tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30354695660378220052024-02-18T18:04:51.690-08:00T's Writing BoxThis is just a very eclectic and random collection of thoughts, impressions, descriptions, letters, and questions.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-41605045408586215392017-05-21T17:20:00.001-07:002017-05-21T17:20:49.697-07:00Dog Management<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the
last 5 years I have spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars on various pieces of
equipment to manage our dog, Luna. But there<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> no
managing Luna. There is no controlling Luna. Luna is a Wild Thing
and no amount of neon, reflective vests, 18 level, half-mile range, zappy
collars, triple-stitched leashes, rugged and waterproofed or light-up tracking
devices, nor wireless fences with 15 levels of shock can save her from herself.
I am simply going to have to be prepared for the day when she either gets:</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">a.
shot by an angry homeowner who doesn't like her catching and disemboweling
rabbits in their yard (or possibly their small dog, which would be our worst
case scenario,)</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">b. hit
by a car while chasing deer (although she's already been there, done that, and
escaped from an encounter with an SUV with $500 in x-rays and nothing to show
for it.)</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">c. us
in trouble with the law for any of her many shenanigans that piss off other
people.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">d.
orphaned because my repeated and almost constant state of worry for her will
land me in a mental hospital.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">And
lest anyone think that we have never attempted training or behavior
modification prior to resorting to tools, we DID try. I assure you.
We worked with a local woman who is the equivalent of the dog whisperer.
After declaring she would never give up, she finally gave up. She
consulted another dog behaviorist whose sole comment was, "I think that
dog will never do anything FOR you, only maybe WITH you." Luna even
spent some time at the kennel that the trainer owns and operates. One
day, Luna scaled their 10 foot, chain-link fence that was specifically designed
to discourage dog feet. Luckily, the other side of the fence was another
kennel where she wanted to play with some other puppies. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">But
let's review the equipment, shall we? Because I feel strongly that any
company that thinks they have a rugged, dog-proof product should really borrow
Luna to put it to the test. They can just pay us in products... multiples
of everything. And we will help them out by inventing one device that can
track in real time, send up emergency flares, drop an anchor, light up with a
blinding spotlight, shock the hell out of her so she can't even THINK about
hunting, and keep her inside the confines of our property, especially after she
has had the almost daily luxury of an hour long walk/run/romp out in the woods
and fields!</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">They
think their vests are well made? Let her run through brambles, sail over
and slither under fallen trees, muck through the swamp, roll in the tall grass,
whip through corn fields at top speed, dig furiously 3 feet down, and shake 5
woodchucks to death in one month and THEN see how well that vest holds up!
Her current vest, by the way, used to have a mesh pocket on one side, a
poop-bag dispensing pocket on the other, another zippered pocket, and some
nice, silver, reflective strips stitched on. It was very jaunty looking
in neon orange. It is still neon orange, and the buckle and velcro have
held together miraculously. I can't say that the pockets or zippers still
exist, and the remaining reflective strips are dangling by threads. The
edges used to be reinforced with thick, nylon but the front section came home
one day looking like it went down a garbage disposal, so my multi-talented
husband stitched on a patch of fabric to keep it from unraveling further.
Her last vest didn't make it a month before the color faded, the buckle
broke, and the reflective strips disappeared.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">She
used to have a fabulous, bright, red light on her collar at night. It
advertised as being able to withstand an army tank driving over it. We
have replaced it 3 times before giving up because it eventually gets loose and
the cover comes off and the battery falls out. I am telling you; these
designers must have the world's most passive dogs ever, even if they DO have an
army tank at home!</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I have
honestly lost track of the number of collars Luna has been through. I
think her neck is longer than it used to be as a result. There was the
underground fence collar, but that silly little thing didn't faze her a bit.
She just strolled right over the line without a flinch. There is
the wireless fence collar with 15 levels of shock available, designed to set
off an alarm in the house when she crossed the border. That collar was
meant to give her warning and shock her according to how fast she was moving
when she hit the boundary, but I think she broke land-speed records as she
bolted after those rabbits. We used to think that her high-pitched
yelping was from getting shocked as she chased rabbits, but now we know that's
the sound she makes in excitement of the hunt. She doesn't even feel that
shock. In fact, she doesn't seem to hear, feel, or smell anything except
her prey when she locks on like that. I have held a handful of roast
chicken under her nose while she stared down a rabbit with her eerie blue eyes,
and she never twitched so much as a whisker at it. So the wireless fence
collar didn't work out so well, though it theoretically told us how many feet
away from the house she was, though not in what direction... She moved so
fast it couldn't begin to keep up with her with any accuracy. Every time the
collars malfunctioned, (but still had SOME capacity to function,) the company
readily agreed to send us another one... AFTER receiving ours in the mail.
I had the distinct impression that they can't conceive of what kind of
dog might NEED this collar and not be able to go without it for the 2 weeks it
takes to exchange in this method.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Same
situation with her former GPS tracker. That blue-eyed demon dog would be
gone in less than a heartbeat and, while we waited for the notification that
she was out of the home zone, she was a mile away and running hard.
Meanwhile, the app on my phone is telling me she is still in the home
zone for 15 minutes as I cursed it thoroughly, screaming, "No she is NOT
in the fucking home zone! I saw her LEAVE the fucking home zone 10
minutes ago, you assholes!" It seemed to me that the owner should
have some kind of override of that system when we have visual confirmation of
her departure. That GPS system was upgraded and updated. We lost a
couple of them and paid for more because one out of 5 times we were successfully
able to find her with it. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">One
night she disappeared into the sub-zero wind chill of a Michigan winter after
some deer. We were at a friend's house so it wasn't even like she could
just come home when she was done. We all searched for a couple of hours
before everyone else gave up and went to bed. But I couldn't. So we
drove home, where I changed into every winter layer I owned and threw my cross
country skis in my car. Midnight found me floundering around in snow up
to my waist with my headlamp shining uselessly upon the deer trail that quickly
filled up with the falling snow. My phone informed me that the GPS
tracker battery had died, so I had only her location an hour prior to go by.
Another hour passed before I found her, and that damn dog was happily
sniffing about in snow over her head just a quarter mile or so away. She
was pleased to see me, in a, "Hey, Mom, nice to see you, though I forgot
about you," kind of way. I was almost collapsing from exhaustion,
but not Luna. I leashed her and headed for the road, having had enough of
falling and trying to get back up in the 3 feet of fresh snow in the dark.
Luna had plenty of energy left. She decided it would be fun to pull
me all the way down the road back to our friends' house on my skis, which was
just fine with me.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Another
time I was out for a run with Luna, back in the days when we thought that using
an excessively long leash of some sort would keep her from getting too far from
us due to the likelihood of it getting tangled on something and stopping her.
It worked like a charm! I saw her dash off the trail after some
deer, but within a few moments, I heard her, "I'm stuck," bark not
too far away. I dove into the brush and headed in that general direction
while holding my phone in one hand, watching the blinking, blue dot that
represented me, catch up with the little paw icon that represented her.
How perfect! I quickly arrived at the place where my phone said she
was. I looked around. No Luna. Then the mosquitoes descended en masse.
I jumped around in place while looking everywhere. I expanded my search
into the brambles, nettles, and poison ivy nearby but no sign of Luna.
Unable to take the mosquitoes or stand still, I ran back to the trail and
looked at the app again. She hadn't moved. I waited and sure
enough, I heard her bark again, same place. So I plunged back into the
bug-infested, itchy, damp woods, calling for her and watching my phone.
(Meanwhile, my running app was pausing every time I held still and loudly
announcing, "PAUSING WORKOUT!" followed by an equally cheery,
"RESUMING WORKOUT!" when I moved again.) Once again, there was
no Luna. Repeat of mosquitos, brambles, and the now-loathed running app
that I couldn't deal with shutting off because I couldn't hold still long
enough to do it without getting eaten alive! My vehement profanity now
included bitter hatred of that fucking running app. "SHUT THE FUCK
UP! I KNOW ALREADY! THERE IS NO MORE WORK OUT, CAN'T YOU SEE
THAT???" OH, and did I mention I was out for my first run since having had
hand surgery? So my dominant hand was still unusable, which meant holding
my phone in my other hand while waving my arm wildly at the cloud of tiny
bloodsuckers. I ran BACK out to the trail again to escape the bugs for a
moment. AGAIN Luna barked for me! This time I decided not to call
out to her, but to just go in silently, operating on the new idea that she was
there but I just couldn't see her, though she could evidently see me.
This was correct. After about 6 attempts, all the while cursing at
top volume, I finally spotted her lying peacefully beneath a tree, just about 6
feet from the deer path I was using. She looked at me like, "Mom!
Why did you keep running back and forth in front of me like that?"
I unwound her ridiculously long and tangled leash (all the while leaping
about and slapping myself like a maniac and continuing to swear at mosquitoes,
my phone, the running app, myself, and my dog with every fiber of my being,)
and we went directly home, where Luna proceeded to sulk because HER walk had
been too short!</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">One
would think I'd have learned my lesson from that, but there was another day,
which became night before it was over, when Luna got herself tangled up in the
neighboring corn field. Once again, the GPS app told us where she was,
but we couldn't find her. We finally concluded that she must have lost
her collar in the cornfield. This was decided as we both systematically
walked, hunched over under the corn, our backs aching, up and down each row, using
our camp headlights. Eventually both of our phones died, so we couldn't
see her approximate location (though it was useless to us anyway,) and when we
got too far away, she barked, but there was no sense of where her bark was
coming from! Fast forward 3 hours and I finally found her, curled up in a
ball taking a snooze under a corn stalk. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Many
more adventures ensued, usually involving some failed piece of equipment.
The extra-strong leash that had, indeed, very strong fabric... but weak
thread holding the attachment for her collar. The wireless fence that
failed to beep in the house to tell us she was out of the zone. The
umpteenth GPS tracker that fell off in the woods somewhere, blending in
perfectly with the forest floor. The same GPS tracker whose customer service
reps told us (over the course of 2 years) that the tracker could be interfered
with by: lakes, hills, trees, buildings, or metal. Right.
So... city or country, you're fucked with that one. The
super-strong, tie-out cables that came apart where they attached to either her
collar or the gigantic piece of firewood at the other end... (Yes, we tried slowing her down with firewood... she got free anyway.) The "training," collar that wouldn't stay
charged or only worked when she was 5 feet away from us. The fabulous, 18
level, beeping, vibrating, and shocking collar and remote that has a half mile
range, but mysteriously failed to work one day and she quickly passed the
half-mile mark.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">So here we are in the present day. We
received our new, GPS, Nuzzle collar on Thursday!!! I was SO excited and
couldn't wait to try it out. It had more environmentally friendly and efficient packaging and the device
and its home base are compact and sleek. I followed every direction
step by step. I checked on line to make sure I did everything right. I leashed
up the dogs and we headed out, with the spare battery charging at home and the
app ready to go on my phone. We left the yard and walked about 2 minutes, tops.
I decided we were out of the home zone, so I checked my phone for a
notification. Hmm. That's odd; there isn't one. Huh. So I refreshed the app.
Then I looked at the collar. The battery pack was gone. Fell off within the
first 2 minutes of our walk. I retraced my steps 4 times before giving up and
just going for our walk. I decided to let Nuzzle know about it, and remembered,
happily, that the website says they are available 24/7 (Unlike our former GPS
tracker.) I remained on hold for 30 minutes while my dogs explored in the
woods. Finally, a representative politely collected my information, coolly
apologized for the inconvenience, and said a new battery would be sent out. No
mention of HOW to prevent this from happening again or indication that they
would fix this issue. I looked at the design and realized that it would only
take a dog scratching at their own neck to push that release button on the
battery. Or if our other dog plays with her and grabs it just right. I spent
over a hundred dollars (again) and listened to promises that THIS system would
surpass the other company's. This collar was due to ship last November, 2016.
It arrived 3 days ago, May 2017. I could not be more disappointed.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;">It is
now 5 years into our blue-eyed girl's crazy life. As I write these words,
she is curled sweetly in a tiny ball in a chair nearby. About half an
hour ago, she was stretched out on the lawn asking for a belly rub, gently
pawing the air with her white feet and smiling slightly as I baby-talked her
and petted her ears and tummy. During the night, she snuggles at my side,
and when I come home from work she is there with her excited, puppy yelps and
wagging tail. </span><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> Despite all of the crazy,
the anxiety, the fury, and the fear, I LOVE this dog with all of my heart. I
respect her wildness, though I worry nonstop about keeping her (and certain
small dogs,) safe. I understand she can't help who she is and what she needs,
and all I can do is keep trying to modify, contain, and hope for the best. She
is not a dog who can live on a chain, in a fence, or without some freedom out
in the world. Her heart would break and she would die of misery. It is my job,
my responsibility, to try to see her through this human world that is no longer
designed for wild creatures.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">Now, it would just be nice if even ONE
company could come through for us and design something JUST for Luna.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: -.1pt;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: -.1pt;">T.</span><br />
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</style>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-4850708260912418252015-04-26T07:31:00.002-07:002015-04-26T07:31:10.158-07:00If you were here with me...<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Front porch, facing east on a Sunday morning in April.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The lake is shimmering at me, set off nicely by reddening tree buds and spring willows. Lawns are green as green can be, and in stereo surround sound are the birds with all they have to say in these early weeks. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A house finch, purple finch? I can never tell the difference, is insistently telling me something from my nearby flowering cherry shrub. When I do not give the correct response, he moves to the wisteria to my left and tries again. I hear you, Finchy, but I do not know what you are saying. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Catching my peripheral vision, a hawk flaps by on quiet wings. Now it soars over the lake, catching some updrafts that it couldn't find here in the stillness of the yard. It is so nice, for once, to be without wind. My ears grow tired of the sound of it, and its absence is peaceful. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Two water birds skim across the lake's surface, one after the other, while a squadron of iridescent tree swallows swoop and dive among our young trees. Frogs chuckle and sing for each other in the nearby swamp. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As my fingers tapped those words, a huge rush of wings to the south and a single sandhill crane passes low, straight through our airspace, and I am without words to convey its wildness and beauty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For only a few moments, all sounds of motors fade, along with barking dogs and scolding owners. These are the best moments of all. If I close my eyes, I can pretend that the earth has finally freed itself from our influence and exists in the harmony and balance for which it was meant.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-9251812651564632152013-03-25T15:48:00.000-07:002013-03-25T15:48:01.782-07:00A Day
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<u><span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A Day<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">As small, contained, and square <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">as a single pill-minder box.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A striped cat<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">who showed up on a Monday,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">And stayed, keeping that name.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A marathon of movies,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">or a long sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A road trip.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A day<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">is shopping every store<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">but coming home <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">the same as you were before.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">The length of time a clock hand moves<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A calendar rectangle<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">filled with to-dos.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">Something that begins and ends,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A first,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A last,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A time with friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A regret,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">Or triumph,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A day is yet,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">something to examine<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A time to forget.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">Bright skies,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">or endless rain,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A lesson plan,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">An hour gained.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking forward,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking back,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">for what you hoped,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">and what it lacked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A day is spent <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">or given free,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">an endless meeting,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">a climbing tree.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A lazy float<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">down a river long,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A day is here,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">and then it’s gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">A day is now, plus now, plus now,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">and we never know just how<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">a day can fly,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">a day can drag<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">a day might be all<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">some ever had.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Apple Casual';"><span style="font-size: large;">T.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-82099781562007693082011-11-26T17:11:00.000-08:002011-11-26T17:11:27.678-08:00StillThe pain still threatens to overwhelm. Over and over, each day a variation of the previous one. I walk into our closed bedroom with futile hope that she will be there, having decided to go to bed before us, as she often did. But she is as absent and present as always. Present in the swelling of my heart and the subsequent tears I either swallow back or let seep. Absent from my arms, my sight, my life now. <br />
<br />
Do people imagine that Luna has buried her as we buried her? Do they think I have moved past the loss and the pain because I have someone to hold and nurture? Did anyone really believe it would be so simple and quick? Some seem surprised, or maybe caught off guard, unsure of what to say and wishing I wouldn't tell them, that I still have days of pain, uninterrupted aching in my whole body. That I still sob at night whether at bedtime or waking at 3:00 a.m. lonely with my sorrow and grief. Is it possible they thought it would only take another dog to erase the amazing person who was here only the other day? (it seems!) I can nurture and love Luna, but she cannot give me what Tansy gave me; she can't give me the joy of making Tansy happy.<br />
T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-9656530893661495172011-11-04T18:48:00.000-07:002011-11-04T18:48:07.879-07:00Random Musings and CommentaryChanges of note since October 20:<br />
1. Violet often sprawls between us at the foot of the bed like Tansy did.<br />
2. Zillah is now only content when BOTH Doug and I are home. (but she's hurt, mad, and lonely.)<br />
3. My shoelaces come untied EVERY time I run, and they NEVER, literally, NEVER come untied in all of these years of running. (absolutely no connection to Tansy, but still, odd.)<br />
<br />
And while I know all of the socially correct things I SHOULD be saying when people ask how I am, it's not in me to should on myself. I should say that I'm doing better, that I'm fine. I should say it's getting easier or that I find comfort in how happy her life was, and that I made it that way. I should say I am finding peace. But I'm not. They want me to say it though. Because no one really knows what to say. I wouldn't either. Saying won't do anything anyway. Listening does, and people who really, truly get it, they give me solace in knowing they don't think I'm crazy. I don't blame anyone who doesn't get it; their life experience is different from mine. There is no blame in that. <br />
<br />
But it does pinch a bit to see that my leave form that was filled out for me while I was gone has been coded with my only 2 personal days and my only 2 business days. Not grievance days or whatever they call it when your child or family member dies. Not family sick days, despite that fact that I have no children and never will be able to use those. Not even kindly coded as personal sick days. Because I was sick with grief. I spent every day at the vet, the doctor for my girl. I was mentally sick, sick at heart, sick to my stomach. Why can't that be recognized? It doesn't matter how many people say, "pets are part of our families", because society doesn't really believe that. Not really. My leave form proves that.<br />
<br />
But I know I'm not supposed to write blog after blog about how much I miss and love my dog. I know that people say she was "just a dog" and that people with children know an entirely different level of love and they cannot see this one as just as valid. I guess I know that, though I haven't experienced it; I've only been told. None of that changes the way it is for me though. None of the shoulds and should-nots keep me from deep-hearted sobbing every time I wake without her, come home to silence, and go to sleep missing her. I am weary of all of this. I just want it to be over. I get to the end of my work day and think, "oh no, not ANOTHER day without her to meet me at the door!" as if it's going to end. As if this will stop and one day she will be there again.<br />
<br />
I can, and have, said all the things that are true, that we had no choice, no regrets, and we did what was best for her. I can distance my heart and just use words to say to people that there was nothing different we could have done and we had to let her go. I am able to say that I might believe her spirit has dissipated into other things in the world, such as us, the cats, the earth... I have said and thought perhaps she is or will be part of the earth that I claim to love so much and so, I should be content if she cannot be with us, then at least she is part of the flowers, the ground, the nature that I love. I could attempt to believe she is fully there in spirit, at my side in all things, but that would be false comfort for me. My brain doesn't work that way. I can't be the hypocrite to my own belief system, or lack thereof. I can't suspend what I normally believe just to comfort myself. I don't believe in doing that. I can't do that even if I wanted to. I believe science though; that energy never disappears; it only changes forms. And I believe her spirit, WHO Tansy was, was a type of energy. But I lack the knowledge, or humans do, of what that energy is capable of. And lacking that, I cannot supply faith in all the made up stories people tell themselves over the generations, to explain and pacify. No can do.<br />
<br />
I believe in love. I loved her. I love her still. I still feel that the sheer force of my will, of my wanting her, should bring her back. I can't think of a time in my life that I've wanted something so badly and not found a way to have it. So my life experience has not prepared me for this finality.<br />
<br />
Finally.<br />
Finality.<br />
Finito.<br />
Finished.<br />
<br />
No.<br />
T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-10844027337244377032011-11-04T17:01:00.000-07:002011-11-08T18:40:07.857-08:00Letter To TansyDear Tansy,<br />
I feel as if my life has died. So much of what made me happy had you entwined all through it. I feel there is no light at the end of the tunnel, and the tunnel is dark and pointless. You were my comfort and my joy. you came with me even to work in my writing models and Good Things. You were why I ran, so many times, and you were a joy to make happy and tired. You were a beautiful ribbon woven into my marriage, and a reason to keep going sometimes when everything else was hard.<br />
I knew every moment with you was precious. I never took you for granted. When I held you, I secretly mourned the day I would lose you, but I had no inkling it would be so soon. I thought I could protect you from everything with good food, exercise, love, vigilance, and the force of my will and my love. I knew whenever you were a little "off" and I could read your every mood and nuance. But I never saw this evil thing coming. It came with no warning and took you away so viciously.<br />
I want to scream and hate someone for doing this to you, to us. I am so ANGRY and sad.<br />
I miss you like a phantom limb, but it was attached to my heart. Where are you? Are you lonely? Do you miss us? I'm so, so sorry, Tansy. I would have done anything to keep you alive and happy. I'm so sorry you had to go, that we had to let you go so that your pain would end.<br />
I love you, my gorgeous, smart, soft, adorable, affectionate girl.<br />
I will love you forever.<br />
Love,<br />
Mama<br />
p.s. please come visit my dreams with your sweet face and soft ears.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-23989804395468602742011-11-04T16:51:00.001-07:002011-11-04T16:51:47.559-07:00I Teach<div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The Kids who will be Successful... </div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">October 31, 2011</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/23/technology/at-waldorf-school-in-silicon-valley-technology-can-wait.html?pagewanted=all</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Please read article in the link above, as well as the link I posted in the prior entry, and then see below.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Dear Parents,</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">As we educators and parents alike are bombarded with technology and pressured to believe our kids will only succeed if they use as much of it as possible in our schools, the reality is quite the opposite. </div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Children who are allowed to BE children, to play, and openly explore materials and environments without structure, are the children of the future. THEY are the next CEOs and inventors because they have learned to question, experiment, adventure, make mistakes, and create. In this article, some of the wealthiest, most educated parents who work IN the computer industry are choosing to send their children to schools where there are NO computers and where children do the thinking for themselves at the level that is developmentally right for them.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Many of you moved to this community BECAUSE of the good school system.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I encourage you to read up on this and to find out what is happening to your child's school system as a result of pressures and legislation from people who have no idea what is best for children and who haven't set foot in a classroom. They need to hear from YOU, from parents and the community. They have already painted teachers as lazy, over-paid, undeserving people. Public schools are under attack, and I don't believe in privatizing schools to make money off of children. They are not a product. Every child doesn't necessarily show their intelligence or aptitude on a standardized test. Teachers can't possibly logically be paid and evaluated based on their students' test scores. Children aren't part of an industry. They don't come off an assembly line and they can't be counted as products sold. Look at how unique YOUR child is!</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Teachers alone are not responsible for a child's success or failure. Developmentally, a child's personality is pretty much set by age 5, before we even get them into our classrooms. If they haven't had their basic needs met at home, they quite literally cannot learn. Their brains physically will not be able to take in and make sense of information. Children need both parents and teachers to educate them. Parents need to partner with schools and find out what is happening out there, and do something about it before it is too late.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">There is a perception of unions protecting "bad" teachers, and a perception that teachers only work from 8:30-3:30. There is a perception that we have summers "off". There is misinformation that is wreaking havoc, RIGHT NOW, in your child's school system, and it's not something the superintendent can control; it's coming from the TOP. The legislators that you and I vote for. In every school, perhaps there is 1 teacher who isn't the best. Maybe. Is that enough to paint the entire profession with tar?</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">We come in on weekends, early mornings, evenings, holidays, and summer days to work to make your child's education the best we can. We pay for our own classes that are required by the state each summer. We have master's degrees in education, child development, reading, writing... we care more than we sometimes should for each child in our room. We take home their troubles with us at night. We worry over the summer. We spend quite literally over a thousand dollars a year of our own money on our classroom and students. And we will continue to do this until it is made impossible to do. Even with all the cuts and all the criticisms, we don't have it in us to work less or care less. We had our rooms ready for that first ice cream social night. You didn't come in to find furniture still put away or piles of books that needed sorting, or any of the other million little things we did to get ready. We were only contractually expected to be there THAT DAY. Most of us were here for the entire month prior. I can speak for myself; I was here from August 1st until the day your child walked in the door. I spent a solid week in July taking a class to further my education. I spent part of the rest of my summer learning a new curriculum. I missed 5 days with my own family, most of whom I see once every 6 years because they live out of state. Their reunion was the week before school started. School came first. Your child came first.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Recently my own parents were listening to me rant about some of the requirements coming down the pipe from the lawmakers. They heard my frustration with the expectations for our students that are simply not right. They watched me spend most of my Saturday on my lesson plans and half of my Sunday beginning report cards. And my dad said to me, "I don't think parents KNOW what's going on. You need to tell them." and so I am. Many of you who volunteer know at least how hard we work. Some of you ARE educators or are related to them, so you know. But on the off chance that anyone wasn't aware? We have some stories to tell you. We need you to fight for your children, for their education and their future.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">We LOVE what we do, and we LOVE your children, but lawmakers are making it hard to do what we know is right for kids. I urge you to get involved, find out what is going on, and make a difference.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-39878741197594112432011-11-04T16:50:00.001-07:002011-11-04T16:50:28.454-07:00Anger Phase<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>867</o:Words> <o:Characters>4945</o:Characters> <o:Company>Rockford Public Schools</o:Company> <o:Lines>41</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>9</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>6072</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">October 23, 2011<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">It has been 3 days since we lost her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been 10 days since she began getting sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been only 5 days since the words, “cancer in her blood” were said to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She filled 4 years of my life with a lifetime of happiness and joy, and the expectation of at least 10 more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">In my misery I recall that any unhappiness we cause ourselves by not accepting what is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, you better fucking believe I’m not accepting this!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How on earth would I accept the abrupt and horribly painful excision of Tansy, whose very name invokes magic and love in my brain, from my life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who the fuck thinks I could ever accept having to decide she’d had enough pain, when she’d never known pain in her life, not for more than a moment or two, and choose to stop her heart and end her life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her life was with ME, goddammit, and she NEEDED me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted nothing more than to be with us, and my day was made complete and happy when I had made HER day complete and happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I am given comfort and platitudes that she will always be with me in memory, in spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even if that is true, even if I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> someday find comfort in her memory, instead of ripping agony, what about HER?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about what SHE is experiencing and what SHE went through?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know, and even if any of the highly unlikely scenarios that people believe in are true, they give me no peace, because I know that Tansy wouldn’t find joy someplace where we are not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as I could not conjure a place that I would prefer to being with those I love here in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even assuming she has the love of some great spirit being, and a swamp to wade in, sticks to chase, a Frisbee to fetch, bones to chew, and cats to love, she doesn’t have US and we don’t have HER and that is WRONG and totally fucked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some horrible warp happened in my universe this week, and it is irreversible, but I feel sure it was a mistake, a clerical error, so to speak, but it is done and it cannot be undone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>SOMEONE fucked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was NOT supposed to happen, I am certain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">I admit my life has been beautifully charmed, and when a person has that kind of life, even with some pain and ups and downs, one begins to have the false impression that it will continue, that one is safe somehow from the poisonous things that happen to other people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not that I believed I’d never lose her, or anyone I love, but it could be put off for some time, and happen naturally, gradually, with sorrow but with a level of acceptance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whoever said that we create our own conflict by non-acceptance is absolutely right, but it doesn’t help one bit right now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">I have had my heart broken 2 other times, and I know this because the feelings match, though this one is current, and so it is much worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is acutely painful NOW, not then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the other two instances were different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first was blissfully resolved and I was so very lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second took a lot of work on my part, and a decision, but I made it through with some scarring but also a lot of growth and deepening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>THIS, though, cannot be resolved because she’s gone and never coming back to me no matter how I rage and sob and cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>THIS I cannot make a decision to work on or fix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t feel that, at this time, I can DECIDE to accept that my Tansy is dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to say that awful word so that acceptance can come sometime, maybe, and maybe I won’t slip into some crazy denial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I already talk to her just as much, if not more, than I did before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">But when I call her, “Come-come Tansy!” I get nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I reach for her, I get nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when I see her in my mind’s eye, waves of hurt sweep through me and I want to disappear.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">That day in the woods, so blissfully unaware, worried for her and knowing she didn’t feel well, but just an infection, just a virus, and they would fix her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might cost us an arm and a leg, but I never considered for a second that it was something much more sinister and impossible to fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was running one moment, and the phone sang, and I breathlessly answered, knowing it was our vet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was confused by my voice, and asked if my mom was there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew he thought I was a child, and for a moment I wanted to say, “I’m Tansy’s mom.” But I just said who I was, and he was so thrown off for a moment of apology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then the words, “Blood test… doesn’t look good… some kind of cancer in her blood…” and I dropped to the ground, mid-path, beneath the pines, cushioned by the pine needle carpet, and I broke in half right then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because don’t we all know that “Cancer” is a death word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We know that it means fighting some invisible, vile, evil thing, and it often wins no matter how much money we throw at researching it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And though in the few short days to come, I had some hope of fighting and actually winning, because my life is so charmed, that hope was very quickly wiped out and replaced with a knowledge of an inevitable end that I felt would kill me as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">That’s the thing, isn’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we lose someone we love like that, we sort of wish we’d died too so we don’t have to be left with the pain of missing them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the words, “lose someone”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like we misplaced her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew where Tansy was like an extension of my own body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still feel her there, like a phantom limb you hear about on amputees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel her attention on me when I cross a room, her ears perked slightly, eyebrows up, mini tail wag of acknowledgement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel her get up and go to the door when it’s “time to go”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel her follow me into the bathroom and ask to have her teeth brushed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can feel her when it’s time for her to come in, and when she wants out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sense of her has not dulled, but when there is no solid reality of my gorgeous dog actually loping at my side, or trotting up onto the deck, or lying at my feet, then my whole world tips on its side and I know again that a terrible error was made.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">I am still waiting for the apology, and for someone to fix it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I have a long way to go to acceptance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">T.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-67746917846170653682011-11-04T16:49:00.000-07:002013-03-25T15:31:08.802-07:00Tansy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJR1Jzlg671dm-b5toEziEtqhyphenhyphenGMvpjlcq_ruPC90TgOAsJZLoNXAcoXrWzGo8CAmQh8P4Aeuz25Q4AwkuIre7JHwUD_RA_ninsfemI4egp9Nw0xcli_zYerl1JZRQGrF-72hyphenhyphenEWe8rmE/s1600/IMG_0895.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJR1Jzlg671dm-b5toEziEtqhyphenhyphenGMvpjlcq_ruPC90TgOAsJZLoNXAcoXrWzGo8CAmQh8P4Aeuz25Q4AwkuIre7JHwUD_RA_ninsfemI4egp9Nw0xcli_zYerl1JZRQGrF-72hyphenhyphenEWe8rmE/s320/IMG_0895.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last night on the back deck, I looked up that that gorgeous sweep of stars, and whispered to the Universe, “I hate you. I hate you for taking away my beautiful girl, my dog who was the love of my life.” And I meant it. The pain is such that I want the same shot that gave her relief before the one that stopped her heart. I don’t need that second shot because my heart is already broken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I look out to where her body lies, and all I can think is how that sweet, sweet girl is curled beneath the earth and I can’t ever hold her or touch that soft fur again. I know that I have memorized, recorded in every sensor, cell and nerve of my hands and brain, the feel of her puppy-soft ears and the space between them, the lovely expanse of her throat as she would lean her head back in ecstasy for us to scratch as long as we were willing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everywhere are deep and unexpected holes, unhealed wounds that I trip into nearly every moment of my day. In the night I wake to use the bathroom, and immediately am aware that I will not be stepping around her bed; I will not hear her jingle her tags on purpose to let my night-blind self know where she is. In the morning, at first consciousness, the pain is there, coursing all through me, knowing she will not be there, rolled happily onto her back, white belly and legs in the air, and I feel as if the horror that took every cell of her is also taking every cell of me, but I know that my horror is grief, and it will not kill me, though at times that feels preferable. I look anyway, and see that in her place, Violet has drawn her little black and white self across the bottom of the bed, stretched on her back, feet in the air. It is both a smile and a pinch. Could a bit of our Tansy be in there with that other little animal spirit? I believe in nothing, so anything is possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where there was a long, pink-tongued yawn, coupled with a belly-crawl up the divide between us, there is nothing, silence and stillness, only blankets. My hands have no smooth, warm tummy to rub and kiss.(She really didn’t like me to kiss her tummy; it make her nervous, but she learned to le me do it anyway because I couldn’t help it.) When I walk by her “places”, there is no welcoming tail thump or golden-eyed glance my way. The noises at the door are not her, and the sounds I imagine to be her thumps or sighs or groans are only my imagination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With the moment of intention to leave the house, my senses expect the trotting click of nails and paws to the door where she would wait to go where we go. And last night with the invitation to join Beth and Tim, I stopped cold at the thought of walking the trail to their house without Tansy, who would know exactly where we were going before we even told her. She would run to the edge of her line, right at the path to their house, and look back at us, asking, “Is my collar off? Can I go safely?” and we would say, “Let’s go, Tansy! “ and she would bound across that line and down the trail, leading the way always.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My tea time this Saturday morning is uninterrupted by polite, soft “woofs” to be let in and out, and less polite “’oofs” and eventually sharp little barks to say, “please throw my Frisbee but first get it from me…”. I would really like to have those interruptions back. I want to see her trot out into the yard in her routine to relieve herself, and then, nose to the ground, follow the little Tansy trail she has made around the house over these few, short years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know that on Monday when I leave for work there will be no sad puppy face and perked ears at the bedroom window, and worse, when I return, there will be no enormous welcome for me the moment I open the door. She will not wiggle her little happy tail and bustled rump to see me, and when I open the sliding door, she will never again sail off of the top step, all four legs in “super dog” position, invisible cape flying, as she sails into the yard after her Frisbee. That Frisbee rests with her now, and we can only hope that her little spirit is playing with it somewhere in the deep snow or grassy shade. We can hope that she is rolled onto her back with her Frisbee folded between her paws as she mouths it happily. She has lost so many Frisbees over the time we have known her, but this one will always be with her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We can’t know, but perhaps she is waiting for us somehow, somewhere, content for the time to wait as she would at street crossings… “Good wait, wait, Tansy.” Followed by a treat. Or maybe she has gone on and we will catch up someday and have a joyous, barking, wiggling, face-kissing reunion. Or possibly she is in the kind of dreamless sleep that the sedative gave her, with no awareness of pain or joy, and in the spring, she will wake to find she is a living part of the entire earth, making soil, feeding flowers, giving life to her little patch. Her life force, the spirit that made her Tansy, could be pieced and parceled between all who loved her, cats included. Again, I believe nothing, so I can believe anything. This is both a bane and a blessing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today is the first day the sun has shone since she got sick. It seems that there has been nothing but clouds, wind, and rain for the last week. I am struggling constantly with the physical factors; I was so attached to her physical self, along with her human-like personality. To let myself know or begin to imagine what is happening to that warm, darling body I held so many times, is absolute horror to me. It is the thing I most try to block out, but can’t always do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is much better, and a different sort of hurt, to conjure her living self while we run. Though the run yesterday, our first since we lost her, was physically painful, and I felt my insides literally marinating in grief, I did bring her with us, and I watched her run, trot, and pace along in front of us, in all of her different gaits. I saw her glance back at us periodically, golden eyes alight with joy to be doing her “work”. I watched her run off to the sides to sniff and check “p-mail”, and then gallop to catch up and again lead the way with her little rump bustle waving back and forth and her caramel-oreo cookie ears flapping in the breeze.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have talked endlessly about her, with words, looks, and silence between us. We know without a doubt, and this is true, that we had no choice; we did right by her to send her on her way, to take the pain away. She never deserved even that week of pain that was hers to bear and ours to witness, and the only choices were to watch her continue in it with the hopes the medicine would eventually help, with the understanding that even if it did, if by some miracle long shot it brought a remission in several weeks, she would then have only mere months before the evil would return and put her through it all over again. Tansy did not deserve that, and Doug said it perfectly that day as we held her and made the decision; he said, “Tahlia, I wouldn’t want that for myself.” And he is right. If I was alive, but not living, if everything that made me happy was taken from me by pain and I knew my future was inevitable and brief, I would beg them to let me go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the end, she hurt so much there were no more tail wags, however faint, and those golden eyes were glassy and miserable. When we held her in our arms and they gave her first the sedative to relieve the pain, she gave a huge and relieving sigh, her whole body relaxing after a week of tightness and hurt. With that sigh, we felt our bodies relax too, and we felt, at least for those moments, near joy that her pain was over. Her sweet face relaxed into her natural sleep look, her black-rimmed eyes softly closed, not slitted open with angst and discomfort. Her sweet paws were gently resting on Doug’s legs, and I could bury my face in her fur and know I wasn’t causing her anymore pain. We knew in minutes we would be in agony, when she would be finally gone, but for that brief time, we celebrated our decision and her relief.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We will never have to look back and question anything. We gave her the absolute best life any dog could have, though the hours spent at work while she was alone were unavoidable regrets, and in her horribly quick last days, we did everything possible to make her comfortable. And our decision at the end was, without a doubt, the only decision we could have made for her. She had ceased living the life she loved, and it would have been cruel to ask her to fight anymore when the chances were so slim and the future inevitably a repeat of this last week. We loved her more than anything and we told her she could go, that she was a good dog and had done her work well. I don’t know if she heard us or knew how much we loved her, because she expected us to keep her pain away, but she knew for 4 years and 5 months how loved she was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T.</span><span style="font-family: Papyrus;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-25714619181621730512011-06-24T05:18:00.001-07:002013-03-25T15:34:19.997-07:00New York Musings<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<span style="font-family: "Handwriting - Dakota";">June 16, 2011<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our trip encompassed both stretches of silent road, straight and winding, through green hills, mountains, and water, as well as the rush of traffic, crush of people, and their colorful lives in New York City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While the City felt like something I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should</i> want to see and do, the wooded Catskills and busy streams felt like being immersed in something that is completely me and yet also more than myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The trip to and through the city wrapped me tightly in binding ropes of anxiety disguised as interesting stimuli, from tall, milky-glassed buildings to flamboyantly gay and abundant men dressed in platform heels and short shorts, their legs muscled and pale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The city offered lovely expanses of bridges, trussed and suspended high above murky but beautiful rivers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We stayed close together, navigating garbage-smells and busy intersections, distracted by so many people who claim that place as their own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many stood out, but not one looked out of place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People who would blend in at home, and those who would be run out of town should they parade their costumes in West Michigan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Preppy couples in stiff, expensive clothing, and hand-holding men in make up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The white, Cadillac, SUV with the poodle hanging out the side window, and the business-types with their suits and phones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could have stared all day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The wall-to-wall shops and restaurants gave way occasionally to bowers of greenery, small escapes from the close air and the heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Private gardens squeezed in between, above, and below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Millions are spent to live in tight quarters in the right location.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People and their dogs are sardines living in relative harmony with blaring horns, voices, artificial scents, and concrete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shops somehow make a living and we ducked into several to find everything from crass to class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am sure my brain expands with each new experience, and the City is endless; I could watch or wander it for years and never lose interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Curiosity isn’t lacking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beauty is abundant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Culture and history weave their way through the one way streets, small parks, and soaring buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could spend every cent I’ve ever made and find anything I’ve ever desired to buy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And oh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people I could meet and stories they could tell!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite all that the City has to offer, I choose the woods and fields, the rivers and lakes, the silent roads and the absence of humanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is where I can breathe again, and the tightly wrapped anxieties let go of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can think more freely and ponder life, using words that just won’t come to me on the sidewalks of Manhattan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything inside of me has more space to Be and I don’t feel obliged to Do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of my senses are engaged and calmed at once by the reaching tree limbs, clear water, climbing boulders, and scurrying but silent creatures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to explore the curving, rock walls through the woods and hear only the calls of birds above my head where the vultures circle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We followed empty roads to busy highways to come home to the buttery yellow and green-gold fields where sandhill cranes warble their hellos to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We came home to the white pines and our own gardens where I can stretch myself out and breathe freely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The City will always be there, building itself higher and deeper, calling millions to its temptations and opportunities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am not one of those millions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I choose earth, however long it may survive humanity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T.</span><span style="font-family: Handwriting - Dakota;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-50863305732364810222011-03-24T16:10:00.001-07:002013-03-25T15:36:20.245-07:00Ice<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The vista before me is defying words, denying a camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each branch, each twig, every small stalk of any kind is sheathed in ice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some lights and angles it is a forest dipped in pure silver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In others, the sheer clarity of the ice is breathtaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sun glimmering off of every slick surface gives no rest to the eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every craving I’ve ever had for glitter and sparkle, every strand of tinsel ever draped; it is indulged a thousand times over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Handwriting - Dakota;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the dark of the pines, the ice has brought down hundreds of small branches, and the scent of pine sap reaches me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Following my trail to the tree farm I stop to gasp at the entrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Large and small branches block my path, and I feel a certain reverence as I duck beneath ice encased trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t help stopping to put a bare hand to the cold tree limb sealed tightly in its beautiful burden. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The tree farm is all that I had hoped for when driving past earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d caught a tantalizing glimpse on my way home and was not disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On one side, each tree was normal, green and bristling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But viewing the other face, like a two-featured mask, they were dripping with decorations one could never purchase at the store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every needle on that side, every pine cone and seed was draped in solid, sparkling crystal drops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought of the phrase, “genuine Swarovski crystal” and laughed out loud in delight, realizing yet again how superior nature is to anything people might create or purchase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that moment, with my whole world spread out and shining, I wouldn’t have traded places with a queen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">T.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-4422392008418053972011-03-20T11:16:00.000-07:002011-03-20T11:57:51.213-07:00Spring Weekend<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Running allows me to see things I've never seen before. Each time I do, I feel a wonder that I've been privileged in this way. I question whether anyone else has noticed and whether I'm the only one who finds these to be small miracles? Just Saturday I ran up a hill of the tree farm. This is the same hill I've encountered dozens of times on foot and on skis. On this Saturday morning it was frosty outside except where the sun had been wandering. Running south, the sun on my left, the Christmas trees on that side cast perfectly cone-shaped shadows, and each shadow was colored in with white frost also in the perfect shape of a cone. In between where there was no tree or shadow, the grass was dry and clean. There was something just so cool about seeing those frost shadows; I've never noticed anything like that before.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On my way home I stopped to let Tansy wallow at the in-between where the lakes meet. While she submerged herself, I turned to look out over the bigger lake and noticed a pair of mallards courting. They hopped up out of the water on to the sheer, thin ice and I waited for it to break. It remained firm and they slipped and slid, waddling on their little, orange webs, across the ice, and I wondered if they wondered why the water was hard. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Later I found that the sun was still beckoning, so Tansy and I went back to the woods, this time just to walk to my Watching Log. Well, walking, sitting, and relaxing was my purpose, but Tansy's was to entertain me by repeatedly whacking the backs of my legs with her muddy stick in an effort to entertain me by letting me throw the stick into the swamp for her. In between tosses, I was able to sit on a dry patch of fairy moss and breathe in the coming spring. The red-wings are back, and the geese that fly over now have a new element to their calls. The ferns haven't yet begun to unfurl, but I can pull away leaves and old ferns to see the tightly curled fiddle-heads-to-be. I saw few bugs, and only one basking snake. I walked out into the swamp as far as i could manage on the old fern hummocks. Just as I intended to make the leap to one at jumping distance, I took a closer look at the branch I intended to grab for balance. It's a good thing I checked because it was entirely bristling with the sort of thorns you'd find on an old fashioned rose bush. I wondered what it was, and began noticing more and more of them. I've never seen them before, and without leaves I couldn't identify it. Do roses grow in swamps? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Tansy paddled toward me with her stick in her mouth, happy eyes glowing above the floating, green duckweed. I hastily retreated, knowing that I'd soon be the recipient of a swampy shake. This is nothing like a Shamrock Shake. I continued my walk along the edge of the swamp, sticking as close to the water as possible without skewering myself on autumn olives or the mysterious thorn bushes. I remember reading that life is found on the edges. The edges where land meets water or the edges where one type of habitat changes to another. These are where I focus. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I notice a tree with a tiny wild rose plant sprouting in the fork of the two main trunks. It amazes me how life finds footholds everywhere we let it. (Not that humans let it hold much!) I am admiringly grateful every year that even after such a long, cold, snowy time, life comes back. Every year it does this. All winter I walk or run in that woods and think, "There will come a day when there are green things here and I will be wearing shorts." and every summer I walk or run in that woods and think, "There will come a time when I am bundled into my warmest clothes and there will be nothing but snow and ice here." Both times are hard to imagine when they are so far away in time and experience.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While lying on the Watching Log, I hear two crows snarking at each other. Perhaps they aren't, really, it's just their tone of voice, but it seems cranky. In a pause of their conversation, I hear the laughing bird, (I don't know who it is), laugh at whatever the crows have been saying. It makes me laugh too, though for all I know, they're talking about me. I don't really have illusions like that though; I have utter respect for that woods. I know it has nothing to do with me and it goes on whether I put words to the page or snap its picture or not. It is impossible to take personally anything that goes on there. It just IS.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This is probably what I love best about how I feel there. It is a place and time that I can also just BE. There is no doing. There is no anxiety or worrying. Just Being. No expectations, no deadlines, no needs. Whether I notice that cool, gnarled piece of tree knot, it will still be there. All that happens around me has nothing to do with me. The red log that I noticed 2 years ago when it began to get softer, spongier, and full of the little lives that help it break down, is now only a fibrous sort of dirt. By the end of summer, there will be no trace of it. This is another wonder. Nature manages itself quite well without us.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I follow a deer trail back out to the human trail. I see where they have come down to drink at the water's edge. I love the smell of the black swamp muck, rich with growth. Soon there will be turtles and tadpoles. I leave with my mind, body, and spirit back in line, readjusted and awakened to what matters. Things are only things, and I too will someday be only a sort of dirt, ready to grow new life.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">T.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-23228103127115429862010-12-04T09:34:00.000-08:002013-03-25T15:37:48.306-07:00My Profile Picture is a Bumper Sticker... pass it on<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<span style="font-family: "Handwriting - Dakota"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This week I noticed everyone is changing their Facebook profile pictures to cartoons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Evidently this is the new popular and fun way to indicate we are against child abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who starts these trends?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lucky thing, because the old ways (bumper stickers and being appropriate to children) were getting boring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And really, we must find a way to let people know we don’t agree with it, because otherwise all of our friends might suspect we abuse children on a regular basis and are fine with others doing so as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do worry that if I don’t change it to an animal cartoon, people might think I’m okay with animal abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or what if no one knows I’m not okay with abusing the planet either?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can I indicate that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Handwriting - Dakota"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Here’s the thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we are truly interested in stopping child abuse, not just making it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">look </i>like we are, then perhaps our efforts could be directed toward actually doing things and voting in ways that support families in our communities, locally, nationally, and globally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we don’t want to just wear the t-shirt or the bumper sticker proclaiming our dislike of child abuse (or any other abuse), why don’t we invest in educating and providing resources for those parents who are most likely to abuse their children?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why don’t we insist to our elected officials that families are a priority?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if we want to use the power of Facebook to do so, I’m sure there is a way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just not convinced that this is it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Handwriting - Dakota"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh, and who sees our profile pictures?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do we have friends who abuse children?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sincerely hope I do not!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if so, is it likely that seeing their friends suddenly change into cartoon characters will modify their behavior toward their children?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m thinking probably not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Handwriting - Dakota"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">If you want to become a cartoon character for fun, then by all means, enjoy yourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They look pretty cute. (Though I think my friends are cuter!) I myself have occasionally turned into a cabbage, a dog, or a flower for no apparent reason other than my own peculiar enjoyment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But let’s not pretend that it’s going to make any difference to any of our personal causes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it’s not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I personally will not be changing to a cartoon character simply because “everyone’s doing it”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopefully people who know me will know I’d prefer they didn’t abuse their children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Handwriting - Dakota"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">T.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-28653757450505241782010-07-13T20:27:00.000-07:002010-07-13T21:02:12.194-07:00Women: Are You Smarter Than My Cat?<span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;">This morning I was out prowling in the garden picking raspberries and filling a bowl with them when I heard Zillah (my cat) meowing at the screen door to be let out with me. Being wedged firmly underneath the bird netting, I decided to ignore her plea and continue with my picking. She continued to escalate past meowing into plaintive cries. I paused again, but recalling the cat door we installed 4 years ago just for her, I went on with my task. The cries became yowls and increased in volume and frequency. I was disgusted and muttered to myself about the ridiculousness of this situation, becoming more entrenched and determined NOT to give in to this ploy of hers to annoy me enough that I would remove myself from the garden and come all the way up to the house to let her out when she could let herself out.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;">That got me thinking about the mindset that allows a person to depend on another person for happiness. Zillah pretends to depend on me to let her in and out sometimes, though we both know she can do it herself. But many women and children (and probably men as well) behave this same way. They spend their time yowling for someone to let them out when they could do it themselves. I used to be one of those women, and before that, at times, one of those children.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;">Women: let's be smarter than my cat. Let's make <em>ourselves</em> happy and not wait for someone else to open the door.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;">T.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-7090437243838434622010-03-30T16:48:00.000-07:002010-04-17T08:23:59.343-07:00Swamp ConcertMarch 30, 2010<br /><br />I should not write incessantly about spring. I do it every year. They say that all writers succumb to springtime and the follies of writing it inspires, and so I, being oppositional, want to prove Them wrong. Perhaps truly gifted writers find and give inspiration on those dullest of February Michigan days when dirty snow piles are all that remain of winter, and grass refuses to consider the color green. I must not be gifted, because I can’t. If I write on those days, it is because something else has inspired me, and usually it is my own fury over the state of society or the idiocy of certain members of my community.<br />But Spring. I can’t help myself. Out There, I feel things that the poets have already used up. Alive, connected, thrilled. It’s a chorus of earth things calling, croaking, trilling, singing, exclaiming. Something even laughed, and while I’d love to think it was laughing at my leaky polka-dot muck boots, I don’t disillusion myself that I rank as anything other than a mild disturbance out there in the swamps. Peepers peeping away like mad. Cranes warbling somewhere nearby. Red-wings trilling and flirting. Cardinals, robins, chickadees all change to their spring dialect. I found fern clumps starting to swell, and a fallen tree that was collapsing last fall is now only soft red, fibrous dirt snuggling down to become new flooring in the woods. Ducks don’t seem to belong somehow, in their colorful, carved looking perfection. The wood duck sits awkwardly in a tree momentarily, trying to balance on those silly feet. I tell it that ducks don’t sit in trees, so it obligingly flaps down and finds its way to the water with a great deal of commotion.<br />Tansy drops her stick and bounds into the swamp to chase a surprised muskrat. Muskrat disappears beneath the water and swims her way through the murky stems while Tansy looks after her in surprise. What kind of cat or squirrel can jump into the water and swim away?<br />I see Deb’s tent is up, blending greyly into the tree trunks. She must be watching the fox den again. I wish I could take a week off from work and do the same, but Tansy would ruin the experience, I am sure. I wonder if the foxes know?<br />Where once we skated, now bugs skate on black water. The ice is gone and duckweed rims the edges. I spy a delightfully lowered tree trunk, curved to form a swing and just skimming the water’s surface. Knowing my boots will be full of water in seconds, I decide it’s worth the wet to find a perch on that curving trunk. Feet wet, but soul is content. I am sitting on the water and the swamp settles into its un-practiced, unharmonious concert again.<br />I am torn between wanting to share it and wanting to keep it to myself. I want to tell you not to miss a moment of it, but I want to own it exclusively. It is mine, and it should be everyone’s. Today it sat in my boots and under my palms. Every sense was engaged, including one that only happens in the spring. The sense to come home and write, to strive to capture what no camera, video, or paintbrush can. It is hearing the birds and frogs, plus seeing the green things, plus feeling the bark under my hands, smelling the black muck on Tansy’s fur, and tasting the wild chives as I walk past a tree festooned with white fairy mushrooms… it equals … This.<br /><br />T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-82499387591014172382010-02-07T16:49:00.000-08:002010-02-07T17:47:25.323-08:00Kindergarten, Merit Pay, and ParentingLast week one of my kindergartners informed me I looked as if I had two black eyes. That means no more purple, sparkly eye shadow for me, I guess. Another precious child stated that I looked pregnant. And I can't count the number of times I've heard, "Mrs. Hoogerland, you forgot to..." to which I want to snarl, "I didn't FORGET... I am not READY yet, and I am in charge, NOT you!" But I don't. I smile sweetly. And to be fair, each morning when we sit in our Morning Meeting circle and share Good Things, there are at least 6 children who look adoringly at me and say, "My good thing is I have the bestest teacher in the whole world!" or something to that effect. I am not completely immune to these sorts of comments, especially when they issue from a red-haired child with a lisp who also cannot say their "r"s. It is no matter that this statement is patently false, or that the owner of this opinion has never had another teacher, and therefore cannot objectively make this judgement. No; I'll take it. <br /><br />I'll take it because it makes the early mornings and late evenings worthwhile. Because it makes the days when I feel NO ONE IS LISTENING TO A WORD I SAY don't really matter after all. I will take those warming Good Things and hold them in my pocket during the trainings, the meetings, the workshops, and the book clubs, where everyone smiles vapidly while high-talking, exclaiming, sharing baby pictures, and pretending they do everything right and that their hair is really that color. <br /><br />I am greedy for the hugs and the smiles from these children, and most of all for the moments when their eyes light up and they "get" it! They know how to read a word or they ask a great question or make a connection or prediction to a story. I love knowing that most of the time, they just want someone to let them know they are understood and heard. How much time we adults waste trying to solve their little problems, when all they need is someone to say, "That must have hurt. I'm sorry that happened." while giving them a squeeze and a sympathetic smile. Then off they go, perfectly fine and ready to face the world again.<br /><br />My biggest challenge has been the Unlikables. There are a few every year. When I go in and make the biggest effort possible to seem to adore these children, to believe in them and pretend I love them, they respond almost instantly. And this? Makes them more likable. It is an important circle to begin, and it is my responsibility. If I fail, then school may always be a trial for these children, and they may fail as well. The Likables will always thrive, because their way is paved by whatever it is that makes the world an easier place for them. It is the Unlikables that need me the most.<br /><br />The Unlikables are explained in many ways. Not enough love at home. Not enough structure at home. No consistency at home. Poor nutrition, hygiene, and exercise at home. Permissive parenting. Authoritarian parenting. Neglect. Not enough physcial, mental, emotional, and social stimulation at home. Too much TV and video games, not enough books and outdoors. Not enough whole grains, fruits, and veggies. Too many hydrogenated oils, sugars, plastic food, and preservatives. No modeling of appropriate behavior or choices. <br /><br />And yet, and yet... we expect these children to grow up and be responsible adults? When does THAT happen, if the above is what they experience at home? Are teachers truly meant to "fix" all of this? Will the threat of "merit pay" make teachers fix these children and therefore fix their test scores? Only if we are also paid to enter our students' homes and make the necessary and permanent changes that are so desperately needed there. <br /><br />Perhaps, just perhaps, it is parents who need merit pay? If parents received merit pay for feeding their children well, making sure they play outside more than they play video games, talking to them, listening to them, reading to them, and understanding them... then I think we just might see test scores rising. Of course, test scores wouldn't show the real benefits, but they might satisfy the complainers. If parents had to be as qualified to have children as we have to be to drive, hunt, fish, teach, and countless other licensed activities, it is likely that our entire society would be much better off. <br /><br />If the only parents were qualified parents, our health costs would be reduced. Our schools would thrive. Our population would not be over-whelming to our natural resources. Our prisons would be few. Our family values would suit both democrats and republicans. Some may speak of "rights" when it comes to something like this. But since when do rights come without responsibilities? Parents get in over their heads before they know it, all because they think they should have children, but they are unprepared for what is required to do this job well. <br /><br />I work my very hardest every single day to not only teach the required reading, writing, math, and science, but to teach children to make eye contact, practice empathy, use their imaginations, think for themselves, and most of all, to question and wonder about the world around them. I get them for less than 9 months, and I expect all of this and more of myself. I cannot change their diets of sugar, hormones, dyes, and preservatives. I cannot affect the time they spend on the couch living listlessly in a virtual world while the real and fascinating world is out there, disappearing before our eyes. I cannot convince their parents that children must have limits, boundaries, and choices all at once. I am incapable of proving to these loving parents that parental love is not friendship, that parents have a crucial job to do, and no, they will not receive merit pay for it, but they will give a gift to their child and the world that is immeasurable. <br /><br />I do not need merit pay. I need to hear from a 5 year old that I am the "bestest teacher in the whole world". but most of all, I need parents to be the "bestest parents in the whole world".<br /><br />T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-24027950703174818392009-12-21T15:05:00.000-08:002009-12-21T15:28:57.957-08:00Four Walls vs. The ElementsToday my husband and dog and I went for a ski in the woods. We chose the "red" trail, which was new to us and a bit challenging in terms of curves and hills. At one point as I stopped to rest on a little, wooden bridge over a dark and cold stream, I just stood and breathed. I could hear the softness of a light snow on the trail, the sounds of Tansy splashing into the creek, and the flutter of wings in the lower branches of nearby bushes and trees. My cheeks were cold and the rest of me beat in time with my heart and was toasty warm. I felt like lying down on that snow-covered bridge and just becoming part of everything around me.<br /><br />The interruption of Doug's cell phone was a text message from his youngest daughter who was "getting to go bowling". Instantly my mind was transported to one of those places and I felt like shuddering the image away. No wonder bowling is an activity I have always abhorred. For me, the dim, smoky, airless room filled with the smell of fried food, cheap beer, and people's socks is one of my worst nightmares. To be trapped without a window or light, beneath ceilings that feel as if they are closing in on me... I pushed the mental image away and let the white light of the woods enter me again, and I knew then that I will not spend a minute of my life in places that make me unhappy unless I am forced to do so. My soul feeds on the movement and stillness of my body through places that have plants, earth, water and air. <br /><br />The older I become and the more often I find myself contrasting places that I love with places I avoid, the more I realize what is essentially me. Even in my own home, during the hours I spend between walls, I choose to have living plants draping over my arm-chair, ivy crawling up my curtain, photographs of Lake Michigan and tree tops, and when there is light to be had, my curtains are flung wide to capture as much as possible. There are no artificial scents to be found, and so my nose can smell the earth of my plants, the coming of snow, and the scent of my own skin, so that I know myself to be non-artificial and whether clean or unclean, I am real. <br /><br />These things which grow and die, and are silent in their purposes, though their purposes are obvious, are where I find myself and my spirit. I am ever more convinced that this is the critical connection for all people, but I can only make this choice for myself, and watch as my loved ones struggle with all that is between four walls.<br />T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-15626103515214678572009-08-31T09:14:00.001-07:002009-08-31T09:18:51.961-07:00Hummingbird and Labor DayI sit on my porch avoiding real work, doing only virtual work, and the hummingbird is back again. Her hum is not the content sweetness of summer, but is somewhat puzzled and bordering on angry. She chirps at me, demanding to know why the feeder is not filled. I tell her that soon it will be Labor Day and therefore, time for her to go. She won't hear of it, and she gestures at the blue sky and sunny yard full of blooms. "Why should I go on your schedule?" she wants to know. <br />Are the rules about wearing white, putting in and taking out docks, and providing hummingbird food hard and fast ones? Do we get any leeway? I think the wearing-white rule is now defunct. The hummingbird would like me to put in a word for her as well. <br />T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-58982531093997935052009-08-30T07:07:00.000-07:002009-08-30T07:35:41.596-07:00A Sunshiny Morning with MushroomsNormally I take pride in being able to find beauty on a gloomy, rainy day. I enjoy going out in my color-splashed rain boots and rhino coat to do things around the yard or take a walk in the dripping woods. Yesterday I went for a run in those woods, with rain loaded leaves drooping into my path. I was able to delight in the mushroom celebration that is going on at this moment in the dark of the woods, but I wasn't able to translate that delight into written words. Some days are just dark, and yesterday was one of them.<br /><br />Today I woke, finally, to the sun and blue sky. I confess, despite my disdain for people's inability to enjoy anything but "sunny and 70", there are times when it is all I long for. This moment, with sun shining through my filthy windows and polishing up my dark hair, warming my arms, I am miles happier than I was yesterday or the many rainy days prior.<br /><br />Now I am able to bring the mushrooms into the sun. They don't like it, which is why they are all out there joyously (for mushrooms) mucking about in the black wetness of the undisturbed woods. I have never in my life seen so many nor such a variety. For all that I know about my local nature, I know next to nothing about mushrooms. It is good for my brain to wonder about new things.<br /><br />Along and sometimes in the path are fungi literally springing to life before my eyes. Wet, black dirt one moment, and at the next glance, tiny, electric yellow caps, elongated and surely poisonous. Further on my way I am halted by the appearance of a literal forest of what seem to be sea coral sponges! Pale, yellow-ish orange, with all the intricacies of coral, and they carpet the forest floor in multitudes. Most common are the flat mushrooms, capping the ends of longish stems, and with varying degrees of white and cream, they often have what appear to be bites out of them. I imagine some small elf trotting along munching one bite out of each mushroom, as we might out of a box of chocolates. To my hungry imagination, the next batch looks temptingly like large, whole wheat pancakes. I run by with syrup in mind. Sprinkled throughout the woods are startlingly beautiful red fungi, with curled lips and thick bases. They are the red of fall; the deepest red of maples and dusky apples. The most obviously poisonous, (though they may not be, for all I know), are what I think of as toadstools. They conjure what Disney mimics in its rendition of movies like Alice in Wonderland. Egg-yolk yellow with bumps and spots all over, perfectly shaped little umbrellas. I am without a doubt that fairy-folk dance 'round these each night while I sleep. <br /><br />Later I will take my camera into the woods and try for a mushroom photo gallery. I suspect they will hide from me then, not wishing to be exposed to the world in the midst of their fungus revelry. I shall have to be very sneaky.<br /><br />T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-81655418219991965472009-08-28T06:09:00.000-07:002009-08-28T06:58:02.123-07:00Not Ready to Make Nice"When fifty million people say a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing."<br />-Anatole France<br /><br />I guess I'm not going to be very good at blogging beautiful, positive thoughts. When I am stirred up and hurt or furious, that is when I want to write, unless it is springtime and then I can wax poetic about nature. Right now I'm still smarting from only one small sting on top of many others built up over 8 years.<br /><br />It seems that the characters we love best in books and movies are characters who are unique individuals with a dream to realize and a fight to win. "Dreams" and "fighting" translate into reality somtimes in ways that aren't appreciated. Here in the false safety of my adopted hometown, these sorts of characters are not beloved. They are, at best, ignored, and at worst, persecuted. A dream, or a fight, after all, has to be realized through effort. One would think effort against the odds might sometimes triumph, but in the face of odds, people would rather swim with the tide and stay in their little school of identical fish. Phrases like, "pick your battles" and "its not worth the hassle or the fight" seem to mean something else to me. They feel defeatist. I want to say, "When IS it worth the fight? Which battles am I allowed to pick? If it means enough to me, but not to the majority, does that mean I should give in gracefully and bleat along with the other sheep? Why don't I get to decide what I want to fight for? Teamwork and cohesiveness has its place, but not when my core passions and beliefs are the payment." People don't want to fight for anything these days, at least around here. Because it might upset someone. It might make someone uncomfortable. Worst of all, something might <em>change</em>! (Gasp!)<br /><br />Wondering if I'll ever get around to the point? What's got Tahlia all fired up <em>this</em> time? Let's start at basic needs. Yep; Maslow's Hierarchy. Food. Safety. Build on these, and you get to do the things that look good on paper, the testing and the pretty crafts that show what we've learned. Wait though! We don't quite have those basic needs met here. Not just any food will do! If those little bodies aren't getting what they need, how can we be sure that the bricks of learning that we pile on throughout the day, the month, the year are not going to slide right off with no foundation beneath? Yes, I'm talking about food... eating... nutrition. Let's pay attention to it for a moment. It underlies everything in our day and our lives. but we ignore it and abuse it, ourselves, and our children. We wouldn't think of injecting our children with cancer cells, but we feed them, in great quantities, the very substances that could well be contributing to cancer, as well as attention and learning problems, among others. Even if the proof that is out there isn't enough for you, what about common sense? Does it make sense to put genetically altered and man-made chemicals into our children's bodies on a daily basis through foods, drinks, and body products? There ARE options. Nature is here, and no matter what you believe about how it got here or what its purpose is in our lives, it just makes SENSE to only use what we know we can trust. <br /><br />I'm really getting off topic here. It is easier for them to do what has always been done, to feed children high fructose corn syrup, sugar, and hydrogenated oils that come in a nice little package called "Graham Crackers" with no preparation necessary. Don't dare question this, and don't look for alternatives. I am expected to convince parents of something I not only don't believe in, but I vehemently oppose? How can I do that? Would you of faith be comfortable denying your most deeply held beliefs in the name of what is easy and consistent? I think not. <br /><br />Maslow's Hierarchy. I mentioned safety too. Safety comes in learning about ourselves, our history, our human weaknesses and mistakes. It comes with learning about bullying- how to manage as targets and bystanders. I think it's all linked to acceptance and tolerance. It's linked to protecting our planet from ourselves, the biggest bullies of all. But we spend weeks educating our children about Valentines, apples, and pumpkins, and only one day on Martin Luther King, and <em>none</em> on Earth Day or Arbor Day. I tried a year ago to implement an anti-bullying lunch club, but it was not supported. I spent 3 years working with our district diversity committee to create a cross cultural curriculum that fit beautifully into our present curriculum. Now the district can claim it has this in place... except it's sitting somewhere unused and unwanted.<br /><br />By all means, let us keep things easy and comfortable. Let's ignore what we know is right because it's too difficult. Let's all look the same, dress the same, worship the same, and act the same. Be sweet, nice, and non-confrontational and you will have many friends. They won't know you and you won't really know them, but you can collect them on Facebook and invite them to parties.<br /><br />Be careful, Tahlia, don't alienate anyone. Don't ruffle any feathers. Don't let them see how much you care. Be diplomatic; agree with everyone; smile and look pretty. It matters more that we are all in line doing the wrong thing, than to have a few people out of line, doing the right thing.<br /><br />T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-29029495231832383992009-08-20T06:47:00.000-07:002009-08-20T07:22:25.630-07:00Rainy Day Tides and RamblingsIt's raining this morning. A steady, heavy, stay-inside sort of rain. As if I wasn't unmotivated enough. In the ebb and flow, up and down of my time, this is a low and an ebb. I dislike these times, though perhaps I should learn to embrace them along with the ups and the flows. <br /><br />I try to analyze the sources of my discontent. So many things from which to choose, yet a week or two ago, there were as many joys and delights as there are now frets and anxieties. What were they? The sun was out. My husband still had summer left to spend with me. No family tensions had made an appearance, and I was able to put my issues with our neighbor in their proper place, which is to say, not giving him or his ego the time of day, spending no power, time, or gifts on him. <br /><br />This week I am both overwhelmed and undermotivated. Bad combination. I need to run and no one will make me. My classroom needs work and I have a new curriculum to learn, but I would rather read my book and drink tea. Friends are coming to camp tomorrow and I have made no preparations whatsoever for this event. <br /><br />Tansy has been throwing up every other day or so, repeatedly. Our new fridge is making sounds like a dying cow. We have to hire a lawyer to deal with our unreasonable and freakishly property-obsessed neighbor. Our house is filthy and full of pet hair in all of the corners. Laundry needs doing, though I would just as soon wear the same thing every day, my recently tie-dyed pants and my Brian Vander Ark t-shirt. Certain friends lives seem to be changing, or they are changing, or maybe <em>I</em> am changing... these shifts always frighten me. We owe an outrageous sum of money due to a 2 year accident on our tax forms. There is a pair of $300 boots that want me to take them home this fall... <br /><br />So make an effort! Look on the bright side! Think positively! Count your blessings! ... right. So, the bright side is... these conditions are not permanent. And thinking positively and counting my blessings? At least I <em>have</em> a new fridge when my other broke. I have friends who want to come hang out and camp with me. I have a wonderful, albeit filthy, home. The pet hair is a price I pay for the priceless love of my furry friends. My clothes that need washing are cute and plentiful. We may owe money, but we have jobs. My neighbor provides me with constant testing of my patience and my ability to find serenity despite conflict. I CAN run, though I don't feel like it. My legs operate well. My new classroom and curriculum means that I was able to remove myself from an untenable situation. And at least I have a husband worth missing when he's gone. <br /><br />There.<br />It's still raining.<br />T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-79138990303277443682009-08-03T17:08:00.000-07:002009-08-09T17:57:44.210-07:00Letter to Barbara Kingsolver<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAty1LBUeee6jpAqJTSThgFu5DXKAeoAmdDMQ4HOTqSaB_h4qGqV8Ds6HwrPLeHqYVC55XNzg2ILZVJ-wLCn-PMXSEwlcKIeq0eHob9NoHX_4z9d2HYq9cd7tUhfgFvoqoDmMqav85w10/s1600-h/DSC03569.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368132675068255538" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAty1LBUeee6jpAqJTSThgFu5DXKAeoAmdDMQ4HOTqSaB_h4qGqV8Ds6HwrPLeHqYVC55XNzg2ILZVJ-wLCn-PMXSEwlcKIeq0eHob9NoHX_4z9d2HYq9cd7tUhfgFvoqoDmMqav85w10/s200/DSC03569.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_mZ5NQdVRPIPy0pfo239HJmonzUNaHr96vmOcQBXMHjg5maDHWkTv64Lx7XFkT19yLZojUrOJh2aSDtNjyS40TIM1LD2DXbgGFssugNv_hWPPdMvJMsHXGYKWFmyuGXwXqZ0IbIoEbA/s1600-h/DSC03567.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368132092574079442" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_mZ5NQdVRPIPy0pfo239HJmonzUNaHr96vmOcQBXMHjg5maDHWkTv64Lx7XFkT19yLZojUrOJh2aSDtNjyS40TIM1LD2DXbgGFssugNv_hWPPdMvJMsHXGYKWFmyuGXwXqZ0IbIoEbA/s320/DSC03567.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">Dear Barbara Kingsolver,</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">It didn't quite take a growing season, but I finally finished your book that I've been meaning to read for some time now, <u>Animal, Vegetable, Miracle</u>. I read many books, and this summer I would estimate I've already read about 15 of them, but only yours has made the impact of a lifetime. Only yours bears page after page of underlining, exclamation points, and comments. Only yours required my patient husband, friends, and parents to have to drop whatever they were doing and listen to me read aloud to them, page after page. I do not want to loan out my copy; I want everyone I love to OWN it themselves!</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Typically, I fly through books, devouring them in huge bites, hungry for the story, the nurturing they provide, and the next book after that. (usually while overeating and dripping olive oil and getting green smudges on my book pages). Your beautiful and original writing does not normally slow me down... but THIS book... aaah. I savored it in small bites, and as I read, I found green tendrils curling upwards inside of me, blossoming, and bearing fruit that I hope will last for the rest of my life. I felt the seasons move through me, bringing to life memories of my childhood in a garden and at the table of two people who believed in Good Food. I smelled and felt the dirt that held our vegetables until they were picked by our bare hands. The scent of tomato plants, the zucchini overflow, the fresh asparagus- it was all as familiar as could be. So why would your book be such a fresh wonder to me?</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I don't think I recognized my relationship with food before in quite the same way. Oddly enough, as I began your book, I was struggling with some eating issues. I was using food to nurture myself when I really needed other kinds of self-reinforcement. Between your book and a great therapist, I am changing my nurturing habits, but falling more in love than ever with the food I was so lucky enough to have been brought up on. </span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I can't thank my parents enough for having the background, the sense, and the belief system that resulted in my love of sweet, purple beets, garlic-sauteed zucchini, steamed buttery yellow squash, warm sweet juicy tomatoes, fresh whole wheat, home-made bread, and lumpy carrots, pulled straight from the earth, wiped on my Osh-Kosh B'Gosh overalls and munched right there in the garden. I never questioned how we ate, or what we ate, with the exception of what we <em>didn't</em> eat, when I noticed other kids' lunches. (You couldn't pay me to eat a Twinkie, now!) We had our own chickens, and the eggs had deep yellow yolks with a taste unheard of from any grocery store egg since. I had zero appreciation for it then; it was just the Way Food Was. Now, as I look around me at my peers, I realize I am saved in ways they may never be. I have, running through my blood, the greens, purples, reds, oranges, and yellows of plants that grew only yards from my front door. I have an advantage that was not my doing, but for which I am thankful nonetheless. Without even consciously realizing it, I've always known what foods were "in season" and what could have grown here in Michigan. But that is where my knowledge and instinct of my childhood left off, and your book filled in the missing pieces.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I knew, vaguely, that CAFOs were out there, that they were cruel and unhealthy for both the livestock and the public who eats them. But I have my eyes wide open now, and there is no going back, no compromising for any reason from here on out. I was reassured by your information on humans needing meat, but not meat that was inhumanely raised to be completely, and utterly unnatural. I don't want to eat an animal that suffered, ate food that hurt it, and was given antibiotics to fight diseases caused by the inhumanity in the first place. I don't want to put into my body any hormones that are not mine. My own are trouble enough, thank you!</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I knew that buying local produce was healthy, but I never thought of the fuels consumed to get non-local foods here in the store in their little, plastic packages. It was not a mystery to me that high fructose corn syrup was in nearly everything, but until I started really perusing the ingredients lists, did I realize how very pervasive it is, and how many ingredients I cannot pronounce, identify, or find reason to have in my body.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">In the week after beginning your book, we planned our next year's veggie garden (this year didn't yield much), bought a modest freezer, stocked up at the local farmer's market (asking questions about where and how food was raised), purchased cage free and un-injected meats from local farms at a local butcher, and cooked and froze things to fill our freezer for winter. </span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I looked up from your chapter on zucchini the other day to see a cookbook from a food-conscious friend on my bookshelf. I'd not really seen this book for the treasure that it is. I pulled it off of the shelf and opened it up. Inside, it was separated into sections for early season, mid season, late season, extended season, and planning season (winter). Seasonal, local vegetables filled the pages, with storage, handling, and recipes following each. Typically cookbooks intimidate me with all of their ingredients that I don't have or wouldn't buy. This cookbook, <u>Farmer John's Cookbook, The Real Dirt on Vegetables, Seasonal Recipes and Stories from a Community Supported Farm</u>, included recipes that made sense to me for the first time. And of <em>course</em> they did! They included only the ingredients I'd grown up knowing and having in each season without even realizing it. The book supported your book 100%, including many of the same resources, such as Slow Food.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I haven't, and probably won't, follow exactly in my parents' path. I do not see a rototiller in my near future, nor the sizable garden they labored over each summer. We will not raise our own chickens, (at least until we retire) and we will choose to buy some pastas, cereals, beer, and the occasional artichoke or avocado at the supermarket. But we will commit to the farmer's market, to questioning our local stores, restaurants, and schools about their food, and we will be <em>awake</em> when we shop! </span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">I am part-time step-mother to three girls brought up on boxed food, refined sugar, and the "have it NOW" mentality. So far, I have coaxed them to eat the occasional green bean, pea, cucumber, lettuce, and even a bag of frozen edamame. They observe with deep suspicion and great interest as I rinse, chop, and saute vegetables they've never seen or heard of. They peer warily into my pans on the stovetop and I encourage them to sniff the cilantro, basil, unprocessed, hard cheese, and crushed garlic. These separate ingredients are mysterious to them, and not at all tempting... yet. They survive largely on macaroni & cheese, hot dogs, pop tarts, candy, and Lunchables in their own home. But here, I can only hope that each time they enter my kitchen and sniff the garlic, tomato, and cheese scented air, or each year that they see me triumphantly pull a cucumber from its vine in our garden and emerge disheveled, happy, and stained from beneath the raspberry bushes, I hope that they will feel the urge to just try it... again and again.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Though you may well be the 74th most dangerous person in America, you have enriched my life and put wind back into the sails of my childhood, reaffirming the debt of gratitude I owe my parents for feeding me well. </span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Thank you, from the bottom of my garden, where the fireflies and fairies gather in abundance, the cabbages swell greenly, and the raspberries fall directly into my open mouth.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">T.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-22682508451719574342009-07-30T08:18:00.000-07:002009-07-30T08:35:14.152-07:00Professional ParentsIt occurred to me this week, via some frustrations within my own family, that parenting is often done by the seat of our pants and off the tops of our heads. If we have good instincts and were well brought up ourselves, this can be effective. However, as I compare parenting to teaching, something puzzles me. As a teacher, (or any professional), we have objectives; we work hard to meet them. We don't go about it haphazardly, hoping for the best ending, but we make a Plan, or many Plans, often with a colleague to back us up or lead the way. We study and learn what is research-based best practice. We wouldn't dream of slacking off for more than one bad day here and there, and we truly give it our best effort most days. We go about our jobs with deliberation and care, for the most part, and often use up our emotional energy in doing so.<br /><br />What I'm puzzling over, as I observe parents in the grocery store, in the news, around the school, at the mall, in the library, or in my own home, is why we don't apply ourselves similarly to our far more important job as Parents? We are we even allowed to <em>be</em> parents without some kind of a test to pass or a license to dole out consequences, pile on the encouragement, and give our children the tools to go out into that big world? I'm sure you've all seen the parents who make you wonder that. And on some days, we ARE those parents... after all, no one is perfect and dealing with our own kids is quite different than anything else that we do. But I can't help thinking, shouldn't we have a Plan? Shouldn't we have planning sessions weekly with our back-up, our leader, or our partners in parenting? Shouldn't every parent belong to some kind of a support group where we can regularly learn research-based best practice in how to cope with our kids? After all, we cannot assume, and most of us do not, that the way WE were parented is what we intend for our own children. In fact, more often than not, we go into parenting with all kinds of determination to do it differently, and we seek therapy to figure out how our own parents impacted us. Otherwise, we do it all over again, whatever it was. Of course, this does not apply to everyone, but it certainly seems to be the norm.<br /><br />But we love our children, right? I love my job too. Unfortunately, love is NOT all that it takes. It is NOT enough. I can't just love teaching in order to be a good teacher. I can't just love kids and depend on that to shape them, teach them, and support them. What about knowledge and deliberation to do it well, if we're going to do it? It's hard work; there is no doubt about that. But the information is out there, and ignorance of what is best for our kids is not going to save them or excuse them when they are grown.<br />T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-62149242160076785512009-06-23T09:30:00.000-07:002009-06-23T09:59:20.401-07:00Possibly Random Thoughts from 5 a.m.I read something recently that struck me and stuck with me, at least, for the last 2 days or so. It wasn't anything original or that I probably haven't heard before. <br />It was something like this, "Look at everything as if you were seeing it for the first time or the last time."<br />I guess that goes along with "live each day as if it were your last", but that absolutely does NOT work for me. After all, if it were my last day, my husband wouldn't be golfing and I wouldn't be sitting on my porch alternating between reading, facebooking, and eating cherries. Not that this isn't a perfectly nice day, but I think I'd behave quite differently. And each day can't be lived as if it were my last, because I'd never go to work, I'd tell off certain people, and I'd spend all of my money and then have none for the next last day... anyway, it doesn't hold up in court.<br />But <em>looking</em> at things as if I'd just seen them for the first time, or am seeing them for the last time, that is something I can make use of.<br />Running yesterday through the hot, mosquitoey woods, I looked more carefully at the green, veined, sun-dappled leaves above me. I actually smiled at them. Watching my husband putting plants back on the deck yesterday after waterproofing it, I looked at him in this new way, and being unsure whether he was more tempting to me the first time I saw him, or if it were the last, I still found myself giving him a rare kiss and smile that is usually reserved for less ordinary moments than that one. And it made him happy. This morning I am being guarded by a barn swallow which sits above me on the hummingbird feeder whistling softly to its mate as they take turns feeding the babies. It is a joy and a wonder to me to see this small, wild thing trusting me so close. I see it every day, and every day it is amazing to me.<br />At 5 in the morning I had so many thoughts and ideas tumbling about and even flowing nicely and I knew I should get up and write, but when sleep is elusive, I chase it doggedly rather than let it go.<br />I remember appreciating the feel of our sheets and the smell of the cool, summer air through the open window. <br />It is probable that I will not hold onto this new perspective; it's not my nature to be so dreamily and simplistically pleased. But if I can do it even once a day, that would be satisfying. I am certain to return to my sarcasm, anxiety, endless worrying, and general angst that I can't fix everything and everyone.<br />Which reminds me of an epiphany I had in the 5 o'clock hour. I am aware that my friends and foe alike probably think I am "too opinionated" or that I want them to change and be like me, using natural products, recycling, turning off unnecessary electric items, spending more time in nature, turning off the tv and videos, reading intelligent books, exercising, freeing themselves from the guilt and control of organized religion, eating healthy... all the activites and labels that I've had applied to me, whether I actually am a poster child or not for this lifestyle. Here is what I think. I DO want people to experience these things. Everyone, not just people I love. But it's definitely NOT out of a need for control or a lack of appreciation or respect for who they already choose to be. It's because I have always found that the joys in my life are multiplied when I can share them with others. I am not a loner; I am not content with just enjoying something by myself. Rarely can I just experience a beautiful full moon, or a fabulous wild animal encounter, or even a good meal, without looking about for someone with whom I can share it. My own experiences do not seem to have the merit they deserve without a witness, and are best when said witness can also enjoy them. I want everyone else to experience what I have so, quite simply, they will be happier than they are. There is a quote in my friendship book that says something like, "To have the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with." That's why I probably seem to "push" my experiences on others, though I have never viewed it that way. I have never encountered a friend and wished her to be different than she is, or not loved her for who she is entirely. There is no disapproval, only the wish to share the gifts I have been given with others.<br />Could this could be compared to people who have experienced spiritual joy and want to share it? But then, I DO feel it pushed on me, and I dig in my heels most emphatically and turn away. Those I respect most for their need to share their joy are the ones who just live it, or try to, without talking about it all the time.<br />Perhaps I need to take a lesson from this, and just live my joys and hope that someone will want to share them with me.<br />T.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3035469566037822005.post-52211077033206290542009-06-06T16:59:00.000-07:002009-08-09T18:02:05.268-07:00Use it While You've Got It<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLg57iXNGxbpp0rKtfYG2mzbzLC3ioEyH8cUmhZXYujjNpSKAVTentYwWDQDW51w60_s12tBsPc0N85aT5JGCcXw7v7UKiLAeYby4nUtQlfF2CJDlpklNJpG7YkCb05E1gsetHIs6Qv_c/s1600-h/Ashely+wetland.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368134093637310882" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLg57iXNGxbpp0rKtfYG2mzbzLC3ioEyH8cUmhZXYujjNpSKAVTentYwWDQDW51w60_s12tBsPc0N85aT5JGCcXw7v7UKiLAeYby4nUtQlfF2CJDlpklNJpG7YkCb05E1gsetHIs6Qv_c/s200/Ashely+wetland.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I could rant about video games and how very much I despise their existence at any given time. I can quote all kinds of statistics and research, and I can point to the evils of how it affects children so detrimentally. I don't really have anything new to add to that, but today I saw something that made part of my thoughts on this topic explode with frustration all over again.<br /><br />We were at a backyard concert on a beautiful, sunny, 65-70 degree June day. There was a plethora of kids available, and a climber, swing set, and foam thingies with which many boys were busily whacking each other, which is What Boys Do. Better yet, in my opinion, there was an inviting green hill, away from the boring grown ups, but still in safe sight. The hill had tempting trees all around and nearby it, and the mystery of what was on the other side of the hill as well. There was an enormous and beautiful evergreen tree, which just begged to be inspected, and the entire front yard which was also a grown up free zone. I heard tell there was a lake nearby as well.<br /><br />As I stood up to stretch my sore, cramped, out of shape legs, and shake out my joints which cannot be in one position for too long, I turned around and my How Things Should Be temper flared. Sitting, or rather, growing, in two camp chairs, were two young boys. Their bodies were folded forward and their eyes were glued to the cute, portable, plastic video games in their hands. The only moving parts were their fingertips and possibly they blinked. I was outraged. I wanted to hunt down their parents and lecture them. I wanted to march up there and take those damn games and chuck them in the lake.<br /><br />I wanted to shout, "WAKE UP BECAUSE YOU ARE MISSING YOUR CHILDHOOD!!!! Your body can still move and jump and run and heal with ease and beauty! Get your ass out of those chairs and go PLAY! Make trouble, climb a tree, have a sword fight with dangerous sticks and get your ankles scratched and mosquito bitten! Go breathe deeply from running hard, and just WONDER what is over that hill! Notice that the sky is clouding up and that the air is changing. Know the difference between the different birds and bugs that fly by you. You have who-knows-how-much of your life left and you are spending this precious time in a virtual world that means nothing and will not benefit you emotionally, socially, or academically. You will be old someday and all you WILL be able to move are your fingertips and your eyeballs! Use your legs and arms and muscles while you can! Go tame Nature or let it tame you. Or at the very least, TALK to each other! Giggle and laugh and find out what other people are doing or thinking. BE a child."<br /><br />But I settled for staring and making one or two disgusted comments, which probably earned me some more "negative hateful" reputational perspectives.<br /><br />Now, I have to get my ass out of this chair and my eyes and fingertips away from this computer, and go talk to my husband and watch my bird feeder.<br /><br />T.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2