Forecast Says...

You know how it's been raining here for the last few weeks nonstop? Well it has and the best weather is supposed to be coming for Christmas. It's supposed to be a little bit sunny on Christmas Eve and then Guess what? Snow! On Christmas! It could possibly change so cross your fingers tight!
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas.
~

I cut my hair!

BeforeAfter

This is the shortest it's been since I was six! I think I cut off six inches or so. It's very curly and I love it!!! I'm at least two pounds lighter!

Chaurel's here!

Wise Words

"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this horror. I can take the next think that comes along.' Your must do the thing you think you cannot do."
Eleanor Roosevelt

I had my first meet on Friday. It didn't go so well, but I'm still figuring out a lot of mental stuff I need to work on. It's really all a learning experience and I'm trying hard to look at it like that. sooooo.
Acacia and Dave Myers arrived yesterday night. I'm very happy they're here. Dave has to leave on Thursday, but I think Acacia's staying through Christmas. Laurel will be here next week, Monday I think.
What I want the most right now is more snow. There's just more rain rain rain. Did I mention it's raining?

The Golden Compass

Having just finished the book two days earlier, Stefan and Aimee agreed to go see the movie with me. My hopes were very high, but I walked out of the theatre very disappointed. I have not watched many movies made from books, and the ones I have followed the story quite decently(i.e Chronicles of Narnia). I guess nothing beats the theatre of your imagination, and the chances are very high that movies won't ever beat it. I have to say, though, it was not all bad. The part where Iofur Raknison(Ragnur in the movie) got half his head knocked off by Iorek Byrnison was almost exactly like I pictured it except that there was a lot more blood and gore in my mind. Also the part Lyra Belacqua was played quite well.

Enough of my ranting.

OH! Why Should the Spirit of the Mortal be Proud?

OH! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high
Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,--
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
The scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,--
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
William Knox 1789-1825

Very good poem.

and Then it rained...

and now there's no snow.

It's December...

God blessed us with a bucket of Cotton today. Lightly at first and then it just dumped. It's been over seven years--in Leona Valley-- since the last time I've seen it fall. Absolutely beautiful. Wow, I could sit hours on end just watching it snow... snow... snow:) Of course the occasion was marked with a snowball in the face. mmmmmmm... Excuse me please. I need to go look out the window again
~