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    <lastmod>2023-07-06</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Journal - Adventure In Scotland - Make it stand out</image:title>
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      <image:title>Journal - Adventure In Scotland - Make it stand out</image:title>
      <image:caption>The long sunset views from the Glenburn Hotel across the Firth of Clyde on the Isle of Bute</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - Adventure In Scotland - Make it stand out</image:title>
      <image:caption>Staring at the rocky bends of the Linn of Dee in the Cairngorms National Park</image:caption>
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      <image:caption>Longtime friends in front of the wedding venue</image:caption>
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    <lastmod>2023-08-03</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Journal - Mother’s Day Tea Party - Make it stand out</image:title>
      <image:caption>Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.</image:caption>
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      <image:caption>Photo by Kenna Reed for Paiko, 2019</image:caption>
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    <loc>https://www.brennanalexa.com/journal/artist-talk-ari-serrano</loc>
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      <image:caption>Designer: Ari Serrano, Photograph: Jeremy Cohen @jermcohen</image:caption>
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    <loc>https://www.brennanalexa.com/journal/dear-2020</loc>
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    <lastmod>2022-02-11</lastmod>
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      <image:caption>“The Thing in Us,” Brennan Alexa 2020</image:caption>
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    <loc>https://www.brennanalexa.com/journal/in-memoriam-of-my-father</loc>
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    <lastmod>2025-01-30</lastmod>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #1</image:title>
      <image:caption>This day 3 years ago my father passed after a long-short battle with cancer. It was 9 days before his 74th birthday. Once a week for every year that I lived away from home, he wrote me a letter. This page is my response.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #2</image:title>
      <image:caption>Wrote this memory in a journal</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6201de437bd252662761c9ff/1644437964231-DPGL9JEEBX8V11AVXZSO/October%2B22%2C%2B2015.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #3</image:title>
      <image:caption>From the updates about his progress. He would only share good news or bad news only way after it became good news My Father was first diagnosed in May 2015. He began chemo in July that year.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #4</image:title>
      <image:caption>This was before we knew for certain that you were sick. I think we all knew that something was wrong, but it felt surreal. This was around May 2015 when I finished a year long program at Pittsburgh Filmmakers.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #5</image:title>
      <image:caption>You were maybe 18 here so this was around 1960. Your senior year of high school. Such a handsome man, big warm smile, kind and playful eyes. My sister Holly looks exactly like you and I share elements of your face too. We had the same mouth and teeth before my orthodontist re-arranged me.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #6</image:title>
      <image:caption>He would always come to visit me wherever I lived and loved when I would show him my world. He was like a child in his curiosity. Always with an open mind to new experiences, food, and people. He was 50 years old when I was born, but he always had so much energy to give. We spent most of our time together playing outside in all the seasons or riding in the car to go see a show or museum.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #7</image:title>
      <image:caption>The sweet coupled who adopted you and my uncle Frank back in 1941. You were born in Lackawanna, NY. Im not sure yet where your birth parents were from and what names they bore, but I will discover along this journey. The lovely parents who raised you were Anne Hanley, a school teacher and Joseph Maine who owned a landromat business. Grandpa Joe could have been a professional baseball player, but had to come home and run the family business. They raised you in Torrington, Connecticut where you tested limits constantly. You were a mischievous little soul, never with bad intentions, just curious to a fault. Grandpa Joe told stories of how you shifted his parked car into gear and it rolled down the hill into a lake. You were a loyal, loving and dedicated soul to both your parents and would always keep the flowers weekly fresh on the plot where their bodies laid to rest.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #8</image:title>
      <image:caption>it wasn’t until I came home and saw you in that chair that you being sick became real. ive never seen you look so tiny. you carried on as if normal, writing, traveling from here to there, curious still. you had no intention of letting it slow you down.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #9</image:title>
      <image:caption>You were a romantic soul that loved to care for and spoil those closest to your heart. you never forgot any anniversary, holiday, or any “just because” day to bring fresh flowers. you married this lovely lady after years of bumping into her at meetings. you began your time traveling to one another and visiting foreign countries, you danced and laughed so much. she became the most sacred protector of your heart and loved you all the way through to the end</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Note #10</image:title>
      <image:caption>I felt the conversation coming—mom told me to ask you. You talked to me in the same place where we as a family had any challenging and important conversations. It felt like my heart being crushed by heavy boulders. I carried that heaviness with me from then till the night you left us. Mom and I went to a yoga class that day that talked about surrendering to the present and accepting and loving yourself through the grief. it was insanely in tune with what we were both experiencing. I should ask my mother how she felt when she found out. its really hard to remember details like that.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #11</image:title>
      <image:caption>You didn’t look well, but insisted on carrying on as if everything was fine. I respect you deeply for continuing everything you used to do with half the amount of energy to spare. It hurt seeing you not be able to enjoy food, it hurt to see you move so slowly, it hurt that you were suffering in this on your own.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #12</image:title>
      <image:caption>As your cancer progressed you became even more private about your pain. If it wasn’t a good day, you’d be damned to let anyone know it was. You focused on mom’s recovery as she was diagnosed not long after after you. Keeping her healthy kept you alive. You would drive yourself to and from chemo. You stayed so busy. You didn’t ever lose your hair. You couldn’t wait to be done with this so that you could come see me in Pittsburgh again. Just approaching the near year 2016 you had a negative reaction to a new chemo therapy. None of us knew because you didn’t want anyone to worry. For 4 days we didn’t know why you and mom weren’t communicating with us. I was in Hawaii at the time---i needed to go somewhere and be distracted. I knew it was a risk to go that far from you, but I couldn’t sit in the Pittsburgh winter in my thoughts anymore. When you called afterwards to wish me a happy new year and tell me what you had experienced, all i could reply was, “im so proud of you.” I had no idea what to say—no one teaches you how to suffer. You re-assured me that everything was fine.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #13</image:title>
      <image:caption>It felt like a sick joke. It hurt to hold it all inside but you never asked for much so we all felt that we had to respect you. Everyone on the outside knew without asking. My friend’s dog went to sniff you one visit and could sense the sickness inside of you. He stayed very close to you that day.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #14</image:title>
      <image:caption>It was terrible. It felt like the rumble of an earthquake, where you aren’t quite sure of what’s happening and you feel wildly helpless. You got to the point where foods lost their taste. If you ate anything it had to be bland and flavorless. The only thing that seemed to attract you were these sugar dusted gummy green mints. Cancer is a strange monster and manifests so differently in each person. You loved to eat, everything in your life revolved around food; holidays, big discussions, meetings, ceremonies, love, gatherings of any kind all happened at a table. When I was in highschool we would have a a weekly Wednesday date when mom had her friends over to scrapbook. We would use that chance to catch up. I hated to dissappoint you so I would tell you only highlights and you would recount in vivid detail my performance in the most recent sports match. Sometimes I would make other plans and you would eat out alone. It makes me happy that the last thing I could do for you before you passed was feed you ice cubes</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #15</image:title>
      <image:caption>Did it mean that you held your sickness with you for five years before diagnosis? did you feel your body change? did you only think of it as aging? was it your generation that made you silent about your suffering, to push the pain deep within yourself and keep it without need for complaint? were you really suffering for that long?</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #16</image:title>
      <image:caption>It felt like life was working off of exchanges, one person’s health for another person’s sickness. The more i settled, hustled and grew in Pittsburgh the more my parents weakened back home. When mom told me her diagnosis she played it off so casually that i almost didn’t think it would be such a big deal. It gave my dad something to focus on besides his own illness. But we all underestimated how sick they both were. All I did was work and invest myself in projects. Moving kept me sane, but the more time i spent away from myself the less connected i became to my body. My diet was bad, my body and spirit were unhealthy, and i couldn’t find a way back to me. I figured this was just what it was to get older.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #17</image:title>
      <image:caption>This is how I knew you for most of my life. That kind and proud smile. Your hugs were notoriously good. I think on some subconscious level I am looking for a chest as inviting and warm as yours. Every night until middle school you would rub my back to help me sleep. And you were there every morning to wake me up and take me to school. You did everything to ensure that I would grow up with a wide mind, strong work ethic, and allow myself space to create. You always supported that i was an artist, just as much you supported the fact that i chose service work in my early 20s. You worked like crazy, but you always made it home for dinner and to my games. I don’t know where you found the energy to do all that you did for everyone. I love you and I’m wishing you a late happy father’s day  For the longest you didn’t age. When I was born, the last of three girls and to a different mother, you were 50 years old. I worried about you dying sooner than i would be ready my entire life. Even though you were always vibrant and energetic, i carried the weight of our age difference for so long. looking back i wish i never took on that fear, because even when the time came, it still took me by surprise.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #18</image:title>
      <image:caption>You loved the winter, somehow it energized you. The moment the first flake started to fall, you'd be greasing up the gravely to get out there and start plowing. I loved the way you smelled when you came inside after working outside, a mixture of salt, and snow. I liked the way cold sat on your skin, but under that you were warm as a bear. When you came home that day you were so tired. That was the first time you slept past 7 am in my entire life. The day I left to go back to Pittsburgh after a month at home for Christmas, you didn’t wake up until ten. I didn’t want to leave till I saw you, so I waited. You both looked beat up and defeated. It was really hard to leave. Usually you would walk me out and stand in the driveway as I drove off. This was the first time you were too tired to stand outside. I cried the entire 8 hours back to my life Pittsburgh.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #19</image:title>
      <image:caption>This, a last voicemail from you...You paused when I told you how much money I made freelancing videography my first year out of undergrad. You told me, “Atta girl.” It almost looked like you were going to cry. All those years of hard work and sacrifice and you saw that I was able to make my life happen on my own terms. After that, your biggest concern was me finding a job that would provide good health insurance. Funny because I worked so hard that year that my health took a back seat. I did not want to sit at home with my thoughts while you both were sick, so I found as many jobs and gigs as I could to keep me busy. My body suffered—i didn’t look like myself, my thoughts were negative, my relationships lacked intimacy because i removed myself from my soul and blamed my vitality for their sickness.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #20</image:title>
      <image:caption>This was the worst part of the worst year of my life. My mother was confused and cloudy from her own chemo treatments. My sisters lived in different states and everything came down to me seeing that this was the end his life. I called my sisters and told them that it was time to come home. I was happy that mom called me. Otherwise it would have been too late. It was so hard to see him—he changed so much in one month. He simultaneously looked withered and made of jello. Everyone kept talking about getting him in physical shape to get him home because those were his unofficial wishes. The last time I talked to me he promised me that he was ok and that he wanted to “get this business over with and get home.” He was too sick at this point for that to be a possibility. Every lucid chance he got, he asked me to pull off his hospital socks and help him find his keys so that he could drive home. I cried trying to pull off his socks because it looked like it hurt his skin to do so. I wish that we could have brought him home and that he had planned his hospice care. But as i said before, i don’t believe that he ever intended of dying. At one other lucid moment he explained to a sweet nurse from the Caribbean who he was, his job title, his family, and his cancer story, ending with “Dr. Chowdry and I have tried everything, but I’m still hopeful.”</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #21</image:title>
      <image:caption>Hi Brennan, This feels different! It’s early Saturday morning. Mom’s sleeping. Coco’s sleeping. It’s raining and I’m sending my daughter a letter at NMH. Cool! I hope all is going well, Thursday check-in was really well organized and a very positive feel to it. I especially enjoyed the program in the chapel. The other part I liked was that you drove to NMH. You took the wheel and drove us all to the place you picked for the next important step in your life. I really enjoyed the ride and watching you lead us through the registration and check-in process. Very much in charge!!! I love you and I think about you all the time Love Dad ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• This was the first letter you sent me of a series of letters that you would write once a week for the next seven years. If a physical representation of your committed and unwavering love were to exist beyond you this would be the proof. A fraction of what love you showed me in a box of at least 9 pounds filled of weekly letters. It was my first year away at a boarding school. My first time living away from home. You never told me your intention of beginning this tradition, but only asked for my address at 1 Lamplighter Way.</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #22</image:title>
      <image:caption>One of my most treasured moments during your sickness was when I rubbed your back at Thanksgiving. You almost cried because of how good it felt. This meant the world to me because for so many nights of my childhood you stayed awake rubbing my back so that I could go to sleep soundly and often begging you for more time even after you had started to quietly walk away. I was always so restless and filled with thoughts, but your warm hands were always able to calm and center me. When I rubbed your back, your body had become so hard from holding so much pain that I don’t believe you allowed yourself to be touched for a very long time. I was grateful that I was able to do that for you. My second favorite memory was when you were so dehydrated sitting in hospice care, you were rarely lucid at this point, but awake and your mouth would hang open from being in the laying position all day long. You were not interested much at all in food. The only thing I was able to do for you was feed you ice cubes. I loved that. I loved how you allowed yourself to be vulnerable with me. You were never a person to receive handouts or sympathy. It meant the world to me that you always allowed me to be a part of your most vulnerable moments. I really miss you these days just sitting and talking. I would love to hear some words of encouragement as I move into this new mystery chapter of my life, but I am so grateful you left so many physical and emotional gifts for me to pull from. I believe it is because of these healing moments I spent with you at the end of your life is why I want to move into pursuing energy work in this next phase of life</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #23</image:title>
      <image:caption>This was written of your life a few days after you passed. How can so much of a life lived be condensed into one paragraph. If this were a tree of your achievments, projects, adventures, and lives lived we would only be looking at the summer leaves of one tree in the tree grove of your life. Even at your funeral people were sharing new stories with me that I had never heard. My favorite was a former business partner of yours who said that even a month before your death you called him and talked about a project for Hartford school kids that you worked on in 1988 and was asking him what you could have done better. You were always looking to improve things, lend a helping hand, shed some light on dimming souls. I wish that we talked more of your spirit in your obituary, if we could have captured that in a poem. At your funeral we did that with all the eclectic and collective energies that made up the room of diverse bodies present. They represented how open your heart was</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - In memory of my Father - Notes #24</image:title>
      <image:caption>This will be my last post. the number 24 means everything to me. It is the day of your birth. It is how old you are in the picture i keep on me at all times in the back of my phone. Biblically it means the number closest to heaven, it means priesthood, it means work of God, and harmony of sky and earth. I feel like this number embodies you and your goodness. I will guard this number with me for my life. Last night i talked to mom about you. We talked about the process of your death, how confusing and emotionally charged it was. When you were sick it felt like that was all you ever were and that was how you were going to stay. How even though we all knew that you were dying it still took us by suprise. We talked about what regret you may have held on to that cultivated into the sickness in your body. What did you leave unresolved? What shame did you not find the time to unpack? What unresolved secret ate its way through you? What did you pass down to me that I must solve. We talked about our ongoing healing process. How your death brought us both back to life. We had fallen asleep, passing through life mindlessly. Only when we were faced with your death were we able to regain our lives. I remember my most painful truth: about wishing that you would die. I hated seeing you in pain, i hated seeing how limited your body had become while your mind stayed so intact. I wanted you to be free of pain. I remember once you passed how I cleaned your library, your office of papers, books, letters, and journals where you spent the most time in the house. I remember sweeping up the dried skin cells that were left around your chair and thinking that I had wished you into dust. All the water had left your body and what remained was dust. But here I am alive again and am learning to remember everyday how to stay alive. You died and the world did not stop. Your death left a big hole, but i made a bridge and changed my route to better scenery. Everything became so much more vivid, every emotion i felt so strongly. It opened up a hole in my chest where a wound left alone had been festering for years. Writing these posts about you have helped me grieve for you properly to release that tension in my heart and dress that wound. All that’s left of the pain is a scar almost invisible to the naked eye and slightly raised to the touch. I love you</image:caption>
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      <image:title>Journal - The Stones I’ve Carried - Make it stand out</image:title>
      <image:caption>Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.</image:caption>
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