tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9206227063234450232024-02-20T01:47:54.199-08:00Heaven Now: Yoga, food, love: seeking engaged lifeMargi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.comBlogger174125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-28167729091677637932023-05-29T11:43:00.000-07:002023-05-29T11:43:38.713-07:00Mom Comes on Memorial DayToday is the official US Memorial Day Holiday - May 29, 2023. Thoughts and reminders of my parents float through..
While I was out running this morning a little bunny ran into my path and paused. I stopped and we stood there quietly staring at one another. My Mom loved the little wild bunnies, and was always pointing them out, even when she just imagined seeing one.
Before she died we talked about having a code where she could connect with me from the other side. This Bunny, on a fine May morning right near her child hood home was our connnect. It's been 8 months since her passing. I still have things I want to tell her. I got to talk to the Bunny.
Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-32379471072851775352022-02-28T14:19:00.000-08:002022-02-28T14:19:56.425-08:00Deep Gratitude for Vaccines<p>This month of February marked my 66th birthday. Right on top of that I tested positive for covid-19. It was rotten timing, and yet as this month ends, I am left mainly with a sense of deep gratitude. </p><p>We dreaded that positive test for 2 years now. At the beginning of 2020 most people were intensely fearful and anxious that death might be around the corner. Millions died in 1916 from the Spanish flu. So we locked down in our homes, barely going out for groceries. Those were tense months of watching the covid dashboard, the numbers by state and country of infections, deaths and recoveries. </p><p>Like a ray of hope. the following February were able to get the vaccine. Then last fall, a booster. </p><p>Now the strains have become less virulent, which is what I must have had. It was a cold that lasted but a few days. </p><p>My gratitude toward researchers, scientists, doctors and all medical professionals is profound. What would have played out without a vaccine? We've now had 2 years of closures, restrictions, worry, masks and confusion. How would that have been without a vaccine? </p><p>Gratitude. Let me say it again, and again and again. The fearful virus went through me, and my body was able to fight it off in less than 2 weeks because of science and those who spend many hours in labs, hospitals and classrooms working hard to learn more every day. It makes me almost wish I'd become a research scientist, unlocking the secret of our bodies on that molecular level which most of us take for granted. When we are well, and there are no threats, in labs all over the world talented, focused people are still working to learn more.</p><p>I feel love and gratitude for their presence. </p>Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-38299815818498181992022-01-06T18:29:00.000-08:002022-01-06T18:29:02.581-08:00No Festive Christmas Lights on Jan.6 , 2022<p> Today is the horrible anniversary of a year ago. January 6, 2021 when angry white people with guns and bad intentions broke into our Nation's Capitol. The things they did, the terrible words they used, the violence, the disrespect....it was nothing I could have imagined in the country I love.</p><p>Tonight there were some candlelight vigils around the U.S.. I almost went to a gathering in North Portland. While checking for new gatherings closer to me, I found one which merely asked participants to place a candle in the window.</p><p>I am doing that. I usually turn on my Christmas lights. I left them off to illustrate the gravity of this night .</p><p>To my delight most of my neighbors did not turn their lights on tonight either. I took a walk around to confirm. There were a few, but many I know have lights that were completely off. Thank you neighbors, for sharing in this little way the gravity of this anniversary.</p><p>I will never forget reading the accounts of our representatives who were at the capitol that day to certify the 2020 presidential election. One of them wrote of his experience afterwards, wiping up excrement which one of the intruders had smeared around the senate chambers. This is how I will remember those people, smearing poop, lies, hatred and bringing injury and death. </p><p>What now dear country?</p>Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-69105345573087638442021-04-17T17:22:00.002-07:002021-04-17T17:22:38.398-07:00Planting the Three Sisters<p> Today I planted 3 sets of the Three Sisters, an indigenous companion planting mound.</p><p>First I dug the dark, rich and moist dirt from my compost pile, and mixed it into 3 mounds.</p><p>In the center of the mound goes corn. I used my colored corn from last year. I chose 6 of the biggest kernels for each mound. Next, around the corn are beans. Again I used saved seeds from last year in a circle around the corn. Later I will plant squash. That is the third sister.</p><p>This will be my first time trying this ancient method. I learned it from a chapter in the book "Braiding Sweetgrass", by Robin Wall Kimmerer. I read that chapter to my mom too.</p><p>I can't wait to watch the corn sprout up an then the beans climb up the corn. No need then for strings and frames, as the corn is the support. The squash at ground level shades the other plants and climbs all through everything. It seems like magic of a sort. From this day in April I anticipate my three sisters, 4 months from now, in August showing me how they get along.</p>Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-42876497607326966372021-03-06T18:06:00.000-08:002021-03-06T18:06:49.965-08:00Campaigning for Alex <p> Alex Josephy, a lovely forty something young man, is running for Mayor of Oregon City. One town away from me, but quite a bit more 'purple' than Milwaukie/Portland.</p><p>My feisty, political friend, Cheryl, gathers up the local Deocratic Precinct Committee people to hold signs on the streets for Alex, a fellow Democrat and a " Bernie Sanders" Democrat at that. The election is only 3 days away. </p><p>Because of all the above, I find myself on a Saturday afternoon on the sidewalk outside a shopping center containing, among other things, a Safeway and a McDonalds. There is lots of car traffic, and I hold my hand painted sign in various angles so drivers can see it. At first I sing songs to myself to make the time pass. The initial feeling is one of weird exposure to this general public in cool, gusty March air. March is a strange month to me. The most transition of any transition season we have in the Northwest. There is more light, some flowers, and the air still has the biting edge of winter.</p><p>After about an hour of standing I begin to feel sort of equanimous. About 6 cars so far have honked in support. I appreciate that.</p><p>Then, the unpleasant exchange suddenly comes. A middle aged guy in an SUV with a young man in the passenger seat opens his window, leans over the young man, who I assume to be his son and says " Did you know that he (Alex) is an Marxist Communist?" I squint at him, feeling the<i> oh shit, beam me out of here</i> internal response<i>.</i></p><p>He reiterates, as though I haven't responded appropriately like he expected me to say " Really??"</p><p> "Ya he's a Marxist Communist". In my head I am thinking, has he ever read Marx? I don't respond, except to slightly bow my head and shake it. Then he says, " Did you know that? You should educate yourself." I guess I should have gone for my masters instead of just staying with a BA.</p><p>He turned the corner, his son in tow who watched all this. I wondered how the son would turn out as he grew up. I hope he goes another way, like many of us in the 60's who saw our parents politics as an impediment to real world issues. For one, Alex believes climate change is a serious, pressing problem.</p><p>After that encounter I try to ground myself. I even send the car man some feeble Mettha. </p><p>Later I composed some snappy fantasy comebacks. They are only a fantasy, because silence was the right thing. But here are some possibilities: </p><p>"Oh, you mean a communist like Vladimer Putin?"</p><p>" You know, Alex is my god son"</p><p>" Tell me more about Marx, have you read his work?"</p><p>I will continue to try for new responses, every time I come up with one I feel a little more release of the negative energy, misinformation, strident resistance to progressive change, the embracing of dangerous lies, etc.</p><p>I'm still trying to send some mettha, glad to be back in my warm house off the sidewalk, toasting myself with a well earned glass of wine.</p>Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-13670114732851848222021-02-03T16:29:00.007-08:002021-02-23T16:03:03.924-08:00February 2021 - A Poem a Day<p> January 30, 2021 </p>
<p>Inspired by Eddie Izzard and his month of marathon-a-day runs, I decided to do
a poem-a-day during the month of February. I began a little early. Here is
what I have so far:
</p>
<p> January 28</p><p> I french braid my hair- </p>
<p>sip the last bit of creamy warm coffee </p>
<p>morning light emerges</p>
<p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> emerging heart </span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;">Traveling spirit out of the hopeless night</span>
</p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Step out the door.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">January 30</span></p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> 7:30 am, the light comes around the long dark month</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> closing the final square on the calendar</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> Driveway sheen reflects the neighbors new bright outdoor lights</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> Soon I'll pull on the black compression socks,</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> new running shoes lock my front door, </span>
</p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">step into the cold air</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Begin the lope,</span></p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> try for landing on the toe joints</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> find the dirt at the edges of pavement</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> step, step, step into morning.</span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> January 31</span></p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> Out of the scary night I wake</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> from under the 4 layered bed I make </span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;">At 7 the light from ink to gray</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> A slow turn now to Sunday</span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> 7 to 8 I write by the fire</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> 8:15 slip on outdoor attire </span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;">shoes mud crusted , although new</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> Other runners, just a few </span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;">Breath winter air, chill and wet </span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;">Never fast, but grateful yet. </span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">February 1</span></p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> The morning starts with my teacher's voice</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> On a screen, other faces in the gallery </span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;">My tree, through the west window meditation tree</span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"> My teacher reads a poem, then plays our refuge song </span>
</p>
<p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;">A fine start to Black History Month The month of my birth.
</span>
</p>
Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-5878926715642572412021-01-20T17:29:00.004-08:002021-01-20T17:29:48.175-08:00Tears for KamalaToday I got to watch Joe Biden's inauguration live. It was breakfast time for us, so eggs and hashbrowns with the images of new life being breathed into the houses of power in the U.S.
When Kamala was saying her oath, I choked up and cried tears. It has been such a long wait since Geraldine Farraro ran for VP, more than 30 years ago. A woman VP has finally come before my life is over. I thnk I've been involved one way or another in Feminism or gender equity since I was 18. 47 years of hoping and being pummeled with the reality of patriacharcal power. We've been on a long and winding road.
I am also jazzed that now I can talk about our president to my grand daughters. What a relief! May all the spirits, the gods and goddesses and God be with you lovely people who have come to be the human beings in our political world. May the gremlin(s) go away, far far away and never return.Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-19849227887276313352021-01-13T17:42:00.003-08:002021-01-14T18:25:22.839-08:00Kaitlyln Turns 7, Second Impeachment, Reading AloudToday the sun came out after the long stretches of rain which leave the buckets 6 inches full after only a few days. Today my first grandchild is 7 years old.
I walk/lope in the morning down the springwater trail and then up into Errol Creek Park to the spring which I call "the place of the water spirits". Kaitlyn loved that when I took her there, and she even put her hands into Anjali Mudra to honor the water spirits. So I said a prayer for her future, especially thinking about climate change and how it will play out after I am gone from the world.
The news today after our sad, scary American world, is that our House of Representatives has impeached the madman in our White House for the second time.
I call my Mom and her caregiver, to read aloud to Mom. I found an essay entitled "Maple Sugar Moon". Reading about maple trees, children, mothers, how trees grow from the original planters to a future of shade and beauty they will not know, but others will. I think of my little apple trees.
Reading while Beatrice feeds my mom lunch. I recall that my grandmother, Mom's mom, had maple syrup in her history as a kid. A fading memory of a story she told.
Then I rake leaves and clean up my yard after the rain storms. When I come in to check the sourdough bread I'm rising, I see a text from my son. Kaitlyn has gotten out of school early today, do I want a birthday video call? The last 2 days we've been having an afternoon time, and I read boxcar children books aloud, and she listens attentively.
So for and hour I read "Benny Uncovers a Mystery". We chat in between, I show her how the bread has risen, she shows me her many pink balloons in her room. I show her the violets I found in the grass today. January flowers to keep us hopeful.
Someday maybe you will read this Kaitlyn, and you will understand the very dire situation in our country. Today you get to be a kid. I tell you the story of the day you locked me out of the house when I was babysitting you. At only 19 months you were smart and cagey enough to know how to lock a door, and refuse to open it when you saw me outside trying to get back in!
The night comes on and the bread rises.
Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-43382250322578114692020-11-10T19:32:00.001-08:002020-11-10T19:32:07.454-08:00From Elation to FrustrationJust last Saturday 75 million of us in the U.S. breathed a sigh of relief as Joe Biden and Kamala Harris won the 2020 Presidential Election fair and square.
It reminded me of when the mentally ill person in the family home finally gets removed by the mental Health Police and everyone in the terrorized family sighs and let years of anxiety start to drain away.
Today, 3 days later it feels to me like I am back in grade school and the school bully who hates to lose is terrorizing everyone who he played against in the game. He has his sycophant allies standing next to him, parroting every insane issuance from his demented mind/mouth.
The mentally ill member is back at the door, figuring out ways to get back in. The devious mind of the manic is a formidable force. Anxiety returns.
I return to praying, which is what I did when I was a kid living with a manic depressive shizophrenic who had my parents hynotized into believing she was really Ok and it would just take time, we should all wait it out.
Please hurry January 20, when he is ushered out of our home for real, then I will breath and of course thank the benevolent universe with all my heart.
Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-3715223647200901412020-10-20T17:34:00.002-07:002020-10-20T17:34:44.917-07:00Election Season, Fall 2020 -LongingIt is 5:00 PM on a Beautiful fall evening. I have just returned from a walk through my neighborhood to finish the very last of my election info drop offs. The people have been kind this year, in general. I love that about my fellow Democrats. They seem calm and equanamous even in the face of this year's trials, pandemics, insults from the other side, economic uncertainty and hardship, school closures... all the many events of this year that could cause a person to be negative.
Now I say my prayers. I filled out my own ballot and toasted with a glass of wine as I did so. Here's to changing the leadership and repairing the country.
The background worries and night sweats hover around the edges of every day. I imagine how devastated many Germans were when they got the results of their 1933 election. Tough cookies, many fought the regime any way. I think of the years we've spent in political activism and it brings a profound weariness.
I send all my best energy out into my country, my cosmos. I wish I knew magic, I would cast a spell.
For now the sweetness of this fall evening belies the dire events going on in my country. I won't list them here, it's time to watch the sunset and pray, pray, pray.Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-59202577789447874232020-09-09T11:52:00.000-07:002020-09-09T11:52:51.295-07:00While the tomatoes cook<p> I can smell the tomatoes cooking. I've gathered several hallecks full of the cherry ones and wonder if I might drop a container off to one of the many people on street corners with signs that say "hungry" in big letters.</p><p>The raspberries got so blown in 75 mile an hour gusts (while the wild fires raged all around me) yesterday that the wind blew berries off, or dried them in place.</p><p>Blue sky is a thankful sight, even as I know loved people have only smoke to breath today, near me in Oregon and many parts of California and Washington. The Pacific Northwest is so beautiful and dear to me. It is hard to watch it burn.</p><p>The authorities made it a point to tell us that our pandemic masks are not effective to filter out fire smoke. I imagine us having then to wear space helmets in some not so distant future.</p><p>My yard is full of tinder dry spruce stems and needles, cedar and oak ends. I sweep and sweep, rake and pile to keep "fuel" from accumulating around my house. I harvest what has survived the rain and sun: cherry tomatoes, zuchinni, some raspberries and 2 more apples that fell from the winter tree. </p><p>Meanwhile a presidential election looms, and the attack by the thugs is so disgusting I have to quarantine myself from all sorts of news. </p><p>My city has been holding Black Lives Matter demonstrations every night now for 2 months straight. The crazies come out to torment them with guns and their giant flags and their insults and anger.</p><p>Families go walking in my neighborhood and everyone has the mask on. There is something heart breaking to me at the sight of a small child in a face mask, outside in summer.</p><p>And there are families sitting at the beloved Oregon State Fairgrounds, evacuated from their homes in Santiam Canyon, and elsewhere. They have to wear masks too, and maybe their home is burnt down.</p><p>In all of this I feel the president does not care. Disdain for the poor extends to disdain for the unlucky. How I wish for some really really, incredibly painful bad luck for him. That from the Buddhist acolyte who is taught to practice metta, the wishing well to all beings.</p><p>As I write the air turns orange to the south east. The morning winds are calming some. There are strong, brave firefighters and helpers out all over my beloved bio-region working in heat and smoke for long hours to keep the fires from taking everything. How fervent is my wish of metta for them. </p>Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-75753078049937010172020-05-31T21:23:00.001-07:002020-07-20T03:09:27.193-07:00Last Sunday May 2020My city was the site of 2 nights of rioting last night and Friday night. This is the response to a senseless murder of a black man by a white police officer in Minneapolis.<br />
<br />
Today felt mild, sun and breezy clean air after a heavy rain yesterday. I visited the farmer's market and wore my pandemic mask. I bought spinach to eat, basil to plant.<br />
<br />
Home and my cell phone gives off a funny buzzing alert noise, not like anything I recognize, except I know the sound to be a public service alert. The text states that there is an 8 pm curfew tonight because of the rioting. Many cities, Seattle included, have the same. It feels like further straining an already pained world. We're in a pandemic, quarantined, stressed, and now this. Our horrid leader tweets off something supporting a violent response.<br />
<br />
There is the body of a dead mole languishing in a bucket in my yard. I had to trap it to save my garden areas of garlic beds, new cucumber starts and whole sections of herbs and flowers. It succumbed to my trap. Donning my purple rubber gloves I loosen the cinch of the trap and drop the gray body into a plastic bag. I carry it down to my little side trail lined with thick black berries and wild clematis. I Drop it into the brambles, and continue walking down the Spring water trail.<br />
<br />
No one is out. I look up and down and the trail is empty. I have never seen it so. People must be thinking that the curfew means they shouldn't even walk the trail. The time on my phone -8:20. The evening is lovely, with rain washed, air and sunset fading in the west. A half moon glows brighter in the sky as I walk. It is freeing not to have bikes whizzing by me. I feel rare and brave.<br />
<br />
I decide to walk to the creek, about a quarter of a mile. Finally I see a bike, then another. When I reach Johnson Creek and turn around a walker is coming from the west. I nod and murmur "evening". He never looks at me (should note that he is my skin color, which is not considered a color, and he was much younger than me).<br />
<br />
Another walker passes me, a young man, soft brown skin, beautiful face that looks my way and nods, acknowledging me as as I nod back. His hands are in his pockets and his face looks solemn. I imagine he is uncomfortable with the violence which caused this curfew.<br />
<br />
The half moon is brighter as I walk back up the side trail to my little neighborhood.<br />
Sunday night, the edge of June. Our town so quiet here. Roses in full bloom. Yet there will be no Rose Festival this year. Our routines have been upended, our souls set adrift in the increasing chaos. My garden sits quiet, blooming as though there is a sure tomorrow. Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-56831778136690938592020-05-18T15:47:00.000-07:002020-05-18T15:51:34.388-07:00Long Memories of HurtToday my Dad has been gone from life for exactly 2 months. There seems to be an existential fissure created by this lunar mark, manifesting in my emotions, the remembrances of him.<br />
<br />
Once he told me that in the Senko family, his mom's people, there was a brother who would have been his Mom's Uncle, who was killed in an accident in a brick making factory. This loss plunged the family into a deep sadness (dare I say "depression"?). I would guess that in the late 1800"s depression was not yet a concept.<br />
The Senko family had this dark cloud, a much loved member suddenly gone. It was painful enough to be part of the impetus for Grampa Senko to leave Czechoslovakia and give the new world, America, a go. I know this feeling. I moved to the Oregon Coast after losing my husband. The idea of starting over in a fresh, new place is a balm to the pain of loss.<br />
<br />
The Senko family moved to Kansas first. Farming was their goal. Life must have been hard there. Grampa Senko later bought land in Cornelius, Oregon, where my Grama Augusta was a young woman and met Grandad Louis somehow. This is where I wish I could ask my Dad what the timing was. They were both Catholic, which may have been a connection.<br />
<br />
Well, The sadness seemed to linger in the Senko family, for the lost brother, because the lost Uncle information was passed on to my Dad. Augusta was not a joyful woman. She was a perfectionist, a person driven and seemingly tortured with the compulsion to social comparison. I wonder if she married quiet, handsome Louis because his father was the Mayor and an ambitious personage in the community of Milwaukie.<br />
<br />
Grama became a hoarder in the years when I was a child. We would go to her house and she would be sitting in her chair. Grandad was usually outside puttering in the garden. I realize now he was hiding from her. She would bark out orders to him periodically. Her house was so full there were pathways to get anywhere. Eventually Grandad was forced out and ended up living in a cheap motel off skid row in downtown Portland. I recall one night we dropped him off in front of his hotel on our way back to Seattle after a Christmas holiday visit.<br />
<br />
Grama stayed in her packed house, with the legendary boxes of unopened Barbie Dolls which I always longed for as a kid. She gave us a few, but bought many more and kept them in the stacks. I liked her. We were both an Aquarius.I tried to have meaningful conversations with her when I reached early adulthood. What hung her up though was that we wore blue jeans then, around the 70's. She thought they were dirty farmer's clothes. Her persona was virtually constructed of opinions. I see now that she was obviously very smart and ambitious. I just think she married the wrong guy, or maybe she should never have been married at all, but allowed to go to college and pursue a career. She would have been a formidable boss!<br />
<br />
Her family story limited her. Her life function became critic to those she loved.If her family story had not been a sad one of trauma carried across generations, would she and my Dad been less critical, more easy in their skin?<br />
<br />
I have to wonder, because as much as I try, I feel that sadness sometimes. I know my older siblings were crippled by it. There is not a day I don't have to talk to the little story teller in my head and remind her that I can take a breath, open my heart, access gratitude and go forward with generosity. I like to think that if there is a heaven, my dad and my grama are looking down and enjoying life along with me, happy that I've moved the story on to better gardens.Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-11550237835450671452019-12-17T20:24:00.002-08:002019-12-17T20:24:56.330-08:00Rally to Support Impeachment - Dec. 16, 2019Tonight several thousand engaged citizens of Portland showed up on the banks of the Willamette River in downtown to show public support for the impeachment and removal of Donald Trump. My country's fate hangs in the balance. The cold air tonight from 5:30 to 7:30 matched the feelings those of us have for the terrible predicament in which our government now stands.<br />
<br />
Rallies usually have some excitement to them, look at all the great signs ('Shithole President', 'Merry Impeachmass' ) Several had christmas lights decorating the sign. Yet the crowd was more subdued than any other rally I've ever attended. On the brink of disaster, one goes into a trance of action. The emotions become muted, there isn't energy for them.<br />
<br />
The hardest question one of the speakers asked was if we, in the crowd, would pledge to not only call congress tomorrow before they vote on the articles of impeachment, but to also talk to our family and friends about this issue, I feel like so many in my own family don't want to discuss it. They go about as if it weren't happening, Lets not let politics ruin the holidays.<br />
<br />
I don't know what to do. If this monster is elected again and his actions go unchecked, what does that say about the USA? Those of us with a conscience are trapped in this bad dream. May we awaken Christmas morning to impeachement, the best gift I can think of this year.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-74695277514927769432019-12-07T18:00:00.000-08:002019-12-07T18:00:08.105-08:00QuestionsQuestions -<br />
<br />
Were you ever picked last for the team?<br />
<br />
Did you ever have a mentally ill older sibling drop into your adolescence?<br />
<br />
Did you ever find yourself a pregnant teenager in a home of strict Catholics?<br />
<br />
Have you ever dreaded Christmas?<br />
<br />
Did you ever think your parents were not your best allies?<br />
<br />
Is there ever a day you think about income disparity?<br />
<br />
Is there something fundamentally wrong with me ?<br />
<br />
<br />Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-51154866295201564722019-07-15T17:45:00.002-07:002019-07-15T17:45:24.787-07:00barometerI am sitting in the chair where my Dad sat for the past few years. On the wall between the chair and the window is Dad's barometer. The old style, wood frame with gold rims. On the top the headings read: Rain - Change - Fair. I wonder about which barometer this one is. He always tapped the barometer in the morning and in the evening when I was little. I watched and thought it was a magic language only he knew.<br />
<br />
Once, years ago when my nephew Simon was small, maybe 3 or 4 years old, he was crying because of some conflict with his older brother. He was inconsolable. Dad (Nampa) took him in his arms and said, " I know, I know it's hard.The barometric pressure is really low today"<br />
<br />
I watched from around the corner, and marveled at his use of a reference as esoteric as barometric pressure to a small kid, and yet it seemed again maybe there was a magic he was invoking which those of us uninitiated into the math of meteorology could fully comprehend.<br />
<br />
After the tearful Simon, his brother Nick and their parents left I asked him about how the barometric pressure would affect a crying child. He replied, "Oh, It was just the first thing that came into my head. I was just trying to distract him."<br />
<br />
Brilliant.<br />
<br />
That was my Dad. Meteorologist, navigator by the stars, comforter of little children.Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-55614786699065190962019-07-06T10:40:00.000-07:002019-07-06T10:40:31.005-07:00Good bye Dad Gratitude<br />
<br /> Dorothy and the Shindler family would like to recognize the many people who have given physical and spiritual care to Bob during his recent decline. Beatrice Khisa, Clement Viswanathan and Yeme Shiferaw, please accept our heartfelt gratitude. And to the many kind and caring med techs and staff at Overlake Terrace, your friendly compassionate care made such a difference for Bob, Dorothy and all the family. And to Father Fabian, who was and is a great spiritual comfort and friend. <br /><br /> Reminiscences <br /><br />Bob was the first of 3 sons born to Louis and Augusta Shindler. When he was little they lived next door to the Shindler grandparents who owned 75 acres in the area of old Milwaukie. <br /><br />Bob watched his Grampa William run a business, and make wine and cheese. His Grama Agnes taught him German. He learned a love of trains from his Dad who worked as a mechanic for The Southern Pacific Railroad. His Mom gave him a love of growing flowers. <br /><br />He was close in both age and affection to his 2 younger brothers, Dick and George and to his cousin Franz. One of Bob's activities with them was to write a little "Newspaper" he called "The Arbutus". <br /><br />During the summers Bob would spend as much as a month at a time at the Cornelius farm of his Grama and Grampa Senko, maternal grandparents. He picked cherries and berries, did farm chores. A memory he recounted just 2 weeks ago happened when he was 11 years old. He was shooting some fireworks and almost burned down a shed. <br /><br />He spoke often of his grandparents, they held a prominent place in his development. His time with them undoubtedly made him an especially involved grand parent, and then great grand parent. <br /><br />He attended Catholic Grade school, and then was given the privilege of attending Central Catholic High in east Portland. It was a long street car ride from Milwaukie.<br />He said :"Grampa would give me 5 cents for the street car, and if I walked home I could use the rest of the fare money to buy a maple bar". He would go on in later life to help many children and grand children with the expenses of education.<br /><br />He loved his years at Central Catholic, and made several life long friends there, one of whom took him to a party hosted by Dorothy Baier. He apparently was wearing the whitest T- shirt of all the young men. Bob and Dorothy soon double dated to Senior Prom. She was impressed again that he graduated as the Valedictorian.<br /><br />With the second world war going on, Bob immediately entered Basic Training after graduation. He chose the Air Force. Quoting: "I had the choice to go to flight school or navigation school, I chose navigation school because it was a shorter program. I wanted to get to the war as soon as possible. Can you imagine that? " He was 19 years old. He said the young don't know the reality of war.<br /><br />During these years, 1943- 1945 Bob and Dorothy stole little visits when and where they could. Mom can't look at a train station without getting teary eyed. That was often where they would meet after long absences.<br /><br />With the war over, Bob and Dorothy had the chance to finalize their engagement, and married in 1948 while Bob was still finishing his college degree at Santa Clara University. He often spoke of how valuable the GI Bill was which paid his college tuition. He again graduated as Valedictorian.<br /><br />With the intention of having a large family, by 1953 the new family included Bob Jr, 4 and Anne, 3 . Anne, born in 1950 spoke wistfully of the Hillside Park years in Milwaukie, the tiny subsidized housing cottages the family lived, where Tom and Margi were born. A moment here to say God rest your soul, Anne. <br /><br />1956 brought Bob the job which launched his career in transportation planning. His forte was gathering statistics, writing reports and problem solving the myriad aspects of how we get around. His office was right next to the State Capitol in Salem.<br /><br />Just in time with 4 children and more anticipated, Bob and Dorothy bought their first home, 4 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, in Salem. Here Therese, John, Joe and Kristin were born. <br /><br />Again, just in time, in 1967 Bob accepted a job in the far off city of Seattle with The Puget Sound Council of Governments as head of the transportation department. Now the family moved to a 5 bedroom, 3 bathroom home. Luxury! Here Stephanie was born. Bob and Dorothy remained in the Bellevue house for 46 years.<br /><br />During the 1970's Mom and Dad became Nama and Nampa. They welcomed each new grandchild with great joy. Dad began to set up his model trains on the living room floor. <br /><br />Forgive what I am leaving out. We will speak of so many memories later today. For now, some images:<br /><br />Dad:<br /><br /> * Setting up a barbecue fire with bits of apple and cherry wood, meticulously laying the briquets onto his little twig fire with his tongs. Grilling steaks and burgers in the backyard in summer.<br /><br /> * Taking the last small bit of a bar of soap, and squeezing it onto the new bar. No waste.<br /><br />* Continuing the practice for years of taking the meager 5 gallon military bath. <br /> <br />* Calisthenics in the living room in the morning before work.<br /><br />* Hand washing his socks and laying them to dry on the bathroom towels (so none would get lost in the family laundry) <br /><br />* Shining shoes with him on Saturday to have them shiny for church on Sunday.<br /><br />* Singing in the men's choir with his big, confident voice at St. Vincent's 9 o'clock mass.<br /><br />* Tapping his barometer in the morning and evening to get the current reading.<br /><br />* Taking the family for Sunday picnics or to Cannon Beach in summer.<br /><br />* Taking each grandchild to WA DC in the spring in part because this is when the cherry trees are in bloom, given to our country by Japan, after the war, as a symbol of peace.<br /><br />* Working diligently to promote light rail and public transportation systems.<br /><br />* Telling us about the placement of highways, how lights are timed, how lanes are paved differently. Traveling the roads of Oregon and Washington with him was a fascinating history lesson.<br /><br />* Writing funny emails to the family and signing them from Mom's cat.<br /><br />* Trying yoga out with the family group in his 80's.<br /><br />* Taking on the cooking when Mom became unable. He grew practiced in the creation of good healthy soups and stews to nourish her. ( even if they ate at 11 o'clock at night)<br /><br />* Standing in his back yard with his shovel or his trowel, spading his lawn borders, sifting through the huge piles of compost he created , to spread it on his flower beds or give it away to our gardens. Staring into space, his quiet time with the earth.<br /><br />* Organizing the residents at Overlake Terrace to create a fund to give the floor staff a Christmas bonus.<br /><br />* Teaching his children to see God in others: the poor, the dispossessed, those we disagree with, even those who do us harm.<br /><br />Closing with a final image:<br />" I would walk the babies" he said, "when they cried and cried, often in the middle of the night." Our Dad paced patiently back and forth, to sooth the new person we were, held over his shoulder. We, his children and grandchildren will carry that visceral memory, deep in our essential self, of being walked, of being held and comforted in his arms, on his strong shoulder, next to his warm heart. <br />Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-69160136361515413892019-06-02T18:57:00.001-07:002019-06-17T18:35:27.944-07:00The Anne ChairThere was a chair, and it was painted black<br />
when I found it in your room after<br />
the rain dark December night when<br />
A delivery van met you in a crosswalk.<br />
<br />
Your body crushed, your things strewn along the rain washed street<br />
police cars, fire trucks and ambulance <br />
glowing red in the dark.<br />
<br />
Later your siblings go to your room.<br />
Christmas lights drape over your one book shelf,<br />
your chair next to that, your papers, letters and family pictures<br />
laying still.<br />
A kitchen table someone got for you,<br />
and one chair for it, painted black, peeling in places.<br />
<br />
Our brothers took photos of the crosswalk, and the lonely christmas lights by your chair,<br />
the quiet reminders from your room.<br />
<br />
The sisters efficient, gather up the left things, so our Dad won't pay<br />
the extra rent.<br />
this goes here, that goes there..<br />
I take the black chair.<br />
<br />
Seeing a chair painting project<br />
with my little grand daughters<br />
we could be free to be inspired... no money lost.<br />
It became our canvas, you always loved a blank canvas..<br />
I began with rose pink<br />
you would have approved<br />
<br />
The little girls asked to paint their hands<br />
and put the prints on the seat.<br />
You would have approved, knowing your love for you own daughter and grand daughter<br />
deep love<br />
little hand prints,<br />
colors bright and childish.<br />
time passes ... <br />
<br />
For the first memorial day after your death<br />
I remember you by painting a flower garden<br />
under the child hand prints<br />
with a patch of salmon gold sunset above<br />
with tiny hearts strewn in paths<br />
blown by a soft and gracious breeze.<br />
<br />
And maybe you are free now, carried in that warm breeze,<br />
no worries, no crazy thoughts dogging you,<br />
released into the wild cosmos<br />
from which you came-<br />
and I can say to you that I care by making art<br />
how I couldn't say when you were here.<br />
<br />Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-54604912902137110552019-03-02T16:10:00.001-08:002019-03-02T16:31:38.893-08:00Kale date garlic salad<div style="text-align: center;">
Startling tastes~ Kale re-imagined </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Recipe</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
2+ c. kale</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
2 tablespoons brown rice vinegar</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
4 medium dates, finely chopped</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
3 or 4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
1/4= 1/3 c. olive oil</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
1/2 c. chopped filberts </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
salt to taste<br />
optional: 3/4 c. roasted sweet meat winter squash, chopped small. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-30631026711671247962019-02-25T10:10:00.001-08:002019-02-25T10:10:59.606-08:00Lingo"No problem" is not a substitute for "You are welcome."<br />
<br />
If I say thank you, I wasn't assuming there was a problem, I was being grateful for something kind, thoughtful or otherwise beneficial to me.<br />
<br />
<br />Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-7403137137728918452018-12-17T10:35:00.000-08:002018-12-17T17:26:53.909-08:00Errol CreekToday I joined 8 other volunteers to plant in the marshy areas of Errol Creek. This nearby park contains a magic spring which emerges from the side of a hill to run down and join the larger flow of Johnson Creek.<br />
<br />
I planted 20 red ossier dogwood "live stakes" which will root on the edges of the pond, and 45 plugs of Sedge grass. Other volunteers were planting the same or removing garbage.<br />
I can't wait to come and watch the dog woods leaf out next spring.<br />
<br />
Happy holidays to our watershed community.Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-47770116411896458392018-11-06T11:52:00.002-08:002018-11-06T11:52:34.561-08:00Election Day 2018 PrayerMonica Blackdog, who are you?<br />
To me, you are a name on a voter list.<br />
A name to which I write a letter. Please-<br />
please vote<br />
<br />
I think of the "black dog of depression" - but your name must be<br />
much older than that analogy.<br />
Maybe your name is<br />
a powerful spirit animal, a protector. <br />
<br />
I imagine you, a Souix, or Blackfoot,<br />
about my age, 60's, an extended family that relies on you. <br />
I wonder what Anaconda, MT is like.<br />
I wonder what your life is.<br />
I hope you accept my humble plea,<br />
hand written paragraph about my grandmother and voting rights for women.<br />
<br />
We, maybe both grandmothers.<br />
<br />
Accept my humble plea.Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-63592797969687003782018-11-01T18:37:00.001-07:002018-11-25T08:39:12.111-08:00Being Mary PoppinsHalloween 2018 is fun because I have 2 little girls to take trick or treating, my nietas. The neighbor girls, Esme her and baby sister go with us. The two Dads follow along, watching their girls make memories.<br />
<br />
While getting ready, Kaitlyn , 4, asks me what I am dressing up as. She and her sister have very dramatic black and purple witch costumes. I, who have never bought a costume, have nothing particular in the closet. I don't buy pre-made costumes not because it wouldn't be fun, it just wasn't how I learned this dressing up skill when I was a kid. Not because I wouldn't have liked cool, beautiful princess ball gowns but because it wasn't in the family budget.<br />
<br />
After dinner we dress, and the girls decide I should wear a little pink hat with a rose on it. I throw on 'the raspberry coat" named for it's color - a mid length velvet coat, very fetching. My winter boots come out of the closet for the first time since last spring. It looks like it might rain, so I bring along my wood handled blue-green umbrella. As a last effort I don a little purple cape from the dress up basket.<br />
<br />
We gather in the street with our neighbors, there is the admiring of costumes. Kaitlyn and Adlelyn are witches, Esme is a female comic super hero, little baby Izzie has a warm pink and blue unicorn suit. They look at me and I say," I'm not sure what I am, maybe super Grammy."<br />
<br />
Six year old Esme says, "You look like Mary Poppins!"<br />
<br />
That felt like the sweetest thing anyone had said to me in some time. After a long day of child care, house work, trying to get dinner into everyone before trick or treating, making sure the kids had naps, etc, I thought being Mary Poppins was a wonderful notion. All I needed, maybe, was "a spoonful of sugar."<br />
<br />
The kids proceeded to gather a boat load of candy. Little 2 year old Adelyn keeping up with the older girls. I got to watch my own kid watch his kids enjoy this quite old fashioned tradition, going to strangers doors and knocking confidently.<br />
<br />
So another Halloween has come and gone, the leaves fly about in the windy wind. I write this on All Souls Day, or Day of the Dead, if one were in Mexico. I cut some marigolds and bring them in to grace my kitchen. The flowers of remembrance. To all those who have gone on to the other plane, I remember you today as I harvest the last of my summer beans.Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-16120055490287034212018-06-13T22:09:00.003-07:002018-06-13T22:09:37.971-07:00Eight Days A Week<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I just finished watching Ron Howard's incomparable film, "Eight Days A Week". By the time I'd reached the very final credits which had a voice over of the Four Beatles doing a little note to the fans at the end of 1963, I could do nothing but burst into tears.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Do you remember Beatle bubble gum trading cards? My girl friends and I played with them in 1965-66. There was Beatle magazine, which we were mad for. I was 10 in 1966. I recall telling someone that 10 was the best year, that I loved being 10 years old. Part of that had to do with the Beatles. We were deeply infatuated for Paul and john were our first loves.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As I watched the fpour grow up in the film footage so artfully interspersed with interviews of some of my favorite people who also loved them, I felt keenly again my own youth as well. In those years we were all so young, and we loved love. Idealism was taking hold in a visceral way for me. I was forming myself in relation to the world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The movie never went further than their last rooftop concert in London, before they disbanded as a group. How wise of Ron Howard, how terribly, sadly wise. For what happened later to John and George is a sickening commentary on mass culture and the collateral damage of fame. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But, back to my tears, for my first loves, for the guys who refused to play to a segregated audience in the 1965 American South. To the guys who grew their hair and gave a generation of men the invitation to break out. To the young men who smiled with such authentic good will and treated their fans with courtesy and easy humor. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My gut reactions to the film - still teary eyed. Not sure what to do next. Not sure where that love and art has gone, not recognizing the world I thought it was when I was 10.</span>Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-920622706323445023.post-10713918608820988252018-05-25T12:41:00.001-07:002018-06-13T22:10:16.357-07:00Walking Meditation<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Late May this year is giving us warm days with that soft moderating touch of Marine air. Sitting inside to meditate makes less sense than going to the Springwater Trail to walk and clear my mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The small shortcut trail is becoming obscured by wild clematis and blackberry vines trying to reach in even after I performed some snipping a month or more ago. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The sides of the ravine explode in blackberry and clematis, not the pretty garden kind. I let me mind release judgement about that condition as my first practice. Then I begin noticing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I see a mile post sullied by graffiti stickers. I bend closer to determine that I can remove them with my fingernail. Yes! I am able to remove 2, leaving the marker looking again as it should. I decide this is part of my practice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then as if In reward I see a group of school kids, about 5th grade, down at the creek with little nets. They are studying bugs. Another group is removing shiny geranium invasive weed. I have pulled that weed here myself. It is very satisfying to see the difference. I am so happy these kids got out of the classroom today.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The
springs bloom out of the hillside here and there. One of them was my
grandmother's which we revered immensely as children. How absolutely
rich to have one's own fresh water spring, cold and clear bubbling
magically from the earth. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Further along the trail I walk behind 2 young girls and one young adult woman accompanying them to the restrooms. One girl has dark curly hair and dark skin, the other has red hair and fair skin. The woman is yet another hue, not white. This makes me happy. They are having an easy conversation, a carefree saunter on a warm morning. I talk a bit to them at the restroom. The woman is a college student at PSU majoring in environmental studies. She is there volunteering to help with this elementary school field trip. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One little girl asks her if people live here, where the picnic tables surround the restrooms. The woman says no. The girl points to a cart with blankets and a pillow stowed under a table. Explaining the homeless situation to children is very weird. It reminds me of a walk downtown one day with my 4 year old grand daughter. She saw a tent set up in the middle of the sidewalk on a main street right there in our beloved "Downtown" which were we refer to from the Petula Clark song. Kaitlyn asks what it is, and I tell her it is a tent. I brace myself for the next question, but thankfully she hasn't gotten to that point yet. I wonder what I will say. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I reach the busy intersection, where a bridge crosses Johnson Creek. Right below the bridge still lies the big, clunky and now obsolete computer modem dumped there a few days ago. I use my practice to try not to be angry. Thankfully, there are hundreds of volunteers who show up for the Johnson Creek Watershed Clean-up every summer. I attended last year and found it astoundingly informative, as well as gratifying.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is a huge peach colored rose bush visible on the edge of smaller Errol Creek around the corner. I wish I had a clippers, I would love a few of those blooms. Bushes left from the gardens of the homes which have been removed to restore the wetland.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I make a loop and begin the return home. Along the way I am able to remove 3 more stickers from signs on the trail. One said "There's no government like no government." Seemingly placed there by someone who certainly takes advantage of a beautiful trail which exists because of our government. It is stuck on too hard for my fingernails to do much, but I manage to remove the word <i>like. </i>Now it reads ,<i> "There's no government, no government."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am pleased with the irony. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i> </i></span>Margi Shindlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16724634252886466566noreply@blogger.com0