Stir

I plunged my wooden spoon down into the center of the batter and carefully pulled it up and toward the outside of the glass bowl only to repeat the process again after slightly turning my bowl after each stir.  The smell of vanilla mixed with buttermilk and flour made it difficult not to eat the mixture before it made it to the hot, buttered skillet.  I allowed myself only about ten stirs.  If you have ever made pancakes - or if you have ever heeded Alton Brown's advice - you should  NEVER over-mix.  In fact, there should still be small clumps of flour mixture remaining in your batter when you are finished.

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Glimpse

Stories have been told since the beginning of time.  Passed down from generation to generation.  Spread across the world from one country to another.  Embellished with fictional dragons, wizards, and lands where trees walk and speak.  Inspired by a truth that will not be silent.

Today, stories can be told in many different ways - through books, movies, blogs, and the list goes on.  What do you do when you are on the brink of hearing a story?

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Every Reason

I am gazing through my office window looking over the treetops to the other side of the cold creek that lies who-knows-how-far below my house at the bottom of a rocky cliff.  Remnants of snow lay on the ground and blasts of cold air are trying to push the cedars to their breaking point.  My wind chimes have not rested all morning.  Birds are pecking at the hard ground looking for anything to satisfy their hunger.  It's the kind of day that implores you to stop working and curl up under a blanket on the couch with a mug of hot cocoa.  I'm trying to resist the appeal...

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Keep Moving Forward...

Do you ever feel the need to just keep moving forward?  Driven by a fear of standing still?  Worried you might turn back into the person you were yesterday - the person that inhaled raw cookie dough straight from the fridge?  With a spoon?

Me, too.  I just needed to write.

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One Word

Sixty seconds never went by without a machine beeping.  It was usually signaling that her oxygen levels had dropped below the parameter set on the machine.  Respiratory therapists would come and do their treatment on her, which was similar to when a massage therapist performs a percussion-type regimen on your back.  She never found her "massage" quite as relaxing as I do.  Her oxygen levels would improve if I held her up to my chest with her face squished against my collarbone.

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