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My Grandmother's Gift

1/22/2021

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The gift wasn't addressed to me. It had no  tag or festive paper. Truth be told, my grandmother had no idea that there would ever be a Twylla to pass along her book to. No one even remembered that the book existed for almost 100 years.
My aunt, the last surviving child of my grandparents' six, discovered it "somewhere" and passed it onto my brother, among other memorabilia. He thought that as a writer, I might like it. "Like it," of course, is an understatement. It is the most precious of Grandma's possessions I could have ever imagined holding in my hands.

I didn't open it immediately. I waited for  a quiet morning  when it was just Grandma, the book and me. I took it to the Hendrix College library (see last blog posting), still empty of students. I sat at a table with my hands on the crumpled plastic bag, recalling a photo taken of Grandma when she was newly married. I imagined her touching the pages, finding her own quiet moments for reading.

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I slowly, carefully – so as not to damage a single fragile page – removed it from the plastic.

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Little Women, one of my favorites, given to Grandma (May) by her older sister, Carrie.
All I could do was breathe.  Without the inscription, it would have still been a treasure, an 1880 edition – published only 11 years after Louisa May Alcott submitted it to the Library of Congress as a newly written book. But with the inscription, it held a story of its very own. A gift given from one sister to another – like sisters Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy, whose stories filled the pages in front of me.
For the next hour, I turned every page, pausing to read a paragraph here and there. I  secretly hoped that I might find a letter Grandma had written, stuck between pages, then forgotten. Maybe she had left words in margins or favorite passages underlined – tangible remembrances.

But nothing, until near the end.
I turned a page and discovered a single brown hair.

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Had it floated to the page as she was reading? Then she had closed the book and set it aside, with no way of knowing that the next person who would see it, 
would be...me?

I will show the book to my own grandchildren and tell them stories of their great-great grandmother who taught me how to play Scrabble and dominoes, let me help her pin sheets to the clothesline, sat beside me at church every Sunday, altered my wedding dress. And who, once upon a time, had a sister who gave her a special book. 

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A Library All to Myself (almost)

10/26/2020

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Imagine having this entire library – the entire building – all to yourself, except for two friendly librarians. For anyone like me who loves to read and write, it's heaven! 

Hendrix College in Conway, Arkansas, a 10-minute walk from our house, is closed to in-person classes for the fall semester due to Covid-19. The students who would be walking between buildings, stretched out in grassy spaces, sitting around tables sipping coffee and discussing the meaning of life, are virtually absent. They zoom in and out without leaving a trace.

Desperately needing a place to write that is not our dining table, kitchen island or bed, I emailed Britt Murphy, the head librarian, on the off chance that she or her colleagues might be working in the actual library. If so, could I possibly come twice a week, sit in a quiet corner – with my mask on – and write? She wrote back, "We are open! Monday–Friday, 8-5. We'd love to have you." I literally jumped for joy. 

I dusted off my computer bag, filled it with laptop, journal, favorite pink gel pen, water bottle and reading glasses. I laid out clothes, which were not my regular "pandemic inspired" jogging pants or leggings.  At 9:00 o'clock the next morning, I walked to the library with purpose in my steps, like it was my first day on a new job.

I sit here today in the philopshy section writing my blog, not another person on the second floor. I can barely hear Britt and fellow librarian Amy talking downstairs. If not for their voices, I would think that thousands of books and I were totally alone.
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Another day I choose to sit in the sunshine, allowing its warmth to transport me to another sunny day almost 60 years in the past. I write about helping my grandmother pin sheets and pillowcases to her backyard clothesline – a book of memories in the making.

When I need a break, I wander through the shelves until l arrive at my favorite spot in the library, the Juvenile Fiction section. I select the same book I've been reading for several days, a few chapters at a time – Autumn Street by Lois Lowry.

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​Since books can't be checked out of the library now, I'm content to cozy up in the blue rocker and find out what happens next to Elizabeth and her family, as World War II changes all their lives. Then I slip the book back precisely in place, until next time. 
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I return to my spot for a final edit when I see two masked young women coming up the staircase. We wave. I notice their backpacks and a thick, textbookish tome one of them is carrying. REAL students! As appreciative as I am for the library's solitude, I'm more pleased with the company. LIbraries are meant to be shared, and hopefully soon, Bailey Library will welcome us all.  
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Reawakening During the Pandemic

9/18/2020

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Three weeks ago I took a big step, one I was still questioning the wisdom of, as I packed my suitcase the night before. I got on an airplane and flew to Portland, Maine, where our daughter and her family live and where Drew and I own a condo.

Let me repeat the first part of that sentence more slowly  I.got.on.an.airplane. 

Like many (all?) of you, I was tired of staying primarily in place – seeing the same sights, doing the same things, missing the part of our family I had not seen in six months and wondering when I would ever see them again. I had grown fearful of living my life.... to the point of stagnation. I no longer felt like myself.

My "Should I go to Portland?" pro/con list was top-heavy with one item – I want to go, or more accurately, I NEED to go. 

Obviously, and gratefully, I survived and have shown no symptoms of Covid, to which I credit good fortune and my bordering-on-compulsive safety precautions. For a complete list, leave a message in the Comments section. (Just kidding, kind of.)  But this blog post is not so much about getting here as it is being here.

After another set of precautions, I joined Katherine's family pod, meaning I could be in the same space with them, which for someone who has been at a 6 ft. physical distance from almost everyone for 6 months, feels like a reawakening.​ 
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I find myself outdoors at every possible opportunity. My senses are on high alert to even the most delicate blossom, the whiff of an unfamiliar fragrance, sights in tucked-in places, as well as broad, inspiring vistas. I may have seen them before, but never appreciated being able to see them, as deeply as I am during this visit.
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I recently texted a friend as I was watching the last glows of a sunset, "A change of scenery is good for the soul." In reflecting on that comment, I've come to realize that the key word is change. For me, change has translated into a literal journey of new sights, sounds and reconnections. But in a broader sense, I changed the rhythm of my life, an action I can take no matter where I am.  

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When I return to Arkansas, I will look for the same sun to set; but I will need to venture out of my neighborhood, maybe even the city, to see it clearly – a new, and welcome rhythm.
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Time for Some Fun!

8/13/2020

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As the pandemic stretches on, my days flow into each other with little to differentiate them. A trip to the grocery store or post office feels like an event to put on the calendar. I needed something to shake things up a bit, something FUN; but I needed help. I needed children! And the lucky grandmother that I am, I have five of them just 25 minutes away.

What could we do that would be outdoors, socially distanced (two families plus me) on a 95-degree, 98% humidity-drenching day in Arkansas?
ART!
I could resurrect my elementary school teacher creativity and plan a variety of activities to enjoy in one of their front yards. YARD ART, or as one of the grandchildren later renamed it... an ART PARTY.

I borrowed ideas from the internet (credited below), ordered materials, then let the Fun begin when the Amazon box arrived.   
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 As a teacher, planning and preparation were as stimulating to me as the projects themselves. But I quickly realized that planning in the age of Covid added a new layer to the cake, and I was just planning for two separate groups – not 15-20 individual students. No longer could I put a jar of paint brushes, scissors or markers in the middle of  a table and say, "Share." A yard allows plenty of space to spread out, but how could I have duplicated that in a classroom? I began to appreciate, on a practical level, the daunting job that teachers would soon be facing, of teaching and keeping students safe at the same time.

In the shade and relative coolness of Sunday morning, all the art choices were ready to go by 9:30. Only one needed direct sunshine, Solar S'Mores, not exactly an art project; but who can concentrate without snacks? 
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"Here are the choices!"
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Matisse cut-outs
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Beading using UV (ultraviolet ) beads
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S'mores soaking up sunshine. (Flies not invited.)
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Graham crackers, chocolate and marshmallows!
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Lots of space
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Our Gallery!
Luke, Nate, Anna, Ruby and Matthew had fun, as children/adolescents do; but so did the adults. Alongside their children, they blew bubbles that popped and splattered into designs, created bracelets, painted Tic Tac Toe boards/rocks, and fashioned construction paper cutouts into Matisse-inspired designs.

The morning lifted my sagging spirit and helped me realize that I don't have to accept a stretch of days that flow endlessly into one another. I have choices. I still have control of my situation, not as much as I did five months ago, but neither am I powerless. Creativity and connection, practiced safely, with a dose of FUN from time to time, not only sustain but energize me. 


Whatever fun looks like to you, I encourage you to go for it! And If you can have CDC-approved fun in community, all the better. 

As me for, I have all the left-over art supplies.
Guess what I'm doing after I finish writing this blog?.

Art idea credits:
Popped Bubble Art
​Painted Branch
​Solar S'Mores
UV (ultraviolet) Color Changing Beads
Rock Tic Tac Toe
Matisse Cutouts
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"America Isn't Easy"

7/3/2020

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Until one minute ago, I had no ideas for a blog posting. But within that 60 seconds when I was looking down at my blank computer screen, my neighbor put up a flag. You might think it would be an American flag to celebrate July 4th, but it's not.
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Rather than ennumerating almost 4 years of specifics about why the sight of that flag causes me such distress, I'll instead show you the sign on our front window, directly opposite.

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While I sit here wishing that the winds from the impending thunderstorm would dislodge the flag and send it sailing into the murky waters of the nearby Nature Preserve, something tells me to stop and  breathe. Deep, calming breaths. So I do. (And that something also reminds me that a flag of any kind would not be environmentally friendly to the a–political turtles, snakes, ducks and fish who call the Preserve their home.)  
 
As almost impossible as it is for me to fathom that my sign might be equally distressing to the neighbors, I suppose it is a possibility. Yet we each have the right to display flag and sign, and to allow the other to be displayed.

In one of my favorite movies, The American President, Michael Douglas who plays President Andrew Shepherd, delivers an impassioned speech. The screenwriter, Aaron Sorkin (The West Wing) penned the words, which have remained with me since I first watched the movie in 1995 and several times since. 

"America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You've gotta want it bad 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say, 'You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours.' You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country cannot just be a flag. The symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Now show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then you can stand up and sing about the land of the free."

He's right, it isn't easy. Freedom never is.  
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Holding Space

6/6/2020

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I've been spending even more time walking the labyrinth lately. Those of you who read my blog regularly will recognize this photo as my adopted labyrinth on the campus of Hendrix College, about a 10-minute walk from our house. It's a shared adoption with the community. But I rarely encounter others, until recently when I discovered messages they had left in the center. I'll get to that later.

Circling the labyrinth is a meditation for me. I trust that the single path will take me to the center and back, so my mind can rest from needling questions such as "Am I doing this right?" or "What if I get lost?" In fact the longer I walk, the more my mind and body typically begin to calm as I concentrate on one foot in front of the other. Yet recently, Worries follow me every step of the way, nipping at my heels no matter how vigorously I shoo them away. 

What's different about these worries is that they are not mine alone; they are shared. You have them, too. First, it was (and still is) the pandemic and now, the unconscionable murder of George Floyd and its unfolding – often violent – aftermath. Covid-19's nagging health anxieties have been compounded by fear, anger and outrage at injustices too long endured and rarely redressed.

As a labyrinth facilitator, I offer opportunities for people to learn about and walk labyrinths. However, I don't walk with them. I stand at the entrance and hold space as the walkers enter, circle, then exit. I am present for them. Wherever they are on their journeys, whatever emotions they may experience during the walk, they know I am there – not to intervene, fix or critique – but to provide a calm, caring environment. It's a unique opportunity for me to quieten my own swirling thoughts and be a compassionate presence to others.  

The more I try to be intentionally present to people in my daily life, which may simply mean talking less and listening more, I find myself gradually regaining a hopefulness that has faded over the last three months. Holding space for myself as well, with self-compassion, mindfulness, and acceptance of what I can and cannot control, gives me renewed energy to find meaningful ways to connect with others. 

And knowing that people with similar worries are holding space – being present for me and one another – is sustaining, which brings me back to the messages in the labyrinth.

​Painted rocks keep showing up in the center, with no clue who left them, and they often disappear by the next morning.

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One day when I was feeling particularly discouraged, a rock greeted me with the word, Strong. Another day, Courage.. 
I placed the Gratitude rock in the center early one morning, and it had vanished by the afternoon. I like to think it's a word someone needed at just the right moment, and that it's now perched on her window sill.

We can be present to those we know, and don't know, in endless and creative ways. We are limited only when we forget to try. May we move forward with increased compassion, perhaps leaving painted rocks along the way. 
  

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Buying Art on a Deserted Street

5/16/2020

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Front Street, in downtown Conway (Arkansas), was deserted as I fast-walked along the sidewalk. Not surprising since it was 8:30 on a Sunday morning; but you could pick any time and day of the week – for the past 10 weeks – and the street would look the same. The Mexican restaurant on the corner moved the week before COVID-19 became a household word. The New Orleans style restaurant closed until June 1. The jewelry store and clothing boutique closed until further notice. What remains is the glass storefront display by the Conway League of Artists.
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​I slowed down to browse the watercolors, oils, glass sculptures and photographs; then stopped in front of a colorful scene, which I couldn't distinguish between painting or photograph. Touching my nose to the glass and squinting as closely as possible, I decided it was a painting. The artist's name was taped to the glass. I was in the process of snapping a photo when the front door of the gallery opened.

"Need some help?" a man asked.

"Well...sure." I said, looking around to see if anyone else noticed a man pop out of nowhere. But the street was as empty as ever.

"I was just looking at this painting." I commented, tapping my finger on the glass.

"Oh, the cardinals? That's not a painting. It's my photograph."

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As we stood at a social distance on the sidewalk, Don Byram explained that he was working on the display windows when he saw me stop.

"It's got a story behind it," he laughed. "I call it Decisions because it looks like the female cardinal in the middle is trying to decide which of those males she finds the most attractive. The joke is that there was a bird feeder a couple of feet off camera to the right, and they were intently waiting for me to get out of the way."

On that drizzly, gray morning, I needed those splashes of red in my life.

"How much are you selling it for?" I asked.

He quoted me a price. I accepted, but then realized I had no money with me. 

"Just take it with you," he said. "Drop me a check in the mail."

Only in a small town, I smiled to myself.

"Or better yet, I can drop it off on your porch later this morning so you don't have to carry it,"
he offered.

I smiled, again, and thanked him.















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Don arrived two hours later and we exchanged art and check.

The cardinals have found a home above the bed in the guest room. Each time I pass by, I half expect them to start singing. But they remain silent, allowing me to quietly ponder the opportunities presented by doors, which open unexpectedly.     


   

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My New Mantra – CREATE!

4/25/2020

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Prior to the pandemic, my TO DO list was top heavy with "shoulds" and "musts." Even in retirement, when much more of my time is my own, it's hard to break the habit I started during thirty years of work while multitasking as wife, mother, and (co)-chief cook and bottle washer. (My grandmother was fond of using that expression.) No doubt I was creative – Halloween costumes and wallpaper swatches come to mind – but I never was intentional about it. I never realized the importance of creativity, until recently, when many shoulds and musts have gradually fallen by the wayside.

What is left is time for reflection, to ask myself, "What are you going to do with this day, followed by the next, with hours to spend as you wish?" Like a gift bag dressed up with glitter, bows and stuffed with bright pink tissue paper – empty – until I decide how to fill it. It is a luxury, I fully realize, that many do not have.        
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​With my mind open to possibilities, I was recently flipping through the spring edition of the Magnolia Journal. I skimmed an article, ready to turn the page, when a series of questions asked me for  answers.
What thrills you?
What do you talk passionately about?
And what could that look like if it were distilled into a single word?


Searching for answers beyond the obvious, "grandkids," I put down the magazine and soon found clues all around the house.



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All are pictures of things I've created or am in the process of creating. Just the thought of writing, arranging flowers, journaling, working a puzzle, shoveling soil around color-coordinated impatiens, and outlining a hopscotch game for our neighborhood's chalk drawing event...excite me! They (and others) light the proverbial spark inside my spirit which makes me feel alive, healthy and moving forward.

Yet there is nothing magical about any of these particular activities, and none of  them, except writing (for me), requires a stretch of time. The bigger picture involves paying attention to whatever our personal creative nudges may be, and choosing to follow where they lead. The upheaval of the past few weeks has amplified those nudges for me. When less is predictable, the more we need creativity to bring new life to what we find in front of us.              

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To honor my new mantra –Create! – and keep it as intentional as my morning cup of coffee, I've written it on our kitchen chalkboard. It will stay in place as COVID-19 restrictions are gradually lifted, as the temptation increases for creativity to become eclipsed by the ever-present shoulds/musts...and return to the predictable.      
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Where the World Still Feels Normal

4/4/2020

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I joyfully left my wipes, gloves and hand sanitizer in the front seat of the car. The sign in the parking lot said, "Lock up your valuables." That directive used to refer to my wallet.

For the next hour or so, I wouldn't need them. I could touch anything I wanted and never have to protect or sanitize. It was a new definition of freedom in a world that feels like one big germ.  
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​ I stepped onto Huckleberry Trail and breathed deeply of freshness. This 3.5 mile hiking trail begins 30 minutes from our home at one of my favorite Arkansas state parks, Woolly Hollow. The name and place sound backwoodsy, in the best possible sense, where Nature immerses the visitor in her peacefulness.

Yet, as I strode farther into the woods, I found myself dragging along worries and concerns of the day, at a pace that felt more like a workout than a saunter (one of my favorite Thoreau words.) Finally a robin caught my attention with its rebuke, "Slow down; take notice."

I stopped. The silence caught me off guard like suddenly closing the door on a noisy party. I looked for the nearest place to sit down.      

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A perfect sitting rock lay right in front of me. For the    next 10 minutes, 20 minutes, or perhaps just 5, I sat and listened with eyes open and closed, feeling morning sun on my back and hearing the sound of stream, bird and breeze. And when I continued sauntering, I paid attention.

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At the end of the trail, I reached out my hand and touched a tree, a parting connection to a place which felt like the normal I miss more every day.   
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Its texture, smell and calming spirit were still present when I returned to the car.
I did not wipe them off. 
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Coping Through COVID-19

3/17/2020

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I'm on overload. TV news at home, radio news in the car, New York Times Morning Briefing on my phone, social media news via computer. . .  the latest number of cases, possible cases, deaths, closings, government actions/inactions, tests/not enough tests, quarantines, handwashing, more handwashing, social distancing, stock market plummets and toilet paper lines.

I tell myself – that's enough! Get up off the couch. Turn off the TV. But I linger, absorbed in the real life drama of how the coronavirus is changing our lives by the minute. My chest tightens, and I can't recall when I last took a deep breath.

It's time to move. No, not sell my house and relocate to a place where COVID-19 sounds like unintelligible gibberish, but simply put on my shoes, jacket, hat and walk into fresh air.




Ten minutes away is one of my favorite places, a labyrinth, on the campus of Hendrix College in our hometown of Conway, Arkansas.



​Anyone who knows me, knows that labyrinths are a central part of my life. Walking their ancient, circular design is a meditation for me – a calming experience from entrance, to center, and back. No way to get lost, but rather a single path to follow, one step in front of the next.

The labyrinth can be a metaphor for what we may be experiencing in our lives, particularly in these unsettling times, when life feels more circular than linear... and change is a constant. And in times of change, walking the labyrinth reminds me to take my time, to pay attention to the journey along the way.

....which is just what I did as I walked through my neighborhood, across the pedestrian bridge, through the Hendrix campus to the labyrinth. 

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Ten minutes turned into thirty as I allowed the emerging signs of spring to determine my pace. By the time I reached the labyrinth, my body and breathing had relaxed and thoughts of the coronavirus felt like yesterday's news. 

Labyrinths, nature and communication with family and friends are my principle ways of coping with a landscape that appears less familiar every day. They are constants that ground me, despite the upheaval, as do my morning cup of coffee, fresh flowers on the dining table, and gratitude journal on my nightstand. 

May you find nourishment in your own heathy practices..... and peace on your path during these challenging times.  

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​To locate a labyrinth in your area, refer to the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator where almost 6000 labyrinths are listed globally. If none exists, you can print a finger labyrinth and trace the design in a slow, meditative manner. (If no printer is available, trace the finger labyrinth design as it appears on your computer screen.)
To learn more about labyrinths, visit The Labyrinth Society and/or Veriditas website, a nonprofit located in Petaluma, California, which provides information, labyrinth experiences and facilitator training.

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           Welcome!     

    ​After finishing my book, Labyrinth Journeys ~ 50 States, 51 Stories, I knew I wasn't finished writing or journeying.  
    Please join me as I continue both and see where they lead me (and you!)
    ​ 
       ~Twylla Alexander

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