A Place That Brings You Joy

RMNP Colorado Rockies June 2017

Have you ever been to a place, or lived in a place that brought you such joy and peace that every day you looked out your window or stepped outside your door, you smiled at the grand and scenic landscape around you?

I grew up a military dependent, so we moved around every two to four years.  I was painfully shy growing up, and it took me many months to make friends, and that friendship was enjoyed for a couple years or less, and then it was off to another place.   The moves were difficult, but I adapted.  I kept in touch with my friends over the years via actual snail mail that seems unheard of these days, but it was great fun the years my friends and I wrote each other.  I still remember the excitement I felt when I got a letter from a friend.

The pattern of my emotions in each move consisted of initial sadness when I found out we were moving, to tingling anticipation in the last few weeks before moving day, wondering what the new place would be like.

Here’s a short history of where I’ve lived up to the place I found to be my happy haven.  I was born in Maine, and from there moved to Taiwan, then Massachusetts, Virginia, Alabama, Germany, Illinois, Virginia again, and then Colorado.  All the states and Germany (which was amazing, clean, and gorgeous) pretty much had the same climate–four seasons, humid and hot in the summers, various bugs depending on the area….bigger ones down South (ugh).  So I knew no other type of climate other than hot, muggy buggy, and cold, humid in the winters. Until Colorado.

I remember when we drove into the state and I first stepped outside the car at the local Air Force Base’s gas station.  We were headed to the TLF (temporary lodging facility) until the house Dad and Mom had purchased, was ready to move in, as it was a new house in a new subdivision down in Castle Rock.  As soon as I stepped outside the vehicle, I noticed immediately the difference in the air.  It was light, thin, and fresh.  The sky was an incredible deep azure, with the sun shining so bright, it was nearly white.  Although it was mid summer, it didn’t feel as oppressive as it had in Virginia, Illinois, or Alabama.  And the first time I saw the Rocky Mountains, I caught my breath.  They dominated the western landscape, and demanded respect.  If it were at all possible in some type of sense, I fell in love with Colorado right then, and this has never dissipated.

Colorado Rockies and elk

I was blessed and lucky enough to have lived there twice.  The first time was from 1987 to 1995, and the second time was from 2007 to 2013.  Both times that I left this wonderful haven was not because I wanted to, but more because I didn’t really have a choice.  The first time was when I was in my early twenties, and my job was being phased out, and therefore, I moved south to Northern Louisiana where my parents had moved months before me, and also where my sister had been living for many years because her husband was from there.  The second time was because my husband believed he had a calling to the priesthood, and so we needed to go to Boston for him to attend the graduate school there.  But for several reasons, his degree at that time didn’t come to pass, and because our house in Colorado was being rented out, we couldn’t go back to it, and at that time, my husband wasn’t sure if he’d return to school at a later date.  Therefore, we ended up in Pennsylvania, the state in which my husband had grown up. Also, his family still resided there.

We settled in Lancaster, and struggled for the first year and half as my husband searched and applied for many jobs.  Finally, he was hired last May in 2017 at a local school district.

Lancaster is a lovely area dotted with many farms, rolling hills, and Amish buggies.

Lancaster, PA

We were fortunate to take a vacation back to Colorado in June of 2017 where we stayed at Estes Park in a beautiful, little rustic cabin and hiked the Rocky Mountain trails in Rocky Mountain National Park, and then visited our spiritual father and his family, and our parish family in Colorado Springs.  It was a great respite that truly felt euphoric.

Lancaster is charming, but we knew when we moved into our rental home here and know now that it really is a temporary place in which we have been blessed to regroup, work out personal issues, heal, and grow.

We don’t know how long we’ll be in Lancaster.  I only know that Colorado is always in my heart and in the back of my mind, and the urging to return never goes away.  My husband feels the same way, which works out well for us; no arguments or disagreements on where we want to retire.  God willing, we’ll return some time in the future to this glorious state that has me literally smiling and my heart soaring every time we drive into it and spot those majestic Rockies.

RMNP June 2017

Do you have a place that makes you happy and causes your heart to swell?

 

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The Plague of Cicadas & The Senior Prank

locusts, but will have to use it for the cicada blog post

One of my nightmare scenarios came true yesterday when I read the story out of Florida about the gnarly flying cockroach that crawled into a woman’s ear while she was sleeping, and the grotesque details of the procedure and follow up of the removal of this disgusting bug. I can’t tell you how much I loathe cockroaches and want to vomit every time I see even a picture of them.  Those hellish buggers are one of my phobias. You can read about my encounter with these gross creatures and other creepy crawlies in a previous blog post here. Also, if you’re interested in losing your last meal, you can read the nasty news story I mentioned above here.

After reading and grimacing through that news story, it prompted a memory from my teen years.

It was late spring in 1987 in Fairfax, Virginia, and the year of the horde of the 17-year cicadas. They descended upon my city with the audacity of a shameless celebrity, blanketing tree trunks and back porch screen doors, emitting the most haunting, deafening, echoing tunnel humming I’d ever heard. I was a junior at Robinson Secondary School, which housed 7th-12th graders. The juniors alone were a thousand students that year! The main hall that stretched from one side of the enormous building to the other  spanned the area of a football field, at least that’s what it looked like to my teen eyes. The gym was the size of three regular elementary school gyms. I could go on, but you get the point.

So, I avoided going outside as much as humanly possible to shield myself from the black-bodied, red-eyed creatures drilling me in the head or landing on my shoulder. They were around two inches in length and an inch in width. HUGE, ok? Each day, my mother would drive me and pick me up from school, which was just over a mile away.

17-year cicadas

One afternoon after school when the speckles of sunlight shown through the curtain of cicadas on our back porch’s screen door and their humming had become background din, Mom opened the sliding screen slowly, stepping onto the porch in her button-up, long-sleeved shirt and jeans. She grabbed a pair of bush clippers and disappeared on the right side of the house to trim the hedges. Minutes later, she stepped back inside the den where I sat on the couch, cringing.

“I can’t believe you went out there,” I said.

She smiled, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her jeans. “It’s fine.”

“The cicadas could have crawled all over you.”

“Naw.  Don’t be silly, Dorothy. You’re overreacting.” Still smiling, she shook her head.

A second later, she said, “Oh!” and bent over, pulling on the collar of her shirt and shaking it, until one of those hard-shelled vermin dropped out from her back onto the floor.

I screamed, “Kill it! Kill it!” I stood up on the sofa, about to have a heart attack at 17.

Mom managed to throw it back outside.

During these horrid weeks, a news report surfaced about a man driving in a truck that was attacked by a legion of cicadas that had flown through the driver’s side window, blocking his view of the road, causing him to veer off the road and crash. It was like something out of a horror flick.

The end of the school year was approaching. I gathered my clothes and backpack in the locker room and then crossed the shiny gym floor toward the doors leading to the main hall. Just before I pushed the doors open, a chorus of screams came from outside the gym. I headed toward the mob scene that was the main hall, which was how it always looked during changing classes. I moved toward the two-story 11th and 12th grade sub school straight ahead with its balcony off the second story 12th grade area that faced the main hall. The screams lessened as I fell into the haphazard flow of kids. A few kids (mostly girls) were yelling that the seniors had dumped cicadas from the balcony onto the juniors below them only a few minutes ago. My heart nearly stopped. I saw the evidence of these ugly creatures flitting about and some lying lifeless on the floor, people crunching them under their sneakers or stepping around them squealing. Relief of missing this death-inducing event washed over me.

Some senior prank. They couldn’t have just TP’d the classrooms or punctured the front lawn with a bunch of plastic forks like the seniors did at the local high school in our town here last year? No nasty bugs, just tedious plucking of utensils from the grass for clean up.

forks in lawn

So the rest of the day, the ugly suckers flew up and down the gaping main hall. One fellow student in Spanish class thought he’d be funny and had placed one of the cicadas on my back without my knowledge, of course.

He said, “Hey, Dorothy.”

I turned around to look at him–a little guy who sat behind me.

“Look,” he said, pointing at my back.

I peered over my shoulder and saw two red beady eyes staring at me. Inside I was freaking out, but I stayed calm on the outside knowing if I freaked out, he’d enjoy that too much and prolong the cicada’s lounging on my back.

“Get it off,” I said calmly, smiling as if I got the joke and didn’t care.

The student and his buddy next to him laughed, and he then removed it.

Obviously, I never forgot that day.

Having seen greenish-colored cicadas here in Pennsylvania in smaller size with “regular” eye color (I just know they weren’t red!), they didn’t look so bad.  In retrospect I feel a bit sorry for those cicadas at my high school. They were brought inside unable to do their mating, which is why they had dug themselves out of the ground after 17 years. They had no food sources and died by the next day. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d feel sorry for these bugs, but I do now. Ah, how your perspective changes some thirty years later. 🙂

 

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Remembering Dad’s Wit

On April 29, 2012, Dad reposed.  After several strokes, the last one being massive, and in between the last two, pneumonia, Dad didn’t recover, but became unresponsive and on a ventilator to breathe.  The doctor had told Mom and my sister, Mary, that he couldn’t breathe without it.  Via phone conversations, Mary and I came to the painful decision that we needed to let him go and leave it in God’s hands, so to speak. We made this decision before Mom did, which was understandable.  But eventually she agreed.  The ventilator was removed around four in the afternoon on April 29, 2012, and Dad left this life seven hours later.  I was back at parents’ house with my sons when he departed.  I got the call from Mom a few minutes before Mary and my husband, Troy, got to parents’ house after leaving Mom at the hospital.  Seven hours later…Seven…I’d thought about this when I told my sister he’d reposed and thought “Seven, the number for completion,” Biblically speaking in our Orthodox Christian faith.  It’s odd sometimes what you think of in such sorrowful and painful moments in your life.

So, in memory of Dad for the 29th, I’m sharing something funny and dear to my mom, sister, and I:  Many Sayings of My Dad.  He was a 30-year Air Force Colonel lawyer and judge, and was/is a loving, encouraging, and gentle father with a great dry sense of humor.  So, here are the list of my dad’s common sayings:

“Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?”

“Back when the earth’s crust was cooling…” – talking about the age in which he grew up.

“Back when the dinosaurs were still roaming the earth….” talking about the age in which he grew up.

While playing poker, Dad would say many things while dealing to us:  (dealing to first person) “Three 4s,” (dealing next person) “Pair of queens,” (dealing to the next person which they don’t get anything) “Paregoric.”

Again, dealing cards during poker to us:  “Possible straight,” (next person) “Possible flush,” (next person with nothing) “Possible nothing.”

When it’s somebody else’s turn to deal or it’s their turn in one of our board games.  “It’s all urine, pee pee!” 

When something was really gross or disgusting:  “It’s enough to make a buzzard puke.”

Watching some sport like baseball or football and the players are running to catch the ball:  “I got it!  I got it!  You take it!”

When someone would sleep in late:  “Ah, the dead has arisen!”

When dad would be leaving to go to work usually (and my husband has adopted this):  “I’m off in a cloud of sheep dung!”

I would tease dad when I was a young teenager and not speak correctly by saying something like “I ain’t got none,” for which he’d reply:  “That’s a double negative, so really you do have something.” 

Teasing mom when speaking the Greek words “ti kanis, kala?” ( τι κανεις καλα,  which means, “how are you? well?”), he’d say it like this:  “Tea canister, collapse?”

When Dad wasn’t feeling well way back when he worked in the Air Force, some of his coworkers were urging him about some work that needed to be done and that he needed to be there.  He said, telling this to a friend I believe it was:  “I’ll have the hearse pick me up on the way there.” 

“Everyone has the right to be stupid, but he abuses the privilege.”

“Take all you want, but eat all you take!”

“It’s a phenomenon of nature” – when Mary asked him “why” and he didn’t know

When someone would be leaving the table, or needing to say “excuse me” or “pardon me” for something, Dad’s reply would be “Granted.”

Back in the mid 1990’s when Mom, Dad, and I came down to LA to visit my sister and stayed at her house, both my sister and I had bad coughs from colds/allergies/sinusitis stuff.  After listening to our barking coughs for a while, he said, “Sounds like a TB ward in here.” 

“Ah, I see, said the blind man.”

His favorite words for telling me or both my sister and I when arguing in the back seat of the car to be quiet were “Cork it.”

“He is as full of crap as a Christmas goose.”

Dad would always help me with my homework, even all the way through high school.  I was kind of a struggling student–three quarters lazy, one quarter comprehensive problems.  So, I was whining over some report I was working on that he was helping me with because he had told me something I would need to do in addition to what resources I’d collected.  When I whined, he said, “Ah, yes.  We couldn’t go and look up that information and work on bibliography cards…That would be too much like… *Gasp* … WORK!” 

Mom said Dad was a walking encyclopedia, and on rare occasions, we’d ask him a word, and he’d say, “I know all, except that one.” 

He’d also throw this word at us every now and again and ask us to spell it or ask what it meant or something like that: “Anti-disetablishmentarinism.” 

“Take a long walk off a short pier!” 

“All in good time.”

On the road stopped at a light that is green for more than a few seconds.  He’d say to the person in front of him: “It’s as green as it gets!” 

“What is on your alleged mind?” 

“Once again, I am the screwee.”  

Mary said:  Me, loading up everything I can carry at once so I don’t have to make 2 trips…Dad: “Aaahhh….The lazy man’s load.” 

“To err is human, to forgive is divine.  Neither, however, is SAC policy.” – Contributed by Dad’s good friend, Doug Chandler

“Dad, I want to go to my friend’s house”…Dad’s response:  “Denied!” which was rare.

“Suck in that gut!  You’re in the marine corps now!”

“but Daaaddd, I really want to go to so and so’s house!” Dad: “Yes, and people in hell want ice water.” 

Dad’s endearing nicknames for me from earliest age to adulthood:  “My little flower,” “Dorothy of Porothy,” and “The Dotmeister.”

 

Love you, Dad.  You’re always near me.  I feel your presence often.  Until we meet again. ❤

 

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What You Learn When Writing About Yourself

finding peace

When I began to write again in September 2014, the first story I attempted to write and did not finish was a fictional piece where the main character was loosely based on me and my life experiences.  In doing this, I found that some of the events from my dating and romantic relationships in my early twenties weren’t what I’d always thought they were.

As I wrote scenes in which my main character reacted to the boyfriends and men in which she had crushes, this became apparent to me, especially for one intense relationship I had.  I’d spent twenty-five years seeing it all through my perspective and believing I’d been wronged and the guy was a jerk.  As if everything I did was wonderfully good and considerate and his was absolutely bad and apathetic.  Not so.

This narrow view expanded to a more balanced and clearer picture.  It was a bit of an epiphany . . . a painful and stunning discovery, mixed with regret and shame, in which I’d been so self-absorbed only caring about my own feelings and never considering or understanding his.  Now, it’s true this one boyfriend didn’t volunteer any of his deep, personal feelings with me, so I wouldn’t, couldn’t have known.  But twenty-five years later, it’s quite evident that there were problems that neither of us knew how to deal with and didn’t have the knowledge and relationship tools in which to figure it all out.

This first writing endeavor truly turned the mirror on me and my behavior in my early twenties, for which I’d been selfish, naive, and clueless.  But writing what I did brought about a catharsis for which my past hurts and whatever disgruntled feelings or misunderstandings and frustrations I’d felt so strongly then dissipated and resolved four years ago, leaving me with a sense of understanding and peace within me.

Having experienced this, I wonder if this happens to other writers, especially those who write memoirs.  Writing truly is an outlet to self-discovery and catharsis.

 

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Why Do You Write?

writing in notebook a story

We authors have a variety of reasons why we create and write stories.  Perhaps the reasons have changed over the years.  Did you start writing stories at an early age?  If so, your reasons for writing them then may be different than now.  Did you want to be an author when you grew up?  I did, but the reality of a one percent chance of getting published and my parents telling me I couldn’t sustain or support myself when I was out on my own pretty much shelved that aspiration.  I then decided to attend business college because I typed very well and graduated with an administrative assistant degree in 1991.  A typing position had worked fine for me in my early twenties.  I didn’t hate my jobs, but I also wasn’t thrilled or totally invested in them.  They mattered for paying the bills.

Getting back to why we authors write, I think my reason when I started writing at age twelve was because I enjoyed immersing myself in the make believe world of my characters.  It was a pleasant escape.  It wasn’t until after the long nearly eighteen-year hiatus from writing and going back to college in 2014 that I thought of doing this seriously and full time.  Instead of writing only for myself and a couple of friends, I desired everyone who was interested in my genre, writing style, and storylines to read them.  Thankfully, with four classes left until I graduate from university and all the techniques and mechanics of writing I’ve been learning have not hampered my joy of writing.  Producing a story is more difficult because of what I’ve learned it takes to write a good story, but that difficulty is not something overwhelming or unachievable.

As I continue to wait to hear back from the publisher on whether they’ll want to see my whole manuscript or reject it, I know that no matter what, I want to share my works with everyone.  I believe God gave me this ability to create stories, and with this gift, I am to share it with all.

What are your reasons for writing?  Share your thoughts below.

 

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A Guardian Angel’s Warning

Orthodox guardian angel for women

 

In the summer of 1993, Deanna drove her gray hatchback around the unknown neighborhood for a third time, seeking out a friend’s house.  After the past three years of a tumultuous and painful relationship with Kyle, she desperately desired a man who would fiercely love her back. She wanted to take a chance with her good friend, Patrick.  They had been fellow classmates in their sociology class at the local community college four years before and had kept in touch.  She knew he liked her more than just as a friend, so she believed her efforts to pursue Patrick would be worthwhile, as she struggled to unshackle herself from the dead end that was Kyle, the golf enthusiast.

The gray cloudy sky veiled the afternoon sun, as Deanna rolled down the same street for the fourth time.  Panic and worry settled in her chest as she faced the realization she didn’t know which house was Patrick’s.

As her hopes fell, the car rumbled to a stop in front of a modest, two-story house.  She checked her watch and found it was already after four o’clock. Anxiousness took hold of her, and the thought of calling Patrick flooded her mind.  The insistence grew so strong that she turned off the engine and exited the vehicle.

Walking up to the porch, ideas of what she’d say to Patrick floated through her mind.  Since she’d lost the chance to surprise him at his house, she’d have to surprise him with a call.  She knocked on the door with anticipation of the soon-to-be conversation.

A minute later, the door slowly opened, and a middle-aged man in a bathrobe eyed her with a mixture of irritation and curiosity.

“Hi, can I borrow your phone?” she asked with an impatient smile.

He hesitated for a moment, still staring at her, but then said, “Just a minute,” and retreated from the doorway, leaving the door cracked.

Eagerness and excitement bubbled inside Deanna as the imagined conversation with Patrick danced in her head.

Suddenly, a voice neither specifically male nor female squelched the talking in her head.

“What are you doing?”

Deanna froze, hearing this unexpected and unfamiliar voice.

“Leave the porch, get in your car, and get out of there.”  The tone was firm but not cruel.

Fear laced through her stomach as the realization of nearly entering a complete stranger’s home shook her.

Deanna bolted from the front of the house, got in her car, and fumbled for her keys, trying to shove the car key into the ignition.  As the vehicle hummed to life, she glanced at the house, where the man stood there still in his robe, behind the screen door, peering at her with a stony expression.

Heart pounding, Deanna flicked a wave in his direction and sped off.

 

(This story is based on my true life experience, with change in names for privacy)

 

 

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Pondering 2017 & Anticipating 2018

happy new year clock

 

This year started out rough.  My husband, Troy, had been searching for a job since November 2015, and by the time 2017 ushered in, our hopes were dwindling but not completely gone.  We still held on to our faith that God would lead us toward the right job for Troy and having survived the past year on his small military retirement and disability, God provided for us in our financial and familial circumstances.

In February, I worked for a temp agency to help our financial dilemma.  An architectural firm employed me for a month, and that was fine.  It had been about seventeen years since I’d worked outside the home, and that was a huge step for me and a good experience.  It helped a little when we needed some supplemental income.

But in those many months, I wondered what God ultimately wanted us to do.  What was His Will for us?  Well, it seems, in echoing our priest here at our church in Lancaster, God was teaching us perseverance, patience, and testing our faith in Him.

john 14 18 beautiful verse

And then God provided us a door that opened to the richest of blessings.  A couple weeks into May, the local school district hired Troy as Maintenance Director.  This truly was, as I said, a huge blessing because we had thought Troy would end up having to find work and commute from one of the big cities one to three hours away from our home.   Instead, his office is no more than ten minutes from our house!  God is good.

So, 2017 started rocky, but blossomed into a pretty awesome year.  We got to finally go back to our beloved Colorado for two weeks to spend it in the Rocky Mountains at Estes Park and visit our church family/friends in Colorado Springs.  After being away because of Troy’s schooling in Boston since 2013 and moving to Lancaster, PA in 2015, we didn’t know if our friends had just moved on.  We know how relationships and life can change with time.

Troy & I in Estes Park:Drake, CO June 2017

(Troy and I at our cabin in Estes Park, CO)

But we were pleasantly surprised, overjoyed, actually EUPHORIC, when we visited with our cherished spiritual father, his precious wife, our church family, and friend I have known for thirty-eight years.  My friend, KiMar, and I have managed to keep in touch for that amount of time, in separate states, moving about all those years since both our dads had careers and retired from the Air Force.  It’s the longest friendship I’ve had in my life, and it’s beautiful.

My university online courses have kept me busy throughout the year, and I’ve learned a great deal in those classes, such as nonfiction writing, context of writing, playwriting, literary theory, English language, and modern European history.  It’s been great.  It’s only strengthened my writing skills.

snhu logo 2

Then things started opening up for my writing. In the summer, I got back into revising my novel, Passage of Promise, that I’d written in 2015 and finished in early 2016.  I wrote a couple of short stories, and then I wrote a short play.  By December, as I’ve said in another blog post, that play and one I wrote in my creative writing class back in 2015 were read informally at the local theater.  It was the most wonderful experience, something I hope to never forget.  Thankfully, my dear son videotaped the readings so I can go back and watch them at any point to help raise my spirits if ever I’m feeling down or doubtful about my writing abilities, which happens sporadically.  The three actors who read my short play, “Falling Up Stairs,” will be performing it on the theater’s small theater-in-the round stage January 20, 2018, and I’m really excited about this…to be watching in the audience and getting to hear and see their reactions to this quirky piece.  I hope they like it!  I hope it makes them laugh!  I also began a new story December 7, and am still working on that.  What a way to wrap up the year!

DreamWrights Community Theater

Every New Year’s Eve/New Year’s Day, it is in our Orthodox Christian tradition to make a vasilopita (St. Basil’s bread).  St. Basil lived in the fourth century.  He believed strongly in helping the poor.  Via Saint Basil’s Greek Orthodox Church’s website, here’s a little excerpt on the life of St. Basil:

During the fourth century, one of the  greatest Fathers of the Christian Church appeared on the spiritual horizon of the  Orthodox Faith. His name was Basil and he was Bishop of Caesarea, Cappadocia (Asia Minor). He was born four years after the First Ecumenical Council held in the year 325 A.D. Saint Basil was one of the three Cappadocian Fathers of the Church (the others were Gregory of Nazianzus, his best friend, and his brother, Gregory of Nyssa).

Saint Basil was the first person in human history to establish an orphanage for little children. He also founded the first Christian hospital in the world. His fame as a Holy Man spread like wildfire throughout the Byzantine world. He was considered one of the most wise and compassionate clergymen in the entire history of the Church. His Feast Day is observed on January 1st, the beginning of the New Year and the Epiphany season. The Church, therefore, in respect for his many contributions to the Church and to mankind in general, combined the joy and happiness of the New Year with the glory of the birth of Christ, and the Epiphany into what is known in the Orthodox Church as the Vasilopita Observance.

st. basil the great

This bread we make is a sweet bread named after St. Basil.  From the same website, here’s some background on why we make the bread and how its made:

Saint Basil the Great, who was a bishop, wanted to distribute money to the poor in his Diocese. He commissioned some women to bake sweetened bread, in which he arranged to place gold coins. Thus the families in cutting the bread to nourish themselves, were pleasantly surprised to find the coins.

This original event which happened in Cappadocia of Caesarea in the last half of the fourth century, is very much alive in our Orthodox homes each year the 1st January. According to tradition, special sweet bread (in some areas of Greece, it takes the form of a cake) is prepared both in the Orthodox homes and in the Church community which is called Vasilopita. Sweets are added to the bread which symbolize the sweetness and joy of life everlasting. It also symbolizes the hope that the New Year will be filled with the sweetness of life, liberty, health, and happiness for all who participate in the Vasilopita Observance. When the Vasilopita is prepared, a coin is usually added to the ingredients. When the bread is cut and the observance begins, the individual who receives that portion of the Pita which contains the coin is considered blessed.

vasilopita

(example of a vasilopita – St. Basil’s bread)

It is rare that I get this coin, and it is pretty rare for Troy, too.  In 2016, our brother-in-law got it and had the best sales record that year where he works.  Lo and behold, Troy got the coin for 2017, and we saw so many blessings spring forth from it!  Secretly, I’m hoping and wishing very much to see the coin in my slice of vasilopita for 2018, so this upcoming year will be the year my books are published, and I am fortunate enough to hear and read the reviews of my readers feeling hope, inspiration, and satisfaction after perusing my book(s).  God willing!  In any case, I’ve got much to look forward to 2018:

  • Finishing up revisions of my first novel and preparing it for a professional editor, submitting a query to a publisher, and hopefully getting a positive response, even though I know to expect a rejection letter!  It’ll be published in 2018, for sure. 🙂
  • Watching my play on the stage!
  • Finishing up my current work in progress.
  • Reading so many great books.
  • Four-day weekend in D.C. (tentative!)
  • Vacationing in Estes Park and Colorado Springs again! (praying!)

 

Here’s to a successful and blessed 2018!

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