Some of the creatives were just getting louder and louder. And the Rumanian girl was literally being passed back and forth as translator until they found a more quiet spot. The real point of the story was that just like everybody else's parents, theirs were (i)in charge(i) while doing all this other stuff.
Think campaign and battle and all of us in that mode. Centering on God and family and getting through each thing that comes up. There are a lot of American ways of doing that!
For a lot of creatives there's been a lot of time spent on tuning understanding and diplomacy. It's not that creatives don't have objectives.
The woman with the shoes, she, (i)ran away(i). Some of the guys helped her. I was kind of afraid when I stumbled upon her. In her own tent, own camp space. She let me look in there. Very cozy. Tennis shoes and treadmill shoes and slippers. Jogging suits and pens. Lots of pens. She said in a gentle voice, "I have some ideas." She also had a quash of friends who were her support and because everyone was still young they all were working through the minutia of (i)fighting fire with fire(i). Creativity can be a fire.
The Rumanian and I just got along well. Found common ground in...seeing the ordinary and striving to "see" or understand how that ordinary is imbued with God/"magic" in terms of inspiration. Being oldest children had us able to step outside of big picture and assess what needs to happen (i)according to(i) and why that may or may not work. And we drank, a soda toast to America as, like, going at different paces because we're all individuals though we team up for mission sometimes. Just like "family".
The pastor wrote more than one book. When he got his strength back he helped Briefcase Boy and me be less scared about wars and plagues by faith. And hearing that from a God's final witness (long arguments about "only" prophet, "ultimate" prophet....) helped us each ground our own creativity and business acumen in a timetable. The fact that we'd heard stuff like, "you only have one life," wasn't dictating our paces. Very individual types but deeply spiritual. I made him show me the tree was okay.
Me? I'm trying to get my truck fixed. Finish up a carpentry job on the other end of the mountains. Working at Wendy's. Same old, same old.
As things get (i)tense(i)er and tenser, the battling gets point for point. At the end of that day so long ago, our moms and dads won the day on (i)family safe(i). And Father Hen was able say, "No, Linda, it's not a circus."
Listening to, Melissa Manchester, "Ain't That A Kick In The Head"
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