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My squirrel friend has a shorter tail this evening. He, or maybe it's a she, I can't tell, was pillaging our compost bucket on our screened porch with a buddy this morning. I'm not sure why my husband thought having an open bucket of compost on our screened porch was a good idea. Last year we kept one there as a holding spot before bringing it all out to our compost pile. In the winter it's hard to be motivated to bring the compost to the pile. Cold, snow, ice. Lots of good excuses. That worked until a variety of squirrels and mice found the bucket after tearing holes in the screens. We put a lid on on. They ate through the lid. We resumed our daily pilgrimages to the pile.
So why was an open bucket there again? He says he thought he was getting away with it. But this morning there were two red squirrels feasting. Then in another inexplicable decision, my sometimes not-so-good-at-thinking-things-through husband let our cat, Pip, out onto the porch. He says he thought Pip would just chase them out. But what happened looked a lot more like a cage match between predator and prey.
Their hole-in-the-screen entrance to our porch is not a high-speed escape route. They were trapped. Panicked, one climbed the screens and cowered ten feet off the ground while the other dashed madly about. Pip is a hunter through and through. I've known he's an outdoor cat in his truest nature. He's no lie around and get fat indoor lap cat. And he demonstrated that killer instinct today.
The frenzied running of the red squirrel stopped when he wedged his head between a post and the wall of the house, desperately trying to squeeze through. Most of his body didn't fit. That's where Pip caught up with him. By this time I was urging my husband to go out and stop this execution.
Let me be clear, I understand the predator prey relationship. Cats kill and eat squirrels. But this was not a fair fight - the prey were effectively caged and a predator was introduced to that cage. If this battle had been waged in the open yard, in nature, I would not have interfered. I would have looked away.
My dear husband recognized the seriousness of my demand and went out and grabbed Pip. As he carried the adrenaline crazed cat back into the house a large pile of fur hung from Pip's mouth. Mr. Squirrel was alive, but with a much shorter tail.
Within minutes the squirrels were back in the compost bucket. Think about that. Any person I know surviving a close encounter with death would be sitting back panting, calling friends and families to describe the "I almost died!" experience, re-living the story again and again. The story would take on mythic, epic proportions in that person's life. But a squirrel? After the imminent danger had passed, the predator gone, the squirrel resumed foraging.
I think there is someplace between what humans do and what squirrels do that makes sense. Reflect on the experience, see what can be learned from it, and then move on. No need to keep oneself re-living the terror, defining life as before and after. Acknowledge it was a close call, take what you can from it, enjoy life even more. I'll let you know when I can actually accomplish this idea...
But the story doesn't end there. We still had two squirrels rummaging through our compost in our screened porch. In a sensible move, my husband grabbed a broom and shooed them out of the bucket, then moved the bucket off the porch. He propped open the door. Then, for another unknown-to-me reason, he decided that they needed to leave now. He proceeded to chase them about with the broom until they ran out the door. Wouldn't they have left on their own in a few minutes to find the bucket?
Today I spent some time wallowing in self-pity. I'm not proud of this, but I'm also trying not to beat myself up over it. It happens. I get over it.
When I step back far enough and get my life in perspective I see how incredibly blessed I am. I have good health, a loving husband, beautiful children, an amazing extended family, a fabulous house that provides far more than basic shelter. I live surrounded by abundance in so many forms. That I take for granted. I have opportunities that most of the world can't even imagine.
And today I chose to exercise the opportunity to focus on the things I don't have and don't like. Today I cried because of the ways my life is limited. I suppose, really, I cried because of the ways my thinking is limited. I narrowed my focus until all I could see were the parts that I've decided are a problem.
I love to play outdoors. I love to try new adventures. I love doing physical things in and with nature. I can't figure out how to include Pookie with her needs and preferences. Pookie is never going hiking, maybe a nature walk in her jogger, but not hiking. She would probably hate skiing and iceskating, but I can't even figure out how to do those things. Well, there are adaptive ski centers, but they are cost prohibitive and she's just not a play-in-the-snow kind of kid. Surfing is out for her. She might play in the waves, but now I need to find someone to do that while I'm off playing. See how easy it is for me to over-constrain myself and focus on the things I can't do?
What problems to have! Food, no problem. Shelter, safety, health, no problem. Play? Ooh... woe is me. And I do get to play, just not in exactly the ways I want.
Why do I, why do humans have this tendency to focus on what we don't have instead of what we do have? I suppose it's a survival trait that's obsolete in this culture of abundant everything. I suppose it explains the popularity of gratitude journals and lists - we need to practice appreciating everything we do have to balance our innate inclination to look for what is missing.
So, inspired by that idea, here are a bunch of things I'm grateful for (that I haven't already mentioned):
1. The acres and acres of woods that surround my house.
2. This room that I claim as my own for exercise, work, mediation, dance, conversation and quiet.
3. All of my friends who ceaselessly support and encourage me despite my own doubts.
4. My extensive collection of fleece socks.
5. My mediation cushions.
6. The camp up in New Hampshire.
7. Woodchuck Ledge.
8. The Swift River
9. Telephones, email, blogs & Skype that all keep me connected to the people in my life.
10. The sunrise every morning that proves to me all I have to do is go along for the ride. No effort required.
11. Skylights.
12. Books. So many, many books.
13. My comfy bed with flannel sheets and down quilt.
14. The red squirrel who kept me bemused today skittering around outside my window, climbing the screen and disappearing above it onto the light fixture.
A week. It's been over a week since I've blogged. When I started this blog I intended to blog every day. Some days I had more than one great idea to write about. I made it through the holidays. I made it through my January doldrums. Then I paused to reconsider my priorities. I played. And now I see that blogging was left out.
I've thought about it most days, sort of wistfully, but not really in any way that caused me to create time for it either. I enjoy writing and storytelling and thought-exploring. Still, in the fine art of balancing my life I couldn't figure which side of the scale to put it on. So it stayed off to the side, neglected.
The past few days have been very eventful for me internally. I have recognized some very powerful patterns in my thoughts and behavior, connected seemingly disparate facets of my life, sat stunned, absorbing the implications. Awareness is a wonderful thing. Awareness facilitates change. But it's set me back on my heels, no, shoved me backwards onto my rump, left me staring, mouth agape at the vision of this new understanding.
A small piece of this insight concerned my habits around spending resources on myself. I don't. I have great difficulty buying things for myself, dedicating time to myself, anything for myself. Each time I claim some bit of our resources for myself, it is something of a triumph. I make time to exercise most mornings, but I need to justify it's value beyond what it does for me, and minimize it's impact on my family. I make time to blog, and again need to justify it's value and minimize it's impact. When I have bought things for myself, non-essentials, I have needed to justify them to myself. Better yet, I wait long enough that someone else buys them for me. But that's a different piece of this story.
So yesterday I spent some time exploring that. At the end I made a list of some things I really want. Things that I don't need in any way, but that I have wanted for some time. Things that make me happy just to think about having them. Some are big: I would love to go to some sunny warm climate, like Hawaii and learn to surf. I can't explain it. Some are smaller: I have ogled Zen clocks with a chime alarm for months and months, if not years.
Today I decided I would buy myself one. $120 seems like a lot for a clock, but this isn't about strict practicality. It's about valuing myself, valuing my happiness, recognizing that it's OK to spend money on something that, for whatever reason, means so much to me. Maybe it's symbolic.
Last spring, after an agonizing internal struggle, I bought myself a new camera. I had found my photography to be limited by the quality of the lens and technical capabilities of my point-and-shoot, pocket camera. I splurged. And what happened was not just that the technical quality of my photos improved, or even that my creativity was unleashed. In some way, valuing that piece of me opened my awareness to the direction of my soul's work, my vocation, I don't know what to call it. It opened me to possibility. That gesture, that splurge on myself, that valuing of myself was certainly a symbolic signal to some core part of me: It's safe to come out now.
I sat down to write tonight, for the first time in over a week, with the settled feeling that I would do something special for myself and order a Zen clock, and found an email from my husband. It was a link to a Widget for my iMac. A meditation timer. That chimes.
I still want my clock.
(Picture from Now & Zen.)
The snow was supposed to start sometime mid-morning. It was supposed to be heaviest mid-afternoon. It was supposed to accumulate to 4-5" up there in the wilds of New Hampshire. We awoke on the first morning of our escape to 3" on the ground (well, on top of the two or more feet that were already on the ground). By the time we ate breakfast and got all our outdoor gear on two hours later (hey, you try to prepare two children and three adults for 10F and deep snow) the fresh snow was nearly 6" deep.
We set off with the vague goal of finding the sandpit Poppa remembered being someplace a ways off the road and down a bit. Maybe it would be exciting to slide down it. We wandered back into the woods following a trail laid out by fellow enthusiasts. Dee Dee and Little Dudely (and I) had fun pulling on the branches of heavily coated hemlocks setting off avalanches of powder onto ourselves and those following behind us. Progress was slow towards the gate that closes the road in winter and that marks, generally, the spot from which you dive into the woods to find the sandpit. But it was a magical day in the White Mountain National Forest with heavy snow, and heavier silence (when we bothered to stop giggling long enough to hear what wasn't there).
When we looped back to the road at the gate and finished climbing on the giant snow piles at the end of the plowed section on the road there was a disagreement over which way to head to find the sandpit. So Poppa went one way, Dad went the other. Dee Dee, Little Dudely and I plopped ourselves down in powdery thrones and caught snowflakes on our tongues.
Poppa called out from a distance, muffled by the snow. Then he appeared and indicated for us to follow his tracks back to the mythical sandpit. But first we howled our best coyote cries (as promised) to let dad know we were heading off into the woods.
We made our way back along the fresh trail, tromped nearly knee deep in the new and previous powder, grateful for our snowshoes. We ducked under a fallen tree, crossed a frozen brook hidden under the snow, and came around a final turn to the sandpit. Sort of a half-bowl shape, maybe 35 feet high, with nearly vertical sides at the top. Very impressive.
Dee Dee started up first. I followed. Little Dudely joined the climb just before Dad and Poppa arrived. Kick, kick, kick. I had to try to bury the toes of my snowshoes in the deep powder on the slope to get traction. Dee Dee needed me to brace one foot for her so she could make progress. Dad did the same for Little Dudely.
We stood at the top intimidated by the steep drop. One by one we courageously slid down on our bottoms, carving out a sliding run, piling up mounds of powder around us. The kids were the lucky ones wearing overall snowpants or snowsuits. For the adults snow pushed up under jackets and into our layers of sweaters...
By the time we made our way back to our camp we were exhausted by the snowshoeing and climbing and sliding, and by the cold. Another 4" of snow had fallen in the two hours we had been out. By late in the afternoon, when the snow finally let up, nearly 18" of powder had fallen. We definitely needed to shovel the flat roof of the addition, and probably the main roof as well.
The next morning we went out to breakfast and found some sleds. We headed back to the sandpit with our sleds... and a camera. Each ride blew huge waves of powder into our faces, making us wish we had goggles and neck warmers as the cold, cold snow hurt as it melted on our faces. Our crazy rides got faster, but always ended with a floomp! into the deep pile at the bottom. There simply was no graceful way out. So we laughed instead.
As we trudged out Little Dudely rode in one sled as it filled with snow, burying him. It was a beautiful day with the sun shining through the tree, snow unpredictably cascading off the trees. But it was also our day to head home. I managed to it "Play" on my life's remote while I was there. I hope it gets stuck.
I'm working on a pause button for my life. Sometimes I just want a way to stop everything while I catch my breath, catch up to the action and figure out what's going on in the plot of my life. I think this would be a very handy little device. I imagine I'm not the only one who wants one.
Maybe it'll be a remote with rewind for the times you want to go back and change what happened, or just review it when there's a dispute over who said what. And fast forward for when you want to skip over the scary or sad stuff and get to the good part when it all turns out well in the end. Ooh, and slow-motion so you can savor the best parts. I think some captioning would be useful too for those times miscommunications pile up until you feel like the person you're talking with is speaking a different language.
But as much as I sometimes wish for all those features I think life is much more interesting without them. When I look back at all I've learned from those scary and sad times, from the miscommunications, from rushing through the good times, I wouldn't want to change them.
However I do need to get back to my meditation practice as that is as close as I'll ever get to a pause button for my life.
My life is officially out of balance. Here's a list of some of the things I like to do, but have been neglecting: I have not been exercising, either cardio or weights. I have not been practicing yoga, qi gong or meditation. I have not been blogging regularly. I have not been reading. I have not been eating well (low on the fruits and veggies intake, a few too many treats). I have not been making time to focus on the important relationships in my life.
I think it's that last one that has finally gotten my attention. One by one the other things on the list will get my attention too, as their neglect and the subsequent lack of personal nurturing take their toll. But as much as I've been having fun with and been absorbed by my singular focus, I'm feeling disconnected from my loved ones. It's time to become conscious of my priorities again.
It's easy to get swept up in tasks that feel urgent. It's easy to get swept up in tasks that are fun. It's easy to lose sight of the truly important stuff when your focus gets narrowed. And I've done all of those things to get to this state of unbalance.
Funny thing is, I don't mind that I've gotten here. I saw it coming. I knew what was happening. I've been having fun. I don't mean to suggest that I wanted to neglect important relationships or my general well-being, but I was having fun focusing on my own play. I've been getting my new business as a life coach up and running. I've been making contacts, creating my website and business cards, getting my bank account and invoicing set up, and coaching. It feels so good!
But now I'll step back and re-balance because I'm starting to see the negative effects of all my play. However, play will be an important component of my new balance puzzle - a component I largely neglected for years before this indulgence...
"And when beetles battle beetles in a puddle paddle battle and the beetle battle puddle is a puddle in a bottle...
They call this a tweedle beetle bottle puddle paddle battle muddle..." - Dr. Seuss
I've got tweedle beetles battling in the puddle in the bottle which is my head.
Or, in other words, my thoughts are in a muddle tonight. Lots of them. Mucking about. When I chase them, they just tweedle and laugh, running off. So I'm trying to ignore them, hoping that they'll get tired overnight and settle down.
It's sort of the way I feel sometimes when my kids are wound up in the evening. You know, that "energy vampire" time of day? They suck my energy from me and I end up an exhausted puddle on the floor while they bounce off the walls. And then I just bide my time until they get tired and settle down.
Tonight my kids are settled down and asleep, but my thoughts! Well, I guess I'll just lie down in an exhausted puddle and enjoy the show...
Our little friend Max spent 10 hours in surgery on Monday and then another 7 hours on Friday. At the end of the day the curvature in his spine was corrected from a life-threatening 90 degrees to 30 degrees. It's stabilized with rods. He's recovering well, using his talker and asking for his favorite music, even eating a bit. He'll even have a medical journal article written about him. Yup. He gave his surgeons a real test. A first ever experience for them with all the problems they encountered. Not what one would choose, for certain. But those surgeons met the challenge. So now his family and friends can take a deep breath and relish the idea of his speedy and smooth recovery, and return to his home. Yay!
Our driveway is an ice skating rink. No, half of it is an ice skating rink, the half with a slope to it is a bobsled run. A few days ago we got about an inch of snow. And then another inch or so of ice pellets and freezing rain. It all mixed together into a thick slush on our driveway. We plowed the best we could and the rest froze.
Yesterday my car almost didn't make it up the sloped part. I was lucky we had driven in the slush and left tire tracks to freeze in it. I had just enough traction to get home. Then I went back out, lugging 5 gallon buckets of sand to spread on the hill.
It's just starting snowing again tonight. Another 5-9 inches are expected. I don't want to be the one to plow this storm. Snow on ice. Low traction. At least there's no where I need to go. This has been quite a winter!
Four years ago was another snowy winter. We were in a major living-space transition, living in my sister's newly finished house that she graciously offered to us for the year our house was under construction. I'm still in awe of her generosity. We were building a new house two lots over, my parents were building one on the lot in between. We've got a little homestead here. And the best part is we can hardly see each other's houses, but we see each other nearly every day.
Since my husband was away about half the time I was left to take care of winter driveway maintenance. Plowing. Me and my three kids, 18 months, 5 1/2 and 7 years old at the time. Two 800 ft driveways, and one shorter but much steeper one, and lots of snow. I'd buckle the kids into the back of the cab put on some Women's Yoga Chants and off we'd go. I was good too. I'm still the only plow driver not to have dented the truck or gotten it so stuck as to need external assistance.
Which isn't to say I didn't have my share of excitement. One evening as the dusk was settling over us I went out at the end of a storm to plow the driveways. It was heavy snow, may 6-9 inches, and I lost traction on the hill up to my parents' house. I tried valiantly but ended up with the truck sort of sideways, a tree just downhill of the side of the bed, a tree just ahead of the truck. Me and three kids (none of whom were wearing boots). No cell phone.
You know how people talk about doing things simply because they had to and not knowing how it all worked out. Yeah. At first I wanted to cry because I was so stuck and feeling helpless. Then I remembered it was up to me to work this out. No one was going to come find and rescue me. A shovel and I don't know what, and I managed to turn the truck enough to back it down safely. I left the rest of that driveway for someone else (without three kids and with a cellphone) to deal with another day (in the day time).
Well, since we've all moved in I haven't plowed. There's always someone else available. My parents keep the truck at their house because it's easiest to plow down their driveway, so my Dad is often our plow guy. Thanks Dad! The kids are grateful too, although I think we all kind of miss our time belting out those yoga chants together...
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us." - Marianne Williamson
What is it about this quote that resonates so deeply with me?
Truth.
What am I afraid of in my power beyond measure, in my light?
I am afraid of the stories I tell myself about how others will respond to me if I live in my light. Stories of isolation, separateness, loneliness. And the stories I tell myself about expectations and doubt.
What are those stories?
That I will encounter the person who doesn't agree, who speaks their truth which is opposed to mine. I will be pushed away. I won't meet their expectations. And so I won't meet my expectations. Their truth will resonate with the doubt in me, with my stories of inadequacy.
Why do I fix my focus on my own stories of inadequacy?
I have become accustomed to the discomfort of believing my stories of inadequacy. I am comfortable in, or maybe it is resigned to, my discomfort. So long as I am stuck here I don't have to face my fear of the stories I tell myself about what will happen as I accept and live with my power. I don't have to face the stories I tell myself about expectations and doubts.
Don't the stories just lead me back to inadequacy?
Yes. I've followed one possible story through to completion and found that I'm inadequate, so I spend my time looking for evidence of that story and that outcome. I've given away my power to someone I don't even know, who I may never meet, who, theoretically doesn't share my perspective and my truth. Apparently I've decided before I even begin, that if I can't be certain that everyone will agree with me I won't even try to live my own truth.
And that is why I find myself walking into my old, singularly demoralizing story to challenge it. To question every part of it. To find alternative stories that resonate with more truth and love. To free myself from it's confines and create a habitat for my soul.
Everyone is always talking about balance. How they don't have enough of it in their lives. How they want more of it. They talk about it as if it is something you have or don't have, as if it is difficult to have and easy to lose, as if it is a fixed thing.
Don't get me wrong, I'm seeking more balance in my life too. I just think it's a bit messier than that. I think balance is more dynamic, as opposed to a static thing you have. I think it's more like being on a balance board or practicing tree pose. In fact, I think that's why all those balance poses exist in yoga. They teach you that balance is not rigid. They teach you that sometimes you fall so far out of balance that you topple over. And hopefully you laugh, get up, and try it again. They teach you that your balance point changes day to day, and that your ability to balance changes day to day. It's all good.
It's much easier to balance when you're relaxed and fluid, responding to the shifting within you. Resisting and tightening just results in a struggle, which ultimately leads to an ungraceful plop! onto the floor. So I'm trying to take these ideas into my life. I'm noticing as my balance shifts, responding fluidly (sometimes). I'm noticing when my balance shifts so far that there's nothing to do but fall completely out of it, laugh and start over. I'm learning to appreciate the wobbles and topples as just part of having a truly amazing and vibrant life.
Max spent 10 hours in surgery yesterday. He's an almost 12 year friend with the same rare syndrome Pookie has. His scoliosis progressed to over 90 degrees. One of his lungs was being crushed in the curve. The surgery was to straighten his spine as much as possible, and then attach metal rods to hold it that way. His back will never bend again, but he won't have to wear a brace and he'll be able to breathe more comfortably.
Except the surgery didn't go quite as planned. The doctors had trouble monitoring his brain responses during the surgery. They do that to make sure they aren't causing any damage. But his brain is wired a bit differently so sometimes they got readings and sometimes they didn't. The surgeons were just about done with attaching all the hardware when they lost all readings. The only way to check his spine was with an MRI. And metal messes with those things. They had to undo and remove all the metal pieces.
Max is in the ICU now. They're fairly confident no damage was done to his spinal cord. But he's struggling with airway issues from the anesthesia. If all goes well, he goes back in for surgery on Friday to re-install the rods along his spine. Then he can start the long recovery.
I am struggling to process this news. As a friend, as a parent. Max could not have grasped what was going to happen, or what has happened. It's so easy for me to dive into a sad and tragic story about what his experience must be like. But I don't actually know. If he's anything like Pookie, and I know he is, then he's handling this with far more grace than I could muster. Which isn't to say that he isn't confused and in pain. He's not telling himself miserable stories about "this shouldn't have happened" and "why me?" Far more likely, he just wants the pain to stop and to go home.
As a parent, I start to imagine how I would feel in that situation. Honestly, I don't want to go there right now. I dread the day I'm faced with another surgery for Pookie. She's already freaked out the anesthesiology department at one hospital by having her airway collapse three times after one of her surgeries. At the same time, I know that if I am faced with such an event it will be a good thing for her - she will need the surgery. Still, it's hard not to dive into a different set of miserable and painful stories: "what could I have done differently?" or "was this a good idea?" or "what if..."
I'm grateful that there are surgeons in the world experienced in performing all the sorts of surgery one could ever need. I'm grateful that there are technologies for monitoring the health of patients in surgery. I'm grateful that those specialists involved are willing to make a tough call like undoing their work to insure the health of their patient. I'm grateful that Max's surgery on Friday should be much shorter because all of the hard work has been done. I'm grateful for the technology that allows me to stay connected to my friends, that allows me to send as much love and warmth as could possibly be sent over 3,000 miles of wire.
I'm grateful for having such an incredible example of strength and courage in my friend, Max's mom. I'm grateful for having such a wonderful friend. I'm grateful for having had the opportunity to meet her only because our children share an unusual genetic feature. I'm grateful to have Max and Pookie to show me another view of life, another way to be courageous in a most unassuming and humble way. I'm grateful for these atypical children whom people are usually trying to "fix" in ways that don't need to be fixed, who have opened my heart and mind to a truer understanding of perfection.
I had some really wonderful and amazing teachers growing up. I had some lousy ones too. Or maybe those were just teachers I didn't click with. What I'm pretty sure about is that they all had the best of intentions, and mostly, they put their hearts into their work. I imagine that that isn't so easy when you're teaching adolescents...
While I excelled at math and science, and eventually received two engineering degrees, the teachers that made the biggest impact on me were my English and computer science teachers. OK, there was my eighth grade science teacher, and my high school ones too, and, well, I was fortunate to have a lot of truly inspired and inspiring teachers.
Way back around 1983 my elementary school librarian became the computer science teacher as well. I think she stayed about a week ahead of the class as we learned rudimentary programming. I don't even remember the language we used, but I remember I wrote a little program using some looping structure that displayed a sequence of screens made of asterisks so that it appeared a little like a figure doing jumping jacks.
Perhaps what I liked best about this librarian, and I didn't even realize this for another 20 years, was that she allowed me to take refuge in the library when I routinely skipped French class in eighth grade. I hated French class. And, somehow, despite spending at least one class per week (often more) reading the Encyclopedia of Science in the library, I did OK. I still don't understand what sort of decisions were made on my behalf to allow such flagrant truancy. Everyone knew I was in school on those days, I just skipped class and took shelter in the library. I didn't even try to hide. I am forever grateful for all those involved with looking the other way... including my dreaded French teacher.
It's fortunate that my high school computer science teacher was also a woman. She never did figure out how I managed to skip Intro to Computer Science and jump straight into Pascal. All I know is that my guidance counselor signed the paperwork... It was only an issue on the first test when I didn't know any of the names for the parts inside the computer. I still have only a sketchy understanding.
When I took AP computer science I was the only girl in the class, so it was nice to have some moral support. It hardly mattered by spring. I had proved myself their equal many times over and the small class had bonded so well that the boys in the class had forgotten I was any different. Until I wore a sundress one warm spring day.
But as I sit here now, my thoughts turn to two particular English teachers: Mrs. Metzger and Mrs. Nielsen. Sure I went to a great high school and had the immense pleasure of taking classes like Semiotics, but these two women were the ones who assigned Thought Journals. I think the journals were just to make us practice writing, but I loved filling page after page with my thoughts. The way they treated my often rambling thoughts with curiosity and respect made me feel valuable and heard. They were witnesses to my deepest thoughts, my eccentric ponderings and even my teen angst, all offered and received in the spirit of great and mutual trust.
I suppose this Blog of mine is actually just another Thought Journal, one that I have assigned to myself. Except I share this one, trustingly, with an unknown number of people, whom I may or may not even know. And it feels like in doing this I am valuing my thoughts, and becoming a curious and respectful witness to my own life.
I love books. I used to read everything, all the time. I would wander over to our local library after school and read as much as I could, then take a load of books home with me. At different times I was into biographies, science-fanstasy, science-fiction and historical novels. I even went through a Stephen King phase in adolescence.
But since I grew up, or became a parent, or something, I haven't read nearly so much. I still love hanging out in libraries and bookstores. I still love to read. I just don't do it much anymore. I'm hard-pressed to squeeze in an article from a magazine, never mind a novel. The reading I have done has been much more serious and "useful" - you know, philosophical thought or, more recently, life coaching type material.
I think due to the nature of this thought-provoking material I tend towards now, I have a bookshelf of partially read books, each with a bookmark, waiting to be picked up again. Some days I just look at all the books and let the book choose me. Invariably whatever I pick up, and whichever page I open to, the material is just what I need in that moment. It's kind of cool. Still, I miss reading just to read. For fun.
So today I read. I picked up a book my mom had given Dee Dee: DragonSong by Anne McCaffrey. To be honest, I'm not sure it's a great book for her yet. She certainly has the reading skills and vocabulary to read almost anything, but at 9 1/2 the subject materials that match her skills tend not to match her development. I worry about it because I was the same way. People always commented on my reading skills. And I blazed through books. I did fabulously on reading comprehension tests too (notoriously well in fact - I often argued for the "wrong" answers I had provided and always won). At the same time, I don't think I could actually process the material the way all the adults around me imagined I could. Some stories and concepts just require the maturity that comes with time and experience. So I am wary of what books I guide Dee Dee towards, and this one about a fifteen year old might not resonate yet.
Anyway, I loved Anne McCaffery way back when. In fact I've read this book before. Maybe 25 years ago. I didn't remember much, but I loved it as much now as I did then. Oh to be lost in another world, to escape mine for a few hours. And maybe that's why I don't read so much anymore: I'm scared I won't want to come back from wherever I end up. The fantasy worlds in books lay far fewer demands on me, and the stories often revolve around fascinating, compelling, sympathetic characters. Perhaps I cherish the opportunity to step far enough back from a life to observe it, witness it from a compassionate distance. Perhaps I could try that with my own life and find a fascinating, compelling, sympathetic character at it's core.
I needed Coogabon's help today to fix a technology problem. Well, maybe it was actually to fix a problem in my thinking about my technology problem.
I've never met Coogabon, but I understand he hangs out around here a lot. Sometimes he is very, very small. I think he can be microscopically small when he wants to be. Other times he's as big as Little Dudely. I suspect he can be even bigger if he wants to be. He's a lot like Little Dudely as it turns out.
Today our DVD server wasn't working. It was a very special Christmas gift for Pookie. All of her DVDs (copies of course, and all within copyright laws) which were once scattered or stacked in the vicinity of the TV are now on a hard-drive. Instead of shuffling through them to find what she wants, she uses her special little remote to pick anything, anytime. No scratches or broken disks ever. Very cool.
Anyway, this fabulous solution isn't very robust. There are sometimes glitches that need to be solved over our network with remote screen sharing and so on. While I am generally comfortable with technology, I have very little interest in how this is all wired together. I just want it to work. Fortunately, Little Dudely and Coogabon care.
So when the network connection wasn't working well today and I needed to fix something on the server, wiring was the likely problem and Little Dudely was the prime suspect. And he wasn't talking. After a few deep breaths, and a timely and brilliant suggestion from a friend, I went to enlist Little Dudely's help.
Obviously, Coogabon had been up early and messed around on the computer or with the wires. Perhaps Little Dudely could help me by asking Coogabon what he had done, and then Little Dudely could help me fix it. It took three visits with Coogabon to check all the wires that had been plugged and unplugged, and double check all the other wires in the TV set-up. But my hero, Little Dudely worked it out (with Coogabon's help, of course) and assured me that no settings on the computer had been altered.
In the end, I just needed to restart the server twice, reset the screen settings several times, restart the software a couple of times, and poof! it all agreed to work again. I'm not even sure that the plugging and unplugging had anything to do with it. But I do know that I can count on Little Dudely and Coogabon to help me if I ever have technology troubles again.
Did I mention Little Dudely is 5 1/2?
That's how many meters were rowed by all of the participants in the Concept 2 Holiday Challenge. 2,327 people rowed at least 200,000m (approximately 124 miles) between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. Another 2,749 people rowed between 100,000 and 200,000m, and 281 adaptive or under age 16 rowers completed at least 50,000m. That's a lot of crazy people who raised $26,629.72 for three environmental conservation organizations. Concept 2 is donating that money as part of the challenge.
Personally, I rowed 200,804m. That would be 2008-04, as in I just completed my fourth holiday challenge in 2008. C2 is donating $6.03 on my behalf. I will also receive a commemorative pin. And the opportunity to buy a t-shirt and download a certificate... So why exactly did I sit on my erg (and make my butt sore) for all that time?
Actually I've spent a lot of time thinking about that. Sure, I didn't gain any weight over the holidays. But that's just a fortunate side-effect. I'm in better shape than I was when I started. Another fortunate side-effect. I also annoyed my husband by working out so much through the busy pre-celebration weeks. But that's just an unfortunate side-effect. There's no acclaim, in fact, no one really even notices the accomplishment. So why do it?
I like challenges and I had fun (I think). And I made this one more interesting by requiring that I not get compulsive about it (a major failing of every past C2HC). Every time my life started to get out of balance because I had too much going on, I had to stop and reconsider my priorities. Sure, the C2HC stayed a priority, but I made sure that it was a conscious and positive choice... or I tried to. I forced myself to pay attention to my body and take days off when I was tired. I slowed down to conserve my resources for the rest of my activities of the day. I got a lot of good introspection done because of this particular challenge.
Full disclosure here: after rowing 24 of 28 days of the C2HC I have worked out on only 2 of the 9 days since it ended. I have rowed only once. If I wasn't so good at rationalizing I would say that I did burn out over this challenge. But I realized something important yesterday (this would be the rationalizing), I am not recovering, collapsed even, from excessive rowing, but from the excessive demands I placed on myself during the holiday season.
You can argue that the C2HC was one of those excessive demands, and I would counter that it provided balance and perspective. Fundamentally, I took an already busy life and added an awful lot to it. The rowing just made sure that some of that extra was focused on me and what I think of as fun. Sorry, I just haven't gotten to the place where being responsible for planning, choosing, buying, wrapping, distributing, creating, mailing, doing everything for Christmas is fun. Setting limits on the volume of demands, then placing my fun in there first, made sure I put down some of those other responsibilities. And it stopped me from being even more stressed and overwhelmed. Maybe that's just the endorphins talking...
So maybe I didn't put enough down. Maybe it would be better to set the limits even tighter and place my focus on the love and fun of the season. Maybe this year I'll learn how to rest into life and enjoy all that comes my way with graceful perspective. Maybe this year I'll stop demanding anything of myself and simply give what feels good.
It snowed again yesterday. So I went out for a walk to revel in the peace and beauty of it. A quiet hour spent reflecting to close out the year. It was quite cold and windy, so the snow was fluffy but still stung as it hit my face.
As I began my walk I noticed some footprints from someone who had traveled my path sometime earlier. The snow was erasing the evidence of my fellow reveler, but I could still make out their wanderings from side to side across the closed-for-winter road. I wondered what had caught their attention, as mine was caught by the patterns in the ice forming on the wetlands or the texture of the water as it flowed downstream in the river.
The road curves sharply to the left not too far from the parking lot. I discerned something strange about the fading footprints. A large patch of disturbed snow, sort of swooshed around. "What caused that?" I mused as zoop! my foot slid out from under me. I caught myself. Ice. Ah, there's ice under this snow.
Then as I took my next step I remembered the black ice that forms on that corner. Water runs off the hillside and across the road to the river. The hill, covered with trees, is to the south of the road there, and the shadiness protects whatever ice does form. Splot! With my mind elsewhere I never considered that I would still be on that black ice, now covered in an inch of dry snow, making it about as slippery as things get.
I instinctively reached out with my right arm and landed in a sort of side-plank. After righting myself and carefully navigating my way off this hazardous stretch, I appreciated my body. I am grateful for being young, strong and resilient, for having quick reflexes and sturdy bones. It's easy to see how a slip like that could break an arm or hip, or cause a head injury. Phew!
Later I noticed my shoulder was achy from absorbing the impact. Today my left waist has been complaining. Apparently those muscles were involved in my saving as well. And I guess that's how life is sometimes. Events and circumstances surprise us, throw us off balance, even knock us down. What we walk away with depends on our reactions and our resilience. But no mater what we think, we will be far more affected than we first realize.
