Author: susantara

Overheard in a Field of Daylilies

Overheard in a Field of Daylilies

For the past several days, I have been searching for a book of poetry that seems to have vanished into thin air. I’ve looked everywhere and am now at the point of looking in kitchen cabinets and crawling around on the floor! It seems I’ve looked for it everywhere except for where it is. The book in question is Thirst by Mary Oliver. Our back yard is full of wildflowers, and I wanted to be inspired, for Mary Oliver and I perceive life through the same lens. However, since the book remains in hiding, I decided to write my own poem about the daylilies that currently dominate the landscape.
 

Overheard in a Field of Daylilies

Whispered the daylily:

Do not pity me for having
but one, brief day to bloom.
It is the blooming, not the longevity
that matters, and I have been
practicing all my life to feel
the darkness surrender
to color and light
and know this is the day,
and I am unstoppable
and ready to seize it,
 

 

To feel the sensation
of sepals and petals opening
together, little by little
then curling backward
into a perfect poem
of shape and color
and sending
from the secret center
a slender pistil
and six delicate filaments
donning gold-dusted slippers,
 
 
To announce without words:
Here I am, full and ripe
with pollen and nectar!
Come to me; let’s dance
the dance of life together
and make this day count.
 
 
Dear human, your rhythm
falls somewhere in between
that of trees and flowers.
Do not pity me
for my brief moment of glory.
Truthfully, can you say
you have bloomed
so unabashedly in all your
years?
 
-Susan Meyer

© Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all text and photos, without express and written permission from this website’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography (www.susantarameyer.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Mom Moments

Mom Moments

If you know me or have followed my blog for any length of time, it’s probably clear that I’m quite open-minded when it comes to spirituality. However, there is a part of me that is surprisingly skeptical and discerning and searches for logical, rational explanations whenever something out of the ordinary happens – probably because I am so open and want to keep myself in check. So I’m not as easily convinced as I let on and tend to be more impressed when skeptics or non-believers have profound experiences than when I do. But I certainly have been having my share of “Mom moments” lately.

Here are a few examples:

I was driving home from grocery shopping one evening and felt a gentle nudge to turn on the car radio. The song that was playing was John Denver’s “Back Home Again.” Not only did John Denver hold a very special place in my mom’s heart, but I don’t recall hearing any of his songs on the radio in recent years. Hearing this song was out of the ordinary enough to really get my attention. And the refrain hit home: “Hey, it’s good to be back home again.” Not to mention, my mom grew up on a farm (as the lyrics continue).

I had another experience while driving. Every day – usually when I’m in the car – I say a little prayer in which I ask for blessings on my mom’s soul and guidance and support for myself and others. Then I express gratitude for various things. This particular day, right after I said, “Amen,” the car CD player turned on by itself! It clicked to a new CD and played the Crosby, Stills, and Nash song, “Teach Your Children”!

Here are some lyrics that really spoke to me:

And you of tender years
Can’t know the fears that your elders grew by
And so please help them with your youth
They seek the truth before they can die
Don’t you ever ask them why
If they told you, you would cry
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you

Now, that was really weird! But sometime after the fact, my inner skeptic wondered if it was possible that I forgot I’d turned on the CD player. However, the surprise I felt when the player clicked on led me to believe that was not the case. The moment I got out of my car, I saw a friend who also had lost a parent recently. I told him about the “moment” I’d just had, and without missing a beat, he said the same thing had happened to him six times in a row. The player turned on, and my friend turned it off – six times! After the sixth time, he acknowledged his parent’s presence, and the player didn’t turn on again.

And then there was the time I sat in the living room with a basket of Universal Cards on my lap. Each card has a word written on it, and there’s a companion book that suggests some possible associations for each word. I was really missing my mom that morning and asked for a message from her. I closed my eyes and picked a card, which was a card I’d been choosing a lot lately. No big deal. I put the basket of cards away and went about my business. About a half hour later, I returned to the living room and found one single Universal Card lying face-up on the floor in the middle of the room with the word “Healing” written on it. The entire “Healing” page in the book resonated with me. It began: “Healing influences and energies are around you… They can be called on to heal any aspect of your life.”

Hmmm…

There was the woodpecker pecking on the outside of the house right next to the window. I had only experienced that once before – when a woodpecker knocked on the door right after my mom received her cancer diagnosis. And there was the unexplained pounding on the window (heard by my husband, who was startled and looked for the source) when my husband was becoming impatient with me for taking so long to get out the door.

There was the sweet yet vulnerable cheep…cheep…cheep! of the baby birds in our yard who had just left the nest and were learning about flying and independence as the mama bird watched protectively over them from a distance.

The unexplained smells. The music that arrives fully formed and comforts me – and gives me goosebumps from head to toe when I sing it softly (without letting anyone else hear it because it feels too tender). Transcendent experiences that I wouldn’t even attempt to describe because the feeling element is lost so easily in translation. (Honestly, I don’t know if the emotional charge of any of these experiences can be transferred to another person.)

And then there are dreams.

Over the weekend – exactly one month after my mom passed away – she showed up in my dreams for the first time. It happened during a rare, late afternoon nap. I can’t recall what I had been dreaming, but all of a sudden, I was at the performing arts center where my mom spent her 34-year career, talking with a few people at the very back of the amphitheater.

I noticed a woman who looked like my mom (about 15 years ago) coming toward me down the hill on one of the walkways. She was wearing a navy blue and white striped top and navy blue slacks and looked very happy, pleasant, and totally in her element. Yet, she was in a hurry, as if she had important responsibilities to attend to. She scurried by me, en route to the seats or (most likely) backstage, and I turned my head, thinking that she looked like my mom. Then I realized she was my mom, and I gasped and woke up, heart pounding! It felt so real!

A few days later, in preparation for a meeting with a newspaper columnist who is writing an article about my mom, I came across a video from her retirement celebration, which I’d never watched. At the end of the the video, there were a few photos of her with her very favorite artists, and in two of them she was wearing the same outfit she had worn in my dream!

This morning, I dreamed of her for the second time. In the dream, it was about 10:30 at night when I received a phone call from one of my parents’ neighbors, who told me something we both felt my dad needed to be aware of. I wanted to call my dad right away, but my mom was still very sick, and I didn’t want to disturb her by calling the home phone. So I called my dad’s cell phone instead – and my mom answered. Then she was immediately in the room with me. I was in bed (where I actually was asleep and dreaming this dream), and she was standing at the side of the bed looking over me in a peach colored nightgown. I can’t remember exactly what she said to me, but she acknowledged that she was dying. With tears streaming down my face, I replied, “I wish we had more time together.” She bent over, and we hugged each other. I could feel her shoulder bones because she was so emaciated. But mostly, I felt the love.

I was at a used bookstore the other day and felt nudged to pick up a certain book and read the page I opened to. The words on the page were about the regrets you have after the death of a loved one being different than the ones you had previously. An example was regretting that you put your loved one through radiation treatments and all the related suffering. When I opened the book, I wasn’t aware of any lingering regrets, for I felt so much healing took place between my mom and me during the past year. But when I awoke from the dream, I knew better – and cried a river of tears – for it occurred to me that my mom and I never really said goodbye. We never grieved together over having to part so soon. I tried my best to help her let go and to assure her that it was going to be okay and that what she was experiencing was normal. I did all my crying when I was alone. She read my blog faithfully until she was too sick to sit down at the computer, and some of my writing from December through May was a means for me to communicate to her that I knew she was dying without forcing the issue. I happened to arrive at my parents’ house right after she finished reading one of my posts, and she came downstairs, gave me a hug, and told me that I have always been loved. In the week before she died, she beamed and exclaimed, “You’re great!” The last understandable words she spoke to me were, “I love you so much.”

We said goodbye between the lines but never came out and said it while she was still lucid. We had some conversations in which she indicated that she realized she was dying, but she didn’t seem to want to talk about it. There was a line I felt I couldn’t cross. I wasn’t able to tell her how much I’ll miss her and that I wish we had more time together – until she wasn’t able to communicate. Most of all, I didn’t want to burden her with my sorrow. I wanted her to let go and move on without worrying about anyone else. I didn’t want to hold her back.

But in dreams, we get a second chance. We get to say goodbye. And it was for real.

Looking through photos, I realized that the peach nightgown my mom wore in the dream was the same nightgown she had on when she died.

There have been other experiences that leave me with a sense of awe, peace, sweetness, love, and/or relief, and my “Mom moments” have much in common with what other family members and friends have experienced. But I think that’s more than enough for now.

© Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all text and photos, without express and written permission from this website’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography (www.susantarameyer.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

A Sunflower Curriculum

A Sunflower Curriculum

This is the last weekend of the school year, and as I attend to my remaining responsibilities, I paused to reflect on what went well this year – what worked. I am convinced that children learn the most from the teacher’s passion. When a teacher is truly excited about something, teaching is authentic, and the energy engages children and invites them to enter a space of wonder and joy. I love to abide with children in such a living, inspired space. It makes my time in the classroom feel worthwhile. So, as I reflect on the year, I looked for where I was able to breathe new life into the curriculum, fueled by what I love. This year, it was flowers – sunflowers, in particular.

I spent last summer observing and photographing sunflowers that popped up around our yard. I was fascinated by the pattern, blooming, and pollination of all the tiny flowers.

There were so many sunflowers in our yard, and we didn’t have to do a thing. The birds did it all for us! My husband is serious about feeding the birds throughout the winter and buys mass quantities of sunflower seeds. In the course of their daily business, the birds managed to scatter them all over the yard. Many of the seeds developed into large plants with impressive blooms (that delighted the bees immensely). In time, the seed heads drooped, and the birds feasted on the mature seeds. So by summer’s end, all the seeds that had grown into flowers had become mini bird feeders.

I was fascinated and excited by the whole process, and when the school year began, I wanted to share my love of sunflowers with my students. I cut a few seed heads from the stems and brought them in for our nature table.

I provided magnifying lenses for the children to use to examine the sunflower colors, patterns, textures, and anatomy. Eventually, one of the children asked if it was all right to remove some seeds. At first, I wanted them simply to observe them, but one morning – in response to their natural enthusiasm – I allowed small groups of children to work on removing the seeds after completing their morning work. It was a highly engaging fine-motor activity that maintained their interest for quite some time. It made my heart happy to see them engaged so contentedly with a gift from nature.

One small group had begun to sort the parts they had removed, and I encouraged them to continue. Next thing I knew, the other groups had followed their lead.

They were so proud of the work they did emptying and sorting!

Each day, they wanted more sunflower heads to de-seed, but I had run out, for the birds had picked out all the seeds from the remaining flowers in our yard. So a mom sent in a bunch of sunflowers from her family’s property, and the fun continued. She sent in quite a few, and when the novelty seemed to have worn off, I put aside the rest and moved on to other activities. The dried sunflowers remained in a sack in a corner of the classroom throughout the winter, largely forgotten.

In the spring, we learned about plants and flowers. I asked the children if they’d like to plant and care for seeds of their own (“YES!!!”) and asked them what kind of seeds they would like to plant. Well, every child wanted to plant sunflower seeds. And then I remembered the abandoned flowers in the corner. They planted, watered, and thinned the seeds, and took home their cups when the plants were a few inches tall.

I used the thinning process as an opportunity for the children to observe the root system. Each child determined which seedling seemed healthiest, and we pulled out the other one gently, to keep the roots intact. I displayed them on the nature table for the day with a magnifying glass and took a picture so I could refer to it on the SMART Board.

We created Sharpie and crayon-watercolor resist scientific illustrations of flowers. (I discovered this activity on my favorite teaching website, Fairy Dust Teaching.) The photo below is from a previous year when I gave the children the conventional spelling of the parts. This year, I let them sound-spell the labels.

In accordance with the ELA Common Core, we are required to have our students complete an informational writing sample, and this year, I had my students write about flowers. They used their scientific illustration as step one of the writing assignment. Step two was filling in a graphic organizer.

Step three was the final, written piece.

The bottom line is that we ended up getting a lot of mileage from the sunflowers I brought in for our nature table! Looking back, this is the area in which I felt the curriculum was most vibrant this year. These activities are keepers – and required no prep work on my part. Gifts from nature are the best!

And on that note, here’s a card the children made for Mother’s Day. I showed them some of my images of morning glories unrolling and opening movement by movement, and they wanted to give their moms some morning glory seeds that I had saved from last year’s crop.

And there you have it: My flower-powered curriculum!

© Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all text and photos, without express and written permission from this website’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography (www.susantarameyer.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Transcendent Wildlife Moment

Transcendent Wildlife Moment

I had the most transcendent experience at the labyrinth this afternoon when I was blessed to witness something I have longed deeply to see – an image I have not been able to let go of since it was described to me a year ago by the gardener. There has been something magical about the conversations I’ve had with her, and I always walk away feeling blessed. Well, this particular afternoon, she told me she had seen a turtle emerge from the pond, move across the labyrinth to lay its eggs, then return back across the labyrinth to the pond.

I know. It doesn’t sound all that exciting. But for some reason, it planted a deep longing in me (and must have meant something to her, too). I love turtles – especially painted turtles – and I love labyrinths. I walked away wishing I could have witnessed it. I thought about it so much over the past year. I wondered if I’d be so fortunate to see the baby turtles cross the labyrinth later in the summer en route to the pond, and even calculated approximately when the babies were likely to emerge. No such luck. But I could not let go of the image of a wise, old turtle in the labyrinth. I visualized it through the winter. I visualized it through the spring. I wondered why this image fueled me with such deep longing. I realized the likelihood of me being there at the right time to see a turtle cross the labyrinth was very slim. I almost wished I had never heard about it because I couldn’t stop longing for it! Perhaps I’d need to camp out at the labyrinth all day when the temperature was right, and keep watch. Even just a few days ago, I wished I were more talented at sketching or painting so I could reproduce the image that had made such an impression on my heart and mind.

Unless someone were inside my head and able to read my thoughts and feelings, it’s probably impossible to understand how profound and meaningful this image was to me. I can’t explain it.

I never did camp out at the labyrinth. I just continued longing and wished I could have been blessed as the gardener had been with such perfect timing. I decided that experience was meant for her, and if it were meant for me, I would experience it, too.

So, this afternoon I went to the labyrinth with no expectations other than to clear my head after a busy day at work. I crossed the labyrinth to look at the flowers, as I always do prior to walking the path to the center and back. And then I noticed a painted turtle off to the side of the labyrinth!

Well, you can imagine my excitement. I took out my camera ever so carefully, hoping to photograph it. Simply achieving a decent, closeup shot of the turtle would be gratifying enough.

But after several minutes, the turtle turned around and maneuvered toward the labyrinth. My excitement turned to astonishment. When the turtle began to plod along the outer circuit of the labyrinth, I whispered softly and repeatedly, “Oh. My. God,” as tears dripped down my face.

This was even better than the gardener’s description of the turtle crossing the labyrinth, for this turtle was following the labyrinth path!

With nearly breathless reverence, I watched the turtle as it continued to navigate the outer circuit.

Then it turned and exited through the threshold!

Before it slid into the pond, I thanked the turtle for giving me this incredible blessing. Then I walked the labyrinth in the turtle’s footsteps, filled with awe and reverence. After that, I took an exercise walk on a nearby trail, and what I had just experienced hit me again. How profound that I was able to experience the sight for which I had longed so deeply! I cried reverent, grateful tears for quite some time as I walked along the trail. It simply was the greatest gift I could have received.

I had to write about it before falling asleep because such experiences need to be remembered and shared. To have such a deep longing fulfilled so unexpectedly is the most incredible feeling in the world. It’s grace. I don’t understand why the turtle in the labyrinth was such a powerful image and experience for me – only that it was. Before going to bed tonight, my son gave me a hug and, despite not fully understanding my excitement hours earlier, told me that he’s glad I got to see what I needed to. That sums it up perfectly.

© Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all text and photos, without express and written permission from this website’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography (www.susantarameyer.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The Questions That Bubble Up

The Questions That Bubble Up

“He’s still around. Just listen.” 
– George Harrison (to Tom Petty after the death of Roy Orbison)

This is the longest I have gone between blog posts! Over the past week and a half, I have been immersed full throttle in end-of-the-school-year responsibilities. The workload this year is more overwhelming than ever (compliments of New York State’s APPR teacher evaluation system), and I have been putting in ten-hour days at school and then staying up until midnight in order to meet all the deadlines that come in rapid succession. Toward the end of the week, I felt completely exhausted and knew I couldn’t continue at this pace and intensity when grief is still so fresh and so physically and emotionally draining. It’s as if one marathon ended and was followed immediately by another. It is not a time to be some kind of superwoman and deprive myself of sleep. So, despite all that needs to be done within the next 12 days, I am taking a necessary breather and doing some writing before resuming my work.

The day before I returned to work following my bereavement leave, I attempted to begin cleaning up five months of chaos around the house and didn’t get very far, although I did manage to do the dishes. (And since then, I have resumed cooking meals!) At one point, I stopped to call a bereavement organization to order a book for my dad, and when I gave the woman my address, she queried, “N as in Nancy?” Nancy is my mom’s name, and I could barely answer another question or get off the phone soon enough before the cloudburst of tears began. It was such a raw, vulnerable feeling of never knowing when it’s going to hit or what will trigger the tears. And yet, I had no problem at all later that day getting water from the spring right next to where my mom worked for 34 years, perhaps because I expected it might be rough and was able to prepare myself – cover up the raw nerves. It’s the little surprises – such as a friend’s description of opening his dad’s old duffel bag and smelling his sweat and cologne – that sneak up and knock you off balance because you weren’t expecting them.

Several days later, I was on the phone once again giving my address and was asked the same question. Only this time, I shook my head and answered with a smile. Perhaps next time, I will offer, “N as in Nancy” right off the bat!

This is a well traveled path, and I appreciate and find great comfort in words from others who are walking ahead of me and are more familiar with this terrain. I especially appreciate when friends share experiences they have had of connecting with their dearly departed’s essence.

One evening, I felt a profound sense of peace and realized that – despite everything that has happened – all is well. And when I voiced that out loud to myself, I felt embraced. It was a wonderful feeling, like a spiritual hug. And it’s true: Losing a parent during adulthood is part of the natural order of life. Despite our personal losses, we are part of something so much larger than our little, individual selves. We are part of the rhythm and dance of Life. We are interconnected with all of life. This is so comforting! To know that I am part of this dance is such a blessing! It doesn’t even matter what I believe about what happens after we die. To know I am interconnected with the living universe is enough. My son and I talked about such things on the dock that evening with the light of stars and airplanes both in the sky and reflected on the calm water. We were looking for fireflies, which hadn’t come out yet. When I told him about feeling so peaceful and the sensation of being embraced, the first firefly flew past us, illuminated. We sat on the dock with lights twinkling above, below, and around us, dwelling in the feeling that “All is well.”

I feel much calmer now, in general. I don’t have to check my phone constantly or rush straight from school to my parents’ house, not knowing what small crisis might arise from day to day or hour to hour. No more racing against time and not knowing how far to the finish line.

Nature continues to uplift me and soothe my soul: The brilliant orange glint of orioles darting to and fro; cottonwood seed babies rising into the sun en masse; long (and nearly invisible) gossamer filaments drifting through perfumed air; the first couple lily pads floating on the water’s surface; being dazzled by an iris in the process of becoming (and the genius of nature’s packaging); and floating in my kayak, feeling at peace, and then noticing a familiar pair of wings beating toward me from across the river, for my beloved great blue heron finally has returned!

Nighttime is somewhat magical and definitely restorative. I dreamt again of a unicorn shaped cloud. One night, I woke up with a strong impression of a little technician next to me helping to reset my cells. It looked like a solar panel, with many rows and columns of photovoltaic cells that were being clicked on and off. Another time, I awoke in the middle of the night from a dream in which a woman who was very, very special and either dying or already dead communicated a message to me as I held her hand. I couldn’t remember a single word of the woman’s communication but woke up to a voice that said, “The veil is very, very thin right now.” (If that was an opportunity of some sort, I was too exhausted to take advantage of it.) Similarly, a family member who has been a lifelong religious and spiritual skeptic reported a highly symbolic and ineffable experience that included being enveloped by an indescribable golden light that pushed a force of happiness into him or her along with the understanding that my mom is with us and able to tune in to our thoughts. This relative felt my mom provided a glimpse of what it feels like to be in the afterlife, and I have been smiling all day since hearing about it. Other family members have shared their dreams and impressions with me, and it really feels (as one relative put it) as if my mom has cleared customs and been approved for earthly travel!

On a more “rational” level, so many questions began to bubble up to the surface this week, as I attempted to make sense of what I have experienced over the past six months. Did my mom have any closure in the end? When did she realize she was dying? What was that like for her? Was she able to achieve any sense of peace, or did she become stuck in depression and apathy? Is there anything I can do even now to help her to achieve closure? I read through my journal entries from the past six months with such questions in mind. I am grateful that I took the time to jot down notes about things my mom said from day to day that revealed various milestones, such as when she realized she would not get better and when she felt the cancer invading her body much more aggressively. I listened closely for subtle communications and took them seriously. I assured her that what she was experiencing was normal when she feared she was losing her mind, and invited her to talk about it – but it seemed she could only say so much. Did she suffer in silence? There definitely was a line I felt I could not cross without throwing everything and everyone completely off balance. There’s a lot I did do to help my mom during the months she approached death. But there’s so much more I wish I could have done and wanted to do.

These are questions to which I might never have answers. And what value would me having the answers contribute to the world, anyway? Perhaps it is best to rest in the questions. Let them be.

What is the best response to an active mind?
The fragrance of flowers,
the movement of clouds across the sky,
a field of fireflies,
breathing in and out:
OM.
Return to love.
Return, return, return.  

More questions arose after I watched Martin Scorsese’s 208-minute documentary/biography, George Harrison: Living in the Material World (for the second time in recent months) from start to finish one evening. I am so inspired by the way George Harrison faced his death (and replay frequently his song, “All Things Must Pass”). It sounds like he wanted to immerse himself in meditation as he approached death and be as conscious as possible as he left his body. Was he able to do that? I wonder how heavily he was sedated during his dying days and to what extent the pain meds prevent a person from entering meditative consciousness? How do you balance meditation with medication when the pain is so bad?

I began to wonder (in a purely contemplative manner): Did my mom (who did not like to medicate herself unnecessarily and was very wary of morphine) receive palliative sedation that was appropriate to her level of pain, or was she essentially euthanized by meds that – in addition to relieving the pain – made her unaware and hastened death mercifully? Were we giving her too much pain medicine at the end, beyond what she would have wished? Or was she not letting on how ferocious the pain was, other than to insist she did not want to live like that? Is it possible not to be over-sedated in such a situation, or is the pain so absolutely unbearable that palliative sedation is the only compassionate response? And what implications does pain management have on entering death with awareness?

The latter is a question I found unsettling. Eventually, one answer I arrived at was to communicate to those who would be most closely involved in your care how they can take over a meditative practice or make a specific prayer request on your behalf when you are no longer able to communicate. This also includes making known your wishes for what readings or music you want around your deathbed, the level of lighting you prefer, etc. I remember how distracted I was during the birth of my first child by the conversations taking place around me and M*A*S*H being played on the television in the hospital room. It was a much more peaceful atmosphere the second time (a homebirth) when soothing music played, and I was surrounded only by loved ones (including my spiritual teacher) and a midwife who was attuned impeccably to my process. Surely, I imagine, the same atmospheric concerns would apply to death midwifery. At the same time, I believe that when a dying person is not lucid, processes are still taking place on other levels and dimensions and that there is much more going on than meets the eye.

These are some of the questions I intend to explore with my spiritual caregivers after the school year is over. Returning to George Harrison, however, perhaps some insight comes from his widow’s description of a bluish white light that engulfed him and filled the room when he died. Despite all the questions bubbling up in my mind, it seems to me that the experiences of light, peace, and spiritual understanding that we are gifted completely eclipse any thoughts our minds can entertain.

© Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all text and photos, without express and written permission from this website’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss Photography (www.susantarameyer.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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