| Dedicated to Fun, Friendship and Frivolity |
Gadabout Gals
Chapter of the Red Hat Society
Chapter of the Red Hat Society
 |
| A mighty wind blew night and day. It stole the oak tree’s leaves away Then snapped its boughs And pulled its bark Until the oak was tired and stark. But still the oak tree held its ground While other trees fell all around The weary wind gave up and spoke, “How can you still be standing, oak?” The oak tree said, “I know that you can break each branch of mine in two, Carry every leaf away, shake my limbs, and make me sway. But I have roots stretched in the earth, Growing stronger since my birth, You’ll never touch them, for you see, They are the deepest part of me. Until today, I wasn’t sure of just how much I could endure But now I’ve found, with thanks to you, I’m stronger than I ever knew.” Johnny Ray Ryder, Jr. |
Characteristics of a Grateful
Life
A life of gratitude is composed of
three parts that combine to make a
whole.
1. A sense of purpose in our lives.
2. An appreciation for the lives of
those around us.
3. A willingness to take action to show
the gratitude we feel.
This challenge is expressed in
practical form:
Life
A life of gratitude is composed of
three parts that combine to make a
whole.
1. A sense of purpose in our lives.
2. An appreciation for the lives of
those around us.
3. A willingness to take action to show
the gratitude we feel.
This challenge is expressed in
practical form:
- Spend three minutes every
morning writing down a few things
you are grateful for that day.
- Devote a full morning or afternoon
to composing a more detailed
gratefulness list. (One tip: think
both about what you are grateful for
and also how you can show that
gratitude.)
- Make it a habit to encourage at
least one person every day.
- Review your finances to make sure
they are in order and aligned with
your values.
- Plan something fun, like a trip to
somewhere you’ve never been.
- For one day (or more), say
something positive to every person
you meet.
 |
Prescription for the Year 2010
For a Healthier Body
For a Happier Heart
For a Healthier Body
- Drink plenty of water.
- Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like beggar. Eat more
foods that grow on trees and plants, and eat less food that is manufactured in
plants. - Live with the 3 E's: Energy, Enthusiasm and Empathy.
- Make time to pray, play more games, and read more books than you did in 2009.
- Don't overdo. Stay within your limits.
- Take a 10 to 30 minutes walk daily. And while you walk, smile.
- Sleep for 7 hours a night and sit in silence for at least 10 minutes each day
For a Happier Heart
- Smile and laugh more.
- Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.
Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need. - Don't waste your precious energy on gossip, and don't have negative thoughts
about things you can’t control. Instead, invest your energy in the positive present
moment. - No one is in charge of your happiness except you. Don't take yourself so seriously -
no one else does. - Life is too short to waste time hating anyone. Forgive everyone for everything.
Forget issues of the past. Make peace with your own past so it won't spoil the
present. Don't remind your partner of his mistakes of the past. That will ruin your
present happiness. - Realize that life is a school and you are here to learn. Problems are simply part of
the curriculum that appear and fade away like algebra class, but the lessons you
learn will last a lifetime. - Call your family often. Spend time with people over the age of 70 and under the age
of 6. - Each day give something good to others, and try to make at least three people
smile every day. - Remember: What other people think of you is none of your business.
- Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends will. Stay in touch.
- Do the right thing! However good or bad a situation is, it will change.
- God heals everything. When you wake in the morning, thank God for being alive.
- Dream more while you’re awake. Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or
joyful. - No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up. The best is yet to come. So
don’t worry. Choose to be happy.
Clouds in My Coffee
By Connie Kramer
Still rubbing sleep from my eyes, fresh from
the shower, a towel draped around my neck,
I enter the sanctuary of my little kitchen.
I grab my mug from the dish rack, open the bag
of Hawaiian coffee, close my eyes and fill my
senses with its rich aroma.
This coffee healed me. Or showed me I was healed.
Or at least heal-ing. It's like when some zealous soul
asks you if you “are saved” as if it were a one-time,
one-moment thing. It’s a process, is it not? But I digress. The coffee. Look at these
Kona beans! They’re beautiful: shiny, sassy, dark and proud like an African
priestess.
The espresso machine was a gift from Ben for Christmas one year. One of our good
years. Well, perhaps that Advent had been decent. I suppose a lot of espresso
machines end up in a garage sale, or given to charity. I wonder if the Salvation Army
considers salvation a process? (I can't blame Ben for getting tired of me
philosophizing about every stupid thing, could you? If I had a dime for every time he
gave me that impatient look and said, “get to the point, Angie,” I'd be rich.)
Now me? I love my espresso machine. I use it all the time. You wouldn’t call me a
connoisseur of coffee, merely a lover. Certainly, I’ve tried and loved more coffees than I
have men. With Ben, it was twenty years of Maxwell House. I was happy. Happy
enough, but then I had to switch coffee. Truly, it was more like the brand was secretly
switched on me. Like the label said Maxwell House, but a cheaper imitation had been
incrementally substituted. So I had to swear off the stuff. I couldn’t drink it anymore and
I wonder now why I kept buying it for so long.
So, I loudly powder the Kona beans in my grinder. Sometimes the kitchen is a violent
place, with all the bean-grinding and chicken-breast pounding, and the knives. No, Ben
never beat me, nor I him. Unless you count Scrabble, in which I always beat him,
unless he quit first, which he usually did because he couldn't stand to lose. Especially
to a girl.
So the coffee spills on the counter-top as I transfer it into the stainless steel basket of
the espresso machine. When I pick up the spoon there's a reverse spoon shadow in
the coffee dust. I always seem to make a mess. Ben, if he were still here, would have
sighed and said, “awwww, Angie” in the devastating tone which implies, “you are such
an idiot.” But I don't sigh to myself, or criticize myself. I look at the spoon anti-shadow
and just smile at my messy ways, and make a peace sign out of it, just for fun. So what
if I have to wipe up. No harm done. The dark powder reminds me of Ash Wednesday.
Remember, Ang,that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return. Fresh-roasted
reconciliation. Again, I digress.
I pour the water into the machine and screw on the lid, so the pressure can build up
and blast through the pungent pulverized pieces of beans. MMMmmm. The machine
hisses and drips thick liquid into the miniature carafe. None of that Mr. Coffee-Maxwell
House for me. No. This is a real cuppa Joe. I make all four shots as one giant
delicious cup. I'm not so tough as to drink it straight. Before, I’d have added Sweet-n-
Low and skim milk, but now that I'm on my own, I use real sugar and real cream. I
have this clear glass mug. When I add the cream it swirls and reminds me of Carly
Simon singing I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee.
Ben, you're so vain, you probably think this story's about you. I chuckle to myself.
This morning ritual, it's practically sacramental. The fruit of the vine, the work of human
hands... it flows across my tongue and warms me inside. Delicious. I would not have
this magnificent result without the roasting, the crushing, the hot water, the pressure. I
slide into my chair and Google “Kona.” A tear forms in the corner of my eye. It means
“Lady.” Ah. I see. Ah so.
And like the ocean filling up the sand, the coffee permeates me: bitter and strong,
tempered with something rich, and something sweet.
By Connie Kramer
Still rubbing sleep from my eyes, fresh from
the shower, a towel draped around my neck,
I enter the sanctuary of my little kitchen.
I grab my mug from the dish rack, open the bag
of Hawaiian coffee, close my eyes and fill my
senses with its rich aroma.
This coffee healed me. Or showed me I was healed.
Or at least heal-ing. It's like when some zealous soul
asks you if you “are saved” as if it were a one-time,
one-moment thing. It’s a process, is it not? But I digress. The coffee. Look at these
Kona beans! They’re beautiful: shiny, sassy, dark and proud like an African
priestess.
The espresso machine was a gift from Ben for Christmas one year. One of our good
years. Well, perhaps that Advent had been decent. I suppose a lot of espresso
machines end up in a garage sale, or given to charity. I wonder if the Salvation Army
considers salvation a process? (I can't blame Ben for getting tired of me
philosophizing about every stupid thing, could you? If I had a dime for every time he
gave me that impatient look and said, “get to the point, Angie,” I'd be rich.)
Now me? I love my espresso machine. I use it all the time. You wouldn’t call me a
connoisseur of coffee, merely a lover. Certainly, I’ve tried and loved more coffees than I
have men. With Ben, it was twenty years of Maxwell House. I was happy. Happy
enough, but then I had to switch coffee. Truly, it was more like the brand was secretly
switched on me. Like the label said Maxwell House, but a cheaper imitation had been
incrementally substituted. So I had to swear off the stuff. I couldn’t drink it anymore and
I wonder now why I kept buying it for so long.
So, I loudly powder the Kona beans in my grinder. Sometimes the kitchen is a violent
place, with all the bean-grinding and chicken-breast pounding, and the knives. No, Ben
never beat me, nor I him. Unless you count Scrabble, in which I always beat him,
unless he quit first, which he usually did because he couldn't stand to lose. Especially
to a girl.
So the coffee spills on the counter-top as I transfer it into the stainless steel basket of
the espresso machine. When I pick up the spoon there's a reverse spoon shadow in
the coffee dust. I always seem to make a mess. Ben, if he were still here, would have
sighed and said, “awwww, Angie” in the devastating tone which implies, “you are such
an idiot.” But I don't sigh to myself, or criticize myself. I look at the spoon anti-shadow
and just smile at my messy ways, and make a peace sign out of it, just for fun. So what
if I have to wipe up. No harm done. The dark powder reminds me of Ash Wednesday.
Remember, Ang,that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return. Fresh-roasted
reconciliation. Again, I digress.
I pour the water into the machine and screw on the lid, so the pressure can build up
and blast through the pungent pulverized pieces of beans. MMMmmm. The machine
hisses and drips thick liquid into the miniature carafe. None of that Mr. Coffee-Maxwell
House for me. No. This is a real cuppa Joe. I make all four shots as one giant
delicious cup. I'm not so tough as to drink it straight. Before, I’d have added Sweet-n-
Low and skim milk, but now that I'm on my own, I use real sugar and real cream. I
have this clear glass mug. When I add the cream it swirls and reminds me of Carly
Simon singing I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee.
Ben, you're so vain, you probably think this story's about you. I chuckle to myself.
This morning ritual, it's practically sacramental. The fruit of the vine, the work of human
hands... it flows across my tongue and warms me inside. Delicious. I would not have
this magnificent result without the roasting, the crushing, the hot water, the pressure. I
slide into my chair and Google “Kona.” A tear forms in the corner of my eye. It means
“Lady.” Ah. I see. Ah so.
And like the ocean filling up the sand, the coffee permeates me: bitter and strong,
tempered with something rich, and something sweet.
