Posted in A Day In the Life

A Kayak, A Birthday and Women Friends

I try to stay on a schedule and post a new blog every Thursday or Friday. But this week, I feel like a little kid about to be let out of school. I’m having trouble finding my focus and doing my work. Part of it is that yesterday was my birthday, and I had a really fun day, replete with tons of good wishes from friends and family. And today, I have a little birthday celebration with four women that I’ve come to know since moving to Texas. It’s not a Zoom event, either. We’re going kayaking. Masks on until we get into our boats and then masks off. Glorious connection under the sun and on the water, seeing a group of faces that mean a lot to me – I haven’t been in a group for over a year. I’m going to have some fun today and the greatest part of that is that it’s shared fun.

But these are just my personal reasons for a giddiness that tugs at me to leave my desk and go play. The whole country is experiencing a kind of excitement and awakening about the new possibilities before us: eating in restaurants again, going to a library, shopping live and in person in someplace other than just a grocery store. I guess that there are those who never gave up those kinds of things during the pandemic, but I was cautious. Like grandparents and grandkids separated for the sake of safety, I acknowledged that the virus wasn’t kind to older people, and adhered to the recommended health and safety practices. Being apart from the people that I love has often felt like a dark deprivation.

So today is an exciting day. I get to be with friends. And, yes, I know we have to still be careful. Yes, wear that mask when you go out. Continue to social distance. Don’t celebrate in the end zone just yet. Still, even six months ago, I wouldn’t have thought I could celebrate my birthday with a group of friends without much risk or worry. My small group have all had the vaccine and that fact is liberating.

Spring marks the slow opening of blossoms, and I think that we are all feeling an opening, an unfolding to reconnect with people, and with the world. What that tells me is that innate in us is a desire to be with others, to share our lives, our thoughts, dreams and hearts. It tells me that what is essential and truly important has to do with the celebration of life and love.

The past year has been fraught with loss. I lost a friend to COVID early on. Another has become a long hauler, still struggling with the virus’s cruel effects. I feel the deep rumble of mourning in a nation that has endured hundreds of thousands of deaths. It’s an odd and welcome juxtaposition that with such loss comes new beginnings. A metaphorical spring begins to emerge, revealing hope. Will we use the reflections caused by the pandemic to more cherish those around us? Will we realize that life can turn on a dime in the most unexpected ways? Will we let love lead us?

I’m grateful and giddy to be meeting up with friends today. I’ve missed being in a circle of women. So, off to the kayaks I go with a thankful heart and the inspiration that I always get from women, that at the end of the day, it’s all about the collective sharing of love and goodwill.

Posted in A Day In the Life

Way Past Normal

Have you noticed that there’s a lot of talk about things returning to normal? What do we think normal is now? A major world event has touched all of us, and we will move forward with that event informing our lives, for the rest of our lives. But normal? I’m not convinced that normal is what we’re after.

There were lots scenarios in that “normal” past that don’t make a lot of sense right now. For instance, I’m not sure how wise it ever was to hang out with thousands of strangers at a concert. Or if being in a dark and crowded bar where people have to scream in order to be heard – was that ever really a good idea? Life is full of pathogens, germs, viruses, so crowding together isn’t all that appealing anymore.

Or how about traffic? Not everyone needs to go to an office. When everyone does, there’s a lot of traffic to contend with and commuting for a couple of hours each day takes a toll. Our past “normal” often dictated that we spent less time with our family and the dog. The dog didn’t like this very much, and neither did the family. I don’t think being stuck in traffic is a “normal”that we want to return to. If a percentage of people worked from home, the traffic could get better for everyone.

This past year has produced some gifts amid the strangeness that we all endured. Some of those gifts are far from the old “normal,” and some are worth taking into the future.

For instance. I think everybody should be able to live in comfortable yoga clothes. When the pandemic started, the only place that I had to go was the grocery store, but I still had to get up everyday, shower and get dressed. I got into this thing of wearing jewelry with my leggings. Pearls and Pilates, anyone? Further, on a daily basis, I learned to adhere to “Hey it’s after 5:00pm and you don’t have anywhere to go anyway, so you might as well put on your pajamas.” Moral of the story – let’s move forward in more comfortable clothes.

Walking the dog. All of the dogs in my neighborhood have done well during the pandemic. They’ve encourage us to get outside and move. I now know all the dogs names in my neighborhood. I’m still working on learning the human names. As we move forward, I hope that we’ll all walk more.

Zoom family calls. I voting that this little gift will stay around. There’s something sweet and reassuring about seeing my scattered-to-the-winds family in one tidy place, each of us in our own little square, chatting. And it really isn’t about what we say to each other, it’s just the feeling tone of our tribe coming together. It makes my heart feel good.

Like a lot of people, in the first months of the pandemic, I organized my closets and my drawers. That action showed me that I don’t need half the stuff that I thought I did and hopefully I’ll keep that attitude close by.

And masks . . . how the hell that ever became a political hot potato, I will ever know. I learned two things about masks. One, is that there are a lot of really fun masks out there. My favorites are the dog and cat masks. I’m not ditching my mask. First off, I’ll wear it two weeks after my vaccine and I will probably continue to wear it to the grocery store for a long while. I will probably want to wear my fun masks during flu season. There really was no flu season this past year and it’s because everyone was masked up. In fact, I like my cat mask so much, I’m thinking of getting a pair of ears and a tail to go with.

And finally, the pandemic made me dig out all my arts and craft supplies. Because after you clean out your closets, what’s next? I’ve enjoyed coloring, drawing and collage. Hubby and I both read Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way and became loyal fans of the morning pages.

Not everything about the pandemic was horrible, even though it certainly had its horror. I lost a friend and I mourn him. Another friend deals with long-term symptoms from COVID. I’m not afraid or ashamed to cry when I think of how many lost so much. But I hold onto the good, too: families hanging out on Zoom, quiet time with art supplies, writing (I finished a manuscript during COVID), delivered groceries and the unabashed wearing of a necklace and earrings with my yoga gear. Life is good. The gifts are many. We’re not out of the woods yet, but we are moving in the right direction to something new, beyond the old “normal.”

What gift did you get from this crazy past year that you’ll take with you into our brave, new future? Please share.

Posted in A Day In the Life

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

For the longest time, I thought that my husband and I were the worst dinner guest in the world. When kind and unsuspecting people invite us into their home to have dinner, I feel an impending sense of dread. In my most trying-to-please tones, I attempt to explain myself to the potential hostess.

ME: Thanks, but we have a lot of dietary restrictions.

HOSTESS: Well that’s certainly not a problem.

ME: We don’t eat wheat, corn, oats, or soy. Oh, and no dairy. Neither of us eat any dairy.”

Now I’m off an running. My brain is screaming STOP – DON’T DO IT, but the editor between my brain and mouth is on a break, so I forge ahead.

ME: Garlic. We don’t eat garlic. And what kind of oil do you use? We try to eat only good fats, so that means avocado or olive oil only. No soy or canola. And also salt. My husband can’t have too much of it. It raises his blood pressure.

I tell her about my digestion, the kind of pain that I get in my body if I eat the aforementioned foods. As the hostesses’ eyes glaze over, I can see that she is searching for the nearest emergency exit. I try to lighten the moment.

ME: I found these wonderful tortillas that are made of almond flour, but not the ones that contain cassava, because I don’t do well with cassava.

The worst dinner guests. She looks at her watch.

HOSTESS: Sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late, I have to pick up my daughter at band practice.

Skid marks.

One day I meet Susan. Susan is a natural foodie like me. We spend time together sipping tea and agreeing on the health benefits of lemon grass. Her list of forbidden foods is as long as mine. Conversations about rice bread and stevia follow as a strong bond is born amid the talk of green drinks and the enzymes.

ME: Would you like to come to dinner on Saturday night?

SUSAN: Ed and I would love to come. And let us bring something.

ME: You don’t have to bring anything.

SUSAN: I have this place where I get really good organic salmon. Let me bring the salmon.

ME: Okay, we can grill. It will be fun.

With a spring in my step and confidence in my heart, I prepare for Saturday night. A beautiful table is set. Flowers are arranged. Two vegetable sides and a salad are prepped. I make iced herbal tea.

6:30 – That ‘s the agreed upon time. I imagine us sitting on the deck, talking about the efficacy of various omega oils and the over-consumption of sugar in America.

7:00 – No Susan and Ed. Maybe they got caught up in traffic.

7:15 – Still no Susan and Ed. I try calling. No answer.

7:25 – A call from Susan. “We’re on our way,” she says cheerfully.

7:45 – Susan and Ed arrive. I’m irritable but trying not to show it. Husband is irritable. We take a deep breath and put on our best game faces.

Thrusting a cold white paper package into my hands, I stare at Susan blankly.

SUSAN: It’s the fish. It’s the most beautiful color. We spent a long time picking out just the right piece for all of us.

ME: It’s frozen.

SUSAN: It shouldn’t take long to thaw.

My husband takes the frozen salmon out of my hands and walks it to the grill. The sun is starting to set. We don’t have good night lighting on the deck. Husband whisper into my ear.

HUSBAND: I don’t know how to cook this.

ME: What do you mean, you grill fish all of the time?

HUSBAND: The fish is frozen. I don’t know how to cook it.

ME: Just put in the fish basket and throw it on the grill. My blood sugar has dropped I never eat this late. I’m cranky beyond belief. My new friend hasn’t even mentioned that she showed up an hour and fifteen minutes after the time we set.

Finally we settle down at the table. The fish has a strange spongy texture.

SUSAN: The salad is wonderful.

ME: Thank you.

The minutes tick by, fifteen, thirty an hour, oh my God an hour and a half, and Ed and Susan are still eating.

ME: Wow, you guys are really slow eaters.

Ed has barely said a word all evening now at 10:00 he swallows hard and shares.

ED: I believe that to get the most nutrition out of your food, you must chew thoroughly. My teacher told me to chew thirty-two times on each side, slowly. This has become a mindfulness practice for me.

Husband looks like he wants to fall face first into his plate. I want to leap the table and strangle Susan and then Ed who has just taken another bite of food and is chewing again.

A little after midnight they leave.

The next afternoon I drive to the grocery store where I buy a large chocolate cake and a block of cheese. We are no longer the worst dinner guests in the world.

Posted in A Day In the Life

A New Way Forward

The atoms of darkness break apart as light breathes itself into the day. I’m on the edge of myself, picking politics from my teeth, trying to get the bad taste out of my mouth.

The landscape of my neighborhood looks like it survived a fire, but it was really a freeze, a gripping, suffocating cold that left everything dry, brittle and brown. Metaphorical comparisons come to mind – the ravages of pandemics and governments devoid of statesmanship or providing for the common good, has left everything broken and parched.

I spend a couple of hours online each morning, navigating three websites that won’t let me in. I keep trying anyway, thinking I can beat the odds, and get an appointment for the vaccine. I go to the state’s .gov site and read headlines that say Limited Supply. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe in April. I’ve waited this long, what’s a few more hours, days, weeks? I’m encouraged to drive to the next county or city for a vaccine. “Think outside the box,” people say, but I fear I’ve become a nameless, faceless ghost in the masses, trying to get help, crying out to an empty room.

I’m starting to feel that I’m doing something wrong; that I should be willing to drive an hour or two to get the shot in another city or county. Why is this so much like The Hunger Games? Good friends send me more links to places where I can register for the vaccine. Two hours each morning. I can’t give it more than that. The new links yield nothing yet, just more frustration.

Life unfolds on the couch with my laptop and my tea. I watch the sky change. Trees silhouetted against the vastness, bare branches reaching up in prayer, Dear God, please save us from ourselves. Another day. Hopefulness? My resilience and positive thinking are exhausted. The governor of Texas has eliminated the mask mandate and opened up the state. “One hundred percent opening,” he said, while still the virus continues. Too many people mistake freedom as meaning you can do whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it, without a thought for anyone else. I wonder how we got so ignorant and uncaring about others? Life does not feel open Governor Abbott, it feels frightening, underscored by a longing for common sense and goodwill. Freedom, my ass!

Grubbing in the dirt for the gratitude that I misplaced, wishing that the sun would come out and dissipate the gray, I decide on more tea. It’s all I can do this morning. On my gravestone they will probably write: She drank tea while Texas burned, or maybe froze.

I left the dishes last night. There are plants on the back porch that need to be potted. I look forward to small tasks to help pull me from my splintered worry. Take a shower. Get dressed. Do what needs to be done. I remind myself that I don’t believe there is a “normal” to go back to. All of us will need to break trail and find a new way forward.

As many Texans celebrate Abbott’s lifting of the mask mandate and the opening of all businesses, social media sites are flooded with praise and “you do you/ I’ll do me” kind of rhetoric. It’s interesting to note that once again, choice and freedom don’t extend to women’s personal reproductive health care choices. . . a digression in my rant I realize, but it helps to make my point that that a good portion of politics is rife with hypocrisy.

It used to be that power meant the ability to influence action, change and behavior. It was a component of leadership, often leadership by way of example. In recent years, power has come to mean bullying and blustering. It’s in this knee deep sludge of misconception surrounding power, strength and the cry for freedom, that I continue to worry, and worry is not freedom at all. I worry about the spread of infection. I worry about whether or not I’ll get a vaccine in time. I worry about what will happen to our economy if we don’t get a handle on the virus. Most of all, I worry that we have lost a sense of nobility in governance that is supposed to be a service job with the goal of caring for the wellbeing of people.

Tomorrow morning I’ll get online again at 5:00, hoping to find a vaccine. I’m pretty sure that Governor Abbot and Senator Cruz have already had theirs.

Posted in A Day In the Life

Politics, Pandemics and Freedom

I’m on a rant this morning. I just spent several hours on line, playing the lottery. Praying to hit the right button at the right time in order to get a vaccine for COVID 19, I gave up after three hours of refreshing the page. I’m hopeful that as production ramps up, it will become easier for me to get an inoculation against COVID.

Getting a vaccine is even more important to me today than it was yesterday. Yesterday Governor Abbot of Texas told the state that he was dropping the mask mandate and that businesses were free to open 100%. What he didn’t say is that there is a slight uptick in cases of COVID in Texas, and that only about 6% of the population have received the vaccine. Many of us continue to play The Hunger Games, spending hours on line, hoping to be one of the lucky ones that can get an appointment for the shot. Governor Abbot’s move was not in the interest of the people of this great state, though he did dress it up, put lipstick on it and try to pass it off as protecting my freedom. Freedom for what? For going to the grocery store and shopping next to a couple who spent the past two nights at a bar, mask-less, elbow to elbow in a potentially contaminating soup ripe for the contraction of COVID?

What Abbot did, was not leadership. The move was a self-serving calculation that he thought would bring him some much needed popularity. It’s like telling the kid who is failing one of her classes in school, not to worry about studying, just go out and have a good time. Abbott essentially told us to go out and have a good time. Then he wrapped up his statements in the flag, punctuating the whole thing with words like freedom and choice.

What I’m missing in our government is statesmanship. Statesmanship has all but disappeared from the political landscape in Texas. Last week my mouth dropped open when I saw Senator Ted Cruz stomping the stage at CPAC like an blubbering baby whale screaming “freedom” at the top of his lungs. He’s was a shining example of a leader devoid of statesmanship, let alone any shred of dignity.

Does freedom mean being able to do whatever you want, whenever you want to do it? While I’d argue that freedom does mean choosing how you want to live your life, there are instances that require us to come together to fight a common enemy, or strive for a singular good – like freedom from a pandemic — we are, after all the UNITED States of America. When the objective of our elected officials is to retain power and popularity at any cost, then leadership is impossible, let alone mindful of what is best for the common good. When I was growing up, this was called selfishness and it was not thought of as a desirable or admirable quality.

As many Texans celebrate Abbott’s lifting of the mask mandate and the opening of all businesses, social media sites are flooded with praise and “you do you/ I’ll do me” kind of rhetoric. It’s interesting to note that once again, choice and freedom don’t extend to women’s personal reproductive health care choices. . . a digression in my rant I realize, but it helps to make my point that that a good portion of politics is rife with hypocrisy.

It used to be that power meant the ability to influence action, change and behavior. It was a component of leadership, often leadership by way of example. In recent years, power has come to mean bullying and blustering. It’s in this knee deep sludge of misconception surrounding power, strength and the cry for freedom, that I continue to worry, and worry is not freedom at all. I worry about the spread of infection. I worry about whether or not I’ll get a vaccine in time. I worry about what will happen to our economy if we don’t get a handle on the virus. Most of all, I worry that we have lost a sense of nobility in governance that is supposed to be a service job with the goal of caring for the wellbeing of people.

Tomorrow morning I’ll get online again at 5:00, hoping to find a vaccine. I’m pretty sure that Governor Abbot and Senator Cruz have already had theirs.

Posted in A Day In the Life

Contemplating The Lessons of the Great Texas Freeze

Explaining that we are experiencing climate change seems like stating the obvious. Yet, there are people who still don’t believe in climate change, even though the earth is reacting to rising temperatures and melting polar caps in the ways in which science said that it would. The polar caps melt into the ocean. The ice changes the temperature of the water, which in turn changes things like the jet stream and pressure systems. The result is extreme weather events, like the one we just had in Texas. As far south as Texas is, six inches of winter snow and ice is not what anyone here would call normal.

Extreme weather events effects the ecosystems and infrastructure where we live. In Texas, the power grid, which is privately owned, chose not to winterize, even though there had been a severe winter event just a decade ago and insistence that the power plants should winterize. But, why do anything preventative when it could cut into your profits? So, when the temperatures plunged into single digits recently and stayed there for over a week, the power plants were not equipped to keep the heat on for its customers. Now there are a lot of board resigning’s, finger pointing, outrageous bills (I’m talking $16,000.00 for customers who lost and then regained power) and it’s a giant cluster- you-know-what. What hasn’t happened yet, is a solution that contains prevention and safety for the people of this state. The big question is whether or not we have the courage to sacrifice to make the changes that will keep us safe. And whether or not we have the will to insist that our government, which is supposed to be by, for and of the people, will do the right thing.

The roads here in Austin were impassable during the freeze, because there are no snow plows in Texas, at least not that I could see. Trucks couldn’t get to grocery stores to replenish stock. People couldn’t get to the stores for food. Water pipes broke. Districts turned off water to conserve, since water was leaking all over the place anyway. Then came the boil order for water which was rendered contaminated. The irony being, what water were you supposed to boil if your water had been turned off? You saw people scraping snow into pots and trying to boil that – but you could only boil it if you had power or propane to do so, another technicality that was over looked with the boil order. Worst of all, some people literally froze to death in their homes because they had no heat.

I’ve lived a lot of winters in weeks and weeks of hard freeze, but the infrastructure in which I lived those winters was built for that kind of weather. Here in Texas, it’s not that we were caught off guard, it’s that the privately owned power grid decided to hedge its bets that nothing like this could ever happen. As the temperatures have warmed in the past few days and power has been restored, there are few people here who are not dealing with repairs due to the freeze, whether it’s pipes, plants, or water damage. Some schools had to shut down because of damage from broken pipes.

These are just some of the far reaching tentacles of climate change that the country has been dealing with. And it’s not just Texas. The fires that burned up and down the west coast last year, were for the most part, not wild fires, but climate fires. The ecosystems on the west coast do not naturally thrive in triple digit temperatures for weeks at a time. So when hot summer temperatures hovered in the hundreds, the area became a tinder box. In Colorado, the I-70 corridor that I used to drive from Denver to Aspen, is no longer miles and miles of green pine. Instead, those trees have been eaten by Pine Beetle, an insect that can only live and do damage if the area doesn’t drop below freezing for at least ten days at a time throughout the winter. Now, along that stretch of highway are miles and miles of decimated trees, that have turned mountain greenery into acres of brittle kindling.

We are in climate change. It’s not something that might happen up the road. Anyone who cannot see that the climate is changing, that weather in no longer predictable or following historic patterns; anyone who thinks it is all a hoax is either a political or corporate opportunist or ignorant.

And what will it take to clean up this mess? It mostly comes down to how we clean up pollution. What gases we put in the air, what chemicals we put in the water. We have the technology that we need to clean up our mess. A cleaner world would be better for everyone. It can only help humans and the planet stay healthier. Both the planet and its people are sick right now. And the politics of profit at any cost are the sickest of all. That’s what will kill us if we don’t change our attitudes about taking care of our earth home and each other.

Posted in A Day In the Life

The Great Texas Freeze of 2021

Snowed in. Now there’s a phrase I never expected to use again. Not when hubby said to me, just prior to our move here, “we’re going to love those warm and mild Texas winters.” It’s true that we’ve had more than several days these past few months where I could walk in shorts, or in leggings and a light jacket. Sometimes it was kind of a fashion thrill to wear a knit cap on a chilly day. But I never expected THIS!

What THIS is, is a deep, prolonged freeze, the kind you might expect in a northern state or somewhere on the east coast. And I’ve lived in this kind of weather before, but I was also equipped for it – as was the infrastructure around me. In my Sunshine Canyon days in Boulder, Colorado, if we got a foot of snow, the roads were plowed and sanded by 5:30 the next morning. I don’t think we have many snowplows in central Texas.

There was a time when my husband and I were thrilled for a snow day, the kind of day when the 9th street park became a cross-country ski track; when driving down the mountain at 8:00 AM to the park was filled with exhilarating anticipation. Since arriving in Austin a couple of years ago, my blood has thinned. In the “I used to” category is a sense of hardiness brought about by early morning winter hikes, where the only other being on the trail was the otherworldly silver crane meditating in the creek bed. But then, I had the luxury of playing in snow. In the area where I live now, snow and ice for a long period of time is uncommon, and without good infrastructure creates misery, not joy.

We’ve kept our outside faucets trickling for the past few days in an attempt to stave off broken pipes. Now we’re hearing that this is contributing to a water shortage. Hubby and

I have bundled up and cuddled up feeling like hibernation would be the best recourse. Someone just wake us up when this is over.

And we’ve been incredibly lucky. All around us are millions of people who lost power and therefore heat, people who lost water and had to deal with broken pipes. Ice has forced road closures, and worse, grocery store closures because they lack power.

Everyone is a little on edge. People worry about their families, worry about a lack of heat or broken pipes. And we all hope and cling to the promise of the coming thaw. Dark and harsh events tend to shine a light. This light is an interrogating one, illuminating what cannot be escaped when circumstances are not of your own doing. I’ve gotten a real education the past few days, reading about how the unique, private, electrical power grid was created to enrich its owners, but not to function for its citizens. The grid has never been winterized—even when Texas had a bad winter event similar to this one in 2011 and winterization was recommended. That winterization of power plants would have kept the heat on for millions of people.

Sunday is the turn around day. We’ll finally get out of freezing temps. It will be 45 degrees here. The ice and snow will melt and the roads will be drivable. Then we’ll settle back into dealing with things like when and where to get a COVID vaccine. We’ll dream about meeting up with family someplace other than on Zoom. And maybe we’ll get inspired to replace the greedy politicians in our state with those who understand the notion that governing is made up of the wise logistical choices of keeping its citizens safe.

The world continues to change at a rate that leaves me breathless. In viewing the damage, I try to hold onto to possibility that will push its way up like a young, green shoot. So much hope, hung upon a small green shoot, reaching upward from the cold ground.

Posted in A Day In the Life

Swimming with the Dolphins

The road is straight, marsh water on either side. A lot of the Keys are like this; a solid piece of highway, that banks down to the shallow waters leading out to the sea. Dean and I have been quiet for the last half hour of our drive. We’re lost in our own thoughts, taking in the foreign land of Florida, a place that when we see it on a map, always makes us giggle. “It looks like the penis of the America,” I tell him.

“It looks like it needs Viagra,” he replies. It’s a silly joke that never gets old.

We’ve come to Florida to visit Dean’s mother, but we’ve filled the time with so many other things, because my husband feels like he needs more time and a larger buffer between himself and the complicated woman who we’re never sure will be mean or welcoming. She’s tiring. I’m relieved that our visit to her house has been shortened by the creative itinerary that Dean has made up for us.

We’re headed to someplace called The Dolphin Research Center. We’re going to swim with the dolphins, but I am told that the dolphins get to choose whether or not they want to swim with us. I like the fairness of how that arrangement sounds, and I’m hoping that they will want to swim with me.

Tall reeds and skeletons of old trees flash by the window as we drive. My memory is caught by the lines from a T.S. Eliot poem: “I have heard the mermaids singing each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.” The strip of asphalt grows wider, the ocean receding further out from the reaches of the soft banks that flank it. Two lanes become four and soon we’re in the town that houses The Dolphin Research Center.

We’ve packed swimsuits, towels and a bag of snacks. There’s a hotel nearby where we’ll spend the night. Standing in the warm and humid air, I get a rush of excitement about swimming with the dolphins. I’ve never swum with anything other than a person. The family story is that I learned to swim before I could walk. My older brother would tell me to crawl to my sister, and then put me in the water. I always found my way to her and back again to him. Learning to swim at such an early age made me fearless in the water. How the sun and water feel on my body is always a sensuous experience for me. I am a perpetual child of summer who loves the water.

I spent youthful years on the California coast, body surfing and swimming every day. Beginning at ten o’clock and exhausting myself by noon, these were dreamy days. I had few responsibilities or obligations and my rookie life as a legal adult was simple. Body surfing with my friend Bernie on Topanga Beach, drinking Welches grape juice in the hot sun and working nights slinging drinks to businessmen in the Marina who tipped well. No ambition was dogging my heels, just the joy of sun and water.

Dean and I have gone to Maui for vacations, where we spend hours a day in the ocean, getting salty and tan, relaxed beyond what normal life can imagine. Returning to the water is always a rebirth experience for me. Now I’m going swim in a different part of the world and maybe the dolphins will sing to me. The water affirms a life in me that is free from sorrow. Swimming with the dolphins, I think, will be a pure kind of pleasure, with no agenda attached.

We check in at our appointed time, sign the waivers and change into our bathing suits. We’re introduced to the people who will be swimming with us today, a nice couple from somewhere, USA. Maybe they’re on vacation. Maybe they have their own family avoidance going on, but my interest in them is passing. I wish it were just Dean and I swimming with the dolphins. I’m selfish in moments like these. There’s magic afoot and I don’t want to share.

We’re given a tour of the facility and told that our fees will go toward research. Here, they study the psychology of dolphins, their ability to communicate and commune with humans and each other. We hear the stories of how dolphins have rescued swimmers and led lost boats back to port. Maybe by studying how dolphins communicate, it will help us humans to communicate better.

I feel a rush of anticipation when we are finally given instructions about the swim: “Don’t grab at the dolphins. Your arms are where their dorsal fins would be, and your arms are so much longer than their fins that it must look intrusive, even threatening. Let them come to you,” the facilitator tells us. “Dolphins are playful and they are sometimes amorous with humans. They have a great deal in common with 16-year-old boys.” We all laugh.

I really hope that a dolphin doesn’t try to hump my leg like some horny little dog. Surely the facilitator intervenes if that happens. I push the thought away. Instead I think about what I’ve heard: don’t grab at the dolphins and they like to play. I’ve been close enough to animals that I know interactive play with them is like being in another realm. It’s a way of communicating joy and delight. I want to play with the dolphins.

Our group is led to a large swimming area with a deep pool that backs up to a series of other pools and swimming areas. A floating platform juts out into the water. An underwater gate is opened for the dolphins and we stand on the platform and watch three of them come in. They break the surface of the water with their snouts, curiously checking us out. And they wear what looks like a permanent smile. They don’t have to be with you if they don’t want to, I remind myself.

I will probably never have this opportunity again, so I’m going to go for it. Before any of the other swimmers move, I ease myself from the platform into the water. The dolphins are circling the bottom of the pool now. They’re a lot bigger than I’d imagined. I already know what I what to do. Once in the water, I dive to the bottom where the dolphins are circling. I turn somersaults. First forward, and then back ward, before I swim back to the top for air. I dive again. More somersaults, but this time when I swim to the top for air, I have company. As I take a big breath, I feel the dolphin’s sharp little teeth on my thighs. She’s holding me by my thighs and pushing me around the pool and I feel another dolphin push her snout into my breastbone, and that holds me straight, like I’m floating on my belly, but able to hold my head out of the water as they push me around. They are playing with me. I’m making involuntary squeaking sounds, joyful sounds of play. I grin at my husband who is applauding from the platform.

The facilitator shouts out to me: “They like you. Just relax and go with it.” My reaction is part excitement and part terror. This huge sea-beast has my thighs in her jaws, while another dolphin pushes on my sternum. A third dolphin is now swimming next to me. I have usurped the dolphins in the pool.

After a few minutes, I feel excited and exhausted, a little overwhelmed to be playing with such large animals, so I take a stroke toward the platform. The dolphin releases me from her mouth and I get out of the water. But the dolphins don’t go away. They wait for me at the surface, bobbing their dolphin heads and watching me intently. My husband is on the platform with me. He hasn’t even been into the water yet. Go back and play with them,” he says.

Back into the water, I go. Back into the mouth of the dolphin. Back to being pushed around the pool by two dolphins just as before. Their bodies are smooth and sleek. I let my hand reach back and touch the one that has me in her mouth. She feels warm. I take a deep breath and try to relax into the experience, though there’s no relaxing to be had. It’s too exciting to be interacting with them in this way. I’m not just swimming with the dolphins; I’m playing with them.

We’ve done a few circles in the pool, when the facilitator asks me if I will get out of the water and allow for some of the other “guests” to swim. I know that I got the best of what we came to experience, so I say goodbye to each of dolphins. “We had a good time, didn’t we?” I say to them. Then I get out of the water. My husband and the other couple are swimming now. And the dolphins swim close beside them. They don’t try to take anyone else into their mouth like they did with me, but they are swimming and circling in a way that’s welcoming. I see my husbands face and it’s filled with a sense of wonder.

When the session ends, the dolphins swim back through the gate to a larger area. I’m standing on the platform shaking from the cool breeze. I wrap myself into a towel and sit down staring at the pool, trying to remember each detail about this time. My heart is beating fast. Dean pulls up a chair next to me and places his arm around my shoulders, pulling me toward him. “That was really a magic moment,” he said.

I nod my head. Some part of my heart quivers at the recognition of being connected to all beings and it fills me with appreciation. Dean’s strong arm pulls me closer and he kisses the top of my head. There are pink marks on my thighs from the dolphin’s teeth. I touch them, savoring the images and feelings of the day.

For a brief moment I can see the truth that we all hide from ourselves: the universe is only love.

Posted in A Day In the Life

A Brief History of a Screen Filled Life

I remember my first business website. So new was the idea, that the local newspaper called and asked if they could do a story on my husband and I, posing the questions of whether or not this online advertising and promotion of our business was really going to work. The website was small and clunky and at the moment I had no idea what it could do. We declined the interview. Within a year or two every small business, every large business had their own website. And shortly after that, lots of people who weren’t in business, but who had an axe to grind or a message to impart built websites too.

An episode of the television show Californication addressed blogging, the new venue for published works, albeit smaller, easier to read works than what you would find in print. And thanks to Word Press, blogging began to nibble away at magazines and newspapers who now turned their efforts online, as advertisers fled to what was becoming a larger audience. The greatest loss for me during that time was that my Sundays, which had once been all about lying around with The New York Times and Then Denver Post for hours while I drank tea, began to dwindle. Without realizing that it was happening, I began to read less and less. Eventually I cancelled the newspapers.

Then social media, the double edged sword that swung wildly unabated by any sort of regulation, making me giddy that I could keep up with so many people online. At the same time, Facebook was giving a platform to dark and anonymous voices that had once been relegated to the shadows. What now came to light was foreboding, but I told myself it was just a fringe element. No one is really that mean, ugly-hearted or misinformed.

Like everyone else, my brain chemicals lit up with likes and comments,.so I barely noticed that social media, just like websites and blogging became one more place to advertise, one more place to promote. It wasn’t just businesses advertising, it was individuals advertising themselves. In the business of writing, every agent, publisher and editor wanted to make sure that you had a website and that you were promoting yourself on social media. In the beginning, it wasn’t that hard, but after a short time, I realized that I was competing with virtual assistants or companies that were posting for individuals. No longer a matter of likes and comments, social media was now a matter of whether or not you were an influencer, whether or not you were a brand.

I think about my Catholic upbringing in which the nuns instructed me not to call attention to myself; told me that it was better to give to others selflessly. Is selflessly a word we even use anymore? The whole self-promotion thing has gotten out of hand. I keep track of my social media accounts, a website, a blog, a newsletter, email lists and up until recently, a podcast. I am a full-blown self-promoting business and with that, I have a love/hate relationship with the Internet.

The digital world has overtaken us. Recent reporting tells me that my social media accounts are valuable for the data they collect, plugging me into an algorithm that will assure I see posts and advertising in my feeds that will validate my perception of the world. What could go wrong?

An yet . . . I still enjoy my Facebook interactions with friends and family. Truth is, I like people and I enjoy meeting new friends online. I smile when people I don’t even know proudly post pictures of their grandchildren. It makes me feel like I am part of one big family. Worlds within worlds spin round the day-to-day lives of human beings and that picture of a grand baby connects us to a sweet place that loves babies and the promise of new beginnings. The other side of that double edged sword, however, is the incessant noise about branding and messaging, about influencing and trending.

If I left all of social media behind, I would wonder about those other writers I’ve come to know. I’d wonder if they’d finished writing the novel that they were so passionate about. I’d wonder about friend’s kids and dogs and cats and whether or not Esther’s garden would be bigger this year. I’d miss writing something for my blog or newsletter, and miss seeing pictures of Donna’s dog, Bella, or my great, great niece playing with a doll that I’d sent her. I’d miss sharing my own successes and wins, the sorrow of large and little losses. Still, and I know that it’s somewhat a function of this pandemic, I long for face to face meetings. To look into someone’s eyes and feel the energy of their being is different than seeing a picture on a screen. I miss talking walks with my husband and my friends where one’s attention isn’t pulled away by an email that you can now read on your wristwatch.

So, I do the self-promotion dance, like every other writer I know. I try to put out a message that I hope will inspire, uplift or help in some way. I try to keep it emotionally honest. I write blogs like these and marvel that in certain ways we connect more with the written word than ever before. This is probably the greatest time of literacy that the world has ever experienced and a lot of it is due to technology. That is an amazing thing and one that has the potential for great goodness. But there are those days when I wish there weren’t any screens. In what is now known as “the old days,” friends would stop by unexpectedly just to say hello and visit, to hang out, to figure out what it meant to be human, and the only interruption was the possibility of a solitary, ringing phone somewhere down the hall.

The pictures of life beginning to rise up from the burnt out shell of survival were not the only things that the young soldier brought back from the war. Among his belongings, he had wrapped in blankets and carefully tucked away a cocoon of memory, sliding it under the bed to collect dust until his death. Within that walled off slice of his life, were a series of drawings done in pencil and charcoal — beautiful, serene scenes of deer grazing in the shelter of the forest. I had seen the drawings when I was a little girl and I knew that they were my father’s treasures. He told me how they represented a brief relationship with an artist that led to the purchase of the drawings, which he paid for with packs of cigarettes and chocolate bars.

He loved them so much, he told me, that he carried them back over an ocean and into his life. But they were never framed or displayed. He hid them under the bed, along with other things from the war that I would never see, or understand. When he died in 1980 I pulled the wrapped drawings from their unclean tomb and brought them home with me, framing them and finally giving them the display that they deserved. I know that in spite of the art being hidden, he looked at the drawings from time to time, remembering a friend whose fate was unknown.

Each time I walk by the framed drawings now, I wonder how it is that an artist living in the face of such horror could create such beauty? In these unrelenting days of pandemic and blood sport politics, the drawings reach out to me from another terrible time, whispering that I should not forget that there is always something left in the ashes of loss.

That’s what art does. It keeps good alive in the worst of times. That’s what Amanda Gorman did when she stood on the steps of the Capitol building and recited her poem – she was a light, enlivening inspiration in the human heart, broken by so much ugliness, pain and death. What she gave to us was one long, deep breath that exhaled the healing imagining of new possibility.

The works of an unknown German artist who preserved the beauty of his heart, and the well-praised poet who will surely experience fame for her work, did the exact same thing. They did what artists are called to do in atrocious times. They affirmed life with their creations. They provided nourishment for the dried up well of deep goodness for which we are now longing.

Divisiveness and lies, death and destruction can threaten to strangle our efforts to keep creating. How can creativity be meaningful or significant in these challenging times? How could that German artist even think of drawing when he took in the magnitude of horror around him? How could Amanda Gorman create such a profound moment from the steps of the capital where darkness had been unleashed only days before? These artists created boldly out of grief and the mud of chaos, the cramping labor of what it means to birth love.

The emerging archetype of midlife women is the Creatrix, a word that means a woman who makes things. There has never been a greater calling in our lifetime, to make things as a life affirming action, because that’s what lets in the light. The great poet Jonas Mekas said, “In the very end, civilizations perish because they listen to their politicians and not to their poets.” I take his words as a warning to not be daunted by the power hungry, to find a way to share what is both painful and beautiful in the human condition.

There are piles of rubble everywhere in our collective heartbreak. To write, to sing, to dance, to be playful and silly, to make things, to gather things and arrange them, to praise, to pay homage to grief upon an alter in the corner of our garden, to plant the seeds of gratitude — this is the beginning of how we contribute to the clean up and the rebuilding of our nation’s soul. This is our time to make things.

Posted in A Day In the Life

Making Art While the World Appears to Fall Apart

As World War II came to an end, a young soldier stationed in Germany, took photos of what was left of the city streets he patrolled in Berlin. Small black and white images, framed in white borders with scalloped edges show piles of rubble and people wandering. In one picture, a man carries a chair, a single stick of furniture with which to begin anew. Another shows a woman digging in the debris for something that used to be, but no longer is. An entire country, the one time great destroyer, now destroyed, was the subject of the young man’s photographs. The aftermath of that war and all its horrific suffering must have been grief and bewilderment as to how the world would ever again know good. The soldier documenting the story with his camera was my father and the year was 1945.

The pictures of life beginning to rise up from the burnt out shell of survival were not the only things that the young soldier brought back from the war. Among his belongings, he had wrapped in blankets and carefully tucked away a cocoon of memory, sliding it under the bed to collect dust until his death. Within that walled off slice of his life, were a series of drawings done in pencil and charcoal — beautiful, serene scenes of deer grazing in the shelter of the forest. I had seen the drawings when I was a little girl and I knew that they were my father’s treasures. He told me how they represented a brief relationship with an artist that led to the purchase of the drawings, which he paid for with packs of cigarettes and chocolate bars.

He loved them so much, he told me, that he carried them back over an ocean and into his life. But they were never framed or displayed. He hid them under the bed, along with other things from the war that I would never see, or understand. When he died in 1980 I pulled the wrapped drawings from their unclean tomb and brought them home with me, framing them and finally giving them the display that they deserved. I know that in spite of the art being hidden, he looked at the drawings from time to time, remembering a friend whose fate was unknown.

Each time I walk by the framed drawings now, I wonder how it is that an artist living in the face of such horror could create such beauty? In these unrelenting days of pandemic and blood sport politics, the drawings reach out to me from another terrible time, whispering that I should not forget that there is always something left in the ashes of loss.

That’s what art does. It keeps good alive in the worst of times. That’s what Amanda Gorman did when she stood on the steps of the Capitol building and recited her poem – she was a light, enlivening inspiration in the human heart, broken by so much ugliness, pain and death. What she gave to us was one long, deep breath that exhaled the healing imagining of new possibility.

The works of an unknown German artist who preserved the beauty of his heart, and the well-praised poet who will surely experience fame for her work, did the exact same thing. They did what artists are called to do in atrocious times. They affirmed life with their creations. They provided nourishment for the dried up well of deep goodness for which we are now longing.

Divisiveness and lies, death and destruction can threaten to strangle our efforts to keep creating. How can creativity be meaningful or significant in these challenging times? How could that German artist even think of drawing when he took in the magnitude of horror around him? How could Amanda Gorman create such a profound moment from the steps of the capital where darkness had been unleashed only days before? These artists created boldly out of grief and the mud of chaos, the cramping labor of what it means to birth love.

The emerging archetype of midlife women is the Creatrix, a word that means a woman who makes things. There has never been a greater calling in our lifetime, to make things as a life affirming action, because that’s what lets in the light. The great poet Jonas Mekas said, “In the very end, civilizations perish because they listen to their politicians and not to their poets.” I take his words as a warning to not be daunted by the power hungry, to find a way to share what is both painful and beautiful in the human condition.

There are piles of rubble everywhere in our collective heartbreak. To write, to sing, to dance, to be playful and silly, to make things, to gather things and arrange them, to praise, to pay homage to grief upon an alter in the corner of our garden, to plant the seeds of gratitude — this is the beginning of how we contribute to the clean up and the rebuilding of our nation’s soul. This is our time to make things.

Posted in A Day In the Life

Wrapping Up The Year

I’d promised myself that I’d relax the last couple weeks of the year, that I’d reflect upon, and immerse myself in, the quiet and the beauty around me.  I did not disappoint.  For the past few mornings, I’ve managed to sleep in to 7:00 or 7:30, a time that seems early to some, but for this 5:00AM riser, is a delicious reprieve from the norm.  From Christmas day onward, I’ve managed to ease into the day with no demands or obligations, save for the weekly grocery store outing. I’ve gotten to books in my stack that have waited patiently for me, binge watched Netflix shows with my husband in the evening and pretty much mastered the art of doing nothing and doing it well.

This morning I took my cup of tea to the back porch and sat, watching the rain recede into a changing sky. Grey clouds, white clouds, moments of teasing blue, then back to dark grey again.  This year the Texas winter is warm enough to be outside on many mornings, and I find a great soothing of my soul in watching the sky and tuning into the life that resides in the back drop of woods that edges up to the parameters of my yard.  Small yellow birds flit from tree to tree chirping, while the sound of other winged creatures respond in different calls.  This is the stage of life’s play, entertaining a heart open to learn from what the cycles, symbols and seasons have to show me. While self-knowledge is revealing, the knowledge of nature is even more so.

Tomorrow I’ll close out the 2020 ledgers for the bookkeeper and make new files for 2021. Then I’ll take a look around my office and feel appreciation for the shelves of books, the baskets of spiral notebooks, the cups of pens and my computer – all of the tools that serve me daily.  I’ll say a prayer of thanks for all that was given this year, and a prayer of grief and blessing for all that was taken away. My spirt is lifted by the symbol of this new year more than ever before, and in that I know that I am not alone.

Happy New Year everyone.  Onward.

Posted in A Day In the Life

2019!

            Happy 2019!

New Year’s Day: Even if you don’t make resolutions, which I don’t, there’s a feeling of freshness and excitement about starting a new year that makes us want to be better people.  I like having New Year’s Day as a holiday. It’s a good day to prioritize and set up a pattern for the coming year.

Priorities: Recently I read a post by my favorite psychologist, Benjamin Hardy (if you don’t know who he is, look him up). He wrote about the concept of prioritizing. I’m paraphrasing him when I share: “If you have more than three priorities, you’re not really prioritizing.”  That keeps it simple, doesn’t it? For me, priorities really have to do with lifestyle.  My three priorities for this year are the same as they were for last year:  I write every morning. I walk or do Pilates every afternoon. And I prepare one great, healthy meal a day for my husband and I.  That’s it and it won’t trip me up by being out of reach.

 Goals and the Magic of Consistency:  Goals are a different animal. They’re like New Year’s resolutions in that they can become unmanageable. If they get too big, too many, too fast, after a couple of days I can’t meet any of them, so I abandon them. I learned a long time ago that goals are best done in bite size chunks, because it’s easier to experience success with a small goal that takes just a day or a few weeks to accomplish.

For example, I work on a novel length manuscript every year, but I only set monthly goals for it.  This January, one of my goals is to complete research and preparation on the next novel so that I can start writing prose in February.  The goal of pounding out a novel in a month or writing an article every day aren’t in my program, because too often I’ve experienced failure with goals like that.  The consistency of one step at a time, one page, one good article will get me to where I’m going. When I attain priorities and meet little goals, it builds confidence, and confidence has far-reaching, positive effects on everything.

Dreams:  I like to dream big. I dream about publishing houses that want my work and an agent who gets me and wants to help me. I dream about having all the energy I need to complete novels and articles for the time ahead. I dream about writing for Texas Monthly. I dream about long and healthy years with my husband. And I dream about the success of my 2020 release of A Delightful Little Book On Aging.  Dreams are not goals, but surrender to their largesse and vision is crucial to prioritizing and setting attainable milestones.

Balance: I’m at a time of life where I want to focus less on accomplishment and more on the gratitude of experience, but that doesn’t mean that accomplishment isn’t important to me.  In addition to priorities, goals and dreams, I take note of what feels nourishing and creates balance in my life. 

As a writer, I spend a lot of time in my head. So balance means being in life.  Again, it’s real simple: I take walks with my husband. We enjoy sitting on the front porch with our dog and watching our neighborhood.  Side by side, with our hands wrapped around cups of tea, we take in our world. Just being in the experience of sunshine or gray, kids who are throwing a ball and laughing in the cul-de-sac, making note of who is pruning roses or cleaning a garage. . . I relish “being” in this world, on this little block, in this community, watching life happen. This is my balance and it fills me with appreciation.

I always start the New Year by affirming that this is going to be a great year. This is going to be a healing year. In spite of the infection that nibbles away at Washington and the world, there are good things happening too. I can’t forget that. None of us should. There are things and people to get enthusiastic about. Humanity has not lost its way. I know, because I’ve seen the best of humanity from my front porch.

I’m excited about living another year. I’m excited about being in life. I’m grateful. I’m excited about witnessing the neighborhood kids grow another inch. And I’m excited about priorities and goals that I’ve set forth, balanced by a nourished and loving heart. Life is good.

            May 2019 be a great year for us all.  HAPPY NEW YEAR, everyone!

Posted in Comedy, Tragedy and What the F...?

Happy New Year to the Neighborhood

iStock_000018581868XSmallHelen sits in her garage with the door open, smoking a cigarette. She never smokes in her house and instead has created a living space, replete with chairs and a rug,  in the third of the three-car garage attached to her home.  She lites up several times a day. Raspy voiced Helen tells whoever will listen that she only smokes because she is so psychic, and the smoking grounds her. All who hear the story, myself included, smile and nod and don’t have the heart or the balls to tell her that psychic or not, she smokes because she is addicted to nicotine.

The woman lives next door to me and I often see her when I pull out of my driveway or when I am walking back from the lake and we smile politely and call out “hello” to one another.  In the summertime she cruises the front lawn and stoops over to pick dandelions from the grass, because she doesn’t want to use “toxic chemicals” to get rid of them. She usually has a cigarette in her hand.

Last spring, we had an especially big snow. In fact it snowed for several days. When the sun finally came out, I heard the familiar sound of scraping on the driveways and walkways of the neighborhood as people moved the snow before the sun melted it and the night turned it into ice. I realized that the scraping I heard, was coming from my driveway. I looked out the window and there were three young men doing a job that held a slight amount of dread for me. I opened my window and yelled out “may I help you?” No, I actually didn’t mean could I help them…just one of those not -so-articulate phrases one uses when you wonder what the heck someone is doing in your yard. The boys let me know that they were there because of Helen. Helen had paid them to shovel her driveway, the driveway across the street and our driveway.

I stopped rolling my eyes when I heard her tell people that cigarette smoking grounded her. Having my driveway shoveled was a very kind,  a very neighborly thing to do.

The neighbors on the other side of me are young and work a lot. He travels for his job. She pulls out of the garage every morning with kids in tow and arrives back in the late afternoon. Work is demanding enough, and then coming home and feeding a family and caring for them is a lot extra.  I know a lot of people do it, but it amazes me.  In the warm months I hear her kids squealing and playing in the back yard. It’s a pleasant sound. Somehow, in spite of the work and the long days, I often hear the parents hanging out with the young boy and girl in their back yard and they seem like a happy family. Last fall, the dad had spent a long time raking all of the leaves into piles that cold be bagged and taken to the curb. Not and easy task with so many cottonwoods in our neighborhood. About the time he finished, the kids discovered the piles of leaves and all joy broke loose. A lesser man might have yelled at them for messing up his work, but instead the dad dropped his rake and romped with his kids through the leaves, tackling them into piles of yellow-gold as they all laughed and screeched. Later that night, I heard him raking up the piles again and bagging them for the pickup the next morning.

Across the street from me lives a little girl named Susan. She is growing up too fast in my estimation.  There should be some way to shrink her down and keep her in the open-hearted munchkin size that is so precious. My best days  have started with pulling out of the driveway to leave for work and seeing five-year old Susan dressed as a princess jump up and down as she yelled “bye Stephanie, bye Stephanie, bye…” What a way to start a day.  She is too old for the princess costume now.  She gives me a wave now and then, but mostly she is absorbed in her friends with whom she walks to and from the school bus.  To me, she will always be the princess across the street.

I have become more aware of my neighborhood since hubby and I retired this year. No longer tethered to a desk, I am home to watch the comings and goings; the parade of life; the children that march to the morning bus accompanied by family dogs and fathers with steaming mugs of coffee–the familiar sight of people taking their dogs to the lake, and brave mothers who manage strollers along with dogs and toddlers is all one big happy production. And once a day now, I load our dog into the car and drive to my favorite trail head where I know the names of all the dogs, but not their owners, a part of the constant movement and reaching of living.

At the barn up the road, hubby and I buy fresh eggs and things from the field. The stoner at the cash register is a Spicoli  kind of character, right out of Central Casting, who offers me my favorite cookies. My sense of smell and moderately keen observations tells me that the young man suffers from the “blind munchies,” brought on by something other than beets growing in the field–but he is always willing to share whatever it is he is munching on with a kind “here you go man.”

This is my small world; my community and I love it. Not everything I see is perfect, and in a strange sort of way it is all perfect. It is a touchstone for how people really are that is no longer reflected in our leaders or our media who have a poor understanding of who lives in the neighborhood. For me, I see kindness all around me and human decency and it gives me hope for the future. So happy New Year to my neighbors, all the four-legged creatures, to my hubby and to my Labrador retriever, Jeter. May we all continue to know and appreciate each other for our similarities as well as for our differences!

Happy New Year!