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When I was five or six years old, someone gave me a toy, John Deere tractor, knowing I loved tractors-I know, hard to believe now. At the time, we lived on a farm in Walnut Grove, Illinois, a small town now deceased. My father was farming the land for an old man (that's what everyone called him) named Laird who lived in the back of the house. We hardly ever saw him. When I was given my tractor, it was corn picking season, and I wanted my tractor to be able to pick corn. Of course, they didn't make a corn picker for my tractor. I complained bitterly to my mother who could have just said: "They don't make one," but she didn't. She got out cardboard, and crayons, and went right to work making one. Now, I imagine that it didn't look much like a corn picker, but was perfect.

Sometimes I miss my mother. I miss being able to complain, and have her get right on it, or tell me to get on it.

Life is about this kind of choice. Complain about it, make it an excuse for your lack of accountability, or get right on it. You see, the world is in more trouble than any of us imagine, and this cannot be hidden from us much longer. Greece has already happened. The clock is ticking. And parallel with the problems in the world, are the problems within us all, as above so below, or simply that we bought the whole package when we chose to believe the first lie we were force fed, and each succeeding that kept us safe, and blissfully stupid. You can't stay that way. A figure in a black cloak is prying your eyelids open for an important announcement.

It's time to choose, stay blissfully asleep and stupid, accountable to no one not even you codependent buddies; or get out cardboard and crayons, and consciously (eyes wide open) make a corn picker.

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