Thursday, September 21, 2006

You Are What You Spell?

My husband is a spelling fanatic! He's always looking over my shoulder as I write, pointing out my numerous spelling errors. He says: "You are what you write!" It is annoying and unnerving! I now have major spelling anxiety and couldn't spell correctly if I tried!

I wish he would just give me a break and let me compose first and spell/grammar check later. I'm an engineer and spelling is not my forte, okay? Sometimes my brain just goes faster than my hands can keep up with!

I felt just terrible about my spelling anxiety until my wise brother sent this email to me. I read it start to finish, in a matter of seconds, without stopping to pause or question a word one time. And now I don't feel so bad about not being perfect at my spelling the first time around. Hopefully, this new-found knowledge will help my spelling anxiety and yours -- if you have it too!

Read it for yourself and see what you think : ) ...

Read the following paragraph:

Yuo'd thnik olny srmat poelpe cluod aulaclty raed tihs:

I bet taht cnanot blveiee taht you aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht yur'oe
rdanieg. Boehld the phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to
a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr
the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist
and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses
and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm.

Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by
inedpndetnely, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? Yaeh, and I
awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!

Happy Spelling!

P.S. The kids and I have a new name for my spelling fanatic husband "Mr. Spelling Bee".

12/06/2009 Lauren's 'CSI' Science Project Report ...

Just helped Lauren type up her Science 'CSI' project report. She still hunts and pecks, so I had her write it and then I typed it up in five short minutes -- my fingers should be registered weapons, no? ; )

Anyway, I don't remember my 6th grade science class being this much fun. Times have surely changed?! Now, if every science class was this much fun we'd have kids trampling one another to be science majors in college! Seriously ... check this out ... tres cool ...

The Case of the Missing Hard Drive
By, Lauren C.

Five suspects and one missing hard drive. Could this be the work of two suspects? Or just one? How can we be sure? Well, with the evidence my group and I have gathered, we have concluded that the evidence points to Violet and Kevin. The powders, the liquids, the ink, and the metal all point to them, as I will show in the subsequent paragraphs.

First of all, there were 7 metals in all and the crime scene evidence was not magnetic. Kevin had a tin screwdriver and Violet had a zinc hammer. Our group verified that both the tin hammer and the zinc screwdriver are not magnetic by using the magnetism test.

Secondly, we tested the liquids to see what temperature they boiled at. The crime scene evidence boiled at 66 C. Violet's Isopropyl alcohol boiled at 70 C, and the isopropyl alcohol smells similar to the crime scene liquid. The similar smell along with the nearly the same boiling point -- only a 4 degree difference, which is within a reasonable margin of error -- are evidence that Violet's liquid is the most similar to the crime scene liquid.

Our third test was a vinegar test. The crime scene powder did not react to the vinegar test at all. We found that Violet's Epsom salt also did not react to the vinegar test and neither did Kevin's Epsom salt. The no reaction to the vinegar test, for both Violet and Kevin's powders, along with the fact that both Kevin and Violet had Epsom salt show that we have two suspects and not just one lone suspect.

Our fourth test was a chromatography test on the ink. This chromatography test showed that the crime scene evidence faded to black, then purple, then blue, then yellow. Kevin's ink demonstrated the same chromatography pattern as the crime scene evidence. This proves that the pen used in the crime was Kevin's paper mate pen.

Finally, the hair evidence showed that we are dealing with two different suspects, working together to commit the crime. This is because the hair samples were each unique and not identical strands of the same hair. And why would someone bother to write a note to themselves? It just doesn't make sense. Two suspects had to have been trying to communicate with one another.

In conclusion, the metal test, the vinegar test, the presence of two unique strands of hair, and a note all support the theory of two suspects working together to commit this crime: Violet and Kevin. The liquid test clearly identifies Violet as a suspect. The Chromatography test clearly identifies Kevin as a suspect. Therefore, our team names Violet and Kevin as the suspects in this computer hard drive crime. We recommend that the police investigate immediately in order to ensure that the missing hard drive may still be recovered.


My attempt at poetry ... a bit unconventional ... but I'm new to this ... these words come from my heart ... from my present and past lives ... temporarily assembled here (in no particular order) for ABinsolitude : )

'The Angel of Death', By Evelyn Pickering De Morgan
(Image Courtesy of

@September 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith.

The Unexpected Angel

Death is not dark. He is not cold, nor is he evil. On the contrary, Death is quite simply misunderstood. No faceless, black robed, sickle bearing demon is he. Death has a face, and a rather handsome one at that. And though his countenance does not bear signs of age, his eyes are filled with the wisdom of ages; for Death has witnessed the rise and fall of many once great nations.

Death does not set about his task with joy nor malice, as fable and legend would have the world believe. No indeed, Death has a warm and gentle, almost tender, nature. His compassion is beyond measure, for he has personally borne the pain of every soul ever placed into his charge. Death takes no twisted pleasure in his work, but neither would he ever trust his many charges to the care of another.

Death is harbinger to weary bodies and souls, and protector of the innocent who seem to have been taken from this life before their time. He lovingly guides the way between this life portal and the next.

Death is the keeper of the Door to Rebirth. His shouldering the burden of that heavy door gives birth to the possibility of growth for the soul and the hope of eventual enlightenment for all souls.

Death heals the broken-hearted, by mercifully laying unrequited loves to rest. His act of kindness grants peace to those held in the cruel grasp of unrelenting pain, giving the heart leave to be open to new possibilities and the hope of experiencing love once again.

Death can give us wings. Like a butterfly's chrysalis, Death provides us a safe space, in his loving embrace, where we are allowed to fall completely apart so as to emerge once again, rebuilt anew, stronger and wiser in this life.

And so, hopefully, you now see that Death is many things: Guide and Protector, Father, Healer and Lover ... none of which are to be feared, but instead should rather be revered. I wonder, could it not be said that Death has perhaps the biggest heart of us all?

@September 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith.

'Hope', By George Frederic Watts
(Image Courtesy of

@September 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith.

A Truth of sAges

Hands and feet, these may be bound.

And voices can eventually be beaten into submission.

The heart, the mind and the soul, however, these remain wild and free only ever belonging just to me.

Thus empowered, know that the eye that is me will prevail.

@September 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith.

Song: 'Hope', By Rush


For the past three nights I have had the strangest dream. Each night, after the dream, I would awaken after only a few hours sleep, at exactly 4:22 a.m. WST. Last night, after awakening, I decided to write about what I had dreamt. So regarding my the post of a few days ago, about soul mates, here goes: (Keep in mind that I wrote this at 4:22 a.m., after just three hours of sleep. It may need some further refining at some point.)

@August 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith.

The Hunter's Moon
As I lay in silent darkness, exhausted from the endless flood of tears, sleep stole silently upon me, flying me away to the land of peace and possibilities.

He placed me high upon a lone cloud, in an indigo sky lit by dancing rays of the Hunter's moon. There, I quietly sat upon my privileged perch, listening and admiring the beauty of the universe surrounding my weary soul. Secure in the knowledge that somehow, however unworthy I felt, my soul was a part of something bigger and more profound than me.

I dared not ask why I had been chosen for such an honor, for fear it would just as quickly fade away. Instead, I sat quietly gazing out in awe at the wonder of marvelously abundant works of our Creator. As I communed with this sleepy world of brilliant stars, each one ripe with infinite possibilities, almost close enough to reach out and touch with my tired, trembling hand:
peace and comfort warmed my soul.

Then, just as mysteriously as my arrival in this celestial sphere, the sound of glistening stars, each one singing her quiet song, suddenly retreated leaving me momentarily afraid and alone in a sea of silence. I sat trembling in the echoes of silence, unsure of what was to happen next. But then, a familiar voice called out to me and the fear began to beat its slow retreat, like that of a lingering ocean tide. Looking eagerly about, I searched to find a face for the voice, that I somehow knew so well, but try as I might, there was to be no gazing upon his face, nor knowing of his name. I could but hear his sensuous and familiar melodic voice as he spoke my name, "Michelle".

And he beckoned me, "Hold up your hand, my love." So I raised my trembling hand, reaching out with hope into what seemed the nothingness of space beyond. And as I extended my arm to its farthest point, the trembling stopped, for I felt his gentle touch upon my hand and the warmth of our reunited souls too long since parted. As we touched, I knew simply this: that I was not alone. Here under the knowing gaze of the Hunter's moon, I had at long last found
my better half.

As to whether, or not, we shall ever, in body, meet here in the waking realm: I know not. It is, however, a possibility that gives me hope. Perhaps we have already met, while walking aimlessly down a neighboring street? Perhaps he is the one who used to sleep next to me, his soul having masqueraded in insolent youth, now awakened to truth, finding instead an old fractured soul on the mend. Perhaps it was the touch of some being not of this earthly world. But even if only in the land of peace and possibilities are we ever to meet again, it is enough for me to just have hope once again.

@August 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith.

'Luna', By Evelyn Pickering DeMorgen
(Image courtesy of

So that's it. Any thoughts? I don't usually sleep, and hence, I rarely dream. Is this real? Or just imagination and longing? Who was behind the voice in the dream? I guess ... I've got to figure that out ...

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck that which is planted." [Ecclesiastes 3:1+]

I have to remind myself of this when I am going through difficult times ...  
My 11 year-old -- little genius, too wise for her age -- asked me the other day: "Where are all the good men dead? In the heart or in the head?" She got this from the movie 'Grosse Pointe Blank' -- one of my favorites. At the young, innocent age of 11, it seems she already has formed her opinion: 'they're dead in the heart.' Why do you think that is? I asked. She replied: 'because they aren't taught to be alive in the heart.' But, she rationalizes that is okay with her because, she says, quite simply: 'I couldn't live with a stupid man.' Neither, can I, I guess? Maybe we need to do more, as a culture and society, to teach men not only how to be alive in the heart, but that it's okay to be alive in the heart.

9/3/09 Thoughts on a bad day ...

@August 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith.

The Looking Glass

I have no need of looking glass.
I have but to look into your loving eyes
to see the truest reflection of me.
For is not a love, reflected through the union of two souls,
the surest measure of a love that sings true?

Alas upon awakening this morn,
I found my heart heavy with burden.
For I had finally come to accept,
that even though we had once sworn,
somehow our once true love had been torn.

Now when I look into your empty eyes
I no longer see myself.
Through tears of infinite sorrow,
I wonder if, in truth, I ever really did.
Do you see yourself in me?

The grown-up in me thinks that perhaps
my measure is yet another silly truth,
too long since carried from days of foolish youth.
And thus, my last remaining illusion shatters;
now, I too can close empty eyes
and resign myself to the path
that my feet were set upon so very long ago.

And thus with shattered looking glass:
nothing in my life worth reflecting shall ever more come to pass.

Yet the silly child in me still, somehow, foolishly clings to hope...

@August 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith. 

'Meeting on the Turret Stair', By Frederick William Burton
(Image courtesy of

12/4/09   Evolution of poem ... they're never ever really done ... always changing, shifting, evolving ...

@December 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith.

Willow's Whisper

Have I made you cryHave I awoken once sleepy eyes?

Perhaps, I've made you smile? Shared something that's made your visit here worthwhile?

Come then, and stay with me awhile under peaceful shade of the willow tree, here in my secret garden. Tell me of your hopes, your dreams ... your inner most desires. What would it take to set your world on fire?

Promise me that one day I'll find, in me, the voice to sing again ... that this happiness might never end ...

I breathe you in and close my eyes.  A tear of joy wells up inside, and with a whisper I wish us away, on willow's wings, to the place where Majestic Day bends to sweetly kiss Serene Night.  A place where all is momentarily right in the world, as in the celestial heavens far above.  A place where my love for you is sacred and not a given.

Yet the hour draws swiftly to its close.  Reality returns.  Sadly, I must let you go. With parting kiss on shade of tear stained lips, I bid you a silent farewell. Until we meet again: know that in my heart that I still call you friend.

@December 2009, Copyrighted Poem.  All Rights Reserved:  Isabelle Black Smith.

Song:  'Happiness', By the Fray

'Immortality', By Henri Fantin-Latour
(Image Courtesy of

"Faith, Hope and Love ... but the greatest of these gifts is Love ..." 1 Corinthians 13:13

@Copyrighted Poem: December 2009. All Rights Reserved: Isabelle Black Smith.


"I was never yours to own ... nor you mine to possess. We are only borrowers of each other for our short time here: A blink of an eye in the sea of eternity. What then is immortal? ... All my love, now and forever." ~Isabelle

"What then is Immortal?"

I am nameless ...
I am faceless ...
Faith and Hope are my kin ...

Hope is but a dreamer and while Faith may move mountains: I move men. Tis true, I have moved many a man to brave and noble deeds. Yes, some to even truly amazing feats! And yet, sadly I lament, others I have unwittingly moved to their defeat; For Passion, masquerading as me, has brought many once great men swiftly and humbly to their knees. Passion, however, is merely a jealous sibling rival to me ... a desperate imitator, want-to-be of the true me.

It is said by wise, divinely inspired men, that I am ‘patient, gentle and kind’ ... that I ‘bear all things’. Noble and honest sentiments indeed we'd be agreed; Had I a face, you might just find me crimson of shade, but I digress ... For not all happen to agree with this naming noble disposition you see. These skeptics often lash out at me in wild lament, claiming that I am but the bearer of unbridled torment. Their justification? That I am a cruel and unrelenting master when I refuse to meet a match; For though I am freely given: I am not always well received. Therein, perhaps, lies the folly of man ...

In my defense, I claim to be no master of any sort. I am simply here to inspire and nothing more. I am a potential within all beings ... some more so than others … but the will, the desire to act is not within the scope of my power. Nor is control of the quickly waning hour; For so often, I am all a matter of timing. Hence, much is left to chance ... unlikely, serendipitous circumstance.

Now I make my final stance before our parting glance … for surely, you have my name? ... Despite the arguments leveled against me above: I am what I am and what I am is … (xxxx) … A whisper of hope carried upon the mystic winds for all mankind. And all in all, I’d have to say that the world is a better place because of, rather than in spite of me. Do you, perchance, agree? I wonder: does the latter not, to some small degree, make me immortal?

A moment before you answer and pray do ponder this: can you even begin to imagine a world without me?

@Copyrighted Poem: December 2009. All Rights Reserved: Isabelle Black Smith.

Painting: "Immortality", By Henri Fantin-Latour.

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