Special Moments

Folgers has done an impeccable job of capturing special moments and attaching emotion to their brand.

“The best part of waking up...is Folgers in your cup.”

These commercials made me want to drink coffee, long before I ever developed a liking for it.  Many times I woke to a house permeated with the smell of Folgers brewing, much like the commercials indicate.  That smell, over time became an acquired taste  associated with the special morning moments when the day is fresh and new.  Rich coffee bean flavor and aroma evoke emotions similar to those inspired by home, security and peace.  It’s my comfort food.

Before I was old enough for coffee, though, I remember feeling priviledged to share a moment of silence across from Dad with my very own glass of morning tea.  We sat at the table in our camper out in front of our home, a memory my inner-child recalls as a daily ritual.  Dad read the newspaper and I sat quietly sipping my cup of Special Moments tea, as it was so accurately named.

These mornings truly left an indellibel imprint on my life.  As an adult, I recounted the abstract memory with my parents questioning, why on earth dad and I would go out to the camper to drink tea.  It turns out we had just moved to a new home from out of town and my “daily ritual” lasted no more than a couple of weeks as our new home was pampered with some TLC.  Before the paint was sprayed and the carpet laid, we slept in our camper.  Mom and the boys were supposedly already up and at it on the days that dad and I shared our Special Moments.

Later that year, I started attending school.  On the first day of school, Mom always woke me up singing “School days, school days, oh those golden rule days”  I  never heard that song from anywhere other than my mother’s lips on the first day of school.  I wasn’t even sure it was a real song.  But as the smell of coffee permeated my room and mingled with the dusty rays of golden sun sneaking in my window, I gladly welcomed those chilly summer mornings and that familiar tune. “Reading and writing and ‘rithmatic...”

I also remember countless nights falling asleep with a smile of contentment on my face.  Burried under my canopy with my favorite blanket and my cat, Birdie, I listened to mom hum as she folded clothes across the hallway.  Wet denim beat a rhythm against the wall of the dryer as she sang.

Mom would take a break from the pile of laundry to come to tuck me in and say our bedtime prayers.  When she left, I snuggled deeper into my covers and listened to Birdie purr.  I smiled every time.  I literally went to sleep with a smile on my face every night.

These are just a few of the special moments I encountered as a child.  Today, I’m relearning to recognize these Special Moments.  If we’re not intentional, about realizing them, we start believing our lives are drab and mundane.  But every day is full of these overlooked moments.

Now I like to start my mornings with a real cup of coffee and offer silent prayers to a  listening God over a short walk or a silent moment on my balcony.  I share many special moments with Him as I reflect on His creation.  I swell with joy as I realize the same God that is at work in the wonders of the world is at work in my little life.  

What are some of your special moments?  Do you see the sacred in the ordinary?

Psychological pioneer Abraham H. Maslow said “The great lesson from the true mystics...is that the sacred is in the ordinary, that it is to be found in one’s daily life, in one’s neighbors, friends, and family, in one’s backyard...”

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The Hummingbird Approach

My porch is like a sanctuary for me. During the day it serves as my office, motivating me to continue pushing on when I dread the very idea. Splashes from a large fountain shoot twenty feet into the air and gush back into the surface of the pond below my balcony. A hummingbird feeder hangs from the eaves, in my direct line of vision as I patrol the internet for content during my day shift. I observe dozens of hummingbirds fluttering in and out of my work space every day.

These birds are fodder for my imagination, incentive for my art. Upon their visits, I mentally note new and different features that I notice in these amazing little creatures. Once, when the fountain was turned off, I sat and listened to the buzz of their wings. Just feet away from me, a tiny bird made it’s presence known by the hurried flap of his feathers. It was loud and fascinating.

The birds have depleted the contents of the feeder which has been empty for a couple of weeks now. But the birds are persistent, paying regular visits to the hanging attractant. I love this about them. They return daily, confident in their search of a sugary treat.

They return, because if they don’t, they won’t get to partake in the sweetness they set out for. But their chance increases immensely if they at least come to check it out. Here’s my favorite part: when they approach their destination, they hover (rarely do they use the perch) over one of the four spigots. They test it by inserting their beak, only to find it dry as a bone. Instead of fluttering away, though, they rotate around each of the spigots in a clockwise manner, hovering briefly in front of each one to see if they find different results. They spend less time at each spigot, like they’re picking up on a pattern. After all that, they will dart off in search of another potential source.

I couldn’t help but make the distinction that I am all-too-often unlike the hummingbird. If I run into a closed opportunity, I’m not likely to check back into it. Rarely, do I look at seeming closed opportunities from every angle with the mindset, “maybe if I look at it this way.....” Nope. I like to give up and think to myself, “It’s a dead-end road.” I tend to view the situation as hopeless.

The problem with this outlook is that we will eventually lead ourselves down a dead-end road, by means of a self-fulfilling prophecy. If we assume that there’s no opportunity, thus relinquishing the search for one, we will never find it.

It’s fair to suggest that we shouldn’t waste our time on things we know aren’t going to create an outcome. It would be foolish to hover over the feeder, simply waiting on the possibility. But it doesn’t hurt to check in from time to time.

I plan on filling the feeder again. I don’t know when I’ll get around to it. But it will happen. And when it does, the frequent visits from my friends will have paid off. They have no idea what’s in store for them.

Have you given up on a particular area of your life? Are you like the hummingbird, are you quick to retreat, like me? What else can we learn from the hummingbird approach?

More to come

Hello again! It's been a while since I've posted on here. Since I started my new blog, my original intent was to just maintain that one and leave it at that. But I'm noticing a steady readership developing and growing here on these pages. And I don't want to leave anyone out. So, expect an updated post from me here later today. I'll work my way back into a steady schedule here as I keep up with the one on my other site. Thanks for reading. I'm grateful for your continued visits and I hope that they're worth your while!

My blog has moved

To better promote my writing, I've moved my blog, but I hope you will continue following! Please visit Lyrical Living for new articles. Hope to see your comments on the new site! Thanks to every last reader. You truly are my reason for writing....

Southern delight

As an acceptance to an invitation from my dearest GG, my Friday evening was spent in the company of a much older crowd, listening to southern gospel tunes at a local church. Now, it's not out of the ordinary for me to willingly attend something like this. Southern gospel music is an innate love of mine. I can remember becoming entranced by the sounds of it reverberating from our TV as a child. Dad would have KVPT, our local public broadcasting station playing and I would join him. We commented back and forth on the songs, the instruments and the deep impressions they left on our souls.

Tonight, we experienced the final performance of Sons of the Shepherd, a group out of Tulare, Calif., as they sang of the goodness of a God who is with us in the valley as much as he is the mountain tops. Their voices prompted chills down my back and tears down my cheeks as they sang in harmonious glory. The trio consisted of a bass, a tenor and a soprano. At one point, I noticed how the soprano strained to reach his notes, while the tenor and bass stood effortlessly singing. He bent his knees, stooped his head, clutched his fist and turned red in the face to hit a certain pitch that perfectly enhanced those of the tenor and bass.

It made me think of how quick we are to try and “fit in.” I pondered what my impression of the group would have been had he been too afraid to stand out against the others. What if he talked himself out of his unique performance because it was different. What if the soprano strived for normalcy? My guess is that he would have fell flat. That the harmonies would have clashed and the audience would have felt uncomfortable. That is, if he went for it at all. He could have continued singing in a lower range, without even attempting the higher notes, in which case, we the audience would have been shortchanged.

But what a joy 1,300 people got to experience because one man chose not to be ordinary, but extraordinary. Despite the jeers he may possibly have received from underachievers, he chose to exit his comfort zone and coincidentally comfort the rest of us with his God-given ability to sing.

Tears streamed down the faces of spectators as they identified with the songs. GG, my 80-year old mentor, was particularly touched as they sang, “look for me, for I’ll be there too.” She has faced many tragedies in her lifetime and I could just feel the hope exuding from the lyric, that seeped into her soul. That one day she would see her sweet husband and daughter again.

Not only are we able to bless others when we choose not to be ordinary, we bless ourselves. I think about all that I would have missed out on, had I chose not to go last night because it’s not what ladies in their twenty-somethings do on a Friday night. As my eyes scoped the room, I noticed that the tops of the heads were overwhelmingly silver. Glasses rested on many of the faces of whose eyesight was diminished by age. Walkways accommodated walkers and the elderly occupied the seats. The ladies draped jackets over their shoulders as their weathered hands clapped to the rhythm of the music. I was, by far, one of the youngest people there.

But one thing I know--music is a powerful thing that speaks to young and old alike. I was moved to tears right along with the others. My toes were tapping and my hands were clapping just the same. The music touched my soul. And I was blessed by the company of GG, the southern delight, and my parents.

Understanding your ties

Today is my Grandpa Wes' birthday. He was the grandfather I never knew--who died before I was born. Yet, I've always craved to know everything about him, his family, their history and the indirect impact of his life on my own. He and his identical twin, John (whose birthday was yesterday), began working at the early age of nine, after their mother died and father left them in Missouri. Their lives beyond that have been somewhat of a mystery to me that I have tried to resolve time and time again.

I spent last weekend in the Salinas area, where I spent the first five years of my life. After attending a conference for work in Pacific Grove, I thought I would take advantage of its proximity to my family who remained there. My aunt gave up her bed for the weekend so that I would have a place to stay. Together we spent much time over a glass of iced tea, engaged in discussions of life, family, love and anything else that came to mind.

I also had the privilege of spending time with my great-uncle John's son, Frank, and his family. Frank and Priscilla's son, Jason, played on my brother's basketball team when they were in High School. I remember going to those games, like it was yesterday. A young girl, then, I wanted nothing more than to be a cheerleader and chimed in with the squad to root for my big brother. "He's got great big feet and he's six-feet tall; He dribbles, shoots, dunks and that ain't all; He's got bas-ket-ball...He's got bas-ket-ball." I've never forgotten the rhyme.

I would climb up and down the bleachers, trying to occupy my four-year-old self when Frank and Priscilla impressed me deeply. They would comment on my "pretty red hair" and shower me with compliments. And I believed them. They helped me see the positive in myself at an early age.

Aunt Mae and I spent the evenings at Frank and Priscilla's where we talked over a meal and laughed at jokes that were cast from every end of the table (like most Bigham gatherings). We looked through photo albums, which naturally spurred our conversations in the direction I hoped for: the Bighams in the early days.

I knew many members of my family worked in produce. And I knew long hours at the cooler deprived them in a sense. But I never knew how deeply this less-than-prominant lifestyle penetrated my family history.

Their employment required them to follow the produce in season, earning a migrant reputation--and I'm sure many sneers from the "holier-than-thous." The women, were dubbed "fruit tramps" and "lettuce tramps" and the men were known as boozers and brawlers. Depending on their duties, they were dubbed "loaders," "set-offs" and "push-backs." But they took pride in earning a living and being good at the job they did.

I learned of my great-great-uncle's association with the Chicago mob, my great-aunt, outlawed for bank robbery and a great-uncle who sang with Buck Owens and Merle Haggard.

As I drove back home, making my way through the San Joaquin Valley, my eyes absorbed the productive land lining the highways and a few things began to make sense:

1. This land was settled by people form the South, like my ancestors, who did the only thing they knew to do when they arrived. They farmed. Lucky for them, this was some of the richest agricultural land and it remains such, today.

2. My deep love for and understanding of country music goes beyond a mere liking. It's imbedded in my blood. It's a part of where I come from. As I scanned the green fields, dropping down over the Pacheco Pass, I inserted a Merle Haggard cassette tape and sang along to, "Mama never had the luxuries she waned. But it wasn't cause my daddy didn't try." And I realized the depth of the truth those lyrics spoke to so many in their time.

3. After becoming more acquainted with Jason, this trip, and recognizing his striking similarities to my own brother, I realized the meaning behind my enduring respect for Frank and immediate bond with both men. Their tie to uncle John serves as a connection to Grandpa Wes for me. They are more than blood. They are the descendants of my grandfather's twin. And being with them has helped me understand my grandfather (and myself) a little more.

Sharing love for Mom and Dad

To those of you who made this a very memorable Christmas for both my parents and I, I want to thank you. They were truly touched by your sentiments and I am grateful.

I typed your quotes up and placed them on an assortment of backgrounds, like you see above. They were placed inside a jar and I presented them to Mom and Dad Christmas afternoon. If you didn't have the chance to, please send me a memory of them and I will be sure they are added to their jars of love. Feel free to continue reading, to see some of the things that were shared by loved ones about my parents, whom I deeply love.


"I remember Uncle Wesley saying if we ate sugar we would get worms!! lol”

“One time we were at Shannon's house and the kids were all excited because one of the chickens had laid eggs. So this chicken was all nested up inside the shed in the backyard.  You know, the one kinda by the pool? So anyway, the kids were all excited and Noah wanted to see too.  So Deb (who was recuperating from hip surgery) and I take the kids in the shed.

Now, I'm not from a farm and I certainly have no business being around winged animals of any kind.  So, needless to say,
I'm a bit timid.  But, I'm trying to play it cool, because my son is there and I don't want the kids to laugh at me.

So we go in.  The kids venture in and I make sure Deb goes in first. Then all hell broke loose. The chicken completely flips out and starts flapping her wings like CRAZY! Thump! Thump! Thump! Baagaaaaacck!!

Completely reacting in the moment, I push Deb toward the chicken and run out.  I leave Noah screaming with the other kids
and completely save myself from the impending doom of a freaked-out chicken. I don't even think Deb realized I pushed her.  She was super-sweet and didn't say anything. 

It was good to know, that if we ever experienced a life-threatening incident, I could push her toward danger and she would be able to handle herself. She's one tough cookie and she knows how to handle chickens (not the bird....but people like me).”


“You must know my favorite memory!! I always loved sleepovers at your house, and that your mom thought I was the bad kid. I also enjoyed that when your mom wasn't home, your dad let us get away with pretty much anything!”

“One of my best memories was when my family came down to visit when I was little. your dad always took me out and let me ride the horses when I was there. I remember getting so excited to come down cause I knew I would get to ride horses and see the whole family. Your parents are such a blessing. I still get excited when we come visit. Your mom kind of reminds me of my mom in a way. So kind and warmhearted :) i love both if them very much and i hope all of you have a blessed Christmas!”

“I remember the long conversations about business and life with your Dad in front of the old feed shop. I remember his wisdom and kindness. I remember wondering exactly what I should take out of the conversations, since there was usually such an abundance of great information and substance, that I often wasn't sure exactly what was most important. In the end, I suppose I learned three things:

1. Business is important and character in business even more so.
2. Fulfillment in life is more important than any amount of business success.
3. Family is more important than 1 & 2.”

" I remembered back in 1968 when Deb was helping me clean house and the piano fell on me.  My ankle was crushed and leg broken.  The piano had tripped on a rug when we were moving it.  Deb called the ambulance.  Amy was just about 5-6 months old when this happened.  It was so wonderful that Deb could help out with Amy,  she was such a Blessing.  Luddie lived across the street with the kids and Deb was there.  Deb, I  wish that I could be there with you.  And I hope that you all have a wonderful Christmas.  I love you.”

“To Aunt Deb and Uncle Wes, I remember the warm and tender times of the family. The times you were there to help, the times you were there  to share, to love. These are the special time that I remember growing up you were a special part of my life I thank god to have you both. That he has given to me the both of you to pray for to love to call you family. The bible says in 1Corinthians ch.13 vs.7 love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, most of all it endures all all things. Gods love for the both of you never fails. You are two very special people and I love you. Have a very merry Christmas."  

  I am so thankful for the time I got to spend at your house growing up! I always felt just like I belonged there and knew that you cared about me like extended parents. Thank you for the love and hospitality you showed all of us girls.

"Your family has always been really special to me. I have one memory in particular that has always been with me through the years. When I was quite a bit younger I remember Charri and I coming down to Fresno for a visit on the train. We stayed at your house and Uncle Wesley and Aunt Debbie had plans to go the the Paso Robles fair. I dont think they had planned for Charri and I to be at your house then but I remember Aunt Rita and Uncle Chet were going to come and pick us up from your house and we did not want to go (not that we didn't want to see them, they did not have kids). Uncle Wesley and Aunt Debbie did not make us go and they woke us up the next morning telling us to get ready. They took us with them to the fair to see George Strait. Every time I hear a George Strait song it reminds me of this and how your parents unselfishly gave to us."

"To My bubby, I love you so very much. I have a great many memories of our childhood Christmas's with our family, I also remember peeling potatoes for you to eat with salt and scratching your back. Wish we could be closer and spend more time together, Think of you often."

“Deb, some of my first memories of you are as the lunch lady at T.K.”

Loving so called "life"

So this is it, the real world. A degree, a job, an apartment, bills (all paid) and a small sum of money in the bank. This is what I have worked so hard for. And it was so worth the sacrifice, the dedication and the wait.

I spent two weeks after graduation wondering what it was I was going to do for the rest of my life. Though I was lacking the knowledge of what it was the future held for me, I had complete confidence that I would find out, whatever it was. And so, I began the search....

It didn’t take long. I hardly had the chance to let the reality of it all set in. I received a phone call one day, from a gentleman I met at my dad’s feed store a couple of years prior. We spoke then, of my aspirations, passion for writing and all that inspired me. He told me I was exactly the type of individual he wanted for his publishing company. I lacked one thing, only. A degree.

So, I set out to achieve the one thing that was standing between myself and my dream job, where I could produce substantial content for a publication that reflects my philosophies and values when it comes to agriculture, history, politics, religion, family and entertainment. I checked in with him a time or two, to reiterate my interest and skills and he agreed that I was right for the job. I have been working for him for a month and a half now.

This whole experience is surreal.

Tonight is my first night in my apartment. As for most intuitive thinkers, I have found repetitive sentiment in the occasion, keenly aware of the following:

I am entering a new phase of life, and letting go of another. Last night was my last night at home. As bad as I needed this, a place to call my own, I am saddened that I’ll never get that back. I am so grateful for the home my parents shared when I over-extended my stay and the many great memories they created for me there. I am blessed that I didn’t leave their home out of spite or resentfulness, though at times, I showed them an undeserved disrespect. Being home at 27 dissatisfied me to the point that I expressed my discontent where I should have showed gratitude. Being away, I am immediately filled with regret.

I appropriately came across this simple prayer, while unpacking today, in a book that provides illuminating selections from the bible: “Thank You for my parents, God. Even though I’m grown up now, may my relationship with them continue to grow. Heal the old hurts and resentments with Your Holy Spirit. Thank You for all You’ve given me through these two people—and help me never be too busy to show them how much I love them. Amen.

On the other hand, I am filled with joy at the understanding that this apartment is mine. Everything inside this apartment is mine. Walking in my front door, I step into a world of unfamiliarity, yet I am so aware of the fact that it belongs to me! And as I sort through my swirl of emotions tonight, I’m adjusting well. It feels like home in a lot of ways, already. It feels so right, sitting on my couch, writing. It’s like this was meant to be all along. Things have lined up along the way, leading me to this place. It has all happened so fast, the majority of my friends don’t even know I have left home, yet. But here I sit, nearly settled and I am content, in need of nothing.

When I was in high school, I got a hope chest for Christmas, something I had wanted since I was a little girl. I began filling it with things along the way, with the intent of using them one day. But I didn’t expect the day to be so rewarding. These household items became timely treasures as I unwrapped them and reverted back to the time each piece was placed in my chest. I was also pleasantly surprised to find that each would complement my apartment surprisingly well, simultaneously surrounding me with the memories I’ve made along the way.

My boss at my first job contributed a handful of miscellaneous housewares items from the department we represented when she found out I had a hope chest. They will serve as a constant reminder of the potential she was kindly trying to get me to recognize in myself. Looking back, I recognize that my stubborn, 18-year-old, know-it-all attitude created a lot of tension in my relationship with her. As I’ve matured, I have recognized the many attempts she made to push me to better myself, despite my negativity. She forced me to build displays when I told her I wasn’t creative enough. She encouraged me to implement a program for our hearing-impaired customers when she found out that I knew sign-language. She pushed me to apply for a buyers position, assuring me that I possessed the capability I thought I lacked. She assigned me as a Team Member Awareness Group representative and delegated cheese buying responsibilities to me. I complained nearly every time. The items I use on a daily basis, will serve as reminders of my smug attitude as a teenager and the choice I face daily to deny that person.

Right after high school, I had fleeting plans to move out. I bought a stainless steel towel rack for my bathroom that has remained in it’s box ever since. It hangs in my bathroom as if it were specifically chosen for that room.

At the World Pork Expo last year, JoAnn took one of the centerpieces for me to take home to my empty apartment in Panora. It’s a large, yes...pig. It sat on the three dollar coffee table I bought at an auction, the entire summer. Every time I looked at it, I laughed to myself. I never would have bought something like that to accessorize my home. But seeing as I had nothing else, I left it. When I was packing to come home, I looked forward to throwing it away. But something wouldn’t let me. I stuffed it in a box along with the rest of my things and here it sits on my new coffee table as a surprisingly fitting centerpiece for my living room. Now, all of the memories contained inside bring a smile to my face when I see it.

My sister-in-law, Shannon, made a ceramic dish for me the year my oldest nephew was born. On the outside, she painted it blue and green, the colors I have chosen for my kitchen. Inside, she placed my nephew’s footprint. He will be nine this year. I cherish this piece as it represents the immense love I have for the kids in my life. There is nothing that compares.

For years, my grandmother was married to an Italian man by the name of Reno. I thought of him as a grandfather when I was a kid. He was an amazing man, patient, kind and generous. When his mother died, She left a house full of antiques to him. I remember visiting as a child, exploring what I thought were ancient relics, and treasures. Mom gave me an entire set of silverware that came from that house. I plan to use it to be reminded of my childhood lust for the past and my fondness of Reno, and the example he set for what a man should be. He is the one man I witnessed taking his last breath.

Jaime, my other sister-in-law, gave me her old set of dishes when she last upgraded. I can remember heating up dozens of frozen burritos and leftover pizza on these dishes when I laid the girls down for bed and started a movie to unwind. I can’t wait to serve my company on them and not the plastic set I fell in love with in high school.

Together with my new furniture, these things complete my apartment as a signature on my home. Everything in here represents who I am. And best of all, I have saved tremendously, meeting my long time goal of having everything I own paid off.

The beauty in diversity

In northern California, we’re tucked away in the mountains, beneath the amazingly beautiful Mt. Shasta. Glorious snow-capped peaks, trees, flowers, rivers and lakes encompass my soul stirring a renewed revelation of the shadows of our lives being cast by natural beauty. There are no fields of corn growing here and it’s unlike any terrain I encountered in Iowa. Yet oddly enough, I’m continually reminded of my experiences there and the tremendous growth I acquired from the people, places and things associated with it. And like the analogy I drew from sprouting corn (see Corn Fields and New Beginnings), mountainous splendor has ignited my creative imaginations, and inspired me with words:

Sometimes...
We live. We die. We try.
We learn to lean on others.

We shine. We hide.
We learn to overcome.
We learn that what we want isn’t always what we need.
People and things come and go like the ebb and flow of the raging waters and a settling breeze.

We get all tied up in knots, trying, as we become confused, forgetting what we set out to do in the first place.

We do whatever it takes, to break through to the other side as we strive to fulfill our purpose.


The inspiration? Brightly colored blossoms scattered amid vast greenery. They paint a picture of individual distinction, constituents called to harmonious community. I'm surrounded by foliage representing every stage of life, from bloom to doom and all of a sudden, I began to relate my experiences directly to these scenes I’ve captured on digital film. A sprouting pine tree versus the dead one: a direct correlation to the drastic contrast of the beginning and ending stages of life.



Then I looked around at the vivacious colors and various types of flowers and trees at their different stages of life--and how gorgeous they are as a compilation. Such is life when we apply our unique designs as individuals into our communities, fulfilling our intended roles. I noticed a bouquet of wilting flowers grasped in the weathered hand of my precious grandmother as they approach their final stage together, recognizing how quickly it comes and goes.

Just before I sat down to begin writing, a sweet little girl, about three years old offered me a little pink flower. She held a bucket full, that had been freshly picked. This gesture perfectly consummates my recognition of these things. She examined the selection carefully, and chose one to her liking. It was gorgeous when she handed it to me, yet it’s already beginning to wilt. Soon, it will begin to lose it’s color, dry out completely and never again face the one chance it was given to decorate this earth.

Similarly we are given one chance to decorate the earth with our many diverse talents and abilities. Like the flower, that’s laying on my computer, we are unaware of when we will be picked and our life will come to an end. I am determined to show my vibrant color while I still have the chance. To be a radiant adornment among a plethora of greenery. The mountains to the east are covered in lush greenery with gigantic pine trees that are beautiful in their own way. But the small, colorful flowers are ultimately what catch my eye and fill the viewfinder of my camera. Their size, insignificant to the majestic mountain full of trees. Yet a single pink flower, like the one Naomi gave me, creates charm superlative to its conventional surroundings.



We are here to celebrate one of my favorite holidays, the Fourth of July. How lucky we are to be natives of a nation whose declaration, proclaimed over 200 years ago, granted us liberty without restriction! Without it, I wouldn’t be able to reflect on these things and celebrate my freedom to express them as a woman writer. I never would have bloomed into the colorful, aromatic flower I was meant to be, fulfilling my purpose. I would never touch the lives of others who read the pages I’ve filled. There would be a missing link in my community. Without it, we would all be pine trees.

A year ago, I was sitting at my desk at JoAnn’s house in Iowa. At that desk, I scripted the first pages of this blog contemplating these very same thoughts. Though, this time around, I have another year’s worth of experiences, new friends and opportunities to add to my collection. It’s been an amazing, wild ride. I am proud to say that in that year, I have grown, tremendously as a woman, and as a writer. All too often, we fail to take advantage of the liberty we’ve been granted to seize our chance at becoming someone, binding ourselves into slavery.

Today we celebrate freedom, something that I feel has been jeopardized and no longer perceived as a God-given right. It has become a privilege deemed worthy by the government to their liking. Release self-inflicted shackles. Shine in your community and blossom into the person you were created to be because you can.

I, along with my family, am celebrating on Lake Siskiyou, a small lake with regulations that prevent boats from exceeding 10 miles an hour. It has a breathtaking view of Mt. Shasta and hundreds of people have come from surrounding counties to experience the display of fireworks that will be shot off from its southeast shore.

I was on a boat ride earlier today, when I observed people congregating along the shore setting up camp, passing festive foods, and searching out a spot to engage in their own mini celebration. I thought about all of the families, and groups of people across this sacred land, who are doing the exact same thing, at this very moment. On this day, we gather with friends and loved ones to pay tribute to the significance of this day. I am overwhelmed that I am given the chance to be part of such a huge celebration.

In every part of this nation, people of different personalities, backgrounds, races, religions and interests set this day apart from all of the rest to observe the one thing we all have in common, our home.

I was in Chicago on this day last year, watching fireworks from the pier with my best friend. We brushed shoulders with all sorts of people, as we heard inspirational words from Barack Obama in a prelude to the National Anthem and watched a display of fireworks. My emotions were stirred, as they are every year, but my expressions of gratitude are understated by the grand blessing it is to be one of a diverse group. Individually, we expose our diversities, yet collectively, we become a part of the bigger picture, representing our culture and ultimately the human race.

I feel like I am lightyears away from Chicago today, celebrating with a more humble crowd. Eccentric, you might say. The people in these parts have been dubbed, backwards, hillbillies, hippies and mountain people. No doubt, their lifestyles surprise even me, who have been repeatedly exposed to their customs.

As different as they are, I keep noticing the American flags and patriotic ribbons tied to the boats that line the dock, being caught up in the wind. That same symbol is displayed all over this nation today, as they were last year on the pier in Chicago, the skyscrapers of New York and L.A., barns across the Midwest, churches in the south, and homes from Detroit, Orlando, Seattle and San Diego. Willamantic, Dunsmuir, Panora and Enumclaw.

Our festivities are evidence of our connection to one another. As often as we point our fingers at our differences, laughing at them in support of our own way of doing things, our celebrations are a good reminder that our differences don’t have to divide us as they often do.

I can guarantee that in every state across America today, you will see street fairs, parades, BBQ’s, boats, fireworks and alcohol--all as a representation of our freedom. The freedom we all possess together. As one. Americans. This is our home, America. Find your place in it.

A Bulldog, an aggie, a Bigham

Well aware of the significance of last week, I chose to heed to the advice of a recent Ladies' Home Journal Magazine article and Slow Down as I savored my final moments at Fresno State. I took my time strolling through the campus, opposite my usual pace. My leisurely walks allowed me “to look at the places and people with curiosity and wonder,” just as the article suggested.

It would have been a shame if I had left that school, without ever appreciating its beauty. I have managed to overlook the character of my campus, caught up in deadlines, exams and conversations along the way. But I first realized it when mom and I intentionally sought out picturesque scenery for photo backdrops the week school got out. We covered every square inch of that campus, admiring the lush greenery and wide open spaces.

As the end drew near I took figurative snapshots of my surroundings, drinking in what would hopefully be lasting memories, resistant to fade. I was distinctly aware of the last lecture, final presentation, last class session and final exam. Grief and joy went head-to-head in the battle to win my heart. Both held their own as I continuously dubbed the experience “bittersweet.”

I took a final on Monday, another on Tuesday completing the least stressful finals week for a graduating senior; Mom and I shopped, got a pedicure and ran errands Wednesday, precursors to the upcoming celebration; My parents attended the animal science/agriculture education banquet with me Thursday where the president of the FFA conference committee recognized my achievement as the Web Proceedings co-chair; and my family offered their support at the department of agriculture’s commencement ceremony Friday and the university commencement ceremony Saturday. The week seemed to creep by in slow motion, but in retrospect I’m not sure where the time went.

My graduation was everything I hoped it would be. I made up my mind to enjoy every second of it. Plenty of opportunities arose for me to be robbed of my joy. However, I am grateful to say that I held tightly to it, refusing to relinquish my grip.

At Friday’s ceremony, we were individually recognized and awarded on stage. Pride swelled as my name was called and I extended that recognition to my parents in the audience with a kiss from the stage. I cheered loudly for my friends, and their achievements, recognizing that our lives were about to change drastically. I am proud to have them as my friends, proud of their accomplishments and proud to have experienced college with them.

These moments seemed surreal—yet I was caught up in the reality of them. I cherished the moment my name was announced, the opportunity I was given to thank my amazing advisor, Dr. Rocca, with a hug on stage, and the moments of silence and deafening applause. Pride was so thick in the air it weighed on my shoulders and the bond between the students in the college of ag never seemed tighter.

But nothing compared to spotting my family in the audience, expressing their pride in my achievement; especially Saturday when family and friends filled the Save Mart Center. Adrenaline rushed through our bones as we waited backstage to enter the arena. We were the final college to enter, so we spent our time, joking, laughing, taking pictures, and releasing shouts of joy. Each minute and step we took closer to making our grand entrance, the anticipation magnified.

It took me a while to find my family, so I had the entire walk to our seats to soak up the experience and sear it into my memory. When we stepped out onto the floor, the crowd enveloped us with shouts of recognition and simultaneous waves. I seemed to make my way to my seat in slow motion, listening to individual shouts from the audience, knowing that some of them belonged to me. My eyes scanned rows and rows and rows of seats—half looking to see if the occupants were my kin, half amazed by the amount of people participating in this event—for us.

I was feeling on top of the world until my face flashed on the screen above. At that moment, I thought I owned it. The camera captured our shouts, extended arms and the biggest smiles we’ve ever known.

The moment I found my family, the world stopped turning as we shared in it together. An equal blend of joy, pride and gratitude overcame me, an overwhelming emotion I had never known before. My hands flew in the air so proud that my achievement was what brought them there that day. They rose to their feet so fast, extending hands toward mine, our shouts getting lost somewhere in between. The diploma I received on that day belongs in part to those individuals.

Being the first in the family to graduate was a struggle. Generational inclinations had to be broken. I did it. I stood my own, but only because of their support. They wanted it for me as bad as I did myself and at times, more. When I saw them standing there waving, I felt as if I was the guest there to recognize all of their hard work and devotion. I’m so blessed to share the accomplishment with them, knowing that our name, “BIGHAM,” now belongs to the one percent of graduates in the world.

My slower pace last week reminded me of all that I have to be proud of: I am extremely proud of my identity as a Bulldog, an aggie and a Bigham.

For more on the commencement, please see Fresno State commencement a new beginning

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The legacy you leave

A legacy endures the hardships of one generation and remains steadfast for the next. It undergoes the transition from the weathered hands of the wise to those of unscathed youth. It is a component of history, a record of intricate detail and monumental worth. It is evidence of the past, service to the present and a promise for the future. There is untold value in its passage.

Over 4,000 members of the Future Farmers of America (FFA) gathered in my hometown last weekend, for their 82nd annual state conference. Student leaders, guest speakers and advisors addressed them, delivering a bold message: “Your Legacy Awaits.”


The very foundation of FFA exemplifies all that this slogan entails. During the conference, I observed its members display a dedication to family, ethics, education and responsibility and a diligence to preserve it. They take pride in leadership, show respect for their elders and possess a unique patriotism.

I can say with absolute sincerity, that it was my pleasure to take part in the conference for my second consecutive year. As a co-chair for the Web proceedings committee at Fresno State, I served as a photographer for the event. As such, I was asked to conduct a workshop to 14 FFA members who were selected as part of a press corps team.

These students participated in a number of workshops aside from the general sessions and completed assignments related to their designated area of the press. It was a joy watching them on assignment. Several times backstage, I crossed paths with student reporters as they chased down officers, award winners and other recognized individuals for interviews. I brushed shoulders with student photographers as they sought out the best spot to capture the on-stage action.

I received the most satisfaction, however, from the interaction I received during my presentation to the press corps team. They were attentive, inquisitive and respectful. And they helped me come to an understanding about my own legacy.

At the beginning of my workshop, I quoted Mark Sharenbroich, from his keynote address during the opening session. He said, “Find out what your gifts are and share them with the world.” I told the students that that is why I chose to accept the invitation to conduct my workshop that day. I know what my gifts are and I am determined to share them with the world—through my camera and my keyboard

I have had some of the most amazing leaders and mentors who have helped direct me along the journey to discovering those gifts, and I am indebted to their devotion. But because of my late start on my education and involvement in the things that I love to do, I am continuously inspired by young people who make a point to follow their dreams. I often feel compelled to encourage them in their pursuit.

The fulfillment I received from my workshop led me to the realization that it is part of my responsibility to pass on my legacy. Even though I still have my entire career ahead of me, it is not too soon to share the treasure I have found in writing and photography. It doesn’t belong to me; I simply get to make use of it. And I am honored to be able to share it with newcomers like those I had the privilege of speaking to that day.

Mexican Tales and a Springtime Serenade

I was strumming on my guitar as we sat around the bonfire when my youngest niece requested that I play “Mr. Lincoln.” Having never played the song before, I searched for the chords and began singing once I found them. The musical prose of the song accurately interprets its melancholy message and has significantly impacted my five-year-old niece. She informed me, “Aunt Leah, I might have tears in my eyes if you play that song. But it’s OK.”

Our Hispanic neighbors joined us for the weenie roast. They brought along homemade potato tacos to accompany our all-American hot dogs—a typical blend of cultural trends. Mario Sr. shared a few fables he learned as an impoverished child, growing up in Mexico. He spoke of the good and evil that his grandmother taught him about recounting the sacred lessons of how God works in “different” ways.

After everyone left, I listened to the sounds of spring and watched as the fire died out. Nearby coyotes howled against an orchestra of crickets and frogs that left an impression comparable to “Mr. Lincoln’s.” A wailing train blew its horn in the distance as if to publicize the array of concealed emotions I’ve experienced this week. I stared into the fire pit pondering the excruciating pain inflicted by burns and it reminded me of the old saying, “if you play with fire, you’re gonna get burned.” How quickly we learn that lesson as a child; as it applies to the physical realm. Yet even as adults, we continue to think we are exempt from the dangers of those less tangible.

After enjoying the company of family and friends, I sat alone at the fire. I became aware of my own solitude and the human necessity of its reciprocate: community. There is no greater remedy for one in need of mending. Community—communication—communion—each requires the sharing of something. To share, we rely on one another. We weren’t meant to face this journey alone.

One of Mario’s tales exemplified these lessons through the story of a young man who shared his food and water with others. Though he didn’t have any to spare, they needed it more than he did. Likewise, they saved his life when he was under attack by his own brothers. We are guaranteed trials in this life. We are not guaranteed a support system as we face them. Make yourself available to others by recognizing their needs. The day will come when the tables are turned. I visited a church last week whose pastor mentioned a quote worth passing along: “Adversity doesn’t build character; it only reveals it.”

Transparency: the real you

Officers of the Public Relations Student Society of America (PRSSA) chapter on campus held a PR Unplugged event today. Four prominent PR specialists spoke to an audience of students, professors and professionals about personal branding, social media, crisis communication and media relations.

Though a number of beneficial topics were covered, I took particular interest in their reiteration of establishing trust and transparency through communication with clients and in our brands. These concepts aligned with much of the content I produced for my article, Technology, Identity, Community that appeared in Pork Business Journal last summer. In a world where global communication has become commonplace, it’s tempting to conclude that we, as a society, have lost touch with these values—particularly when headlines daily reveal breeches of trust and lax transparency.

Debra Nalchajian-Cohen, founder of Cohen Communications, encouraged effective communication up front, stating that “facts rise to the top quickly.” Even when you think they can’t, people can see right through you.

Fresno State professor of PR, Betsy Hays, expressed the importance of congruency. When your words don’t match your actions, you lose credibility and destroy your brand with a bad reputation.

These notions pertain directly to PR, but are just as applicable to our daily interactions with each other. Relationships are commonly severed by distrust and a lack of effective communication. Becoming an open book to your counter-part is positively less harmful than putting up a front. You are more likely to incur desired results by making yourself vulnerable.

The times I have decided to step out in faith, into a world of unfamiliarity and discomfort, have been the times that I have taken my largest strides toward personal growth. Transparency may ignite feelings of discomfort at first. But overcoming those fears is liberating. What is there to hide? Let's see the real you.

The Happiest Place on Earth

I returned home late last night after spending an extended weekend vacation with my family at the “happiest place on earth.” At the entrance the kids stopped to gather around a street performance by Mickey Mouse, Mary Poppins, the Mad Hatter and a marching band when the writer in me stepped back to observe.

Singing children clapped their hands then paused, only to raise them in the air begging to participate in the dancing celebration. Parents looked on with proud smiles, capturing indefinite records of the precious moments on camera. Some reconnected with their inner child, shamelessly belting out sing-along lyrics. All were living in the moment.

As the performance dwindled, people dispersed down Main Street with swelling anticipation. Music blared overhead as children everywhere grabbed hold of a parent and lead the way with pointed fingers. Oversized lollipops, trinkets and souvenirs were displayed near storefronts. The buildings were embellished with countless lights and intricate detail and kids passed with wide-eyed looks of amazement.

When we made it to the rides, I noticed that some children found ways to occupy their time while others waited impatiently in lines. Moms were reaching in handbags for snacks to appease their hungry kids while dads sought out their next destination on the map. Young couples took every opportunity to engage with one another but were frequently disrupted by the moving line. The screams and cries of tired and rejected kids competed with automated voices offering warnings and explanations of the rides. Loud laughter, cheerful music and clanking rides echoed all around. The smells of popcorn, cotton candy and churros combined to form the scent we all know as “Disneyland”.

This was my first time to the park with my nieces and nephews. While I was excited to share in the experience with them, there were definitely some things I was looking more forward to than others. I was surprised, though, by the renewed appreciation I had for the concepts relayed to the kids at the less-than-desirable attractions:

Despite the redundant melody and anti-climactic boat ride, “It’s a Small World” is a prominent representation of ethnic customs that exposes the kids to diversification. Despite the reality of racism the ride served as a small reminder of the strides we have taken toward harmony in this country. Evidence of this fact was displayed just outside the ride, by the multi-cultured spectators waiting in line.

In an address to the audience, Abraham Lincoln taught about the God-given right to liberty for each of those cultures represented, and the expense for which it’s been fought in this country. His presentation ended with a rendition of “His Truth is Marching On.” I was moved by the powerful message to never cease fighting for the protection of our liberty and to maintain the extreme value we place in it. I fought tears as I read the words “America, keep on dreaming,” displayed on the curtains at the show’s end.

Finally, as I soared above California at California Adventure, I was surprised at my stirred emotions at the recognition of the place I call home. Having grown up in the Golden State, I have often taken for granted the amazing things it has to offer. I realized that the places featured on the ride are in my backyard and that people all over the world dream of one day seeing them with their own eyes. How blessed I am to have experienced this lovely state—and so many others in this divine country.

Love is Everlasting

“Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illumines it.”
Martin Luther King, Jr.
(1929-1968); Minister, Civil Rights Activist

I am not one of those people that despise Cupid’s holiday. I support any and every excuse to confess and express love. However, I do detest the impact its commercialization has on participants and inactive observers alike. As a member of the latter category—and as a woman—I cannot help but believe the newspaper ads, TV and radio commercials, billboards and internet when their messages convey that I should have an enormous bouquet of flowers and box of chocolates awaiting me at my desk. I hardly care for chocolate and flowers—destined to wither—have never appealed to me. Yet at this time of year, I coincidentally find myself craving the robust flavors of melting candies and the aroma of a dozen red roses as I click away at my keyboard.

Do heart shaped boxes and vases of long-stemmed flowers satisfy the universal need for love? Compared to my daily experiences with proven unconditional love, the gesture seems quite empty and senseless.

A valentine is “what you call the boy/girl you’re temporarily ‘dating’ for Valentine's Day,” according to the increasingly popular urbandictionary.com. The Web site, best known for its comical content, provides a sadly accurate depiction of the word. For some reason, society leads us to believe that our worth is displayed through inanimate objects while the commercial world capitalizes on this notion. I don’t aspire for temporary meaningless interactions with others and if Valentine’s Day gifts are representations of that, I am better off without them. I don’t want to be temporarily pacified. Like the rest of mankind, I desire lasting devotion.
Values.com | Your Billboard Unconditional Love

Music, Love, Life and Loss

I took my place in mom's Buick, plugged my headset into my cell phone and began humming along to Norah Jones as we traveled south on Highway 99. My flickering eyes momentarily grasped a tree whizzing by, then briefly paused before fixing their gaze on another. Similarly, my unleashed thoughts darted between my music class, our trip south and the hundreds of memories I have created along that very highway.

Grandma was in the front seat practicing a “flipping the pancake” motion in the palm of her hands--a technique she couldn't master for her doctor who recently diagnosed her with mild-to-moderate dementia. With enthusiasm like a child and the memory loss of an elder, she quickly answered, “four,” when mom asked her how many quarters were in two dollars. She began to sing an old praise song, "I've got a river of life flowing out of me," struggling to recite the lyrics she once did with ease. The song resonated within me. Ironically, we were to attend her baby brother's memorial service the following day. As if to accompany her, the rain beat a shout chorus of death on the windshield. The wipers forced a retreat with a symphony of life, wiping away the raindrops, resembling tears. “Death—Life—Death—Life.”

Grandma helped raise Uncle Obie after her mother died, when she was six years old. She has recounted, many times, the story of when she took him into Oklahoma City while "Papa" was gone at work during the day. But when I went to visit her last Thanksgiving, she included some details about their “strolls through the city” that she never had before.

During my visit to the City, I was well aware of the renovations and destruction of the buildings in Grandma’s memory. They have been replaced by buildings with newer styles and architectural trends than those of her day. One dilapidated building, though, stood at the edge of the city and displayed the words “Farmer's Market” across the top. I shot a picture, confident that Grandma would likely have recollections of this building above any other. I forgot to take the picture to her, but at the mere mention of it, her eyes lit up, “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed with a grin. She began to tell the story I've learned by heart:

“Papa would leave for work and I would take Obie by the hand, 'C'mon Obie, w'ere gonna go to town,'" the story always began. She explained that she would cross over the North and South Canadian Rivers that ran through downtown; though this time she struggled to recall their names. They frequented this farmers market where trains would unload fresh produce onto the dock. Grandma and Uncle Obie would dig fruit, unfit for merchandise, out of the trash can for their midday meal. For the first time in my life, I became aware of the destitute conditions they faced as kids. “We were poor, poor people. Nobody should have to live that way,” Grandma said with tears filling her eyes at the memory. “But we made it through.” She recalled workers at the dock dropping fruit on purpose “’cause they knew we was orphans—almost.”

I sat directly behind Grandma at the funeral, amazed at all she has endured: an unfortunate childhood, infidelity, failed marriages, domestic abuse, single-motherhood, and the deaths of two husbands, three sisters, many friends and now her little brother. I pondered the amount of tears she must have cried, and how she has sustained. I yearn for the determination she learned as a girl.

My determination thus far has landed me my first interview. Tomorrow, I will meet with members of the USDA regarding an assistantship program. I want to tell myself that I am nervous, but I refuse. When I begin to feel anxious, I remember the opportunity therein—all that I will take from the experience, regardless of its outcome—and my anxiety turns to excitement.

JoAnn sent me a timely letter of recommendation attached to an email with all of her latest and yet another opportunity. A firm in the Midwest has a job opening that she thinks would suit me well. I recently told myself that I will walk through every door that opens as I pursue my dreams. I see this as an open door and am fervently waiting to see what is on the other side.

I have kept myself busy and that makes the wait easy. I have picked up a side job shooting photography for a local performance horse ranch, attend weekly meetings for the California State FFA Conference Committee, and make a point to go to the gym twice a week. The work load for class is minimal. But the requirements are nothing short of enjoyment for me. I spend my mornings getting ready to the sounds of Frank Sinatra, Billie Holiday, and Ella Fitzgerald. Louis Armstrong and Bessie Smith are my motivation while I clean. Their music serves as a dual purpose. I receive therapy as I prepare for my exams.

Before we left town last Friday, I attended my music class. The instructor covered, in great detail, each of the aforementioned artists, sharing several pieces that tugged at my emotions. He ended our session by playing a Sinatra hit, “My Way.” Inspired, I kept my head down to hide the tears that filled my eyes as I packed my things to leave.

Billie Holiday also impacted me with her song, “Good Morning Heartache.” She captures the universal emotions that are all too often related to the loss of love. I remember something mom told me about my paternal Grandmother, from Missouri, after she died. The last thing Grandma Julie said to my mom on her death bed was, "You'ns love one another." The most important lesson we can learn from any circumstance in this life, is Love.

This concept has been a hard one for me to grasp, but I believe it is one I am learning. I wholeheartedly believe to love is to make a choice. True love is unconditional. It requires forgiveness. While I have been great at loving from a distance, I am in search for love that has no bounds.

Values

After being exposed to a continuous array of uplifting advertisements, I was lured to visit Values.com earlier this week. As I browsed the pages of The Foundation for a Better Life Web site, the evidence became overwhelming that my visit was predestined. The entire motive of the foundation is to encourage others to do good, through a select set of values. I’ve recently been considering ways in which I can serve my community. I felt compelled to implement their suggested values: persistence, opportunity, inspiration, peace, gratitude, live your dreams…etc. Each value, quote and billboard represents something I personally cherish and instantly became a supporter.

Shortly after visiting Values.com, my brother and I were discussing my financial situation. I informed him of a goal that I set for myself when I started college. I planned to put myself through school…and to do so without student loans. At the beginning of last semester, I had to begin relying on the support of my parents to help me finish. I failed to achieve my goal. As I shared with him how it was eating me up inside, he brought it to my attention that I was being prideful. “Think about how it makes mom and dad feel to be able to help you. Have you ever thought about that?” As a parent, he thought of the joy he will receive from providing an education for his children. He reminded me that I will graduate without any debt, and that I have much to be thankful for. The opportunity surfaced to seize the steadfast value of gratitude, but my pride crept in and smothered its invitation.

While I have it, I need to take the opportunity to publicly thank mom and dad for their unconditional support. Their monetary investment has been the least of their contributions. I have encountered extreme highs and lows throughout the years (“violent mood swings” as an old friend used to refer to them). Along the way, I have doubted many things; But never the loyalty of my parents who were there for me every step of the way. They have exemplified the values of devotion, sacrifice, dedication and encouragement.

During one of my breaks at school this week, I was thumbing through a magazine entitled The Writer, when 10 Habits of a Successful Writer caught my attention. I was immediately drawn to the article and after reading it, came to the realization that I possess many of the habits introduced therein. Like author Donald M. Murray, I “delight in anecdote and parable that reveals a larger story,” and I “treasure metaphor.” I can identify with him in that “I am always in the world and out of it.” I am constantly aware of my surroundings, scribbling notes containing “an essential tension that will release a text when it’s developed,” as he so eloquently wrote.

I examined the list and questioned my own routines with intent to implement those gone unpracticed. The only resounding negative response was to the habit of completion—the toughest one to master. Murray considers a piece to be complete once it’s been submitted—for without submission, you can’t be published. I have been published, but I have not made a habit of submission. Therefore, I will practice the values of determination and perseverance, until I develop a routine of submitting my work.

Questioning myself regarding two other habits, I found myself sitting on the fence. They require a sense of change within the individual; the writer must be able to contradict their own writing, admit past misinformation and be willing to revise their own precious material. Considering my new outlook on change, I imagine the “fence” is a hurdle I am soaring above, in mid-jump between a “no” response, and an unmistakable “yes!” I spent nearly the same amount of time editing and revising my last entry as I did writing it. But without those changes, it wasn’t nearly as effective to the reader. Change is good, and I am embracing it, along with the value of overcoming my fear of it.

Please take the time to visit Values.com to view a complete list of the values. As the foundation doesn’t receive monetary donations, it’s completely dependent on people sharing them. When incorporated into our communities, these values have the potential to transform our world.

Rainbows and New Beginnings

This life promises a constant cycle of repetition. The title of today’s post reflects how that cycle has gone full circle since my first entitled, “Cornfields and New Beginnings.” Just as I did at the start of that journey, today I face a fork in the road.

Daily, we are summoned to continue along the beaten path spewed before us. The path is convincing, for it is safe, familiar and adequate. Or we can make the courageous decision to turn down one of the millions of branches of opportunity, along the way.

Such was the choice I made to spend last summer in Iowa. Choosing complete unfamiliarity, turned out to be one of the best decisions I have ever made. I have absolutely no regrets about that decision or the effects of it. However, risk-takers are not promised ease or safety along the way. They often face vicious storms much like what I faced upon my return. But there is always hope beyond the storm. We call this a rainbow.

While working on my portfolio yesterday, I looked outside my window to notice the most magnificent rainbow I have ever seen. It was so enormous its entirety couldn’t fit into the viewfinder of my camera. Each hue glowed as if the pot of gold were a lit match igniting it at the end. It felt like the rainbow was inviting me to come explore its colors—promising me a new beginning.

As I begin this, my final semester at CSUF, I feel anticipation similar to what I experienced prior to lunging into Iowa last June. Contentment, excitement and peace (finally) resonate within me. I am still uncertain of what awaits me after I graduate. But I am certain, completely confident, that something does await me. I am ecstatic about the final steps I will take before grasping my degree and finding out what that is.

Classes started yesterday. Not only do I have the best schedule for a senior in their final semester, I have a light load of extremely interesting classes. As an upper division requirement, I am taking a class on the history of rock and jazz. I have always held a huge appreciation for the arts. Today the professors blared Led Zeppelin, Duke Ellington and Chuck Berry through the speakers as they introduced the basics of the course. I swelled inside and lost myself to the music.

I sit here at my desk, inundated with “resumes-and-portfolios-for-dummies” material. I continuously slip red, white and pink M&M’s into my mouth, as I learn how to best expose my talents, abilities and skills to employers. Though I am secure in my talents, I have never been one to flaunt them, so I struggle with the process. I was told for the second time this week that I am too critical of myself. As I sort through this information, I am making necessary adjustments to my resume, portfolio and attitude. I’m enthusiastic about the opportunities these changes will invite. I’m thankful for my new beginning and the rainbow that has finally brought color back into my life.