My new favorite word

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На основании Вашего запроса эти примеры могут содержать разговорную лексику.

that is my new favorite word.

I just found my new favorite word.

I think «Ubuntu» is my new favorite word!

I Hate Saying No, But It Is My New Favorite Word

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“Apocaloptimism” My New Favorite Word for 2023

January 13, 2023 • by Mary Poindexter McLaughlin

On the last day of 2022, I opened the front door of the rented Airbnb I was sharing with my husband and adult kids to find them (all but one) huddled around our elderly Labrador Samson, openly sobbing.

I knew Sam had had mobility issues that morning, and we had booked an appointment with an emergency vet… but what was this?

“He can’t walk,” my husband Peter said, completely choked up. I nodded, and got down low with Sam to stroke his velveteen ears.

The unsaid hung thick, permeating our little circle. It was clear that everyone around me believed Sam’s time was up.

I had just spent the previous few hours in the most delightful, soul-enriching conversation with two friends over breakfast, the kind of rare conversation that is like one long spiral of ascending hope and “synchrodestiny,” as Deepak Chopra would say.

We shared ideas over eggs and smoothie bowls, each thought igniting the next and the next, building on the one before: a reaffirmation of the unique power of a group in sync. I’ve felt that kind of magic before, but usually only when I’m acting in a scene with skilled improvisers.

When the participants — or in this case, the friends sharing breakfast — open their hearts and listen deeply, ideas flow effortlessly. Obstacles don’t occur. Creativity pulls up a chair and stays all day — which is why I could have stayed at that table until the sun fell.

Yet Samson was having trouble, and I was needed, so I hugged one of my friends goodbye and hopped in the car of the other one, who drove me to the Airbnb.

Our nuclear family of five hadn’t been together since before we sold the family house. Regular readers know that the whole selling, packing, and moving process was pretty heinous for me — though isn’t it always that way, for everyone? — but I’ve never written about the resentment that percolated in my youngest after we sold the place.

Still in college, Henry was blindsided by our decision. Sure, Peter and I had talked about it, but because we had waffled for so long, Henry thought it wouldn’t actually come to pass. His parents talked about a lot of things that never materialized.

He also struggled with our reasons for leaving New York State. To him, our departure seemed rash, founded on a reality he did not share. (More on why we left in my earlier essay, Cowardice and Courage.) Why did he have to leave behind such a Mayberry-like setting, (and his hometown sweetheart) just for his parents’ misguided principles?

In August, he loaded up his beloved old Jeep, slid behind the cockeyed steering wheel, and raised his hand in a half-hearted wave as he steered out the driveway for the last time and headed toward Boston, where a cheap flight to Athens, Greece, awaited. Fall semester of his junior year in college was about to commence.

Eight hours later, and forty-five minutes from his destination in Massachusetts, the vehicle rattled and knocked, and AAA towed it the rest of the way. He went off to Greece frustrated by the Jeep’s breakdown, sad to be saying goodbye to his girlfriend, and angry that we were selling his childhood home.

From there, he communicated with us via WhatsApp in conversations that didn’t seem to make anything any better. It didn’t help that his roommate’s father died within the first week, or that he contracted Covid almost immediately upon arrival, or that the Jeep was beyond repair and had to be sold for parts.

It didn’t help that a local real estate agent fleeced him and his roommate for €1300.

It also didn’t help that a few weeks later, riding a moped back to its rental location, he drove through a confusing intersection and crashed into another vehicle, flipping up onto the car’s hood and onto the ground. Banged up and bruised, but miraculously unharmed, he limped away from the accident, confidence shaken and morale plummeting. Paying for the destroyed moped swallowed up most of his savings — almost everything he had earned over the summer working at a bike shop.

Suspecting that the world was actively trying to crush him, he found evidence of its malintent when his computer screen zapped to black and never revived during finals week. Then, as he attempted to locate someone who could help him fix it, confirmation of his suspicion arrived in the form of a walloping illness: fever, exhaustion, wracking cough, etc., etc., etc.

Covid? RSV? Who knows. Who cares, when you finally know for certain that the universe is out to get you?

Unable to leave his bed and use the library’s computers, he failed three of his four classes. It was the semester’s coup de grace.

I was deeply worried about him. He sounded so hopeless on the phone, like an airless balloon. Gone was the cheery confidence, the scrappy joie de vivre. I couldn’t wait to be in his physical presence, to hug him and tell him it would all be okay.

After Christmas, the five of us finally converged, and I was able to do just that. But by the 31st, however, all was not well.

Samson is a rescue, who came to us 11 years ago when an exasperated 10-year-old Henry said, after listening to months of well-intentioned back-and-forthing about the pros and cons of dog ownership, “are we EVER going to actually GET a dog??”

Acquiring Samson was more bureaucratically arduous than having a child, which probably says something about the mixed-up world in which we live, but I can’t actually put my finger on what.

We had never had a dog before, only cats, so it took some time to adjust to Samson’s canine ways — his penchant for lying in muddy holes in the rain, his desire (and ability!) to eat anything and everything, his regular confiscation and burial of single gloves.

He also had to adjust to being a part of our family. He jumped up on us and on visitors a lot in the beginning, and he broke through the electric fence a few times, chasing a fox deep into the woods. On one of those occasions, he got lost and ended up wandering on double yellow of Center, a 55-mph road half a mile from our house. We joked that he must be a genius, because he thought he was just following directions: “Center!”

Over time, Sam calmed down. He stopped jumping on people. He loved everyone, including the UPS driver (though that may have something to do with the dog treats he brought), and the two cats we had. He sat on anyone’s lap, and would remain there indefinitely, panting his wharf-like dogbreath and hairing up their pants with his toasted marshmallow-colored fur.

Everyone loves their family dog, and we were no exception.

So six months ago, when his bark slowly but surely disappeared and his breathing turned ragged, we were all concerned. After performing a few simple tests, the vet determined that he was declining in normal labrador fashion, with “laryngeal paralysis” due to degenerative nerves — which was also causing some reduced hip mobility.

“There’s not much you can do,” she said kindly, which, as usual, I rejected. Not that I said that out loud; I’ve long given up on arguing with health professionals unless there’s something immediate I need, like a prescription only they can provide. And even then, I don’t argue, I flatter them into it.

I put Sam on some herbal supplements and added some myelin sheath rebuilders to his diet, and within a month, his breathing improved. He was definitely still having some trouble jumping into the car, but nothing too dramatic.

So when I walked in on the family, clustered around him in abject despair, I was confused. I was also, if you’ll recall, coming directly from The Transcendent Breakfast, which had left me in a state of pure, expansive, creative bliss.

As I took in the scene, then stepped into the scene, I had a peculiar floaty feeling, like I was both part of the reality and outside it, simultaneously.

Grief surrounded me, but all I felt was love. At various moments that love distilled itself into compassion for Peter and the kids, or into gratitude for Sam and his sweet presence in our lives. It also transmuted into hope.

As dire as the situation was — he could not, indeed, walk — I was not actually able to project into the future and imagine his demise. I could only stay in the present moment and absorb all of the love radiating from and to every being in that room. Really, the whole space felt full and alive and pulsating with goodness.

Which is why, when I came across the word “apocaloptimism” in Margaret Anna Alice‘s Substack a week later, tears stung my eyes. I’d never heard the word before, and I still don’t know who coined it, but I knew that was what I had experienced.

It’s defined online as the attitude someone takes “who knows it’s all going to shit, but still thinks it will turn out okay.”

There is no more perfect word for how I feel about the world right now, or for how I felt as I stood there witnessing my dog’s inability to stand and walk. I was so lit from within, I couldn’t conceive of an outcome that wasn’t okay. It was like I was embodying the adage, attributed to many:

“In the end, it’s all okay. And if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

For those of you who are not Apocaloptimists, let me put your mind at ease right now.

We drove to the local animal hospital, where the vet listened carefully to the circumstances of Sam’s debilitation, looked him over, and pronounced him in good shape — a little arthritic in the hips, but with plenty of life ahead of him. She gave him an NSAID painkiller, talked with us knowledgeably and encouragingly about natural alternatives, and sent us on our way.

Within 30 minutes, he was looking like a puppy again.

We’ve traded the NSAID for food-based anti-inflammatory supplements and CBD chews for his joints, and he’s been jumping in and out of the car with no problem. It feels like a minor miracle.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine,
Under every grief and pine,
Runs a joy with silken twine.
It is right it should be so,
We were made for joy and woe,
And when this we rightly know,
Through the world we safely go.

~ by William Blake

There’s one more piece of this story.

A few days after Samson’s reprieve, I hung out with Henry, chatting. His spirits had improved considerably since the end of the semester, and he seemed genuinely happy to be back with the family.

The subject turned toward the house, and I could sense the direction we were headed: another round of “my reality is realer than your reality.” I had no desire to go there, and told him as much. I also told him I love him, and that that is all that really matters.

To my surprise, he took a different path. He expressed concern for me. He reminded me that when Covid started, I told him his father and I were on different sides of the fence because I wasn’t willing to stare into the abyss of human darkness the way Peter was. It was too frightening, and I didn’t want to live from that place of fear.

I agreed; it was all true.

“Aren’t you doing that now?” he asked, gently. “You write about dark stuff now, stuff you didn’t want to focus on. Or stuff you never used to care about.”

I wanted to interject, but I held myself back. I just nodded, listening.

“And you’re not writing plays anymore.” His eyes welled up. “I’m worried that you’re not happy.”

Any defensiveness vanished. “Oh, Hen,” I said. “I understand.”

I’m sure it was confusing to him. How could I explain how the past few years had changed me? How I went from avoiding the stuff I was afraid of, to having the courage to stay curious, to accepting reality — all of it, light and dark?

I talked about my deepening connection with Source giving me strength, allowing me to step out of fear and act on principle.

I talked about how the events in our lives change us, how my interest in healing became an obsession when his sister got sick and doctors couldn’t offer her anything, how I care deeply about freedom now that I’ve experienced the loss of it.

I tried to tell him how I moved from blind optimism through despair and into the place I find myself now: a state of constant cultivation of hope in the midst of uncertainty.

I talked about all of that, and other stuff, too. “I’m happy, Henry. I really am,” I said, immediately realizing how impossible it is to convince someone else of that.

In the end, I don’t know how much any of what I said really made the difference.

I suspect that it was our embrace, heads on each other’s shoulders, silent and teary, that healed us.

And so I nominate “apocaloptimism” as Word of the Year for 2023, because in order to manifest anything, you must first name what you desire.

This powerful word, so filled with gorgeous sorcery, has been coined recently because we need it. We need a way to describe the feeling when you believe your dog is dying, or your son doesn’t understand you, or the world is going to shit… and you still think it will turn out okay.

This article was republished from the author’s Substack

So I thought I’d take this opportunity to educate you guys on my new favorite word. Despite being a new addition to the lexicon (spell check doesn’t recognize it) it nevertheless describes something that affects all of us everyday and has existed possibly since the beginning of civilization. Despite this, its something most people are unaware of. So I’d like to introduce it to you and explain how it affects my life and yours.

So what’s the word?

Amatonormativity.

You may notice it’s somewhat similar to a concept we have discussed in class, heteronormativity. Heteronormativity, as you may remember, is define as the cultural norm that heterosexual relationships are universal and preferred. So what’s amatonormativity? Amatonormativity, as defined by philosopher Elizabeth Brake in her book Minimizing Marriage: Marriage, Morality, and the Law,  is “the assumption that a central, exclusive, amorous relationship is normal for humans, in that it is a universally shared goal, and that such a relationship is normative, in the sense that it should be aimed at in preference to other relationship types”. I was amazed when I discovered this word. Who knew that there was such a concise way of communicating about the issues aromantic people face? Our society is full of amatonormativity! It is pervasive and unrelenting, and once you know what it is, you start to see it everywhere. It can e more explicit, such as the assertion that experiencing romantic love is a necessary component of humanity, or it can exist in a commonly used phrase, like “just friends”. (“Just” friends? Is friendship not important? That phrase is usually used to distinguish a platonic relationship from a romantic one, and implies that the relationship is lesser because it is only “just” platonic.”) Recently it was Valentine’s Day, which is a holiday just rife with amatonormativity. Not in a romantic relationship? You must be lonely and sad and wishing you were. Because all of your other important relationships — like the love of family and friends — are nothing compared to a romantic relationship! Ugh.

It is assumed that it is a life goal of everyone to want to get married, that everyone has experienced crushes (Fun fact: aromantic people do experience something called a squish, which is a strong desire to have a platonic relationship with someone!), that theres really no such thing as aromanticism – you just “haven’t found the right person yet.” When you wear makeup or nice clothing it can’t be because you enjoy it or it makes you feel good about yourself, it must be because you want romantic attention! And romantic subplots are shoehorned into media of all kinds.

There’s another important component of amatonormativity in addition to the presumption — the part about romantic relationships being considered preferable, and more important, than other relationship types. Here’s an example I like to use: Say you are in a long-term romantic relationship, for several months or so, and your partner lands their dream job that happens to be on the other side of the country. So they’re going to have to move. What about you? Well, you’re expected to move with them, or at least start making plans to join them whenever possible. But what if instead of a partner, it’s your closest friend who has to move? Someone you’ve known most of your life and know better than anyone. People would think you were crazy to follow them — you’re simply expected to try and keep in touch through technology. People will express sympathy, but say that  “you can always make new friends.” The same thing would never be said about a long term romantic relationship, because it’s considered to be more important than friendship or even family. As a result, aromantic people like myself who consider their friendships the most important can find that the other person doesn’t attach the same value to their relationship. Friends are considered disposable, after all — just make some new ones!

In an ideal world, me and my best friend would live together forever. But I live in constant dread that one day she will be in a romantic relationship and leave, and my friendship will not be as important to her anymore. I can’t help but see a future where I’m alone. This is why I find an otherwise happy episode of the TV show Sherlock sad – John gets married, and the ending shot is of Sherlock alone on the dance floor as his only friend leaves to start his new life as a married man. I can’t help but see my future in that moment. (I like to think of Sherlock as being an aromantic asexual. Sure would be nice to actually have explicitly aromantic fictional characters though. Like, any. Any at all. Instead, a common way to “humanize” or endear a character to an audience is to show that they are capable of romantic feelings.)

So theres a little introduction to the concept of amatonormativity! Unfortunately, it’s so new that there isn’t a lot written on it/resources on it. Hopefully you learned something from tis post and will now begin to notice examples of it in your life, and maybe even speak out against it. Thanks for reading!

I have a pretty good vocabulary, but I don’t like to use difficult words unnecessarily. I prefer that whatever I am saying or writing should be easily comprehensible; for example, I would rather say that a certain book needs to be written rather than to describe it as a scholarly desiderata. And books which use words like «ontological» do not appeal to me.

However, sometimes there is such a word for which there is no adequate simpler alternative. And I have decided that the word «epistemology» perfectly encapsulates the difference between rationalists and non-rationalists.

Epistemology refers to the concept of how knowledge is acquired. There are fundamental differences in how people reach their opinions about things, and this comes into sharp contrast with the topics of my books. How do we decide if Chazal erred in science? Do we evaluate their statements in light of science? Do we evaluate science in light of their statements? Do we look at what the Rishonim say? Do we follow what the Gedolim say? And if so, which Gedolim?

I recently noticed a long-defunct and short-lived blog, «Banned In Bnei Brak: The Natan Slifkin Controversy.» It’s worth taking a look at, especially the comments. The author of the blog is open about his belief that there isn’t even an issue to debate with regard to who is right:

…»controversy» implies that there are two sides arguing — perhaps not of equal strength but each with it’s own merits. And to pit one man against practically every Gadol — including some who initially supported him, as we shall see — is perhaps not best described as a «controversy.»

It’s all about epistemology.

(Hat tip — the person who shares a ride with me in the morning on Tuesdays.)

 

Ever walk into a room and the people seem to quiet down when they see you? What thoughts go through your head? Were they just talking about me? What were they saying? Did I do something? Does my outfit look bad? Do I have something in my teeth? Oh my goodness, they saw me when I tripped and fell in the parking lot, didn’t they? I’m so embarrassed. All day you stew about this interaction and your brain gives you lots and lots to think about, worry about, and ultimately guess as to what they were saying about you.

Can you relate? Paranoia…not fun, right? When we’re paranoid our thoughts spin out and all the sudden everything around us is scary and out to get us. I know this sounds ridiculous but it’s what we do. Each thought branches to another thought that creates this chain of paranoid thoughts. It’s exhausting!

What if it didn’t have to be that way? What if there was a way you could think the opposite? What if when you walk into a room and everyone seems to quiet down that you instead think that they’re planning your surprise unbirthday party? Wouldn’t that be awesome??? What if instead of feeling PARANOID you felt PRONOID instead???

The prefix, Para, derived from Greek origins, which means: AGAINST

Thinking the world, people, circumstances are against you. Almost like you’re constantly in battle. This is a terrible place to be in. But what if you could feel like the world, people, and circumstances were FOR you? This is a real thing, actually. Brian Little created this concept. It’s called PRONOID.

“Pronoia…is defined as the opposite state of mind to paranoia: having the sense that there is a conspiracy that exists to HELP the person. It is also used to describe a philosophy that the world is set up to secretly benefit people.”

Did you read that? Wouldn’t THAT be amazing? To think the opposite of being paranoid? To think that every person is there to HELP you? That the world, every circumstance, every moment you are alive on the earth that things are working to give you exactly what you want?

Are you mind-blown?

Think about that for a minute. How would that feel to think the thought, “I wonder what other awesome things those people are going to say about me?” Instead of, “I wonder what they’re saying about me. They probably think I’m a bad mom.”

What would it feel like to think, “Oh, look they’re pointing at me. I bet they’re telling someone else how great they think I am.”?

When you get up and give a talk at church or teach a lesson in front of a large group you’re not consumed with the paranoid thoughts that everyone is secretly laughing at you, or making fun of you, or thinking how stupid you sound. If you weren’t consumed with those thoughts, what could you use that energy on? If you didn’t have to worry about what “they” think, what would you do? If you didn’t have to edit the things you say/do in front of others in fear that they’ll think something about you, how much more would you share?

How vast is the upside of feeling PRONOID instead of PARANOID? Huge, right?

You have control over that. You CAN choose this. You CAN choose to feel this by choosing to think thoughts that everyone LOVES you, that everyone knows you are amazing and valuable and a ROCK STAR. If you can choose this, why wouldn’t you?

Imagine just what kind of world it would be if we ALL operated from a PRONOID state. Where everyone is living confidently, from abundance, and genuinely loving life. Truly, truly, what a wonderful world it would be.

Try it out. Take this feeling for a test drive. See how incredible it feels to drop the paranoia and worry for a day, how freeing it is! What are you going to do with all your extra time???

Let me know how if goes for you!

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If this seems waaaay out there and you just can’t even wrap your head around it, totally okay. Set up a mini – let’s chat. It’s free, coaching on whatever you need, you won’t regret it!

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01.09.15My New Favorite Word

A Powerful Little Word, That

My new favorite word is ‘pause’- especially when it’s used in place of the word ‘stop.’  We’ve been discussing this a lot lately at our workshops- in a lot of different settings.

Consider, for example, a ‘rally-killer,’ a student who hogs the stage at exactly the wrong time: you ask for a piece of evidence that Jonas’ perspective is changing and he begins a long-winded and meandering rehearsal of everything he knows about the novel.  Meanwhile you’ve got a lesson to cover.  Honestly, you can’t let him go on forever. But saying, “Stop” is just a bit harsh, especially when the idea is to discuss your thinking, after all.  It’s a misdemeanor and a well-meaning one at that.  Saying, “Pause,” possibly followed by “I like your thinking but I want to let some other folks join in” or “but I really want to focus on the evidence for how Jonas is changing,” has a gentleness- a pause implies you might start up again, that you will continue at some point. Which is true.

It’s also useful in behavioral situations.  You make a relatively low level correction of a student and she reacts hotly, her words–exaggerating the situation, a bit defensive maybe–working her up into a state.  To tell a student in that state of emotion to stop is likely to get her more worked up. But “pause” has a calming effect.  As in: “Pause, Sara. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I asked if you had your book. I haven’t asked why yet. We haven’t discussed what we’re going to do about it if you don’t.  I just asked whether you have it. Do you?” Saying “pause” is like saying “time out.” Calms the student. Calms you too.

I noticed a top soccer  coach using it the other day too. One of the really important things to do when stopping a practice to make a teaching point is to be quick, to avoid over-talking and to get back to playing quickly.  Of course if players know you’ll be quick and then they’ll be back at it ASAP, they’re more attentive while you’re talking and you can make your point faster. It’s a virtuous cycle.  The coach used the word ‘pause’ to break the drill for a coaching point. As always, it implied that they’d be back playing soon. And it was a reminder to him. It set in his mind the expectation that his breaks would be fast.  And they were. “Pause,” he’d say.  “When you make that run it can’t look lazy like this.  It has to be sharp like this. With acceleration. Let me see that now. Play!” Result: his kids were locked-in attentive and his breaks were lightning fast.

I was reminded of the power of pause again today in our workshop on Writing for Reading.  Cristin from Capitol Collegiate in Sacramento was modeling inserting a writing prompt after reading and before discussion. After a student finished a paragraph she used the magic word: “Pause,” she said. “I want to know more about what Mr. MacGregor means when he shouts ‘Good gracious, a rabbit!’ Take one minute to write in your journals.  What does he mean by that?”

The word “pause” was perfect. It reminded students that they’d be back to reading soon and kept them looking forward to that.  But it also preserved efficiency. Since it implied “we’ll get back to reading in just a minute” she didn’t have to say that and she could transition smoothly and immediately into writing while the text was fresh in her students’ minds.

Yes, indeed, it’s a fine word, that ‘pause.’  So happy to have paused briefly here to admire it.

Pause

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One of my favorite new words, which I learned while talking to a clerk in a bookstore in Ambleside when I was buying a book on sheep, is “heaf.”  (Yes, I now buy books on sheep! Please don’t let this influence your decision about whether or not to keep reading.)

 To put this word into context, I had to learn another new word: “fell.” A fell is what they call a mountainside in the Lake District area; they might say, “fellside,” instead of mountainside.  “Heaf,” then, is an old Norse word that describes a certain area of fellside where sheep graze. Picture it for a moment.  See the hill?  See the sheep?  (Don’t worry, this has a good ending and stops being like the 4th grade in about one second).  Beatrix Potter (you like it better already, don’t you?) raised a breed of sheep (endangered at the time), called Herdwick sheep.  She especially liked this breed because it remembers its native heaf  and returns to it instinctively.  It’s said that Herdwick sheep are “heafed to the fell.”  Isn’t that great? Heafed to the fell.  Says it all.  I’m heafed too; heafed to my own version of fell, which happens to be this↓.

H o m e . 

(When I think about it, it’s such a short uncomfortable leap from “heafed to the fell,” to “heifer on the hill!”  I know my dad will try to work in a joke here somewhere — I think I make it too easy for him! ♥)

The kitties were happy to see us (but not as happy as I was to see them!), Girl Kitty cried (my baby); we have been joined at the hip ever since; she has never slept cozier,  next to me! Jack still has his round kitty eyes, he still chases the ball, he sashays back and forth, curling around my legs, saying, in no uncertain words, I’m so happy you are  H o m e !

We drove up the back driveway, to the smell of cut grass and the old boxwood around the kitchen door. Dragged the twelve or fourteen (we’ve lost count) bags into the house, kissed the kitties, and pulled out all the cute things we brought home, arranged them on the dining room table, going Ohhh, and Ahhh, and Remember this?

Woke up yesterday morning in our own bed!!!  First words: Where am I?  Made tea, started a load of laundry, took my cup and walked all over the yard, to see what’s up in the garden, to smell the roses, pull a couple of weeds;  when Joe got up, we walked out through the woods to the pond; how’re the wild blueberries doing this year?; came home, more unpacking, more laundry, and we hung our flag on the house.  Which requires antics on our part, hanging out open upstairs windows.

Last night we walked down to the harbor ↑ to look at the moon and get a whiff of breezy salt air; the outdoor restaurants were lit up and filled with summer people, the terns were swooping and diving into the water, making those little plopping water noises . . . we window-shopped down our little Main Street; stopped for ice cream cones (pistachio and mocha chip in sugar cones), then walked back up the hill; our neighborhood was so quiet; a million fireflies flicked through the bushes around us.      H o m e.

Because we are  H o m e, we have heafed to the fell . . . and the timing couldn’t be more perfect:  Martha’s Vineyard looks and smells like a million bucks.

The whole place is dressed to kill, little straps falling off shoulders and everything.

And now, the Fourth of July!  How perfect!  So what are you doing tomorrow?  I hope it’s something fun!  We’re going to walk across the street, to my girlfriend Martha’s, for a good ole’ barbecue with our friends and their kids.  All-American hamburgers and hot dogs — and potluck for the rest of it.  We’re bringing crunchy White Bean Salad, and cold Lemon Rice salad; made gorgeous with fresh herbs and lots of colorful flower petals; even if you’re not cooking, a look at a photo of this salad is worth it . . . so pretty!  . . . and Joe’s hot garlic French Bread.  How bad can it be?  I Tweeted the recipes today, but, just in case you missed them, here we go again!

America the Beautiful!  God shed his grace on thee.  And us too, please. ♥

I feel so lucky.  Number One, when you go away, you’re never quite sure you’ll make it back alive . . . but we did!  Out and back, like clockwork!  And number two; we’re Home.  Heafed and Happy.

And we will never, ever, ever, forget the beauty of the Mother Country; the world history that’s encompassed there, and the smart, funny, charming people we met along the way. ♥

And I will never ever forget how wonderful it was traveling with YOU!  The funnest girls ever!  I have lots more  photos and moments to tell you about; there’s also a very special give-away coming soon, to mark this trip; it was pretty good, don’t you think?  It deserves something special . . . after I get the mail taken care of, I’ll be back!!

Mmmm. Someone just lit their barbecue in our neighborhood  . . . the smell is coming in through the window of my studio.  Two summer smells I love: coconut suntan lotion and a just-lit barbecue.   Happy 4th Everyone! ♥ God Bless America.