early 17th century: from Latin immers- ‘dipped into’, from the verb immergere, from in- ‘in’ + mergere ‘to dip’.
Immersion can be very, very good or very, very bad.
When I first learned to swim, I also learned to watch where certain other people were in the pool. If I couldn’t see them, I hightailed it to the side of the pool and watched. At least that way I had something to hold on to that would keep me from being held under the water until I was terrified.
If you really think it’s fun to dunk someone, then go ahead and help yourself, but don’t hold anyone under the water. It isn’t nice. It isn’t fun for the one who is drowning. And it makes you a bully.
On the other hand, being immersed in something you love is a pure delight.
When I first learned the art of quilting, it was all I wanted to do. I remember feeling the same way about other needle arts. Knitting is probably my favorite. There was a time when I always had something in process. Not so much now, because of arthritic pain in hands, wrists, elbows and shoulders. Life changes, whether you want it to or not.
So I’m immersed in books. I guess I always have been, really, but now more than ever.
Immerse yourself in something you love, whether that is a person, people, family, work, hobby, exercise, etc. But be careful, because anything can be taken to an unhealthy extreme.
Bobby loved his new ride. The old man had finally come through.
He spent time getting ready for his conquest.
Kathy had her doubts. Bobby was kind of shallow. Stuck on himself. But she was ready.
“Bobby, there’s nothing but woods out here. Turn around.”
Grinning, he parked, threw his arm over her shoulders, and leaned in for a kiss.
Her knee found its mark. The heel of her right hand slammed his chin up: her elbow wrecked his gut. Panting and groaning, he didn’t feel so amorous.
Kathy glared. “Now take me home, you creep!”
Note: My first draft was 187 words. It was like bleeding to cut 87 words out. One of these days I’m going to have to come back to this and develop it. The characters I drew in the first draft were so much fun:) But here it is,
Middle English: via Old French (variant of marbre ), from Latin marmor, from Greek marmaros ‘shining stone’, associated with marmairein ‘to shine’.
One of my sons always asked for Marble Cake for his birthday, only he called it “Narble Cake,” until he was maybe eight or nine. We always thought it was cute, and were a bit disappointed when he started getting it right.
I don’t know which he enjoyed more–the finished product, or helping me do the marbling:
He loved cutting the knife through the batter and make designs. I was always watchful that he didn’t overmix it and ruin the contrast. And of course, I topped it with rich fudge frosting, and served it with a scoop of ice cream.
My mom had a collection of ceramic birds. She loved all sorts, but was particularly fond of hummingbirds. Of course, once the people in the churches my dad pastored discovered her love of birds, she was given all sorts of them as gifts. At first she was delighted, but after a while, there was just no more space for them all. She had one, though, that she loved more than all the rest because my dad got it for her. It was truly beautiful. I can’t remember what kind of birds, but the figurine was white, and it was truly lovely.
After she died, there was the chore of boxing up all her things and disposing of them in different ways. Someone, I don’t know who, must have taken a box of her birds to a local antique shop.
One day, my niece who lives in the same area as my mom had lived was shopping. She went into the antique store, just poking around to see if there was anything she liked, and she suddenly saw my mom’s favorite ceramic bird sitting there. She bought it on the spot. Later, she said that she had always wondered what happened to that bird. She and my mom had a special tie, and it seems to me she had asked my mom for that particular bird.
We’ll never know the whole story. When you have many hands helping, sometimes things get overlooked and/or under-valued. In any case, my niece was so excited to find that particular bird that she could hardly wait to get it home and let everyone know she had found it.
I have a collection of teapots, and a small collection of dolls. I love them all, never tire of their beauty. Someday, my female relatives will be left with the chore of “what to do with Mom’s/Grandma’s collection.” It is sad that the things we treasure often have little appeal or value to the following generations.
I was born in Colorado. Water is precious there, and I remember the irrigation ditches that were common in every neighborhood on the Western Slope. I also remember the Colorado River that rushed past as we drove in the opposite direction. It always seemed we were within inches of falling in 🙂
The river is quite peaceful here. Other places, not so much.
Then we moved to Minnesota, and the Mighty Mississippi colored the landscape. It started as a trickle up north in Itasca, and broadened quickly to accommodate transportation and industry.
This is Minnehaha Falls on the Mississippi:
Minnehaha means laughing waters; Mississippi means Big River.
Then we moved to Portland Oregon, which I absolutely loved. No mosquitoes. And the mighty Columbia River met with the Willamette there. Some of the most gorgeous scenery imaginable. The Willamette is actually a tributary of the Columbia, and they meet rather gently in this photo at Kelly Point Park:
Now we’re in Pennsylvania, where there are lots of rivers and creeks, but very few lakes. Most of the lakes are man-made, which still seems strange to me after all these years living here. Growing up in the Land of 10,000 lakes gets a person used to always having a lake nearby.
The most well-known river in our part of the state is the Schuylkill, which is always busy with water sports and industrial commerce.