How do we come back? Or even, do we come back? And, if we do, when and how do we come back?
After a two-year hiatus that started with the first Covid outbreak, these are the questions that the Friends of Dreamland (FOD) had to ask themselves. And the answers are, respectively: Yes, Yes, February 12th, and with a safe fundraiser called Dancing Into Dreamland (DID).

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My son, who posts my blogs to the web, often criticizes my rambling way of writing. I don’t care because it is authentic and I remind him of all the criticism Hemmingway got for his writing style, while he was alive. But, in this blog, I may have to agree a little. But hang on; the self-help tip is worth the read. Here we go:
From every UIYB guest interview, I learn something. This past week’s show was no exception and what I learned I put to good use.

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Driving to work one crisp morning, I saw a home whose front yard had been rolled. Though I know, from experience, it is a mess to clean up, I still found it endearing. The graceful flowing of the toilet paper blowing in the wind caused me to circle the block and stop to watch it.

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I’ve blogged about it before: anger is a secondary emotion. It comes after a vulnerable emotion like being tired, hurt, disappointed, or lonely. It’s a defense mechanism. And with this sequence of pain comes anger, then “the voice;” that internal negative repertoire in your head. For lack of a better description, I call this nagging voice “devils speak” because, if repeated over and over in your head, it will map a really nasty little neuron pattern in your brain. And if that ain’t some kind of devil, I don’t know what is.

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Yes, it all happened casually, without much thought. I’m sitting in my hairdresser’s (stylist’s) chair, talking about how much I wish I could still wear big, hoop earrings, when she says, “Well, get another ear piercing and you can.” How? Whatever did she mean?
Her assistant overhears and says, “Oh yeah, just put it higher up on the ear. And by the way, if you go, I want to go and let’s get our nipples pierced.” (God, I hope my granddaughter is not reading this).

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