Smart is as smart does

 Maybe my pets can read and thus know that I write about them. Maybe when I’m gone to work they make themselves at home in the living room (where the “Dog Rule” manual states they are not allowed) and read my column in the newspaper or maybe they surf my online blog for the latest scoop.

Nonetheless something is up. I have a sneaking suspicion that the animals are in cahoots with each other. “One-upmanship” appears to be on the rise around here.

I say this after getting up from breakfast at the kitchen table this morning to find that “Millie” the cat barfed up an unknown substance on my bedspread that I can only describe as something I’ve seen in the movie “Alien.”

And as I hauled the quilt outside to scrape off the juicy chunks before throwing it in the washing machine I looked out over the farmyard to see Cash writhing his snout continuously in the grass as Dot furiously swung a black and white rodent to and fro in her teeth.

It only took a matter of seconds for the stench to reach my nostrils.

It was 7:30 a.m. and already my day had more lead in it than a 20-gauge shotgun shell.

Oh, how easily I could have gone off like that shotgun but I decided to disengage from it all and “go with the flow.”

I’m smart like that.

As I stare out my bedroom window from my writing desk just now, I watch as a robin perched on the clothesline prunes its feather and then poops on my new pair of freshly washed jeans hanging below where bird sits. Hmmm.  It’s a “Fables of the Green Forest” kind of morning.

A Facebook notification “bling” lights up my iPhone and I see that my favorite reporter just left a comment on my recent status. “Fascinating observation,” was his remark to my new mantra I posted.

I have a “Quotes for Work” file on my computer and I dredge it often for brain food.

I’m smart like that.

I added a new quote to it on Friday—“Worrying is like praying for what you don’t want.” 

I am reminded of a story my Captain told to me last week over a cup of coffee. He, who is wise in sweet form, was recalling his school days and English class and the dry spells he encountered when it was time to write a story. His teacher told him to think of a favorite quote and then write something about it. It made all the difference in removing his creative block.

“Worrying is like praying for what you don’t want.”  I found this most fascinating observation marked as “Zen tip #89” on one of the websites I frequent. I’m not sure what the first 88 tips are but they must be totally awesome, given my opinion of #89.

I freely admit that I worry a lot, even though I spend an inordinate amount of time reading and studying the ways in which not to do that.

I worry about the old, rusted, tried and true gears of my life like finances, paying bills, affording house repairs, and fitting life into life’s busy schedule and I’ve discovered that I do most of this unproductive nonsense while riding my lawn tractor.

In fact, that light bulb just went off last night, being Sunday, when I was cutting the front lawn.

I would start off anticipating the upcoming first day at my new full time job—a true story that begins on August 29^th—and by the next go ‘round of the lawn I’d be right back in the mud of worry.

I’d realize where I was in my head, change tracks and kick start the excitement again about the new adventure in employment and then unknowingly wander off into the land of fret by the time I’d made a full circle again.

And if my recall is as good as I think it is, it seems to me I’ve rode this tractor on similar mental grounds before during the hazy times of the past where my mind would get sucked into the dark vortex of stewing and suffering about all the reasons why my ex-husband had chosen a life that didn’t include me.

Back then by the time I was done mowing, I’d be reduced to nothing but a drained soul with no possibility or hope—and for someone with a great passion for the power of positive thinking this mind ritual I put myself through was grave business.

Maybe I need to hire someone to cut my grass?

I’ve written so many times about the power of choice, choosing my thoughts the same way I choose my clothes every day—choose wisely. I’m still learning.

So the “worrying is like praying for what you don’t want,” quote has struck a chord with me. I don’t want to focus on the things in life I don’t want.

Thoughts become things. Choose good ones.

Sometimes I’m smart like that.

From here to the kennel and back

I’m staring at a blank screen. My mind is empty and the clock is ticking. This scenario doesn’t happen to me very often when it’s time to write my column. It means my life is sailing along on with calm winds at my back and my slate is relatively clean.

Of course, all I have to do is put the latter paragraph into writing and my neck of the woods erupts into a plethora of dog barking and cat frenzy, giving me plenty of fodder to scoop into a 550-word essay.

First of all my canine capers are hardly ever on leashes around here. For the most part “Dot” and “Cash” know where their boundaries are and unless provoked by the one who occasionally gets too close to the property line and whose incessant woofing sound like canine expletives and “You want a piece of me, dawg?” my two four-legged friends stick to home plate.

The only other times the four-legged frenzies are missing in action is, as I have said before, when a skunk or other small rodent dares venture within sniffing distance—or after I bring them home from an extended stay at the “Doggie Hotel.”

Once out of the car and on home ground the dogs disperse into the wilds to take the poop they’ve been holding back since they left home and then head straight for the house where inside they flop down and fall asleep for hours relieved to be back on familiar territory.

It’s always the same comical routine. They watch me line the back seat of the car with drop sheets and they know it’s time for a car ride. Doggy excitement abounds as they race around the yard yapping like the “Frisky Puppy” in a “Looney Tunes” cartoon.

Then they sit so patiently yet teeming with adrenaline as I slip on their dog collars and leashes and open the door to the back seat of the car as they leap in.

My goal is to get behind the steering wheel before they explode into the front seat with all that dog hair. I rarely win that battle.

It’s really quite an exciting ride to the dog kennel for all of us creatures. Dog noses are shoved out open car windows into the wind, tongues are flapping, ears are flopping, tails are wagging, and their driver is smiling and thinking about how much she is looking forward to the “dog days” off.

But all canine caper joy screeches to a halt when they bound out to play in the kennel field and then see the gate close and realize I am leaving them behind. The howling and whooping begins as my foot hits the accelerator and I tear off into the land of the free. I’ve often wondered how long the dogs can hear my squealing joy as I disappear down the highway.

Dogs know the sound of their master’s car. When I return days later to pick them up, I still am out of shouting range when the sound of Cash hailing my arrival with his version of joyous whooping and howling frenzy reaches my ears.

Repeat excitement ensues on the ride home except that I’m wearing ear plugs to save my hearing from damage done by ecstatic and energetic hollers from two capers who shout “I Miss You When You’re Gone!!!” as if they just won the lottery.

But then, what am I thinking?  They did win the lottery.

The funniest part of all is when after arriving back home and with a couple of hours of rest and relaxation under their doggie belts, I jest with “Do you want to go for a car ride?”

Dot looks up at me from the floor with a flat stare while Cash already has leapt from his sleeping spot and through the screen door before  “Do you . .” is out of my mouth.

There’s never a shortage of laughter around here.

Put the dark energy to rest

 My soul sister told me the other day over tea that she wants to “live in color.” The desire was voiced after sharing her sadness about the recent death of a friend. We talked a long time about this and we both had a compelling sense to fall into the world with our eyes closed and our arms outstretched.

Why? Why not? After all, none of us are guaranteed much of anything in this life other than the moment we are in. It makes sense to me, too, to live in color as much as I can.

Above my writing station is a quote by author and former Liberal Party politician Michael Ignatieff that reads, “One of the greatest feelings in life is the conviction that you have lived the life you wanted to live—with the rough and the smooth, the good and the bad—but yours, shaped by your own choices, and not someone else’s.”

The philosophy therein is mine—body and soul.

I was taught in a “Time for Me” workshop last year to use “I-statements” when sharing my thoughts and feelings with others. 

It’s a hard lesson to employ, especially when I want the nods of support of the people I’m talking with. Using “I” instead of “we” “you” “they” when sharing feelings on a subject can be daunting and leave me “out there” on a ledge by myself.

But at the dimming of the day I know that if I don’t take off my own skin and stand naked in my very own beliefs about a thing, I have done myself a severe injustice.

So at the advice of my soul sister, I return once again to a subject I thought I had left said and done in this fickle world of writing about my life adventures. This is where putting my honesty into the hands of my readers can come back to me as a hot poker to niggle at half-stitched scars.

Some of what I write here is hiccupped on repeat, like an old record skipping over the same six words.

I cannot remember the last time I wrote in anger, but this time I am angry. The reason for this particular column is twofold.

It is a clearinghouse for my frustrations once again about the archaic reactions based on old and rusty rules of socially acceptable time frames for grieving born in another century. 

And in my “readership wish book,” it is warrior’s stand for anyone else out there who has been through the grief grinder and who may be wading through an ill-supported system as they make their way back to life.

I am here to remind you that your grief is unique, your recovery in your own way is unique and there will be hurdles. Be a hurdler.

What is the biggest chance you have ever taken?

I know what mine is. The biggest chance I ever took was a deliberate leap to find happiness again and I am appalled that, still, I meet up with careless-mouthed dream stealers in my bid for a happy life. 

No one in this whole wide world can tell me that I don’t know how life can change in an instant. I learned that lesson the hard way when I drove into my yard on a cold winter night and found myself helpless in the face of death.

But it was not the end of my life; it was just the beginning of a different one. I am driven to grow from all the walks of my life and anyone who knows the many, many hardships I have experienced, knows I am not a quitter. I am not wedded to my past. I am a strong and beautiful soul and my goal is to be happy.

And yet despite all my strengths I am weak. I am human. I hurt.

Suffering a loss, whatever it may be, is a unique experience for each of us. For those of us trying to find the happiness we want and deserve please don’t take us down.

Remember those six words. And I repeat.

“Mouth closed, ears open, presence available.”

Wisdom unfolds in sweet form

First of all, I am writing this with sea legs and if I didn’t feel the floor under my writing desk in my bedroom I would swear I was on the sailboat socking through the waves on Rainy Lake. It’s incredible how the human body continues to process motion some 20 hours after setting foot on dry land.

I suddenly have visions of the old salt “Santiago” from the novel “The Old Man and the Sea” and wonder if he had sea legs after his long fishing voyages.

As I quiet the bobbing visual that is my laptop screen I’m also thankful that sometimes “the more you know” is best left unknown in a dark place.

I was sitting in an outhouse on an island campsite on Rainy Lake doing my thing Sunday night after a long day’s cruise, as the last slices of light poured in through the cracks of the old wooden door at the dimming of the day and making it hard to see.

I already was batting zero with my little shred of toilet paper but if I’d have realized I was sharing limited and personal space with a very large brown recluse spider, dangling as it were just outside my peripheral vision, my screams would have disintegrated the structure and my sailor friends who were sitting around the camp fire, would have had to build a new “poopatorium” for the campsite.

The incredible event would have become part of the adventurous log of sailing stories that include the “Bagel Incident” I heard told by “Sailor T” this weekend.

Thankfully my captain waited to tell me about the arachnid until I was far enough away from the outhouse to save them all a lot of construction work. He is wise in sweet form.

I have a “bucket list” and although the remote Kettle Falls Hotel on Rainy Lake wasn’t on it, everyone else should add the amazing destination to the register of wonderful spots to visit.

It was the happening place to be Saturday night as crewmembers of the Rendezvous Yacht Club docked their fleet and weary bones there after the annual 25-mile “Kettle Falls Regatta.”

Lucky me to be first-mate on the “Morning Dove,” for my inaugural Kettle Falls race where I fast-tracked my way to understanding that on a sailboat a “leech” isn’t as gross as the one you get between your toes and “aft” is not the slang term for the time of day that comes post-lunch. A “sheet” is not what’s on my bed and “boom” is not just a verb—and the noun can knock you off your feet if you’re not paying attention.

Saturday evening was something out of a storybook for gals like me who don’t get out much in life to experience the new and unknown. I was mesmerized by the hotel’s history and the entire and entertaining world of the Kettle Falls tradition that becomes the Yacht Club members after they lower the main and lift and alight the atmosphere there with a glass, a song, and plenty of spirit.

I was sitting in the moment on the hotel screen porch happily listening to guitar music, tapping my foot to the rhythm, and holding the warm hand of my captain and thinking about the times I have second-guessed whether or not I deserve all the good things I want out of life. 

Sometimes those things are as simple as a day off and sometimes those things are much more important in my life and yet remain for one reason or another in neutral while I debate outcomes and unknowns instead of going with what feels right.

How many of you reading this right now can relate?

Go buy a bag of “Dove” individually wrapped chocolates.

Sailing home across the lake on Monday afternoon, my captain and I took a snack break and each opened our chocolate and read each other the caption on the inside of our wrappers. It’s uncanny sometimes the messages life gives us if we just listen.

Later that afternoon we crashed for a power nap at anchor on the bunks across from each other in the boat cabin and as I was just about to saw off for my “15,” my captain looked over at me and repeated the message he’d read earlier.

"Give yourself permission." "You could write about that,” he said with a smile.

Wisdom unfolds in sweet form.