"Where's the knife that goes here?", he said, two weeks ago today. I remember using it, too. It is the second big knife down from the vegetable slicing knife in the block we bought a few years ago. It was, and is, our first set of recognizable brand name knives and when we bought it we felt proud. Accomplished.
I don't know where the knife went. I remember using it. I was prepping food, and the veggie knife was dirty; it had been used so many times. I pulled the next knife below it in the block, because I was lazy. I remember saying to myself, using this knife for this reason is really kind of stupid. But I did it anyway.
We left, to go on vacation, without finding the knife. A week ago we returned home and the knife had not shown itself. I think I believed that if we just walked away, if we just forgot about it and came back later, the knife would appear.
The knife did not.
Today, another search did not reveal the missing knife. We both know that the other didn't take the knife, yet we say to each other, "are you sure you didn't... do this with it, or that with it?"
Of course we are certain. Who takes a knife anywhere but the kitchen? NO ONE in our house. But the knife is missing. There are just us two, here. We look each to the other, we talk about the knife, we shrug toward each other. We laugh-but-cringe at the fact we can't find it.
The knife is somewhere. Likely, it is in a drawer or a freezer or a cupboard. It is just a matter of time, in this house, before we find it. It won't be long.
Our eyes lit up when we discovered it missing, however. For just a moment we shared a silence.
Where. Is. The. Knife.
We shrugged it off, uneasily. But what is in our minds is: Where. Is. The. Knife.
The knife is missing and we cannot find it.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
I keep saying, I will write here, so very often. I do, and then I do not. I think I should address why I am not here every single day (or even once a month, or quarterly). Without excuse but by way of explanation, sweethearts, it is simply because I defeat myself. Those of you who actually know me, personally, know that I am a huge advocate, a giant voice for those who suffer from mental illness, depression, anxiety, fear. As a social worker and therapist I spent many years of my life shining a light on the hurts and horrors of kids and families with whom I worked. I spent a lot of time with those kids. I heard so many gritty details, so many hurts. I loved, I worked, I lost. There is a place still, in my heart, for all of those kids and families. I miss them.
The great unknown, and unsaid, is that I experience some of this very hard to understand STUFF. I never knew I had a diagnosis until I needed insurance and I had to contact a therapist I'd seen, after brain surgery, to see if there was something "wrong" with me. I felt strongly, there was not. What a shock when I received a letter informing me that I did have "Major Depressive Disorder". That threw me for a loop, sent me flying, shocked the hell out of me. I called said therapist , we talked a bit. It turns out, he was not just trying to get me insurance coverage. As life goes. we are shocked, now and then. This was the greatest shock of my life. After all, I was a therapist! How did I not see this... I don't know. I will never know.
The beautiful thing is, it does not matter. Every bit of everything is going to be just fine. What i have learned is that embracing the sadness, naming it, working through it, brings one to such joy, such contentment. There is so much peace in letting go of the things we think we want/need to control. Letting go is such peace.
I took this photograph a few years ago, at Glensheen mansion. I have been so enamored and fascinated with history in many ways; this incredible home is something which takes one back, it is a place which always amazes me. This photograph was taken in the closet of one of the Congdon sons, who chose his love, photography. He built a dark room and spent his days and nights locked up in this tiny space, working his art. The other sons did some amazing things; hunting, taxidermy, politics.. This son, though, chose art in the form of photography. There is simply nothing about this son, that I do not love.
There is a lot, unshared. I appreciate, though, that those of you who follow, follow. Thank you so much. This photograph has kept me taking photos, grabbing snaps, enticing little kids to smile their very best smiles. Every smiling child, brings tears to my eyes. I suppose, such is art.
much love.
J
I took this photograph several years ago and it remains one of my favorites. I love about it, that is is cows. If you know me, you know, that I love cows and desire to have them around me every minute. These cows, though, are fashioned after old toys. Antiques. I love the cracked finish and the little platforms with wheels. I like the simplicity of these cows and I am drawn to these sorts of objects and images often. If you know me, you also know that I am drawn to repetition and patterns. I found this in one of my favorite places to go to shop, if I must shop. It is called "The Depot" and there is only one place like it. Part winery, part grocery, part home decor, part just really cool looking stuff. They have seasonal things and a wall of antique clocks. It is a great place to go when the weather is bad, or I'm feeling adrift, or I need to find a unique gift for someone I care about. It happens that I bought one of my favorite pots there. It is a Paula Deen steaming pot and I still love it, even though it isn't cool to like her any more.
The cracked finish on these cows has always reminded me of maps. Maps to where, I do not know. But certainly maps to somewhere. I have always loved maps, as they take you away and also bring you home. Where family fails to give you an anchoring place, maps succeed. One of my favorite books of all time is the United States Atlas. State by state, county by county, this glorious book can take you anywhere if you just start driving.
It's difficult to resolve a need for roots, and cows and dogs and horses and fences and fireplaces against a need to break out the atlas and travel, on a full time basis, forever. Every minute, feelings change. This image, simple as it is, has always spoken to me in a way others have not. As life goes on, so to speak, and things change, priorities change, still, this image speaks to me. The simplicity is important; life certainly is not simple. I grieve the loss of people through death; I grieve loss through misunderstanding and conflict. I feel sad about the loss of mentors in my life who have deemed my work, "contrived" yet taken on other students with great joy and praised very similar work. I've returned to old work (my beginnings) and appreciate it on my own. This photograph is one I found, that I love in a hundred ways.
There is something else, what I love about cows: they are sweet, and honest. Sometimes they are really assholes, they do stupid things. And we have to round them up and herd them and so on. But basically cows are made of love and instinct. Once you understand that, you can communicate. When I was a kid, we had a white cow on the farm. My Grandpa would let me sit on her back during milking, with a piece of binder twine around her neck as my 'bridle". She was my "horse" before I had one. Poor old girl never even had a name, except "the old white cow". I loved her with a depth and innocence only a four year old can muster. I suppose this photo makes me think of her, too.
Cheers.
Monday, February 2, 2015
Something like normal
During the year I have not posted to this blog, understand that I have spent much time writing. I have spent much time looking through a viewfinder. I have spent countless hours researching. I have dedicated less and less time to silliness and negativity. I have let go of a number of habits, foods, and people. I have walked over and through the comments which sent me away from this place. If you are still following, thank you.
I took this photograph at the Marjorie McNeely Conservatory in St. Paul. It was a gorgeous day in May and I was enjoying a visit with two of my best friends and the daughter of one of those friends. On this day, we saw gorillas, giraffes,wolves, birds, multicolored stingrays, neon spiders and a sloth. What I remember most though is the incredible joy I felt that these two women would put a child in a car and drive what became fourteen hours to visit me. These two wonderful, crazy women actually put themselves in a car and drove here. This, to me, is beyond the scope of friendship and common sense. I loved them for doing it. I still do.
This photograph remains one of the best I have ever taken, and one of my favorites of all time. This photograph will remind me of that day, forever. It is tender and tough, soft and strong. It is wild. I loved how the petals of this flower were tipped in tendrils which reached toward something to anchor them. The plant was tall and strong, the leaves, deep green and ribbed with life. The flowers would never lose hold. Still, they reached for each other, and felt better while they touched.
I have never enjoyed a life which would be considered "normal". I don't know what that is like, and neither do most of my dearest friends. On this day, walking through tropical gardens, viewing exotic animals, watching my niece Katie see all these new things, wide eyed, I was thinking, "I have the most spectacular family". I realized then, as I do now, that while we are strong and we stand alone, we reach toward each other. We feel a little bit better if we can touch. We are a family. We are something like normal.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Magic Exists.
Complacency will come back to bite you in the ass, every single time. It's been a difficult couple of months . I feel tired, spent, done. I'm impatient. I'm owly. I have cared little for others or their experiences, as my own have taken the front seat in my mind and I have been, if not overwhelmed, certainly preoccupied. I haven't been a good friend, sister, daughter, wife, human being. So mired, was I, in this muck of self absorption that I couldn't see past my own nose. My grandmother used to say that and I never truly understood what that meant. How unfortunate, the person who couldn't see beyond his or her nose, I thought, quite literally, because it wasn't very darn far. How would such a person navigate through life? Indeed, now that I am much (much) older, and able to appreciate metaphor, I ask the same question: How does such a person navigate through life? Those in my life, who have been at the least, self absorbed, and at the most, narcissistic, have been the ones who both inspired the most anger in me, and also the most fervent need to be noticed, to be loved, to be acknowledged. This was of course, the perfect example of futility. But all of that is in the past. Perhaps lately I have behaved similarly.
I'm not good at being confused, or at lacking control, so I have spent a lot of time, lately, at the barn with Lucy and Magnum. Horses make sense, in a complicated way. Something about the ritual of grooming, tacking up, working, riding, always in that order helped me to feel some calm. And then... Boston. More bombs. More lives lost, more lives changed forever. It's a very dark place, or it can be. I've continued taking trips to the barn, and I've taken my camera along. For the past two weeks (before Boston and since) I have made a point of taking a few shots each day I visit. I've captured some good barn cat shots, some decent people images, and of course some horse photos. These days have been a bright spot in an otherwise difficult time.
Today I worked my horses. I gave them molasses treats and let them slobber all over my hands. I braided Magnum's mane, I let Lucy free-lunge in the arena... wow what an incredible connection it is to just speak quietly and have a half-ton animal respond as if she is connected to me by an invisible line. We're just getting the hang of this, free-lunge thing, Lucy and I. It is, if I must say so myself, quite spectacular. When I was done, horses were cooled and fed, I cracked a beer and visited with other horse-owners. It is a tired-yet-accomplished feeling. There is a camraderie, much like among snowmobilers, bikers, or boaters. The difference is, though, horses are not machines, and one must earn trust and develop relationships.
I made my way back to the arena and watched this little girl ride her giant horse. The girl is young, the horse is old. The girl looks at the horse the same way I looked at my first horse, with eyes full of stars and love and hope. This tiny little girl rode this very tall horse around and around the arena, walking, trotting, turning circles. This small horsewoman has done it a hundred times before, and today, like every day she rides, she was breathless with excitement, stopping the horse periodically to exclaim her love and to lean over to hug the horse's neck. Priceless. I remember feeling that way, when I was young. I remember feeling like no troubles were bigger than getting on my horse and riding out. I felt the heaviness lifting as I watched her.
I spoke with this young professional; I asked if I could photograph her and her beautiful horse. She said, of course I could. I took many photographs of her and the horse. This one is my favorite. I love it because her helmet has fallen down over her eyes, and while her eyes are quite beautiful, I feel this photo perfectly captures the relationship between tiny kid and giant horse. I laughed out loud, as I was photographing her. My eyes got a little prickly. I felt, for just a moment, that breathless rush the little girl was feeling. Before bombs. Before fear. Before sadness. Pure joy.
The horse's name? "Magic". Of course it is. Magic exists.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
A Dog and his Girl
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This is a moment which can only be described as pure joy. I know both girl and dog, so I recognize this capture for what it is, when it happened and how it came to be. The dog belongs to my house. The girl belongs to some very good friends, and thus, they are, and she is, a bit like family. While everyone else was paying attention to the Superbowl, Beth and Jax were having their own party. I'm thrilled that I could capture this moment. And, I couldn't be happier that not just the dog, but also the girl, her brother and her parents belong to my family, in a roundabout way perhaps... but in every way that counts. Thanks Beth for this, and tons more great moments on Superbowl Sunday! Much love to you, kiddo.
February 7, 2013
I'm thinking about a photograph I want to share here but I am unable to connect it to my thoughts. Perhaps there is simply no connection. This is, after all, a writer's life, through the lens. I'm halfway sorry about the way I named this blog because I realize, now I have an intense need to live up to it. Whatever that means. I think it means different things to different people, and if you know me, then you know I have expectations of myself which far exceed any expectation I have of anyone else, whether known to me, family, or famous. So if you don't mind, I think I will just be forgiving to myself for now and quit expecting so much.
I took this photo on the morning we were to leave Duluth, a city which seems like home to me. We'd spent two wonderful days and nights there, and the plan was to spend three. But on this rainy Saturday morning we chose to head for home, as within a week we would be packing up and hitting the road for New Mexico. There was so much to be done at home yet, and so much to pack.
We drove up and down the city streets, looking for a place we'd heard had good breakfast. We found it, parked the car and hurried almost two blocks to get back to this famous place, because it was drizzly out and while it wasn't cold, the air had a chill. I tucked my bulky camera inside my shirt and ducked my head down inside my sweatshirt hood as we hurried along like hungry, featherless birds.
The restaurant was warm and inviting. It was popular, too, as evidenced by the number of patrons. We walked into what could only be described as a gallery, or perhaps, a lobby where people milled about with no real direction. We were welcomed and pointed toward a counter where we could order a special coffee and muffin or breakfast sandwich to-go, or we could choose to be seated and dine-in. We chose to be seated. I loved the place as it showcased local art on the walls, most of which was photography on canvas. Each print was for sale. I left my camera on our table and walked the length of each wall in the room, judging myself against each print-for-sale.
I will always remember this place, although I cannot remember the name, as the place I had the best Greek omelet of my life. I don't wish to try to recreate it. The Viking was less thrilled than I, when we discovered the place was vegetarian, so the sausage we ordered wasn't what we expected. Poor Viking. When it was time to leave, I stuffed my camera back inside my shirt and cradled it as though it was a newborn baby as I waited for the Viking to run down the street to retrieve the car. I was ducking under an overhang, happy that I didn't have to run through the rain with him. I took my camera out and shot a few random shots. Then, this wonderful young man with the guitar came around the corner. There were a few seconds during which he was walking toward me, but mostly I was able to get him walking away.
I love this shot because it breaks all the rules of good photography and yet it still works. I am, after all, a good rule-breaker. Technically this should be just focused on the guy with guitar. But I loved the rain and the muted colors, and some of the architecture. So I left it all in. Even the 10 speed bike, it all seems a bit junky on the right side of the photo, if you focus on that. But, with all that left in, it all leads the eye back to the guy with guitar in bright shirt.
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I am happy to hear your thoughts.
I'm thinking about a photograph I want to share here but I am unable to connect it to my thoughts. Perhaps there is simply no connection. This is, after all, a writer's life, through the lens. I'm halfway sorry about the way I named this blog because I realize, now I have an intense need to live up to it. Whatever that means. I think it means different things to different people, and if you know me, then you know I have expectations of myself which far exceed any expectation I have of anyone else, whether known to me, family, or famous. So if you don't mind, I think I will just be forgiving to myself for now and quit expecting so much.
I took this photo on the morning we were to leave Duluth, a city which seems like home to me. We'd spent two wonderful days and nights there, and the plan was to spend three. But on this rainy Saturday morning we chose to head for home, as within a week we would be packing up and hitting the road for New Mexico. There was so much to be done at home yet, and so much to pack.
We drove up and down the city streets, looking for a place we'd heard had good breakfast. We found it, parked the car and hurried almost two blocks to get back to this famous place, because it was drizzly out and while it wasn't cold, the air had a chill. I tucked my bulky camera inside my shirt and ducked my head down inside my sweatshirt hood as we hurried along like hungry, featherless birds.
The restaurant was warm and inviting. It was popular, too, as evidenced by the number of patrons. We walked into what could only be described as a gallery, or perhaps, a lobby where people milled about with no real direction. We were welcomed and pointed toward a counter where we could order a special coffee and muffin or breakfast sandwich to-go, or we could choose to be seated and dine-in. We chose to be seated. I loved the place as it showcased local art on the walls, most of which was photography on canvas. Each print was for sale. I left my camera on our table and walked the length of each wall in the room, judging myself against each print-for-sale.
I will always remember this place, although I cannot remember the name, as the place I had the best Greek omelet of my life. I don't wish to try to recreate it. The Viking was less thrilled than I, when we discovered the place was vegetarian, so the sausage we ordered wasn't what we expected. Poor Viking. When it was time to leave, I stuffed my camera back inside my shirt and cradled it as though it was a newborn baby as I waited for the Viking to run down the street to retrieve the car. I was ducking under an overhang, happy that I didn't have to run through the rain with him. I took my camera out and shot a few random shots. Then, this wonderful young man with the guitar came around the corner. There were a few seconds during which he was walking toward me, but mostly I was able to get him walking away.
I love this shot because it breaks all the rules of good photography and yet it still works. I am, after all, a good rule-breaker. Technically this should be just focused on the guy with guitar. But I loved the rain and the muted colors, and some of the architecture. So I left it all in. Even the 10 speed bike, it all seems a bit junky on the right side of the photo, if you focus on that. But, with all that left in, it all leads the eye back to the guy with guitar in bright shirt.
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Monday, February 4, 2013
2/3/2013
I named this blog, "A writer's life, through the lens" with the intention of sharing both writings and photographs. I'm sharing a photograph today which I have hesitated to send out to the masses, because my initial critique of this photograph is that it is so simple and basic. Who could possibly be interested in it? True, it is plain. But I shared this with some photoholic friends of mine and received good reviews. So I started thinking, what about this image is so compelling to me, and why do I discover similar images on my camera once in a while, between hundreds of nature, street, animal or people shots?
Easily, I have connection to this photo because I was in a place I love, during a break from work and life; it was a small vacation. Secondly I am drawn to old buildings, beautiful or not. I do enjoy the majesty and the detail of century-old brick. Perhaps the writer and the photographer in me agree on this: pattern and repetition is pleasing to the eye, and in some cases, to the ear. And finally, maybe drifty artist-types periodically crave the solidity of a place like this. There is all the symbolism of course, of "being grounded" and "having a place to land", all of those maybe-true-but-still-too-crazy-sounding new age-ish terms.
I think it's a very interesting building. Let's leave it at that.
I named this blog, "A writer's life, through the lens" with the intention of sharing both writings and photographs. I'm sharing a photograph today which I have hesitated to send out to the masses, because my initial critique of this photograph is that it is so simple and basic. Who could possibly be interested in it? True, it is plain. But I shared this with some photoholic friends of mine and received good reviews. So I started thinking, what about this image is so compelling to me, and why do I discover similar images on my camera once in a while, between hundreds of nature, street, animal or people shots?
Easily, I have connection to this photo because I was in a place I love, during a break from work and life; it was a small vacation. Secondly I am drawn to old buildings, beautiful or not. I do enjoy the majesty and the detail of century-old brick. Perhaps the writer and the photographer in me agree on this: pattern and repetition is pleasing to the eye, and in some cases, to the ear. And finally, maybe drifty artist-types periodically crave the solidity of a place like this. There is all the symbolism of course, of "being grounded" and "having a place to land", all of those maybe-true-but-still-too-crazy-sounding new age-ish terms.
I think it's a very interesting building. Let's leave it at that.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
On Writing Letters
I wrote a letter today, with my favorite kind of pen (Papermate Flexgrip, medium point), on my favorite type of paper (dirty-looking, lined newsprint-ish) to a person who can only write letters in this way. As I wrote, I thought about the many conversations I've had with writer-friends and other friends, during which we have lamented the dying art of the hand-written letter. I started to wonder just when it was, the last time I'd written or received one such letter. I can't remember, outside previously mentioned friend, when I have sent or received one.
I know I am not the only person in the world who is horrified that in schools, children are now only being taught to print the alphabet. Penmanship is rapidly becoming a thing of the past. It occurred to me that as I wrote the letter, I was becoming familiar again with my own handwriting. How interesting! How sad. Had I forgotten my own penmanship? I think, no, I hadn't, but strangely, it was a surprise to me there on that naked page. I've grown so used to just signing my name, on checks, bank deposits, the occasional greeting card. My signature is as familiar to me as my hands; as familiar as the spot where my "writer's bump" used to be. Today, I realized that knobby spot on my middle finger is gone. There is a small, purist part of me which is horrified by this discovery. There is a larger part of me, and a more rational one, who assures that in writing-by-keyboard, I haven't failed, but instead have succeeded in reaching out to more people than I could have, without.
Every writer, whether wildly successful, aspiring, struggling, freelancing, or just dabbling remembers a few lines they've written as being particularly good. Perhaps even fantastic. If there is a writer in you, or a writer in your life, there a few lines floating around, labeled with some level of greatness or excellence. I have a few. There are some I have used, and some which haven't yet found a place. Today the letter I wrote was easy, on comfortable paper with my favorite pen. The words came as they should; they were easy and familiar. But one of my favorite writing lines ever went something like this:
"Oh, I know. It is a surprise to me too, the scratch of my pen on this paper..."
That was a good writing day, and one of my favorites. It was written by hand, the pen was scratchy and the paper less than comfortable. Today's letter-writing exercise was frustrating at times, because I cannot write as quickly as I can type. I cannot type as quickly as I can think. But I enjoyed the process of writing by hand, and there is a certain rhythm one can only find in hand writing.
Although I have lamented the loss of it, I haven't practiced the art of letter-writing much lately. It's something Ilove to do. So I wonder, why don't I do more of it?
I wrote a letter today, with my favorite kind of pen (Papermate Flexgrip, medium point), on my favorite type of paper (dirty-looking, lined newsprint-ish) to a person who can only write letters in this way. As I wrote, I thought about the many conversations I've had with writer-friends and other friends, during which we have lamented the dying art of the hand-written letter. I started to wonder just when it was, the last time I'd written or received one such letter. I can't remember, outside previously mentioned friend, when I have sent or received one.
I know I am not the only person in the world who is horrified that in schools, children are now only being taught to print the alphabet. Penmanship is rapidly becoming a thing of the past. It occurred to me that as I wrote the letter, I was becoming familiar again with my own handwriting. How interesting! How sad. Had I forgotten my own penmanship? I think, no, I hadn't, but strangely, it was a surprise to me there on that naked page. I've grown so used to just signing my name, on checks, bank deposits, the occasional greeting card. My signature is as familiar to me as my hands; as familiar as the spot where my "writer's bump" used to be. Today, I realized that knobby spot on my middle finger is gone. There is a small, purist part of me which is horrified by this discovery. There is a larger part of me, and a more rational one, who assures that in writing-by-keyboard, I haven't failed, but instead have succeeded in reaching out to more people than I could have, without.
Every writer, whether wildly successful, aspiring, struggling, freelancing, or just dabbling remembers a few lines they've written as being particularly good. Perhaps even fantastic. If there is a writer in you, or a writer in your life, there a few lines floating around, labeled with some level of greatness or excellence. I have a few. There are some I have used, and some which haven't yet found a place. Today the letter I wrote was easy, on comfortable paper with my favorite pen. The words came as they should; they were easy and familiar. But one of my favorite writing lines ever went something like this:
"Oh, I know. It is a surprise to me too, the scratch of my pen on this paper..."
That was a good writing day, and one of my favorites. It was written by hand, the pen was scratchy and the paper less than comfortable. Today's letter-writing exercise was frustrating at times, because I cannot write as quickly as I can type. I cannot type as quickly as I can think. But I enjoyed the process of writing by hand, and there is a certain rhythm one can only find in hand writing.
Although I have lamented the loss of it, I haven't practiced the art of letter-writing much lately. It's something Ilove to do. So I wonder, why don't I do more of it?
Thursday, December 20, 2012
I Guess You Could Say...
For the past couple of weeks, I have been a crazy person. I guess you could say I have been stressed out. Last weekend, Christmas with my husband's family, which was wonderful, but the preparation was long. Stress inducing. Going to visit his family is, for me, quite a lot like going home. I am so blessed to have in-laws I love dearly, and who also love me. My mother in law is one of my best friends. I know, it sounds impossible, but it is absolutely true; I would hang out with her even if we were not related. I love her like my own mother, at least 364 days of the year, (come on... I get one day to be iffy on this) and in fact I have much in common with her, that I do not have with my mother. The point is, I am one lucky person. Except on the off year, when she does not get "Real Christmas". Which means, the 25th of December. Since the beginning of my time in Minnesota, my husband and I have "taken turns" with the mothers, for actual Christmas day. As I just typed that, I am again reminded of what a ridiculous exercise this has become. So, on the off year, when my beautiful and wonderful mom in law doesn't get (her words) "real Christmas", it is a dicey, sometimes tense, definitely sad-for-her time. I've tried to talk with her about it and said, "Christmas is whenever we are all in the same place, here we are, this awesome family". Yeah. Christmas, for her, happens only on the 25th of December, and although she will have a weekend prior to Christmas, when my husband and I come to visit, do all the fun Christmas stuff... it is lacking for her. It is lacking for everyone, really, because mostly we open presents from everyone, and they open presents from us, but the rest are saved for "real Christmas". I guess you could say this is a hurdle we've never gotten over.
I think about my own family, and the craziness therein. As opposed to my husband's relatively small, stoic Norwegian clan, we on my mother's side are a ridiculously loud melting pot of whatever seems cool; I like that we are Lithuanian on my maternal Grandmother's side because it makes sense to me. It is not the only history with which I identify; on my Father's side, there were horse traders and people from the Isle of Man. I guess you could say I come from a diverse background. I remember Christmases on both sides of my family and they were fun, and loud, and wonderful, and someone was always, without fail, pissed off. I guess you could say my parents and grandparents were human beings.
As I prepare for the trip "home", I think about so many things like this, so many Christmases past. Always, at this time of year, I miss my grandparents, on both sides. My Uncle Doug. There are many things like that, upon which a person could focus. I guess you could say I've changed my way of thinking. I'm happy to be heading home for a few days.
This year, I'm done with panic. Done with "musts". When I get home, my mother will be obsessing over cranberry relish and whether or not there are an equal number of gifts for everyone. There will still be a rift in the family and some will not attend the extended family Christmas. Everything that makes me nuts about my family will still make me nuts. There will be a few pissing matches between family members, because that is just how it goes. I plan to hug the little ones tight, give gifts with my whole heart, and give great eye roll to those who just won't play. I guess you could say I am looking forward to going home.
Merry Christmas to you all, and may you have the strength to get through your family holidays.
For the past couple of weeks, I have been a crazy person. I guess you could say I have been stressed out. Last weekend, Christmas with my husband's family, which was wonderful, but the preparation was long. Stress inducing. Going to visit his family is, for me, quite a lot like going home. I am so blessed to have in-laws I love dearly, and who also love me. My mother in law is one of my best friends. I know, it sounds impossible, but it is absolutely true; I would hang out with her even if we were not related. I love her like my own mother, at least 364 days of the year, (come on... I get one day to be iffy on this) and in fact I have much in common with her, that I do not have with my mother. The point is, I am one lucky person. Except on the off year, when she does not get "Real Christmas". Which means, the 25th of December. Since the beginning of my time in Minnesota, my husband and I have "taken turns" with the mothers, for actual Christmas day. As I just typed that, I am again reminded of what a ridiculous exercise this has become. So, on the off year, when my beautiful and wonderful mom in law doesn't get (her words) "real Christmas", it is a dicey, sometimes tense, definitely sad-for-her time. I've tried to talk with her about it and said, "Christmas is whenever we are all in the same place, here we are, this awesome family". Yeah. Christmas, for her, happens only on the 25th of December, and although she will have a weekend prior to Christmas, when my husband and I come to visit, do all the fun Christmas stuff... it is lacking for her. It is lacking for everyone, really, because mostly we open presents from everyone, and they open presents from us, but the rest are saved for "real Christmas". I guess you could say this is a hurdle we've never gotten over.
I think about my own family, and the craziness therein. As opposed to my husband's relatively small, stoic Norwegian clan, we on my mother's side are a ridiculously loud melting pot of whatever seems cool; I like that we are Lithuanian on my maternal Grandmother's side because it makes sense to me. It is not the only history with which I identify; on my Father's side, there were horse traders and people from the Isle of Man. I guess you could say I come from a diverse background. I remember Christmases on both sides of my family and they were fun, and loud, and wonderful, and someone was always, without fail, pissed off. I guess you could say my parents and grandparents were human beings.
As I prepare for the trip "home", I think about so many things like this, so many Christmases past. Always, at this time of year, I miss my grandparents, on both sides. My Uncle Doug. There are many things like that, upon which a person could focus. I guess you could say I've changed my way of thinking. I'm happy to be heading home for a few days.
This year, I'm done with panic. Done with "musts". When I get home, my mother will be obsessing over cranberry relish and whether or not there are an equal number of gifts for everyone. There will still be a rift in the family and some will not attend the extended family Christmas. Everything that makes me nuts about my family will still make me nuts. There will be a few pissing matches between family members, because that is just how it goes. I plan to hug the little ones tight, give gifts with my whole heart, and give great eye roll to those who just won't play. I guess you could say I am looking forward to going home.
Merry Christmas to you all, and may you have the strength to get through your family holidays.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Take time to be amazed
I'll admit it. I've been in a bad space. A funk. A snit. I've been in a mood, not for long, but for the past week or so. I have much on my mind. The holidays are stressful. My friend is in the hospital. I'm worried about our sweet Maggie, who may not be with us for long. These troubles settle not just in my mind but somewhere under my left shoulder blade and deep inside my left hip. I know better than to wait until my body renders me useless...I'm familiar with this pattern and I know how to deal with it, yet I resist the idea that I am not invincible. Every single time. That is true of many people I know, who keep at it and carry on despite what might be debilitating circumstances. I wonder, what is this compulsion to be above pain, whether it is physical or emotional?
I know where mine comes from. My Grandpas were hard-working men who didn't have much time for sissified behavior. Their wives, my Grandmas were incredible women, tougher than most people I know today. These were people who believed in hard, honest work, and who lived their beliefs in a way that is as impressive to me now as it was then. I can still hear my Grandpa Jack hollering, "Headache? You have a headache? I've had a headache every God damned day of my life! Sooner you get to work, sooner you'll be done!" There was no ailment that Grandpa Jack hadn't had every God damned day of his life, so good luck trying to get out of anything. My Grandpa Brooks built a business, an empire really, from the ground up, and worked at it eight days a week. These were the people who made my parents, who then made me. Lucky me. Lucky, blessed me. I am so glad to have inherited and learned this sort of tenacity; it has carried me through some difficult times.
I have thought of them, lately. When I don't want to get out of bed to take a walk, just because I want to exercise, I think of them. How they got up every morning much earlier than I do, even on my early days. How they ran a business, managed a farm, raised children, and a hundred other daily things that I cannot even comprehend. It makes my life by comparison seem so simple. I am amazed by them.
I've been growly on my walks, the past couple of weeks. I don't much like exercise in any form. I have walked by a particular bunch of weeds, which bend and catch the morning sun in a way that cannot be planned. I keep thinking, "I need to grab my camera and catch that". They are especially lovely on mornings when there is frost. I realized today, I am amazed by them. I've watched them while walking, while driving in and out of my driveway. Why haven't I taken my camera just down my driveway to capture them? They are amazing in their simplicity.
I took a walk this morning with my neighbor and friend. I am amazed by how much this changed my mood and my day. Took a break in my day and had lunch with another friend, and her daughter, one of my favorite grown-up kids ever. I am amazed at how happy I was to see this young woman, and at how an hour with my friend, her mom, changed the whole direction of my day.
On my way home I was inspired to consider other things which are incredible to me. Here is just a partial list:
The unlikely but beautiful sea-green color of my husband's eyes
The way the big windows in my house face exactly northwest
The whorl on Lucy's face, the direction it flows, and how that is supposed to tell her personality and demeanor, and that it is accurate
That my mother in law is one of my best friends (truly!), and that she and my own mother are buddies (really!)
The extremely strange and unlikely circumstances which lead me to my short list of terrific friends
The way that I survived not one, but two brain surgeries
That my Dad is the person who put me back in touch with my Father, and pushed me to continue that relationship (figure that one out, ha ha)
That flowers can be green and purple at the same time
That I have the most amazing set of nieces and one nephew in the universe
That both of my stepmothers are not "stepmonsters" but women who I really love and admire
That I am loved (really!) by people I never thought I would be
That sunflowers exist and stand up, against all laws of physics
That hummingbirds exist,, and fly against all laws of physics
That now I have not just one but two horses, and they are both wonderful beyond belief
That I feel loving and protective over every kid in my neighborhood
That I feel loving and protective of every dog in my neighborhood, and that both dogs and kids are super cool
Certainly, I could make a much larger list. But it was a bit of a game changer when I started thinking about things this way. I encourage you to take time to be amazed. It is a leveling exercise. Good luck to you, and may you find something new to add to your list, every day.
I think tomorrow, I will grab my camera, catch those cool weeds when the sun is coming up.
I know where mine comes from. My Grandpas were hard-working men who didn't have much time for sissified behavior. Their wives, my Grandmas were incredible women, tougher than most people I know today. These were people who believed in hard, honest work, and who lived their beliefs in a way that is as impressive to me now as it was then. I can still hear my Grandpa Jack hollering, "Headache? You have a headache? I've had a headache every God damned day of my life! Sooner you get to work, sooner you'll be done!" There was no ailment that Grandpa Jack hadn't had every God damned day of his life, so good luck trying to get out of anything. My Grandpa Brooks built a business, an empire really, from the ground up, and worked at it eight days a week. These were the people who made my parents, who then made me. Lucky me. Lucky, blessed me. I am so glad to have inherited and learned this sort of tenacity; it has carried me through some difficult times.
I have thought of them, lately. When I don't want to get out of bed to take a walk, just because I want to exercise, I think of them. How they got up every morning much earlier than I do, even on my early days. How they ran a business, managed a farm, raised children, and a hundred other daily things that I cannot even comprehend. It makes my life by comparison seem so simple. I am amazed by them.
I've been growly on my walks, the past couple of weeks. I don't much like exercise in any form. I have walked by a particular bunch of weeds, which bend and catch the morning sun in a way that cannot be planned. I keep thinking, "I need to grab my camera and catch that". They are especially lovely on mornings when there is frost. I realized today, I am amazed by them. I've watched them while walking, while driving in and out of my driveway. Why haven't I taken my camera just down my driveway to capture them? They are amazing in their simplicity.
I took a walk this morning with my neighbor and friend. I am amazed by how much this changed my mood and my day. Took a break in my day and had lunch with another friend, and her daughter, one of my favorite grown-up kids ever. I am amazed at how happy I was to see this young woman, and at how an hour with my friend, her mom, changed the whole direction of my day.
On my way home I was inspired to consider other things which are incredible to me. Here is just a partial list:
The unlikely but beautiful sea-green color of my husband's eyes
The way the big windows in my house face exactly northwest
The whorl on Lucy's face, the direction it flows, and how that is supposed to tell her personality and demeanor, and that it is accurate
That my mother in law is one of my best friends (truly!), and that she and my own mother are buddies (really!)
The extremely strange and unlikely circumstances which lead me to my short list of terrific friends
The way that I survived not one, but two brain surgeries
That my Dad is the person who put me back in touch with my Father, and pushed me to continue that relationship (figure that one out, ha ha)
That flowers can be green and purple at the same time
That I have the most amazing set of nieces and one nephew in the universe
That both of my stepmothers are not "stepmonsters" but women who I really love and admire
That I am loved (really!) by people I never thought I would be
That sunflowers exist and stand up, against all laws of physics
That hummingbirds exist,, and fly against all laws of physics
That now I have not just one but two horses, and they are both wonderful beyond belief
That I feel loving and protective over every kid in my neighborhood
That I feel loving and protective of every dog in my neighborhood, and that both dogs and kids are super cool
Certainly, I could make a much larger list. But it was a bit of a game changer when I started thinking about things this way. I encourage you to take time to be amazed. It is a leveling exercise. Good luck to you, and may you find something new to add to your list, every day.
I think tomorrow, I will grab my camera, catch those cool weeds when the sun is coming up.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Reflections on a little black lab:
Her name is Maggie, and I knew that, the first time I held her. She was just two weeks old, a fat little orb with slits for eyes and legs not long enough to propel her toward me. She tumbled around with her litter mates, all of them crying that newly-born cry which is half fear and half excitement. She rolled toward me, quicker than the others, and I scooped her up in one hand, at the same time saying, "Hello, Maggie!" Her tiny body fit in my palm. I held her to my chest. And so it was. I visited her on Fridays, every week. I would say, "Where's Maggie?" As she grew, she would stumble on fat legs, trot a little, then muscle her way through or over her siblings, at the sound of my voice.
She was to be a surprise, a gift to my husband, although we were not yet married at that time. I brought her home when she was just eight weeks old. Maggie fit in Nolan's hand perfectly now; she was too big to fit nicely in just one of mine. He carried her around like that for days, like I had, in one hand, close to his chest. I kept saying, "You have to stop doing that! He won't hurt her, you just have to let them work it out." My old dog Astro had trained his share of puppies and he was not impressed by the arrival of her royal highness, but she loved him. Astro would never admit it, but she wore him down. He wanted everyone to believe he merely tolerated her, but to be truthful, he fell in love with Maggie just like the rest of us. He played again. She made him young again, and tested his patience again. There were times when we thought, "oh no, she's dead", thinking surely he would chomp her head. He never did. Instead he just took her toys and laid on them. Put a paw on her head, as if to say, "Shut up now, or I will kill you". He would gather her toys in a pile, allow her to be obnoxious for just-so-long, and then lay on them. Game over.
When it was time for Astro to pass on, Maggie grieved. She quit eating, she wouldn't sleep. She looked for him constantly. It was difficult to watch. But of course, she was only four. And he was thirteen. I took her everywhere with me, because I couldn't stand the way she cried and searched, every time I came home. Because of course, I had taken him away. Why didn't I bring him back home?
Sooner than I thought it would happen, a new dog came into our lives. Enter JAX! Maggie was then forced to be older, the one to"train in" if you will, the new dog, twice her size but always submissive to her. I watched, after Astro's passing and Jax's arrival, this little imp of a lab turn into a serious, loving mother hen of a dog, who cared for not just the ridiculous disaster who was Jax, but also the ridiculous disasters who were her Dad and me... the humans in her life. In retrospect I see how Jax gave her a new purpose, and then how she herded, gathered, and cared for us all. Poor baby.
It is time for us to make the decision no pet owner wants to make. Maggie Mae has been the coolest dog in some ways, also the silliest. She is a lab. She is afraid of water. She will not go outside no matter how bad she has to GO... if it is raining. If it is too cold, she will pee on the porch. She is afraid of the dark. The dog cannot be dragged into a lake, a kiddie pool, not even a mud puddle. Unless of course it is her idea, in which case she will roll in the puddle with wild abandon. Let's not even talk about the other things she occasionally rolls in. Gross.
Given all that, she has still been an awesome dog. She had to grow up when she didn't want to... and if any of you know Jax... helloooo... he's who she had to train in. Bless her heart, she has been, despite her dislike for being hugged and touched, the dog who has laid in my bed, right against me, full contact, when I've had a couple of different surgeries. She's been the good girl who will not leave my side, or Nolan's side, when one of us are hurt or sick. She can be such a lummox when she is seeking attention, but on the other hand, so careful and tender when she knows her humans are hurting. And has, time and time again, laid close and allowed hugging, with great patience, even though in her younger years this was simply torture for her. As she gets older she chooses to cuddle up now and then, but not often, and not for long.
It is with great sorrow that my husband and I speak about the end of her life. She is healthy, physically. She takes a thyroid pill, it changed her life, she runs like a stocky little greyhound. But she is losing her mind. The wonderful neurotic, caretaking dog that she has been for so many years is so quickly leaving us. It started with something we found funny. Oh dear, too many people here, and Maggie needs some quiet so she is hiding in the shower. It didn't seem SO weird then, after all, she has always been quirky, and we have loved her for it. That was two years ago, probably... and today, if there is any change in her routine, she becomes a trembling, panting, teeth-chattering mess. It has been a gradual progression and we haven't talked much about it. But today, we are a long way from that silly little dog who just needs some private time, so she hides in the shower. We have reached, now, the point where we have medicated her for almost a year. We've changed her medication. The vet (who I love, and so does she, and so does Jax) said, let's try this, and then this, and then THIS... but understand none of it might work, we might be dealing with dementia. So then it becomes a quality of life issue. We are at the second "this" which isn't working.
I've experienced human relatives who, toward the end of their lives, didn't recognize me. It was creepy, horrible. And this is where we are with Maggie. At times she does not know who I am or who Nolan is. It is the most horrible feeling, to chase her and have to catch her, knowing she is absolutely terrified of us. I don't want this life for her. We haven't decided yet but I think it's maybe time. We keep saying, "Let's give it a week", as if a week will cure her. She has good days.
I can't help but think of a time in my life when I was saying, "But today was a good day, so, maybe..." And how, as a therapist, I would say to my clients, if you are measuring your happiness by "good days" versus "bad days", and the bad days are winning, then, you need to get out of this situation. When I was telling myself, "but we had a few good days, so, see how this is a good thing?", I realize now it was such a ridiculous bunch of backward logic. And I fear that out of selfishness, we might be keeping a dog alive who is suffering. Wait. I know we are.
Princess Mary Margaret Magdalena Moon Pie... with your soft, soft puppy hair which you never lost, with your deep black seal eyes, your funny way of "talking" to people, your silly acrobatics, the way you flail into a person you think is pretty cool, the way you become five hundred pounds past your reasonable sixty five when you get on the big bed and don't want to get off ... the way you were so proud, those many years ago when we took down the deer fence around the garden and you brought me three or four dead corn stalks every day, the way you so proudly cleaned our woods of old toys, foil balloons, dead squirrels, and also pieces of dead things I could no longer recognize, but that were definitely dead and slimy... the way you sit so proudly and "shake" ... you are a wonderful, cool, fantastic good girl. Ten years with you is not enough. And another month is too long.
I won't say goodbye to you tomorrow. But soon. And then I will simply say, "Good night, my silly girl girl, I love you so much" Like I have said to you every night of the almost 11 years of your life. Good night, Maggie.
Her name is Maggie, and I knew that, the first time I held her. She was just two weeks old, a fat little orb with slits for eyes and legs not long enough to propel her toward me. She tumbled around with her litter mates, all of them crying that newly-born cry which is half fear and half excitement. She rolled toward me, quicker than the others, and I scooped her up in one hand, at the same time saying, "Hello, Maggie!" Her tiny body fit in my palm. I held her to my chest. And so it was. I visited her on Fridays, every week. I would say, "Where's Maggie?" As she grew, she would stumble on fat legs, trot a little, then muscle her way through or over her siblings, at the sound of my voice.
She was to be a surprise, a gift to my husband, although we were not yet married at that time. I brought her home when she was just eight weeks old. Maggie fit in Nolan's hand perfectly now; she was too big to fit nicely in just one of mine. He carried her around like that for days, like I had, in one hand, close to his chest. I kept saying, "You have to stop doing that! He won't hurt her, you just have to let them work it out." My old dog Astro had trained his share of puppies and he was not impressed by the arrival of her royal highness, but she loved him. Astro would never admit it, but she wore him down. He wanted everyone to believe he merely tolerated her, but to be truthful, he fell in love with Maggie just like the rest of us. He played again. She made him young again, and tested his patience again. There were times when we thought, "oh no, she's dead", thinking surely he would chomp her head. He never did. Instead he just took her toys and laid on them. Put a paw on her head, as if to say, "Shut up now, or I will kill you". He would gather her toys in a pile, allow her to be obnoxious for just-so-long, and then lay on them. Game over.
When it was time for Astro to pass on, Maggie grieved. She quit eating, she wouldn't sleep. She looked for him constantly. It was difficult to watch. But of course, she was only four. And he was thirteen. I took her everywhere with me, because I couldn't stand the way she cried and searched, every time I came home. Because of course, I had taken him away. Why didn't I bring him back home?
Sooner than I thought it would happen, a new dog came into our lives. Enter JAX! Maggie was then forced to be older, the one to"train in" if you will, the new dog, twice her size but always submissive to her. I watched, after Astro's passing and Jax's arrival, this little imp of a lab turn into a serious, loving mother hen of a dog, who cared for not just the ridiculous disaster who was Jax, but also the ridiculous disasters who were her Dad and me... the humans in her life. In retrospect I see how Jax gave her a new purpose, and then how she herded, gathered, and cared for us all. Poor baby.
It is time for us to make the decision no pet owner wants to make. Maggie Mae has been the coolest dog in some ways, also the silliest. She is a lab. She is afraid of water. She will not go outside no matter how bad she has to GO... if it is raining. If it is too cold, she will pee on the porch. She is afraid of the dark. The dog cannot be dragged into a lake, a kiddie pool, not even a mud puddle. Unless of course it is her idea, in which case she will roll in the puddle with wild abandon. Let's not even talk about the other things she occasionally rolls in. Gross.
Given all that, she has still been an awesome dog. She had to grow up when she didn't want to... and if any of you know Jax... helloooo... he's who she had to train in. Bless her heart, she has been, despite her dislike for being hugged and touched, the dog who has laid in my bed, right against me, full contact, when I've had a couple of different surgeries. She's been the good girl who will not leave my side, or Nolan's side, when one of us are hurt or sick. She can be such a lummox when she is seeking attention, but on the other hand, so careful and tender when she knows her humans are hurting. And has, time and time again, laid close and allowed hugging, with great patience, even though in her younger years this was simply torture for her. As she gets older she chooses to cuddle up now and then, but not often, and not for long.
It is with great sorrow that my husband and I speak about the end of her life. She is healthy, physically. She takes a thyroid pill, it changed her life, she runs like a stocky little greyhound. But she is losing her mind. The wonderful neurotic, caretaking dog that she has been for so many years is so quickly leaving us. It started with something we found funny. Oh dear, too many people here, and Maggie needs some quiet so she is hiding in the shower. It didn't seem SO weird then, after all, she has always been quirky, and we have loved her for it. That was two years ago, probably... and today, if there is any change in her routine, she becomes a trembling, panting, teeth-chattering mess. It has been a gradual progression and we haven't talked much about it. But today, we are a long way from that silly little dog who just needs some private time, so she hides in the shower. We have reached, now, the point where we have medicated her for almost a year. We've changed her medication. The vet (who I love, and so does she, and so does Jax) said, let's try this, and then this, and then THIS... but understand none of it might work, we might be dealing with dementia. So then it becomes a quality of life issue. We are at the second "this" which isn't working.
I've experienced human relatives who, toward the end of their lives, didn't recognize me. It was creepy, horrible. And this is where we are with Maggie. At times she does not know who I am or who Nolan is. It is the most horrible feeling, to chase her and have to catch her, knowing she is absolutely terrified of us. I don't want this life for her. We haven't decided yet but I think it's maybe time. We keep saying, "Let's give it a week", as if a week will cure her. She has good days.
I can't help but think of a time in my life when I was saying, "But today was a good day, so, maybe..." And how, as a therapist, I would say to my clients, if you are measuring your happiness by "good days" versus "bad days", and the bad days are winning, then, you need to get out of this situation. When I was telling myself, "but we had a few good days, so, see how this is a good thing?", I realize now it was such a ridiculous bunch of backward logic. And I fear that out of selfishness, we might be keeping a dog alive who is suffering. Wait. I know we are.
Princess Mary Margaret Magdalena Moon Pie... with your soft, soft puppy hair which you never lost, with your deep black seal eyes, your funny way of "talking" to people, your silly acrobatics, the way you flail into a person you think is pretty cool, the way you become five hundred pounds past your reasonable sixty five when you get on the big bed and don't want to get off ... the way you were so proud, those many years ago when we took down the deer fence around the garden and you brought me three or four dead corn stalks every day, the way you so proudly cleaned our woods of old toys, foil balloons, dead squirrels, and also pieces of dead things I could no longer recognize, but that were definitely dead and slimy... the way you sit so proudly and "shake" ... you are a wonderful, cool, fantastic good girl. Ten years with you is not enough. And another month is too long.
I won't say goodbye to you tomorrow. But soon. And then I will simply say, "Good night, my silly girl girl, I love you so much" Like I have said to you every night of the almost 11 years of your life. Good night, Maggie.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
I'm new to this blogging thing. I'm not sure how much I will use it. But I like the idea of it, in that I can share thoughts and ideas here, and not lambaste my friends with them. I'm not quite sure yet how to get all of this done, but hang in there with me, folks, and maybe this will turn out to be a pretty cool thing. Onward...
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