I am Beth the Brave

“Yes is for young people, Yes is for young people,” I chanted reassuringly to myself in the bathroom mirror as the hair dye oozed through my plastic-gloved fingertips.

A lumpy trail of Vaseline jelly was layered across my forehead at the hairline and down around my ears to save my skin from turning the color of cinnamon sticks.

My hair looked like a science experiment. I prayed no one came knocking at the door.

“There is no choice you've ever made, nor any you will ever make, that will limit you as much as you may fear,” I said to the me who wasn’t so sure this “at home” follicle re-pigmentation project was a good idea.

The instructions said to leave the goop in for 10 minutes. Did that include the 10 minutes it took me to work the stuff into my extra thick long hair? And what about the intolerable wiry grey I wanted to get rid of?

I read the instructions again.

“For resistant grey hair, you may need to leave colour on for an additional 5 minutes, or longer than a total of 15 minutes.”

Little did I know at that moment that I misread the instructions and had just invited remorse into the room.

 “for no longer than a total of 15 minutes,” was a crucial part of the recipe.

It was a misread, misinterpreted, misjudged, mistakened, missed by a long shot, BIG MISTAKE!!

After 25 minutes I peeled the plastic bag off my head, leaned over the tub and rinsed out the leftover dye with the shower hose.

The warm water felt so good on my tender scalp rudely marinated in wordy ingredients I could hardly pronounce—‘Methylresorcinol’, ‘Soytrimonium’ and ‘Ethoxydiglycol’ to name three of the some 20 chemicals listed on the box.

“And what are ‘Oleth 2’ and ‘Oleth 5’? Movie sequels?” I queried out loud.

I should have kept my eyes shut as I washed the dye from my hair, but I didn’t.

I opened my eyes--and then opened them wider--as I watched the rinse water flow off my head in a fiery red color and promptly stain the bottom of my tub before swirling down the drain.

It felt like a lifetime passed before the water ran clear. As I waited I chanted to myself the score of positive thinking I’d preached from last week’s column.

“Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in.”

I wrapped my long head of hair in a towel and squeezed. I prayed. I closed my eyes and fumbled my way over to the bathroom mirror; stood there and said, “Go forward. Finish what you start. Don’t look back.”

I took the towel off my hair and peaked out of one squinty eyeball. At first glance it was like one of my old Scottish ancestors was staring back at me.

I thank my lucky stars, the spirits of King Fergus and Queen Elinor, and the clan of Caldwell that my captain was away on an ocean sailing adventure for three whole weeks.

Oh Lordy. I was the spitting image of “Merida” from the Disney movie, ‘Brave.’ All I needed was a long bow and a green velvet dress.

In the meantime I had to figure out how to get in and out of the hair dye aisle for a “browner shade of something” without being recognized and swarmed for autographs.

But that’s another story. 

Healing thoughts never lose their way

I ended last week’s column with “I am the luckiest girl I know,” and yet when I saw that in writing after the newspaper was printed I thought, no, I’m not lucky. Luck is for lottery ticket winners.

I believe I deserve to have a happy life and I live for that goal and I am rewarded in my hard work to get it.

I practice acceptance. I practice reassurance. I practice believing that I have more than once chance in this world to get things right and when I doubt my timing—and I do doubt my timing a lot—I always come back to believing I am right where I’m supposed to be. I believe everybody else is too.

I’m writing today’s column at 5 a.m., before the sun shines and the day takes on its “have to do” hue.

This is my favorite time of day. I can enjoy the virgin-like atmosphere of a day on the leading edge of its history not yet touched by anything but the rising sun.

I have a ritual every morning where I stand outside on my porch facing east as the sun peaks over the horizon and I slowly bow three times and say out loud, “Thank you for this day.”

I try never to miss the opportunity to practice this ritual and to be thankful not only for being alive to see the sun rise, but also to be accepting of whatever the day has in store for me before it happens.

I’m sticking to my guns about believing I am where I’m supposed to be all the time.

I started this bowing ritual at the beginning of the summer. It has changed my attitude and my gratitude level, and keeps me grounded in present-moment living.

I haven’t written a column at 5 a.m. in a very long time. It is my “me” time and not traditionally my “creative” time. 

However, if anybody can change his or her thoughts on a thing, it’s me.

The following is a smattering of the stuff I read about every morning—a fraction of the stash of healing thoughts that I dwell on as I edge nearer to the cusp of the old “9-5” routine and beyond. I didn’t write any of it. Thanks to the geniuses who did.

“Go forward. Finish what you start. Don’t look back.”

"There is magic in what we believe. Our beliefs tell our future better than any crystal ball or psychic can. ‘As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he,’ says one holy book. Be mindful of your thoughts and beliefs. What you think and believe today, whether it's ‘I can't’ or ‘I can,’ is what you will manifest tomorrow.

Do you have any beliefs right now that are holding you back? What are your ‘I can’s’ and ‘I can'ts’. Take a moment. Look into your heart. Examine what you believe to be true. Is there an area in your life that could be benefited by thinking and believing something else? If you are going to use the power of your mind, use it to form a positive belief.”

"Stop trying to protect, to rescue, to judge, to manage the lives around you... remember that the lives of others are not your business... They are God's business... Leave it to God... Unclench the fists of your spirit and take it easy..."

“Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in.”

“Practice self-care. Pay attention to the one you care about. Listen when they speak. Respond with kindness and understanding. Hug every day. Kiss often, and repeat.”

“There is no choice you've ever made, nor any you will ever make, that will limit you as much as you may fear.”

“Don’t be afraid to be a fool. Remember, you cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics. Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the farthest thing from it. Because cynics don’t learn anything. Because cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say no. But saying yes begins things. Saying yes is how things grow. Saying yes leads to knowledge. ‘Yes’ is for young people. So for as long as you have the strength to, say Yes.”

Yes.

Summer hiatus worth more than gold

“This is life, not a funeral service,” Melody Beattie writes. That’s the truth.

Beginning in July I heeded a wise friend’s advice. I put down my pen, closed the lid on my laptop and took a break from writing my column.

Save the one column that showed up for the Irish clan who came a’ calling, I managed to give myself permission to lay low from writing for about seven weeks. Wow.

And lo and behold I turned around once in my summer swirl and “looky looky”—September is just over there.

However it was becoming easier and easier to let one more week go without writing. I think I could have been lost indefinitely had not Frances Einarson and Louella Kellar—to name just two candles in the window—guided me back to my lighthouse.

Without question though, my word vacation has been liberating and dare I say, deserved? I squeezed the orange juice out of my orange this summer, and no matter her short season I am thankful for every day of it.

I remain in mysterious awe of how life can pour me a glass of good times with a sprig of happiness if I make a conscious choice to loosen up a bit, be spontaneous, participate, and have some fun.

And even when she wipes my garden clean of its fruit and changes the plans I had for tomorrow, that’s okay too.

Where do I begin?

It all started on a sunny day in early July (after re-planting my garden) when visions of raccoons living in the hayloft—dancing around up there and pooping out parasites all over my would-be dance hall floor did indeed come to fruition.

I was working in the barn, readying it for my fellow reunionites when I looked up to see a big mother—a really big mother—raccoon staring at me from her prone perch in a cubby at the top of the wall.

The sighting of my nemesis occurred a few days after I had waved my golf club in the hayloft and shouted in a threatening voice for any and all rodents to “be very afraid.”  Obviously she didn’t get that memo.

Come to think of it, the raccoon date was July 4^th and Independence Day for my American friends.

I admit it felt a bit like Independence Day in my neck of the woods, too, after I showed that bandit who wore the pants around here. My barn. My rules.

Yet I still do not rule my grasslands. The geese have it covered.

There now are 18 such feathered friends, most of which are this years’ goslings, and regular daily attenders to the lawn in front of the barn. They move about in long waddling lines, leaving behind their trademark green poo and enough goose down to start a pillow factory—all the while shaking their long necks in scold of me when I try to get to “my” barn or to “my” garden. 

Nevertheless, I have watched the goslings grow from little golden fluff into tall, lanky creatures of flight and despite the chaos, I’m grateful they grew up here on the banks of Frog Creek.

All foe and fowl aside, the best of my summer holidays was set simply against the beautiful scenery of Rainy Lake from aboard a sailboat in the company of the man who remains my captain. 

And against the bluest of skies I swam countless times in the lake and floated freely on my back, listening to my heartbeat under water. It was the only sound  . . . .

The world falls away during these times and releases me into a wonderful place of freedom that no amount of money in the world could replace.

I am the luckiest girl I know.