I'm a little teapot

by Lorin Michel Sunday, June 12, 2011 9:43 PM

There are two legends that tell the tale of the invention of tea. Shen Nung, a Chinese Emperor in the 3rd century BC, had camellia sinensis leaves fall into his boiling water as he sat under a tree. He sipped the water unknowingly and found the taste to be, well, tasty. The second legend attributes the discovery to a Dharuma Buddhist monk who travelled to China from India in the 5th century, AD. During the fifth year of his seven years of meditation he became sleepy and cut off his eyelids in order to remain wide-eyed and awake. The offending lids were thrown to the ground and a tea plant blossomed.

Teapots didn’t make an appearance until the 8th century, when tea leaves, dried and powdered were mixed with salt, formed into cakes and dropped into bowls of boiling water. Eventually the powder was spooned, sans salt, into the water. At least this was how the Japanese made tea in the 9th century and for the next 500 years in both Japan and China. It was the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) that introduced us to the modern teapot.

These pots, evolved from ceramic kettles and wine pots made of bronze, were made of unglazed clay that ultimately absorbed the flavor of the tea, making them even more powerful. Early versions were small, designed for one drinker, with the size reflecting the importance of serving small portions to better concentrate the flavor of the tea. Porcelain teapots first made an appearance in the 17th century, in either blue or white glaze, when China first shipped tea to Europe. The porcelain was able to withstand seawater without damage. Porcelain was not made in Europe at the time. It wasn’t until 1708 that Ehrenfried Walther von Tschirnhaus, a mathematician, physicist, physician and philosopher, created a way to make porcelain in Dresden, Germany that Europeans finally began to have their pick of designs.

Ever since, the teapot has evolved and in many cases grown. The Chester Teapot, in Ohio, is essentially a huge hogshead barrel with a spout and a handle. The Sky Kingdom cult of Malaysia erected a pink teapot that was 35 feet tall in 2004. It was bulldozed in 2005.

The teapot is a reference object in computer graphics, a skeptical philosophical analogy called Russell’s teapot stating that the burden of proof of something like religion lies with the person making the claim and not with others, and of course, the children’s nursery rhyme “I’m a little teapot.”

“Short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout, when I get all steamed up, hear me shout, just tip me over and pour me out!”

A good teapot is crucial to a great pot of tea, and the teapots from Yixing, China are some of the best around because of the quality of zisha clay and the skills of the teapotters. One of the best in history was a young domestic named Gong Chun who, in 1521, started using a monk’s leftover clay to make his own teapots, pots that were shaped like an old tree with twisted trunk skin and a stem-shaped lid. They were so original they’ve been inspiring potters – and animators – ever since.

Celebrate history and today with a hot cup of tea and savor its flavor, whatever that flavor may be.

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Living in the OP

by Lorin Michel Saturday, June 11, 2011 8:39 PM

Once upon a time there was a ranch nestled in the red rock canyons of Lindero and Kanan Road, in Ventura County. For a time, cattle and horse roamed the four plus miles of land, and the only people present were the ranch hands, cowboys, and ranch owners Jim and Marian Jordan, the stars of the radio show Fibber McGee and Molly. The sun would stream lazily across the hills during the hot summer months, buffered by a strong ocean breeze. Birds soared, mountain lions stalked and the encroaching city beckoned. This was the area known then, and now, as Oak Park. It’s the area we call home.

After the land was gobbled up bit by bit by the Metropolitan Development Corporation in the 1940s and 50s, homes began to sprout up next to the cows. By 1967, the county officials, concerned about the isolation of our community, proposed a land swap with neighboring Los Angeles Country, but LA said no. By 1975, the Municipal Advisory Council, lovingly known as MAC, said fine: We’ll make this a destination location by keeping the population low, the land plentiful and not over developed, and by having our very own school system. It worked. The OP has less than 15,000 residents, five schools and lots of pretty, undeveloped hillsides for hiking and biking.

We moved out here for the schools. At one point, and during Justin’s freshman year, the high school was one of the top 100 in the country. It isn’t anymore and while I don’t think Justin had anything to do with that, I can’t be sure. We have a grocery store, several fabulous restaurants, a Starbucks and another coffee house, a Bank of America, a vet, a dog-grooming place and a gym. Basically everything we could ever need; we never have to leave.

And sometimes we don’t. Since both Kevin and I have our own businesses, we often work all week, fielding client calls and firing off countless emails without having to venture into big bad LA with its big bad LA traffic. We can walk to the store and any restaurant. It’s boringly safe, though we did have a murder this year, a freak occurrence that most people still can’t believe. We have a pond and ducks, coyotes and rattlesnakes, lots of dogs and a dwindling number of children. When people move out here, they often come when their children are small, like we did. They end up liking it, like we did, and they don’t leave even after their children grow up and venture out into the world.

We didn’t. We were originally on the five-year plan. We’ve been here for fourteen years (this August).

Today we took a walk down toward the high school and then up and through the parking lot. We haven’t been there in a while; no reason now that Justin is in college. Not much has changed. The campus is still open and surrounded by hills and trees. The buildings were all closed up for the weekend, and in the front of the Great Lawn, the vast expanse of greenery that stretches before the administration building, the Saturday morning Farmer’s Market had set up shop. A local one-man band strummed his guitar, played harmonica and sang old Dire Straits songs.

Then the man, he steps right up to the microphone; And says at last just as the time bell rings; “Goodnight, now it’s time to go home;” And he makes it fast with one more thing.

We stopped for some water, picked up some trash blowing across campus, and looked out onto our little town as the gloom from the beach just ten miles away began to peel back revealing the beautiful red rocks of the foothills and the red tile roofs of the houses.

We turned and started back toward home, celebrating just another Saturday in the OP.

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Khristan the tulip

by Lorin Michel Friday, June 10, 2011 6:51 PM

For no reason and every reason in the world, I’m celebrating my little sister today. I was seven when she was born. To me, she was nothing but an irritation, a crying little mass of goo that took up too much of my mother’s time, time that should have been spent with me. My brother had done much the same two years earlier. I had no use for either of them.

As I grew older, moving steadily through junior high and high school, she remained nothing more than my sister. I have few memories of our interactions when we were kids, only fading glimpses here and there of family vacations and holidays, not because of her but because of me. I suspect many who have younger siblings have a similar lack of remembrance. I was a teenager and as such, no one mattered but me and my friends. She was too young to be my friend, too young for us to have anything in common other than a family and an address.

I’m not sure when that started to change. Maybe when I went away to college and she came to stay with me one weekend. I remember taking her to The Strand, an old theater in Dover, New Hampshire that had been converted to show films, to see Flashdance. She was probably too young for it. In retrospect, I wonder if I was contributing to the delinquency of a minor. I do remember it being fun, taking my little sister along with my college friends. It was like having a pet, something to show off.

Khris with me at my second wedding

When I got married the first time, I asked her to be my maid of honor. I was 26, she was 19 and in college herself. We went shopping together for her dress; I think she appreciated that I was 100% against taffeta. We bought her a taupe-gray vintage dress that was really quite lovely. She stood next to me under the clouds as I said that I did, even though ultimately, I didn’t. At least not with him.

Fast forward to her getting her Master’s Degree in Psychology, to her coming to visit me out in California after I had gotten divorced, to her meeting John, then getting engaged and finally married. I remember the Christmas John proposed. I was out here, had been dating Kevin for less than a year, and I was missing my family. I was so thrilled to get her call, and yet so devastated to not be there to celebrate with her. At some point, she had become important to me and we had become friends without me even knowing it. When she got married, I was her maid of honor.

When Kevin and I got married, Khris made the trip with my mom and dad to be here for our celebration. She stood by me once again, and this time when I said that I did, I knew it was true. What we didn’t know at the time was that she was pregnant. Nine months or so later, my niece Shawn came along; then six years later, my nephew Caden was born. Their last name is Latulippe and when Shawn was little she referred to herself as Shawnie the tulip.

The Latulippes: Khris with Shawn, John with Caden

Khristan has become my trusted confidante, my closest friend and the one who is most often called upon in the family. It was Khris who called me early on the morning of September 11 to tell us what was going on (we never checked news that early out here; we do now); who told me when our dad died; who keeps me informed as to what’s happening with our mother. Mom will be having knee surgery soon and it falls to Khris to go to the doctor’s appointments with her; it will be Khris who will be there during the first nights when Mom comes home.

She has become the family’s pillar of strength, and I am forever grateful for her presence. Even though part of me will always see her as seven years old, she’ll never again be seen as an irritant.

So at the end of this week, for no reason and all reasons, I am celebrating you, my beautiful sister. 

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relative celebrations

Maguire versus the squirrel

by Lorin Michel Thursday, June 9, 2011 10:30 PM

The first time it happened was several years ago. I was in my office; Kevin was in his studio. Maguire, much younger then, was patrolling the back yard. It was mid-morning. Suddenly the quiet burst open with the sound of a snarling squirrel, screeching, and a snarling dog, growling and barking. Rrrr, eeeee, grrrr. Ruff!

I came downstairs from the loft, Kevin had already come out of his studio. He was standing on the walkway, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding his half full coffee mug. He was smiling, amused at the scene in front of him. I walked over to the slider and behold: one crazed dog, on his hind legs, reaching desperately for the trees where one teasing squirrel sat perched on a branch, back feet curled around to leave the front feet/paws free to gesture and irritate. It reached down out of the tree, dressed in its little squirrel fur, its thick, bushy tail sticking straight up into the leaves as it yelled at the helpless big dog below.

Maguire danced and pranced, bouncing around, huffing and puffing, pawing at the air, his head back, eyes focused on the branch above, arguing back. They barked at each other for at least 15 minutes, the squirrel taunting the big dog below, daring Maguire to climb up and get him.

Carrie Bradshaw, the prolific heroine of Sex and the City, once went camping with her boyfriend Aiden. For anyone who ever watched Sex and the City, it was a known fact that Carrie was not a camper. I suspect that her idea of camping consisted of a four-star instead of a five-star hotel. But she was trying to fit into his world so she journeyed from New York to somewhere outside of New York. She was in the kitchen when she spotted a squirrel and freaked out, thinking it was a rat. Aiden told her the squirrel was a friend. Her response: “You can’t be friends with a squirrel. A squirrel is just a rat with a cuter outfit.”

She’s right. They do sport a cute little outfit with a fur coat and a lovely muff-like tail. They also have little beady eyes, like a rat. But they’re more brazen than rats, more optimistic. They sit out in the open, unlike rats that hide in the shadows. And they yell. Loudly.

Maguire is older now, but he and the squirrel still go at it. Today, the cuter rat was in the tree in the front yard, hanging off of the trunk, defying gravity, and Maguire was in the front window. He doesn’t hear so well anymore, but his eyesight is fine. He caught a glimpse of the squirrel and he started to dance, fuss and fume; huff and puff. He was going to get that squirrel, once and for all.

It didn’t seem to occur to him that the squirrel was outside. He put his head down and started to back out of the kitchen, his eyes never leaving the tree, and then –

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Squirrel!

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Hey R2, do you remember?

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, June 8, 2011 9:48 PM

Once upon a time, in a decade far, far away a little movie came out called Star Wars. It was a near instant phenom, with its special effects, wild story, intriguing villains and of course the droids. It also had a young Harrison Ford in one of his first starring roles. Everyone who was a teenager and through their 40s saw this movie, male and female, including me. I didn’t like it then; I like it less now. While the story is interesting if you like science fiction, the dialogue is nothing short of atrocious, the acting only slightly less so.

Sorry, Harrison. You’ve done better in later years.

In fact the only two I found interesting were Luke Skywalker’s droids, C-3PO and R2D2. Their names were never truly explained and it didn’t much matter, though R2’s name is said to come from an inside joke between George Lukas, Star War’s creator, and his American Graffiti sound editor Walter Murch who evidently asked for Reel 2, Dialog Track 2 in its abbreviated form. C-3PO was the voice of reason, though he was a bit of a wimp. R2 was the daredevil, always taking chances, always rolling straight into danger. We knew all of this even though R2 didn’t speak any actual language other than short-rolling-droid-ese.

An R2 mailbox in Boston

R2 was Princess Leia’s droid on the planet Alderaan. They were on her ship, the Tantive IV, when they were fired upon by an Imperial Star Destroyer. Leia launched R2, with a distress message, and 3PO in a pod that crashed onto the planet Tatooine where they were discovered by Luke, who saw the message, fell in love with the scantily-clad princess, decided to rescue her and hooked up with Obi-Wan Kenobi, Han Solo and Chewbacca, and….well, if you haven’t seen it this is complete gibberish. If you have seen it, you get the gist.

Little boys loved these guys, as did big boys and lots of girls, which is why Hasbro created a toy robot version of R2D2 in 2002. My brother Scott bought one for Justin for Christmas that year and it was a big hit here in the house. Fan of the movie or not, this little robot dude was just adorable. He was programmed to respond to several questions, but when you asked him if he remembered Darth Vader, the evil, black draped, and black helmeted villain, the poor little guy shuddered and quaked in his droidness.

R2D2 is long gone, sold in a garage sale. But we still joke about him regularly. One of us will start a legitimate question with the very innocent words “hey, do you remember–“ and before the rest of the question can be asked, the other shudders and quakes and squeals in our best R2 impersonation. Generally speaking, neither Kevin nor I are very good droids. I think that’s probably a good thing.

We were in the kitchen tonight and I asked the question, and Kevin shuddered and quaked and squealed. It never ceases to make me laugh. I just wish I had video of Kevin as R2. Now THAT would be something to shudder, quake, squeal and celebrate.

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live out loud

Comfort food

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, June 7, 2011 9:41 PM

Everyone has their own unique version of comfort food, a snack or a meal that makes them feel better for indulging. It’s usually something that’s not especially good for you, which is why it’s so comforting. For some reason, most things that are bad for you make you feel better.

Kevin and I are partial to roasted chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and gravy. The vegetable is immaterial. I usually make something to give it the appearance of a balanced meal, and truth be told, it really isn’t horrible. Chicken is a protein, and veggies are good. It’s the potatoes mashed with butter and sour cream and cheddar cheese, whipped smooth and then heaped onto a plate with a nice crater created to receive the gravy. Yep, that’s what makes it bad in an oh-so-good way.

Now my personal comfort food is just bad all the way around. French fries, hot and salty, no ketchup, and a big chocolate shake. If there’s whipped cream available, all the better. This heart attack in a bag and a cup is my drug of choice when I’m feeling down or tired or just need the kind of comfort I can’t get from my husband or my dog. When my dad died, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was eat. My sister and mother had both left numerous messages on my answering machine, trying to find me. It was a Wednesday, and back before we were all surgically attached to our cell phones. I got home from a meeting in the Valley, and knew just by the sheer number of calls on the house line that something bad had happened. I listened first to my sister and then my mother, my mother again and then my sister, their voices becoming ever more concerned, frightened and anxious. I called my sister: “Dad died,” she said as she burst into tears. I was numb.

I booked a flight out that night, a redeye into JFK. It was the only thing I could get and I had to get back east. Kevin wanted me to eat something; all I’d had all day was coffee. I think that was when I finally started to understand the idea of burning a hole in your stomach. I felt ill. My body was empty, but food was the last thing I wanted. He went to Wendy’s and got me a large fry with a large chocolate Frosty. I ate some. He was so sweet to do that.

I don’t know if it brought me comfort that day. I’m not sure anything could have. But I remember it, and that alone still brings comfort.

Webster’s Dictionary first printed the term comfort food in 1977, and defined it as food consumed to achieve some level of improved emotional status, whether to relieve negative psychological affect or to increase positive feeling. These foods can be nostalgic, indulgent, convenient or physical, and are often consumed because we’re stressed. Men eat comfort food when they’re feeling good, women when they’re feeling bad.

Either way, we all have our comfort foods and I make no apologies for mine. I was on the road today, and hungry. I was tired though not stressed or upset. Still, as I drove along and saw an In ‘n Out burger at one of the freeway exits, I felt an urge to pull off and get some fries and a shake. It would have been so comforting for the 90 plus mile drive.

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Open windows

by Lorin Michel Saturday, June 4, 2011 11:07 PM

I love opening the windows and feeling – smelling – the fresh air as it rushes in. Even in Los Angeles, there is such a thing. Granted, we live north west of the city and just outside of Los Angeles County so we’re not really part of the smog thing that Southern Cal has long been known for. Out here in the OP, the temperatures often remain cool even deep into the summer and so the windows remain open.

There is something so freeing about an open window. It means welcome, bringing the outside in to spend some quality time. It allows a freshness to flow through any room. It is sweet and real and full of clouds. I always wonder why people automatically resort to air conditioning, even though deep down I understand. It gets hot; why not cool down any way possible, even electronically? My mother does it, though she’s older and the humidity where she lives gets fairly nasty. My sister and her family are big on AC in the summer as well. Again because of the humidity and the lack of air movement in the night. I remember it well.

When I was growing up in the North East, no one had air conditioning, even the most posh of homes. It wasn’t because people couldn’t afford it; it was because it wasn’t usually needed. An open window and a nice breeze was usually sufficient to cool things down even after a hot day. Our family had one large floor fan that my mother would place at the start of the hallway leading to my brother’s bedroom on the right and further down, my sister’s on the left and mine directly across on the right. We would open our windows and my parents would assure us that the fan would help draw the fresh air, the cooler air, in. It rarely worked, especially on those nights when the air refused to move and the warm hung like rain. On those nights, the open windows didn’t really help and we simply roasted. I imagine I wished for AC then but I don’t remember even knowing that AC existed.

Then I moved west into the desert and while the summer days are often brutal, the nights normally cool off nicely. Open windows allow the house to cool naturally, bathing the house in a gentle, earthy fragrance unlike the stale conditioned air that blasts from a machine. Kevin and I also don’t like air conditioning. It cools the air to be sure but it leaves the house feeling artificial. We’re also lucky because our bedroom is on the first floor so it never gets horribly hot and when we open the windows in the master bath and the slider in the bedroom, the cross draft is lovely. Perfect for sleeping, for breathing.

People existed for centuries with nothing more than open windows to bring fresh air into their bedrooms and their homes. I know that modern technologies have made our lives easier, but not necessarily better.

To me, open windows are a metaphor for the ultimate freedom; for the air that we breathe. Open windows are also a metaphor for an open mind, an open philosophy, an open sky; a true communion of industry and nature.

A welcome celebration of both. 

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great first paragraphs

Some things are and always have been universal

by Lorin Michel Friday, June 3, 2011 11:13 PM

Universal is defined as being general, having the same meaning and application everywhere. It involves all, not just some. It is universally accepted that humans and animals need oxygen to breathe, that plants need carbon dioxide. The sun rising in the east and setting in the west is a universal truth. Another is that humans are generally more complicated in their thought processes than say snails, though snails may be more purposeful. I happen to believe there is a universal desire to be happy. Of course happy is defined differently by different people based on their culture. Still, love and life are often thought to be universal aspirations.

We want to have good, positive, extraordinary things surrounding us. We want to celebrate each day. I know I do.

Something as simple as the warmth of a June afternoon can bring peace; a clean kitchen and folded laundry can bring a sense of accomplishment. Walking the dog, taking a hot shower, fitting into a pair of jeans I had previously given up on. Definitely cause for celebration, at least for me. Something as magical as laughter and music makes me feel good. Something as extraordinary as the universe fills me with a sense of awe.

This week saw the end of the final mission of the Space Shuttle Endeavor. How incredible that we can put people into space and return them safely to the gravity of the earth beneath our feet. Each time a shuttle has blasted off I wonder about all that’s out there for them to see and us to discover. It’s both frightening and intriguing. From the photographs captured by telescopes, the universe is beautiful in its nothingness, in its everythingness.

I recently saw the movie Contact again, with Jodie Foster and an incredibly gorgeous Matthew McConaughey. I’ve never been able to decide if I actually like the movie though I like aspects of it very much. I like that it questions universal truths about faith and science, about human nature, about our belief in ‘what’s out there,’ if anything. As Jodie Foster’s character says at the end of the movie, if there isn’t, it’s an awful lot of wasted space.

Because no matter what is out there we are all part of it; part of the Earth, part of the solar system, part of the galaxy, part of the universe. Do our voices, thoughts, loves, desires and celebrations travel beyond our atmosphere? I hope so. It would be a shame for them to remain earthbound when they can soar into infinity and beyond.

As Marcus Aurelius, the stoic philosopher and the last of the five good emperors of the Roman Empire, wrote in Meditations in 180 AD: “All things are woven together and the common bond is sacred, and scarcely one thing is foreign to another, for they have been arranged together in their places and together make the same ordered Universe. For there is one Universe out of all, one God through all, one substance and one law, one common Reason of all intelligent creatures and one Truth.”

[youtube:GR-XZM1LHjY]

Some things are and always have been universally celebrated. 

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The mild mild west

by Lorin Michel Thursday, June 2, 2011 10:32 PM

We have a reputation out here, west of the Mississippi, for being, you know, kind of, well, tough. People think the terrain is brutal and the climate equally so. It’s a place not always fit for man nor beast, except when it is. It’s an area of the country not known for being easy to live in, except that it is. Many centuries ago, in 1833, the phrase “go west, young man” was coined by Horace Greeley to explain the push by the government for people to move west, to expand to the Pacific Ocean and succeed beyond their wildest dreams. Hence the gold rush. It was called the Manifest Destiny.

In the mid 1800s, there was very little that existed in the west. It was untamed and scary with pioneers, scouts, lawmen, outlaws and gunfighters, Cowboys and Indians and more. In the small towns that popped up, there was some semblance of order. But mostly there was cowboy and plains justice, and a reputation was established. The west was known for tumbleweed and hangings, gunfights at the OK corral, gold and horses.

Today, it’s known for Beverly Hills and Malibu and Santa Fe and Colorado Springs and Tucson and everything else in between and all around. None of them are wild anymore, though there is often gold, or at least riches, and horses, lots and lots of horses, in very civilized environments living in beautiful stables. We may live in a west that is no longer wild but there are horses everywhere. Even in the city.

In Southern California, where Kevin and I live, the wild west is really only wild in Hollywood on Friday and Saturday nights. Another post entirely. Most people don’t ride horses any longer, at least on the streets. The only horses they ride are under the hood and number in the hundreds.

But horse property is plentiful, largely outside of the city and out of the county. Surely there can’t be horses still inside LA.

Except that there are.

In Chatsworth today, a city known as the pornography capital of the country, if not the world, horses were walking through parking lots. I know this because my friend Roy took pictures as a huge black horse, a gorgeous animal named Xander, accompanied by a small pony, walked through the parking lot of their office. Roy said the horse’s back was about a foot higher than he was. Astounding. This majestic animal simply pranced along the asphalt city where hundreds of years ago, his ancestors danced through dirt and dust.

Horses are phenomenal animals, transcending time. They look the same today as then, as do we. But they act differently. They’re more civilized, more modern. Most westernized.

Wildly mild and mildly wild. Giddy up! 

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100

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, June 1, 2011 10:55 PM

Tonight I’m celebrating. Sometime back in February I had an idea as I was supposed to be sleeping. I was laying there in my big bed, snuggled under the covers, warm and toasty, thinking about what I do, about the state of the world, about how everything always seemed so negative, especially in terms of news and politics. My mind was swirling and twirling, about everything and nothing, with the wonderful night-thoughts that nestle into the brain to take up nearly all of its space. One thought planted itself: Live Out Loud.

That sleepless night included subconscious thoughts of Betsy, my good friend Bobbi’s sister who had died of cancer in September of 2010, at the age of 42. I had only met her once, but her presence permeated my soul and her death affected me more than I could have ever guessed. Her mantra, as I remembered that sleepless night, came from the quote by the French writer Emile Zola: “If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.” She was a fighter.

My mind swirled and whirled and suddenly there it was. The idea to start a blog, to write something everyday that lived life out loud; to write about something I wanted to write about, to find something to celebrate.

Since February 19, I’ve been fairly true to that idea, that mantra. And tonight, I’m celebrating my 100th post. Most days I’ve posted only once; on the rare occasion, there have been two. But I’ve posted. I made a commitment to myself to do so, and I feel a sense of pride that I have accomplished that; I have lived up to my promise to myself. It’s a good feeling, something to celebrate.

I’m 100 percent invested, 100 percent owned. I’m not part of the Fortune 100 and that’s OK. I’m not 100 percent de agave, or pure tequila. This is important if one loves Arizona, and specifically Tucson, as I do. My IQ is actually higher than the bell curve that is set at 100. The current humidity level here in the OP is not even close to 100. My dog is over 100 in dog years.

One hundred is pure, in many ways complete. But for me, 100 means that I’m just getting started.

So tonight I’m celebrating all those who have read on a regular basis, and welcoming those who have perhaps just discovered me. I am humbled by your presence.

Live it out loud and celebrate something, anything, everything. Find something today and for 100 years.

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