Panic

I almost killed my husband once. It would have been unintentional had I succeeded; I'm sure it would have been ruled accidental or I would have been declared not guilty by reason of insanity; for insane I was.

We were on vacation in Mexico, spending the day at a beautiful place called Xel Ha, and planned to go snorkeling. I'm not a water person so it was only to please my husband that I agreed to don the flippers. life jacket, mask and snorkel and get into the water.

I am blessed with the most patient and understanding man in the world (he has to be to put up with me!) and he gently encouraged me and held on to my hand as we moved farther out in the water. Finally, when we were far enough out, he coached to put my face in the water and, well, begin snorkeling.

I managed to keep my fear in check and began to appreciate the beautiful underwater world but suddenly I was overcome with panic and instinct took over. Even as I was doing it I told myself to stop, but I was unable to prevent myself from climbing onto my husband's shoulders in an attempt to get myself out of the water.

Logically, I knew my behaviour had the potential to drown the man I loved, but I was absolutely unable to stop. Self-preservation, the will to survive, panic, instinct, call it what you will, it was a force to be reckoned with.

Finally, Gerry managed to fling me off of his shoulders and away from him far enough to prevent me from climbing back on top of him. My patient husband wasn't upset with me, he proceeded to calm me down and even got me to resume our snorkeling adventure.

I was in awe at what we were seeing in the underwater world, but I never quite got over my fear and every now and then an involuntary sharp intake of breath signaled to me that panic was not far away.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night when I can't sleep, I feel something similar to that physical sense of panic. In the wee hours, my mind wanders hither and yon and sometimes rests upon a "what if" scenario that stabs me with a bolt of fear.

It's silly really, getting worked about about an imaginary situation that will likely never happen, but the nighttime world is not unlike the underwater sometimes. Inexplicably, involuntary, irrationally, I'm pierced with a panic that I find myself powerless to resist.

When I started writing this post my intention was to write about someone who's life I think about sometimes as a way of quelling the fear of the unknown, but I think I will save that story for another day. I'll leave you with this tale of the power of panic and ask you: have you ever been gripped with a fear you found difficult to let go of? What did you do to overcome it?

The Grandma

Many of us remember her from our childhood - that older woman who lived on our street who knew the names of all of the neighborhood kids. She may have baked cookies and handed them out now and then (back in the days before we had to forbid our children to take anything from anyone). She may have taken time to sit and listen to a child rattle on about a whole lot of not very much. Perhaps she had a little dog and would stop so you could pet it when she was out for a walk. She was nice, but she wouldn't hesitate to scold anyone who misbehaved, either.

Remember her? She was the Neighborhood Grandma.

I remember Mrs. Montgomery who lived across the street from us in a brick house. I am not sure how old she was, or if she was a grandma or a mother at all. She was my mom's friend and had known me my whole life. When I was twelve years and we moved away, she gave me a red wallet with the name of my hometown written on it.

Next door to Mrs. Montgomery, lived Mrs. Small. Mrs. Small also lived in a house made of bricks, but it was smaller than Mrs. Montomery's. Oddly enough, in my mind Mrs. Small herself was of a more diminutive stature than her neighbor as well. Hmmm.

It warms me to think of these grandmother-type women who knew me from the time I was born and who, in my mind, assumed the title of Neighborhood Grandma. I am sure that having these woman in the periphery of my life contributed to the sense of security and safety I felt in my neighborhood at all times.

This afternoon after work, I was out in the yard enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. I had geraniums to take out (we winter them), tulip and daffodil bulbs to plant, and winter pansies to put in the ground. They continue to warn us about a harsh winter ahead, but I am not thinking that far ahead. I'm enjoying the here and now.

After I got all of my gardening tools out, I set up the pen for Yorkies so they could enjoy the sunshine with me. No sooner had I deposited the dogs in the pen with a treat and one of their favorite chews, than a batch of children ran over to pet the dogs. One little one in particular caught my attention and made me smile.

Her name is Piper and she lives with her mommy and daddy and older siblings across the street from us. I have known her since she was born too. She's a sweet little one, just a touch older than my grandchildren, with a soft heart for my dogs.

Her mommy followed her across the street and we chatted while I showed Piper how to gently pet the dogs. Eventually, it was time for her to go home and as they walked back across the street I heard snippets of their conversation.

"The grandma let me pet her puppies!" said Piper.

The grandma! Oh I had to smile when I heard her say that!

And I thought, not for the first time, that I think Gerry and I are the oldest couple on the block. We are the neighborhood grandparents!  With this realization comes responsibility. I am going to have to make sure I learn the names of all the children on the street, and which house they belong to. I may even have to start baking cookies again!

The thought that one of these little ones might remember me as their Neighborhood Grandma one day made me smile. Life is like that, isn't it?

Circles within circles like ripples on a pond.

Ladders

In my newspaper column this month I am discussing early retirement and ladders; yes they do have something in common!

Check out my article in the Covington Reporter site and find out what it is

I would love to hear your thoughts on this article.

Ghosts

There have been ghosts all around me today.

I am in a city where I used to live, where I lived for a very long time as a matter of fact, and took some time this afternoon to visit some once-familiar places. I walked, I drove, I remembered, conjured ghosts of days gone by, the kind of thing I have enjoyed doing in the past.

It was different this time.

I was overcome with a powerful sense of grief; the kind of grief that I remember from many years ago, the kind that hurts physically as well as emotionally. And lonliness.

I can't say what prompted these emotions. I am the kind of person who has always cherished solitude, sought it out even, so I was taken aback by the overwhelming emotion that came over me for no apparent reason. I pushed through it as I have done many times in the past.

Later, I worked for a number of hours on my memoir. I went back in time to the 1970's and found ghosts there as well. I learned that in my writing I tend to gloss over periods of deep emotion and the 70's were, most definitely for me, filled with periods of deep emotion.

So now, at the end of the day, having coped with these ghosts all day, I am exhausted. I pray that I sleep deep and dreamless and that the ghosts have moved on by morning.

Running Away

I am running away from home tomorrow. 

I am going to get up early, when it is still dark, and throw some necessary things into my car. I'll take my Kindle, my Droid X, my laptop, the hard-copy draft of my memoir, toiletries, and a change of clothes. I won't need much else.

I will stop for coffee before I go too far: a venti soy carmel macchiato. I will plug my Droid into the auxillery jack in my car and listen to the Pandora radio that I recently discovered. Perhaps, after a while, I will switch to the satellite radio and my favorite classical station for something different.

In time, I will turn it all off and enjoy the silence.

Road trips stimulate my brain; I find myself thinking of things I want to write about. That reminds me, I will need to take my notebook and favorite pen along too.

Solitude. It is what recharges me when I am exhausted. It is what I need right now.

I have an appointment to go to on Monday afternoon, but this trip  is also a mini writing retreat. I should arrive at my destination around lunch time tomorrow and will have lots of time to myself. I have a reservation at a nice hotel that I know has comfy beds, quiet rooms, and good writing desks.
 
There is a park not too far away and I may take my pen and notebook and sit by the water for a while. I may go for a walk to a special place I know of; I may take a few pictures. I know I will go to the bookstore. I will probably get a cup of coffee and spend a hour or so browsing.
 
Later, when it gets dark I will go to my hotel room, pull on some comfy lounging clothes, turn on my laptop and bring up the fourth draft of my memoir. I have got a flow going and it's hard to maintain when life keeps getting in the way of writing time. This time alone will be good.
 
Don't look for me at church tomorrow; don't look for me at work on Monday. I am running away to write; I am running away to find someone I have been missing lately.

Missing Manderley

Perhaps you remember my Manderley dreams from earlier this year.

We first went to Manderley in the spring.  It was mid-March when I stood on the snow-covered land and breathed in the peace of the place that fed a hunger within me that I didn't know I had.

Six weeks later we were there and discovered that spring had come to the farm. I shared othe story in four posts (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4)

I even shared some video of the land with you.

It's been five months since that last trip to Manderley; since we came to the decision not to purchase the land, but I have not been able to put Manderley out of my mind.

I saved the link to the real estate listing in my favorites, I even memorized the MLS listing number, and every once in a while when I feel the need for a break I call it up. I remember the peace; I remember who I was when I was there.

Sometimes, unexpectedly, Gerry or I will say "imagine if we were at Manderley right now" or "remember what we were going to do at Manderley". We haven't forgotten our Manderley dream.

A few days ago I felt the need for a bit of Manderley and I clicked on the link I had saved. Like so many times in the past I expected to see the picture of the farm yard come up in my browser; instead I found myself looking at the real estate page but the listing for Manderley had been removed. My heart must have stopped for a moment as I considered what this meant.

Had someone else purchased it? Had the owner taken it off of the market? I did some Google searches; perhaps it had been relisted with another real estate company. All of my searching turned up nothing; I found myself feeling empty.

I'm not sure what to make of this longing, even grief, that I have felt since then. Manderley was, and is, more than just a piece of land to me.  It represents hope, my future, my past, a simpler way of life, and it conjured up the woman I might have been, might still become one day.

I liked the "me" I was when I was there. I hope I find that woman again.

Morning Lesson

It was almost six-thirty this morning when I climbed out of my car, tossed my keys in my purse as I flung it over my shoulder, picked up my tote out of the back seat, and reached in to grab my coffee cup before closing the car door. It was still dark and the morning air was cool, but the light sweater I wore was more than enough to keep me warm.


The short walk from my car to the office building where I spend so much of my day is a pleasant one. The campus where the office is located is surrounded by trees and green space; there is a large pond next to the office where geese make their home and the building itself is covered with ivy. I appreciate the serenity of the quiet walk every morning yet I still find myself walking quickly, my mind already on the day ahead of me.

This morning as I drew near to the office door and got ready to loop the handles of my tote bag over my arm so I could transfer my coffee to that hand allowing me to reach for the security badge attached to a lanyard around my neck, I heard a voice from behind me.

“I’ll get that door for you; you’ve got your hands full.”

I turned and saw a young man walking about twenty feet behind me; another early-riser who starts work before many others have even gotten out of bed. My first instinct was to brush off his offer of assistance.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it.” I had to choke back the words before they escaped from my mouth when I realized how rude it would have been for me to ignore is gesture.

I have done this throughout much of my life - refused assistance and insisted on my own self-reliance. It struck me for the first time this morning, how the independent demeanor I portray might be perceived as impolite and how many times I miss interacting with someone, however briefly, when I insist on relying on my on ability.

This morning I did something different.

“Thank you!” I smiled at the young man and then stepped aside and allowed him to use his security badge to unlock the door and pull it open for me.

I walked through the door, wished him a good day, and we both went our separate ways. To an onlooker it would have seemed like nothing, but in that moment I made a conscious decision to do something different, I deviated from the well-worn path I was used to taking, and allowed myself to act upon a prompting from within.

I believe that it is often in the small, seemingly insignificant, moments like this when God speaks to us, when we can feel the hand of God resting upon us, when we can learn the lessons He would have us learn.

It was a good way to start this day.

Gelessenheit

Central to the Amish culture is something called Gellassenheit, a German word roughly translated to mean submission to the will of God. It is based on the words of Jesus "not my will but thine be done."







The dimensions of Gelessenheit permeate every aspect of the Amish life:

Personality: reserved, modest, calm, quiet
Values: submission, obedience, humility, simplicity
Symbols: dress, horse, carriage, lantern
Structure: small, informal, local, decentralized
Ritual: baptism, footwashing, confession, ordination

I am not Amish but the concept of Gellassenheit appeals to me on some level. Sometimes I think we (me) care too much about appearance, posessions, and status. What does it really take in order for us to be happy?

Shelter over our heads, food in our belly, health, family and friends.

Does it really matter if we have the fanciest house, the fastest cars, food that has come from the other side of the earth? Of course it doesn't.

I have been thinking about simplicity lately and the word Gellassenheit came to mind, out of the blue, one afternoon when I was struggling with a stressful situation.

I am now using it as a mantra of sorts, a kind of prayer, a whispered reminder to slow down, appreciate simple things, and to be thankful for the many blessings I have in my life.

Gellassenheit.

I Guess I'm Home

I have had a library card for as long as I can remember. I can still picture the library in the city I grew up in; it was a big old brick building in park in the middle of the city.

I found it comforting to be in the library in the winter when the frigid wind blew snow into drifts outside.The blanket of quietness inside the library warmed me from my earliest memory.

On summer days when it was too hot to play outside, the peace of the library was a cool haven away from the summer heat, filled with books that could take me places I could only imagine.

Sometimes, the library came to me in the form of a bookmobile that parked just down the street from where we lived. I always visited the bookmobile and stocked up on a fresh stack of books that I could lose myself in for a few hours.

I started taking my children to the library when they were infants; they grew up going to the library. Whenever I wanted to learn about something new, I went to the library. I learned to quilt by reading library books; I learned about my Mennonite heritage by reading library books; I learned how to take care of cats by reading library books; I learned what it meant to have faith by reading library books.

When we moved to the Pacific Northwest three years ago I stopped going to the library. Every time we drove past I would say "Oh, I have to sign up for a library card" but I never fot around to it.

Until today.

Something prompted me to turn into the parking lot of the library this afternoon, to walk through the tree lined courtyard, to open the glass doors, and to go inside. I walked up to the counter, told the lady I wanted to sign up for a library card, filled out a sheet of paper, showed her my ID, and just like that I held in my hand a brand new library card.

Card in hand, I walked through the library getting a feel for where everything was. The familiar Dewey Decimal numbers posted on the ends of the shelves directed me to the sections I once spent so much time in. My body remembered the library-posture of tilting my head to the right to read the titles on the spines of the books. My mind recalled the hours I spent in a library browsing, reading, forgetting everything else except the books.

I checked out three books from section 305 (They have self-checkout now!) and as I left the library with my books in my arms, my walk seemed a little bouncier, and I seemed to breathe a little easier.

Having obtained a library card I guess I am officially planted here for now.

I guess I'm home.

Lavender

Yesterday I was in the garden harvesting the lavender. It smelled like sweltering carefree summer afternoons; it smelled like childhood; it smelled like love.

As I knelt beside the flower bed and plucked the scented blossoms, I took a journey in my mind.

The first person I met who was biologically related to me was my aunt Esther. She was a quiet and caring woman who told me many times that "you are a part of this family".

In the years that I knew Esther before she passed away she gave me little things that an aunt might give her niece like freshly baked bread, a ceramic figure she had made, a crocheted afgan, and a little container of lavender.

I am sorry to say that I don't know whatever happened to that container of lavender. Sometime, in one of my moves since then, it has been left behind.

Yesterday afternoon as the hot sun beat down on me as I plucked lavender from my own garden I resolved in my mind that I would do something special with this lavender to honor my aunt and the way she included me in her family without question.

As an adoptee, it means a lot to me to have honor my past as well as my present. Dawn Espelage is blogging on my Arms of Adoption blog today about a special way to honor the past and present of an adopted child. I like the idea so much that I may create a Life Book for myself.

Chronic Pain

Searing, aching, dull, sharp, intense, acute, chronic, sore, white-hot. Here, there, everywhere.

You know all of the words; you have claimed them all for yourself at one time or another. Over the years you learned how to manage it. The best way out is through. And so you put one foot in front of the other day after day and did what you needed to do.

The treatment was often worse than the problem and so you shunned traditional medical treatment, unwilling to walk through your days in a medicated fog, willing to endure rather than dull your mind. It took the medical world almost ten years to diagnose you with what you already knew you had. The diagnosis gave a name to it but couldn't fix it.

Then came periods of relief; sometimes years went by and you stopped identifying the condition as your own. Then, out of the blue, a surprise of another kind, just as relentless and wearing showed up. You accepted treatment eventually and it was okay.

Now you are angry at this new manifestation. At first you were unsure as to the source, the pain receptors in your body did not always point to the source of the problem. In the wee hours of the morning when the house was quiet you lay awake and considered the source. It could be this, does it seem like this? What about that? Then it came to you.

Now you know what it is and your first reaction is anger. Your husband is frustrated at your unwillingness to immediately seek out medical attention, he wants to be able to help. You are frustrated because you don't want to open another Pandora's box. You have learned to trust your instinct and you know what this is.

For now that is enough.

Losing It

In my memoir, I am writing about a time in my life when I came close to losing it. What in the world does that mean, anyway? Losing it.

For those of us who have lived some or all of our lives as one of the hyper-diligent, the concept of losing control of anything is incomprehensible. As impossible as I knew it would be to do, the thought of letting go of feeling responsible for everything was oh-so-alluring for a season.

Sometimes, these many years past, on a hot, sultry summer night, I remember those nights when my family slept but I wandered the halls, scrubbed the floor, or sat on the patio, and considered what it might feel like to lose my mind.

I wondered how it was done. Did one just decide to let go of all manner of decorum? What would others think?

I was tired of keeping my finger in the dyke; I was so tempted to pull it out and let the flood come.

It was another lifetime. I was another person.

Evolution of Clothes

When I was a girl I had two distinct sets of clothing: my school clothes, and my play clothes. When I was a young stay-at-home mom, not only was there no money for two distinct sets of clothes but there was no need. Later, when I returned to college I again had a set of school clothes. After all the years of not having a separate and unique set of things to wear, and even though finances were tight and so shopping was challenging, it was fun to have new outfits.

Over the past 20+ years as I've been a career-woman, I have always had work clothes that have been separate from my every day outfits. The other day I was thinking about this and realized that as the years have gone by the delineation between the two sets of clothes is blurring somewhat.

No longer do I wear suits and pantyhose (heaven forbid!) and tight high heel shoes that cause my feet to almost sigh audibly when they are removed at the end of the day. The older I get the more important comfort becomes to this aging body of mine.

Now, in the summer months, most of us wear capri pants at work. There are some who continue with the high heeled sandals I, for the most part, have gone the way of flats. Some still wear jackets to dress up their outfit, as do I depending on my mood and the day ahead.

My play clothes these days also consist of capri pants and my new favorite thing - yoga pants. They're like capris only softer and with an E-L-A-S-T-I-C waist. Need I say more?!

The nearer I get to my "R" day the more my two sets of clothes seem to be merging. They're turning into a single set of comfortable but nice-looking set of clothing. No more work clothes vs play clothes - just clothes. I think it's a metaphor for the new life that is ahead.

Meanwhile, I'm cleaning house here in the Velvet Room. Tweaking settings here, moving things there, adding and removing other things, getting ready for company coming next week. I'm looking forward to visitors dropping by!

Rainy Reflection

I've been looking forward to getting back into my manuscript; it has been sitting on the corner of my desk since I had it printed and bound three weeks ago. I have felt the need to take time away from my work before plunging into the next draft and today was the day I planned to dive in. 

I left the house early this morning and headed for my Friday morning office - a corner table in Starbucks where I like to settle in and write.  Armed with my favorite pens and highlighters, a notebook, and my manuscript, I headed out into the morning rain.

When I got to Starbucks and climbed out of my Ford Escape I noticed how still and quiet the morning was. I congratulated myself for taking the time to be present enough in that moment to appreciate the stillness that reminded me of a winter morning back home when big fluffy snowflakes fell. It was that same kind of quiet.

I walked across the parking lot in the rain, leaving my umbrella in my purse and the hood of my sweater down. After three years here I must have officially become a Pacific Northwesterner - it's natural to walk through the rain without attempting to shelter myself from it. (My newly discovered curly hair might have something to do with the lack of panic I felt at the idea of having my hair get wet!)

Happy to find my favorite corner table vacant, I settled in with my Carmel Macchiato and began to read my manuscript. My intent was to read through the entire thing before beginning revisions, but alas the red pen in my hand could not be contained and I jotted notes here and there as I read. I am blessed with the ability to block out distractions around me so as Starbucks got busier with the usual morning crowd, I was able to continue reading and revising.

When I surfaced from the past I was reading about and looked at my watch I was surprised to see that an hour and a half had passed, so I began to to gather my things together. As I walked toward to the door I couldn't help but notice an older man sitting in one of the soft burgundy chairs near the door. He wore a ragged coat, was unshaven and slightly disheveled, and he sat staring into the space in front of him. The look on his face gripped my heart; I saw sorrow in his eyes and wondered what he was thinking about.

Was he remembering someone he loved who was no longer in his life? Had there been a recent death or falling out? Was he reflecting upon opportunities lost or roads he had not taken? Was he waiting for someone? Was he lonely?

And it struck me for some reason that he had once been a little boy, a mother's precious son, a father's pride and joy. For a moment I could picture him as a lad running through a field throwing a stick for his dog, his pockets full of special treasures like bubble gum and bottle caps.

I walked past him, heading back out into the rain, the vision of a carefree lad who grew to be an old man my silent and invisible companion.

Value-Add

It’s a popular concept in business: Value Add. It refers a marketing strategy that offers something that increases the perceived value of a product in the eyes of the customer. It could be something like a rebate, free delivery of the purchased item, a guarantee, or loyalty rewards. It is a term that irritates me in the same way as many other marketing tactics that seem to assume limited-intelligence on the part of the customer.


This morning I accidentally stumbled upon an application for the term that I can relate to; I had my own value-add epiphany.

I started new morning routine a few weeks ago that I alluded to here. My body has been crying out to me of late, and I’ve been wise enough this time to listen and react to what I know I need to do for my physical and mental well-being. I need to stretch; I need gentle exercise; I need to move.

One step I have taken is to start a simple yoga stretching routine every morning. I have shied away from yoga in the past assuming it was some kind mystical practice that I wanted to part of in my life. I have found, however, that a simple routine in the morning has begun to satisfy the craving in my body for stretching. Perhaps it is coincidence but I find that I am more emotionally balanced and my thinking is clearer these days.

This morning I realized another benefit of my changed morning routine.

Last night Gerry and I were up later than normal as we attended our first photography class. Truth be told, I was struggling to stay away toward the end of the class. (A class that goes to 9:30pm? It must be geared toward the younger generation!) This morning when I heard the voice of the NPR news commentator at 4:45 the time I normally rise, I reached over and hit the snooze button a few times until I found the strength to rise from my fitful sleep and begin the day. Bottom line: no yoga routine this morning.

As I stood at the bathroom vanity this morning and leaned toward the mirror to apply makeup, I discovered eyes that were puffier and more bloodshot than they were the day before, and skin that seemed to sag just a little more than I remembered.

I realized that for the past few weeks I have taken time for myself in the morning before putting my face on for the rest of the world. Whether it is a result of the grounding and relaxation, or whether it’s because I have not been immediately beginning my morning ablutions when I rise, I look better by the time I get to the bathroom mirror.

The physical and emotional benefits yoga is providing me are wonderful. The value-add is that I see a fresher, more relaxed, and younger looking face in the mirror in the morning.

That works for me!

Mother's Hands

I have worn contact lenses since I was a teenager and few years ago I got reading glasses to wear over my contacts for seeing things close up. 

First thing in the morning when my eyes are naked, so to speak, without the benefit of a corrective lens of any kind I see some things clearest of all and sometimes what I see startles me. Like the other morning when I saw my hands and realized that they are no longer the hands of a young woman.

At first I was somewhat dismayed to find that my hands have aged along with the rest of my body. Fine lines crisscross the back at all angles; flesh that was once taut and firm is now softer and lies in soft folds at the base of my fingers; a bluish vein snakes a prominent path from one side to the other.

I recognized the hands as those of my mother. Mom was almost exactly four years older than I am today when she passed away. It has been twenty-five years since I saw her, I barely recall what her voice sounded like, yet I recognized her hands when I saw them that morning.

They were the hands that fed me, bathed me, caressed me, played with me, and even occasionally spanked me. They were the hands that cooked for our family, cleaned our home, painted our walls, mowed our lawn, and planted gladiola bulbs in the spring. They were the hands that made crumb cake, banana bread, peanut butter cookies, and heavy brandy-soaked Christmas cake. They were the hands that sewed dresses and knit mittens and scarves. They were the hands that poured peroxide on my skinned knees and held me when I cried. They were the hands that smelled like Jergens hand lotion.

They were the hands that held my mother’s head in them as she wept when she was told that my father had died. They were the hands that held mine and my sister’s when we walked to the front of the sanctuary to stand before his casket on that surreal day when he was laid to rest.

My hands, the hands of a woman who is no longer young, have their own story.  Tucked within the wrinkles and folds is the story of my life.  What point would there be in longing for the youthful hands I once hand or despairing over the changes that have taken place? 

After all, my hands are also the hands of a mother.

A Goal Without a Plan

Recently, I've had conversations someone about our respective five-year plans.  I have a five-year plan for certain areas of my life and I'm realizing that I need to put together a concrete plan for other areas as well. 

After all "A goal without a plan is just a wish" (Antoine de Saint-Exupery), right?

I happened to glance up at my magnetic poetry board today and noticed that I had formed sentence fragments about wishing for something.

I long to write but .....

I long to garden but ....

I long to read but ....

I long to believe but ....

What wishes or longings are whispering to you right now? What is the "but" that is holding you back from having them? What goals do you need to put in place today to help you move closer to obtaining them?

Cacophony

Cacophony.  Don't you love that word? It sounds just like what it is, which is, according to dictionary.com, a "harsh discordance of sound". 

I confess that the cacophony of my daily life wears me out and the older I get the less I can bear the constant noise that surrounds me as I go about my daily activities.  When I am home alone I rarely turn on the television, the radio, the CD player or anything else that will disrupt the sweet solace of silence. (I confess that the sound of my computer keyboard clack-clacking away doesn't bother me in the least, though!)

Recently, almost by accident, I discovered that an album (do they still call them albums?) I purchased from iTunes has the opposite effect.  It contains an assortment of selections, some of which are familiar others not, played softly and gently on an instrument like the piano or flute. I connected my iPod to my external speaker the other day while I was writing and something about the music soothed me to the point where I was inspired to take my writing to another level.  I believe it was one of the most productive writing days I have had in some time.

I am still worn out by the end of the day, exhausted by the constant cacophony generated by people, traffic, and even sometimes the geese that fly overhead.  I still crave silence whenever I can get it.  I have also come to realize that my sense of hearing is a blessing and, in the right form, sound can sooth me.

Time Out

It's hard to imagine that this sweet little girl looking up at you could behave any differently from what that little innocent face portrays, isn't it?  It's true she is the sweetest little sixteen-month old girl on the planet, but according to her mom she's quickly closing in on what they call the "terrible twos" and I can attest, due to the magic of our frequent Skype visits, that she has a mind of her own and knows how to push her mom's buttons already!  My daughter has started giving her short periods of time-out to teach her what's acceptable behavior and what isn't. 

I was thinking about time-out as I was driving home this afternoon.  The concept is to separate the little one from the unacceptable behavior and provide an opportunity for them to calm down and make a better choice when they are removed from the time out.  I think I could use a time-out sometimes.  I have a tendancy to become very focused (perhaps obsessive) on the task at hand to the exclusion of everything around me. 

My husband might suggest I need a time-out on Saturday mornings when I am driven to write; my yorkies might suggest I need one when they want to play and I am in the middle of a good book; my co-workers might suggest a time-out would be in order when it's time to participate in one latest team-building "fun" activities and I feel I have too much work to do.

I recently realized I needed a time-out first thing in the morning.  For years I have had a morning routine that I rarely deviated from from the moment my feet hit the floor, but for the past few weeks I have mixed it up a bit.  I'm forcing myself to slow down and take better care of myself.  (I heard someone say recently "if you wear out your body, where are you going to live?")  Unbelievably, it's working!  Those few minutes that I take my morning time-out carry through to the rest of my day and help me be more mindful of making healthier choices for myself.  Who knew it would actually work for an old 'gal like me?!

Have you taken any time-outs lately?  Do you need to take any time-outs?

Gliding

We have had some extraordinary spring storms this year and there was a wind storm the other day that resulted in trees coming down and power outages all over the area.  We lost electricity at work and, as these days it is difficult to function without computers, the office was all but closed down. 

The drive home required my full attention as I navigated through the traffic; it moved slowly because of heavy rainfall and standing water on the road.  I felt the force of wind resistance on my vehicle and gripped the steering wheel with both hands as leaves, twigs and debris flew by.

Then, just for a moment, I happened to look up.

There in the sky above me were two birds, their wings spread wide, gliding on a wind current.  I watched their bodies dip down, then rise, turn one way then the other, all without any effort on their partl.  I wondered if they were calling out to each other: This is great! Isn't this fun? We've been waiting for a day like this!

And I thought how it would be if, when storms come into my life, I could let go and allow myself to be carried by the wind.  I know there is Someone looking out for me, that all will turn out in the way it is meant to in the end. But sometimes I forget I don't need to flap my wings and try to get through it on my own; I forget that to try to navigate on my own power will only wear me out.

So in the midst of a stormy afternoon I heard a still, small voice whisper to me.  Rest easy..