Summertime

School’s out today for the next couple of months. No more national anthem wafting across the park every morning at 8:45. No more a.m. and p.m. traffic as parents drop off and pick up their littles. No more playground noises, of tether ball chains against poles, kick ball, swings squeaking, girls screeching, boys in mock battles, girls piled up in little cliques like so many fall leaves blown into a pile.

Ah, the summer freedom of children.

Months stretch out before them in a vast sweeping prairie of waving grasses, unexplored trails, toes in cold streams, popsicles dripping, and entire days spent swimming.

Oh wait, that was my childhood. Do kids still do that?

There’s still a sense of freedom, but I get the feeling that it’s only a pale shadow of the freedom I enjoyed.

I took off running by ten every morning to my best friend’s house. From there the two of us would race to the park, with its open grass fields, a swampy tadpole pond, a meandering creek, a cottonwood tree-filled valley, ivy covered hills, rusty barbed wire fence lines. We spent most of the day there roaming, dreaming, romping, hiding, in imaginary wars with other kids who also played there.

Completely unsupervised.

Yes.

Not an adult in sight. Can you imagine it?

It was a different world. An innocent time. A protected, sweet existence.

A small pocket of pure perfection.

Before I Kick the Bucket

Bucket List, Schmucket List.

I’m probably one of three people on the planet who doesn’t have a bucket list.

So shoot me.

I’ve tried to make a list. I’ve started one. There’s one thing on it. I look at it and smirk. The smirk morphs into a self-deprecating laugh, which then mutates into a sinister shoulder devil.

The shoulder devil proceeds to tell me what a loser I am. The little dude whispers that I am what my life hands me. He murmurs things about obligations, commitments, real life and being self-less. I know, not your usual shoulder devil by any stretch. This one comes from the ranks of the Discouragement Platoon. He uses whatever he can get his hot little hands on.

He’s been quite effective so far in keeping me from even considering possibilities. Everything I can think of sounds unrealistic, undoable, pie-in-the-sky silly to me.

I don’t even start the list, I think of it in terms of questions and this shoulder devil smacks them down.

• Write a novel? Right…that’s funny. When would you have time for that and who would read it anyway?
• Hike the Grand Canyon? Are you kidding me? You’re seriously considering hauling this body down and back out of the biggest hole on the planet? Don’t you get out of breath going up a couple of flights of stairs?
• Explore Alaska? Sure, right after you scrape together the rent money and sweep up what’s left over.
• Build a cabin in the mountains? Silly girl, perks like that are for the beautiful, smart, adventurous people.
• Eat at a five-star restaurant? Um, aren’t you the meatloaf and pot roast queen?
• See the Statue of Liberty in person? Remember you don’t like crowds, big cities, the east coast?
• Go on a week-long mountain bike trip? That’s really funny, have you seen what you look like on a bike? 

Okay. So maybe I shouldn’t aim so high. Maybe my bucket list could take on a more realistic, more achievable, more down-to-earth feel.

For instance?

Like, oh, I don’t know.

A bucket list by definition is usually big important stuff, right?

So I’m stumped.

I could try looking at it a different way. What if I had less than a year to live? Then what would be on my list. My shoulder devil growls a low deep gurgle of aggravation and simmers himself into a poof of steam, disappearing for a while.

Phew.

• See my other two daughters get married. Enjoy that look of bliss on their faces. Throw a big party for each of them.
• See my granddaughter whose arrival is due in 3 months.
• Tell my kids that I love them more than life itself.
• Spend time with the other two Grands. Lights in my life!
• Make sure MSH knows I cherish him. Thank him for the wild ride we’ve been on together. It would have been horrific without him.
• Hug my Mom and Dad and try to infuse eternal gratitude into the hug.
• Hang out with my siblings, chatting, laughing, reliving the good old days.
• Apologize. Mend fences.
• Write down everything I can get out of my head and on to paper about who I was, who I am, what I learned.
• Laugh a bunch.

That would do it. It’s what’s really the big stuff. The big stuff that matters in the long run, in the short run, and while running out of breath.

Maybe I should get started.

That other stuff, may or may not happen. Whatever.

But the big, important stuff, I need to get ‘er done.

Skipping Rocks

It’s Gratituesday! Today I am thankful for all the time I’ve spent skipping rocks. Sending a small flat rock spinning out of  my hand to dance across the surface of the water vibrates some string in me.

Perhaps it’s the wonder of making something heavy and utterly unfloatable perform such a magical feat.

Perhaps it’s the surroundings of shore, sky, water, wind and trees.

Perhaps it’s due to the contemplative nature of finding just the right shape and size of flattened, smooth rock.

That perfect chord vibrating deep within me might even happen as I watch the circle of ripples each skip of the rock creates. One, two, three, four, FIVE! I haven’t ever skipped much further than five bounces on the surface. Some people have just the right touch and can make those rocks fly, barely touching the surface multiple times.

Water fascinates and soothes. Listening to waves, whether the quiet lapping on a pebbled lake shore, or the roar of wave crashing into rock and sand at the ocean, both lull and awe. Like watching the earth breathing, in and out, in and out, I find comfort in the rhythm and consistency.

Add water to the equation of a bored or stressed child and the sum is contentment and happiness. The ever-changing yet constant quality of  water makes it the perfect toy, the ultimate entertainment. Filling container after container, sloshing, splashing, pouring, dripping, diverting, puddling, spraying, flooding. Bath time could last for hours.

As opposite as night and day, hot and cold, rocks and water. Rocks resist movement and change. Rocks just sit there. Or so it seems. The change rock undergoes is slow, nearly invisible, requires eons. And yet there is evidence of change in the round smoothness of river rock, the zillions of grains of sand on a beach, the fissures and arches of sandstone, the worn down hill of a former mountain.

Can’t say I’ve ever heard or seen a mom say, “here’s some rocks, have fun, kid.” Not likely. It takes some direction to know how to make a rock become a toy. Or a tool for contemplation. Or a form of competition.

Rock and water.

I could use a couple of hours sending some rocks skipping across the water. Glad I learned how. Extra happy that I understand the joy of such a simple, small action.

If Only

I often say

”if only”

and

“I wish”

Although

I lack

Regret

For the

What was

because

the “if only”

would make me

what I’m not

and the

“Oh well”

that I am

I like.

    -Kami Tilby

Without

Pay attention to the without in the quotation below. Sometimes one word changes the meaning completely in a sentence. Sometimes one word can make all the difference in direction, focus and destination.

“Seven Deadly Sins-

Wealth without work

Pleasure without conscience

Science without humanity

Knowledge without character

Politics without principle

Commerce without morality

Worship without sacrifice.” 

— Mahatma Gandhi

Look at that.

To the left of each without a list of good things. To the right of each without a list of good things.

Each devoid of the other loses its luster and some of its strength.

Each coupled with the other becomes a powerful force, a better thing.

Imagine a world like that.

 

Forgetting, Remembering, Wondering

Some really smart thinkers.

Have you ever wondered why we can’t remember something incredibly important, like a close relative’s name when you need to introduce them to someone, but yet you can never forget some of the most hideous, stupid, inane, mind-squinching things?

The question circles around in my head constantly the past few days.

Why, why, why can’t I annihilate gross images, scary things, disgusting stuff from my memory banks?

Why, why, why can’t I remember wonderful people, details from a red-letter day, words that hover at the edge of my brain?

Is it the shock of a particular thought or word or image that embeds it more permanently? Does the vile and vulgar register on gray matter in a more potent formula of chemical reactions? Are happy, joyfilled, pleasant thoughts less powerful, less meaningful, less memorable for a reason?

The brain, the mind, and consciousness fascinate me.

I read a book once called Sophie’s World, which in story form explained many philosophies. It seems like it might have addressed this very question. But of course, now that I want to recall those details, I can’t.

Seems it covered Marx, Socrates, Kierkegaard, Kant, Democritus, Darwin, Plato, St. Augustine, Hume, Spinoza, Floyd, Descartes, Locke, Berkeley and a few others. It’s been at least fifteen years since I read it, so it’s miraculous I remember any of this.

I’ll have to scare up a copy of the book. I loaned my out and never got it back. When I’ve gotten through it and found an answer or two, I’ll get back to you.

Did, or will this book help me with my question? I have no idea. But it has come to mind as I’ve thought about the remembering and forgetting issue. So I’m kind of going with it. Seems like it might have opened my eyes to new ways of thinking about and viewing the world and life in general.  Somehow it feels like it might help me understand my remembering and forgetting. Who knows. Like I said, I’ll find a copy and dig in and see what I find.

head anatomy lateral view superficial details (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Most likely I need an anatomy book, or a neuroscience book. That’d probably be more helpful, but I’m less likely to understand what I’m reading.

In the meantime, I’ll keep wondering.

And remembering. Ack!

And forgetting. Eesh!

Related articles

• See-through brains (laurakkerr.wordpress.com)
• Fun with Brain Chemistry (bigsnafu.com)
• Brain Boosters To Convert Your Weakness Into Energy (focuspillsonline.wordpress.com)
• How do we remember things? (deakinscicomm.wordpress.com)
• How Can I Improve My Memory? (psych.answers.com)
• Why Do We Forget? (psych.answers.com)
• Sophie’s World [Book Review] (uhm80.wordpress.com)

Sleep and Happy Potatoes

Happy Potatoes

Sleep has been on my mind. I want some, I try to get some, I try a little and I like it. Then it sneaks off into a corner and avoids me. I manage to wrangle the sleep back into bed. Not long after that my alarm jangles the sleep out of my grip and I’m alone there in the bed with my exhaustion.

Occasionally I toy with the idea of sleep meds. But I had a near disastrous relationship with one once. And another bad relationship with another one.

I mostly have to rely on what people told me about the second experience as I wasn’t really there for it. Ironic, yes?

Doc had given me a prescription for this lovely med which all but guaranteed a blissful night of ecstasy in complete and total slumber. I was sold. Bought it, brought it home, couldn’t wait for nightfall.

If I recall correctly the doctor’s words were, “you need to BE IN YOUR BED when you take this medication!” Exclamation point. His point: this stuff works into your system very quickly.

Okay. No problem.

The first time I took it, sleep and I hit it off quickly. No glitches. Perfect. Woke refreshed and not groggy. Wowser! The stars sang, the clouds danced, the sun broke out in a chorus of hallelujahs, as did I.

A month or two later I’d kind of forgotten the warning my doc had given me.

Sleep had been elusive once more. Sneaking off into unknown hiding places, avoiding me like I had bad breath and body odor. I felt drained, exhausted, desperately in need of sleep.

Blue Potato

So I told MSH that I’d be taking one of my magic sleep pills. Always a good idea to do if you’re planning on being all but comatose for eight hours.

He said, “Enjoy!” and went off for his nightly shower.

I dragged myself to the kitchen, popped the magical sleep potion into my mouth, downed it with a glass of water. Then I saw the mound of dishes in the sink. Figured I’d deal with those real quick before I traipsed off to Neverland.

Then I felt a bit light-headed.

Oh yeah…I remembered the doc’s warning.

I’d better go to bed. The dishes can wait.

I made it to my bed. Slid between the covers for a trip into Lalaville. I hollered a goodnight to MSH.

Then the bookshelf moved.

Correction. The bookshelf morphed. It became a large round bookshelf. Which then became a large elephant. I yelled at MSH to come see the really cool bookshelf trick. He yelled something back that I couldn’t hear over the shower water running. I insisted he needed to get out of the shower and see this amazing thing our bookshelf could do.

I remember the bookshelf then floated off the floor and hovered between the bed and the shower room. I vaguely remember my middle daughter talking to me and calling out for her dad.

She tells me that I talked about the happy elephant shelf  becoming a potato, a floating potato to be precise. The colors were so pretty apparently. Then the potato was sad. A sad, sad potato. According to my daughter I became fairly nonsensical after that. Finally, she says I let my head rest on the pillow and drifted off the sleep.

The next morning I woke refreshed, but nothing stellar happened. No sun, stars or clouds singing or dancing. I simply felt rested.

Then I heard the tale of my nighttime exploits. Hard to believe, but two people swore it really happened. It felt real, I almost remembered some of it and so I believed them.

We refer to this as “the happy potato incident.” Not sure why, since the potato was apparently very sad. Happy potatoes sound better, I suppose. Who wants to remember sad potatoes. Mushy, smelly, drippy, rotting potatoes. Yuck.

I wrote “HALLUCINATIONS” on the prescription bottle for this sleep inducing, hallucinogenic drug and have never taken it again.

I’ve since learned there are even more bizarre experiences documented in many places on the internet about this particular sleeping med. I was lucky I stayed in my bed and didn’t wander. I was fortunate not to eat anything inedible. I was grateful to be among family.

Sleep and I still have a tempestuous relationship. Sometimes we are fine bedfellows. Other times we fight and argue and disagree about how much time we should spend together.

More is usually better, if you ask me.

Isn’t that what everyone wants out of a relationship?

Don’t Walk Away

I know more lonely people than I want to. I wish I had more time, more of me to go around to fill that gap in their life. Or better yet, I’d like to take on the role of matchmaker  in the friendship department.

You’d think with all the social media available people would feel more connected and less lonely. But the opposite seems true. People see the “friendships” and banter and simply feel more left out than ever. In fact, it seems to extend the junior high and high school drama into adulthood.

I think people forget that friendship is work. It requires something from both sides. Maybe we’ve all gotten a bit lazy, or too busy, or we’re shy, or we’re afraid of being hurt or judged or rejected, or whatever the excuse is and we fail to reach out. And we fail to accept the hand reaching toward us. You can’t get picky when it comes to friendship. There isn’t an ideal friend, there’s no soul mate of friendship. There are friends. They’ve got your back. That’s all that matters.

Forget “besties” and “BFF’s” and “friends forever.”  Those are a dime a dozen.

For real friendship that matters think “workhorse,” or “perseverance,” think “sacrifice.”

“I think if I’ve learned anything about friendship, it’s to hang in, stay connected, fight for them, and let them fight for you. Don’t walk away, don’t be distracted, don’t be too busy or tired, don’t take them for granted. Friends are part of the glue that holds life and faith together. Powerful stuff.” — Jon Katz

There are literally millions of quotes out there about friendship. This one bangs the nail solidly. Friendship equals work! “Don’t walk away, don’t be distracted, don’t be too busy or tired.”

Work + Sacrifice + Perseverance = Friendship

which translates into:

W + S + P = Not So Lonely

 

Friendship (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What are you willing to sacrifice? Are you ready to give up security? Are you willing to risk being hurt? Can you take the chance on relationships?

How much work are you able to put into a potential friendship? Can you do a daily phone call? Will you listen and not just expect to be listened to? Are you worth it, in your own eyes?

Can you keep trying even when the results aren’t the ideal you imagined? We’re all simply human after all. Can you resist the need to push away? Can you open your own door to whoever might be knocking?

 

 

 

 

There’s a ton of info out there about Friendship. Read on:

• Friendship: Aristotle and Cicero (torreybookblog.wordpress.com)
• Sacred Friendships (sacredfriendshipsdivinedestinies.com)
• Levels of friendship (damiology.wordpress.com)
• The Power of Friendship (jacobihaveloved.wordpress.com)
• How to maintain a friendship (101onfriendship.wordpress.com)
• Trend Report: Friendship Bracelets (thezoereport.com)
• Who Are Your True Friends? (lifestylediva.info)
• On Friendship, Pain and Other Cheerful Topics (smartassy.com)
• Tips On How to Maintain A Healthy Friendship (heytherechum.wordpress.com)
• Images of friendship (beautyoffriends.wordpress.com)

Counterpoise

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s Gratituesday! Today I am grateful beyond thankfulness. I’ve become like a sponge, saturated beyond holding another single drop. I don’t say this in a bragging way, certainly not. No. I say it with amazement and wonder and awe and tears. If I had been told a few short years ago that I could feel such joy I would have laughed, scoffed and denied the silly notion.

Why such unrestrained, ridiculous gratitude?

• The absolute happiness on my son’s face with his new bride.
• The smile beaming on my daughter’s face with her CSU cap and gown.
• The shine of love in that same daughter’s eyes.
• A pregnancy glow in another daughter.
• Another wedding in a just a couple of months.
• Being surrounded by family, extended family, friends, and love.

This seems like more than any one person deserves or should have in one short period. I kind of see it as a counterbalance to a few years ago when my pendulum swung wide and far from gratitude. Maybe it’s a reminder that life isn’t always about the bad stuff, which I believed for such a very long time.

My kids deserve it. They’ve worked hard to get to where they are, to have earned such happiness. Where they are now has very little to do with me. What they have now has everything to do with their  own determination, desires, sweat, experience and even redirection.

Does a word exist that describes this pendulum swing, counterbalance, this overabundant, joy-filled time?

Sure the word is…

Sounds delicate, doesn’t it?

It is. Fragile, tenuous, weblike, lacy, barely there.

But, oh so stunning.

Take it in, breathe deeply, enjoy.

Then remember, remember, remember.

Remember.

Riding the Killer Waves

In her book “The Year of Pleasures” Elizabeth Berg writes of a woman who loses her husband to cancer. The book focuses mainly on her life after his death. She touches tentatively on the time after his diagnosis, their brief months shared before she became a widow. This quote summed it up for me:

“It seemed to me that this was the way we all lived: full to the brim with gratitude and joy one day, wrecked on the rocks the next. Finding the balance between the two was the art and the salvation.”

When I first read this book quite some time ago I found a much different message than the one I see with the eyes I have now. Now my best friend is battling Multiple Myeloma. You can read about attempting to Laugh at Death here.

Is there balance in a life approaching its expiration date too soon?

Can balance exist in a life with an unknown, far distance expiration date?

Ms. Berg is right. At least, it feels true. We all live this way. Well, maybe not all of us. Maybe just me. And anyone who has cancer or loves someone who has cancer. Particularly if that cancer can’t be cured.

Finding a balance between gratitude and wrecked? Between full to the brim and smashed to smithereens on the rocks of despair? It just seems impossible some days.

Maybe it isn’t finding the balance, but in trying to find the balance that something happens. After all, it’s “the art and the salvation.”

Do I even know what I’m talking about or am I just flailing about looking for answers?

You’re right.

Here’s additional advice from Ms. Berg’s beautiful novel. It’s from the dying husband to the wife who will try to go on living after he’s gone:

“Don’t get too hungry, too tired or too sad.”

That’s good advice for anyone in any situation. It’s particularly great advice if you’re in mourning, or anticipating the unknown yet certain pain of loss through death.

I’m not sure it’s possible to control being “too sad” or even “too tired” when death takes its scythe to someone we love. I wonder if there really is such a thing as “too sad”?

My life is currently incredibly blessed. I’m almost embarrassed by the richness of the plate set before me; “full to the brim with gratitude and joy” very aptly describes now.  Makes me a bit nervous, to tell you the truth.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

At the same time I am riding the waves aimed for wretched rocks as I write. There is no getting off this particular wave. Cancer and death will take what they have battled long for. And I will be left empty in spite of all the brimming cups of joy and gratitude that lay in my path and swirl in the very air I breathe. And then what?

Then what?

I can’t imagine the next thing.

I suppose I will try to not get too hungry, too tired or too sad and I will try to find a new fulcrum from which to attempt a balance between wretched and grateful.

Until I have to try that particular new something I will revel in every moment given me.

Call me dramatic. Call me pessimistic. Call me Pollyanna. Call me anything.

I won’t hear you.

I’ll be busy trying.

(Photo credit: epSos.de)

Is the Glass Half Empty or Half Full? You tell me. I’m in over my head.

(The Daily Post at WordPress.com: The Glass)

Words Find Us

Been doing a brief bit of traveling this past week. So naturally my camera snapped some moments. Or at least it tried to.

Photos don’t grab the nuance in the breeze as you eat on a balcony with Pike’s Peak behind you. Photos can’t record the pride a parent feels. Photos miss the exchange of love and light in a look between two people.

Strangely, the word photos I took seemed to speak volumes about all the good stuff going on.

Scrabblize: A New Word for the Dictionary

Scrabble game (Photo credit: jcolman)

Actually I should probably spell the title of this post Scrabble I’s. It sounds the same but means something different.

Let me explain.

About year ago life pulled me up short and quick. One too many sure-I’d-be-happy-to’s, one straw too many on this particular camel’s back, far too many aches on the heart, and far too little sleep. I’d been through a couple of tough years and was working my way down off the teetering cliff edge of stress and worry.

One day it just hit. I couldn’t do it anymore. My body and my brain and my heart all just said, “Nope. No more. Not going another step. Done. Finished.”

Kaput – On Empty

Instead of getting out of bed and getting on with the getting on I dragged myself to the couch and sobbed for an hour or two or three. Then I lay there like a bag of rocks. Unmoving. Unmoved. Worn down completely.

Talked things over with MSH, with a conclusion that I needed a break, needed to get away, regardless of our non-existent resources. He pulled a rabbit out of hat and a few hours later I found myself on a plane headed to my cousin’s house. My return ticket was for a week later with the option of staying longer if I needed to.

I did a ton of sleeping, especially the first few days. I did a mountain of thinking. And got in some high quality nature time. Denver is awesome that way.  And in the evenings my cousin and I played Scrabble, live and in-person, instead of on the internet like we usually do.

As usual she won most of the games

In Scrabble you can get some weird letter combinations on your tray. Seven letters and all of them vowels is a common one. Or all of them consonants, happens more often than I care to count.

It’s not even unusual to get three or even four of the same letter on your tray at once.That’s annoying and kind of useless for scoring the big words and high numbers.

Something weird happened during one particular game. Cue the eerie music.

My tray filled up with “I” tiles.

What the aitch?

Getting a tray full of almost all the “I” tiles was aggravating. Can you think of any words with lots of I’s? I can’t. I couldn’t. Even if I cheated and used a word builder program on the computer, which I don’t do, there was little I could do with that many I’s.

There are nine tiles with the letter “I” in the version of Scrabble we were playing. I got eight of them, not all at once, but close together, with six on my tray at one time.

“Maybe the tiles are trying to tell me something,” I said to my cousin.

Ever the wise and thoughtful one, she asked me what I thought it meant to get almost all the “I” tiles.

I figured it was the “game maker’s” way of telling me I needed to think about “I” more often. It was MY turn for a while. “I” needed to take care of my needs, my health, my mental well-being, my basics.

I kind of knew that by then anyway, but this was just a strange reinforcing visual of what needed to happen.

The song by that country western dude came to mind almost immediately, you know the one, by Toby Keith:

“I wanna talk about me

Wanna talk about I

Wanna talk about number one

Oh my me my

What I think, what I like, what I know, what I want, what I see

I like talking about you you you you, usually, but occasionally

I wanna talk about meeeeee

I wanna talk about me”

I didn’t just want to talk about me. “I” needed to talk about and take care of me for a change. The Scrabble tiles were pretty clear about it.

Spinning Plates Lego Style  (Photo credit: Jameson42)

Balancing Rocks or Spinning Plates

Well, my cousin and I discussed the need for the ever-elusive concept of balance in our lives. That seems a sort of common thread in many of our conversations. How to achieve balance, why it’s so difficult to find, what to drop or add where.

I don’t normally take advice from Scrabble tiles. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. But this one time, it seemed the perfect recipe for finding balance.

To twenty or more parts “U”

add eight parts “I”

for a more reasonable, balanced, livable life.

Stir well.

Season to taste.

Add more “I” as needed.

I’m certain that escaping to paradise for a week isn’t a normally balanced way of adding more “I” to one’s life. But it sure helped mine out.

Not your typical resolution

I returned to real life with a resolve to take care of myself more conscientiously.

I have an almost daily reminder when “My turn” pops up on my computer Scrabble game. There’s often an “I” tile that tweaks my balance meter and causes me to check my “I” gauges.

Writing this blog is part of that “I” time. Every day I focus on “I” for an hour or two, doing what I love, writing, thinking, and then writing some more. Then I get on with my day, taking care of all the “U”s in my life.

(Photo credit: Emma Humphrey)

Scrabble I’s.

Scrabblize. It might not be in any dictionary, but it’s in my vocabulary anyway.

Your turn.

Have you ever gotten a message or advice you needed from an unusual source or in an odd way?

It’d be fun to hear about it, if you’d like to share.

A College Graduation Speech, Sort of, But Not

(Photo credit: Sean MacEntee)

My oldest daughter will graduate with a Bachelor’s Degree in Sociology on Saturday!!

I am one proud mama!

During the ceremony, speeches will echo out across a sea of caps and gowns. Most of what’s said will skip about the room with a low absorption rate. Most members of the audience will focus on one person in the room, their graduate.

It’s a shame there isn’t a way to personalize such a momentous occasion. To hear from each graduate about the circuitous path they followed to arrive at graduation would take weeks, or months, but oh the stories! To get a taste of the audience members perspective of that path would add a dimension never dreamed of before.

To share some small fraction of lessons learned in and out of the classroom while on that path would fill libraries.

I intended to dispense advice in my own little version of a graduation speech for my daughter. After all, I gave a graduation speech at my high school graduation eons ago.

But then, I thought of my daughter and her path to this point in her journey. She’s taught me more than I ever taught her. I’m certain of it.

She arrived in this world already confident and brave and friendly.

Now she is also: A world traveler. Caring. Smart. Beautiful. Open-minded, open-hearted. Anticipatory. Relaxed. Brave, adventurous, fun. Prepared. Strong. Kind. Willful. Opinionated. Easy going.  Friendly.  Wise.

What’s next? Graduate school? Maybe. A career? Maybe. She’s taking the summer to mull it over and relax. It’s been a long winding road.

My Advice? 

• Be yourself.
• Trust your feelings.
• Remember you are loved.
• Keep your eyes open.
• Enjoy.
• Love.
• Give.

That’s about it. No speech from me.

She has what she needs, she’ll get where she’s going with style and grace and a smile on her face.

Oh, one last thing:

• Keep in touch with your mom.

That’s all.

I love you my sweet girl!

Hooray for you!! (Photo credit: ADoseofShipBoy)

Floors and Ceilings

The following is a small excerpt from my Big Work In Progress. I thought I’d share a taste today here on the blog. Enjoy.

“Over a month after returning home from the hospital she still felt tenuous and fragile. And yet there was something in the air, or in her dreams, or in the light coming through the windows that felt different.

Sometimes life surprised her. Waking early, feeling unusually rested, she would climb out of bed feeling oddly energetic. The morning would run smoothly, the day unfolding simply with few glitches. Afternoons flowed like water into an evening. Busy or relaxed didn’t matter. On those rare days life was manageable, easier and, dare she think it, happier.

Occasionally two such days would occur back to back. She tread lightly on that second day, aware of the fragile miracle she was experiencing. Laughter bubbled out. Fun erupted. The children’s mischief and messes didn’t overwhelm her. She could think with clarity. Planning ahead provided hope instead of a sense of dread. Creating a simple meal brought satisfaction.

Even the muscles in her body responded to the difference in the very air around her. She moved quicker and accomplished tasks without achiness or apprehension.

She thought perhaps the medications were helping.

Her husband thought so, too. He’d said as much one evening after dinner. The kids had slipped away from the table and back to a bedroom to play.

(Photo credit: bazadwalker)

“Nice dinner, sweetie,” he said.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” she said running a finger along the edge of her plate. “And quick and easy to fix, too.” She felt pleased at the accomplishment.

“How are you feeling lately?” he ventured.

“Mmm. Okay, some days. I guess,” she replied.

He shook his head as if agreeing with her. There was some silence. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something more, but she didn’t.

“To me, your lows seem less low,” he said.

“Hmm.”

“And your highs, your good moments, your good days, seem,” he looked for just the right word, “tempered.”

“Tempered?”

“Yes. Not as vibrant. Happy but not too happy, I think.” His forehead furrowed as he looked at her.

“Hmm.”

“It’s like your meds have placed a floor and a ceiling on your moods.” He had emphasized the word “and” as if it were critical to the meaning of his sentence.

“Hmm,” she leaned her chin into the cup of her hand, her elbow resting on the table. “Hmm,” she repeated. “Interesting visual.”

In her mind she pictured a cartoon drawing of herself bouncing through a long tunnel, her head crashing into the ceiling, then rebounding to the floor. Seems like she had seen a “Roadrunner and Coyote” cartoon like that once. The hapless Coyote ricocheting off winding tunnels, his hard-hat light clicking off and on as he bounded helplessly along.

She laughed out loud at the memory of it.

“What?” he asked. “Why are you laughing?”

She described the cartoon to him and he chuckled slightly.

“I didn’t mean it quite like that,” he said almost apologetically, a grin spreading despite his efforts to hold it back.

“Oh, I know,” she smiled. Then she lifted a hand to his face across the table. His day old beard was scratchy but only slightly. The warmth of his cheek felt calming. Reassuring.

“Mmmm,” he said, closing his eyes at this unexpected affection. After a moment or two, he reached for her other hand across the table.

There was a squeal and burst of laughter from the kids in their bedroom, then near silence. Other than that, the house was quiet and still.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?” he asked, opening his eyes and looking at her.  She shook her head, her eyes shiny with tears she was holding back. Taking her hand from his cheek, he cradled both of her hands between his.

She couldn’t put words to what she meant, not really, but she tried anyway. In a barely audible voice she said, “Thank you. For not giving up on me.”

“Shh…” he responded, “shh.”

A Few Precious Years of Laughter

It’s Gratituesday! Today I’m thankful for the sweetness of elementary school-aged children. In many of them there still abides an innocence and freshness to their view of the world. I heard two jokes today from a friend’s daughter that reminded me of that precious time of life.

Giving credit where credit is due, these jokes came from the mouth of Kyrsten and brought a lightness to my heart and a smile to my face.

“Why did the football stadium get so hot when the game was over? 

-Because all the fans walked out!”

Kawasaki-Electric Fan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I love the image of hundreds of spinning fans wobbling out of a stadium chatting about the game.  Don’t you?

Then there was this one:

“Why can’t banks keep any secrets?

- because there are so many tellers.”

Old bank building (Photo credit: Mr Wabu)

Ten years old, bright with a sense of humor that finds delight in simple, clean word play.There’s no guile, no manipulation, no hidden agenda. How wonderful those few precious years of newness and wonder! Reminds me of my own young childhood. How lucky I was to have had that.

Reminders that such a unsullied view of the world still exists make my heart grateful and give me hope.

Small Delight, Immeasurable Joy

It’s Gratituesday! Today I am grateful for tiny pink toenails, sticky handprints, sidewalk chalk scribbles, sand-filled shoes, small hands clasped in mine, here and now thinking and snuggles.

My two-year old granddaughter calls back long-lost days as a young mother. I feel almost, but not quite, like a time-traveler. There’s something about the intervening years that allow me to relish her tiny, detail-oriented, focus-scattered perspective.

The tiniest of bugs receive her full, undivided attention as they travel across the sidewalk. Butterflies, pebbles, birds, airplanes, the moon, dirt specks, water droplets, the small and the large all occupy the whole of that specific moment. For having such a short attention span she sees more than I do in a day.

Seeing the world anew through toddler eyes opens my own eyes wide with wonder.

It’s refreshing to slow to her small steps and engage again in the tangible world.

At the same time she seems to travel at light speed at times. Focused on doing a task she’s set for herself, such as filling the tub with toys for bath time, or getting ready for a trip to the park. It can take all I have to keep up with her rocketing from room to room, books to buckets, kitchen toys to stuffed tigers, blankies to sippy cups. Her toddler speed can take my breath away with her energy and excitement and unpredictability.

There exist few other delights as rich and full as those this sweet girl brings me. For her smile that brings one to my face I am ever so grateful.

Cutest two-year old I know.

Listening to the Sun Rise

It’s been a while since I’ve listened to a morning begin.

Woke from a frightening dream last night and never did get back to sleep. So when first light began to push the night away I stepped outside.

Surprisingly a cool mid-April breeze blows through our suburban southwest neighborhood. I forget how cold the mornings can feel in the dry desert air.

Abert’s Towhee (Photo credit: Alan Vernon.)

The mix of Grackle screeching, Inca Dove cooing, Finch twitter, Cactus Wren whistle, Sparrow cheeping, Hummingbird buzzing and chipping, and Towhee calls seemed oddly loud in the early morning silence.

Then a car drove past and the bird sounds were nearly inaudible in the wake of engine noise. Not thirty seconds later, the bird sounds took over the morning’s orchestrations and filled the chill air with their busy conversation.

I’ve wished I spoke bird on more than one occasion. Do they complain about the noisy neighbors or the fretful chick that kept them awake? Do they discus their busy day ahead, the long to-do list of twig gathering, bug capturing, water hunting, territory guarding? Do they need to nudge the spouse again and again, finally resorting to singing a bit off-key to get him or her out of the nest? Is there a honey-do list for one to the other that needs details added? Do the teen birds complain about breakfast being the same old bugs again? Who knows? It’s fun to imagine though.

Or is it really just a rose-colored glasses kind of morning for them every single day of the year, happy songs, cheerful melodies, worry-free existence? I somehow don’t think it’s that either.

Curve-billed Thrasher  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The breeze picks up and with it the added tones of my windchime swirl about the air with the various bird sounds. As the light increases so does the bird chatter and real sightings of birds. A hummingbird angles in to the feeder hanging near my porch swing. After a quick sip it darts back into the nearby tree to watch for interlopers. A curve-billed Thrasher swoops in and lands in the rocks and begin its messy morning work of flinging rocks on my sidewalk and driveway in search of tasty bugs. Eat all you want, I say under my breath.

Killdeer  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There’s a bird that looks and acts surprisingly like a Killdeer in the park across the street. Seems like an odd spot to see one. Not really a nest-friendly place for a ground nest builder. Hmm. I’ll have to research that one later today.

The sun glares out over the horizon, no golden orange, no clouds to shift the light to various shades and hues. Just the burst of sudden light, strong and almost loud in its brightness. The sky seems a whitish blue, cold, thin and stark. Not sure what that means for the day ahead. Not sure I want to know.

Not many more of these gentle Spring mornings are left. Soon the early hours will be warm and then turn hot quickly as the sun breaks its night moorings. Summer’s unrelenting onslaught of blasting, blazing, blaring heat will bake us all into submission, force us indoors most hours of the day. Escapes to the cool pine mountains will haunt our nights. High elevations with lower temperatures will inhabit our daydreams. Rain will be a distant wish, clouds a taunting temporary mirage.

Perhaps this is why I had a sleepless night. Perhaps I needed reminding how rare and precious these cool hours are. I’ve let mornings slip by the wayside since my January-long cough set me back. I’ve slept in too many mornings, too many days. Perhaps it’s time. Perhaps I need to wake early every day to dip my psyche in the pool of morning song and early light.

There are few better ways to begin a day than this.

Hummingbird (Photo credit: alana sise)

The lack of sleep is catching up to me. Maybe, now that the sun is up, the morning started, the heat working its way into the air, I can catch an hour of sleep before I really have to start the day.

More than likely the pillow will lose that battle and I’ll slog through my day ahead, drowsy and fuzzy headed and ineffective. I really should get some shut eye while I can, and for the next hour, I can.

I’ll also get to bed earlier tonight. I can feel the need for another morning reverie on the horizon for tomorrow.

The Best Love Song I’ve Heard in Ages

Yup! That’s the way I’m calling it. The best love song I’ve heard in ages.

“The Woman I Love”

The first time I heard it was on Pandora, the live version of a simple guitar and Jason Mraz with his relaxed song styling.

Pleasantly surprising, refreshing.

But even more I found words and music that said what I’ve tried to explain for years.

I could be wrong but I think this is how most women want to be loved. Unconditionally, no matter what, regardless of our craziness, or our moods, or frustrations or tiredness or self-loathing. We just want what this song describes.

Well, I do anyway.

So I’m posting two versions for you to enjoy. First is the version I heard, live, just the guitar and Jason. The lyrics are there if you want to follow along. Or, you could close your eyes and just take in the song.

Then the second one is the official video with the backup band and visual interpretation. I prefer just to hear the words with the tune, get the meaning in my head, not someone else’s idea of what it means.

Either way, Thank you Jason Mraz, for a great love song in an era with so few really good ones.

“I’m holding steady, my heart’s at home…”

Sweet!

Prickly and Temporary, Yet Beautiful

These often produce a kiwi like fruit after blooming only 48 hours.

Delicate, yet neon, pink. Even the spines on this have a bit of a pink hue.

Coral collar among the sharpies.

Pops of yellow all over this prickly thing.

Ocotillo usually look like dead pokey sticks. Then spring comes and they green up and put out these bright flamelike flowers at their tips.

Lots of bugs around these flowers, not sure why.

A smaller barrel cactus with a cluster of nearly neon orange flowers.

A single barrel cactus bloom sharing some quality time with a bee.

Trying to Count Blessings in a World of Hurt

It’s Gratituesday. Today I’m thankful for the chance to drive my friend Kathy to her appointments at the Mayo Hospital and Mayo Clinic. There’s a mixed bag of blessings.

• I’m grateful that I have a very flexible job and a generous boss who allows me time off to help Kathy out.

• I’m grateful that two Mayo facilities are within a forty-five minute drive from our neighborhood. Some people fly from around the country or out of the country to get treated and then fly home again. Kathy and I can hop in the car an hour before her appointment, stop for a soda and get there right on time.

•  I’m grateful for the extra time Mayo and all those horrific yet helpful poisons/drugs has given me with Kathy. Every single day I get to hear her cute voice saying hello is a blessing to me. I’m just selfish with that one.

• I’m grateful that between the hospital and the clinic is a great place called Flo’s. It’s Kathy’s favorite place to get Chinese food this side of China. We’ve shared some great laughs there, buried a few tears, ignored reality momentarily and eaten like royalty.

Winding through that gratitude, hovers this pain Kathy continues to feel as the cancer works its slow, wicked way around and through her life and body. I’m not grateful for that, let’s be honest here. If I could I would take away her suffering, cut this kind of cancer out, eradicate such misery from the world. But that is not in the cards, not part of the plan, not one of the options. Nope.

Damn it all.

So I accept and hang on to what I can, our friendship, her powerful example of bravery, moments of good amidst the profound sadness and misery.

Fire up the grill Flo, we’re on our way.

What Are You Reading?

Someone else’s Mark Twain collection. Sigh. I’m a bit jealous.  (Photo credit: terryballard)

Here’s another elementary school find, lovingly posted above the library doors. Being the book addict that I am you can understand my liking for this quote.

“The man who does not read good books

has no advantage over the man who can’t read them.”

- Mark Twain

Of course, Mark Twain would say something like this since he was an author, a brilliant humorist, a curmudgeon and a bit egocentric.

The author, Mr. Twain, looking grouchier than usual for this photo, probably because he had nothing good to read that day.

I’m always a little taken aback, speechless actually, when someone tells me they don’t read books. The reason has never been that they can’t read. It’s that they have no interest in reading.

I stand there, mouth hanging open as if they’ve just transformed into an alien life form as I watched. How can one not read books? That’s like saying you don’t breathe oxygen, or eat food, or that you’ve given up sleep! At least it is for me.

Torture for me would be to put me somewhere with nothing, and I mean nothing, to read. I can entertain myself, if I have to, with the back of a cereal box, product labels, a newspaper, recipes, lists, rules, captions, advertisements. I just need words to read!! I can’t go very long without them.

But I prefer a good book. Literature. Thought provoking, inspired, well written. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before in past blog posts, at least a dozen times or more. For which I apologize. I’m a little obsessed. I’m sorry.

Lately I’ve been reading “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks,” which is eye-opening and surprising and wonderful and sad all in one. I’ve got a list of lighthearted novels to pick from after that. I need something to lift my spirits, make me laugh and shine some light into the darkness. After that I’m thinking of tackling “Don Quixote,” but I’m not sure. That may have to wait until summer.

Are you reading anything good?

Care to share with me?  Fiction or non-fiction. I’m always looking for my next good read!

Lessons Learned in a Second Grade Classroom

If you don’t have a child in elementary school, you might have forgotten the sights, sounds and smells of school. Children come at a person with speed, wit, surprising widsom, lack of logic, silliness, lack of attention, a trainload of baggage from home and growly tummies.

If you’ve forgotten the sensation of being a kid, visit an elementary school. Sure, you’ll have to get permission, and convince them that you aren’t a scary, stalker type person, but the hassle could be worth your time in the memories it evokes, if for nothing else.

The following two photos are from an actual second grade classroom.

Five basic rules for two different concepts. Nothing major or groundbreaking.

But definitely missing in society on an all too frequent basis.

I know grown adults who don’t get these concepts.

I know teenagers who have yet to learn these basics.

I don’t always 100% of the time follow these rules, but I am aware of them and try to be a good listener and a good speaker. Sure I fall short at times.

Seems like common sense. But often what passes as common sense is simply something we learned as young children, as second graders, as tots at mom’s knee, out in the yard from pops, while shucking corn with Grandma.

I could be wrong, but I think second grade teachers know more about real life than most of us give them credit for.

Makes sense to me.

 

Anyone Up for a Game of Scrabble?

April 13 is National Scrabble Day.

I think there’s at least one or more “holiday” for every day in the year. Don’t even get me started on the weekly observances, the monthly commemorations. The lists are endless. The silly things people want to “celebrate” boggles my mind.

Scrabble (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But Scrabble?

That’s different.

Scrabble was my portal into the world of words. My Grandparents owned that mystical box with the beautiful wooden tiles, letters pressed into them with the a tiny number in the bottom right hand corner. The colored squares in a radiating design mesmerized my very young mind.

Then to watch words form, seeing the connections and intersections of the words, helped me see the patterns and understand the different sounds and connections of letters. Two letter words beyond if, or, it, of? Wow! And then bigger words appeared that I’d never heard and wanted to know and use.

I wanted to play. I wanted to play and score high points. I wanted more words in my life.

Scrabble (Photo credit: williamhartz)

I didn’t get to play often as we didn’t own a Scrabble board at my house. But when I got the chance, I was in all the way.

Then a few years ago, in a serendipitous reconnection with a cousin I’d lost touch with for decades, I found Scrabble again. It became our medium for rebuilding a relationship. Those little chats we had as we each played a word or two over the internet were really parts of a bridge. Sure the game is fun and builds my vocabulary, but the real score was a solid friendship, a supportive two-way road between two family members, two almost-sisters.

Now we text, email, Facebook, call, and even travel across a mountain range to visit in person. Thanks to a simple game of letters we are now the cousins and friends we started out to be.

So yes, today I celebrate the game of Scrabble!

I hit a lifetime bingo high, with a triple letter score included, simply by playing the word R-E-L-A-T-I-V-E.

What it really spells is F-R-I-E-N-D.

Am I lucky, or what?

“Profound Fear and Extraordinary Hope”

Fourteen years ago today, Elie Wiesel gave a speech at the White House as part of the Millennium Lecture Series titled “The Perils of Indifference.” You can read it here.  I would strongly encourage you to read its entirety.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Many years ago I read “Night,” Wiesel’s book about his Holocaust experience. I have read many books on this topic but none shook me to the core as this one did. 

There was no holding back, no reserve of anger carefully stored for later. He gave this reader no simplified synopsis of a horrific experience, no tight bow of conclusion, no hope for a future in a world where such things can happen.

Published in 1960, a mere fifteen years after the events of which he writes, I would have been surprised to find, as many other holocaust writers oddly provided, a reconciliation.

I found myself reading book after book of such atrocities, not by choice, but as an unwilling onlooker in a horrific accident, unable to turn away. Staring gape-mouthed at the unbelievable, I kept reading. Until one day I had to stop or be swallowed up by the darkness of it all.

Depressive by nature, I’ve known I can’t subject myself to so much sorrow, so much sadness. And yet, I had allowed myself the slow slide into hopelessness through my reading and study.

I climbed out of that depression, dragging behind me the weight of all I’d read, all the hurts I’d tried and tried not to empathize with.

When I came across his speech from fourteen years ago, I was interested to see what forty years had brought about.

He was still honest, he was still direct and his words still stung with some anger, but there was a difference.

The final paragraph spoke volumes. And the last five words of his speech, to say the very least, surprised me.

“I think of the young Jewish boy from the Carpathian Mountains. He has accompanied the old man I have become throughout these years of quest and struggle. And together we walk towards the new millennium, carried by profound fear and extraordinary hope.”

Elie Wiesel – April 12, 1999

English: Elie Wiesel, aged 15. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the Clutches of Independence

Nearly sixteen.

Sweet.

That meant getting a driver’s license. Which meant learning to drive.

Which meant learning to drive the vehicles my parent’s owned.

Dually or Van?

Parked in our driveway was a dual-wheel Clydesdale of a truck that had, in its former life, been a flatbed hay-hauling workhorse. Dad painstakingly and lovingly sculpted that behemoth into a very useful vehicle with a bed that contained the dual wheels within it, not jutting out like most trucks with four back tires. It was brown and big and serious.

Then there was the VW van. Classic. Red, with a skiff of white along the roofline, it was like driving a putt-putt car. Lots of room for all us kids, cold in the winter, probably got great mileage. The heater on it was pretty much useless in the snowy below-zero temperatures we had all winter long, so Dad had installed a small gas heater that vented to the outside, just behind the driver’s seat. Clever, that Dad of mine.

The Sweet Spot

Both vehicles had one thing in common. A stick shift, also known as a manual transmission. That meant understanding the workings of the combustible engine just enough to know when to push in the clutch with my left foot as I eased up on the gas with my right foot, wrangled the long shaft into the mystically correct position for the next gear up or down, and miraculously moved forward. Reverse, ironically, was the easiest gear to find. Finding the sweet spot of the gear I needed was usually an exercise in frustration.

Add in that we lived in the foothills, so that nearly every road was at an incline and learning to drive was adventurous, to say the least.

The Ins and Outs and Ups and Downs

Geared so low, I had to start that truck out out in second gear, even on hills. Memorizing the position of the gears, what pattern they lay in was not easy. Then manipulating that long stick into place to actually be in a gear was another trick. The truck required less finesse than the van. In fact, it almost needed a kick, like a horse to get it to settle into the correct gear. I sat at more than one intersection, engaged in a fight with that stick shift, often nearly in tears.

The van seemed easier to get the stick into place, but required more gas and quicker left foot action to get the clutch to engage. I was more confident driving that van. More certain of being able to get to where I was going without killing the engine, without grinding the gears, without embarrassment. It was a much easier car to drive. Sometimes too easy.

(Photo credit: kenjonbro)

Not long after getting my license I was bringing a couple of  “Icee” slushes home from the Seven-eleven when one tipped over on the floor. (No cup holders back then.) I leaned over to pick up the spilled cup, while the van was still in motion.  Not a smart move, ever.

When I looked up a mailbox was coming at me. I swerved, just clipping the mailbox pole and ended up, luckily, settling the two-thousand pound hunk of metal I was driving into a bushy fir-tree, thick to the ground with soft branches and needles. I had knocked the mailbox off the pole. I got out, set the miraculously undamaged box on top of the pole, checked for damage to the van, and seeing none, drove home. I was lucky. Never told anyone about that. Until now.

I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has passed by now

After that I was a fully engaged, eyes-on-the-road-at-all-times driver. Careful, aware of the scary amount of weight and potential destruction I sat perched on.

Since those two vehicles, I haven’t had the chance to drive many other manual transmissions. It’s a skill that’s extremely handy. I can drive either automatic or manual and I’m proud of it. Relatively few people know how to do that anymore.

There’s something very freeing, controlling the rate and timing of the gears shifting in a car you’re driving. It’s a race-car kind of sensation. The sense of control, speed, and power is exhilarating. That car sound little kids make when they play with their toy trucks is the sound of a car shifting gears. RRRRRRRRRR….rrrrrrr….RRRrrrrr. That’s the sound you’ll hear on a race track.

To a sixteen-year-old driver that’s the sound of freedom.

More or Less

Perusing the book store recently I came across some great advice. I took a photo of it so I could remember and memorize it. I think it may serve as my new mantra.

Hope, breathe, meaningful words and love. I need more of these.

Seems direct. Easy to recall. Not always easy to do.
But I can try.

(If anyone knows who I can thank for coming up with this great list, please let me know, so I can give them credit and kudos.)

Had You Known

Once in a great while I run across something that just floors me. This quote is one of those. You might want sit down before you read it.

Some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted but getting what you have, which once you have got it you may be smart enough to see is what you would have wanted had you known. 

~Garrison Keillor




Sure, take a seat. Think that one over.

Yup, you’ll need to read it again, slower the second time.

And maybe one more time.

Such an opposite thought to our frantic to-do list, achievement oriented lifestyle, it’s not your standard “reach for your dreams” kind of sentiment, is it? No, it’s the complete opposite of most “motivational” quotes.

Here’s an idea which is very nearly blasphemous in its quiet advocacy for contentment, fulfillment, serenity, satisfaction, happiness, gratitude, pleasure, gladness, or ease.

I like it.

Let it sift through your thoughts to see if maybe it’s an idea you need.

Guest Post: Can You Say Stranded with a Country-Western Drawl? (#2)

Song lyrics often have unusual roots.  One of my daughter’s penciled the lyrics to a song once, while we were stranded, after another one of our infamous car breakdowns. She even put the lyrics to music, which our family and a few of our friends have been privileged to hear over and over again. Unfortunately,  it’s never been recorded.  You’ll have to imagine your own tune to go with the delightful word stylings of this charming child.

As her perspective is unique, quirky and more entertaining than mine., I naturally, I asked my daughter to guest post this particular tale of being stranded. She’s available for interviews, guest appearances and autographs every other Thursday.

Please enjoy Leanne LeCheminant’s version of Another Stranded Tale of Insanity, Silliness, and Misery:

“If you are a devoted reader of Kami’s blog (or MeeMa, as I affectionately call her), then you are well acquainted with the fact that my family has no shortage of car trips.  We also have had more than our share of crappy cars.

Crappy cars + lots of car trips = lots of crappy car trip stories.

Blessedly, most unfortunately, since I have been married, I haven’t been able to participate in nearly as many memorable family car trips, which may explain why all of my car trip memories are kind of blurred together; it’s been so long.  Or maybe it’s because most of them occurred along the same route between Arizona and Utah.  Or maybe it’s because there’s just been so many of them, and they’ve all been so endless, insane, and 97% of the time they involve being stranded.

View of the Monument Valley, Between Arizona and Utah. We don’t really drive through here ever, but some parts of our trip look similar to this dry, arid landscape. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

(It’s funny: when discussing car trips with my family, one of us will inevitably ask, “Wait, was that the trip where we were stranded in (insert remote location in the vast desert of northern AZ/southern UT) or (insert other remote location in the vast desert of northern AZ/southern UT)?”)

There is one trip in particular however, that will be forever seared in my brain, maybe because we actually WEREN’T making the exodus between Arizona and Utah.  No, this car trip was much more local.  It was a camping trip just outside Payson, Arizona.  From our humble abode in the suburban east valley of Arizona, Payson is only about two hours away, a breeze compared to the 11 to 15 hour journey to Utah.

I was probably around ten or twelve, and  I’m pretty sure it was the middle of summer.  My dad, being the wilderness man that he is and always-eager to escape the 115 frillion degree heat of an Arizona summer, announced that he was going camping, and whoever wanted to come was welcome.  My mom of course joined in, craving the familiar smell of pine and fresh mountain air, as well as myself and my younger sister.

After loading our older white Mazda Van with gear, we piled in and headed out.  We blasted the air conditioner and slowly cooled down as we left the greater Phoenix area.  After about a half hour though, Dad switched off the AC.

A familiar scene on our road trips. (Photo credit: Steve & Jemma Copley)

“Hey, why’d you turn it off?” I complained.

“The car’s starting to overheat.  We’re going to give it a break.”

I groaned.  I knew (still know) approximately 0.4% about cars, but I had had plenty of experience with the word “overheat.”  I said a silent prayer that our trusty Van would carry us through.

My prayer must have bounced off the drooping fabric ceiling though, because one very miserable and  sweaty hour later, we had to stop at a gas station in Payson.  The car was smoking, the engine was completely overheated, and there was no way we’d be able to trek up the ever-steepening inclined roads to our desired remote camping location, probably another half hour to an hour away.  Conveniently, there was an auto shop right next to the gas station.

“Kami, why don’t you take the girls inside where it’s cool and get some drinks,” my dad said.  ”I’ll take it next door to get it checked out.”

NOT the actual Texaco we stopped at. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The three of us eagerly jumped out of the car and collectively sighed in relief as the wave of cool air washed over us as we walked in.  When the door opened it let out an electronic signal, sounding like a door bell: “Ding-dong.”

We got a couple of bottles of soda and sat down at a table in the snack area, cooling off and watching the heat undulate off the asphalt outside.

My sister and I, being as young as we were, quickly got bored.  The gas station was pretty busy, customers in and out, and the door kept ringing, “Ding dong” every time it opened.  Every time it would “ding-dong” I would respond by singing the corresponding part of a song from the movie, The Wizard of Oz: “The witch is dead!”  Now, the gas station was pretty busy, so the number of my responses of “The witch is dead!” piled up quick.  So did my younger sister’s annoyance.

“Arrrrrrgh, Leanne, shut UP!”

Of course this just egged me on, and I would laugh and then whisper it, but still loud enough for her to hear:

DOOR: DING-DONG

ME (whispering): The witch is dead! *giggle giggle*

LITTLE SISTER: Leanne, shut UP!

I think it was my Mom’s brilliant idea to distract me by suggesting I write a song about our adventure.  She pulled a paper napkin out of the dispenser, slapped it in front of me with a pencil and said, “I’m going to go see how the car’s doing.  You two stay here.”

My sister gave her a look as if to say, “Really, you’re going to leave me here with her?!?!?” but I just grinned.  My wheels were already turning.

The ONE AND ONLY ORIGINAL someday-worth-millions NAPKIN.

Over the next hour or so, I penned my one and only undiscovered top-of-the-charts, platinum-award-winning country song, on a napkin, with a pencil, at a gas station:

STRANDED IN PAYSON (copyrighted 2001 ish)

 

Stranded in Payson in a Texaco, by the side of the road.

Five thirty on a Friday afternoon.

And every time a customer walks into the store

the door rings ding dong.

 

So I say:
Ding dong the witch is dead

ding dong the witch is dead

ding dong the car is dead toooooo

and I wish that I was dead

just like the witch and the car.

Yes, ding dong the witch is dead.

 

Ma ‘n Pa went to go check on the car,

but I’m pretty sure that it’s still dead.

My sis and I are so bored we’re playing with bottle caps

and a customer just walked in through the door.

 

So I sing:

Ding dong the witch is dead,

ding dong the witch is dead!

Ding dong the car is dead tooooo.

And I wish that I was dead

just like the witch and the car.

Yes, ding dong the witch is dead.

 

(Bridge)

Cuz bein’ dead would be much better 

than bein’ stranded

in Payson

in a Texacoooooooo-oh-woah-woah

by the SIIIIIIIIIIIIDE of the ROOOAD

 

ding dong the witch is dead!

Ding dong the car is dead toooooo!

And I wish that I was dead,

just like the witch and the car.

Yes, ding dong the witch is dead.

 

Stranded in Payson in a Texaco

by the siiiiiiiiide of

the roooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooad.

 

[Definitely an award winning song, don't ya' think?]

After a couple of hours at the car shop, our little Van was ready and rarin’ to go.

Looking up at the Mogollon Rim east of Payson Arizona (Photo credit: Al_HikesAZ)

Napkin in hand, song completed, my future stardom in country music ensured, we hopped in. I bid a fond farewell to my beloved Texaco, and miraculously, we even made it to a camping spot before it got dark.

Camping was relaxing and enjoyable, and we got home okay, as I recall, so of course we all said, “We’ll have to do this again sometime!”

(Oh and yes, I know I totally could have been the next Taylor Swift.  But I wisely decided to forego the celebrity lifestyle.  Just way too much riches and fame for me).”

Forget Sweet Sixteen, It’s All About H.O.R.S.E.

Bouncing the basketball across the driveway to my son, I imitate a teen boy swagger and say, “You didn’t think I could do that one, did you?”

Standing where he caught the ball, he bounces it once, twice, tilts his head back, then lobs the ball with finesse into a full arching trajectory into the waiting hoop.

I am doomed.

I step into the spot he just shot from, bounce once, bounce twice, tilt my head back, let the ball fly and watch as it ricochets off the rim and lands in a nearby bush.

“S!” my sons exults.

“You’re still ‘H’,” I counter, as if his one missed shot were a significant point difference.

He usually won most of our games of H.O.R.S.E.  At least I had a modicum of a chance to win, where at a regular game of one-on-one, he’d always win. He was lighter, faster, more experienced and he had the added pressure of shame if you lost to your Mom.

When it comes to shooting hoops, I have no idea how my son felt about it. Young enough to not be too embarrassed about hanging out with his Mom, we had some good times. If he had other guys to play against, I was, of course, not particularly needed or welcomed. But given a boring afternoon or early evening, I was as good an opponent as any. I enjoyed the exercise. And it brought back some fun memories.

As a girl, how many times I had looked on as a giggling gaggle of girls watched a posturing bunch of boys playing a game of shirts and skins. I didn’t care for the gaggle. I always wanted to actually play.

Back then, I spent time practicing shots on my own when a basket and a ball were available, so that when the chance came around, I could pull my weight. Or at least, I’d have decent enough skills to make the basic shots in a game of H.O.R.S.E.

A great equalizer, the game of H.O.R.S.E. pits young against old, short against tall, talented against beginner. The rules can be tweaked to accommodate more than two players, make concessions for weaker players, give everyone a chance to enjoy and feel like there’s a chance, however slim, of winning. Or consummate players with incredible shots in their repertoire can wow onlookers and hone skills.

The ball lends itself to contemplation, the tiny round dots on the surface of the ball mesmerize and calm. The feel of the rubber, smooth and sticky, firm and pliable, relaxes your hands. The reverberating echo of the ball as it hits the concrete, bounces back into your hands, over and over and over, in a hypnotic lull.  Then there’s the smell of dust on the ball mingled with a sheen on faces and the slight tang of sweat.

There’s something about the kind of conversation that goes on during a game of H.O.R.S.E.. Talk simply evolves. Words slip out more easily. Chatting happens about things that would never get discussed around the dinner table.

The hoop, netted or not, calls out, taunts, whispers. Again, again, again, just one more time, and one more. One more shot, one more game, one more bounce.

If you’ve never played a game of H.O.R.S.E. you can find the rules here. If it’s been a while since you’ve picked up a basketball maybe it’s time. Maybe running your fingers across the texture of the ball, letting it bounce beside your feet, tossing it between one hand and the other, sending it flying toward ‘nothing but net,’ is just what your soul needs today.

I can feel a game coming on. Anyone up for a game of H.O.R.S.E?

Needing to ramp up your Basketball Lingo? Here’s a great spot for a refresher.

Common basketball terms

I need to sound really cool, like I know the game in my sleep!

I’m not familiar with this game you’re talking about

It’s Gratituesday! Thank Goodness for Trusty Dusty

For the past three years I’ve driven a Toyota extended cab pickup truck. I don’t know the name of the model, or even the year. Here’s a photo of it. That should give you an idea of the year. Ish.

As you can see, it’s not a newer model vehicle.

In fact, I was recently transporting several teenage girls one evening in it. As we pulled into traffic I rolled my window down, meaning, I turned the crank handle to open the window.

“What they heck did you just do?” one of the twelve-year olds said in disbelief.  “Did you just open the window by turning something?”

“This is a really, really old car isn’t it?” another one said.

Stunned into momentary silence I shook my head. I suppose the truck is probably older than those girls are. Strange thought.

I considered referring to the Flintstone’s foot-powered vehicles, but knew they wouldn’t know what I was talking about.

But wait, there’s more!

My truck also has a cassette-tape player that works!  Luckily, the teens in my car didn’t notice that bit of antique hardware. I might have to show them next time we go somewhere. Won’t they be overwhelmed with awe! More likely they’ll be completely convinced of my total lack of coolness.

There’s also a back seat that holds three people with smallish legs. It’s only a two-door truck though, so getting back there takes some maneuvering and flexibility.

When I start the engine on this vehicle, you can hear it!  How’s that for amazing?

Sometimes when I drive my best buddy Kathy somewhere in her van, I inadvertently try to start it when it’s already running!  Oops. If I can’t hear the engine I assume I need to start it. That’s how mine works.

Her van, a newish one with power windows, power locks, powertrain warranty, and some get up and go is a delight to drive. In her van I can make left hand turns with ease and speed. In her van I merge onto the freeway without any puffs of smoke coming out the exhaust pipe.

My truck drives more like its get up and go has got up and went.  It wants to think about picking up speed. There’s some hesitation in its idling. If the AC is running while I’m stopped at a light, the cool air will stop and warm air will blow instead. Kind of temperamental, wouldn’t you say?

Is it wise to name your vehicle?

Kathy has named my little truck ‘Trusty Dusty.’ She named her van  ‘Chocolate.’  I’m a little jealous. But both names fit. Hers is smooth and delightful. Mine looks like it needs a wash all the time. In spite of its slowness and well-used looks, it gets me where I need to go.

I don’t usually take Kathy anywhere in Trusty Dusty because the shocks aren’t very absorbent, or whatever they need  to provide a smooth ride. Her bones can’t take hits from bumpy roads like my truck offers. So if her van is available, we drive that. (Well, I drive, she rides, let’s be clear about that, since as I wrote about in this past blog post, she shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a car.)

We do own another car, but it decided to give out last week. It’s been on the brink for a while. In fact the mechanic had said, “don’t take it out-of-town, always have a cell phone with you and just drive it until it drops, then buy something else.” Three drivers, three work schedules, one vehicle makes for tricky math, but we manage. We have before.

I like my little truck. It’s handy. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve hauled stuff in it. Beds, appliances, camping gear, wedding decorations, food, top soil, bikes, plants, potting soil, water barrels, rocks, college kid supplies, moving boxes, even catering supplies and meals. It’s been ‘worth its weight in gold’ on many occasions. (I suppose if that cliché were really true I’d own some spiffy newer model year kicking it into high gear dual wheel truck with shiny all over it.)

Yup, that’s over 200,000 miles your reading.

We thought last year that it was time to retire Trusty. I was sad and forlorn about it. Then my son decided he might be able to perform surgery on it and bring it back to life.  Our driveway looked a bit like Frankenstein’s laboratory for a few weeks. (Much to the HOA’s chagrin.) A spider took up residence between a wheel and the edge of the driveway. It thought it had found a permanent home, no doubt. But tools, skills, the internet, perseverance and desperation won out and Trusty revived for another 15,000 miles or more.

Sure I’d like to drive something sleek and shiny with a state of the art sound system, and all the bells and whistles. But that’s not really in the budget, nor has it ever been.  We paid cash for Trusty, so no monthly payments. That’s a nice bonus. Maybe someday I’ll drive something admirable and more reliable. Or maybe not. I’m just glad I have some means of transportation with AC for the desert heat.

Luckily, I can simply keep on keeping on! For the time being.

It Was a Wonderful Life!

Yesterday I got the chance to watch the second installment of home 8mm films that my Dad has transferred to DVD. If something like that doesn’t fire up the old neurons of memory, then nothing will!

Ben Lomond Peak (Photo credit: OwnUtah.Com)

I was the opening shot, well, me and Mom. I looked extra adorable in my frilly bonnet and chubby cheeks. Mom looked stylish as she always did and does. There followed scenes of my older brother in various stages of helping Mom in managing this new little sister he had.

Loved seeing Dad do his famous tricycle riding trick. He’d kneel on the back and pedal with his hands. That’s not an easy feat to pull off, but he could do it with a grin.

Ah, they were so young! The world seemed new and young. Life was new. For me, that is when the world began. (Insert a long, audible sigh here, if you would please.)

I cheered my baby self on when I lifted my head, crawled, walked and fell down. I watched, amazed, as I saw myself grow from a baby to a five-year old in less than twenty minutes. Looking back on my life, sometimes that ‘s about what it feels like. Yet, my childhood had a timeless quality about it that felt as if I’d always be a child. I was protected, provided for, well-loved, and given a wonderfully varied exploratory life filled with fun and adventure.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A trip or two to Yellowstone National Park was a highlight and a memory I still cherish. The bears ran as freely and as abundantly as chipmunks. Even without the film memory jog, I still remember the fishing bridges there, seeing fish thick in the water. Nothing can erase the memory of the smells of Yellowstone, the sound of footsteps on the wooden walkways, the feel of my hand in Mom’s hand.

I watched as we enjoyed breakfast picnics in the mountains, trips to Bear Lake, camping trips, hikes up Ben Lomond. What child could ask for more? Not me. I was happily allowed to explore my world, taken out and about often to see the wonders that this life has to offer. I think I fell in love with it all at a very early age because of exposure to so much abundance. I haven’t been able to narrow in on one particular favorite. The world is full and rich and I have tried to take in and be a part of as much of it as I have been able to.

(Photo credit: moirabot)

One thing I found particularly fascinating in this DVD that I’d hardly noticed in the first one was the backdrops in each scene. There was the beautiful hexagon shapes in the Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt on the bed my brother and I were playing on. The cars that drove past were classics from the 50′s and 60′s. The television was vintage, the furniture now collector’s items. Even the drinking glasses were particular to that era. What I wouldn’t give to own a set of aluminum colored drinking cups now!  The piano I learned to play on, the one destroyed in my parent’s house fire, made an appearance. Changes in the landscaping of the yard, neighbor’s houses I haven’t seen in decades, the up close view of the mountains that surrounded my childhood home all served as key elements in the background to this trip down memory lane.

Feeling very nostalgic today. Wishing for a time machine to visit those innocent, sweet days of love and learning.

Thanks Dad and Mom for the DVD, for the amazing childhood, for a wonderful life!

The Sun Rises on a New Day

Mornings are second chances. Another day to try to get things right.

Perhaps that’ why mornings feel so good to me. The earlier I am up, the greater the potential for getting a firm grip on the day. That, of course, requires a discipline in the evening that I seem to lack lately. Early days can’t happen if the night lasts too late.

Living with a bunch of night owls makes it tough to go to bed at a “decent” time. I don’t want to miss out on anything or anyone.

Then I see a sun rise, like this one and I’m reminded of that second chance feeling. Perhaps I need some sunrise photos displayed near my bed, to coax me under the covers.

There’s so much I miss in a morning when I stay in bed. Besides the sun rise, there’s the first songs the birds call out, the coolness of the air, the fresh feeling that early light bestows on every object.

And the quiet. The quiet in the morning, especially on a weekend morning, settles me in a way little else can.

My life overflows with noise. One of the most precious commodities I know is stillness, quietness, silence.

That alone should remind me that I want, no, crave, an early morning.

A second chance waits for me tomorrow.  Until then, I’ll see what I can do with the one I got this morning.

“Angels Among Us”

Do you believe in serendipity? Those “happy accidents” or “pleasant surprises” that happen in a day to make things go well. As one dictionary defined it “the faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident.”

Or are you more the type who believes in divine intervention? That’s defined as “a miracle perceived to be caused by a Deity’s active involvement in the human world.”

Or maybe you just figure life unfolds however it does and prefer not to give things a name.

Most mornings I wake slowly and think of two things. “What day is it?” Which kick-starts my automatic scheduling, planning brain functions.

The other thing I think is “what should I write this morning on my blog?”

I woke with three words in my head this morning.

Angels among us.

Why?

It could be that I’m still feeling grateful for all those people who helped saved my son’s life two years ago. I don’t want to let go of that amazing feeling. I consider people who help me or my family or friends as earthly angels. Whether they intend to be or not, that is how I see them.

To explore why those three words were in my head I figured I’d google it. Maybe there’s a poem or some lyrics that will help steer my writing for the day.

The first hit on googling “Angels among us” was a song by Alabama that I’d never heard of. So I click on the lyrics to see what it says.

It’s a nice tie-in to what I posted on Tuesday about my son’s rescue.

So then I clicked on the link to Alabama’s video and found myself crying.

Call me sentimental. Call me sappy. Call me a believer in angels.

I don’t mind.

I feel blessed by so many people in my life. Each one of them angels in their own right, having in my eyes at least, already earned their “wings.”

I also believe in Angels from wherever divine help comes from. I’ve had too many “happy accidents” to consider them accidental. You’re free to keep thinking however you want. I, for one, believe.

Enjoy the music. It’s a sweet melody, with tender-hearted lyrics. And who could go wrong with a song by “Alabama”?

(If you’re more into Demi Lovato she fairly recently did a cover of the song as well here.)

Wishing you a day filled with serendipity or angels or both!

It’s GRATITUESDAY! A Guest Post “Saving a Life!”

It’s GRATITUESDAY today! Yes, I capitalized it, because I am extra grateful today. Two years ago, three people saved my son’s life. Rarely does a day pass that I don’t think about and feel thankful to them for being willing to help out a stranger. Thank you Michael Harrison, Rustin Crawford and Sarah Crawford for being Angels that day!!

Sarah wrote on her blog about the rescue. So in celebration, today’s post is Sarah Crawford’s words telling her story of saving my son’s life. It’s a great story, with a wonderful ending. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

From the Crawford Chronicles: Saving a life!

“Rustin and I were blessed to be at the right place at the right time to help save an unconscious man from a burning car on Saturday (March 26, 2011) evening at 5:00 pm. Rustin was driving (just got his permit) and we were headed to a lacrosse friends house. As soon as we turned from our street to the main street that runs through our neighborhood (Juniper) we saw a white car parked on the side of the road with a lot of white smoke coming from the hood and pouring over the car.

Another person (Michael Harrison, whose family I know well) had already stopped and had discovered that there was a person in the car who was unconscious. Rustin immediately pulled over and ran to help Michael pull the man out of the burning car. He did have to show me how to dial 911 on his phone really quick first! The call would not go through because all the lines were busy and so I ran to help Rustin and Michael who had the guy out of the car, but he was still laying on the street by the door. He was a very heavy (220 lbs) and floppy man and was extremely hard to move. Rustin said later that he was really glad he’d been in weightlifting class at school.  NO KIDDING!!!

Look how much bigger Jeremy (220 lbs) is than Rustin who is 5’10″ and 150 lbs. The other rescuer was taller than Rustin but much skinnier and was happy to have Rustin’s muscles there to help!

We moved him to the side of the road behind the car, but didn’t stay there long as we were getting covered with smoke that was increasing in volume rapidly and had turned black as the car started to really catch fire. We hefted poor Jeremy (who was still totally out) and carried him to the other side of the road in the bike lane. We layed him there and rested a bit. His eyes were a little bit open but he couldn’t move or speak and looked really sick. I had no idea what was wrong with him, if he had inhaled enough smoke to pass out or had passed out before the car caught fire or what but I was very concerned and just rubbed his head and told him everything was going to be okay and prayed and prayed and prayed that it would be. After a bit, we decided to move him because the fire department was still not there and the fire was getting really big and hot and I could hear things exploding and popping inside the car and I thought it might blow up.

Fortunately, the car never blew up but it left a lot of ashes and debris behind after they towed it!

When Rustin and Mike and I and a few others moved him further down the road, he was starting to wake up and was actually moving his feet a little for us. As he started becoming more aware, he became anxious and tried to walk away from us, though he couldn’t really walk. There was no way we were going to let this potentially very sick individual wander off before the ambulance go there so we tried to wrestle him to the ground. It didn’t work. As you can see from the picture, he is a very big and VERY strong guy. Randy Harenberg, my husband, Russ- who Rustin had run and gotten, and others, tried to calm him down and keep him around while we waited for the fire trucks to arrive. They finally got there and… No, it wasn’t MY firemen, the Gilbert firetrucks were all out on calls and this was Mesa fire to the rescue.

Unfortunately, they had only heard that there was a car fire but not a victim in the car, so at first they just worked on getting the car fire out until finally a paramedic noticed my dad and I frantically waving at them to come help Jeremy. We told them what was going on and they soon found out how strong Jeremy was. It took several police officers and firemen to finally tackle Jeremy into the bushes and get some handcuffs on him to keep him down. Poor guy!!!! He kept asking for someone to help him and saying “Ow!” I felt so bad and just stayed close to try to offer any comfort I could.

After a while they got him some tranquilizers to sedate him a little and then got him on a stretcher. As he calmed down, he was more responsive and told them his name was Jeremy and that he suffered from seizures. They figured that the medicine on the front seat (that he had just picked up from Target) was his anti-seizure medication.

Rustin and I stayed and gave a statement to the police and gave them my number and asked them to call and let me know how Jeremy was doing and if they ever figure out just what had happened. They said they would try, but might not know themselves.

After Jeremy was safely on his way to the hospital, I took Rustin to his friend’s house and then zoomed home for a quick shower and some clothes (By the way- all of this was happening as I was wearing only a swimsuit and a sweatshirt! Put on clothes before you leave the house! You never know what might happen!!!) then I took off for the dinner and a meeting I was missing.

About 45 minutes after I got there, Russ texted me the most amazing text:

“The kid whose car burned was Kami Tilby’s son!” 

I can’t explain the emotion to know that poor Jeremy, who I had been praying over, was the son of one of my most favorite friends in the entire world. She has helped me in so many ways through every step of the last few insane and very difficult months of my life, starting before my sister Liza died, but especially since then. To have been able to help save her son’s life and bless hers forever in a very real way is such an honor. I am so grateful that Rustin and I were there to help him and her and her precious family!

So on Sunday night we got to meet our Jeremy!!!!

It turns out that Jeremy does indeed suffer from seizures and takes medication to control them. He had missed two days of medication and had just refilled his prescription and then visited his parents who live just a few houses from me. As he rounded the corner to Juniper, he felt the aura of a seizure coming on and knew he had to pull over and put the car into park. It took his body about 100 yards to be able to do that and he stopped about 20 yards before the main intersection at Val Vista! Phew!!!

Then he had a seizure and it is believed that he must have accidentally pushed down on the pedal and revved the engine so high that it overheated and caught fire. Sometime after that we arrived on scene.

He doesn’t remember being pulled from the car or being carried around but does vaguely remember the struggle on the ground with the police, and asking for help. He says it is foggy like a dream. Then he “woke up” in the hospital, not really sure why he was there and why he had grass (which was actually straw from one of the bushes) all over him.

He was so sweet when he met Rustin and I, reaching out for big bear hugs and saying “Thank you, Thank you!”

You are so welcome Jeremy!!!

So glad we could feel what it feels like to be an angel and be part of a miracle. That same day, Saturday, was the two month anniversary of Liza’s death and I had cried quite a few tears just a few hours before this happened. It was so nice to have things turn around and get to be part of such a happy ending for such a great person and family.

Maybe Liza was there helping too!

Maybe we were both angels that day?!”

The view from the driver’s seat- nice windsheild.  Getting worse…

The back seat! Can you see the toasted head rests from the front seats.

The right side of the car- Really toasted!!! From where we were standing we could see the huge flames shooting up through the windows. They did a lot of damage! Glad it was EMPTY!!!

Jeremy’s backpack that was on the back seat. Toasty! His ipod inside it was unharmed. PHEW!”

Crawling Between the Seasons

Here’s another selection culled from my personal book of poetry. Look here to see a previous entry.

The editor in me wants to change it, correct bits, rewrite or hide it. The blogger in me thinks this is simply who I was when I wrote it and it shouldn’t be changed. I’ll let you decide.

So, here it is, a poem about a sunset. It was written a long, long time ago, another lifetime ago.  I can still remember the sunset, feel the cool air, feel the me I was.

Wish I’d taken a photo. Maybe this poem serves as a replacement for a photograph. A snapshot of my much younger self, daring, confident, certain of my view of the world and ready to share it.

Watch for Wolves, Or Cows

Long road trips seem to bring out the weirdness in our family. Things that we wouldn’t normally laugh at take on humor of epic proportions. I blame it on the monotony and the weird snack combinations that we bring along.

We left extra early one morning, and by extra early I don’t mean planning to leave by six and actually leaving by ten. I mean early, like the car is already packed and gassed up and all we have to do is stumble out to the car with our pillows and make sure to lock the front door . It was so early the garbage trucks hadn’t started their rounds. It was so early we could tell North by the stars for three or four hours. I wanted to arrive before dark, so that meant leaving while it was still dark.

We had actually left the night before, about five p.m. Not a really wise move. That’s rush hour. That’s the sun blasting holes into your retinas the entire time you’re driving west in rush hour so that you can’t read the signs and you miss your exit to turn north out of the burning laser beams. Once we reached open road we discovered that the car we were driving and the removable car top cargo box weren’t very compatible. At sixty-five MPH the thing let out a high-pitched brain-vibrating mind-numbing keening wail.

I figured we’d adjust to the noise, that after just a bit we wouldn’t even notice it. But what happened was we couldn’t carry on normal conversation. We had to yell at each other. And that was before we had even reached the irritation stage of the drive. I popped in some tunes on our cassette player and cranked the volume. The whistle and the music weren’t in the same key and we could barely hear the music. I soon saw that we’d lose our minds before we even got half way to our destination. We would either have to leave the car top cargo box on the side of the road or go home. We went home. In rush hour traffic still.

Once home, four hours after we’d started out, we repacked the car, without the bonus luggage carrier on top. It was a tight fit but it was doable. By then I was too aggravated to drive safely and it was late. We got some sleep and woke at 3:00 a.m. to leave.

Sleep deprived children are great on a drive, because they sleep or doze or star blankly at the scenery. When it’s too dark to see any scenery things stay quiet. There are no fights and no whining about who gets to sit in the front seat. Bathroom breaks are fewer and further apart. My mind is free to wander, imagine, remember, get into the flow of the driving.

Lobo en el zoo de Kolmården (Suecia). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

About three hours into our drive, with only eight left, morning was beginning to stir. A paleness in the eastern sky was creeping over the landscape. Those odd pre-morning shadows were everywhere. It’s a kind of magical hour between light and dark, my favorite time of the day, even in a car. I looked over my daughter in the front seat beside me who seemed awake but mesmerized or hypnotized or maybe asleep with her eyes open. I smiled but didn’t say anything, not wanting to disturb the quiet. I looked into my rear view mirror at my other daughter but couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. She was probably deep into dreamland.

My shoulders relaxed, my hands rested lightly on the steering wheel. This would turn out to be a good trip. No flats, no car problems, no road closures or detours, no major fights between the two kids.

A few minutes later, from the back seat, my youngest daughter yawned and stretched. Then she asked, “Are those wolves?”

I thought she must be dreaming. “What did you say?” I asked.

“Are those wolves?” she repeated, “in that field over there.”

I looked to the right into an open meadow dotted with a few pine trees. It was still a bit dark, but the shapes she was referring to were fairly clear.

“Those are cows,” I replied, stifling a laugh.

“Are you sure, cuz they look like wolves,” she said.

And then my other daughter chimed in, “yeah, those are wolves that say ‘moo.’” And then she laughed her slightly deranged maniacal laugh.

“Well, they look like wolves to me!” my youngest shot back!

“Moooooooooo!” the oldest howled like a wolf.

Cattle (Photo credit: CameliaTWU)

“Oh, shut up!” was the reply. She shifted in her seat, covered her head with the pillow and went back to sleep.

We kept driving.

The sun kept its schedule and rose slowly sending a basking glow of coral over the landscape. The car was silent except for the hum of the engine and the sound of the tires on the pavement.

“Look!” my oldest daughter said, pointing out the window at a herd of cattle. “Wolves!” And she laughed her maniacal laugh again.

“&#$^%&**” replied my younger daughter from under her pillow.

And thus began the longest part of the drive.

Every, single, time, that we passed some cows my oldest daughter would pipe up, “Look, Wolves!” and the youngest would reply with aggravation lacing her words, “Shut. Up!”

I had no idea there were so many herds of cows in the western United States. They’re everywhere. About every five miles, in fact. And if it isn’t a herd, it’s a single steer standing beside a fence or in a stream bed, or alongside the road.

Cows everywhere. “Wolves!”

And horses. If there were horses, the oldest daughter would yell, “Look, foxes!”

After only six hours my youngest daughter began to see the humor in her early morning mistaken identifying of cows versus wolves. But she still replied with anger and frustration in her voice. I begged the oldest to stop, but she seemed intent on milking it for all it was worth.

The last two hours of the drive, the youngest daughter would sometimes secretly laugh, but not enough to quell the oldest daughters enthusiasm for pointing out the “wolves.”

There were wolf sightings for the twelve hour return trip as well. We should have driven in the dark.

We laugh about it more now than we did then.

I think the only time we’ve ever really seen a wolf was at the zoo. And then, of course, my oldest daughter said, “Oh, look! Cows!”

Spring Cleaning for My Heart

“When you forgive, you heal your own anger and hurt and are able to let love lead again. It’s like spring cleaning for your heart. “ – Marci Shimoff

I am one of those people who holds on tight to a hurt, a slight, a painful experience and won’t let it go.

I don’t mean to be unforgiving. But I’ve often found myself retelling an incident, names removed to protect the guilty, and feeling justified in still resenting, still being critical, still harboring the hurt.

Why?

Why would I do that? It’s not hurting the other person who hurt me. Telling the story, sharing the anger, doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me feel angry all over again, resentful all over again.

I think it’s something I need to work on. Forgiving MSH if he forgets to do something I ask him to do. Letting go of the criticism I feel when someone points out improvements I need to make. Taking a pass on reliving frustrations and heartaches from years ago. The list of things I need to let go of is huge.

How much energy is this draining from me every single day?

Would I feel less tired if I used that energy to plant a forgiveness garden? Could I let the heartache or misunderstanding dissipate and disappear through some physical act of letting go? Could I write it down and set a match to it?

Gymnastics for housewives (Photo credit: Nationaal Archief)

I’ve always loved the idea of spring cleaning. A hundred years ago it was a huge process that involved cleaning soot from walls, beating dust and dirt from rugs, sanding tables,  disinfecting dark places, opening windows and finally letting in fresh, healthy air. Disease and infection and vermin thrived if spring cleaning didn’t happen every year.

Could lack of forgiveness be the reason my energies are low, my vibrancy diminished?

Today I’m beginning the physical spring cleaning of my home. Perhaps, I can also begin to purge the emotional and spiritual dust and grime. I’m sure there’s room and need for fresh air and sunshine in a more than a few of my nooks and crannies.

Can I let love lead and heal my heart? Sounds difficult. But then, it must be easier than holding on to all my junk.

Hmmm. Forgiving. Healing. Letting go.

I’ll have to play with that idea today as I organize, dust, vacuum, polish, sweep, scrub and clean.

Wish me luck.

My ABC’s of Gratitude

A 

Authors. What would I do without all those books they write?

B 

BIRDS… my favorite morning musicians.

(Photo credit: Jim Davies)

C 

Color. Can you imagine living in a black and white world? Or missing even one color? Imagine no reds. Bizarre.

D 

Dancing. It’s a big reason I fell in love with MSH. He’s good at it and makes me feel all dizzy and ditzy and graceful.

E 

Erasers. Do overs. The chance to try again when I mess up. Most of the time, life is full of second chances, and thirds, and fourths. And luckily, I’m surrounded by patient people.

F 

Friends of all flavors and styles. They have gotten me through some sticky situations, made me laugh and kept it real.

G 

Gardening, another way I manage to stay in touch with nature, feel self- sufficient, de-stress and marvel at life’s miracles.

(Photo credit: 2fs)

H

Home. The one place I most want to be. It’s where I feel safe, known, cared for and accepted no matter how unreasonable I get.

I 

Ice cream or frozen custard or gelato. I’m an equal opportunity frozen dessert imbiber. One of the pure delights of life when I was a child and still delectable as an adult.

J 

Immediately I think of my two oldest kids, whose names start with J.  There is true JOY.

K 

That’s the first letter of my name, one I’ve always been proud of for its quirkiness, its double meaning, and its spelling. The word Kami in Japanese is 神 which means diety, God, Spirit or even force of nature. Powerful! I like it!

(Photo credit: PMillera4)

L 

My other two kids names start with L. Ah, sweet Love. And MSH’s name starts with L, too.

M 

Music, music, music. Every kind, loud or soft, kicky or lulling. Life without tunes is gray and stark.

N 

Nature is my balm and cure, my link to sanity. Time spent outdoors will bring me more peace in less time than almost anything else I can do.

O

Oklahoma. I lived there almost five years The weather was a bit scary at times. I wasn’t a fan of the tornado warnings, but the people made up for it. They’re some of the nicest I’ve ever known. Made me feel like family.

P 

Parents, mine specifically. Were they ever patient and long-suffering. They never gave up hope, at least not that I know of. Lucky me, lucky siblings, too.

Q 

Quiet time. Solitude. Opportunities for my mind to wander and for clarity to settle in.

(Photo credit: Khalid’s Work)

R

Relatives. Yup. That big spreading family bush, as a friend of one of my kids called it after visiting a family reunion. In-laws, parents, cousins, crazies, sisters, grandparents, nephews, brothers, uncles, nieces, grandbabies, seconds, twice removeds, the uncertains. What a party!

S

Smiles. I especially appreciate those shared smiles, similar to inside jokes or you-had-to-be-there-moments. Those smiles remind me I’m not alone, that someone “gets me” and that they understand my quirkiness and worries.

T

Time with my best friend. No telling how much of it there is left, so every minute, every day, feels like grace and mercy and hope rolled into one.

U

United States is my homeland. Call me dorky or naïve. But people keep wanting to be here, in spite of all the nonsense. We’ve got it pretty dang good and I feel blessed to be a US Citizen.

(Photo credit: james.swenson13)

V 

Volunteering, serving, sharing, caring, paying it forward. It’s all the same package that gives back more than I put into it. Puts a song in my heart and puts my own life in perspective.

W 

Words. Words are my favorite artistic medium, whether in writing or reading or talking or listening. Words rule!

X 

When treasure hunting, X marks the spot where the good stuff is hiding. My life’s map is dotted with intangible, priceless treasure.

Y

Yard. I have a yard, a space for gardening, trees, a patio table and chairs, a patch of grass and some privacy outdoors. If I want to wander out back in my PJ’s in the morning, no worries.

Z 

Zany, silly, nonsensical behavior, coupled with a few good belly laughs, makes nearly every day an adventure and a joy.

A Tiny Wisp of Hope for the Day

(Photo credit: matthewvenn)

“Hope is an unbearably precious thing, worth its weight in feathers. If that’s too much to think about, best to tuck it in a pocket anyway, and make it a habit.” – Barbara Kingsolver, from “High Tide in Tucson, Essays from Now or Never”

 (Photo credit: gemsling)

 

A Few Fun Words to Play With

Snickerdoodles and Chocolate Chips (Photo credit: jeffsmallwood)

In all my reading I often run across some new word that catches me unaware. I used to write the word down and look it up later. Now that I listen to books, instead of reading the hard copy version, it’s trickier to catch the unfamiliar word. It’s not as easy to stop and reread the word, or capture it for later look ups. So I haven’t been picking up new ones as well as I’d like.

I do have a few lists around with words I’ve found over the years. Some of them are “old-fashioned” words that are seldom heard, but ought to be used more. Some are nonsense words like those often created delights hidden in the writings of  Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein or Lewis Carroll.

This short list isn’t so much new words as it’s words I like the sound of. The way they bounce off your tongue, or imitate the thing that they are makes them especially appealing. Sometimes it’s a word I’ve heard often enough but was uncertain of the definition.

They’re easier to appreciate if you say them out loud.

Humdinger –  somebody or something exceptional

Snog – to kiss (doesn’t sound all that wonderful, does it?)

Snickerdoodle – a crisp cookie with sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on top

Scooch – moving a small amount or distance

Smooch – kiss (this version sounds much more inviting)

Diddle – to cheat, swindle or hoax “hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon, the little dog laughed to see such a sight and the dish ran away with the spoon.”

Dillydally – to waste time by loitering or procrastinating

Chortle – a breathy, gleeful laugh

Scrumptious – splendid and delectable, like a snicker doodle

Bumptious – noisily self-assertive

Do you have any favorite words? How about a new word you’ve heard recently? Please share if you do!

Putting on a Game Face, Going Through the Motions

Have you ever had a preconceived notion blasted out of existence?

I find myself guilty  of making assumptions about people and situations way too often.

And then, the reality I was so certain of gets blown out of the water. Usually, it’s me being small and covetous. Being judgmental is just me wishing the crud in my life wasn’t. It’s me thinking life isn’t fair.

Most of us put on our game face, our fake smile,  and do our best to look perky, energetic and do what needs doing regardless of how crappy we might feel or how heavy the world weighs on us that day.

A few people will see through our façade. But we manage to fool most of them and think our life is great.

You gotta figure everyone else does what you and I do. Everyone else has on a game face for the world to see. At home, the reality could be filled with tears, anger, and worry, much sadder and more desperate than we could even imagine.

That perfect little family down the street might be struggling with someone dying of cancer. The co-worker who seems to have it all together may be losing everything he’s ever worked for. The adorable Barbie-figured woman who jogs past your house every morning may be on her last gasp before running away from it all. The quiet, unassuming kid behind the counter who’s always polite to everyone, might have plans later that end it all.

Ah. You never know. Until it’s too late. Even then, you  may not know.

Poker (Photo credit: maorix)

The cards we get dealt in life are ours to play however we choose. We can let everyone see what hand we have.
We can hold ‘em close to our chest and not divulge a thing. We can have a poker face that discloses nothing.We can bluff our way through and have everyone fooled. Only we know what we’re playing with.

Why I’m using a card metaphor, I’m not sure. I think it’s a big cliché’. And, I’m a lousy poker player. And, I only play for chips, for fun, for the laughter. Hopefully, I play out my life better than I play cards, or write.

I’m reminded today that I can’t guess at what anyone else has in their hands, in their hearts, behind their door. I can only wish them the best, help when I can and be kind to strangers.

What’s that quote? It’s attributed to a few different people. But whoever said it, said it well and was wise.

“Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

I, for one, am going to try to be a little less judgmental, a little kinder, a bit more gentle. I want to give others credit for thinking through their circumstances and doing the best they can with what they have.

Maybe you’re the one fighting the hard battle. If so, you can be kind to yourself. Give yourself some slack, do a little something that feeds your heart and mind and soul.

If you’re one of those fighting a hard battle today, know that you are not the only one doing so. I don’t know if that helps or hurts. I do know that I wish you strength, energy, hope, happiness, coping ability, love, recognition of small joys, and the perseverance to keep moving forward.

(Photo credit: juliejordanscott)

Don’t give up.

It will get better.

You are not alone.

Sort of Related articles by some smart people:

• Fake Smile (dancingjphoenix.wordpress.com)
• Fooling Myself Happy (40somethingsisters.wordpress.com)
• Why Faking a Smile Is a Good Thing (psychologicalscience.org)

Pleasant Peasant Pheasant

Bird feeder (Photo credit: Matt Peoples)

There is a Pheasant in my backyard.

Or a Grouse.

It comes and goes, from backyard to backyard. The one behind ours has a bird feeder, so it visits there often. And from what Jim, my neighbor two doors down says, it’s taken up residence behind an Oleander in his yard.

I took photos, to document this odd phenomenon in the dry desert. But the photos show what looks like a pile of rocks amid a bunch of rocks. Desert landscaping will do that.

Either way, Pheasant or Grouse, it just isn’t normal to see a bird this size, here in the crazy heat  part of Arizona.

“Pheasant populations persisting in Arizona are largely confined to agricultural areas having a relatively high humidity (e.g., citrus orchards in the Yuma and Mesa areas) or high enough in elevation to escape the desiccating heat of Sonoran Desert summers. In such locations, a rooster will acquire a harem of from one to three hens, with mating commencing in early April. By mid-May most of the hens are nesting and of no further interest to him, and he will abandon his territorial patrols by the end of the month. The peak of hatching is during the last week of May, the most arid time in Arizona, which is one of the reasons why pheasants have not become established here”

Female pheasant (Photo credit: scyrene)

Based on photos, a bit of research and some common sense, I’ve decided this odd duck of a bird is a female Pheasant. Grouse tend to hang out up on the Mogollon Rim, high country as we call it here.

I feel bad for this bird. Clearly, she’s out of her element and won’t do well when the heat really settle in, unless she can find her way to a citrus orchard somewhere in the area. The nearest ones are about five to eight miles away.

I’m always amazed at how wildlife adapts itself to the intrusions and weirdness of humans.

At the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When we first moved to Arizona fifteen years ago, it was fairly common to see a Fox trotting through an open field. It was much more common to see open fields that many years ago. The housing boom hit Phoenix with a vengeance  and most of the open areas around us disappeared in about four months, give or take a year or two.

I often saw Jackrabbits of a substantial enough size that I’d do a double take. I’ve seen a Mountain Lion at the Riparian Preserve. The “Rip”  borders a canal which is significant. Lined with a dirt road or even asphalt or concrete paths, the canals here are like an open invitation to wildlife from the foothills to come on down and play the city game. Poor misguided critters!

I’ve noticed some people seem to have wandered from their normal habitat into the suburbs and cityscape. These are people who prefer solitude , silence and privacy. I think sometimes I am one of those misplaced creatures.

The sound of sirens, the constant hum of traffic, crowds, stress of every hue, all combine, sometimes, to make me wish I lived in the mountains in a secluded cabin with a well hidden dirt access road.

I feel a bit misplaced and out of my element.

But I’ve adapted. I grow wildflowers. I have a backyard garden. I have a hummingbird feeder. I disappear into other worlds through books. I enjoy what music I can find in the suburban bird chatter of Dove, Grackle, Finch, Towhee and Mockingbird. I visit nearby open spaces and green areas. I walk. I ride my bike. I dream of the mountains.

I wonder if the Pheasant in the backyard feels the same way.

Wish I could help her find her way back to where she belongs without upsetting the natural order of things.

It could happen.

How Many Ways Can You Say Stranded? #1

Before cell phones were commonplace, before cell phone towers dotted the country like stars dot the sky, car problems were trickier to negotiate.

Nowadays, if you have car issues, you whip out your trusty phone, call AAA or whatever service you pay for towing and flat tires, and within hours you’re on your way again.

Not that many years ago, it wasn’t that simple.

Driving North with two of my young daughters we crossed the Reservation, enjoying the strange and changing scenery, when the Honda van we were in started hesitating. That particular stretch of road was only two lanes, with a narrow shoulder. I pushed down the panicky feeling and watched for a pullout area, which was usually only the size of a car and just inches from the roaring traffic.

Vermilion Cliffs from Kaibab Plateau overlook  (Photo credit: Al_HikesAZ)

As the van sputtered and lurched forward, I put on my emergency flashers, hoping there’d be time for the cars behind me to slow down before plowing into our backside. Fortunately, the next pullout we chugged up to was actually one of those spots built to accommodate sales of Native American trinkets, jewelry and fry bread. There were no people, and no cars, just us, the wind, and an occasional scuttle of clouds overhead.

I popped the hood and looked inside. I checked out the parts I knew about. Oil levels. Coolant levels. Loose belts. Battery terminals. We had plenty of gas since I’d filled up in Flagstaff. All appeared as it should.

Maybe the car just needed a bit of rest. We got out the snacks, had some water, explored the nearby sagebrush and torn up barbed wire fencing. Half an hour later, we all climbed back into the van and I started it back up. Everything sounded fine. So off we went. Ten minutes later, the chugging and spluttering began again only worse. Again I looked for a pullout.

This time we rolled into a large pullout with a Semi truck and trailer parked. I felt lucky thinking I could simply ask the trucker for help. Or at the very least, he could put out a call on his CB radio and send a tow truck. But as far as my knocking could tell, there was no one in there. More than likely, the trucker had crawled into the sleeping nook and was catching some Zz’s.

My next option was a quarter-mile hike to what looked like a tiny settlement, a small church, some kind of housing structures, a dirt path between them. And best of all, a thick wire hanging from the church to one of the buildings, indicating electricity or phone service. What I found was a solitary, ancient grandmotherly figure inside the open doorway of one of the huts who didn’t speak English. I did my best sign language for indicating the need for a telephone and she did her best to let me know I was up a creek without a paddle.

I hiked back to the van. We had plenty of water and food in our ice chest. So the heat wouldn’t be a problem. But what to do?

The girls were coloring on some paper they’d brought for getting through the boredom of the long drive. I decided to make a sign. “Please call AAA” it said in large block letters. Then I taped it, using their stickers, to the back of the van. Forty five minutes later a couple of women in a red convertible stopped to get our story, check on our status and offer to call a tow truck for us when they got to Flagstaff.

Hours later a tow truck lumbered into the pullout where we sat bored beyond all reason. It was nearing evening and I was relieved to not have to spend the night on the side of the road.

A car being loaded onto a flatbed tow truck (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The driver filled out some paperwork and then proceeded to hook our van up with a thick chain. Then he lowered the back-end of his truck at an angle and was ready to pull it up on the bed of the truck, which would then level out. He looked at the three of us and said, “you’ll have to ride in the van, I don’t have room in my truck up front.”

My heart nearly stopped. Surely that wasn’t safe. Or legal.

“Are you sure? I could hold one of the girls on my lap,” I replied, desperation in my voice.

“We do it this way all the time,” was his only reply. Conversation over.

Next thing we knew we found ourselves perched high atop the back of a tow truck, a stellar view of the sunset, the reddening cliffs and the heart stopping path ahead. A winding road barely clinging to the side of the cliffs.

As we proceeded up the cliff, the tow truck sputtered, the driver down shifted, the gears made a horrific grinding sound, and I was sure we would plummet in a fiery mass down to the bottom.

It was all too terribly reminiscent of another cliff side drive I had endured.

All the way up the mountain the gears ground and roared and argued with the driver. I told the girls to pray. I prayed like I’d never prayed in my life. Being stranded overnight on the side of the road seemed like a better alternative at that point.

After the longest ride I’d ever endured in a vehicle, we finally, miraculously made it to the closest town for hundreds of miles. The driver dropped us off at one of dozens of motels, our suitcases dragging pitifully behind us. He dropped the van off in the parking lot at the back. I was on my own to find a mechanic the next morning.

Oddly, the mechanic could find nothing wrong. We drove it around town, out on the open highway and back to the motel and it behaved perfectly.

“Probably some bad gas you got in Flagstaff,” he concluded. He was kind enough not to charge me for his time or his opinion.

For the rest of the drive to and from our destination, the van performed as if nothing had ever been wrong. Perhaps the precarious ride up the side of the mountain had scared it into submission.

Nowadays, the Reservation has some of the best cell phone reception in the western United States if I should need my trusty cell phone. But I’d rather not have to use it to call a tow truck.

Never again.

Voila! Virtual and Real Made Clear

Virtual or Real?

Which do you choose most often?

I could share some definitions from a dictionary for you. Like so.

VIRTUAL

• 1 almost or nearly as described, but not completely or according to strict definition:the virtual absence of border contr

• 2  Computing not physically existing as such but made by software to appear to do so:virtual images

REAL

• 1 : of or relating to fixed, permanent, or immovable things (as lands or tenements)
• 2a : not artificial, fraudulent, or illusory : genuine <real gold>;also : being precisely what the name implies <a realprofessional>
• b (1) : occurring or existing in actuality

Or I could show you this awesome video and you’ll get it immediately.

At the very least, you’ll laugh.

Finding a balance in life has never been easy. Seems for me lately the scales have tipped to one side too far. I’m working on a better equilibrium. I hope I don’t get caught with my pants down, (excuse the cliché’ but it fits, huh?)

If I remember my priorities that I wrote about here, then it’s easier to choose real when real is the best choice.

It isn’t easy. But it sure can be entertaining.

Another Blogger wrote this cool poem that also says it very well.

• Real-ly? (thewestcoastline.wordpress.com)

The Ups and Downs of a Mouse’s Life

Some days and weeks are like a roller coaster ride.

 

Somehow, I’ve never quite learned how to deal with the sudden shifts in mood, perspective and direction that life can throw my way. My instinct is to crawl under the bed covers and sleep, let my unconscious mind create a workaround solution to the juxtaposition of happy and sad, or joyous and melancholy.

 

Reality almost always dictates that I stay out of bed, fully dressed, interacting with the real world. I simply have to put on my game face and keep moving in the various directions the tracks take me.

 

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember a carnival ride growing up called the Wild Mouse, or something like that. Scarier than the full-sized roller coaster, each car held only two people tightly scrunched and belted down into tiny seats. At first the contraption moved the pair of riders slowly, haltingly upward, climbing higher and higher, providing a great view of the theme park and everything around for miles. Then suddenly the ride would shoot forward toward the outside edge of the track with a near certainty that it wouldn’t make the sharp ninety degree turn ahead.

 

Sure of my imminent launching out into the open air and down to the asphalt below I would close my eyes and try to hold the lurching terror of my stomach down. Somehow, miraculously, we’d make the turn without being thrown from the mouse shaped car only to careen up or down or out or around in a crazy mouse maze of speed and height.

 

Give me a roller coaster any day of the week.

 

I read a book a few years ago called “Who Moved My Cheese.” It’s about resilience and the ability to adapt and go with the flow. At least that’s the message I took away from it. My friend Kathy pointed out to me the other day that I’ve become skilled at moving with my cheese. In my personal mouse maze of life I’ve somehow managed to not get too lost or jaded or discouraged for too long.

 

Once in a while, in the middle of some incredible happiness and some of life’s best moments, life throws out rotten tomatoes. Wrapped up in the revelry of good stuff, I’m always caught off guard by those not-so-happy zingers.

 

What to do, what to do?

 

Put on my game face. Steel myself. Hold on for dear life.

 

And enjoy the moments that I can.

Even when things are tough, life is still filled with wonderful things. If I can remember that, then I am blessed beyond counting.

 

Emotionally Hydrated in a Dry Heat

Call me strange.

Not quite the epic beginning as Moby Dick’s “Call me Ishmael.” But it will do.

No I’m not starting a novel, don’t worry. I just find myself reviewing my life lately. Which is something I usually avoid religiously, especially if I’m a bit overtired.

What I stumbled on in my revelry and self-scoriation was this bit of wisdom and light:

“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.” – Proverbs 17:22

Those fifteen words, strung together in the specific order they’re in, have made a world of difference for me.

(Photo credit: Brenda Anderson)

I took life so seriously, for so many years. I didn’t see much room for laughter or joking, for silliness or play. And then a series of people taught me without even trying, that there needs to be, and can be, joy amid the sorrow and laughter even when the world is pressing in.

Some days I think the only thing that gets me through is the ability to smile in spite of it all.

And some days seem filled to the brim with joy and laughter.

Stumbling on the idea of intentional happiness as a daily balm, a kind of lotion for my soul, has made all the difference.

I choose to see the positive. At least I try to.

Call me strange.

“There’s Rain in My Head”

It’s another delightfully gray, wet day in the desert. To celebrate I thought I’d share this lovely poem by Shel Silverstein. He’s always been one of my favorite writers for his unmatched, quirky perspective on everyday things.

I also found these unusual photos of rain that seem to match the poem quite nicely. I hope you find joy in unexpected places today!

Rain days (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Rain

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can’t do a handstand–
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said–
I’m just not the same since there’s rain in my head.

–Shel Silverstein (1930 – 1999)

Rain camera (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Here’s a bit more of Shel Silverstein if you’re in the mood for something delightful, delicious and zany.

• Writer Waiting, Poem and Drawing by Shel Silverstein (silverbirchpress.wordpress.com)
• Invitation to Poetry, Poem by Shel Silverstein (silverbirchpress.wordpress.com)
• the lion’s cage. (sweettearevolutions.wordpress.com)
• The Wisdom of Shel Silverstein (theinplace.wordpress.com)

Six Things about My Mom You Should Know

 

Dear Mom,

It’s no surprise to you I’m a word person. You’d think I’d easily write out thousands of words expressing love and appreciation on Mother’s Day. Instead I find the emotions so powerful, particularly this weekend with my son’s wedding, that I struggle with every word I write.

Maybe a list would help me pull my words together. So here’s a few things that I’ve learned from you, about life, about living, about mothering, about the world.

• Mother is the center of it all. And with mom comes family. Nothing is more important than that bond we have as family. Think about it. When something happens, everyone’s thoughts go to family. Where are they? Are they okay? I want to find them and be with them. If it’s a happy event, we want to share it with everyone in the family. If someone is missing, we feel their absence more than ever. I was lucky to always have you there at home when I came home after school, after a date, out late. There you were. And there you still are, at the center of our family’s lives.
• Mom has everything you need. All you need as a little kid is everything; food, shelter, love. And mom is there for all that, twenty-four hours a day. Bad dream? Mom comes in to scare away the demons and brings a feeling of safety into the room. Mean kids? Mom reassures you that you’re still loved and cared for. Everything I needed you gave me; compassion, manners, bravery, perseverance, a good work ethic, an ability to laugh. Everything that adds beauty and dimension to my life you gave me also; a love of music, a passion for books, a reverence for nature, a desire for creating.
• A mother’s influence lasts a lifetime. I am who I am because of my mom’s belief in me, her loving me no matter what nonsense I threw her way, her willingness to sacrifice and her example of sharing.
• Being a mother is the greatest gift I know. Motherhood defies definition, how it feels, what it looks lile, how it works. Each mother creates her own mothering style.  It’s the hardest, most aggravating, most fulfilling, most heartbreaking, best, worst, wonder-filled insanity a person can involve herself  in. Thanks for not giving up on such a difficult journey that continues to this day. What a ride it is, huh?
• The world would stop spinning the right direction without moms. Or at least it would feel that way. Can’t imagine the world without my mother in it. Don’t want to. It probably doesn’t even exist if she isn’t there. I’m sure there’s a law of physics that explains that.
• Unconditional love is what a mother is all about. And I have felt that from you and have hopefully passed that on to my own children. Thank you for that. I know I wasn’t always very lovable, or tolerable, or pleasant, or kind or appreciative. I think I’ve come a very long way since those teen years, thanks in great measure to your never giving up on me. And I know, thanks to your prayers on my behalf.

I know there’s much, much more that you taught me, but I think those six things sum it up fairly well. Thank you for being the mother I needed. Thank you for your continued love, support, sacrifice and caring. I plan on many more Mother’s Days with you, so stay well, enjoy life, and know you are loved beyond words.

All my love,

Kami

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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