Childhood Dreams Come True and My Word of the Year

I used to be nostalgic for my childhood. For the days I would spend tucked away in my room writing, reading, creating - dreaming. But I realized something today: most of my childhood dreams have come true. How many people can actually say that?? I'm married. I am a mother. I have a horse. I am a college graduate and I rescue. I have my sisters and family close-by. I am an artist. I have a Diana to my Anne. I am surrounded by books. I have a home that reflects my inner-self.

I was one of those girls who dreamed of her wedding and husband-to-be. I bought Bride magazines, cut out pictures, and arranged a binder full of ideas. This dream was fueled by my best friend at the time -  also a hopeless romantic; we talked often about what our lives would be like one day. I met my husband when I was only 19, young by today's standards, and I knew right away he was the one for me. When I look ahead - at forever - he's there. It's hard to believe we've been married for almost 8 years, and I've known him for more than a third of my life. Funny, when did 'one day' become 'today'? I've also come to understand that the planning of my wedding, my life - my future was really a need to look forward, to have an objective I'm working towards. I need to plan, to organize, and to be ready for things ahead of time. And I knew that way back when.

These planning skills came back into play when I began college. I loved college - creating my schedule, organizing my notes, deciding on a degree, attending classes, turning in papers... College cemented my need for, and desire of, structure and organization.

I used to think a lot about what I would be when I grew up. I remember wanting to be a paramedic; I can't remember when and why I let go of that dream, but I know now that my desire to be a paramedic was really a desire to rescue. This desire morphed into a degree in psychology, a career in social services and an intense desire to rescue the mind. I am still hungry for information about the brain - how it works, how it stores memory, but mostly what happened when things go wrong. My need to rescue shows up in other ways too. Adopting children. Taking in a stray dog. Falling in love with a horse. I have an innate desire to put protective arms around certain things and make their lives easier and better than they were.

Then I wanted to be in the FBI - I was fascinated with crime, the art of investigation, and guns. Funny though, it is now my daughter's greatest desire - to join the FBI; perhaps my dream will yet be realized through her. But this dream has been fulfilled in another way. I  married a man who not only has a fascination with guns, but a knowledge of guns that makes me envious, and proud. He can pick up any gun, anywhere, and not only tell you about it but knows exactly how to use it. For our children, this means they are growing up with best of both worlds - my romantic fascination with guns, and Johnny's knowledge and good sense of them. And that makes me proud.

I always knew I'd be a mother. The desire has always been there; although back then I wanted ten kids because I had ten beautiful names picked out :) This dream came to be in an amazing way because God didn't give us biological kids. Instead, He led our hearts into adopting three amazing kids - handpicked for us, like wildflowers God carefully removed from the side of the road and neatly arranged in a vase in our home. My oldest child said to me once: "do you think since God knew we would be your kids someday, He gave us traits like you and dad?" And He did. Because they are like us in so many ways - they even look like us! I've learned through adoption that when the desire comes from God, but it doesn't seem to coming true, He may be planning to fulfill that desire in a way other than what you expect. I look for that now. When my heart has a desire, I try to be open to a rearrangement of the fulfillment of that desire.

I used to draw floor plans, dreaming about the house I would someday have. Each drawing had several stories, and ten or more bedrooms (for my ten kids, remember) - well, actually I guess I drew mansions. When I married, we bought a house. It was the second house I looked at and we moved on it immediately. I had no idea how perfect this house would be for us in so many ways. It has led to friendships for my children, the dog that's closest to my heart, close proximity to our church, friends, family.... It's odd looking back now, at all the times we thought we wanted to move, and how something prevented us each time. I love our home because it is filled it with colors, things and people that are comforting, peaceful and bring us joy.

I read a lot as a child. I brought home stacks of books from the library, bought books with babysitting money, and read and re-read thousands of books. I remember thinking about how great it would have been to be locked in a library or bookstore overnight (okay, maybe it was because I read the book 'Help! I'm Locked in the Library,' but still). Today, my home is filled with books - upstairs and downstairs, my walls are lines with books. You might say I live in a bookstore. And I love it.

I thought it would be so much fun to be an artist (all those years of drawing floor plans maybe). Really though, I wanted to be a painter or a sketch artist. But I can't paint, and I can't draw. However, I had the desire to be an artist; and God fulfilled my desire when He put a camera in my hand. Photography has become my art. Taking a photo from the right angle, with the right colors, and perfect lighting; then editing it to perfection. And so, I am an artist, just not in the traditional sense. My love of photography gave me a greater appreciation for life and landscapes because I look at everything through the lens of a camera. I look for those moments you want stilled in your memory forever. I look for the unique, and for the mundane that becomes beautiful. I view life in snapshots.

I remember assuming I'd grow old with my sisters and their kids. By today's standards, this was a naive assumption but we all actually live within a five-mile radius. In a world where kids grow up and move away, only coming home for holidays, I feel so blessed to have all my sisters, their husbands and kid(s) just around the corner. (If only my dream of living in a Gilmore Girls town would come true now...)

I used to think the friendship between Anne and Diana in the book Anne of Green Gables was the epitome of true friendship. But as I grew older, I became more cynical: childhood friendships don't last - we change, we move, we disagree, we marry. And friendships begun in adulthood are often complicated - life gets in the way, you don't know a person's past as you do with a childhood friend, and I've found that trust is so much harder to give as an adult. But God happened to think I still needed an 'Anne and Diana' friendship, and my image of 'kindred spirits' has been restored. We are the same and we are different, and she makes my heart happy.

I dreamed of horses as a child. I remember wishing I'd lived on a ranch in Montana, surrounded every day by horses. But I grew up in a suburban neighborhood so I had to live this dream other ways. I read westerns. I watched westerns. And I wrote about horses in my stories. About a year ago though, God decided it was time to let this dream come true too. I began by riding horses that belonged to friends; then I met Rocky, and I was in love. He became my horse not even six months ago. Of all my dreams, this is probably the one I thought most likely not to come true. Hmmm.... my words are stuck now - I can't seem to find the right ones to tell you the joy I've found in belonging to a horse. I learn something new from him everyday- about me, about life, about love. He is as much my life-coach as he is my baby. The connection to a horse is an emotional bond that makes me as happy as it does fearful, because I know one day I will lose him. Looking forward, however, I can see an expansion of this dream - I can see a ranch, more horses, and living the life I wanted as a girl. It also means my kids and my nieces and nephews will grow up with horses. And that makes me glad.

As I began this blog, I thought it would be about my childhood dreams. But it's become about the person I am today. And the person I am today is someone I'm completely happy with. God has brought things and people in my life to help me, mold me, and yes, change me - but for the better I think. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I talk often to God, but lately it's hard to ask for anything because I am so blessed with people and things that my cup is overflowing. The realist in me knows, however, that this blissful happiness will not last forever. There will be tough times, painful times to endure, and loss.


So I've decided my word of the year is: ENJOY.

I want to remember to take the time and enjoy everything. To take snapshot memories and store them away. To spend time with people. To not put off until tomorrow what could be done today.

The Peppermint Chronicles...

I know a horse named Lena who loves peppermints. She knows the crinkle of the wrapper from across her stall. If you give Lena a mint, she puts it immediately in her back teeth - crunch crunch - and it's gone, at which point she tries to nudge you for another one.

Rocky treats peppermints a little differently.  I'll hold the mint to his nose and he'll take an exaggerated sniff and excitedly take it off my hand with his lips. But then it gets odd. He doesn't chew it, but kind of rolls it around in his mouth. He'll try to crunch it with his front teeth but the pieces can't stay in his mouth and they'll fall to the ground. So I've started keeping my hand under his mouth to catch the pieces and give them back, which he sucks back up. He'll take the smaller pieces and do the same thing again, rolling it around, like he's actually savoring the mint. After all remnants of the mint are finally gone, he stands there licking his lips, for forever... At first I thought it was treats in general, that maybe he just didn't know what to do with a treat - but he crunches his apple-flavored horse treats right away, keeping the pieces in his mouth. I can't imagine, however that this will go on forever - I don't truly believe that he's really sucking on peppermints instead of eating them, I think he just needs more experience with them.

It got me thinking though. (Shocking, I know). As humans, I think we tend to adopt one of these methods when a good thing falls in our lap. Some of us accept it immediately, taking it in without so much as a second thought, devour it, and are instantly ready for the next thing. Others, although excited about the good thing, roll it around first - maybe savoring it, maybe unsure of what to do actually do with it - but letting a few pieces will fall out along the way; maybe you get the pieces back, maybe you don't. 

On a deeper level though, one could argue whether or not a 'peppermint' is really a 'good thing'? And does a 'good thing' depend on the intrinsic value of the thing itself, the 'taste buds' of the beneficiary, or the ideology and opinions of the person giving the thing? And finally, if it's determined that the 'peppermint' is actually a 'good thing', can one achieve a happy medium? Somewhere between Lena and Rocky? What is it that gets us there...

Just a little food for thought...

Dark and Early in the Morning

You've heard the expression bright and early in the morning? Well, I'd like to tell you about dark and early in the morning, and how it is quickly becoming my favorite time of day.

I've never been a morning person; as a teenager I slept in on the weekends often until early afternoon; as a college student, I much preferred the still and quiet of night to study which only reinforced the idea that mornings were for sleeping; as an adult, I got up if I had something to do, but much preferred to sleep in; as a mom, this became less and less of an option. Of course, because I have older children, I'm awakened to the smell a kid making waffles, not the cry of a baby, but I'm up regardless.

Enter a two year old, named Rocky, who is teaching me about dark and early, about the time of day I've been missing all these years - the time of day my husband has always preferred and I never understood why. Whether I want to or not now, I'm awake around 4:30am. I hit the snooze for about 15 minutes and then throw back the covers, pull on jeans and t-shirt and tuck my hair under a hat. The dogs watch me move around the room, lit by only one light so I don't wake Johnny, until they realize that it's for real, that I'm actually getting up. I kiss Johnny good-bye and follow 12 feet who barrel down the stairs. I'm out of the house a little after 5am, a Red Bull in hand.

Down a bumpy dirt road, I pull up to gates behind which sit a house and stables - both still dark and quiet. I pull in, turn off the engine and step out into the dark. It's hard not to look up at the stars - they are the only lights out. I walk into the stable, set my things down and check on Rocky. He is often still sleeping on the ground inside his stall and will let me come in, scratch his neck and ears, and give him kisses before he even stands up. Just like waking a sleeping baby...

The only sounds that early in the morning are my footsteps, the creak of the tack room door as I open it, and horses - their nays, the crunching of hay, and the rattling of buckets from horses waiting (impatiently) for their grain. I slip Rocky into his halter and lead him out of his stall and into the cross-ties to be brushed and groomed. He is usually still sleepy but loves to be scratched on his neck, extending it out as far as he can. If you scratch under his chin he will tuck his head down and turn it from side to side so you can get the right spot. Sometimes, when he's tied to the hitching post outside the stable, he rubs his chest and neck on the wood. You can tell when he's finally starting to 'wake up' because he'll start to nibble on, well, anything - my shirt, my leg, my back, my phone, or most recently my hair. I saddle him up, swap his halter for a bridle and lead him into the arena to stretch his legs before taking him on a sunrise trail ride.

By time the rest of the world is just waking up and reaching for the coffee, I've been on the back of a horse for an hour and watched the sun peek over the mountains and light the sky, bringing us into a brand new day. Maybe the sunrise is why I like dark and early so much...

Photo Credit: V Lowe (taken during one of our mountain morning rides....)

The Cabin: A Place of Magic and Memories

My memories today are colored by childhood summer days spent at my Grandparent's cabin in the Arizona mountains, in a little place called Happy Jack.

It's cloudy today, and breezy and cool. At sunrise, the sun painted the clouds pink and orange, then disappeared entirely behind billowing gray clouds. Which is when my heart started to ache for my grandparents and the cabin, for the days when there was nothing more to do on a summer day except dream and play. When walking into the cabin midday meant the smell of dinner cooking. When being lazy meant watching the pine trees sway from a hammock tied beneath. When getting the mail was the best part of the day because it was a twenty minute walk down the driveway, up a hill and to what seemed like an endless row of metal mailboxes. When the greatest joy was finding a letter inside the mailbox for me. A handwritten letter from a friend back home. When rainy afternoons were best spent on the screened in porch watching the rain saturate the garden and soften the pine needles on the ground. When playing games meant playing cards and Mastermind. When reading a book wasn't just about reading, it was an experience. I didn't just read (every) summer about the city girl who finds refuge in Montana and meets the handsome rancher - I was her. And writing. Writing meant paper and a pencil, and dreams of becoming an author weren't smothered by time restraints, self-doubt, and a dead laptop battery.

There were the days when the monsoons kept up indoors and it meant curling up on the couch under the deer blanket and watching a movie like Guys and Dolls or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Dinner was eaten in the afternoon and evenings were reserved for tea time (my favorite), hot chocolate and Dominos. And hearing the news meant Grandma was getting tea time ready as she watched the black and white kitchen TV. And opening up the double solid wood pantry doors was like opening the wardrobe door in Narnia. Because if there was a secret door to another world, it would most definitely have been in there.

The cabin was a place where dreaming was done while you were awake, and the world was wide open with nothing in front of you except forever. It was a place of magic - where pine trees smelled like chocolate, vanilla or strawberry, the floors creaked, laundry was hung outside to dry, and attics were filled with treasures. Where going to the store meant a day trip to Payson or Strawberry, and if you were lucky meant breakfast at a restaurant. Where walks in the forest were adventures, forts were built, mud pies were made, berries were picked, the creek was for swimming, church pews were orange and hymns were sung. Where cereals were meant to be mixed, Bible Studies were done before we were ever quite awake, crafts were created, and beds were made with electric blankets so you could leave the windows open to the night air.

Now the cabin has been sold and I can't bring myself to go back one last time. I say its because I don't have the time, but really I think it's because I don't want my memories to be replaced. What I remember most of the cabin are my grandparents, and the world they created there for me, my sisters and my cousins. It was a world free of responsibility, and full of safety, dreams, and rest. A place where all was right with the world. I know that going back just wouldn't be the same. I don't want to let the cabin go but I know that my memories will always be somewhere I can go on days like today - when the air blows cool on my skin, when the clouds make me want to pick up a book a read, and when the rain makes me want nothing more than to curl up under the deer blanket that is now my very own. I know I can always go back to the cabin, if only in my heart.

To my grandparents: you created magic all those summers, thank you :)

In Love with a Horse

I bought adopted belong to a horse named Rocky. Seven months ago, I knew practically nothing about horses. I've always loved them - lived my childhood in many western novels, dreamed of riding them, admired them - but a horse isn't an animal you can just go to the pound, pick out, buy a collar for, and take home. You have to know what you're doing first. And thanks to the very dear friends whom God brought into my life, I've learned enough about horses to have one of my own.

But the story I want to tell you isn't about my journey from February to September. The story I want to tell you is about the beginning of a love affair. With Rocky, with horses, with a way of life.

"The Horse: Here is nobility without conceit, friendship without envy, beauty without vanity, a willing servant, yet no slave."

I read these words over and over growing up; they rest below a picture of running horses.This still hangs in my childhood home to this day.

But I didn't truly understand those words until I fell in love with a horse named Rocky. He is still a baby...only two and half years old. A Dunn colored Quarter horse who loves to be scratched on the neck and under the chin, and bites his tongue when I ride him. He gives you kisses and tucks his nose into you so you can hug him. He is beautiful, and he's a horse with heart.

"He doth nothing but talk of his horse."

This is quickly becoming a true statement about me. Perhaps because its all so new, perhaps because he and I are still in the 'getting to know each other phase'. Or maybe because I'm in love. Don't you remember that feeling of first being in love? Of talking about the person all the time? Of wanting to tell the world about the one you love? It's kinda like that. Except with a horse.

"Horse, thou art truly a creature without equal, for thou flies without wings and conquers without sword."

A photograph that hangs in my home...

"Riding is a complicated joy. You learn something each time. It is never quite the same, and you never know it all."

I've come a long way since February, but I still have so much to learn. And I do, I learn something new every time I ride. But I've also learned that no matter how much general knowledge you have about horses, each horse is different and you have to learn the intricacies of that horse. Which means that no matter how much you know, or how long you've been riding horses, a new horse offers you the opportunity to learn something new.

“To ride a horse is to ride the sky.”

"In riding a horse, we borrow freedom."

There's nothing quite like the feel of being on the back of a horse - its a natural high. Not simply because of the power beneath you, but because of the life a horse leads you into. A life lived outdoors - in God's country - and a life lived at a slower pace. A life where you take the time to look around you, to be aware and appreciate the beauty of the surroundings around you. A life where getting a little lost simply means more time on a horse. A life that makes you ache for times gone by - for life 150 years ago and the simplicity that life offered then. But this life - this freedom - comes through a relationship of mutual trust and respect.

A painting hanging in my Grandma's cabin...

"Yet when all the books have been read and reread, it boils down to the horse, his human companion, and what goes on between them."

You can't tell a horse you know what you're doing, you have to show them. You can't communicate through words that you respect your horse, you have to prove it.

“All I pay my psychiatrist is the cost of feed and hay, and he'll listen to me any day.”

Horses understand actions, and simple commands. They can't talk, can't converse...yet still we talk to them. Because they offer what a good shrink does - a unbiased, non-judgmental listening ear. I wonder if the sound of our voice is as comforting to them as their presence is to us.

"There are only two emotions that belong in the saddle; one is a sense of humor, and the other is patience."

Horses are extremely perceptive of your emotions, of your decision-making and leadership skills, and of your level of confidence. Horses each have their own personality, and they make me laugh. I've also learned that humor leads to patience. Training moments don't have to be frustrating if you first find the humor, take the time to understand the fear or hesitance, and then work patiently through the situation. If you are frustrated, your horse knows it. And they don't respond as well. Horses have fears, just like we do. Some are rational, some irrational, some they anticipate, some they smell, some catch them (and you) off guard. But they are fears just the same. And like children, it takes the parent, or rider, to help calm and educate their fear.

“Feeling down?  Saddle up.”

The second your foot hits the stirrup, a bad day - a bad mood - can simply disappear. But again, it isn't simply the horse that offers this - it's the way of life. When you are on a horse, you are either riding or training in solitude - which means you have quiet time to think and eliminate the noise of life - or you are riding with a good friend - which also has a way of lifting your mood.

 "The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse's ears."

God, are there horses in heaven? Please, please say yes! Because the joy that comes from riding a horse is something I would love to have for all eternity.

Top Ten: When Your AC Goes Out...

(Since I'm becoming a pro at this whole 'no ac' thing, I thought I would pass these on these tips...)

The Top Ten thing you find yourself doing in Arizona when the AC in your house goes out:
1) You walk up and down every aisle at Target as slowly as possible and then leave without buying anything.
2) You go to the store at ten o'clock at night and buy three different types of popsicles and four kinds of ice cream.
3) You order a Tall iced latte in a Venti cup filled with ice.
4) You take several showers a day, not to get clean, but for the five minutes afterwards your skin feels cool.
5) You drench your dogs with water every five minutes because you feel so guilty that they are hot and panting and covered in fur.
6) You run all the annoying errands you've been putting off because there's AC in the car and the stores, and then try to come up with more of them just to stay out of the house longer.
7) You blast the AC in the car until you're frozen and shivering, hoping it'll carry over for a few minutes when you walk into the house.
8) You find that it's cooler in the garage - in the dead of summer - than it is your house.
9) You find its too hard to get up from your spot on the couch in front of the fan to eat, so instead you starve rather than exert any unnecessary energy.
10) You drink your weight in ice water.

Dear Chopper: I'll Miss You

Dear Chopper:

We haven't seen you in days. We are wondering where you are. Did something bad happen to you? Did you leave because you knew it was your time to go? Is that why you found me a few days ago and begged for attention? Did you know? Did you try to tell me good-bye?

 

The kids are hoping you are just hiding. They put up 'lost cat' signs today and walked the neighborhood, hoping to find you. They asked me if I thought someone found you and kept you because you were such a 'cool' cat. They asked if I thought your collar came off, and whoever found you doesn't know you are our cat. They are still hoping you will come home. But I don't think you will.

We picked you because you were a clever cat. At the Humane Society, seven years ago, you were in a cage with another kitten. While we distracted the other kitten in the cage, you pounced on it and wrestled it to the ground; Johnny thought you were smart. We adopted you and took you home. We introduced you to Bella, who was just a puppy. She was happy to have a playmate and you two became inseparable, always playing together, and napping together.

 

When the kids came along, you accepted them - and loved them. You started sleeping in D's room at night. E thought it was funny to see you walk down the latter from her top bunk, one step at a time. They would sling you over their shoulder and walk around the house with you.

Dancing with the Chop

When we brought Sneaker home, she was curious, and you were not happy. You tolerated the pup, but made it clear 'it' was not part of your pack. Finally, you learned to tolerate Sneaker. But really, I think you were sad when Sneaker taught Bella how to be a 'real' dog because you became the third wheel.

 

Then Audrey came to live with us. At first, she didn't bother you, so you followed her around. But again, your curiosity turned to tolerance. You began to spend a lot more time upstairs, in the windowsil or under the bed. You would 'make your appearance' every once in awhile, earning you the nickname 'the Phantom'.

The kids always rescued you when the dogs chased you, and came right away to tell on Audrey when she'd given you an unwanted 'bath.' They defended you when I accused you of taunting the dogs, while you sat on the step, licking your paws. And Johnny laughed at me when I tried to tell him that 'he didn't hear what you said to the dogs to make them chase you'. But I don't blame you, I would have taunted them too. They displaced you, and you handled it well.

About a year ago, we watched as you learned how to open the patio door, when it was unlocked. You'd sneak out, wander around outside, and then come back inside.  At first it worried me, but then after you always came back, I didn't mind as much, although I would 'yell' at you for not closing the door behind you when you came back inside. A few times, when we didn't realize you were outside, we locked the door and went to bed. But by morning, you were meowing at the door, mad that we forgot you...and hungry.

You even killed a rat once. Johnny found you stretched out a few feet away from it in the morning, proud that you protected your family from such a beast. 

You were the most tolerant cat I've ever know. I could wrap you around my neck, hold you like a baby, hold you upside down - you never minded. As long as we rubbed your head, you were content. And finally, when Isabel came along, she was infatuated as soon as she was conscious of your existence. Over the last few months, she would wake up from her nap and find you there too, napping right along side of her. She called you "Choppy." And she would also yell at the dogs when they chased you.

 

But Choppy, it's been days now, and no one has seen you. We miss you. We wish you'd walk through the back door and come home. But if you're gone, if you're never coming home....

Thank you for saying good-bye.

Bobcat: RIP; Lizzie: Please Forgive Me; Audrey: Don't Leave Me

Ten years ago, to the month, I picked out a screeching, tiger-marked kitten from the Humane Society whom I named Bob because he sounded like a bobcat. I had been determined to replace the beloved cat I'd had to put down just weeks prior -  the cat I loved, and the memory I still have a hard time thinking about without the sting of regret, sadness and grief.

I sat down today to memorialize Bob with a blog post, but all I think of was Lizzie. I never dealt with the pain of her death, the suddenness of the ending of her life, or with how little time and how little I remember of her last few days. I figured 'time heals all wounds', so ten years ago I pushed it all aside and let the scar tissue form over the memory. But the wound reopened today as I went with my mom to the vet to put Bob to sleep.

It wasn't Bob I was sad to lose, it was Lizzie - all over again. I couldn't help but compare and contrast the differences in situation. Lizzie was put down with a child's heart, letting Bob go was done through the eyes of an adult. My teenage heart was stabbed with the knife of loss when Lizzie breathed her last. But today, I was relieved when Bob's body - which had been wheezing and brittle - finally relaxed and his life melted away. Both were released from their suffering; with one I felt loss, the other peace.

Afterwards, we took Bob to my mother's and buried him in the garden he loved so much; and because my mom makes all things beautiful, she gently wrapped his body in a towel and tied it with a bow. She laid him to rest with the sticks he loved so much to be scratched with. On top of his grave, she placed his food dish for the days he was so fat he could hardly move, a flower, and a feather from Bob's pet bird whom he routinely let eat from his food dish. There, in the soft soil of the very garden I was married in, Bob is at rest.

Bobcat, the early years

 

I never buried Lizzie. Her ashes have moved with me from my childhood home, to my apartment with my sister to my home with Johnny. I didn't - I don't - know what to do with them. I'd like to bury her - perhaps in the same garden with Bob, but to do will mean I would become vulnerable to the emotions I have tried so hard to stuff down and avoid. And I'm not ready for that yet.

My first memory of my Lizzie is coming home from my Grandma's cabin the summer I turned 14 to find a big eared, tiger-striped kitten curled up in my sister's arms. She was a birthday present, one that took me completely by surprise. I named her Lizzie, after the character in the book Pride and Prejudice. She had beautiful markings, like an Egyptian Mau, huge pointy ears and bright golden eyes.

For five years she was my constant companion. She would lay on my school books, stretch out on the keys of the piano, take naps with me in the sun, wait for me by the door to get home from work, and follow me around. She was my cat, but loved every member of my family - often spending time with them when I was gone. She was spunky and playful and even had a favorite stuffed toy dog - named Oatmeal.

Then she got sick. And I wasn't there for her. My mom reminded me yesterday that she went 18 days without food before my mom made me take her to the vet. When I took her in, I learned she had eaten several long piece of string, and it was wound up so tightly in and around her intestines that even surgery may not have been able to remove. I couldn't spend the money to save her, so I decided to put her down. And to be in the room with her when it happened.

She was sedated, stretched out on the table, looking relaxed, a catheter in her leg. Her head rested on the cold metal table. I crouched down by her head, the tears already falling while the vet and assistant busied themselves preparing the syringe of liquid that would take her life. As they put the needle to the catheter, Lizzie looked up and made direct eye contact with me. It was that moment when I lost it, that moment of connectedness. It is the only time in my life I can remember sobbing so much I couldn't see. Sobbing because of the pain in my heart. Sobbing because because it wasn't fair, and because I couldn't explain to her what was happening or that I was sorry. Sobbing because I was losing something I didn't know enough to appreciate while I had it.

Quickly afterwards I shut off the memory of Lizzie's death every time it surfaced. I couldn't risk dwelling on what I could of - what I should have done. I paid to have her cremated and they put her ashes in a white box with a label that had her name and date of cremation. July 31, 2001 - the exact day, ten years later we made the decision to ease Bob's pain and put him down.

Although Bob was my cat - I had adopted him - I remained distant, unattached, until finally I disowned him. I had tried to get back what I'd lost - but you can't do that. Bob wasn't Lizzie. So my baby sister became his surrogate mother - loving him desperately until the bitter end.

Bob wasn't the last animal I adopted. First there was Bella, the puppy Johnny and I adopted after putting his 18 year old cat down. Then there was Chopper, the cat I made Johnny adopt because he was 'a cat person, not a dog person' (or so he thought), and his cat had just dies. Then Sneaker, who I adopted so the kids could have a puppy and I wanted a baby something. I love each of these pets, but not in the same way as I loved Lizzie.

Then came Audrey. My love for and attachment to Audrey is the same as it was to Lizzie. Why? I don't know exactly, it just is. Maybe it's why I love her so completely and unconditionally, defending her against everyone and everything. I forgive her every indiscretion, ignore any wrongdoing. Maybe I'm trying to make up for what I don't remember about Lizzie, maybe I'm trying to love and cherish every minute of Audrey's life. Maybe I'm trying to appreciate her while I have her. I'm scared to death she'll die young, get hurt, jump out of the yard or get hit by a car. The thought of losing her scares me. 

Bob is gone; he had a good life. 

But it's Lizzie's death I'm still trying to reconcile, so that eventually I may lay her to rest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Storm Lighting

To a photographer, storm lighting is one of the most coveted forms of natural light. As I captured a few storm-lighting images today, I began thinking: what makes that light so sought after? What makes it so dramatic? And I came to a few conclusions.

• It takes a storm to bring on storm-lighting. No storm, no storm-lighting.
• It can't be planned on or predicted, it just happens. Weather reports may predict a storm, but not whether the clouds will produce the coveted storm-lighting.
• The dark backdrop of storm clouds forces you to look at things you see everyday in a different (pardon the pun) light. Mundane things become more beautiful.
• It is the ultimate contrast of dark and light. 
• Storm-lighting is only as dramatic as the intensity of the storm that brings the clouds.

Today

 

A few years ago in Sedona, AZ

  

Now, apply this philosophy to the storms of life. Because without the storm, you'd never see the lighting the storm produces. And without the storm-lighting, you may miss something beautiful. And finally, without the storm that brings that clouds you'd never see the rainbow of colors the setting sun paints on those clouds. 

Tonight's Sunset

 

Personalities and Waitressing

The kids and I went to Mimi's Cafe this morning for breakfast. E and I sat on one side, D and Shy on the other in a booth. It started me thinking about personalities. After we ordered, as we were waiting for our food, D and Shy carried on a lively conversation - mimicking voices from movies they love, and laughing, laughing, laughing. E and I just stared at them - E organizing the ketchup bottle and salt and pepper shaker and wiping the sticky spot off the table while I twirled my coffee cup, contemplating whether or not to take a picture of the steam swirling and rising from the black liquid....both of us silent and content.
When we were finished eating, E made a comment about waitressing and we began to identify whether or not each of us would be able to be a server at a restaurant, and what our 'serving personalities' would be like.
E: No way! The first time someone told her her coffee needs warm up, she's answer them 'finish that cup first and I'll be back when you're done'; or she'd be OCD about keeping the table clean; or offer to take all the little kids to the bathroom when they needed to go, neglecting her customers but lining up babysitting gigs.
D: Nope! He'd have to come back to the table three times before he remembered the order, or because he lost the ticket and would still probably forget something; he'd giggle if they yelled at him; and when someone asked for juice, he'd answer 'maybe' instead of yes, or no.
Shy: Definitely. She would be very sweet and diplomatic, even if someone didn't like her; she would go out of her way to be friendly and accommodating and all the other staff would love her; she would always have something to talk about with the customers; she would make the perfect server.
Me: Uh, no. I'd probably tell them 'you don't want that, you really want this - I'll just go ahead and order it for you, in fact, let me just order everything for you...'; I'd tell the owner I could re-decorate the restaurant to make it look more inviting and that I could re-design the menus, and website while I was at it - right after I finish taking fabulous pictures of every plate that comes out of the kitchen, that is...oh and don't bother paying me either, just buy me books ;)
Johnny: Yes. But he would convince people to buy more than they really need and they would thank him for how stuffed they were and how much they paid on the way out, and then ask for him the next time they came in; and he'd create Excel spreadsheets about how the restaurant could make more money if they would just do a, b, and c; however, he'd probably be running the place after a week though, so he would never truly make it as a longtime server.

Ah, personalities.

Book Review: Frenchman's Creek by Daphne Du Maurier

Long before there was the Black Pearl and Captain Jack Sparrow there was the La Mouette (the Sea Gull) and the French pirate Jean-Benoit Aubery. Du Maurier seems to have had the foresight to make make pirates 'not what people expect' long before Disney adopted the concept and (thankfully) before Johnny Depp came along with his slurred drunken accent and his dreads and silly hat.
After reading This Much is True, and stopping three other books midway thru due to disappointment, I was in desperate need of a good book. So what else could I do? I went back to the classics.
Daphne Du Maurier, whether you truly believe she is a literary great or not (and there is great debate over this), is a favorite author of mine. She wrote the haunting story of Rebecca, which I read when I was young, and one of my all-time favorites, Jamaica Inn. Coincidentally, these are two of her most famous three novels. Frenchman's Creek is the third book for which she received notoriety. All three were inspired by Daphne's love of Cornwall, where she lived and wrote, and each centers around a house, which is perhaps the reason I love them all so much.
Frenchman's Creek begins and ends with vivid descriptions of the Cornish countryside, and the sea. The story begins the same way as Jamaica Inn, in a carriage ride to a house - Navron House - in the Cornwall countryside. Dona is fleeing London for reprieve from her bore of a husband and the frivolous life she led there, seeking the quiet of the country house in which she could come and go, sleep, eat, and entertain as she wishes, and not as society dictates.Upon arrival, with her two small children and their nurse, she finds a solitary servant named William, who seems to have 'uncanny intuition', and who previously served a mysterious master. William quickly and accurately describes Dona as "a fugitive from your London self and Navron is your sanctuary." And they later share an unbreakable bond on trust and absolute loyalty; he is a memorable, and easily a favorite, character.
Dona falls in love with Navron House, and the sense of freedom she experiences there - the time alone, and her frequent walks towards the sea in the setting sun. But one night she happens to see a ship steal into the creek, and later, a man visits Navron in the dark to speak with William. The next day, following her curiosity, she ventures out twoards the ship and is captured and brought before the ship's captain, a Frenchman - a pirate wanted by all of Cornwall. But he is not what she expects; the Frenchman is much more of a gentleman than a savage and spends his time drawing birds and reading poetry. Thus begins their adventurous affair.
Frenchman's Creek is very much a story of self-discovery in which the over-arching theme seems to be happiness verses contentment. The Frenchman has learned the difference: happiness, he says, is "elusive, coming maybe once in a lifetime", and not a continuous thing. Happiness has degrees, however, and for a man - he tells Dona - "happiness tends to come from things achieved". Contentment, on the other hand, is "a state of mind and body when the two work in harmony, and there is no friction. The mind is at peace and the body is also."
The ending of the story is foreshadowed in the very beginning, when William explains that the Frenchman's ship is his castle; that he comes and goes as he pleases, and dislikes a lifestyle that leads to habits and customs - fearful that it will kill all spontaneity; "he is without ties, without man-mad principles;" he is truly free. Dona, who initially wishes for the very same thing - the very same freedom - remarks that "the rest of us can only run away from time to time, and however much we pretend to be free, we know it is only for a little while - our hands and our feet are tied." Dona and the Frenchman are the same, yet worlds apart in their differences. And it's their differences that ultimately decide their fate. The gravitational pull that the sea has upon the Frenchman is as great as the gravitational pull Dona's children have upon her. After experiencing a degree of true happiness, each ultimately settle for contentment.
I loved this book for several reasons. One - the house, the sea, and the countryside are much characters as Dona, William, and the Frenchman. Two - the book is filled with dialogue, which is a lost art, and one you only tend to find in classic literature.The author rarely has to 'give' a character's state of mind because she shows it through dialogue. This is what I consider to be 'writing to the intelligent reader'. It's easy to be told what a person is feeling, harder to have to glean it from conversation and witty banter. Three - it's about the desire to escape from the mundane to the unknown, from the chaos to the quiet, and from contentment to happiness...and who hasn't as some point felt all of these?
My only critiques are these - the omniscient point of view is distracting at times;without it though, it would be hard to achieve such beautiful descriptions and foreshadowing. There isn't enough tension between Dona and the Frenchman for my taste. Their affair is, and stays, easy for them for almost the entire duration of the story.
However, Frenchman's Creek has easily made it to my list of favorite books, and is one I will most likely reread (perhaps on a cruise?).
P.S. I happened to find a early reprinting of Frenchman's Creek at The Old Sage Bookship in Prescott, last year. It sat on my shelf (in it's library plastic lining to protect the dust jacket) for over a year before I pulled it off the shelf to read.

Travel Reflections

I went to Prescott this past weekend to photograph a wedding. I went by myself, which gave me quite a bit of time for reflection, and I came to a few realizations - some I knew already, some were brand new.
1) I love Prescott. It's my favorite place to visit, and someday I could definitely see a second home there someday. I love the rolling hills, and the small town feel (but all the modern luxuries like Starbucks, Barnes and Noble, and Target). I love the air, and how I can somehow breath easier there. And I love the architecture of the houses downtown; if I were to buy one, I think I would prefer one with a ghost story attached - a lonely widow who died of a broken heart perhaps, who still pulls aside the curtains in the attic window and wanders the upper floors looking for her husband who was killed in a war.
2) I love driving. There's something about it that relaxes me - the monotony of it all maybe, or the frequent Starbucks stops that are justified because you're traveling, or just the fact that I'm forced to do 'nothing' for awhile.
3) Road trips and audiobooks go hand in hand. They make the trip seem faster and more productive - especially if you are able to finish an entire book or two in one trip. Its multi-tasking a task that, in theory, shouldn't be multi-tasked. 
4) Road trips are also much more fun when you get to chat with someone else who is also on a road trip with similarly nothing to do for hours on end. A rarity, but it made the trip all the more fun. 
5) I love hotels. I'm not sure what I love exactly, but it may have something to do with having a maid clean the room every day, the endless hot water, sleeping in because the black-out curtains block out all the light, or maybe its room service, breakfast downstairs in the morning at a table in the sun, or maybe it's just a break from the routine. Any which way, they make me happy.
6) All long, windy, bumpy dirt roads should lead to a working horse ranch and vineyard. Living 'out in the middle of nowhere' took on a different meaning during this trip. It was the kind of ranch that made me wish I lived a hundred years in the past.
7) I tend not to eat well (or at all) when I travel alone.
8) I need a weekend away, all to myself, every once in awhile.
9) I am still very much in love with Starbucks. We have had a bittersweet relationship, over the years. I find a drink I love and ask for it the same way every time and it's always different. I order a Venti Iced Latte with flavored syrup and an extra shot and stare in shock at the $6.75 I owe them (thank God for giftcards). They only have the Pumpkin Spice Latte seasonally :( I swear I'm never going back several times a month, I say that I'm never paying for a drink I can make at home again! But I keep going back, like a jilted lover determined to make things 'work'. I like all the codes they write on the cup, the way they always misspell my name, and learning new ways to order my drink. I love their Panini sandwiches. Actually, just the sign alone - that delightfully-stupid green goddess - can brighten my day. And I love the feel of the cup in my hand as I drive; a Starbucks coffee is a personal, artistic creation; its is comfort and happiness in a cup.  So I say to you - dear Starbucks - I love you, I hate you. No. I love you.
10) And finally, I was reminded that leaving - that a break from reality - is not nearly as sweet as coming home to the people and animals I love.

Book Review: This Much I Know is True by Wally Lamb

My sister Vanessa and I are hit and miss - when it comes to books we both will like, that is. We both loved The Likeness by Tana French and The Weight of Silence by Heather Gudenkauf. But she couldn't make it through Grange House by Sarah Blake or The House at Riverton by Kate Morton (two of my top five favs). And she prefers the lightheartedness of Jane Austen to my love of the gothic and moody Charlotte Bronte. Still, I selected This Much I Know is True on Audible because Vanessa highly recommended it.
While I appreciate that she loved this book, I suffered through it like a car accident I was forced to observe because it stopped all traffic both ways for six hours. The kind of car accident you try to look away from - not wanting to invade the privacy of so many wounded - but there ware just too many severed limbs, bloody bodies and flashing lights (metaphorically speaking) that you have a hard time not watching. Like that kind of car accident.
The story's premise is an intriguing one: two brothers - twins - one schizophrenic, one not, set in the early 90's. The story recounts the boy's childhood through the eyes of one brother, Dominick - the one who does not battle with mind demons. Dominick loves his brother Thomas as much as he hates him, often trying as hard to protect and take care of him as much he does trying to separate himself - detach himself -from Thomas. As adults, Thomas desends into full-blown schizophrenia, acts ont he voices in his head, and ends up in a psychiatric hospital. Ever devoted, Dominick continues to try and do what's best for his brother, always struggling with a sort-of survivors guilt - wondering why his brother was the one with a disease, and then whether he would wake up one day and be as crazy as his brother. So great was the description of twinning in this book that halfway through I was actually convinced that this wasn't a book about twins, but about one man who at times suffered from schizophrenia and was at other times normal. That would have been a true psychological twist for me, but this is not the case. It is the story of twins.
The book takes a surprising turn about three-quarters of the way in, which left me wondering what the rest of the book was going to be about. The turns got even twistier still right up until the ending. But the author managed to bring everything full-circle, tied up all loose ends and gave the meaning of the title "This Much I Know is True" with the last sentence.
After mulling it over, I've decided that I did enjoy this book, but more as a sum of it's parts rather than a collective whole. It is told in first person, from the perspective of a man; I found I do not enjoy being that deep into a man's psyche and thought processes. There are, however, parts that I reveled in. The author paints an accurate picture of the decent into paranoid-schizophrenia - which is fascinating, and accurately portrays a borderline-abusive stepfather and his relationship with his stepsons (the weak one and the one who didn't put up with it). Lamb also depicts the relationship between a psychiatrist and the brothers that is both accurate and captivating.
In conclusion, I'm glad I finished this book (instead of turning it off like three other Audible books in my library right now) but it's not a book I can recommend. I kept feeling like I was in a courtroom - on a roll with the jury's attention locked onto me - and the the other attorney kept calling sidebars, distracting me from the main objective and causing me to have to constantly regroup. It is just cluttered with far too much junk that is distracting from the true psychology of the story.

Creative-Bipolar Disorder

I suffer from what I call Creative Bipolar (which I have completely made up, by the way). The real Bipolar Disorder (previously known as Manic Depression), is a mood disorder characterized by abrupt and extreme mood changes. During a manic period, someone may goes days with little or no sleep, have more energy than usual, experience abnormally high self-esteem, make reckless decisions, engage in risky behaviors, experience 'racing thoughts', and can be quite easily distracted - moving from one project or situation to the next. The depressive period is characterized by feeling 'down', sad, emotional, worthless, sleeping too much, not spending time on things you once enjoyed (that sounds like a drug commercial right?), a lack of energy, and a hard time making decisions or staying focused. It's a disorder that has always fascinated me, especially when manifested in a child, who often cycle rapidly (minutes or hours) rather than days or months, as in adults.
But I do not have Bipolar disorder. I do suffer from cycles of highs and lows - but not in mood, in creativity. I go through periods where I seem to have endless creative energy (creative-mania) during which I take on new projects, re-tackle old ones; I decorate, I design, I edit, I write, I play the piano. I only eat when I have to, sometimes fighting stomach pains so I don't have to stop what I'm doing. I stay up late, enjoying the quite of the house, to work. My mind feels overactive (the tag line of my blog comes from this very concept) and I am constantly thinking about the next thing I can do, design, create or write about. I make fabulous meals, and I organize everything I see. Sometimes I stand in the middle of the living room or kitchen thinking about how I can re-design or change it. I fall in love with something new about my house and resolve never to move because I can turn this house into everything I want or need. I start five new books, intending to read them all at once and then write papers comparing and contrasting them. I edit pictures quickly and efficiently. I scour the internet for a new purse, with the design in my head, instead of watching TV. I start a dozen new blog posts - sometimes finishing and posting them, sometimes not. I decide I want to study something new, or begin making plans to go back to school for another degree - in writing or photography (sometimes philosophy). My creativity also tends to cause an elated sense of self-worth during these times - it convinces me I am a great writer, an amazing web designer and photographer, that I am a super-parent.  This is why I have diagnosed myself with Creative Bipolar - I myself am not manic during these times, my creativity is - acting as if it is it's own entity. I don't take part in risky behaviors during my creative manic state, my creativity does. I am not easily distracted, but my creativity is. I do not experience a heightened sense of my self-worth (as a person) but a heightened sense of the worth of the results of my creative energy. 
The counterpart to my creative-mania is creative-depression. After the up comes the down - the creative crash, where my creativity goes to a 0 (or becomes "depressed"). I tend to use the phrase "I'm bored" a lot when I'm in my creative-depressive state. I put projects back on 'the shelf', I walk by a pile of papers and don't organize them, I never write, and I only take and edit pictures if I have to. I am more entertained by what's on TV than what's on my laptop (unless it's Facebook). Angry Birds and Bubble Pop seem to be my best friends, and I find myself resting a lot - taking a lot of naps, or planning outings for coffee, lunches or drinks just to waste time. Spending time with family and friends however, is much more enjoyable during a creative-depressed episode because I'm not constantly thinking about everything that I could be doing; I can relax (something I never seem to want to do during my creative-mania). I also tend to doubt my creative abilities - looking at everyone else's photography and convincing myself that I am no where near as good as they are, or reading a book and wondering how I could ever have considered myself to be a 'writer' when "look what they wrote! I could never write that..." I become dissatisfied with my house, wishing I could just pick up, move and start over in a house that's better, convinced I could never turn this one into the one I love.
With the real Bipolar Disorder, episodes of mania or depression can be brought on by events such as life changes, medications, or insomnia, but sometimes there isn't a clear event to bring on the change. It seems to be the same with Creative Bipolar. Creative-depression can quickly go to mania after a photo session I'd been dreading because I was lacking 'creative energy', or cleaning the house because 'it needed it' and moving a piece of furniture and deciding to re-do the whole room. Then there are times when it seems nothing has triggered the change - it just changed.
You see, the basics of life remain the same - no matter what state I'm experiencing - I still enjoy things like getting up in the morning, getting dressed, walking the dog, eating, going to bed at night, teaching the kids, making sure the house is neat, etc. It's just that my creative-mania causes my mind to race during my walks about my book, makes me think about new and creative things I can do with the kids and the science lesson I just taught, makes me not just want to keep the house neat but perfectly clean (and often re-decorated or organized), and makes me want to make going to bed a creative ritual (getting in early with a good book and a candle) instead of just getting in when I'm tired and closing my eyes; during creative-manic episodes I  find new and different combinations of clothes in my closet, whereas during creative-depression I hate my wardrobe and just wear jeans and t-shirts because nothing else seems to look right. I'm either creatively-high and creatively-low at any given time (never in between), and can always tell you exactly which state I'm experiencing at that time.
But I am okay with this (although I would prefer to have creative-mania all the time, which is also what actual Bipolar's say), because with Creative Bipolar, the cycle is so predictable - sometimes lasting weeks, sometimes months, but after the up there is always a down, and during the down I know there will inevitably  be an up. So when I am down, kicking myself because I should be editing all those pictures or finishing that one project, I just remind myself that I will get to it when the creative-mania strikes again. It always does and I always do.
Oh, should I mention I just began a creative-manic episode??

A Book Review: The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry

I think I may finally have learned my lesson. I have a bad habit of starting books and putting them down a third of the way through, then picking them up a year later only to discover I found a favorite book! The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry is just such a book. I discovered it at Borders about two years ago; it was stacked on a table with other books by 'break-out authors'. I've also learned that the old saying 'don't judge a book by it's cover' applies in reverse to books! I always judge books by their cover! If I find a book cover (especially combined with an appealing book title) appealing, it's very rare for me not to enjoy the book. On the flip side, I can always tell a novel from a book by a chain author (sorry Jodi Picoult).
The Lace Reader is Brunonia Barry's first novel, published in 2006, and is a New York Times Bestseller. When faced with how to reveiw this book, I was at a loss for effective words to convey what the book is about, so I'm cheating, and giving you what's on the back of the book: "Every gift has a price...every piece of lace has a secret. Towner Whitney, the self-confessed unreliable narrator, hails from a family of Salem women who can read the future in the patterns in lace, and who have guarded a history of secrets going back generations. Now the disappearance of two women is bringing Towner back home to Salem - and is bring to light the shocking truth about the death of her twin sister."
As if the cover, title and book summary weren't enough to intrigue me, I began reading the first chapter. I was hooked after the first few lines: "My name is Towner Whitney. No, that's no exactly true. My real first name is Sophya. Never believe me. I lie all the time. I am a crazy woman...Than last part is true."
At first I thought this was just a creative story about women who can 'read lace', about the fascinating city of Salem, about the intricacies of family relationships, and about reconciling of the death of a loved one. But The Lace Reader is a deeply psychological novel -my favorite kind- and one I become so involved in that I didn't realize the depths of the mind the author had reached until the very end.  I can't tell you any more of the story, (although I can share a few key words:  lace that tells the future, secrets, witches, Calvinists, an old house, tunnels, the sea...) so you will just have to read it for yourself. But this book has definitely earned a spot on my list of Books That Change Me because of its intense psychological threads.