The meaning of life, from an unexpected source

I had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of Oprah Winfrey's program last Monday. Her guest was an author, Geneen Roth, who has written a book about women’s relationships with food and their relationships with God. The premise of the book is that if you get things right with yourself and with God, then you can probably structure a healthier relationship with food; you will have less of a tendency to fill up the emptiness with food.

Oprah had read the book, clearly believes in the content, and along with Ms. Roth, was enthusiastically offering her commentary and taking questions from the audience.


Several members of the studio audience asked questions about family mealtimes, dieting, busy schedules, etc. One particular question was a bit unstructured. The viewer seemed discouraged that she was never quite able to get ahead professionally. The question may have also had an underlying inquiry about food, but I don’t recall that now.


I was busy putting dishes in the dishwasher and as Oprah started to answer this question, I stopped to listen. Then I walked closer to the television. It was a watershed moment: Oprah was giving this viewer the essential answer to life. Right there. In person. And everyone, including me, got the added benefit of receiving this important piece of information too.


It may sound like I am dismissing Oprah’s communication as a bit of trivia, but I am not. Quite the contrary. The secret that Oprah shared is a fundamentally important lesson and while a lot of people know it, it is still elusive. This knowledge becomes easy to misplace in the multi-tasking, multi-threaded, deadline oriented lives that we lead.


Oprah told her viewer, point blank, that the starting point for her (and all of us) was to humbly give thanks to God for the many many blessings in her life. Live in that place of gratitude. And be thankful for the things that are yet to come, including the experiences that will teach us lessons. You are not to cast about comparing your life with what you perceive as bounty in others’ lives. You do not know the burdens they carry because you do not walk in their shoes. Look at your own life, connect with God in your heart and walk forward in joy.


Now, I’m not trying to put words in Oprah’s mouth. There are no quotation marks; she didn’t say this exactly, but it is what I heard. This singular all-important message. The central meaning of life. The key to human happiness.


I doubt that this viewer, who showed up at the Harpo studio earlier that day, had any inkling of the gift that was she was about to receive. A gift that has the ability to change her perception of everything. I didn’t expect to receive it either, randomly tuning in to see Oprah’s program for about the third time in my life. But it is a miracle that I did and I am ever so grateful.


Thank you Oprah.

Weekday ritual

About once per day at approximately 7am, five days per week, I utter a loud exclamation that contains an effing expletive. Yeah, that one.


No one else hears it since I’m in the car.


But I think I’ve been doing it for a while. I caught myself this morning and wondered why the foul language?


Truth is, maybe I’m not the best driver in the world. The freeway entrance ramp for my route brings me into a heavily traveled junction point where two exit-only lanes are departing for two separate destinations nowhere near the vicinity of my office. So I have about a half mile, in busy traffic, to enter the freeway and move two lanes to the left, dodging cars with more, shall we say, aggressive drivers.


The whole episode transpires in less than 30 seconds, but it scrapes my nerves raw in that short amount of time. And without fail, I unload the tension with some real nice profanity.

Statistically average

I took one of those quick online quizzes this morning that offered amazing insight into the mysteries of my psyche, and conveniently offered to sell me some cool home organizing-storage-décor items at the same time.

Isn’t it really thoughtful, the way the internet is designed to give you pseudo-useless information while simultaneously peddling goods? Yeah, I think so too.

Hmmm. Anyway.

The quiz was supposed to tell me if I’m more of a right-brain thinker or a left-brain thinker. Turns out, I’m in the middle. Not hyper-distracted big-picture clutter queen or detail-driven fastidiously organized label geek.

Isn’t that the way it always seems to be? In this big melting pot of America, most of us live somewhere near the center of the bell curve. I guess if we didn’t, we’d find ourselves on reality TV. One of those hoarder shows or the home-make-over programs that get people to throw out their smelly old stuff and humbly, tearfully, start over with a fresh coat of paint, a custom-built shelving unit and a basket of fresh flowers.

That’s living in the fringe, but apparently that is precisely the definition of entertainment for many of us in the middle of the bell curve. However macabre that might be.

How many tuned in to the Deadliest Catch broadcast yesterday evening? I’m guessing a lot, but having absolutely no knowledge of television viewership statistics, couldn’t even venture an estimate. This segment of society in no way resembles the middle of the bell curve. These fishermen absolutely live in the outer extremities. Everything about their lifestyle and avocation is foreign to most of us. But it is a curiosity. Maybe for that reason precisely, because it is foreign.

Are we a society of voyeurs? Glimpsing into the lives of those that live beyond two standard deviations from the mean? Or does the advent of reality television serve to bridge the gap by demonstrating the common bonds of humanity? Underscoring the things we have in common—pride, humility, courage, loss, love, faith, family.

Hmmm. Don’t know.

Green jeans

The day after my great-grandfather died, my great-grandmother moved into her daughter’s home. That was long before I was born, but I spent many a summer day in that house as a young girl. It was a small 2 bedroom, 1 bath house with a clothes line in the back yard and a washing machine in the basement. My mother was a teen-aged girl, in high school. And just like that, she had a new room mate.

I remember the bedroom they had shared with its chenille coverlets on twin beds, pine floor, ruffled curtains and parchment window shades that had crocheted pulls to lower the shades when the sun became too intense. No air conditioning in those days. The thing I most remember was the containers of African violets my great-grandmother perched on the window sills, each resting in a saucer. Their soft, fuzzy leaves and delicate flowers in shades of purple and lavender.

All these years later, I find that I’m a window sill gardener too. Not of the African violet variety, but any plant that will live in a glass of water and hopefully develop roots. I find a generous amount of pleasure and satisfaction in taking a clipping from the landscape, trimming the lower foliage and lovingly placing it in a jar of water in the bright kitchen window near the back door. I check often for signs that roots may be developing and my pleasure is redoubled when that evidence becomes visible. Then I continue tending to the cutting until the roots appear to be hearty enough to sustain the plant in a new home of soil.

My mom used to tell me stories about her grandmother’s gardens, tended by her grandfather year-round. My great-grandmother loved the blossoms, kept cuttings in the house, and donated blooming seasonal arrangements to her church every week.

It must have been hard, heart-breaking, for my great-grandmother to turn her back on an independent life and leave everything behind. Bringing only a window sill garden of African violets. The social customs of the time that predicated that decision are now lost on my generation and those that have come after me.

But the simplistic beauty and joyful task of tending to plants on a small scale, on a window ledge, is a part of my daily life, a trait happily handed down through the generations in my family.

Passages

There was once a girl, the second of three children, who found herself growing up in a middle-class American family. Mom and Dad both worked to provide the opportunities they wanted to give their children and the parents did their best to nurture their three kids.

The second daughter was plagued with a variety of challenges that affected her judgment and behavior. By the time she was an adolescent girl, telling lies and acting out in a harsh, belligerent manner toward her parents started becoming more and more common. Her self esteem suffered due to chronic body weight issues that undoubtedly aggravated her behavioral difficulties. Her parents, not knowing how to respond in a caring, supportive way that demonstrated to their daughter the consequences for actions deviating from acceptable social norms, struggled not only with her, but with each other. It was a time of family crisis.

After high school, the daughter tried leaving home to attend school, but that path didn't suit her and she returned. Old behaviors resurrected. She tried finding employment, but a career choice seemed elusive and jobs were random. Lying was preferable to truth telling. Blaming was preferable to taking responsibility. Hostility was preferable to peaceful coexistence. Still, her parents tried to support their daughter in finding a pursuit where she might derive happiness.

After she turned 21 and renewed her attempt to make her way independently, her personal difficulties increased. Her debt escalated and attempts to hide the debt from plain view made the situation far worse. Her actions were criminal in nature. If she found herself unable to pay a bill, she invented an excuse, told another lie, slandered another’s reputation in the process.

Finally at the breaking point, her parents excused themselves from her life. Without wavering, they both asked her to leave their home permanently, attend to the problems looming in her life, and not return until she was capable of making amends. They were worried, almost sick. Months passed of no communication. The daughter felt betrayed and angry that her parents had turned their backs on her.

Then one day she drove over to her parent’s house and found them at home along with both her siblings. Tearfully, she took a step, and admitting she was ashamed of her cycle of bad behavior, asked for forgiveness. She wanted a chance to repair what she had damaged by demonstrating that she was trying to change the person that she was.

But there was more. She was also expecting a baby. And it was complicated. There was no upside to be found in the situation, save for the fact that she felt blessed and joyful at the prospect of being a mother.

She is going to make her own choices, guided by advice from her obstetrician, counselor, friends and family. Everyone has a particular point of view. But in the end, the only view that matters is hers.

I do not know what will happen. I hope for the best. I pray that she may find steadfast strength and the comprehension to acknowledge her life in the present tense and make choices based on where she stands in that life, humbly taking responsibility for herself and her yet unborn baby.

Summers of my memory

From Memorial Day to Labor Day, my brother and I seldom wore shoes. Hot pavement and thorny stickers were not a deterrent for our bare summertime feet. We rode our bikes everywhere and walked down the block to the community swimming pool every day. I played hopscotch on the driveway, taking great care to draw pretty course squares with colored chalk.

In the evenings, I would sit in the front yard and listen to the cicadas until past dark. Sometimes, on firefly nights, a thrilling game of hide-and-seek might occur.

Mommy made popsicles in metal ice cube trays and watermelon was plentiful along with beans, cucumbers and tomatoes from our garden behind the garage.

On the 4th of July, the annual parade consisted of a legion of kids riding spider bikes with red, white and blue streamers flying from the handlebars, followed by the fire engine from the community’s VFD and finally, a convertible coupe where the town mayor sat in the place of honor, waving to neighbors that lined the streets as the procession passed. The car was invariably adorned with a poster-sized sign on each door inscribed proudly with the phrase “Our Mayor” in boldly colored crayon.

Then, just before 9 o’clock, residents would walk a mile or so down the road to the community park and find a place to sit in the grass until the fireworks started. The volunteers manning the pyrotechnics lit the candles one by one, with a span of 10-15 seconds between each, giving the audience plenty of time to watch in amazement as the sparkles turn to ember and then to smoke.

And it was amazing. Pure magic for a young girl. I felt like skipping all the way home and probably did, swinging my mom’s hand the whole way.

Language of love

In ten days I will recite a vow and make a heart-felt promise to my beloved Cristy, witnessed by the members of our family and our closest friends. I will vow to travel the journey of my life with her, seeking that path and finding our way together. These words, our promises, will communicate the strong sense of love that we share and cherish.

Planning for this wedding has been an interesting project and as we get closer to the date, the activities we are involved with on a near-daily basis are steeped in minutae.

The wedding will be in our home, and we are transforming it from an already lovely residence into something even softer and sweeter. Swirling with pretty paper heart garlands and shining candle lanterns. Sprinkled with dozens of simple bouquets of flowers and greenery. In every way, the layers of detail that will form the backdrop for our wedding are an expression of who we are. These elements too, will communicate, more subtly, the gentle tenderness with which we move through our days and nights.

This combination of words and personal expression is indeed, the language of our love.

Rhythm

There is a rhythm to our lives. Activities, relationships, interests. These things seem to emerge and we fold them into our lives. And then, sometimes, they fade. The strength of the relationship diminishes, and acknowledging this, we allow the cycle to continue, unfolding that part of our life as needed. Other interests, previously dormant, seem to emerge. Other activities surface that need our attention. We refold again and again.

And so it is with this blog. While I have found it an outlet for an enormous amount of creative energy, the natural rhythm of writing has ceased for now. It may begin again at some time, but I prefer to follow my inspiration in the other directions where my creativity continues to blossom.

Thank you for sharing this little part of my life and for offering so much inspiration through your photos, essays, poems and stories.

3rd vein

It’s been another weekend of activity. Oil changes, pool cleaning, ceiling fan installation, window shade hanging. Mixed in with a little bird watching, sipping coffee in the sun and keeping company with the dogs. My oldest dog’s mobility has been declining of late and it has me worried. For the past 9 months or so, he has been taking some medication that has helped to sustain him, but last weekend that medicine was no longer sufficient.

Thankfully the veterinarian remembers him and understood that I was reluctant to subject him to the stress of a visit to that office, particularly in his current situation. Through a telephone consultation, she prescribed a new medicine. It is the medication of last resort for him and she had given me this warning 9 months ago when we embarked upon his prior course of treatment.

It is a steroid targeted to reduce inflammation around his spinal cord and restore his locomotion, dispensed in a declining dosage over a period of two weeks. Moving into the second week, it appears that this current dosage level does not seem to be as effective as the previous level because he is beginning to lose track of his back feet again. But he is still able to walk and remains alert with a good appetite.

The steroid has some side effects. I read about the medicine online. It is so difficult to tell whether the side effects I observe in my dog are merely annoying for him or whether they are making him truly uncomfortable. I’ve started giving him an extra dose of his “doggy tylenol” just in case.

In our society we want to act in a humane and caring manner toward the animals who are our companions in life. We want to prolong their lives as long as they are happy, alert and comfortable but we also want to inject human logic into balance. At what point has the animal’s discomfort dipped below the equilibrium of sustaining care?

I’m not presently equipped to be a participant in that determination. And in all honesty, I’d prefer not to be part of that process. I would prefer that my beloved dog travel the journey of his life to its complete end without my involvement, if at all possible.

This process makes me focus on my program more than ever. I have to let go. I have to let each day unfold through God’s grace. I realize my tears come from the sadness of a loss that has not yet occurred. And each tear keeps me away from the joy of my precious Jackie’s life. Living in the now.

Mischief

It was 6:45am Friday and I noticed several cars pulling into the parking lot of a largely abandoned shopping strip on my way to work. Then I realized they were cutting through the parking lot to zip over to the Shipley Donut shop. Thoughtful folks that they were, they were probably going to get a big box to take in for their coworkers. Or maybe not, who knows?

Regardless, it reminded me of a story that my mom likes to tell from time to time. About Shipley donuts. The best darned donuts around, if I do say so myself.

When my brother and I were young kids, my dad would buy a dozen Shipley donuts from time to time, as a Saturday morning treat. He wasn’t the type of man who would get up early on Saturday morning to drive over to the donut store to get fresh donuts. He’d buy them the night before and wrap the box in kitchen towels to try to keep them fresh. My brother and I were kids and didn’t know the difference. I guess my mom and dad just didn’t much care whether the donuts were fresh or not-so-fresh. In hindsight, this is weird, because my dad loved sweets.

Anyway, one particular Friday night, we had a box of Shipley donuts on our kitchen counter wrapped in dish towels.

The next morning, Dad awoke and made his way into the kitchen. He noticed my younger brother sitting on the floor watching cartoons. As he started making the coffee, he glanced over to the box of eagerly awaited Shipley donuts and to his surprise, only saw an empty counter. Naturally, he asked my brother where he put the donuts, thinking he had already snaked one or two from the box.

Hey, where’d you put the donuts?

What donuts?

Uh-oh.

A quick look around the house revealed an empty donut box and some kitchen towels casually tossed aside. And a family dog with an upset stomach casually sleeping it off in the laundry room. Apparently the kitty had acted as an accomplice and pushed the box to the floor for amusement.

No one else was very amused at the time, but all these years later, it is a continued source of amusement, at least for my mom, my brother and me.

Giving

I’m running a day late this week because I stayed home from work with an ailing dog on Monday. As a result, the threads of my thoughts are splintered, sort of like a tree whose main trunk divides into 3 or 4 veins. Each thread is larger than normal and my thoughts are not quite balanced.

One of the thoughts is related to giving. On a more elemental level, giving evolves from awareness and compassion, so perhaps that is where this particular thought originates too. I read two blog posts in two days about giving and guilt. The guilt of living in prosperity, when compared with a life of limitation, the guilt of being so consumed with the myriad problems of living a prosperous life that the larger problems of humanity are eclipsed from view, and the guilt of having done nothing to help.

Both of the blog authors are female. I have a hypothesis, but no quantifiable information with which to back my hypothesis (so take it for what it’s worth), that guilt is more prevalent among females than males. The next logical step after guilt is shame, and shame is a dangerous, spiraling trap that keeps us focused inward. Consequently, we have done nothing to help, have gained awareness that help is needed, but are now so ashamed that we become paralyzed and do nothing but retreat. In helplessness.

I was not raised in a family where the spirit of giving to others was prioritized as a core value. My father was the product of an impoverished upbringing during the 1930s and 1940s. His parents did not ask for or receive assistance and my father’s stoic observation as a youngster was that it was the responsibility of each family to make it on their own. A view perhaps valid for its time, but outdated in my lifetime.

Life is not a level playing field. In our country, educational opportunities are not equal for all children. The safe home and nourishing meal that I never concerned myself with as a child, are indelible question marks in the lives of many children and often manifest as barriers to education. Social problems stem from a complex set of issues, but poverty and lack of education are intertwined and lie firmly knotted within the root causes.

I have a job in the business of philanthropy. What I have learned from this business is that those who make donations often do so because they feel connected to a cause and they feel their gift will make a difference. The fact that they have not made a donation to a particular cause in the past is not a sufficient reason to feel guilty, it is only an opportunity to learn, to understand why the program exists and who it helps. Armed with an adequate level of information, the prospective donor can make a decision about whether to support that particular cause with a financial contribution.

Once, during a time of relative abundance in my life, I expanded my own philanthropic wings and made two sizable donations (sizable within the context of my personal giving experience) to two different organizations in one day. I am certain that if either organization had personally approached me subsequent to those gifts, offered an opportunity to learn more and presented a case for support, I would have increased my giving even further. But it didn’t happen. I attempted to volunteer my time with one of the two organizations, but their lack of directed leadership was disheartening and I eventually went away altogether.

I have a theory that people who have a healthy relationship with philanthropy also have a healthy relationship with money. They spend their money on things they value and maintain a realistic perception of their own financial status. I also have a theory that those of us who live in prosperity (again, in the context of the world at large) have a responsibility to our neighbors to extend the hand of friendship.

We can all do something to help. Banish the guilt and shame and simply do something. Contribute, volunteer, advocate, develop an attitude of curiosity and tolerance.

One down.

Learning (still) to let go

I’m not sure why this popped into my head, but it did. And unfortunately now the thought has become a free radical, taking up too much space in my consciousness while I should be concentrating on another far more important task. In my experience, the best way to banish a pesky thought is to write it down on paper; get it out of my head and put it elsewhere. OK, so electronic writing is not exactly the same, but it might work.

Cristy and I are going to a wedding on Sunday and the groom is a particular friend of mine. He has a large circle of friends, some of whom I know on a first name basis as acquaintances. I would recognize them if I saw them and would feel comfortable smiling and exchanging a sincerely pleasant greeting.

Once, a number of years ago, the groom-to-be and I went to hear a musical performance at a local venue. We took a seat at our table and chatted, waiting for the band. Two other individuals from his circle of friends entered the place and took a seat at the bar. My friend gave a slight wave and nod to both. Shortly afterwards, one of them walked over to our table and exchanged a quick greeting with my companion. I knew him by name, but had never had a personal conversation with him. I smiled as they spoke, looking at him, prepared to extend a warm hello. But to my surprise and utter humiliation, he abruptly turned and walked away without even acknowledging my presence. Not a nod, not a glance. It was the sort of snub that might be discussed for pages in a Jane Austen novel.

I think the blood was rushing through my ears and I could not quite hear if my companion attempted to make up a possible excuse for his friend’s rudeness. But, of course I did my best to brush the incident aside and focus on enjoying my evening.

I will likely never forget that stinging breach of manners and I suspect that this friend of the groom’s will be at his wedding. But of course, why wouldn’t he invite his friends? And the fact that he might be there makes me mildly uncomfortable. As though the same experience might repeat itself again. As though I will attempt to maintain a safe distance from this individual in order to avoid the opportunity to repeat the ugliness and shame.

In some step-oriented programs that focus on being-here-now, I might be accused of obsessing about a possible future event that may or may not happen. And that accusation would be true. By placing my consciousness in the future and permitting my imagination to cast a worst-case-scenario, I set myself up to choose a single outcome, from the millions of possible things that might happen. Furthermore, I choose to shift my focus away from the primary purpose of attending the wedding, sharing my friend’s joy, truly the only reason I want to go at all. But worst, I shift my focus away from the here and now. The tasks I should be attending to, the peace and happiness I could be percolating in my heart right at this moment.

Hmm. That’s better.

Best made plans

Dogs have a way of outsmarting us humans. We make plans and execute our plans carefully. Then a dog comes along, casually sniffs out the one single deficiency, and in a nanosecond, topples the fruits of your labor, all the while wagging her tail happily.

This is the way it has been with the doggy door.

Developing a plan for restricted canine access to the dog run area of the yard throughout the work day was an essential element of our initial move-in plan. We carefully planned a location for the door, selected a contractor for the installation, planned the design for the perimeter fence around the dog run, planned for the exterior pathway leading to the door and purchased all the requisite materials.

It seemed like a reasonable plan. Dogs would have the freedom to stay indoors or outdoors during the day, would not be subjected to the risk of falling into the pool, and on lawn mowing days, we would simply pop the cover over the doggy door and they would stay safely indoors.

So we executed against the plan. Mucho time consuming. No small expense.

Flaw #1 – commercially-made doggy door covers are designed to trick humans into thinking that they are actual barriers. This assumption is false. The simple pop-on doggy door cover we have can be removed by a crafty canine in a matter of moments. It is no match for a dog with an agenda.

Flaw #2 – temporary fencing is temporary, at best. During the aftermath of Hurricane Ike, we installed some deer fencing at my old house to keep the dogs inside the yard after the back fence blew down. It was very effective as a short-term solution. We decided to take this success and expand it to a larger scale, for a longer duration, by using deer fencing to cordon off the perimeter of the dog run. However, because of the variable terrain and other factors, there were weaknesses in the fence that the dogs quickly identified. Quick, as in instantaneously. Scaled the fence, no problem. Over the subsequent months, we (and when I say we, I actually mean Cristy) have conducted countless repairs to this temporary fence to remedy each breach of integrity.

These two initial, but fatal flaws in our logic resulted in a ripple effect of downstream problems, exacerbated by our attempts to outwit our clever companion dogs with creative solutions to these problems. Each activity, consequently falling into the aforementioned mucho-time-consuming and no-small-expense categories.

The remedies seem to be the most obvious. 1. stack up some heavy things in front of the doggy door blocking access to the door. 2. get a professional to build a real fence.

OK (head hanging in embarrassment), OK.

Fencing contractor completed the work yesterday. After we return the leftover lumber to Home Depot, I can start working on getting the leftover splinters out of my hands and maybe, just maybe, put the doggy-door episodes to rest.

Too optimistic? We shall see.

Scenes from the weekend

Plenty of activity punctuated by brief escapes to the yard, full of blooming plants. Projects included phase 2 of the photo gallery project (phase 1 picture at left), doggy-door barracade, candle-lantern groupings for the trees, making a birdbath, hanging a bird feeder, and adding storage hooks for the pool tools. Full agenda.

ENJF

I have to admit that I don’t know what these initials mean exactly, but I do know it has something to do with a personality profile, in the Myers-Briggs vernacular. It’s a label, and humans love to label things, people and places. I attended a presentation today and the speaker touched on the topic of introverts and extraverts. Many people in the room gave an audible acknowledgement that they were intricately aware of this distinction and strongly identified with one of the two personality types.

I was sitting at the front of the room closest to the speaker and had been paying close attention throughout the presentation. She was making eye contact with many people in the room but had not made eye contact with me until this precise moment. She looked at me directly and said: you are the introvert, right?

Uh, well apparently so.

The extroverts in the room voiced their agreement with this hypothesis.

The speaker resumed her presentation, acknowledging that extroverts are often guilty of interrupting others when they are speaking, but don’t much seem to mind when they themselves are interrupted.

I try not to interrupt others. I try to listen and respond as appropriate. Sometimes I find myself waiting, waiting, waiting for a break in the conversation so that I may broach a new subject, ask a question or introduce an idea. I would consider it rude to interrupt a conversation in progress to serve my own needs. But sometimes conversations have their own momentum and the lulls I seek just don’t present themselves. The extrovert speakers keep talking and other extroverts keep interrupting in a swirling cycle.

I was talking with my brother yesterday. He is an extrovert and I hold him in high esteem. But when we talk on the phone it is a difficult experience for me. Yesterday I had wanted to ask him something in particular. But as I was listening to my brother talk, the story he was telling, as is typical, kept getting longer by the minute. Eventually, he had to interrupt himself in order to cut our conversation short and answer a call from a client.

I never got a chance to interrupt him and ask my question.

I know that I am an introvert. I work well in a quiet atmosphere and don’t need to interact with others to keep my creative energy engaged. I prefer to minimize my time in meetings unless they are well structured. I have fun in social situations, but I am never the life of the party. I prefer to take a supporting role.

But this word, introvert, this label, seems to convey other information. As though we introverts seek to limit our interaction with others or hide from the world. Today’s presenter did not use these precise words, but she did paint a picture of introverts in similar broad-brush terms.

And I begin to think that being an introvert, governed by this part of my DNA, inhibits me from living a richer, happier life.

On the other hand, I would not wish to be one of those people who chronically interrupt others when they are speaking or verbally arm-wrestles others for the microphone.

So excuse me while I send my brother an email to ask him my question. It is not the quickest way to get a reply, but at least I can use this strategy to communicate a complete sentence.

Dunce hat

Today is my day to wear the dunce hat. I hate these days, but they drop into my life once in a while.

I had a dentist appointment this morning, but had forgotten the time; I thought it was in the afternoon. Thankfully I scheduled it for 8:30 and still had plenty of time to make it to the appointment after I got to work and checked the calendar. And thankfully, there were no startling discoveries as a result of this appointment that would require another more invasive dental appointment.

I left the dentist's office and returned to my car. As I backed out of the parking space I heard a loud crunching sound. It was the sound of one of those big parking garage pillars bashing in the side of my car. I don’t much care for these pesky pillars in parking garages, for precisely this reason. I have had more than one altercation with them in recent years.

My car is actually fine, as long as I don’t need to use the side-view mirror or open the driver’s side door too awfully far.

Just another reason I don’t need to be driving a big expensive car. Most of my driving mishaps tend to occur when I am backing out of a parking space. Pass me the pointed hat please.

Earth hour

I had forgotten about Earth Hour approaching. We had been out completing an errand and when we arrived home around 7pm I made a few candle lanterns to hang outdoors in the trees. It was a simple process with a nice visual effect. We sat indoors at the kitchen table with the flickering glow beyond giving us a calming lift to our spirits. I experimented with the candlelight setting on my camera, then suddenly at 8:15, remembered Earth hour.

Cristy hurriedly prepared salads for dinner and boiled water in the kettle for tea. I gathered a dozen or so votive candle holders and tea lights and placed them in small groupings, hoping that the candle glow would give us sufficient light that we would not feel compelled to abandon the Earth hour project.

We ate our dinner and talked. Sat peacefully in the candlelight past 9:30.

I don’t remember now what roused us from the kitchen table. It was probably the requirement to tend to the needs of one of the dogs, but at shortly after 10pm, we returned to life by electric lights. Washed the dishes, washed and put away the votive holders, and washed our faces in preparation for bed.

The simplicity of sharing conversation by candlelight was lovely.

Spa treatment

My little guy Tristan is a stinker. And I’m not talking about him being a cute little rascal either. Although he is. I’m talking about this really bad habit he has of finding stinky stuff outdoors to rub against and getting the stinky smell all in his fur. He stinks. He’s a stinker.

He did it about a week ago. When I get home from work during the week, there is usually a lot of animal activity. The dogs start running around the house and yard. Barking ensues. Toys. Sometimes the little dogs decide to give the kitty a requisite chase around the kitchen. But then it subsides and I feed them and then take a seat at the kitchen table while i get busy with some little project.

So last week I'm sitting there and noticed an unpleasant smell. I was hoping it wasn’t me, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint the source. Later, Cristy noticed it too and we both decided it was Tristan. It was not a good smell. That evening, he got the spa treatment. Shower, shampoo, blow dry. He is a furry dog, so this is a rather time consuming activity. But afterwards, he was soft and clean and sweet smelling for approximately two days.

Then he found another stinky spot outdoors and felt compelled to transfer the fragrance to his own fur. I tried a shortcut this time – a household wipe. We didn’t have any baby wipes and hey, he’s part of the household, so why not? I wiped it over the fur around his head and neck, where he likes to rub in stinky spots. It helped. Not a permanent solution, but better than nothing.

This morning as I was leaving the house, I noticed a very pronounced smell outdoors. A skunk. Undoubtedly a skunk that probably had an unfortunate encounter with an automobile at some point during the night.

So, even though my little sweetheart Tristan is indeed a stinker, there are still some creatures in the world that carry around even a bigger stink than him. By the way Tristan, your next spa appointment? Coming up soon.

Observations from the weekend

Lately, I have developed a habit of assembling a collage of photographs taken over the weekend and making that my Monday post on the companion photo blog. But this past weekend I took my camera out only once to document the completion of a little project. No collection of images from which to build a pretty collage.

So I thought I would instead assemble a collage of words. Recollections of the weekend described in words rather than visually portrayed in photographs. Not as pretty, but perhaps an adequate reflection nonetheless.

Driving through the neighborhood on the north side of downtown where I deliver food once per month, I almost always see something unexpected. This particular Saturday morning was no different. In a vacant residential lot, I noticed a handful of ground-feeding birds, grackles and doves. And among them, a green parrot. You surely don't see that every day.

Shortly afterwards, I drove by a house with a tall fenced yard and noticed a man riding a horse in the yard. A pretty brown and white paint horse. Another rare spectacle. Then shortly after that, I dropped by the house of one of my clients to deliver their food and joined them in the backyard to play for a few minutes with four baby chickens. Now this scenario is not so rare these days. But the babies are usually only around once per year.

I would have loved to have captured those moments with a photographic image, but all the same, the images are thankfully still alive in my head.

In addition to those, I probably would have captured a few others along the way. Some rather simple images from the ordinary weekend.

Drinking cups of hot tea on Saturday to stave off the chill of the last (hopefully) coldfront of winter.

Gracyn curled up in her little dog-basket in her new favorite place, the floor of the kitchen pantry.

Browsing the aisles of Barnes & Noble.

Ringing the “excellent customer service” bell at Kroger in hopes that the very helpful cashier would forgive my absent-minded behavior.

The thing that stands out for me, from the weekend, and the thing that I would not have been able to capture in a photographic image is the sheer joy in my heart then, and even now. The joy of sharing an ordinary weekend with the person that makes my heart leap for joy. The person whose smile lights my life and whose voice is the sweetest sound I can imagine. The joy of sharing the moments of my life with her while we do chores, watch television, eat a meal, play with the dogs, hold hands, hold each other. Bliss. I am humbled with gratitude.

Learning, living

Another way of looking at my 49th birthday is the realization that yesterday I started living my 50th year. I accidentally overslept, went to work, finished a task, sent some thank you notes, did some laundry, completed an income tax return and prepared some food to get me through the week. I left a few tasks incomplete, but there are no dire consequences as a result. I will get to them.

Fifty is a rather significant milestone. It has a lot of depth, symmetry and context. Mathematically, you can express fifty in many different numerical combinations.

Maybe I’m getting more like that too.

I paused to consider what I can do with the days in my life that come next. There is nothing I can do to change the days that have come before. Perhaps that realization is a perfect place to begin.

Old memories bubble to the surface from time to time. Some memories are not exactly pleasant and I wish things might have been different. I wish I might have been wiser, made better choices, felt more confident, had a stronger connection with my faith, my voice, my desires.

Going forward, I’d like to grab these memories as they surface and dissect them, extracting every lesson, every grain of truth and each strand that connects me to God. I have been given the opportunity to live another day, this day. A chance to expand my own depth of humanity and embody symmetry in my life with a healthy balance between reason and creativity. A chance to express my individuality in many combinations of interests and pursuits. A chance to reflect the golden love of God, that precious gift in my heart, as I interact with people all around me.

But only if I am willing to learn from the experiences of my past, those lessons from the divine. Honor the mistakes, understand the difference between me then and me now. Illuminate the path ahead with a brighter candle, lit with faith, love, forgiveness and courage.