAAAAAME/VgLO6OHittI/s320/IMG_0322.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327266617241358882" border="0" /></a><br />Packing Back to the Car<br /></div><br />At the beginning of April, we headed back down to Indian Creek for what we hoped would be many days of climbing. Unfortunately, the forces of nature were working against us. Between 70 mph sand storms, rain, and snow, we didn't end up climbing nearly as much as we hoped. As plan B, we spent time riding our bikes and hiking in and around Canyonlands National Park. We also had a totally awesome time car camping and loving life. <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaLIToZZQI/AAAAAAAAANc/8GIWcl_F40I/s1600-h/IMG_0394.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaLIToZZQI/AAAAAAAAANc/8GIWcl_F40I/s320/IMG_0394.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329600183864485122" border="0" /></a><br />Canyonlands National Park<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaLIB8BDzI/AAAAAAAAANU/hJExIU-FIZE/s1600-h/IMG_0391.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaLIB8BDzI/AAAAAAAAANU/hJExIU-FIZE/s320/IMG_0391.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329600179114938162" border="0" /></a><br />Hiking to the Confluence of the Green and Colorado Rivers<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaLH_PPfSI/AAAAAAAAANM/W1EJVn4p9qI/s1600-h/IMG_0388.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaLH_PPfSI/AAAAAAAAANM/W1EJVn4p9qI/s320/IMG_0388.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329600178390269218" border="0" /></a><br />The Confluence<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaNgbFm5PI/AAAAAAAAANk/qDjBA8obBxg/s1600-h/IMG_0412.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaNgbFm5PI/AAAAAAAAANk/qDjBA8obBxg/s320/IMG_0412.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329602797206168818" border="0" /></a><br />Late Morning Breakfast Preparation<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaNgqVFTuI/AAAAAAAAANs/mEn7KMlRluM/s1600-h/IMG_0418.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaNgqVFTuI/AAAAAAAAANs/mEn7KMlRluM/s320/IMG_0418.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329602801297608418" border="0" /></a><br />The Stunning Red Cliffs of Indian Creek<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaNg8pQraI/AAAAAAAAAN0/7Sw6Tk84K54/s1600-h/IMG_0427.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaNg8pQraI/AAAAAAAAAN0/7Sw6Tk84K54/s320/IMG_0427.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329602806214077858" border="0" /></a><br />Dirty, Greasy, but Totally Free<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaPOj8WlHI/AAAAAAAAAN8/aV-QYMgjtsc/s1600-h/IMG_0449.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaPOj8WlHI/AAAAAAAAAN8/aV-QYMgjtsc/s320/IMG_0449.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329604689368880242" border="0" /></a><br />NOT on Belay<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaQw9Qup4I/AAAAAAAAAOE/5D6P3A0jEOg/s1600-h/IMG_0464.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SfaQw9Qup4I/AAAAAAAAAOE/5D6P3A0jEOg/s320/IMG_0464.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329606379792410498" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Life is an adventure, and I am living it!<br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-8785510648357007740?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-56498324552815326962008-12-22T23:30:00.000-08:002008-12-23T02:54:03.022-08:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA1_hHCLfI/AAAAAAAAAKM/ZszjWYynsGI/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282781728241495538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA1_hHCLfI/AAAAAAAAAKM/ZszjWYynsGI/s320/photo.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>Hello! I have returned to the blogisphere from a long, extremely busy hiatus. Between school, work, buying a home, and traveling, I have let my blog slip by the wayside. I am now back, and I feel that I owe you all a story, an update, and lots of pictures.<br /><div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong>The Story</strong><br /></div><br /><div>About a month and a half ago, around Halloween, the death of my dad was becoming less of an abstract and more of a reality. I was thinking about him all the time, and hurting in a much deeper manner than I had before. The night before Halloween, as I was crawling into my bed, I had an overwhelming feeling that my dad was standing behind me. Although I'd heard of similar things happening to people after losing someone close, I had never personally experienced it before. I relayed this to Andy the next day, and he suggested that we borrow from the Latin and South American tradition of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Day_of_the_Dead">Day of the Dead</a> and make an offrenda for my dad. In accordance with the tradition, we gathered a picture, candles, flowers, and made one of his favorite foods (monster--a surprisingly delicious mixture of almonds, peanut butter, honey, and dried fruit). Armed with these items, we made our way to the Provo River just below the spot where we scattered his ashes last July, and built a small alcove of rocks to house the offrenda. The cloudy gloominess that was Halloween 2008 matched perfectly the somber mood of the situation. As I expected, the tears started rolling down my cheek in the manner that has become all too common since his death. Andy wrapped his arms around me and held me close, and at that moment--at the height of my sadness--there was a break in the cloud cover, and a few lone sun rays found their way through. In a manner too significant to be coincidence, the light made it's way from the cloud break, directly through the trees, and rested squarely upon Andy and me. It touched me deeply, and I was soon feeling that I had found whatever reassurance I had been seeking. Andy and I walked back to the car, and as soon as we were inside with the doors shut, the break in the clouds disappeared and the light was gone.</div><br /><div>The holiday season has been a very difficult time for me, and no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, there is no replacement for my Davey P. In the past month and a half, I have thought a lot about the experience that Andy and I shared by the Provo River on Halloween. I have decided--there is no reason for me to feel the need to find a replacement. There is no hole in my heart, no piece missing. My dad is still very much a part of me. The part that he played in my life did not disappear when he chose to end his. I still miss my dad, that will never stop. When visions of my fatherless future pop into my head, it still makes me feel extremely sad. Despite this, it is reassuring to know that there have been and will continue to be moments when I feel connected and close to him.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281281461999549922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SUrhgh1WveI/AAAAAAAAAJM/YH5co59cV0U/s320/IMG_0056.jpg" border="0" /><br /><strong>The Update</strong></div><div><strong></strong> </div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong><div>I am now a homeowner! I closed on my condo at the beginning of December. Andy and I have moved in, and we are now comfortably established in our new home. It's been a stressful time with the moving and the end of the semester. The semester is over (yay!), and it's time to take a little break and try to relax. I'm headed out to Michigan in a few days to spend Christmas with Andy's family. I am really excited to see them again, and I'm sure I'll return with many more pictures and more updates and stories for the blog. Until then, here are a few pictures of our new condo. I hope you all have a very merry holiday season!<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA29M4-7-I/AAAAAAAAAKU/WMYwJArsWq0/s1600-h/new+condo,+Andy"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282782787965743074" style="WIDTH: 243px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 194px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA29M4-7-I/AAAAAAAAAKU/WMYwJArsWq0/s320/new+condo,+Andy%27s+scar002.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVAyWcHW8gI/AAAAAAAAAJk/Ng_UWel6RwQ/s1600-h/IMG_1358.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282777723991159298" style="WIDTH: 243px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 193px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVAyWcHW8gI/AAAAAAAAAJk/Ng_UWel6RwQ/s320/IMG_1358.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVAwJZ8KhrI/AAAAAAAAAJc/HxdX1hGOje8/s1600-h/IMG_1357.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282775301045782194" style="WIDTH: 243px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 191px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVAwJZ8KhrI/AAAAAAAAAJc/HxdX1hGOje8/s320/IMG_1357.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVAvhSbLdOI/AAAAAAAAAJU/ozPXfDTDSiw/s1600-h/IMG_1356.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282774611833615586" style="WIDTH: 243px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 190px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVAvhSbLdOI/AAAAAAAAAJU/ozPXfDTDSiw/s320/IMG_1356.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA0JsLVLQI/AAAAAAAAAJs/JIf5iJ5u6gQ/s1600-h/IMG_1360.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282779703987744002" style="WIDTH: 242px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 191px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA0JsLVLQI/AAAAAAAAAJs/JIf5iJ5u6gQ/s320/IMG_1360.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA04dJnSjI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/8UEq6lxT7-o/s1600-h/IMG_1362.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282780507407862322" style="WIDTH: 244px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 191px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA04dJnSjI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/8UEq6lxT7-o/s320/IMG_1362.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA1okUmi_I/AAAAAAAAAJ8/uiAsViDzvOI/s1600-h/IMG_1363.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282781333966719986" style="WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SVA1okUmi_I/AAAAAAAAAJ8/uiAsViDzvOI/s320/IMG_1363.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-5649832455281532696?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-24065541915778025702008-10-23T17:32:00.000-07:002008-10-23T17:45:24.144-07:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SQEZ-acbyCI/AAAAAAAAAHs/Fq9snNa8fuc/s1600-h/love.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260514399786616866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SQEZ-acbyCI/AAAAAAAAAHs/Fq9snNa8fuc/s320/love.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;">Some Surprise</span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center">Your lips come as some surprise</div><div align="center">That they would want to come and meet mine</div><div align="center">They never taste like the last time</div><div align="center">Your lips come as some surprise</div><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center">I was always a special child</div><div align="center">With circuit boards for my insides</div><div align="center">And all I dreamed of was flying high</div><div align="center">So your lips came as some surprise<br /></div><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Your lips come as some surprise</div><div align="center">That they would want to come and meet mine</div><div align="center">They never taste like the last time</div><div align="center">Your lips come as some surprise</div><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center">I was never one of the boys</div><div align="center">Throwin shapes and power ploys</div><div align="center"><em>In your arms a warmth I did find</em></div><div align="center">In your seed I did recline<br /></div><br /><div align="center">Your lips come as some surprise</div><div align="center">That they would want to come and meet mine</div><div align="center">They never taste like the last time</div><div align="center">Your lips come as some surprise<br /></div><br /><div align="center">Now that we've sat for a while</div><div align="center">You showed me yours and I've showed you mine</div><div align="center">Even after all this time</div><div align="center">Your lips come as some surprise</div><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Your lips come as some surprise</div><div align="center">That they would want to come and meet mine</div><div align="center">They never taste like the last time</div><div align="center">Your lips come as some surprise</div><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="left">Unexpected, yet head over heels...</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-2406554191577802570?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-77209283719517954652008-09-24T22:13:00.000-07:002008-09-26T08:02:09.631-07:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SNLGIc9nI6I/AAAAAAAAAHk/fqfs_caLujY/s1600-h/photo%5B1%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247474364355912610" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SNLGIc9nI6I/AAAAAAAAAHk/fqfs_caLujY/s320/photo%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a> Life is fragile, unpredictable, and absolutely <em>beautiful</em>. I met Andy Chapman five weeks ago, at a time when my life was still in a significant amount of turmoil. My heart was broken, and I was desperately trying to piece it back together. I was searching for solace and peace, and found it in a place I never even considered looking. Occasionally in life, we are fortunate enough to meet someone with whom we can immediately and lastingly connect. I feel like I've known Andy for years. Time spent with him is comfortable, calming, and exciting.<br /><p>Two weeks ago, I received a call from the American Fork Hospital emergency room. It was the call that you never want to receive: "Hi, this is so and so from the emergency department at American Fork Hospital. We have an Andy Chapman here. He's been in a bicycle accident, and he requested that I call you." She then proceeded to tell me that he was being life-flighted to Utah Valley Regional Medical Center. As a trauma nurse, I know that when the word "life-flight" pops up in a conversation, it means that things are pretty serious, and they were. Andy was literally within millimeters of losing his life. Amongst his many injuries, he sustained a deep laceration to his neck that exposed his jugular vein. Had that been cut, he surely would have bled to death on the scene. Other injuries included a broken, displaced clavicle; T6-T8 anterior compression fractures of his spine; C3-C7 transverse process fractures of his cervical spine; and facial fractures involving his cheek and his orbital floor. He was taken immediately to surgery for repair of his neck and clavicle, and then spent a week in the hospital. </p><p>We have learned over the past two weeks that the driver that hit him was 78 years old and uninsured. He should not have been driving, and I have had a difficult time attempting to find some compassion for him. I would like to believe that he was sickened by what he did, and that he is now feeling some amount of remorse. I will probably never know for sure who he is as a person, or what he is feeling right now. Maybe this is fortunate because I can believe whatever I will about him. I choose now, in this moment, to believe that he was not acting maliciously, and that he does feel terrible about the consequences of his actions. </p><p>In the midst of these unfortunate circumstances--the loss of my dad, and Andy's bicycle accident--something beautiful has blossomed. I'm not sure how I feel about fate, but meeting Andy at the time I did makes me feel that maybe there is some merit to fatalism and predestination. Speaking for myself, Andy has stepped into my life at a time and in a manner that seems too perfect to be chance. </p><p>In my past, I have attempted to build walls around my heart. I have been guarded and standoffish, and hid these under the guise of fierce independence. With my dad's death, and Andy's close call, the fragile and fleeting nature of life has been thrust in my face. The most important lesson that I have learned over the past few months is to live life out of love, and to let go of fear. </p><p>For those interested in more information, both <a href="http://www.ksl.com/?nid=148&amp;sid=4273717">KSL</a> and the <a href="http://www.deseretnews.com/article/1,5143,700260313,00.html">Deseret News</a> have reported about Andy's accident. Also, due to the lack of insurance on the driver's part, Andy's friend has set up a <a href="http://www.andychapmanfund.com/">fund</a> so that those interested can donate to his cause. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-7720928371951795465?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-55308943884259330792008-09-11T00:16:00.000-07:002008-09-11T05:34:09.850-07:00<a href="http://www.vagabondish.com/wp-content/uploads/autumn-leaves-rome.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://www.vagabondish.com/wp-content/uploads/autumn-leaves-rome.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>It has been decreed: Fall is here! My heart is singing, and life in general feels really nice to me right now. The Earth moves in cycles. The leaves change color, fall from the trees, and nourish the soil that will yield growth again in the spring. My life moves in cycles as well. The rollercoaster that I have been riding for the past two months has transitioned into more of a steady climb. I am ascending from the deepest rift of sorrow on upward toward that highest peak we call happiness. I <em>miss</em> my dad, but his being gone has now become a part of my life. My dad, both in his life and his death, is fundamentally linked to the person that I am. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I am <em>happy</em>. I am <em>content</em>. I am <em>excited</em> to see what lies a little further down the road. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-5530894388425933079?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-60146302609655730332008-08-30T23:15:00.000-07:002008-08-31T00:47:16.814-07:00<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I just returned today from a much needed break. Tuesday morning, I loaded up my pack with all the backpacking essentials, and hit the road. My trip began with a seven-hour solitary drive -- just me, my music, and the wide open road. I found it so calming, watching the road melt into existence as I sang (belted would perhaps be the more accurate term) along to my eclectic music mix. After seven hours, I arrived in Reno, and picked up my backpacking companion and good friend, Brian. We then headed out to Mammoth Lakes, California to begin our trip.<br /><br /></span><div><div><div><div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">We packed from Agnew Meadows along the River Trail in the Ansel Adams Wilderness out to Thousand Island Lake (taking one short day hike to Garnet Lake), and then returned to Agnew Meadows via the Pacific Crest (High) Trail. The trip was good for me in so many ways, and I have returned feeling rejuvenated and full of determination and purpose. There is something about the vastness of the backcountry that can make a person feel so small, and at the same time so significant for being a part of it all. There truly are no small parts to play.</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I think there is something to be said for "nature therapy." I began spending time outdoors at a young age (mostly at my grandparent's cabin, and then later on whitewater rafting trips), and because of this exposure I have developed a deep bond and love for the natural world around me. The three days that I spent immersed in these surroundings:</span></div><div align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDh0zo3yI/AAAAAAAAAGM/zejadlsKgqI/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+071.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240575364788969250" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDh0zo3yI/AAAAAAAAAGM/zejadlsKgqI/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+071.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpABHcxByI/AAAAAAAAAFk/xBtZurauZFU/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+009.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240571504322742050" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpABHcxByI/AAAAAAAAAFk/xBtZurauZFU/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+009.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFkiM6qtI/AAAAAAAAAGU/QrwPWLtDaac/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+076.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240577610357582546" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFkiM6qtI/AAAAAAAAAGU/QrwPWLtDaac/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+076.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFlmCeAiI/AAAAAAAAAG0/S9XxuQu90OA/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+084.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240577628567372322" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFlmCeAiI/AAAAAAAAAG0/S9XxuQu90OA/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+084.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFk42ezmI/AAAAAAAAAGc/VLRYRBfM9sA/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+077.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240577616437497442" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFk42ezmI/AAAAAAAAAGc/VLRYRBfM9sA/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+077.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFlNZ6BjI/AAAAAAAAAGk/OnakiQ-UMPQ/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+080.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240577621954790962" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFlNZ6BjI/AAAAAAAAAGk/OnakiQ-UMPQ/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+080.jpg" border="0" /></span></a></div><div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDgWIBz8I/AAAAAAAAAFs/wVP2tORRU4w/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+013.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240575339373121474" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDgWIBz8I/AAAAAAAAAFs/wVP2tORRU4w/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+013.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDhP9cTiI/AAAAAAAAAF8/VSgrd7BTvc4/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+022.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240575354897976866" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDhP9cTiI/AAAAAAAAAF8/VSgrd7BTvc4/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+022.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDg2h542I/AAAAAAAAAF0/HZH8nTb06Ag/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+016.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240575348071588706" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDg2h542I/AAAAAAAAAF0/HZH8nTb06Ag/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+016.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDhfArIwI/AAAAAAAAAGE/NbAzjVCIEJE/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+067.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240575358938063618" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpDhfArIwI/AAAAAAAAAGE/NbAzjVCIEJE/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+067.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHob9-18I/AAAAAAAAAHE/Ur5dOjVVjj4/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+094.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240579876427061186" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHob9-18I/AAAAAAAAAHE/Ur5dOjVVjj4/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+094.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHom1SRpI/AAAAAAAAAHM/ne2whCwmaWA/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+097.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240579879343376018" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHom1SRpI/AAAAAAAAAHM/ne2whCwmaWA/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+097.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHpb_3USI/AAAAAAAAAHc/5XC3FxnvfMs/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+105.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240579893614825762" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHpb_3USI/AAAAAAAAAHc/5XC3FxnvfMs/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+105.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHoDaratI/AAAAAAAAAG8/Ciacd-SGbFM/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+091.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240579869836536530" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHoDaratI/AAAAAAAAAG8/Ciacd-SGbFM/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+091.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHo9ug1KI/AAAAAAAAAHU/fWk_G-0AW2g/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+104.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240579885488985250" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpHo9ug1KI/AAAAAAAAAHU/fWk_G-0AW2g/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+104.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFlUcIcBI/AAAAAAAAAGs/yXSYEEtYt98/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+081.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240577623843172370" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpFlUcIcBI/AAAAAAAAAGs/yXSYEEtYt98/s200/backpacking+summer+2008+081.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">have done more to heal my aching soul than anything else.</span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SLpABHcxByI/AAAAAAAAAFk/xBtZurauZFU/s1600-h/backpacking+summer+2008+009.jpg"></a></div></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-6014630260965573033?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-68624885301636437522008-08-19T13:29:00.000-07:002008-08-20T03:15:16.865-07:00<a href="http://i75.photobucket.com/albums/i311/denamiller83/text_graffiti_all_you_need_is_love.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://i75.photobucket.com/albums/i311/denamiller83/text_graffiti_all_you_need_is_love.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><div>This song segways nicely from the last James Taylor song that I posted on my blog. I have always believed that my quality of life is wholly determined by the attitude with which I approach it. It is true that I have seen fire and rain, and the last couple months have been a very rainy time for me. It is up to me, though, to determine what I will do with the rainy times. Why not use them to shower the people I love with love? This song comes to my blog by way of suggestion from someone I have not known long, but have found that I care deeply about her. Thank you for the suggestion.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>And now, a little note about love. Why is it that sometimes we are most hateful to those people we love and care about the most? Maybe I should say instead, why is it that sometimes <em>I </em>am most hateful to the people <em>I </em>love and care about the most? I have many theories, and maybe each of them applies to different relationships at different times. It would be nice to say that I am determined to never be hateful to anyone ever again (and especially to someone I love), but I don't think that it's possible. There are times when, acting out of love, one must say things that have the potential to hurt. I can't commit to not saying hurtful things, but I can commit to trying to say such things in a more pragmatic and loving way. I am thinking about all of this due to a recent situation with a person I love very much. I am not going to discuss the details here, that wouldn't be fair. I don't think that he reads my blog, but I would like to say that I love him. I am sorry about the way I have treated him in the past, and the way the things that I said have affected him. I think that those things needed to be said, but if anything that just makes them more hurtful. I can't change the past, but I can use it to influence the way I live my life in the future.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-6862488530163643752?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-5999260041354098502008-08-18T23:00:00.000-07:002008-08-18T23:40:31.444-07:00<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236111291513434850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SKpnej8R8uI/AAAAAAAAAFM/ZV0RgzMmMHQ/s200/IMG_1215.JPG" border="0" />I spent the day yesterday with my dad's girlfriend, Debbie. It was a wonderful day, full of cleansing and release. During the time that we spent together, Debbie gave me two precious jewels. Cookies, as Ian so eloquently put it, the size of my head. These cookies are so special to me; perhaps more meaningful than most other things that have come into my possession since my dad's death. They are two of the four remaining cookies that were mixed and baked by my father. They are proof that he was once alive, that he was once an actuality that had the capacity to lovingly bake cookies and thoughtfully distribute them amongst those people he loved best.<br /><br />The week after we found my dad, I attempted to bake some of his cookies following his recipe, but they weren't the same. Maybe they lacked his personal touch. Yesterday after I received these cookies, there was something inside me that wanted to hold onto them forever. They are the last cookies that I will ever have that were personally made by him. I thought for a long time about what I truly wanted to do with them, and eventually decided that they would be best served by succumbing to the fate for which they were originally intended. My dad made them with the hope that they would be eaten. So, last night I headed outside with one half of a human-head-sized cookie in my hand. I sat down on the steps to our backyard deck, and I let the breeze dance on my skin. Slowly, and with purpose I savored every last bite.<br /><br />As I sat there with the beautiful breeze and the precious cookie, I realized that it’s these seemingly inconsequential moments that give meaning to life. It is my greatest desire to live my life always recognizing the meaningful things. I hope that I may always fully engage in the world around me, using all of my senses to feel, see, hear, smell, and taste all the beauty that adds color to the canvas of earthly existence.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">For your eating pleasure, I have included here the recipe for my dad's every-dried-fruit-you-can-imagine-chocolate-chip-walnut-oatmeal cookies (as written by Davey-P himself). Make them BIG, or they're not authentic.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Ingredients:</span><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1 cup soy margarine or canola oil </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1 cup brown sugar </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1 cup splenda (note from Diane: I use organic sugar because I think Splenda is of the devil. I suppose that doesn't make them very authentic, though)</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2 tsp vanilla </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">6 tbs rice milk or soy milk</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">10 tbs apple sauce or raspberry apple sauce </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2 cups whole wheat flour </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1 tsp baking soda </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1 tsp baking powder </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1/2 tsp salt </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2 tsp cinnamon</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1 tsp nutmeg (optional) </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">4 to 6 cups oats </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2 to 3 cups raisins</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">optional: </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">(1/4 cup flax seed), Walnuts. Can add a little honey to the sugar and margarine mix. Substitute other kinds of dried fruits for the raisins(blueberries, cherries, pineapple, apricots, mangoes, etc...)</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Directions:</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees Farenheit.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2) Combine margarine or canola oil and the sugars and beat until creamy. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">3) Add in vanilla, rice milk, and apple sauce and beat some more until it's all distributed evenly and creamy and yummy. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">4) In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, nutmeg and cinnamon until they're all mixed together evenly. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">5) Add the dry ingredients and the wet ingredients and mix together until all is well. 6) Add the raisins and mix 'em in. Add the oats and mix 'em in.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">7) Roll dough into a half fist size ball and place on a cookie sheet. Smash down to about 1/2 inch thick to make a large round cookie.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">8) Put in the oven and bake for about 18 to 20 minutes, until they no longer look raw, and are even in the middle. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">9) Remove from cookie sheet soon after removing from the oven -- don't let them cool on the sheet or they'll stick. </span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-599926004135409850?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-10797881824098986692008-08-06T03:57:00.001-07:002008-08-06T04:13:15.176-07:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SJmEGr-slaI/AAAAAAAAAE0/Pt3bD_qHtLo/s1600-h/n624700927_1516642_1434.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231357692587316642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SJmEGr-slaI/AAAAAAAAAE0/Pt3bD_qHtLo/s200/n624700927_1516642_1434.jpg" border="0" /></a> My mom and I went to the James Taylor concert last night, and it was AMAZING! I was so impressed by him. His voice is as clear and beautiful as it was back in the '70's. It was a perfect night, and so nice to be able to spend some time with my mom. The weather was beautiful, and the combination of good music, ideal weather, and good company was conducive to some good conversation. I grew up listening to James Taylor. It reminds me of being in the car, and for some reason it brings me back to a time driving up to our cabin with my mom and my dad.<br /><br />When this song started playing last night, I couldn't hold back the tears. I rested my head on my mom's shoulder, and I cried and cried and cried. It seems like just about every song I hear these days is about my dad's death. Happy songs, break-up songs, love songs; somehow I'm able to find hidden messages in all of them. <br /><br />I would say that I have seen a lot of fire in my life, but the past month has been filled with rain. I never imagined, Davey P., that I wouldn't get the chance to see you one more time again.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-1079788182409898669?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-43646391984824664342008-08-06T01:40:00.000-07:002008-08-06T03:35:18.808-07:00<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>Dead.<br /><br /></em>I know that my dad is dead. People keep telling me so. I keep telling myself. I'm just not quite sure I understand fully what the word means.<br /><br />I know what it means to die; to deny that would be absurd. I have seen people transition from the last moments of life more times than any 24 year old should. In fact, my first experience with the transition is what led me to become a nurse. At the time I thought there was something so touching and powerful about it. I'm not so sure anymore.<br /><br />I think that the most unsettling thing about my father's death is that I did not witness the transition. I suppose I wouldn't have wanted to see the transition, at least not the one that he chose. The last time I saw my father alive was exactly one month before the day that we found him. He was not well at the time, but he was very much alive. The next time I saw him, he appeared in the form of a black box filled with ashes. Ashes. All that remained of my dad's once living body was a black box filled with ashes.<br /><br />I talked to my dad last on July 1st. The conversation began, as always, by me asking him how he was feeling. And, he responded (just as he had every time I asked him that question since his bicycle accident last May) "not very well." From that point forward, the conversation was anything but ordinary. He seemed so distant. I ended the conversation feeling unsettled, but I remember thinking at the time that I had nothing more to say. Oh, what I would give for the chance to have something more to say. . .<br /><br />I called him next on July 3rd, but he didn't answer. Again, I called him on July 4th. Twice I called him on July 5th, and five times on July 6th. Sunday, July 6th, was the day of the Nadal-Federer match. I desperately wanted his opinion about the match, but he was no longer there to give it to me. Sometimes when I turn out the lights at night, and crawl into my bed, a video clip plays through my head. The screen is split in two. On one end, I am standing with my cell phone in my hand. In my ear, the phone is ringing and ringing and ringing. On the other end, I see the inside of my dad's house. The camera is pointed at the phone on the kitchen counter. It is ringing, but no one answers. The camera shifts, and begins moving up the stairs. It moves through the master bedroom, and then into the bathroom. I called my dad ten times after he was no longer alive. Ten times this movie played out, and there was nothing I could do. Nothing I can do.<br /><br />And still, what does this word mean, "dead?" Over the past month, a lot of people have tried to answer this question for me. I appreciate the effort, but would be untrue to myself if I said that I agreed with much of what has been said. I do believe, with all of my heart and soul, that death is not the end of existence. This life would be far too futile if that was the case. I do not believe, however, that the “afterlife” is a mere continuation of this life. I don’t think that our soul reconnects with our bodies somewhere on the other side, to continue to engage in the same kinds of activities that bring us pleasure or pain in this life. I think that our soul, whatever that may be, is freed by death. It is released from the shackles of this earthly body, and set free to soar, attaining heights never imaginable during this earthly existence. I don’t think that I will ever be able to see, touch, smell, or hear my dad again; at least not in the way that I could see, touch, smell, or hear him two months ago. Instead, I would like to believe that when I think about him, or when some forgotten memory returns, it is his freed soul reaching out to me, touching me, and sending me comfort in some way.<br /><br />I don’t have any answers. Really, I don’t need answers. I am content just contemplating the possibilities, and deciding for myself what makes sense inside my own heart and my own brain. </span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231351168733206610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SJl-K8uq2FI/AAAAAAAAAEs/SYNVoiziQNY/s200/edit.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-4364639198482466434?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-56567178798963191122008-07-31T22:13:00.000-07:002008-08-01T08:19:27.703-07:00<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I just returned from a wonderful, healing weekend out at Newport Beach with my uncle Evan's family. Thank you Evan, Toni, and my wonderful cousins for welcoming Kyle and me on your vacation. The time I spent with you was much needed, and greatly valued.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229416108477779714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SJKePniGDwI/AAAAAAAAAEU/2X4iRg-hwSg/s200/IMG_1182.JPG" border="0" /> </span><div></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />No matter how shattered and broken I feel, the earth on which I am standing keeps moving. The people around me go about their daily lives, most not understanding the pain that is burning deep within my heart. Sometimes I look at my patients and their families, and I notice the pain and suffering that they are feeling. I want to shout out, "Me too! I'm suffering too!" But, the truth is, it doesn't matter. Everybody experiences suffering and loss in this life, and in a sense it's all the same. The circumstances may be different, but suffering cuts deep into the soul. It is a very personal experience, and as such cannot be compared to the experience of another.<br /><br />The week that my dad died, I remember looking out through my metaphorical looking glass at the world around me. People were hurrying about their daily lives as if nothing had happened. I didn't understand it. People were just as rude, just as selfish, and just as filled with road rage as they always had been. I saw people floating down the Provo river on inner tubes, and I didn't understand that either. How could people be so rude or have so much fun at a time like this? Didn't they understand? Didn't they know that the world had shattered into a million little pieces?<br /><br />I also saw a lot of openness and kindness as people learned about the circumstances of my pain. Random shop-keepers gave me free pairs of earrings, saying, "you need something pretty to wear to the funeral;" my family discovered a special closeness and love that had always been there, but never fully captured or explored; coworkers cried with me. I was extremely<br />touched, and still am, by this outpouring of kindness and love.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sometimes I feel like maybe the worst of this is over, but then I discover some new grief, think about some previously unrecognized loss, and I am brought back to the depths of my sorrow. I've known from the beginning that this will never be "easy."<br /><br />"Did you ever know, dear, how much you took away with you when you left? You have stripped me even of my past, even of the things we never shared. I was wrong to say the stump was recovering from the pain of the amputation. I was deceived because it has so many ways to hurt me that I discover them only one by one."<br />~C.S. Lewis<br /></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-5656717879896319112?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-75929152733376029682008-07-30T21:14:00.000-07:002008-07-30T21:16:37.921-07:00<a href="http://artfiles.art.com/images/-/Prades-Fabregat/White-Flower-Print-C12314911.jpeg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://artfiles.art.com/images/-/Prades-Fabregat/White-Flower-Print-C12314911.jpeg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sometimes words are not necessary . . .</span><br /><div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-7592915273337602968?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-6279993894233848042008-07-23T01:55:00.001-07:002008-07-23T02:51:55.131-07:00<a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SIb_I0vcDQI/AAAAAAAAAEM/lfxRkihhPIY/s1600-h/IMG_0577.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226144944671689986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SIb_I0vcDQI/AAAAAAAAAEM/lfxRkihhPIY/s200/IMG_0577.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It's nearly 3:00 in the morning. I can't sleep, and right now things just don't make sense. The computer that I have at my apartment is a computer that, at one time, my father and I shared. In my sleeplessness, I was just browsing through my father's user account, and I came across an autobiography that he had written just shortly after quitting alcohol and opiates. If I can remember correctly, he had written it at the request of a counselor at an addiction treatment center. I think that it is a fairly accurate and surprisingly honest account of his life to that point. When I think about this whole situation, the hardest thing for me is that my dad really did have a good life. All I can think about right now is somehow figuring a way to go back in time three weeks or so, and shake my dad silly.<br /><br />YOU HAD A GOOD LIFE! So you had seen some dark places in the past, but you had overcome the hardest times of your life. By the power of your amazingly strong and stubborn will, you overcame alcohol and opiate addiction. You broke your ankle many years ago, and you said that you "felt your life had almost ended." But, it didn't. You continued on. You got back on your feet, and although you stumbled a few times, you picked yourself up. So, you separated your shoulder. Big deal. Like your ankle, it would have healed. Those other things that were bothering you, well, they were really quite inconsequential in the big scheme of things. With time, all that would have been better. The horrible, dark place that you were in was not permanent.<br /><br />In 2006, when you wrote your autobiography, you said, "The fall of 1982. . .was the beginning of the best 13 years of my life (I'm not giving up yet)". What changed? What was so terrible that you felt now was the time to give up? My rational brain tells me that you were obviously not thinking clearly when you made the decision that you made. I wonder, though, did you have any idea that by committing your final act, you were breaking my heart and the hearts of so many people who loved you? People whom you loved as well? I don't think I can make sense of this. I could never empathize with you. My world has never been so dark, and I can't imagine that it ever would be.<br /><br />I’m so sorry, dad. I’m sorry that I didn’t know it was this bad. I’m sorry that I didn’t visit you that Friday that we had made tentative plans. I’m so sorry that there wasn’t more that I could have done. You said, "I hope that I can use my experiences, and I have many as I reflect on my life, to try to help others progress in life in a positive manner." You had many experiences, both good and bad. You overcame time and again, but eventually you succumbed to your pain and depression. I am trying my best to progress in life in the positive manner you would have wanted for me. It’s just more difficult than I could have imagined, doing so without you standing by my side.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-627999389423384804?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-77988677394556204432008-07-21T01:06:00.000-07:002008-07-21T01:26:18.384-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SIRIFnK9qeI/AAAAAAAAAEE/TeS4vE7K7FY/s1600-h/broken+heart.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SIRIFnK9qeI/AAAAAAAAAEE/TeS4vE7K7FY/s200/broken+heart.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225380728908130786" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'trebuchet ms';">One of my friends suggested to me that listening to the same 28 Beatles love songs every time I get into the car (my dad's mix that he had left in the CD player) is detrimental to my ability to heal.  I think that he's probably right, so I've decided to dig deep into my personal favorites.  "Gabriel and the Vagabond" has been amongst my favorite songs for a long time.  I feel that the sentiments that it expresses are particularly appropriate to the way that I am feeling now.  Sometimes it is so easy to get so absorbed in our own needs and daily routine, that we miss the opportunities to reach out and touch somebody in need.  As family, friends, acquaintances, and perfect strangers have learned about my broken heart over the past two weeks, I have been on the receiving end of much kindness and love.  Thank you all for that.  I have learned so much from all of you about what it means to be a kind and caring person.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-7798867739455620443?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-53504679282955674382008-07-20T23:15:00.000-07:002008-07-21T00:59:46.320-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">As I try to move on with my life following my dad's suicide, I find myself experiencing a range of emotions each day.  I feel like I'm all over the spectrum.  Grief, anger, guilt, acceptance, denial; they all come on so unexpectedly, and so ferociously.  My dad is all that I can think about.  Even when I am busy doing something, he is always there.  In a way, I suppose I can choose to find some comfort in that.  He is still with me, always in my thoughts -- locked within my brain.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">When I learned of my father's death, my whole world turned upside down.  At this point, now nearly two weeks since we found him, my life is in limbo.  I am not the same person that I was two weeks ago, but I haven't quite figured out who the new Diane is.  With my dad's death, I paid a price.  A terrible and immeasurable price.  It was not a price that I chose to pay, but it has been paid in full -- in a very final sort of way.  I know that there is nothing I could ever do to make it worth it.  It will never be okay; it will never be right.  What I can do is seize this opportunity to create goodness as I discover my changed self.  I can allow my memories of my father to be my shining light -- embodying his friendliness, kindness, and love for people.  I have a moment now to take a good, long look at my priorities.  I have been given a tragically beautiful moment to reevaluate life.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-5350467928295567438?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-29007753320050271562008-07-17T22:03:00.000-07:002008-07-21T01:01:18.805-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">The following is a blog that I posted on a different blog site about a year and a half ago after my grandfather had passed away. I've decided to repost it here because it is applicable to the way I am feeling right now, and because I feel like this blog is more permanent than the place I posted it before.<br /><br />I sit. Here. In front of my computer. Fingers poised, resting upon the keys. I'm ready to write something, anything.<br /><br />I search for something with meaning, something profound, but I can't find it. Maybe today there is no more profound left in me. Maybe that is ok.<br /><br />I've wanted to write since last September, not so much because I felt that I had something to say, but because I felt that it might put my mind at ease.<br /><br />The subject? Death. Or, more accurately put, life born within death.<br /><br />If my life was a book being written, each chapter would tell the story of a relationship with a different person, and would only end at the moment that person left my life.<br /><br />February 2005 would mark the ending of a meaningful relationship with a pet who had so many endearing qualities, it was hard to not think of him as a family member.<br /><br />July 2005 would mark the end of a chapter that expressed the very special relationship I had built with one of my patients.<br /><br />September 2006 would mark a different kind of end, an end I was not as familiar with; the end of a relationship with a friend taken in her prime. She was at the height of her life. Friendly, open, warm, welcoming, and entirely hilarious, she never failed to make me laugh. Although my memories with her were not quite as vast and varied as I would have wished them to be, she touched me. She added an extra spark to my life. She left behind a fiancé and a loving family. My heart ached and continues to ache for them.<br /><br />Last Tuesday, February 6, 2007, yet another chapter ended. This time the end was expected, and almost welcome. My grandpa had been in a care center for a long time. He was afflicted with old age and infirmity.<br /><br />Over the past few years as a hospice aide and nurse, I have become intimately acquainted with death. Because of this, I can't help but see my grandpa's death as a blessing. Why then, is it still so hard? Why do I find my eyes welling with tears as I think about how special my grandpa made me feel? I might not have been as close to my grandpa as I could have been, but I can't help but remember how I felt when I was in his presence. I remember dancing with him as a little girl. He made me feel special, as if I was the only one in the world that mattered, as if there was no one he would rather dance with than me. I remember visiting him in the care center. We had a ritual.<br /><br />"Hi, Grandpa."<br /><br />"Well, hello sweetheart."<br /><br />And his eyes would light up. They would light up, and in that moment I would know that he cared. I would know that, to him, I was important. Listening to the speakers at his funeral today, I know that he had that effect on everyone. I know that nearly every cousin had that same experience with him on the dance floor. My grandpa had that way with people.<br /><br />These chapters end, but even as they end, the relationships they contain continue to affect the chapters still being written. The nice thing about death is that it forces you to reevaluate life.<br /><br />A few months ago, I had a dream. I dreamed that I was inside a Chinese-style painting. The painting depicted majestic snow-capped mountains in the far distance. My gaze, however, rested upon a lone, dead tree. I knew that my dream-self was aiming for that dead tree. If I could only reach that tree, all my goals would be realized. Then my gaze shifted, and before me was the most beautiful flower I had ever seen. It was pure white, and simple. It was in this simplicity that all its beauty was contained. As I've thought about this dream over the past few months, I've concluded that maybe my priorities need to shift to the beauty that can be found right before me. Today I've realized that focusing on the flower will allow me to surpass the tree. By focusing on the flower I can reach the top of the snow-capped mountain, in all its majesty.<br /><br />So, for Louie, Helen, Shirley, Tami, Grandpa Ross, Merlin, and the many patients I have lost along the way; here's to the flower, and to all the hidden beauty in this world.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-2900775332005027156?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-71415730431840883462008-07-15T22:13:00.000-07:002008-07-21T01:01:45.085-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">So, I guess we're sticking with the Beatles theme. It's all I've been listening to since my dad passed away. I've always loved the Beatles; I've always considered them one of my favorite bands. Since my dad and I would listen to them together, their music is more meaningful than ever. P.S. I Love You is especially meaningful to me right now. The Monday that we discovered that my dad had taken his life, I kept hoping that perhaps he had left me some sort of note or something. I thought maybe if he had left me a note, I would be able to make more sense of the whole terrible situation. As the week has unfolded, it is apparent that no such lengthy, explanatory letter was left. What he did leave was, perhaps, more meaningful. All he left was a lonely "I love you." Those three words say so much. They say, "I am not doing this to hurt you. This is a personal decision that I have made." They also say something about the frame of mind that he was in when he made this horrible decision. I think that even had he wanted to, he was not in much of a position to leave an explanatory note. He was too sad, too depressed.<br /><br />At the end of May, I traded cars with my dad so that I could take his truck camping for the weekend. When I traded back, I found that he had left a CD of Beatles love songs in my CD player. I have listened to nothing but this CD since last Monday. I can't seem to bring myself to turn it off. Yesterday I was driving down the road, and I really started to listen to the words to this song. I would like to think that his "I love you" extends to the lyrics of P.S. I Love You.<br /><br />Davey P., I will treasure these few words until we're together. Your love will be kept in my heart forever. P.S. I love you too.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-7141573043184088346?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-789608049550605782008-07-14T14:24:00.000-07:002008-07-21T01:03:02.308-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I was just browsing through a book of poetry that I own, and I came across this poem. I think it is fairly similar to the poem that Debbie shared at my father's funeral. A few words of comfort in a time when comfort is so needed. </span></span><div><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222991886545616146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHvLcr5MfRI/AAAAAAAAACw/ywm9XbJ_yE8/s200/wind.jpg" border="0" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222991997152947186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHvLjH8Ca_I/AAAAAAAAAC4/fj2S0x9BRjM/s200/snow.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222992122879022050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHvLqcTeE-I/AAAAAAAAADA/p9LG9gcM5FU/s200/grain.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222992452332975970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHvL9nnad2I/AAAAAAAAADQ/bbrro7wdcyc/s200/rain.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222992244491354706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHvLxhWHAlI/AAAAAAAAADI/NeB784kxju4/s200/morning.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222993157977896786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHvMmsWRd1I/AAAAAAAAADg/FQkzBRVhhso/s200/dove.jpg" border="0" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><div align="center"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Do not stand at my grave and weep;<br />I am not there. I do not sleep.<br />I am a thousand winds that blow.<br />I am the diamond glints on snow.<br />I am the sunlight on ripened grain.<br />I am the gentle autumn rain.<br />When you awaken in the morning's hush<br />I am the swift uplifting rush<br />Of quiet birds in circled flight. </span></span></span></div><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I am the soft stars that shine at night. </span></span></div><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Do not stand at my grave and cry; </span></span></div><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I am not there. I did not die. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHvE8nY-ZiI/AAAAAAAAACg/wRldAnT0I0Y/s1600-h/stars.jpg"></a></span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHvE8nY-ZiI/AAAAAAAAACg/wRldAnT0I0Y/s1600-h/stars.jpg"></a></span></span></div></strong><div align="right"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Anonymous</span></span></strong></div></span></span></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-78960804955060578?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-14041538387265205002008-07-14T01:38:00.000-07:002008-07-21T01:03:30.076-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">This version of "Blackbird" is from the movie, </span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Across the Universe</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">. Influenced by my dad, I have always had a great love for the Beatles. "Blackbird" was one of the first songs I ever learned to play on the guitar. The day after I lost my dad, I was spending some time with his girlfriend, Debbie. She mentioned to me that a few months ago, she watched </span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Across the Universe</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"> with my dad. When this song came on, my dad started to cry. My dad told Debbie that he was crying because I sang this song, and he always thought that I sang it so beautifully. Although it was extremely difficult for me to sing this song at his memorial service, I am so glad that I did. Thank you, Rachel, for singing with me and holding my hand as I offered this song to my dad.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-1404153838726520500?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638548752766675834.post-11613588681846235692008-07-14T00:58:00.000-07:002008-07-21T01:03:56.875-07:00<div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Of all the times in my life to begin a blog, I feel that this is the most appropriate. This has been a week marked by end, in the most terrible and final sort of way. July 7, 2008, was the day that I discovered the loss of my father and best friend. Over the week, I have learned that everyone had their own version of David Lynn Porter. Although there were some recurring themes, it seems like he had built his own special, personal relationship with every life he touched; and boy, did he touch many. Thank you Denise, Paul, Susan, and Evan for sharing your memories of my father at his memorial service. It is my hope that I can use this blog to help release some of my thoughts and feelings about my Davey P. Hopefully, in doing so I will come closer to the closure and acceptance of this situation that I am so desperately seeking. Until I reach the point where I feel like I will be able to do my feelings some justice, I will leave you all with the completed picture from his obituary. It meant so much to me that we decided to use this one. His spirit shines in this picture, and I remember the night it was taken as a good night when he was at one of the happiest points in his life.</span></span></div><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHsO2ydcNDI/AAAAAAAAABA/T1asR2FA424/s1600-h/IMG_0580.JPG"><span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222784527287202866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/__MWNvTlxY-A/SHsO2ydcNDI/AAAAAAAAABA/T1asR2FA424/s320/IMG_0580.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></span><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">With all my heart, I love you Davey P. You are my father and friend. More than anything, I long to call you, to talk to you, to touch you, and to be with you right now. </span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5638548752766675834-1161358868184623569?l=dianeporter.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09468679492612268660noreply@blogger.com3