Can’t Cook, Can’t Sew, Thank Goodness for Diego

      If there was ever a right time for something, it happened yesterday.   Any apprehension I had about bringing a service dog into my life melted into a sigh of relief less than a day of having this little guy. Again, no heralded angels singing, no love at first sight, just pure relief and joy to have something to pull my attention forward instead of inward. The events of the past week, though more blessings than not, were really trying to draw me into a pity party I did not want to attend.

      The first day of March (which would have been our parents’ 68^th anniversary) brought all my siblings here to Denver to celebrate a new life within our fold.

A new baby next month is the best reason to celebrate and after a quarter of a century of mostly coming together for funerals this was cool stuff. We had met up in Albuquerque 2 years ago for this new baby’s parents (my nephew Andrew and his beautiful wife Gretchen) to marry. I was liking this new pattern and it was such a joy to have both brothers and my sister with their spouses in my home.

     The week was filled with everyone going in different directions for skiing, traveling, and working. We didn't have to be in each other’s back pockets to just enjoy being close by. Our last day together would just include my sister and husband. We planned a little western apparel shopping, lunch, the beautiful Butterfly Pavilion, and an easy home cooked dinner. But in a quick rush back to the car to get the clothing coupon, my bifocals read one step when there were actually two. If I had been even a decade younger, I might have been able to correct my stumble, but this time I made a sprawling leap forward onto the concrete walk. My right hand and temple received the greatest damage.

     I now have a “road hazard” orange cast on my broken hand and the most brilliant black eye I have ever seen.

“A sight for sore eyes” has taken on a new meaning.  Because I cannot have an MRI due to my cochlear implant, I am just watching for possible symptoms in case a lurking subdural hematoma wants to surface. The death of a dear friend’s son and a close call with a sister-in-law’s brain bleed last year has made me all too aware of that potential danger.

     I decided to go ahead with the plans to have Diego arrive this week.  Luckily I am left handed and he is trained to walk on my left.  The commands can be delivered with a clap to my thigh rather than a two hand clap. However, this plan was not without its challenges. The daily training practice, feeding, walking, poop paroling is a silly scenario to watch. While I have to remember to lead him with my left hand, it is the only functioning hand I have, and I need it to use it to open doors, get him out of the car, and carry things.

     Even with these crazy challenges, I’m very grateful for them.  The outlook of thinking about the next six weeks was going to be overwhelming. There is very little I can do that I wanted to do. Sewing/quilting right now is pretty much on hold. One arm cooking and cleaning is a bit slow but doable. One hand typing for this blog is a whole new brain adjustment.  I pictured myself just sitting and moping about the “can’ts” but with Diego I have so many other things to focus on. He and I are in training for the next three months, and it is up to me to follow through with it all. Two practice sessions daily of listening for the door bell, the phone and the smoke alarm.  I don't have time for a pity party! We have work, and praising, and a lot of loving to do. Oh, and learning to take better selfies is on the list, too. Stay tuned to hear about Diego's first professional on the job outing.It was a doozy!

     

Diego

I have had fitful sleep times lately, mainly just aging issues that keep me from having a full night’s sleep, so my mind flitters about so many different thoughts, problems, ideas, and such. Lately I have been giving a lot of those nocturnal thoughts to Diego. I’ve meet with him twice, once with Wayne and Stephanie as backup, and once alone.   There’s no real “I know he’s the one” or “You just know when you know” kinds of feelings. I try to think back to last time I picked out a dog. That was really more than 20 years ago.  I can recall the scrambling pups in the kitchen and seeing the beautiful golden retriever mom and the black lab dad, and the pup’s funny cowlick on his nose that dubbed him the name Spike. We didn’t name it that.  I don’t even remember the “picking” though.  I don’t remember the “he’s the one” thoughts. I was doing it on my own, and Spike, later named Odie, was a beloved treasure in our family for 13 years, but the memory selecting him fades, and doesn’t help me much now. 

This time Diego was picked for me; from trainers who have been matching owners and service dogs for more than 30 years. I should trust them, and they said that they did pick a matching personality to me. Maybe that’s the problem. He’s boring because I am boring, and I hate to admit that about myself. My cover is blown.  (Okay, I can hear someone chiming in, “What cover?”) Not so boring,  when I am comfortable with friends and family, but for the most part, I don’t do too much. Watching TV, writing, quilting, cooking, grocery shopping and the occasional cleaning duties when I’m in the mood are about it. So why wouldn’t they pick a dog that is comfortable just sitting at my feet and happy to have his “babies” (aka toys) around. Playing fetch is pretty much out of the question. Balls are not his thing. I can tell he would love to take walks and mark every bush within a quarter mile radius, if I’d let him.  A little hind leg walking action seems to be fun, but he is the ever couch potato for the most part.  And I’ve been troubled that I can’t even get him to look me in the eye. Oh, man, my biggest fault is not looking people in the eye; I’ve been so used to looking at lips for lip reading!  Well, there you go, he is a little fluffy, puffy Suzy!

My initial “dislikes” have eventually been put aside. I was put off by his name, his penchant for wanting to mark in the house, his watery eyes and nose (pretty much a norm for the breed, mixed though he is) All of those issues have melded into ”he is who he is” and any un-wanted behaviors can be easily addressed with better training and attention.  I did seem to dwell on the fact that maybe I didn’t really “need” him anymore because my implant was so successful. But I’m not too unrealistic to know that when this processor is off, I am for the most part completely deaf.  Even though I am doing so well there are still many instances that I miss the direction of noise. And sometimes, I just like to be in the beauty of “deaf mode” and enjoy the quiet.  I could never do that for fear that I might miss someone calling out to me, or a doorbell ringing, for example.  Besides, I was wanting a new “project” and responsibility.  I wanted to give a rescued dog a chance at a better life all the while he would be a companion to me. Therein lies the rub, that I do already have a lifelong companion… my husband.  Although he has given me his blessing on this endeavor, I can’t shake the feeling that that we are not making this choice together, and Diego for the most part has to be “my dog” to maintain his hearing training.

So these are the thoughts that occupy my spinning mind when I can’t sleep. I really don’t blame this issue on my sleeplessness; it’s just the topic of choice these days. I will pay another visit to Diego tomorrow, hoping that when he does come to live with us next month and the real training begins, he will be familiar with me. I picked up a new squeaky toy that he will associate with me and will be at the house when he arrives. We may not have that love at first sight bond, but I do think he is a wonderful little dog, and I can’t wait to see how he becomes another member of our family as the sweet animals did before him.  I think it is going to be marvelous to discover what talents he will possess to help me through my new hearing world.  I hope you want to hear how this new chapter will develop.

.

 

 

The Art of Friendship

A few weeks ago I was attending a meeting made up of ladies who had the desire to offer random acts of kindness to others. Among the group are three good friends of my own, and even though I travel one hundred miles each way to attend this meeting, the draw of friendship and camaraderie for a good cause makes it an easy drive. As a warm-up, we went around the room to share something about someone who has made an impact on our lives.  The obvious, mothers, dads, grandparents, and teachers were honored, and no doubt I have had so many of those who have definitely been a major influence, as we all have. As it rolled around to me I couldn’t add anything new except, by my side (this is almost a literal phrase; we’ve been accused of being joined at the hip) was a person who had taught me the art of friendship so many times over in the better part of quarter century that we have been friends. As I began to speak, my voice went into that horrible high-pitched warble that happens when emotions are stronger than the voice box. I wasn’t able to eloquently pay tribute to the beauty of her selfless acts and the impact of how she has taught me what it means to really be a friend.

 Instead, I could only belt out, “ Shhee’s m-my-y-y, sniff, sniff, friend… shhe’s she’s the b-b-best.

She was touched, but this blubber ball was so sad that the right words to honor her were not spoken. This dear one is first to say that it has been a two way street, but I can’t help but pale in comparison to her. What we do have though is one of those rare strong bonds that withstands distance or time.  She is also a very, very private person and would not be too happy if I announced her name to the blogosphere (all 9 people who read this, even if the potential of more is possible). So, I won’t.  But, I do want to share the poem I wrote to her almost 20 years ago, that gives a small inkling of what makes up the body of a true friend. I only hope that you have had a similar experience of knowing such a friend, and in return becoming a better person for it. I know I am.

“The Body Perfect”

She looks at herself with

Dread and concern,

Fearing what is to come…

And when.

But, when God created my friend,

He added “extras” not given

To everyone.

He added a strong right arm

Connected to a delicate consoling hand;

Shoulders strong enough to withstand

A waterfall of tears.

Her heart seals in my secrets,

All the while silently packing

Away its own pain.

Deep piercing eyes watch for any

Chinks in my armor.

Tender, yet solid soles keep her ever mindful

 Of the personal pain

 And sacrifice of

Taking any goal-driven step.

At the hip He devised an extra hinge

Made for locking

Onto the hip of another.

No other body was created with as much

Love and perfection.

                                                                                              Suzanne Robinson

                                                                                      August, 1995

Amazing Grace

Our memories are sometimes wrong or not the same as those who lived the moment with us, but the truth of those memories are more important than the facts. I hold a special memory of my mother teaching me to draw.

What I remember: her studio, an apple, cigar box of colors, the picture window, talking to me, Rich playing war in the sandbox, favorite position for drawing, watching TV, etc.

What I don’t remember:  her voice,  my brother’s picture (but I do remember his accurate drawings), when this happened, if it actually did;  more like a montage of several events... again,  the truth is more important than the facts.

“Mommm, I can’t!! “

Belting out my usual chant of low self-esteem, I dolefully peered into my mother’s utility room that doubled as her art studio.  It was just a tiny room with barely enough space for the washer and dryer and her art easel, but it was a place of magic that transformed blank canvases into portraits of beautiful people who graced our lives. 

I was in my favorite position on my belly, scrawny legs sprawled behind me, feet crossed at the ankles, propped up on my elbows. With the Rand McNally Road Atlas in front of me as my easel pad, and a piece of paper I was attempting to draw an apple my mother had placed in front of me. The autumn morning sun beaming through the large picture window blanketed me and my tiny makeshift studio in the doorway of her art magic.  My cartoonish flat (one dimensional ) round red apple glaring at me while my older brother’s masterpiece abandoned for a sandbox game of plastic green soldier war in the backyard, laughed at me with its authentic outline of a perfect Red Delicious.

 “How does he do that? It looks so real and mine doesn’t!”

Well, first of all, he’s a little older and has been practicing it a little longer. You’ll be able to do that well in a couple of years, too.”

“But I want to do it NOW!”  I bellowed as I flicked the red crayon through the threshold of her studio. With her perfect parent patience, an inherited trait that I completely missed at the gene pool, she reached for the offending crayon that just missed her ankle and walked over to kneel beside me.  She reached for a new sheet of paper and placed it in front of me.

Leaning over like she was about to go into a yoga partial child pose, her gentle voice gracing the top of my ear she said, “Honey, it’s all a matter of just seeing. Let’s just look at it for a moment. Is the shape of the apple really round? “

The apple silently stood at attention as I studied it. Its shape was not round at all but a little long and a bit triangular with bumps at the bottom and a widow’s peak curve at the top where the stem sat. “No, not really.”

“Okay then, use a pencil here and see if you can outline its shape. Look, even one of the bumps is a little bigger than the other ones. “ 

I drew the three bumps at the bottom and began to draw the sides of the apple digging the pencil hard against the paper.  She patted my hand, “Relax, sweetie, hold the pencil a little lighter and your lines will be softer.”  My hand released the death grip on the pencil and I looked up. She took my hand and massaged it just long enough to make me notice how tense I was. She took my pencil and in feather like strokes she guided the lead on the paper to create the right side of the apple, then handed the pencil back to me.  I mimicked her movements and created the left side not totally unlike hers. Wow that was cool. Then I looked at the apple again and proceeded to finish the outline on top.  A tiny glow of confidence was beginning to take root. I beamed up a grin at my mother.

“That’s just perfect, Suzy. Now look at the apple’s color. Is it all a solid red? “As if suddenly changing  its skin, the apple gleamed with gradations of red gold to deep scarlet, with tiny specks of black and brown.  A gleaming crescent of silver like my mother’s coat pin of glass diamonds shone on the side where the sun was touching it.” Mom, this is going to take more than this one color isn’t it? “ 

“Well you have a whole cigar box of colors beside you. What colors can you use?” I reached into the sea of colors making noisy waves through the pool snatching up Burnt Orange, Bittersweet, Maroon, Goldenrod, Sienna, and Silver. Lining up the soldiers of color, I began to doubt how I was going to use them all. Sensing my hesitation, Mom said, “Use your first red and color lightly all over inside the lines. Then take the other colors one at a time and look back at the apple to find that color on its skin.  Create that same place on your apple. “

  I creased my brow in concentration and started the wash of red over the surface, barely noticing mother’s silent retreat from my side.  As each color had its turn claiming its place on the canvas, my apple became something much more than the red apple I first drew. The blended colors became one and I could see a new apple. 

     I really don’t remember what that newly drawn apple looked like, but the lessons have remained, and I’m not only talking about drawing techniques. No thing or no one is just one-dimensional.  Her amazing grace taught me to sit back, relax a little, be patient, study my subject silently before beginning to take on any task or try to create any solution.   Where I was blind before, she had taught me to see.

 

Oh Woe! Where Did My Muse Go?

     I do believe my Muse has abandoned me for a more prolific writer!  She has been my best friend for as long as I can remember.  In grade school when I was the fledgling incompetent and unconfident writer, she would quietly sit on my shoulder whispering, "You don't have to copy that poem as yours - write your own."
     In college, I dabbled in writing short stories but the rejections from professors who "expected better" as well as magazine pink slips, prompted that sweet Muse to say, "Give it time, your writing will grow and it will become something only for you. That's your first audience anyway - you."
     When marriage, and babies, and teaching took up most of my time, that little Muse sat atop my ear chanting, " But what about writing that down?"  I ignored her mostly. I think she took up knitting, but she loyally stayed.
     Kicking into high gear with my writing and even teaching writing little Wilma Writer Muse was in her finest form. She broke out with a celebratory break dance cheering and encouraging and even crying and laughing with every stroke of my pen.  She had finally earned her Best Friend to a Writer Badge, and I was so proud to have her in my corner.  Her pushing and urging even took me to a local writer's group, online classes, journal groups, and creating this blog. Man, she was on fire!
     Then, what? What happened? Where did she go so suddenly? I've been through dry spells before, and she never gave up on me. Why now? Did I say something wrong? Ignored her one too many times?  Or has she just worn herself out? Is there a Retirement Muse Plan? Maybe she's on a Muse Cruise. Seeing the sights of the world that she  missed out on trying to get me to open my eyes all this time.  Well, she deserves it... I guess.  I was a tough client.  But now more than ever I see a need  to make sure thoughts, creations, and gifts of writing flow from my pen, but she 's not dangling on my eraser this time.  I sure hope she comes back...soon.

Idioms for a Lifetime

       Do you have any particular idioms you grew up with that you use constantly? I guess I hang on to the few I have, because I only knew my parents a little less than 30 years. And, if you don't count the first 20 years when we never think our parents know anything, I can only gather from maybe 10 years of their wisdom.
       One such idiom I recall and found myself using all my life was a phrase my dad had placed under the glass of his home office desk. He had this wonderful "office" that doubled as my brother's bedroom on his occasional visits back home from college. The desk was so unique though. It had cinder block legs sprayed black, and the top was a door covered in green felt with a large piece of glass to fit over that. He could rub elbows with the executives sitting behind rich mahogany monstrosities, but his frugal nature and his darling wife created this masterpiece that rivaled any top-of-the-line furniture. He would place precious pictures, quotes, maps, or papers under the glass for safe keeping. I loved going in there to see what new things he had placed there.
   Oh, I'm getting to it -- Here it is

                                WANT TO ENOUGH
What?!
I don't think my sister or brothers even remember it, but my initial curiosity transformed into a full blown mantra.  To this day, it answers all my questions about why I may have failed at any endeavor or challenge.

• When I didn't mend a relationship,
• I must not have "wanted to enough."
• When I couldn't lose the weight I needed to, 
• I must not have "wanted to enough."
• When I didn't strive for that job advancement,
• I must have not "wanted to enough."
• When I don't clean up, or order blinds for the window, or finish that quilt,
• I must have not "wanted to enough."
• When I don't sit down to write and organize my a family stories,
• I must have not "wanted to enough."
• When I don't share myself, or get out, or contact others; therefore, feeling lonely,
• I must have not "wanted to enough."

He had a similar phrase that was much cuter - "Honey, it's your little red wagon. You can push it, you can pull it, or you can just let it sit." But that little 3-word ditty was always my own proverbial slap in the face to realize my actions (or lack of) are mine alone, and I had the choice. I have no one else to blame. 

Now, a caveat is needed here, and I do speak from experience.  As with any lesson I have learned, I need to apply it to myself  -- not try to push it on others and tell  them  "Hey, you just didn't want to enough." oopsey.  I may have turned into my mother like all moms do, and spit out mom-isms on a daily basis, but this one is really just for me. 

Granted, I seemed to use it more in the past tense after I had "failed" so I can explain to myself what went wrong. But I am still hoping that I can use it in the present tense more often so I will  get off my butt, and do what I know is important.  When I do, I amazingly have a better day because I want to enough. 

HNY-Redux

     Happy New Year, everyone. I'm sure you have heard that a million times already on TV, from strangers, friends, loved ones. All the good will we can muster has been crowded into the past 2 weeks.  My only wish is that it could last through the next 50 weeks. It seems once the decorations are stored away, the frustrations and short fuses multiply; and, when someone cuts me off, takes too long to get my food order right, makes a rude remark in passing, I begin grumbling under my breath (I'm usually never a vocal madwoman).
      The negativity doesn't just creep in; it implodes destroying within and then billowing out like the old Dust Bowl storms of the 30's. My husband just remarked about watching a particular show and how no one has anything nice to say to each other any more. This was just seconds after he got off the phone berating a contractor for his late billing and complaining how his adult daughter wasn't as nice as she should have been to his men friends. Oddly enough, the show he was watching was demonstrating how a father was losing connection with his family because of his constant complaining, and my dear hubby could not see the similarity at all.  His negativity isn't the focus here. As a matter of fact it's just that it surrounds us in the news, sitcoms, dramas, politics, on the freeway, at work, and sadly at some dinner tables. Trying to make a positive comment gets you an accusation of being a Pollyanna. Or, as with my M.O. stay silent and complacent, which can be just as destructive.
      Even as old as I am, I'm still learning when to keep my mouth shut and when to speak up. Definitely,  it's easy to see that the the time to shut up is when I want to complain about something, and the time to speak out is to try to assuage the negativity of others. The HOW and WHAT to say something falls below my tactful radar though.  Oh, one more observation, I can do this pretty easily with strangers. It's practicing this with my dearest ones that is the biggest hurdle.  It's a frustrating balancing act, but I am determined to figure out how to walk that tightrope. Then the biggest challenge is to make it last longer than the weight loss/exercise resolutions that have already begun to wane. I do wish you better luck than I am having in this redo of good will toward ALL. .

Happy Birthday!

     Today is my mom's birthday. She would have been 91 years old. Sadly she didn't even make it to her 53rd year.  I didn't get to find the pleasure of her becoming an old person. I know that may sound strange to most who are caring for an elderly parent, and I do hope I am not stepping on anyone's feelings here.  There are so many of you out there suffering through the living loss of a parent. But for the most part you did have 30 more years with them that I never had.  I have precious friends and a husband who are dealing with this kind of loss right now, and I offer little comfort because of my lack of experience.  It's just a different perspective.  I missed out on the frail bones and the failing memory. I didn't get to observe her hair growing whiter over the years. She couldn't be at my side when  we lost our first born son at age 23, or when I miscarried. She didn't get to experience the absolute joy of seeing her first grandchild, or watch all 6 of them grow into beautiful adults.  With Dad following only 7 years later, the image of older parents just is not part of my make-up.
     I sometimes wonder what Mom would have been like as she grew older. Her faith, her everlasting, unconditional love for her husband and children, her exquisite artistic talent. How would they have played out over the years?  And her face, the sparkling eyes and alabaster skin free of a single wrinkle. Would those have faded over the years? I really doubt it.
     How would she have acted when it came to my trials and tribulations throughout my own marriage? I've said many times that if she had lived, I probably would have been divorced.  It would have been too easy to run back into her loving arms at the slightest argument with my new husband.  Or as a grandmother, how would she have judged me as I struggled with the kids' terrible 2's that are seeming to last until 32!
     I've been able to squeeze so many memories out of the 23 years we had together. I've savored every recall of mine as well as from my siblings.  They remember  things that I don't and vice versa.  I have to make that a good thing!  What treasures others must have with having parents on earth for 60, 70 or 80 years!!
     Now that I am embarking on a new venture as a grandparent, what lessons will I be able to fall back on?  I thought she was the perfect mother. She was gone before I realized she even had imperfections.  Through my own experiences as a mom, I know now she could not have been perfect.  But the love my children show me reflects my love of her, so maybe in my short 23 years with her, something did rub off on me.
     Parents can sometimes be the best teachers --- not the ones who lecture or show you how everything is done right, but the ones who stand back and let you discover on your own; learning to accept and acknowledge your own successes and failures equally. As a parent, Mom didn't have that choice...to stand back, but for me it's the biggest lesson right now. As I watch my own children  who are learning to become adults and parents themselves, I HAVE TO stand back and let them struggle through it. I must have the faith in them that they will, too, get through this life with as much love and appreciation for their family and those around the as possible.
     Thanks, Mom, for all you have taught me. I'll try to live up to all your lessons.
And Happy Birthday, Mavis Gertrude Pendley Rutledge!

My School of Learning

The mind is not a vessel that needs filling but wood that needs igniting -- Plutarch

         Four plus years out of the educational setting, and I still can't shake the "teacher thoughts."  Not that I want to go back or should go back, the quotes and thoughts I shared with kids everyday still stay with me.  Each morning for 32 years -- without fail, I wrote a quotation on the board.  My initial "fresh out of college, eager to ignite minds" purpose rarely achieved the "ah-ha moments" I expected my passion-impaired charges to grasp and hold dear. But, I persevered. Everyday a new bit of wisdom was plastered up there for all to see and share.  Dutifully they wrote. Silently they sat for 5-10 minutes while I performed the required first of class duties of taking attendance, picking up homework, and passing out graded work. Of course there were years of variation to place the writing at the end of the hour so I could also share in the writing time, but much of the time was to secretly prepare for the next storm of students.
         So what did they learn from my daily quotations? I hope more than I am presenting here, but I really will never know.  I do know I learned a great deal:
 #1 There are a lot of wise quotations out there. The sea is endless.
                 (As a matter of fact I never ran across this one posted above)
 #2 Different perspectives of something said is as varied
                   as the number who hear it.
 #3 hmm,....do I have a #3?
           Probably not, but I do ponder on Plutarch's words. I agree that I could not pry open the Richard Craniums and pour in the knowledge. I had to try to give a spark and hope that someone's perspective allowed a bit of a firestorm in his pursuit of learning.  But on the other hand, mighty Plutarch, once ignited and a grand bonfire of knowledge is before our eyes - what is left but ashes?
      So, I will probably lean toward another quotation when it comes to "lighting up someone's mind"
The one I favor was originally Thomas Jefferson's but picked up in different forms as I have here:

         Using your candle to light someone else's, 

doesn't take away your own light, 

but adds to the brightness of the room.

              As least on this blog, my world is definitely brighter when I hear from you discovering new life for yourself  in my words.  It's a lesson I hold dear.  

Thanks for being here.

         

God? Did you just call?

Several years ago, I, like probably many wives, hit a time of wondering if our marriage was going to survive. We had hit a financial catastrophe with a failing business and hope was at its lowest -- at the time.  I had grown up believing God was with me but no real connection until one night my pen seemed to speak for Him. Four nights later He tried again. I've never experienced this before or again, and since then, I've come to re-create my faith. However, this one experience did ring true then and now.

12:08 a.m. July 28, 1997
A phone call woke me up. Wrong number. Odie wants outside. So, I'm awake, can't go back to sleep. Spiritual Literacy is keeping me company while I wait for the dogs. One entry speaks of Morton Kelsey's experience of being awakened at the same time every night and a friend told him God wanted to talk to him. Then I heard (or wanted to hear) Suzy, I'm proud of you.

                                                                                                      Oh, God, really? I'm feeling so ashamed and stupid right now. 

So very weak.

But you have shown what My love is supposed to be - unconditional and forgiving.

I'm still not sure if it's really love, Lord. Rather a vow and a concern for the kids.

But that is love. You have exhibited love by staying with Wayne.

It's not over yet. There's a lot of unknown territory out there. I'm not sure what 

kind of damage his business actions have actually caused.

Just recall the feeling of getting into bed a few moments ago. 

Wasn't that more comforting to lay beside him than the balled up fear 

in your stomach all day?

Yes, it was. I told him so, too. And I fell asleep comforted.

I just knew you needed to hear from someone

 that you are doing the right thing, Suzy.

Then, what are these tears for, Lord? Relief? --I'm not relieved.

Grief? - I'm still there, grieving for our loss of security. 

Is this just a way to resolve my lack of action?

Oh, but you still have a lot to do. And action is one beginning.

You have to push this through. Yes - even nag. You've been

 passive, yes, but I will be there to help you through this.

I wish Wayne could hear you, too.

Me, too. But that's something he has to do himself.

 I'll be here when he does.

I've been hoping for more than 20 years, Lord. He's going to be that same

 stubborn rock-island trying to do and fix it all by himself.

I've been waiting longer, dear.

I've been a little lost from you, too.

I know.

I did start the gratitude journal and the Spiritual Literacy before all this hit the fan.

I guess you could think they were my doing, to get you prepared for all this. 

Or maybe, you knew you needed it all by yourself.

We humans do possess a lot of inner power. I'll always believe that.

  I just haven't used it to help him.  I've been more

 of an enabler, than a helpmate, haven't I?

You could see it that way, but you seemed to be doing

what you thought was best.  This setback is tough, but

you both needed it to get back on track. It's up to you

to get up and start walking on it.

Just stay close by, okay?

It's a promise.

2:45 a.m. Aug 1, 1997

Lord, I woke up. Did you want to talk to me?

Not really. But it looks like you need me to. How's it going?

Night sweats are back, and now I can't seem to get back to sleep. 

Thinking about Chris's care package, afraid I sent it to the wrong address.

thought about calling him, but decided against it.

It wouldn't help to know now anyway.

Told Wayne yesterday about getting my own lawyer.

You are entering an unknown area for yourself.

I still feel that the action will just stir up more negative feelings from the kids.

It will. Children never want the status quo to be upset.

 It's fear and they will display it through anger. 

Accept it and try to stay calm. But don't let up.

Will I lose more than what I gain?

Just keep you eyes open as well as your heart. You're strong.

It doesn't seem that way. I feel I got into this mess because

 of my weakness and desire for my husband to take care of me. 

I deferred to him to make all the decisions - to make him feel stronger..

Very few women would have hung in there.

I keep wanting to defend him. Protect him. 

But that has been to a fault. It was a mistake to enable his ego.

Mmm-hmm.

You're really not here, are you?

Wrong number?

You just need to help yourself now.

Odie's First Day in Heaven

We have always had a menagerie of animals around our house. Kids growing up in the country collected everything from salamanders to stray cats, and 4-H kept us up to our ears in pigs, chickens, lambs, calves, horses, and even a goat. Of course dogs were ever present. I took backstage to all the animals, allowing the kids to claim and care for them all...until of course the kids grow up and the animals stay...and stay...and stay. We have had dogs last as long as 19 years (Huckleberry) and I still care for Stephanie's first cat who is now reaching the ripe old age of 22. Of all these animals gone and present, I lay claim to only one - our big black lab, Odie.  This was the only pet that I picked out as a pup and brought home. Of course, he soon became Chris's but silently...he was mine too. He was with us a wonderful 13 years, and we lost him to cancer a of couple years before Chris died. I had a chance to honor this sweet, lovable animal in a poem, thinking of all the things he could no longer do on earth and maybe fulfilling those dreams in heaven.


He welcomes the morning sunlight
Which shimmers golden through the patio window.
And his bones feel limber and strong and his supple
Muscles quiver for action,
Not pain.
A shining sparkle of diamonds coat the snowbanks
Built during night's gentle late spring snowfall.
He runs and chases high-pitched, falling
Invisible snowballs mixed
White-on-white.
Showers of shoveled snow sprinkle
A stardust coating on his glistening black fur.

At noon, he settles his lumbering body onto
The warm lambskin rug and patiently awaits
For his dish to be set before him.
After a cozy nap in the warming sun,
He bounds through the muddy melting snow
To the lake.
He submerges his heavy torso into the soothing
Lapping waves
While his Huckleberry friend
Takes head-bobbing bounces
Through the bull rushes
Avoiding water at all costs.

The evening is filled with tireless luxurious long
Gentle strokes across his black
Velvet face and ears.
An occasional chocolate candy delights his senses,
And the sweet moves through his body free
Of danger or threat.
He curls his thunderous thighs and barrel chest
Into a ball on an unforbidden couch
To dream of rabbit races.
His body twitching in miniature moves
With each twist and turn of the imaginary hills
And muffled woof's reveal his victorious tale.

Suzanne's "Bible"

 I am a collector of quotations. For more than 30 years I placed a quotation in the blackboard for students to write about or discuss.  To narrow down to a few "to live by" may be impossible but here goes: I have at this moment 8 phrases that I want to center around my life.  I have to keep reminding myself that this is what is important. I don’t always understand them all, and sometimes the meaning changes or reveals something different about me or the world around me.  Ironically, most are bible verses.  I wonder what quotes you might have for your "Bible."

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. (Hebrews 11:1)
I struggle with my faith all the time, especially when Chris died and my sense of “feeling him near me” was lost. I grew up with a lot of faith, yet I do recall asking many times as a youngster for a “sign” from God which never came. To keep my faith I had to re-invent. Re-write my idea of who God was.  I don’t think I am angry with Him, because I don’t think he controls us or our actions. Free will, you know. But I do have faith that if we live our lives in honor of those we have lost, in the end, we will have peace in our hearts. Peace - Faith is there a connection to these two things?
Love never fails. Beloved, let us love one another. (1 John 4:7)
My love for Wayne comes to the forefront. Because it is the hardest to do. Not because of who Wayne is, not at all. But more in the fact that on a day to day, moment to moment basis, loving another person all the time is a challenge. A mother usually has an unconditional love for her children. That’s usually a given. But the commitment to love another person for a lifetime takes strength, flexibility, forgiveness, forgetfulness, and kindness. That is love to me, and with those in place, love will not fail.
Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue, if there be any praise, think on these things. As a man thinks in his heart, so is he. (Phillipians 4:8)
I have to work at this one all the time. So many bad reports are out there in the news, on others’ lips, in the actions we see… it’s easy to fall into complaining about them, gossiping about the bad things people do, or griping about the injustices that befall us. I revert to my mother’s adage “Chew your tongue to hamburger.”  But that is only half the battle. I need to verbalize the praises.
In all things, do unto others as you would have others do unto you. (Mathew 7:12)
The old Golden Rule we learned as children - too perfect to leave out.
The Truth of the Lord endures forever. Hold fast the truth. (Psalm 117:2) or  To thine own self be true. (Shakespeare)
Save this for another day… I’m not sure if truth has a finite definition. One man’s truth can be another man’s lie. But this  “truth of the Lord” - not sure what it is. Another thought I just heard again last night… “I didn’t lie, the truth changed.”
 There is a right time for everything: A time to be born, a time to die; a time to sow ; a time to reap; a time to kill; a time to heal; a time to destroy; a time to rebuild; a time to cry, a time to laugh; a time grieve, a time to laugh; a time for scattering stones, a time to gather stones; a time to hug, a time to not hug; a time to find, a time to lose; a time for keeping, a time for throwing away; a time to tear, a time to repair; a time to be quiet, a time to speak up; a time for loving, a time for hating; a time for war, a time for peace. (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)
We just don’t always know or can judge what the right time is. It will take a lifetime to get it right.
We have to let go of the life we planned to start living the life waiting for us. (Joseph Campbell)
This is a kick me in the face kind of realization. As a young and stupid adult, I thought that  if I was well grounded and follow a strong path, then I would have a good life. The bumps, potholes, and black holes  in the road of my journey have rattled my teeth and shaken my chassis to the core. I can either dump the truck or find a way to get back on the road - whether it is finding the right tools, newer parts, or a good mechanic.  The road will always be there, the type of auto is not important. It’s who you are with, and the attitude you have - Happiness is a mode of transportation, not a destination.
Opportunities to find deeper powers within ourselves come when life seems most challenging. (Joseph Campbell)
This is a lifelong lesson that I have heard many times, many ways, but one that I have repeated to the kids in their short lives when things are tough. Another way we’ve worded it is “that which does not kill you makes you stronger.” No matter how you say it, we have to power within ourselves to overcome any trouble that comes our way. I resist this one because it sort of goes against the Christian philosophy that we need Christ to pick us up when we are overwhelmed. In my studies of the lost scriptures - the Gnostic Bible, the former is a core thought, but was left out of the New Testaments by who knows.

Inquire Within

   I was sifting through a few journal entries this morning and found this "Author Unknown"  piece that I want to share.  Too many times we are trapped in wondering how to fill our days productively or wish for things we can't have.  I liked this analogy, and I hope you do too.  If you know who might have written this, please let me know. Have a wonderful day on your journey.


If, as Herod, we fill our lives with things, and again with things; if we consider ourselves so unimportant that we must fill every moment of our lives with action, when will we have time to make the slow, long journey across the desert as did the Magi?  Or sit and watch the stars as did the shepherds? Or brood over the coming of the child as did Mary?  For within each of us there is a desert to travel. A star to discover. And a being within ourselves to bring to life. ~ Author Unknown

Celebrating Women

Today I want to celebrate my daughter along with all the other women in our lives. I wrote this poem for her several years ago, but this dynamite woman has re-entered my life as a close friend and confidant. Today isn't especially important in our lives, but The Ordinary Day can be special enough.

The Power of One

Copper hair cascades down
your back while flecks of
red-gold drops settle across your nose.
Red rage flame and copper power
creates the power of one.

The power of one water drop
blended with many of God's other crystal creations
form majestic waterfalls for all to see.

You are that power of one.
Created in love and built
From the power of those before you.
Mother, aunts, grandmothers, all
captured into one blending
of our souls into a guardian angel
that still flitters from my shoulder to yours.

Momma Bird

I love watching the birds in my backyard. I hardly recognize any of the breeds, just like I recognize cars…oh there’s a blue one, and there is a black one, look at the one with the red top or yellow wings. Nevertheless, I do enjoy them. Yesterday a mother blackbird lost one of her 3 babies. She had persevered through the nesting stages, gently, patiently sitting on the delicate eggs. Then the tireless duty of feeding the open mouths, connected to  bottomless pits of baby tummies. Good thing Daddy blackbird was able to share the duties. I watched as the babies grow too big to fit in the nest perched at the top of our large pine . Then one day they disappeared. No movement in the nest or on the tree branches. Could she have taught them everything in an evening and off they flew? Wayne and I then started to see glimpses of the babies hidden out in the front yard and in the garden. Momma Blackbird had them hidden on the ground. I saw one under the tree a couple of days ago. I was really fearful that something was wrong with it. It really didn’t move much, but within a few minutes, it had disappeared again. I was spraying the roses yesterday and almost stepped on one while Momma was cackling above my head. Were we seeing all three again, or just one at different places? Was one really injured or just struggling with the normal course of growing up?
Then the unimaginable, completely avoidable decision to let Huck out to the back yard after being cooped up in the basement all morning. He usually just limps off the porch to pee and comes right back. This time he stayed on the porch and sniffed the air for a while. I saw him take a jaunty pace off the porch and into the garden. Was he stopping to do “his business”? NO!!! He had discovered the baby!  I ran out there as fast as I could to distract him, but he had it in his mouth and when he dropped it, I know it was not going to survive. Another mother had lost her baby.
I felt that loss. I know that loss. I wish I had a bird’s brain so I wouldn’t have to know that pain of loss …That’s not true and a whole different story. The hard work to get them out of the nest, the hard work once they are out, still needing a parent’s care. Gone in a flash. I saw the baby limping around earlier and my heartstrings were pulled to Chris’s first wreck. I hoped the little guy was going to be okay. Then when its little life draining body dropped from Huck’s mouth, I cried… again. For momma blackbird…or for me?
Later Momma was under the tree with her other two babies continually feeding and guiding them. The other 2 were okay... for now. She was going on about her life, doing what she was supposed to do, caring for her surviving brood.  I’m trying to do that too.