I am married to a man who can't find anything. I can describe to him in detail where to locate a particular item, he will go in that room, wander around aimlessly looking, only to return and tell me the item is not there. I will then walk directly in, go to the precise place I so carefully specified and find the item within seconds. I used to think he did this just so that I would stop asking him to get things for me, but then I started to go with him just to see. I watched him search under, over, and all around the spot never being able to find the intended item. This exchange has happened so many times that I developed a catch phrase for it. It now simply feels like a reflex to say, "Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there!"
I read an article in the USA Today this week that has me thinking. It was on Tues, Sept. 22, 2009 in the Life Section, page 7D and was entitled "15% now check 'no religion'" by Cathy Lynn Grossman. According to an 18 year survey directed by Trinity College based on a sampling of 54,000 adults, 15% of Americans now say they have no religious identity. Just over 1100 of those people were surveyed more closely to determine their specific views on God. The results of this more finite survey indicated that 21% of those men and 36% of the women definitely believe in a personal God. There was another segment (25% men and 22% women) who recognized a higher power, but no personal God. The rest of the people surveyed were either unsure or certain that God does not exist at all.
I respect every person's right to make decisions and judgments for themselves. I have a high regard for religious freedom and tolerance in this country. I witness on a daily basis families who sacrifice significantly to protect that freedom. But because of what I have experienced in my own personal life, I am inclined to say, "Just because you don't see Him, doesn't mean He isn't there."
I have witnessed His hand guiding my family throughout the years. I have seen Him lead me to specific people, places and even books when I have needed guidance or help or inspiration. I have seen Him inspire other people to be attuned to my needs and minister to me in loving ways. I have observed His tender care in the creation of beautiful things in this world. I have participated in the miraculous experience of childbirth three times. I have watched Him save, at different times, the lives of each of my children in marvelous ways. I have seen Him in the sorrow of death and loss. I have seen Him in the shadows of tragedy. I have seen Him in darkness, despair and grief, carrying me through the suffering to the other side where hope lives.
I know God lives. I know that He loves His children. I know that He is a very personal God who is interested and involved in the very details of our lives. He wants us to keep looking, keep searching, keep hoping.
Just because you cannot see Him, doesn't mean He isn't there.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Refill
I just refilled my almost deflated tires. It's amazing how much better my bike rides now. It's smooth, balanced and requires much less effort on my part to ride well.
It got me wondering about the rest of my tires. When was the last time I refilled? I could use some balance.
Anna's Refills...
Reading a novel just for fun
Yoga
Biking along the river
Lunch with a good friend
Fine chocolate
Reading to my kids
Snuggling with my dog
Spontaneous outing with my husband
Time to aimlessly wander in a bookstore
Napping
Sitting and pondering in nature
I think I'll go curl up with my dog and a book and maybe take a little nap. Feeling like I could use a refill. I'm sure the rest of the day will require much less effort if I do.
What are your refills?
It got me wondering about the rest of my tires. When was the last time I refilled? I could use some balance.
Anna's Refills...
Reading a novel just for fun
Yoga
Biking along the river
Lunch with a good friend
Fine chocolate
Reading to my kids
Snuggling with my dog
Spontaneous outing with my husband
Time to aimlessly wander in a bookstore
Napping
Sitting and pondering in nature
I think I'll go curl up with my dog and a book and maybe take a little nap. Feeling like I could use a refill. I'm sure the rest of the day will require much less effort if I do.
What are your refills?
Morning Meanderings
I turned over in bed and the clock blinked 4:07. AM. My mind has woken me up again, though in a surprisingly different way today. It was racing with thoughts, but not the panic stricken, surely I have missed something or forgotten to sign a paper or buy the pickles I had signed up to bring to preschool today kind of thoughts. No, these thoughts were free and inspiring and motivating. I rolled over, padded softy in bare feet into my office, careful not to awaken anyone, and turned on my computer. My right eye refused to adjust to the light on the screen in stark contrast to the darkened solitude surrounding me as the small digital clock on the lower right hand side of my screen read 4:27. I rubbed it patiently until my vision finally caught up with my mind. What in the world am I doing up at this hour?
I love to sleep. I have dreaded mornings for as long as I can remember. I think it stems back to my childhood when I first really discovered reading. I grew up in a small home with three brothers and a sister. My parents are both night owls, especially my Dad. He still stays up until all hours of the early morning to read. I was in the sixth grade when the "Babysitter's Club" series of books came out through the Scholastic book orders I received at school. I was starting to do a bit of babysitting myself for some families in the neighborhood and the first volume caught my eye, so I used some of my hard earned, $1 an hour earnings to purchase the book. Upon its arrival I stayed up late into the night devouring it. In such a full house, the late night hours were the only quiet ones I could find. In time I ordered and savored all thirty some odd books in the series. I remember reading until I fell asleep with a book on my chest, lamp light still blaring in the stillness. I would wake up often after midnight, put my book on my nightstand, turn off the light and go back to sleep. This relished ritual gave me much needed solace and respite, but wreaked havoc on my morning routine. I remember hitting the snooze button multiple times on my alarm clock. With each exhausted expression of fatigue I created another justification for an additional seven minutes of sleep. "I'll lay here and pick out my outfit in my mind. That will save me time." Seven more minutes of peace. Horrible interruption. "I don't need to blow dry my hair this morning. I'll just let it air dry." That heavenly seven returning. Annoyance revisited. "I can just pull my hair back this morning." And on and on until I would find myself grabbing cold toast as I ran out the door, late again to school, hoping I had on matching clothes and that I had remembered to brush my teeth. All because of that book I couldn't put down the night before. The nightly cycle continued year after year until I vehemently dreaded mornings.
As I grew older, especially during my college years, I struggled to find the time to accomplish all that was demanded of me. I read several books which said to utilize the early morning hours of your day. They were the most productive since they were when you would be the most 'fresh'. HA! Fresh was hardly the word I would use for myself at that inhuman hour of the day, but I was willing to try. I have vivid memories of dragging myself out of my warm, soft bed on a cold, winter morning in the west at 5:00 AM to walk in the darkness over the music building on my college campus. I had a requirement for my piano performance class to practice a minimum of three hours a day. I would have much rather practiced late at night, when my brain was used to the creative process, but unfortunately I was a lowly freshman and had been given the very last pick of times for use of the practice rooms in the basement of the music building. The only way I could find a solid three hour block each day was to practice from 6-9 in the morning. I never did get used to it. Often after working hard for a couple of hours, I would lay my head down on the piano just to 'rest my eyes' for a minute, only to have a more senior student knock on my door and awaken me just in time for my 9:00 class. Freshness? More like groggy, sloggy, bleary eyed freshman. I kept at it all that first year, but never looked forward to the time. I never once bounced out of bed, anxiously awaiting my time of solitude. I always dreaded it. Every morning.
I was grateful for the following year when my slightly increased seniority and acceptance into the music program granted me much more favorable practice room hours, and I quickly abandoned the hair brained idea of early morning anything. I then realized one of the incredible advantages of university life was the ability to create my own schedule. I never again scheduled a class before 10 AM and resumed my late night habits. I would often go running at 10 at night just to activate my brain and then come home to write papers until 2 in the morning. It was wonderful and I lived that way throughout the remainder of my university career.
Those college years passed, marriage came, then first time motherhood found me feeling that returning sense of increased responsibility accompanied by decreased ability. After taking care of my beautiful newborn all day long, I was too exhausted to stay up late anymore. I didn't know how other mothers even found the time to shower and do the dishes, let alone pursue any personal interests. I was feeling dumpy and disorganized, so I reached back for that promised oasis of time in the early morning and started setting my alarm to get me up before the baby each day. I rediscovered my love hate relationship with my alarm clock as I would drag myself up to shower and get ready each day, leaving some extra time for cleaning. But as time progressed, the allure of that extra hour of sleep overcame any vanity I had acquired at that point and I gave it up. It hardly felt worth losing sleep over being perfectly coiffed for my infant and I certainly wasn't motivated to bounce out of bed for housework. The adage had failed me again. Really? THIS was the great secret?
I tried it again sporadically for running, gardening, housework, and reading, all to no avail. None of the anticipated rewards outweighed the immediate benefit of increased sleep, so the grand ambitions would falter and my love affair with the snooze button continued. I concluded finally that I was simply not a morning person. I never would be, so I quit trying.
Then I started writing again. I have vivid memories of English class my Junior year of high school. Our teacher emphasized writing and constantly assigned us essays to write. That was back in the dinosaur ages before the internet and when most people didn't even have a computer in their home. My Dad owned a small business in our little town, so I would go up in the evenings after his work day and write my papers there on his computer. I distinctly remember staring out the window just behind the computer into the shadowed stillness and feeling a kind of blissful abandon with the silent darkness. Nobody was there to interrupt my thoughts. I could leave my busy, noisy home and find a soundless oasis where my ideas could flow freely. I relished that time.
Only recently have the words come to me again in the stillness. Poems have awakened me in the early hours, their meter and vocabulary calling me out of sleep, begging me to put them to paper before they disappear back into the sanctity of the quiet night. Lyrics linger in that half awakened state between sleep and consciousness singing to me. They float and find themselves uniting into verses, song structures, reminding me that unless I arise and record them, they will travel back into the creative chasm from whence they came. Words and ideas haunt me kindly but insistently until finally articulated. The promised island of solitude has finally found its way to me, or perhaps I to it. I realize now that the soul awakens early not by intrusion of alarm, or by outside imposed direction. The mind and the heart can only overcome the overarching needs of the physical body when compelled by a deep longing. A connection to self that requires awareness of innate desire. The sun will only rise on the soul in stillness.
The key to finding this silent island oasis is not productivity, it is creativity. What stirs your soul? What resonates deep within you in a way you can neither explain nor deny? Where does your mind travel while your hands are occupied in mundane, routine tasks? What connects you to yourself and the divine within you? Release expectations you feel placed on you by others, by society, by your former self and listen. Just listen. Listen in the silence for the beating of your own heart. It will speak to you. It will teach you. It will lead you to the haven of creativity that is uniquely yours. Then the mornings will call to you and beckon you into the stillness. For there is where brilliance is born.
I love to sleep. I have dreaded mornings for as long as I can remember. I think it stems back to my childhood when I first really discovered reading. I grew up in a small home with three brothers and a sister. My parents are both night owls, especially my Dad. He still stays up until all hours of the early morning to read. I was in the sixth grade when the "Babysitter's Club" series of books came out through the Scholastic book orders I received at school. I was starting to do a bit of babysitting myself for some families in the neighborhood and the first volume caught my eye, so I used some of my hard earned, $1 an hour earnings to purchase the book. Upon its arrival I stayed up late into the night devouring it. In such a full house, the late night hours were the only quiet ones I could find. In time I ordered and savored all thirty some odd books in the series. I remember reading until I fell asleep with a book on my chest, lamp light still blaring in the stillness. I would wake up often after midnight, put my book on my nightstand, turn off the light and go back to sleep. This relished ritual gave me much needed solace and respite, but wreaked havoc on my morning routine. I remember hitting the snooze button multiple times on my alarm clock. With each exhausted expression of fatigue I created another justification for an additional seven minutes of sleep. "I'll lay here and pick out my outfit in my mind. That will save me time." Seven more minutes of peace. Horrible interruption. "I don't need to blow dry my hair this morning. I'll just let it air dry." That heavenly seven returning. Annoyance revisited. "I can just pull my hair back this morning." And on and on until I would find myself grabbing cold toast as I ran out the door, late again to school, hoping I had on matching clothes and that I had remembered to brush my teeth. All because of that book I couldn't put down the night before. The nightly cycle continued year after year until I vehemently dreaded mornings.
As I grew older, especially during my college years, I struggled to find the time to accomplish all that was demanded of me. I read several books which said to utilize the early morning hours of your day. They were the most productive since they were when you would be the most 'fresh'. HA! Fresh was hardly the word I would use for myself at that inhuman hour of the day, but I was willing to try. I have vivid memories of dragging myself out of my warm, soft bed on a cold, winter morning in the west at 5:00 AM to walk in the darkness over the music building on my college campus. I had a requirement for my piano performance class to practice a minimum of three hours a day. I would have much rather practiced late at night, when my brain was used to the creative process, but unfortunately I was a lowly freshman and had been given the very last pick of times for use of the practice rooms in the basement of the music building. The only way I could find a solid three hour block each day was to practice from 6-9 in the morning. I never did get used to it. Often after working hard for a couple of hours, I would lay my head down on the piano just to 'rest my eyes' for a minute, only to have a more senior student knock on my door and awaken me just in time for my 9:00 class. Freshness? More like groggy, sloggy, bleary eyed freshman. I kept at it all that first year, but never looked forward to the time. I never once bounced out of bed, anxiously awaiting my time of solitude. I always dreaded it. Every morning.
I was grateful for the following year when my slightly increased seniority and acceptance into the music program granted me much more favorable practice room hours, and I quickly abandoned the hair brained idea of early morning anything. I then realized one of the incredible advantages of university life was the ability to create my own schedule. I never again scheduled a class before 10 AM and resumed my late night habits. I would often go running at 10 at night just to activate my brain and then come home to write papers until 2 in the morning. It was wonderful and I lived that way throughout the remainder of my university career.
Those college years passed, marriage came, then first time motherhood found me feeling that returning sense of increased responsibility accompanied by decreased ability. After taking care of my beautiful newborn all day long, I was too exhausted to stay up late anymore. I didn't know how other mothers even found the time to shower and do the dishes, let alone pursue any personal interests. I was feeling dumpy and disorganized, so I reached back for that promised oasis of time in the early morning and started setting my alarm to get me up before the baby each day. I rediscovered my love hate relationship with my alarm clock as I would drag myself up to shower and get ready each day, leaving some extra time for cleaning. But as time progressed, the allure of that extra hour of sleep overcame any vanity I had acquired at that point and I gave it up. It hardly felt worth losing sleep over being perfectly coiffed for my infant and I certainly wasn't motivated to bounce out of bed for housework. The adage had failed me again. Really? THIS was the great secret?
I tried it again sporadically for running, gardening, housework, and reading, all to no avail. None of the anticipated rewards outweighed the immediate benefit of increased sleep, so the grand ambitions would falter and my love affair with the snooze button continued. I concluded finally that I was simply not a morning person. I never would be, so I quit trying.
Then I started writing again. I have vivid memories of English class my Junior year of high school. Our teacher emphasized writing and constantly assigned us essays to write. That was back in the dinosaur ages before the internet and when most people didn't even have a computer in their home. My Dad owned a small business in our little town, so I would go up in the evenings after his work day and write my papers there on his computer. I distinctly remember staring out the window just behind the computer into the shadowed stillness and feeling a kind of blissful abandon with the silent darkness. Nobody was there to interrupt my thoughts. I could leave my busy, noisy home and find a soundless oasis where my ideas could flow freely. I relished that time.
Only recently have the words come to me again in the stillness. Poems have awakened me in the early hours, their meter and vocabulary calling me out of sleep, begging me to put them to paper before they disappear back into the sanctity of the quiet night. Lyrics linger in that half awakened state between sleep and consciousness singing to me. They float and find themselves uniting into verses, song structures, reminding me that unless I arise and record them, they will travel back into the creative chasm from whence they came. Words and ideas haunt me kindly but insistently until finally articulated. The promised island of solitude has finally found its way to me, or perhaps I to it. I realize now that the soul awakens early not by intrusion of alarm, or by outside imposed direction. The mind and the heart can only overcome the overarching needs of the physical body when compelled by a deep longing. A connection to self that requires awareness of innate desire. The sun will only rise on the soul in stillness.
The key to finding this silent island oasis is not productivity, it is creativity. What stirs your soul? What resonates deep within you in a way you can neither explain nor deny? Where does your mind travel while your hands are occupied in mundane, routine tasks? What connects you to yourself and the divine within you? Release expectations you feel placed on you by others, by society, by your former self and listen. Just listen. Listen in the silence for the beating of your own heart. It will speak to you. It will teach you. It will lead you to the haven of creativity that is uniquely yours. Then the mornings will call to you and beckon you into the stillness. For there is where brilliance is born.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Puppy Love
I have a dog. Those of you who know me will echo a recent post from a friend on Facebook who said, "YOU have a dog?!?" You see, I have never had a dog before. I grew up in a home with reluctantly allowed pets, only kittens I had found in the yard and begged my Mom to let me keep. My Mom had some frightening experiences with dogs as a child that never really left her and although I never remember her telling us outright that she didn't like dogs, we all knew. Dogs were scary and mean and we should stay away from them.
That ingrained dislike, or what I now recognize as misunderstanding, of dogs stayed with me throughout my life. I remember one afternoon playing on the playground with some friends after an elementary school day. We were on the swings and a stray dog came walking by. Now, had I understood dogs, I likely would have stood still, allowed him to come to me and greet me if he wanted and then let him go on his way. But I didn't understand dogs, so I kept swinging, agitating the poor thing to the point he started nipping at me. I know now he thought I was playing a game, but I thought then that he wanted to hurt me. So I hopped off the swing and ran. Yup. He chased me. I remember running around the playground, crying and praying at the same time. Surely God had mercy on his poor, panic stricken daughter that day and sent the only Animal Control officer in town to the playground at that moment. I was saved from this 'menacing' dog, misunderstanding and fear further ingrained into my psyche.
My children, however, have grown up surrounded by dogs. I married into a dog family. Not just any dog family, one who can have over 50 dogs at their yearly family reunion. Labradors, chihuahuas, beagles, poodles - you name it, someone in my husband's family probably owns or has owned one. My children LOVE dogs and have absolutely no fear of them because they have more understanding of how they think, how they act, and how they love.
My children had begged me since they could talk for a dog of their own. My husband was close behind them, though somewhat more tolerant of the fears associated with my canine deprived upbringing. I've had every excuse in the book over the years for not getting a dog. The easiest was that for many years we were renters and couldn't have pets in our apartments. Once we finally had our first home, I was pregnant with our youngest son and told them that we had a baby instead. That seemed an inadequate replacement to them, but helped to dissipate the issue enough that it died away for a time. When we moved to another state, our home didn't have a fence. I told them then that we couldn't have a dog without a fence. After several months when my husband had finally completed the fence, I found myself at last without an excuse. So I started to consider getting a dog.
Plagued by misunderstandings and lingering negative feelings about dog ownership, I did what I always do when embarking on a new adventure in my life. I go to the library. I check out books - lots and lots of books - and saturate my mind in the new subject. I need to read and study and learn about it. The more I read about dogs, however, the more overwhelmed I felt. I had no practical experience whatsoever with dogs. What's the best way to housetrain him? Should we keep him in a crate or not? How much would we feed him and when? How would our family schedule accommodate his needs? But beyond the practical concerns was the ingrained fear and dislike I had for dogs. I had learned to tolerate them in my husband's family over the years, but I didn't think I could invite another living being into my life and merely tolerate him. What to do?
My husband found a breeder about an hour from our home. It was on the way to the beach where we went most Saturdays this spring and summer and he asked me if we could just stop and look at the dogs. I reluctantly agreed, feeling fairly educated about the animal itself but increasingly unsure how I would react upon meeting our possible companion face to face. The day arrived and we pulled into the driveway of the breeder's home. It was a small, country place, fairly isolated from other homes in the area. As we got out of the car, I understood why. The smell hit me with force and I recoiled momentarily. Their entire back yard was sectioned off into kennels inhabited by various colors of Labrador Retrievers. They all began barking and jumping excitedly to greet us. The kind breeder and his wife came out to meet us and instantly set us at ease. We had previewed some of their dogs on their website and liked the look of the white labrador, so they took us over to the section of the yard where the white labs were. We saw the adults running and playing together in the yard and with each enthusiastic acknowledgement of our presence, my anxiety increased. I didn't think I could do this after all. I was back at the playground being chased off my swing. We talked and asked about litter arrival dates and parenting lines, but inside I knew I could never do it. Then they asked if we wanted to see the puppies.
They took us inside a little cabin that was their office and viewing area. We told them we were hoping for a male, so they brought in a group of seven little guys who were only about four weeks old - pups from their most recent litter. They said all of them were sold except for one and they would be starting the selections once the puppies reached eight weeks. If we purchased one of these dogs, we would have the last pick. The children were instantly on the floor, loving and romping and playing with the puppies. They were all full of life and energy. I watched them with increasing anxiety. How would I ever tell the children now that they couldn't have a dog after all? Then I noticed one little guy off to the side. He was squirming around, but certainly not getting into the middle of the chaos that was ensuing nearby. I reached over and gently picked him up. He was sleepy, so once I picked him up and held him against my chest, he tucked his little head up right in the crook of my neck and fell fast asleep. His tiny heart beat rapidly and I could feel his softness and vulnerability. He was singular serenity in that moment and my heart melted into oblivion. I held him while we visited, expressed interest in the possibility of a purchase, but promised nothing. We would have to see. We would have the last pick, after all. I knew that I could take home that puppy, but I couldn't handle the more energetic dogs. What are the chances that he would be the one left?
We came home, talked a lot and decided to put a deposit down on that litter. We made it clear to the breeders that when we came down to meet the one that was left, we reserved the option not to take him and transfer our deposit for a later litter. I knew I couldn't manage the more enthusiastic puppies. They were gracious and understanding and even began posting pictures online for the future owners to see their growth. The dogs quickly changed so much that I began to question if I could remember which puppy was the one I had loved instantly that day. As each family visited the breeders for selection, they would post online which puppy had been chosen. There was one, sweet faced little man I had hoped was that lovey pup, but couldn't be sure without being with him again. I told my husband that if I had to pick from a picture, he would be the one.
The time finally arrived for our 'selection', really a formality as far as choice was concerned, but the meeting held great significance for me. Could this possibly be our puppy? We drove the hour in anticipation and excitement, hurried into the rear cabin and they carefully brought him in. Within minutes I knew. It was him. That sweet little floppy faced puppy who had snuggled right up to me. The one whose picture was my perfect pick. He had such a calm, even temperment. He came right up to us with love and sweetness in his eyes. He was so wonderful with our children and they instantly took right to him. He ended up falling asleep on the couch with our daughter snuggled up right next to him. We knew. He would be our dog. I couldn't believe it. What are the chances that we would stop by for a casual inquiry at a breeder's, they would have a litter of the kind we wanted with only one dog left and that the very animal we had hoped would be ours would be the last one picked? Some would say fate, others call it destiny, I call it love.
I think that true love can work miracles in life. I felt in that very first moment of meeting him a love for another living creature that I had never felt before. It was an affection for an animal that I had previously feared that was instantly replaced with devotion. It was unanticipated, unabbreviated, uninhibited love. Why wouldn't he be the one to come to our home? We loved him. As we realized what was happening in that moment of singular sentiment, tears filled our eyes. My husband asked what we should name him. I said, "Buddy" and agreements resounded.
I have a dog.
That ingrained dislike, or what I now recognize as misunderstanding, of dogs stayed with me throughout my life. I remember one afternoon playing on the playground with some friends after an elementary school day. We were on the swings and a stray dog came walking by. Now, had I understood dogs, I likely would have stood still, allowed him to come to me and greet me if he wanted and then let him go on his way. But I didn't understand dogs, so I kept swinging, agitating the poor thing to the point he started nipping at me. I know now he thought I was playing a game, but I thought then that he wanted to hurt me. So I hopped off the swing and ran. Yup. He chased me. I remember running around the playground, crying and praying at the same time. Surely God had mercy on his poor, panic stricken daughter that day and sent the only Animal Control officer in town to the playground at that moment. I was saved from this 'menacing' dog, misunderstanding and fear further ingrained into my psyche.
My children, however, have grown up surrounded by dogs. I married into a dog family. Not just any dog family, one who can have over 50 dogs at their yearly family reunion. Labradors, chihuahuas, beagles, poodles - you name it, someone in my husband's family probably owns or has owned one. My children LOVE dogs and have absolutely no fear of them because they have more understanding of how they think, how they act, and how they love.
My children had begged me since they could talk for a dog of their own. My husband was close behind them, though somewhat more tolerant of the fears associated with my canine deprived upbringing. I've had every excuse in the book over the years for not getting a dog. The easiest was that for many years we were renters and couldn't have pets in our apartments. Once we finally had our first home, I was pregnant with our youngest son and told them that we had a baby instead. That seemed an inadequate replacement to them, but helped to dissipate the issue enough that it died away for a time. When we moved to another state, our home didn't have a fence. I told them then that we couldn't have a dog without a fence. After several months when my husband had finally completed the fence, I found myself at last without an excuse. So I started to consider getting a dog.
Plagued by misunderstandings and lingering negative feelings about dog ownership, I did what I always do when embarking on a new adventure in my life. I go to the library. I check out books - lots and lots of books - and saturate my mind in the new subject. I need to read and study and learn about it. The more I read about dogs, however, the more overwhelmed I felt. I had no practical experience whatsoever with dogs. What's the best way to housetrain him? Should we keep him in a crate or not? How much would we feed him and when? How would our family schedule accommodate his needs? But beyond the practical concerns was the ingrained fear and dislike I had for dogs. I had learned to tolerate them in my husband's family over the years, but I didn't think I could invite another living being into my life and merely tolerate him. What to do?
My husband found a breeder about an hour from our home. It was on the way to the beach where we went most Saturdays this spring and summer and he asked me if we could just stop and look at the dogs. I reluctantly agreed, feeling fairly educated about the animal itself but increasingly unsure how I would react upon meeting our possible companion face to face. The day arrived and we pulled into the driveway of the breeder's home. It was a small, country place, fairly isolated from other homes in the area. As we got out of the car, I understood why. The smell hit me with force and I recoiled momentarily. Their entire back yard was sectioned off into kennels inhabited by various colors of Labrador Retrievers. They all began barking and jumping excitedly to greet us. The kind breeder and his wife came out to meet us and instantly set us at ease. We had previewed some of their dogs on their website and liked the look of the white labrador, so they took us over to the section of the yard where the white labs were. We saw the adults running and playing together in the yard and with each enthusiastic acknowledgement of our presence, my anxiety increased. I didn't think I could do this after all. I was back at the playground being chased off my swing. We talked and asked about litter arrival dates and parenting lines, but inside I knew I could never do it. Then they asked if we wanted to see the puppies.
They took us inside a little cabin that was their office and viewing area. We told them we were hoping for a male, so they brought in a group of seven little guys who were only about four weeks old - pups from their most recent litter. They said all of them were sold except for one and they would be starting the selections once the puppies reached eight weeks. If we purchased one of these dogs, we would have the last pick. The children were instantly on the floor, loving and romping and playing with the puppies. They were all full of life and energy. I watched them with increasing anxiety. How would I ever tell the children now that they couldn't have a dog after all? Then I noticed one little guy off to the side. He was squirming around, but certainly not getting into the middle of the chaos that was ensuing nearby. I reached over and gently picked him up. He was sleepy, so once I picked him up and held him against my chest, he tucked his little head up right in the crook of my neck and fell fast asleep. His tiny heart beat rapidly and I could feel his softness and vulnerability. He was singular serenity in that moment and my heart melted into oblivion. I held him while we visited, expressed interest in the possibility of a purchase, but promised nothing. We would have to see. We would have the last pick, after all. I knew that I could take home that puppy, but I couldn't handle the more energetic dogs. What are the chances that he would be the one left?
We came home, talked a lot and decided to put a deposit down on that litter. We made it clear to the breeders that when we came down to meet the one that was left, we reserved the option not to take him and transfer our deposit for a later litter. I knew I couldn't manage the more enthusiastic puppies. They were gracious and understanding and even began posting pictures online for the future owners to see their growth. The dogs quickly changed so much that I began to question if I could remember which puppy was the one I had loved instantly that day. As each family visited the breeders for selection, they would post online which puppy had been chosen. There was one, sweet faced little man I had hoped was that lovey pup, but couldn't be sure without being with him again. I told my husband that if I had to pick from a picture, he would be the one.
The time finally arrived for our 'selection', really a formality as far as choice was concerned, but the meeting held great significance for me. Could this possibly be our puppy? We drove the hour in anticipation and excitement, hurried into the rear cabin and they carefully brought him in. Within minutes I knew. It was him. That sweet little floppy faced puppy who had snuggled right up to me. The one whose picture was my perfect pick. He had such a calm, even temperment. He came right up to us with love and sweetness in his eyes. He was so wonderful with our children and they instantly took right to him. He ended up falling asleep on the couch with our daughter snuggled up right next to him. We knew. He would be our dog. I couldn't believe it. What are the chances that we would stop by for a casual inquiry at a breeder's, they would have a litter of the kind we wanted with only one dog left and that the very animal we had hoped would be ours would be the last one picked? Some would say fate, others call it destiny, I call it love.
I think that true love can work miracles in life. I felt in that very first moment of meeting him a love for another living creature that I had never felt before. It was an affection for an animal that I had previously feared that was instantly replaced with devotion. It was unanticipated, unabbreviated, uninhibited love. Why wouldn't he be the one to come to our home? We loved him. As we realized what was happening in that moment of singular sentiment, tears filled our eyes. My husband asked what we should name him. I said, "Buddy" and agreements resounded.
I have a dog.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Pinkies & Piggy Toes
I think that God has a sense of humor. Not the kind that would make fun of others or be crude in any way, but I have to think that He must sit back and just laugh along with us sometimes as He tries to teach us the lessons we need to learn in life.
I have been a slacker writer for months now. I have piles of ideas, half finished projects, but nothing complete, nothing submitted, nothing to the point that it's useful to anyone - including myself. So since my kids started back to school a couple of weeks ago I have been praying for God to help me find balance in my life and asking Him to help me accomplish what He would have me do. I set a goal to write for two hours every day. Every day. I think in the past three weeks it's happened twice, maybe three times. Something was always coming up.
Last Monday morning, exactly a week ago, I slammed my pinky finger in the truck door. Hard. To the point I was holding back tears and gasping like a small child. My finger swelled up to the point it desperately hurt if I even bumped it. The nail turned completely black and pounded for days. I met my writing goal one day last week. Just one. Things came up. So this morning I was hurriedly doing the dishes before getting my kids off to school when I dropped a trivet on my toe. A trivet is not a made up word, contrary to my husband's insistence. It is a scrolled metal rectanglar object used to protect the table from hot dishes. This morning, however, it felt equivalent to an eight pound weight being slammed onto my innocent little toe. More almost-tears, more deep breathing, frustration, then suddenly laughter. How's that for an answered prayer?
I went to a writing workshop on Saturday and a local poet, Neil Ray, said he doesn't use the term 'writer's block'. When he gets stuck he calls it a 'wham bam koo' which means a rebirth. Well that pummeling metal trivetation on my toe felt like a 'wham bam sock it to you ma'am, get up off your can and write already' moment. Can't go shopping, running, yoga-ing, erranding, or anything with this throbbing little toe. Nothing to do today but write.
I started thinking about the last several months, trying to decide what has kept me from writing. Sure, I've been busy. Who isn't busy? I have three kids, a dog and a busy husband. But it's been more than that. I have an entire book outlined. I had set a goal to have three chapters ready to submit to publishers for consideration by September. Haven't touched it since I finished one chapter in June. I have a musical play only needing two new songs and final editing. I set myself a deadline for December. Haven't looked at it since May. I have piles of poetry sitting in notebooks and journals, not posted, not submitted, not published. I haven't even posted on my blog since April. Why?
I think in many ways obscurity is easier than mediocrity. You know the saying, "It's better not to have tried at all than to have tried and be dismissed as irrelevant". I can't be a disappointment if my work is never seen. I recognize that writing only for myself is somewhat selfish, but it's also been supremely safe. The unknown outcome still holds the promise of possibility whereas the known contains certain rejection, acceptance, or in the worst case - ambivalence. Writing requires a significant amount of vulnerability, a willingness to share openly the deepest insights and imaginations of my heart. In sharing, submitting, and publishing my work, I risk having that essence of myself edited, criticized or dismissed. But I realized something this morning as the teetering ten ton trivet hit my toe. In my fear of uncertain rejection, I have been missing the possibility of connection.
In the writing workshop Neil said that as writers we not only write to express ourselves, but we write to express for others what they feel but cannot seem to articulate for themselves. In my hobbited state of safety and reluctant fear, I have been in denial. I have denied not only myself, but others the ability to communicate, to share, to experience that resilient human connection of spirit that occurs when another person seems to say the words written deep within your heart. The ones you didn't know were there until you find them perfectly expressed by another's pen.
So I'm writing again...with my blackened pinky finger, swollen piggy toe, and God's laughter ringing in my ears.
I have been a slacker writer for months now. I have piles of ideas, half finished projects, but nothing complete, nothing submitted, nothing to the point that it's useful to anyone - including myself. So since my kids started back to school a couple of weeks ago I have been praying for God to help me find balance in my life and asking Him to help me accomplish what He would have me do. I set a goal to write for two hours every day. Every day. I think in the past three weeks it's happened twice, maybe three times. Something was always coming up.
Last Monday morning, exactly a week ago, I slammed my pinky finger in the truck door. Hard. To the point I was holding back tears and gasping like a small child. My finger swelled up to the point it desperately hurt if I even bumped it. The nail turned completely black and pounded for days. I met my writing goal one day last week. Just one. Things came up. So this morning I was hurriedly doing the dishes before getting my kids off to school when I dropped a trivet on my toe. A trivet is not a made up word, contrary to my husband's insistence. It is a scrolled metal rectanglar object used to protect the table from hot dishes. This morning, however, it felt equivalent to an eight pound weight being slammed onto my innocent little toe. More almost-tears, more deep breathing, frustration, then suddenly laughter. How's that for an answered prayer?
I went to a writing workshop on Saturday and a local poet, Neil Ray, said he doesn't use the term 'writer's block'. When he gets stuck he calls it a 'wham bam koo' which means a rebirth. Well that pummeling metal trivetation on my toe felt like a 'wham bam sock it to you ma'am, get up off your can and write already' moment. Can't go shopping, running, yoga-ing, erranding, or anything with this throbbing little toe. Nothing to do today but write.
I started thinking about the last several months, trying to decide what has kept me from writing. Sure, I've been busy. Who isn't busy? I have three kids, a dog and a busy husband. But it's been more than that. I have an entire book outlined. I had set a goal to have three chapters ready to submit to publishers for consideration by September. Haven't touched it since I finished one chapter in June. I have a musical play only needing two new songs and final editing. I set myself a deadline for December. Haven't looked at it since May. I have piles of poetry sitting in notebooks and journals, not posted, not submitted, not published. I haven't even posted on my blog since April. Why?
I think in many ways obscurity is easier than mediocrity. You know the saying, "It's better not to have tried at all than to have tried and be dismissed as irrelevant". I can't be a disappointment if my work is never seen. I recognize that writing only for myself is somewhat selfish, but it's also been supremely safe. The unknown outcome still holds the promise of possibility whereas the known contains certain rejection, acceptance, or in the worst case - ambivalence. Writing requires a significant amount of vulnerability, a willingness to share openly the deepest insights and imaginations of my heart. In sharing, submitting, and publishing my work, I risk having that essence of myself edited, criticized or dismissed. But I realized something this morning as the teetering ten ton trivet hit my toe. In my fear of uncertain rejection, I have been missing the possibility of connection.
In the writing workshop Neil said that as writers we not only write to express ourselves, but we write to express for others what they feel but cannot seem to articulate for themselves. In my hobbited state of safety and reluctant fear, I have been in denial. I have denied not only myself, but others the ability to communicate, to share, to experience that resilient human connection of spirit that occurs when another person seems to say the words written deep within your heart. The ones you didn't know were there until you find them perfectly expressed by another's pen.
So I'm writing again...with my blackened pinky finger, swollen piggy toe, and God's laughter ringing in my ears.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Street Signs
I live in a city that has evolved over time. When I moved here, the GPS technology I now rely on was still very new and quite expensive, so I learned to navigate the city the old fashioned way - with a map. Each time I ventured out to find a new location, I would carefully study the map, eventually learning my way around the labyrinth of the city streets. I loved discovering new routes and I especially enjoyed finding unusually named streets. One of my favorite discoveries was Notblake Drive. Why? I once worked for a home builder and when the company was working to develop a new area of the city for housing. One day the developer brought the plat maps into the office which included all the proposed street names. Curious as I read the street names and saw the likes of Jennie Lane and Davis Drive, I asked the developer where the names had come from. He told me they were the names of his grandchildren and informed me that the land developer got to choose the names of the streets. Notblake Drive always makes me laugh and wonder what poor Blake ever did to the developer of that particular neighborhood!
Just recently I discovered a new street name that gave me pause, perhaps because it wasn't the street sign that caught my eye first. There was a short, unpaved dirt road leading to two small houses. They were very humble in construction, in size and amenities. Only one had a small, very well used vehicle parked out front. There was not much to speak of as far as landscaping and there were certainly no boats, four wheelers, or other "toys" parked out front. After seeing the homes, desolate and isolated by worldly standards, I saw the name of the street. Truly Blessed Drive. I wondered about the people who lived in those homes. The buildings looked like they had been there for ages and I wondered if the residents themselves had developed that rudimentary street and been the ones to decide what to name it. I wondered about what was truly important to them. It was fairly obvious that their material possessions didn't create their happiness or their definition of being blessed. I wondered about their families, what they had been through together. I wondered how many times a day they counted their blessings, recognized the beauties that surrounded them, hugged their children, told someone they loved them and helped another person. I was certain that what happened inside those homes was a far greater indicator of their definition of blessed than what was seen on the outside.
I thought about another neighborhood I had seen recently in a coastal resort town, filled with luxurious homes, swimming pools, tennis courts and gated entrances. It had street names like Magnolia Drive and Emerald Parkway and was littered with foreclosure and short sale signs. I wondered if the people who had lived in or purchased those homes, some now shackled with burdensome debt they could no longer carry, felt truly blessed. I wondered if their homes were filled with gratitude and wonder at all the glories and beauties that still surrounded them or if all they could think about was what they were losing.
I wonder if the state of our happiness actually depends upon our willingness to choose our perspective and very little to do with income, zip code, or balance sheets. Perhaps as external economic conditions force us to cut back, downsize or relocate, we can remember what it takes to feel truly blessed. Eyes to see, ears to hear, hands to help, mouths to speak kindness, and perhaps even a well placed street sign.
Just recently I discovered a new street name that gave me pause, perhaps because it wasn't the street sign that caught my eye first. There was a short, unpaved dirt road leading to two small houses. They were very humble in construction, in size and amenities. Only one had a small, very well used vehicle parked out front. There was not much to speak of as far as landscaping and there were certainly no boats, four wheelers, or other "toys" parked out front. After seeing the homes, desolate and isolated by worldly standards, I saw the name of the street. Truly Blessed Drive. I wondered about the people who lived in those homes. The buildings looked like they had been there for ages and I wondered if the residents themselves had developed that rudimentary street and been the ones to decide what to name it. I wondered about what was truly important to them. It was fairly obvious that their material possessions didn't create their happiness or their definition of being blessed. I wondered about their families, what they had been through together. I wondered how many times a day they counted their blessings, recognized the beauties that surrounded them, hugged their children, told someone they loved them and helped another person. I was certain that what happened inside those homes was a far greater indicator of their definition of blessed than what was seen on the outside.
I thought about another neighborhood I had seen recently in a coastal resort town, filled with luxurious homes, swimming pools, tennis courts and gated entrances. It had street names like Magnolia Drive and Emerald Parkway and was littered with foreclosure and short sale signs. I wondered if the people who had lived in or purchased those homes, some now shackled with burdensome debt they could no longer carry, felt truly blessed. I wondered if their homes were filled with gratitude and wonder at all the glories and beauties that still surrounded them or if all they could think about was what they were losing.
I wonder if the state of our happiness actually depends upon our willingness to choose our perspective and very little to do with income, zip code, or balance sheets. Perhaps as external economic conditions force us to cut back, downsize or relocate, we can remember what it takes to feel truly blessed. Eyes to see, ears to hear, hands to help, mouths to speak kindness, and perhaps even a well placed street sign.
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