An Intentional Year! 2017

Re: Inspiration in 2017 – riverwoman43@gmail.com – Gmail

2017 – INTENTIONAL

INSPIRATIONAL

SUCCESSFUL – 2017

CHANGE Our THOUGHT LIFE

Let’s agree to enjoy a tremendously successful 2017.

I’ve worked last week on setting my “intentions” for this year.
My list is finished now and I recorded my INTENTIONS for 2017  into a word document.
My list of intentions is on my computer in a FILE. where I can have a LOOK  at it periodically during the year.

SPEAK EACH INTENTION  OUT LOUD

Yes! Speak them out loud! I consider them as already manifest in my life. It is not a wish list or a list of resolutions and not even a goal plan. It is far more. Intentions have WINGS.
I consider them as already ACCOMPLISHED  in my life.

What it is NOT:

Your List of INTENTIONS  is not a wish list

Not a list of New Year’s resolutions

Not a goal plan

It is far more. Intentions have WINGS.

I’ll have a LOOK  at my  LIST  periodically during the year.  I speak them out loud and I consider them as already manifest in my life. It is not a wish list or a list of resolutions and not even a goal plan. It is far more. Intentions have WINGS.
I speak them out loud and I consider them as already accomplished.

Will YOU join me in 2017?

Have you considered setting your own intentions?

Just ONE MORE Thing

While you are setting your INTENTIONS, why not also give yourself ONE WORD for the year?

The “ONE WORD” you choose will become your reality in 2017.

My “one word” for the year is “INTENTIONAL.”

This is my 3rd year to embrace ONE WORD that will be for ME during the entire year.
(My word for 2015 was Exuberance 2016 was Extraordinary; 2017 is Intentional)
You can find more information on how to set your intentions & recognize your desires in a small book that I recommend.

Deepak Chopra’s book:

Seven Spiritual Laws for Success

The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success

In particular, Chapter 5:  “The Law of Intention & Desire.” In just over 100 pages, Chopra covers all bases and lays down a clear path to follow. I return to this book again and again. I find it to be useful for all areas of life.

ONE FINAL THOUGHT

Caution: Do NOT tell anyone about your intentions or what they are!
Keep them to yourself.
Next year at this time, you’ll be so happy to share them and let your friends & family know how you achieved the wonderful success you have.
Happy New Year to all! I hope to hear from you NEXT YEAR  to let me know how it is going for your own life!
Read MORE about Setting Intentions &
Choosing One Word: Just One Word, Please!
******
Copyright, January 1, 2017. Lynda McKinney Lambert. All rights reserved.
Lynda Lambert
Writes 2 blogs:
Walking by Inner Vision
and…SCANdaloud-Recollections.
Author of:
    Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage (Kota Press)
    Walking by Inner Vision: Stories of Light and Dreams (to be released in early 2017)
Vision Aware Peer Advisor, AFB
Blogger – Author – Visual Artist

New Beginnings at the End of the Year?

Usually, we think of the END of the YEAR as ENDINGS for projects we started or dreamed of doing a year ago. Let’s begin to think of the END of the year as holding surprises and entirely new beginnings even before we begin a “NEW” year. How would you feel about that?

My FIRST article for the American Foundation for the Blind was published today in their VISION AWARE BLOG – an on-line magazine. In addition to this new beginning at the tail end of December, I’ll have another one of my essays published in this blog on January 3rd, too! Let’s get off to a great start now, at the end of the year. Can you join me in this new adventure?

To read my FIRST BLOG for Vision AWARE you can follow this link.

My essay is called, “Just One Word, Please!”  How can just one word make such enormous changes to your life in 2017? Find out by reading my blog article now.

Click here: “Just One Word, Please!”Click here to read the story\!

Featured Photo by Lynda McKinney lambert:  “Viewing Warhol.”

Lynda Lambert – Live

December 19, 2016.

You can enjoy this conversation now.

Writing with Intention – Set your INTENTIONS for 2017

Lynda McKinney Lambert – Writing with Intention, presented LIVE on Branco Boracast on Recorded LIVE.

 

 

Knitting15_Scarf9_4 Thanks for flying with me in 2015 on SCANdalous-Recollections.

Lynda McKinney Lamber

Visit my website at lyndalambert.com

 

Gentle Zephyr

Gentle Zephyr is an Abecedarian Poem.

Each new lines is a letter of the alphabet. Look down the LEFT side of the poem and you will see the first line begins with “A” and the final line ends with “Z.”

*****

 

Gentle Zephyr

 

Angel of the Lord

by night you

called me without warning.

“Do not be afraid,” you said.

Even so, I shuddered

fearful and ashamed as you

granted me a message

“Holy, holy, holy,” you sang.

I heard you that lonely night

“Just as I am?”  I AM. “Let me

keep this night forever

locked in my memory,” I thought.

Miraculous, our Messiah has arrived. We are

night watchers near the City of David

only Jehovah saw value in us.  

Patiently, we kept waiting

quietly, the angel came; a brilliant star

revealed the message to

shepherds! The sheep barely stirred,

Tonight, the sky was falling, spinning,

until the Angel spoke. Divine

visitations are unexpected. I’ve been

waiting for the One called

X is for the newborn Christ. Oh, come, Emmanuel.

YHWH.  El Shaddi. Come quickly, gentle

Zephyr.

_____

Lynda McKinney Lambert. Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.

Visit Lynda Lambert at www.lyndalambert.com

 

MERRY CHRISTMAS to ALL

 

Red December

This frigid yet refreshing morning inspired me to write a poem. I wrote about a favorite COLOR

– RED –

And I wanted to describe my morning walk

in the darkness with my dogs.

__________

Red December

New-fallen snow glimmers in pre-dawn darkness

slender red barberries dangle from thin bare branches

I shuffle my feet, dig in to feel solid ground

near the place where my Father’s red roses

are surrounded by pillows of snow

slumbering safe in dark red December.

 

My heavy suede boots part the snow

It’s too early for the red cardinals

“Where do they go at night?”

A sharp wind makes me huddle deeper into my bright

red boucle’ jacket

while my two dogs search random trails

follow the long marks, meander downhill.

 

 

On a crisp day in mid-December

I desire red raspberry jam on warm toast

Linger by the tall pampas grass

weighted down to the ground with icy snow

I think of strawberry Sundays with whipped cream

I recall wearing Neiman Marcus Red lipstick and

dancing all night in

hot red stilettos and tight blue jeans.

 

 

We turn around – for the return home

the dogs circle in the frozen pachysandra patches

stiff, brown-green  shrunken leaves.

In memories I see my neighbor walking to her car

she wears a cranberry red hat, worsted red wool coat, flat, scarlet red shoes

carries a true-red leather handbag like the one I bought last Sunday.

 

I watched her from the upstairs window.

In her 80s, she revealed how to live a gallant life.

 

No cars pass us on the country road  this morning in red December

Where it is perpetual winter.

 

By Lynda McKinney lambert. Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.

This is a FREE-FORM poem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Envision a Ship Coming In

Envision  a Ship Coming In

by Lynda Lambert

People often say, “I hope my ship comes in.”

In other words, they WANT to have something good come to them in some unexpected way. It usually means they need  a financial windfall  or help with something material they want to come to them. Definitely, this phrase expresses a need in their life and a longing for a quick fix.

The phrase also signifies a person feels helpless and really doubts that anything will change for them. It feels a bit helpless when you hear this longing desire for “somehthing,” doesn’t it? It makes me sad.

There is a universal law known as “SOWING & REAPING.”

When we are in need of a HARVEST, we must first plant the seeds for it.

Without the actions of preparing the soil and planting the seend, there is seldom a harvest.

As I hear a person  wondering if their ship will come in, I have to ask:

How many ships did you SEND OUT?

 

I send out a LOT of ships, so I can live in the expectation that many ships will come in for me.  And, just like we ENVISION, they DO come in – or come BACK ,  in DUE time.

Often my SHIPS come back through the mail. When my husband brings in the mail each day, I ask him:  “Did a ship come in the mailbox today?”

What DOES your SHIP LOOK LIKE? 

My SHIPS come in the form of CHECKS that arrive by MAIL Some  ships come in the form of INVITATIONS to important events that I will enjoy.

Occasionally ships come in the disguise of AWARDS for work I have done in writing and art. That is what I DO, it’s my profession. When I do it extremely well, I get paid with MONEY, FRIENDSHIPS,  LOVE, RESPECT, AWARDS, Publications   or  PUBLIC RECOGNITION.

 

Ships can arrive in dreams, in the middle of the night.  Ships will  come in conversations with others. Ideas for new projects or answers to difficult questions we are wrestling with can come unexpectedly.

 

Ships can be SENT OUT anywhere and at any time.

Ships can COME IN anywhere and at any time, too!

best-of-show-ribbon2

 Many years ago, I read a book by a well-known California pastor, Rev. Robert Schuller.

He spoke on reaping a harvest from God for our work. He said to CELEBRATE every award we receive, put those AWARD ribbons and plaques on our WALL and LOOK at them EVERY DAY – to remember that all our harvests come from GOD.

In my art studio, a wall is covered from ceiling to floor with colorful satin ribbons from all over the world –  they inspire me to do MORE and they affirm that what I do has been recognized by colleagues in my field. Each award is an affirmation by an expert in my field that my work passed the test and came in as a winner.

Likewise, in my office where I write; the walls are adorned  with plaques and framed recognition certificates I have received over the years  from  organizations I  served.  My diplomas from universities  where I earned 3 degrees push me forward to stay focused on what is important in my pursuit of  life-long learning.  I plan to do research and share my gifts with others even more in the years ahead. Diplomas are far more than a piece of paper. They are ships that vrought me through years of personal effort and dedication. When I look at them now, I feel like they are anchors that hold my ship fast  in any storm and keep me on course.

How about you?  

You may have many ships  yet to come in but if you have not yet sent them out, you will never be able to say, “My ship came in!”

When your SHIP does come IN, be sure to thank God for it, put the award ribbon or plaque on your wall, cash your checks, see your work in publications, and send off more ships – plant more seeds for an abundant harvest.

And, yes, stand proud and take a bow and pause to recognize your harvest.

 

OH, I almost forgot to share a ship that returned to me this morning.  You can read my wonderful NEWS today at this link:

http://www.visionaware.org/info/emotional-support/personal-stories/recreation-and-leisure-personal-stories/introducing-lynda-lambert-seasoned-writer-and-artist/1235

Please LIKE my  POST and offer me some comments. I enjoy it so much.

 

____

Copyright 2016. Lynda McKinney Lambert. All rights reserved.

 

Contact Lynda: riverroad@zoominternet.net

Lynda’s newest book, “Walking by Inner Vision” will soon be published.

She is the author of “Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage,” by Kota Press.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finding Home: Advice to a New Expat

Meet my Guest Blogger for November:

Carrie Delecourt

November 1, 2016

 

Finding Home: Advice to a New Expat

Every man has two countries, his own and France.  (Thomas Jefferson)

America is my country and Paris is my hometown.  (Gertrude Stein)

When good Americans die, they go to Paris.  (Oscar Wilde)

 

Expat in Paris. The words conjure up an image of Ernest Hemingway sitting in a smoky café on the boulevard du Montparnasse, scribbling in a well-worn notebook while rain beats steadily upon the sidewalk. Or maybe the words bring to mind the Lost Generation — Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, T.S. Eliot, John Steinbeck, Henry Miller, and all the other novelists and poets who came to Paris after the First World War to find themselves. And then there’s me.

My story is fairly typical. I grew up in the suburbs of Orange County, California, home to endless beaches, palm trees, and Disneyland. Full-time sun and eternally blue skies, frequent heat waves, vast freeways, shorts, flip-flops, and surfers in wetsuits. So you can imagine how exotic Paris seemed when I spent my junior year studying at the Université de Paris Sorbonne. Oh, the thrill! The adventure! Winter coats and gloves and wool scarves! Real French people!

The grass was definitely greener in Paris. Every day was sparkling and fresh, and I discovered something new and exciting around every corner. Lectures were held in the ancient Amphithéâtre Richelieu at the Sorbonne, and grammar classes met in classrooms with old-fashioned wooden desks with inkwells. I sat in cafés in the Latin Quarter with fellow students of different nationalities and discussed worldly matters over doll-size cups of strong, thick coffee. I visited friends in their tiny chambres de bonne — maids’ rooms — on the top floor of buildings without elevators. I went to the theater and to concerts and saw intellectual French films in art-house cinemas. It was all so different from California.

Paris was a feast of glorious sensations: the mouth-watering odor of baking croissants wafting out of a boulangerie and the salty smell of seafood laid out on ice in front of a restaurant; the taste of farm-fresh butter and apricot jam spread on half a baguette, the warmth of a warm patch of sun on a frosty day; the melodic ringing of church bells on the hour; the buzz of scooters dodging cars like matadors; and the cacophony of car horns, sounding like Gershwin. I wanted to soak it all up and bottle it, like an essence that would fade with time.

The year went by in a blur, and suddenly it was time to pack my bags and head home to California. So it was with a heavy heart that I returned to my former life. But as soon as I got back I discovered that California had not changed, but I had. I was the same person, and yet I was not. Something was wrong, something was missing. I felt out of place, and I was filled with a sense of longing. And I knew why.

Paris kept whispering my name, and every heartbeat urged me to go back. I felt I had no choice. Six months after I graduated I emptied my savings account and bought a one-way ticket to Paris. With my whole life crammed into two overstuffed suitcases, I pulled up my roots and left my family and friends for the land of over a thousand different types of cheese, where I joined the approximately 100,000 Americans who call France their home. I was going to pick up where I had left off during my year abroad. I was determined to Frenchify myself and embrace the French way of life. A new chapter — a whole new book — in my life was about to begin. I was on the road to becoming a witty and cultivated citizen of the world.

At first I was star-struck, then reality struck me like a brick on the head. Once the honeymoon was over, once the novelty and excitement of living and working in Paris had worn off, I realized that, unlike the carefree student life I had led, expat life was a challenge. It wasn’t always la vie en rose, and my rose-colored glasses slipped right off my nose.

The romanticized Paris you see in the movies or read about in books or on someone’s Facebook page, that picture-perfect city you visited during your European holiday, does not paint the whole picture. Despite what you might imagine, living in Paris is not always glamorous or fun. Unlike tourists who spend a week in Paris, or a student who stays for a semester or two, when you pack up all your worldly belongings and move to a foreign country you have to adapt to a whole new way of thinking. You are rebuilding your life from scratch, and it’s not always easy to come to terms with being a foreigner. As an expat you are expected to understand all the unspoken rules, those tricky “do’s and don’ts” of another culture. You don’t spend the afternoon people-watching and discussing existentialism in a sidewalk café, or strolling along the banks of the Seine while accordion music plays in the background. In the real world there are errands to run, and you can’t just pop into a big U.S.-style store and pick up everything on your list. There are sheets to wash and hang up to dry, toothpaste to buy, the utility company to wait for, long lines to stand in. Life goes on, just like back home, only in Paris everything is more complicated.

Life just seems harder here, and the frustrations of everyday living can be an exercise in patience. Nothing is simple or straightforward, and many things are downright mind-boggling. Everything is time-consuming, and the smallest of errands seems to take forever. So you learn to be patient, especially when it comes to the seemingly insurmountable administrative red tape you find yourself battling. Sometimes it feels like you are being asked to leap through a flaming hoop. Your wallet swells with five, six, seven oversize photo identity cards. Official papers needing your immediate attention pile up alarmingly on your desk. The woman behind the counter sends you away because you are missing a vital paper that was not on the list of documents needed. The only way to get through it, I’ve learned, is to do like the French: give a good Gallic shrug and tell yourself: c’est la vie. French people know this, hence the shrugging.

There are times when you miss the convenience of America. Everything in Paris is so much smaller — apartments, refrigerators, washing machines, soft drinks and coffee cups — and a lot more expensive. Shops close early and on Sundays, and many are shuttered up during lunch, so you have to plan ahead. There are frequent strikes — transit workers, Air France, the post office, sanitation workers, radio stations, administrations — and there are pot-banging and megaphone-blasting protest marches through the streets, turning whole neighborhoods into gridlock. Truckers and taxi drivers and farmers with livestock block the freeways. Streets are chaos; there are no stop signs, only yield signs and traffic signals at intersections. Pedestrians and drivers fight for the right-of-way, and cars, motorcycles and scooters are parked helter-skelter on the sidewalks and in crosswalks. Everyone smokes. You find yourself longing for tumble dryers, public drinking fountains, customer service, ice cubes, window screens and air conditioning. But these are little things, minor inconveniences. Annoyances. And when you think about it, do they really matter?

I don’t think they do. Paris may not be perfect, but it is a great city, perhaps the greatest city in the world. Paris is a mixture of ancient and modern, a vibrant and unique place that continually delights and surprises. Paris is the Ville Lumière, the city of enlightenment, rich in history and culture, renown for its breathtaking beauty, its statues, museums, monuments, and parks. Paris is the world capital of fashion and chic, and even French dogs have a certain je ne sais quoi when they trot down the sidewalk in their winter trench coats with their heads held high.

Paris is a morning walk through the mist in the Jardin des Tuileries, a hot chocolate with whipped cream on a cold winter’s day, a Vivaldi concert in a centuries-old church, or a moment sitting on a bench in a hidden square listening to the birds enjoying themselves. These are times when Paris really does belong to you.

There is a certain art de vivre here. Even though they can be as harried as other big-city dwellers, Parisians know how to pause and enjoy the little pleasures of life, things that really matter, like friends, family and good food. Sit-down meals are still the norm. They can last several hours, especially on Sundays, when the whole family gathers around the table. Food is savored and commented upon, wineglasses are held up to the light, and wine is sipped slowly, with pleasure. Cooking is taken seriously, and most people do their shopping daily. Neighborhood markets teem with fresh, seasonal fruit and vegetables arranged in perfect pyramids like works of art. There is fresh butter, milk, cream, and flats of brown eggs straight from the farm. At the fromagerie there are dozens of different types of artisanal cheese to choose from. Some are pungent, some are delicate, some come in individual wooden boxes, while others are cut like slices of pie from enormous wheels. Legs of ham and strings of sausages hang from beams above the charcutier’s stall. And where else in the world can you walk to the boulangerie around the corner and buy a warm, just-cooked baguette or a pain au chocolat?

Southern California weather is predictably sunny, so the changing seasons in Paris are a delight. Summer brings warm thundershowers and daylight until almost 11 p.m. The city sleeps through August, when Parisians flee to the countryside; Paris slows down and you can stroll along the sidewalks and navigate narrow store aisles without getting jostled. In autumn the days are crisp and dry leaves crunch underfoot as you cut across the park. Street-sweepers gather up fallen leaves with fluorescent-green plastic brooms, and the city smells of roasting chestnuts and sweet crêpes. But nothing compares to the joyous feeling of the first rays of the springtime sun after a long, bleak winter. Parisians sit outside on café terraces, loosen their scarves, and turn their faces up to the sun like flowers. Birds serenade the early morning light, forsythias explode into bloom, and tulips and daffodils poke their heads out of the earth. Your mood lifts instantly and you are glad to be alive and living in Paris.

For me, Paris is not just a home away from home. I have put out roots and built a life here. I have my own family here. But I often feel tugged in both directions, split in two, with one foot in France and the other in the U.S. Sometimes I wonder if I am still considered a “true” American. Actually, I’m not exactly sure what I am. I have the blue passport, I file my U.S. income tax, I vote in the U.S. elections, I celebrate Thanksgiving with turkey cutlets and gravy, and I read and write and think in English. I wouldn’t miss my American news podcasts for anything. But there are times when I feel more French than American.

I’m far from being a Parisienne, but I have picked up a few French customs over the years. I’m no longer a fashion faux pas — I can drape a silk scarf around my neck without it looking like a noose, I wear good shoes whenever I go out, and my wardrobe comprises mostly black clothing. I kiss my friends on the cheeks when I greet them, and when I’m annoyed I have been known to mutter, “Oh là là,” which the French really do say. I drink my coffee bitter and black. I have even tried (once) the breakfast ritual from the north of France, which consists of dipping bread and strong-smelling Maroilles cheese into a bowl of coffee. My English fails me sometimes; I accidentally insert French words into English sentences, or I’ll forget an English word and give a dismissive wave of the hand to fill in the blank. I have never bungee-jumped or explored the Amazon rainforest, but I’m more adventurous, in my own way. I have done a lot of exploring — and getting lost — so I know the city and the métro like the back of my hand. I prepare French dishes (with variable results), and I have eaten veal head and sea snails and frogs’ legs and various other creepy-crawlies. I can pick out the best camembert by gently palpating it, and I’m learning how to appreciate fine wine. All these things are part of me now. Although this country often leaves me scratching my head, and even though there will always be a part of me in California, I feel at home here.

People often ask me, “Don’t you ever get homesick?” and I tell them I do. Of course I do. Like most expats, I miss my family and my friends back in California. I miss out on all the milestones and the celebrations. I miss Thanksgiving and Halloween and the Fourth of July. When a loved one is ill or going through a hard time, I am filled with sense of guilt and selfishness for not being there. Sometimes I would like to reach out and give a hug, but I can’t. When people ask, “Would you ever move back home permanently?” I tell them the truth, that I don’t know. I really don’t.

Anyway, where is home for me? Many expats ponder this question. What exactly defines “home”? When I say “home,” do I mean California, where I grew up? Or is it France, where I have spent so many years? Is home the address on your passport? Is it where you were born? Is it where you keep your toothbrush and hang your hat? Is it the place where you sigh and put your feet up? Is it, like Robert Frost said, “the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in”? What if your heart is torn between two places? Does one’s heart have room for more than one home? Must I choose one place over the other?

These are difficult questions and I don’t think there is a simple answer. The way I see it, home is not just a house, a physical place with four walls and a roof on top. Home is not a geographical location, an address on a mailbox, or a thumbtack stuck in a map on a wall. Home is a feeling. It is where you want to be when you are not there. It is the place you can count on, the place where you are happy, the refuge where you feel safe, whether it’s California, Paris, or Timbuktu. Home is where you are surrounded by loved ones who understand you, and where you have built lasting memories. Maybe the answer is that home is within you, wherever you happen to be.

When I visit my family in the States, California is a mixture of foreign and familiar. I’m disoriented and a more than a little overwhelmed. I feel like a tourist from the planet Mars, an outsider who doesn’t know a thing other than the language. Being able to wear a silk scarf, or eat chicken wings with a knife and fork, is no help. I’m completely out of the loop — I don’t know the latest local news, the slang, or the celebrities. New stores have popped up, old favorites have closed. Hearing English all around me makes me feel like I’m hallucinating. I don’t know how to do the simplest tasks, like swipe my Visa card, bank at an ATM, or how to tip in a restaurant. Everything is enormous. Supermarkets are chock-full of items you need and don’t need, and the shelves are well stocked, the wide aisles free of boxes of merchandise being unloaded. It feels wrong to eat barbecued ribs with my fingers, but I can eat my fries with ketchup instead of mayonnaise without being teased. I hand over euro coins instead of nickels and dimes. I’m amazed you can buy medicine or Band-Aids after 8 p.m., or pick up a forgotten item at the grocery store on a Sunday afternoon. The whole world seems upside-down, and by the time I have started to turn myself right-side up, it’s time to go back to Paris.

Being an expat is not always easy, but I would never trade it for another way of life. Yes, it was tough in the beginning, and still is sometimes, but following my passion and living abroad is has been an enriching and rewarding experience. It has shaped me and changed me into what I hope is a better person. I don’t look at things in the same way I would if I had stayed in California. I have expanded my horizons and developed a broader view of the world. Being an expat allows you to see America in a different light, and you understand and appreciate it even more. I have discovered a lot about myself as well. I am more accepting and respectful of other cultures. I have grown stronger, more self-confident, and independent. I have learned to be humble and how to open my heart. And I have changed my priorities. I know how to slow down, let go of things, and make do with less. I have learned to focus on the positive and embrace new experiences. I feel blessed to have met incredible people, and I am thankful to have two places to call home.

If you are an expat struggling with culture shock or feelings of loneliness, whatever you do, don’t be too hard on yourself. If you are homesick, know that it’s perfectly normal. Homesickness is something almost every expat experiences; it’s part and parcel of living in a foreign country. Remember, it takes time to adapt to another way of life and bloom where you are planted. It helps to be curious, flexible, and open-minded. Don’t compare countries. Laugh whenever you can. Be brave, challenge yourself and climb out of that box in your comfort zone, but don’t be afraid to seek help if you need it. Try to speak French whenever you can. Make small talk, even if you mangle your words and your accent is cringeworthy. Eat everything on your plate and always carry an umbrella. Banish all negativity, find joy in everyday things and be delighted by what you find. Even though not everything makes sense in the beginning, when you are feeling lost, as though you are standing on the other side of the Great Wall of China, know that some days are tougher than others. Nothing in life is ever a smooth ride, no matter where you are. There are ups and downs and not everything goes according to plan. But if you are patient and willing to learn from your experiences, good or bad, I believe the journey is worth it. If you take it one day at a time, eventually things will start to fall into place, and one morning you just might wake up and realize that Paris, too, is home.

_____

My guest Blogger  for November is Carrie Delecourt , a writer who lives in Paris.

carrie.delecourt@memoirsofanordinarygirl.org

@carrieinparis

This guest blog is provided by courtesy of Lynda McKinney Lambert. All rights to this essay belong to Carrie Delecourt, Paris, France.

I present this piece with gratitude to Carrie for her generosity in sharing her thoughts with SCANdalous-Recollections Blog. Thank you, Carrie!

_____

Contact Lynda Lambert:  riverwoman@zoominternet.net

Website:  www.lyndalambert.com

 

Silver Cloud Dancers at the Andy Warhol Museum

Silver Cloud Dancers

Silver Cloud Dancersphoto_16_warhol_clouds4_comp

At the Andy Warhol Museum

Photo and poem by Lynda McKinney Lambert, 2016

 

 

Silver clouds swirl & spin in circles

Inflated silence above her golden head. She

Levitates above the floor &  reaches for

Variable visions of mesmerizing cloud-pillows.

Eternally drifting in uncertain lifecycles

Round & square. Touch the floating orbs.

 

Cloud dancer stretches her slender hands

Longevity is unpredictable, uncertain

Out-of-the-box survival fluctuates

Determined by chemistry & chaos.

 

Dance your memories in silver clouds

Air and pure helium lift in rhythm

No one can calculate your journeys

Choreography of individual flights

Every Friday morning new clouds arrive

Repeat the process of new expectations

Some silver clouds will last for a week.

 

 

Lynda McKinney Lambert. Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.

This is an ACROSTIC POEM.

PHOTOGRAPHS by Lynda McKinney lambert, 2016.

 

photo_16_warhol_clouds5_comp

“Delaunay Yaromey dances among  the Silver Clouds at the Andy Warhol Museum.

Delaunay is the great-granddaughter of Lynda and Bob Lambert, Ellwood City, PA.  She is a freshman at Slippery Rock University of Pennsylvania.

 

Lynda’s  latest book will be coming out in late November.  “Walking by Inner Vision: Stories of Light and Dreams.”

 

 

 

 

 

Andy Warhol’s Silver Clouds: More Than Just Hot Air.

 

Special thanks to the Andy Warhol Museum for this amazing exhibition.

 

For more information on the Silver Clouds please go to:  Information on Silver Cloud display at the AWM.

 

 

 

 

Lynda’s Travel Tips

What is so important that I had to

get up at 4 a.m. to write a blog ?

 

I’m leaving for Louisville, Kentucky tomorrow.

I’ll attend the American Printing House for the Blind Conference.

Why am I going? It’s because my art work is in the annual international art exhibition and I won a prize. I’ll be a guest at the conference along with other artists, and I’ll get a tour of the facilities, attend a reception for the art show, and even attend the banquet where I’ll receive an award for my work. All super exciting.  And, best of all, three of my daughters will be with me on this trip.  It will take us about 8 hours to get there and we will leave tomorrow morning.

Have I packed yet?

Of course, NOT!

 

photo_16_travel-bag

If I pack too soon then I’ll have second thoughts and make myself crazy by selecting and de-selecting everything I picked out for the trip. It’s hard for me to FOCUS with so many choices available. I have to order the chaos.

I’ll force myself to pack my little weekender bag. It’s such a cute one in hot pinks and oranges – happy colors for happy packing, I guess.
Later today – I love to travel but I hate packing for a trip. I’d like to have someone come and make the selections for me, and SECRETLY pack my bag. Let someone else make my choices for me – select the clothing, jewelry, and all. Secretly. Then, when I arrive, I ‘ll be surprised at what I brought
But, I have my own way of making choices. I begin with what is most important for me.
First, I select the kick-A** jewelry I want to wear while I am away. Yep, the jewelry comes FIRST. After that, I go to the closet and find the clothing that will best show off the jewelry. Finally, I pick a pair of shoes that will WORK with it all. Keep it simple. Just one small bag.
But there is one thing I have done in anticipation for this journey. I bought the snacks! But, there’s a problem with buying the snacks too soon, too. Three of the super large size candy bars I bought for the trip are now missing. Well, my friend Rosella once told me that if you stand at the sink and eat, the food has no calories. So, I did.

Finding a thing

I’ve been cleaning and organizing my office. It’s a room in my home, just off the kitchen where I sit to write everything that ends up in my books, stories, poems, website and blogs.

Why there?  I have “profound sight loss. ” This room holds  the high tech equipment I must use to write, make art,  “see” and communicate with others around the world. Here is where I speak with YOU, on a very good day.  Thank your for visiting with me today.

An enormous part of my world is housed in this room.  A life filled with creating visual art and writing – all my archives are here.

Everything has to be in order and easy to find when I need it. I’ve been working for an entire week to get this room organized – and that means I’ve had to sort through mountains of “things.” I’ve made some exciting discoveries this week as I have been working here.

Just today,  I found a notebook  where  I wrote  some things I wanted to remember, years ago when I could still see.  I wrote notes on the work of Ranier maria Rilke.

This reflection from Rilke  is perfect for today:

“Finding a thing is always enjoyable; a moment before, it wasn’t yet there.”