skip to main |
skip to sidebar
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We have five dogs, eight cats, and a Chameleon named Napoleon. This wasn’t planned. We never intended to become crazy animal people. When one pet left our lives, we always sought out another to fill the void. It was a natural process. My husband and I purchased our first dog, a Scottish Terrier named Chivas Regal, before we married. My dog Lady had died while I was away at college and when I came home for summer break I couldn't live in a house without a dog. Chivas lived with my parents while I completed my last year of college and attended graduate school. Chivas died two weeks before he was going to come live with me and my husband. We subsequently adopted Piper who was also a Scottie.
Piper was the child we didn’t have. He played hide and seek with us, wore costumes on Halloween, and went with us on outings. At that time we lived on a farm and Piper shared our home with Katerina, a stray cat my cousin Janet was seeking to rehome, and Charlie Chaplin, an offspring of a barn cat. As a kitten C.C. was mauled by our neighbor’s dogs and injured her back legs. Seeking a safe place she crawled into the space between our front door and screen door and into our hearts and home.
When my husband decided to continue his education, we were forced to move to another state. During those days of transition, Piper disappeared. (Years later we learned he was another victim of the neighbors’ dogs). I searched for him for six weeks and when my search proved unsuccessful, we adopted a stray Benji-type dog that was going to be taken to a local kill shelter. Heyu moved with us to Kentucky. We left Katerina in the care of my sister and C.C. with my parents.
Heyu was our only dog for 17 years. When our second child was four months old, we adopted a gray kitten that had been abandoned at my parents’ farm and was destined to be a barn cat. We named her Panther. Heyu and Panther accepted each other without hesitation. After Heyu died, my husband and children gave me Cutty Sark, a three month old Scottish Terrier, as a combined birthday/Mother’s Day gift. Cutty was the best gift I had ever received. When my cousin Janet was unable to keep Windsor, her West Highland White Terrier, she shipped him to us. Windsor quickly adjusted to his change in circumstances and his new fur siblings.
Panther died at age 10 while my children and I were in New York visiting my parents. We searched in the barn for a new cat to adopt. Phantom, a pregnant cat with respiratory problems, had been dumped on the farm. She was an outcast. We adopted Phantom and she delivered her kittens under my son A’s bed. Phantom's offspring Paws and Goliath stayed with us and Kabuki was adopted by my husband’s brother’s family.
Our home was a peaceable kingdom where our cats and dogs ate, slept, and played together. Other animals were also part of our family: goldfish, hermit crabs, Siamese fighting fish, hamsters, guinea pigs, and an Iguana we named Juan. The years passed and our children, cats, and dogs grew older. As with most things in life, we weren’t prepared for what was to come.
Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives. ~John Galsworthy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My backyard is made up of a series of garden rooms. When we first moved to our house, the backyard was sparsely landscaped with a few large trees, an old metal shed, some scraggly bushes, and an area that was boggy in the spring and cracked and dry in the summer. Over the years some of the trees died and we added a wooden swing set and a trampoline for our children. I transplanted some of the bushes to hide the shed and started planting flowers. Gradually the yard evolved into a series of garden rooms. These include a woodland garden where our deceased pets are buried; an oriental garden with a gravel floor and a hammock to rest; a French/secret garden highlighted by dwarf fruit trees; a vegetable garden with raised beds and a grape arbor created from the wooden swing set our children outgrew; an herb garden with dwarf crabapple trees and blueberry bushes, and a berm of flowers and rosebushes. The center of the yard has a small grassy area and a pond with a stream where the trampoline used to stand.
My garden is my sanctuary; my place to escape. Whenever I am bored, sad, or angry I only need to step outside the back door to find a world where worries and time are forgotten. The garden is constantly changing. It offers many distractions to occupy my time. I follow the paths from room to room, looking for plants that have recently sprouted, a blossom that has become a miniature apple or peach, or a bud that will soon open. There is always something that needs to be done: weeds to pull; trees and bushes to prune; plants to tend, feed and water. There are benches, chairs and hammocks where I can sit and read or watch the never ending activity offered by the garden. The dogs play and explore using pathways they have created. The koi and comets in the pond glide through the water, dining on insects and algae. Birds splash in the stream, flutter from bush to tree, and dine at the bird feeders. Butterflies glide by and bees move from flower to flower. Soon the dragonflies and hummingbirds will return. The air is scented with lilacs, honeysuckle and roses. The sounds of the outside world are muffled by the waterfall and birdsong. If I am quiet and listen, I can almost hear the earth breathing.
“A garden isn't meant to be useful. It's for joy.“ ~Rumer Godden
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I once had a farm in New York.
When I say those words, I think of myself as the main character in the movie “Out of Africa” who had a farm, a life, and lost everything. My father purchased the farm when I was 15 years old. Every weekend, weather permitting, family and friends would gather at the farm to work and have impromptu picnics. One year after our marriage, my husband and I moved into a small house on the farm that had been converted from a barn. We had a Scottish Terrier named Piper and two cats, Charlie Chaplin and Katerina. I had a quarter acre garden and a small greenhouse where I started seedlings and grew babies breath. The house was filled with 90 houseplants and I could look out the windows and see horses grazing in the pastures. It was a time when I was surrounded by family and friends. We had a party or invited guests for dinner every month and the farm was a place where people came to visit and enjoy the pleasures of life in the country.
After two and half years we moved to Kentucky so my husband could continue his education. Our dog and two cats were lost or dead within the year, casualties of our move, and we adopted a stray dog whom we named Heyu. Most of my plants did not survive the move. We lived in a small apartment on the second floor of an older building in a city where I had no family or friends and could not find employment for one year. Nothing of interest was in walking distance, I did not have a car, and I was alone and isolated except for two days a week when I volunteered at a local museum.
As the years passed my husband and I made annual trips back to the farm to visit my parents and extended family, and after my children were born we would visit for the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day and four to six weeks during the summer. Every time I drove through the front gates of the farm a voice inside me would shout “Home” and when we left I would always cry for all I was leaving behind.
After my parents died, my sister and I inherited the farm. My children and I continued to make our summer trips for a few years, but circumstances beyond my control brought those visits to an end. As the years passed, the farm fell into disrepair. Ultimately, I was forced to make the decision to sell the farm to a family member or else risk having it auctioned due to unpaid taxes. In order to save my parents’ legacy, I chose to sell.
All I have left of those happy days are memories, photographs, and a set of coffee mugs my husband gave to me as a gift for one of my birthdays. The mugs are identical to those we had given my parents as a gift with the name of the farm on one side and a picture of a racehorse on the other. Every morning I drink coffee from one of my mugs and think about those days of milk and honey.
"And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise."
~From “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories.” ~From the movie An Affair to Remember
All of us of a “certain” age have a memory of a neighborhood movie theater. My childhood haunt was the Lyell Theatre in Rochester, New York. For my husband it was the Vogue Theater in Louisville, Kentucky. Although divided by several states and 600 miles, those neighborhood theaters had many similarities. Both were within walking distance of our homes and during the summer months and on weekends we went to the theater with friends unaccompanied by adults. Unlike the monster multi-plex theaters of today, these neighborhood theaters had one or two outside ticket windows, a lobby with posters advertising upcoming movies, and an area with a food counter and dispensing machines where you could purchase popcorn, hot dogs, ice cream, soft drinks, coffee, and candy. The single theater had a high ceiling, a center aisle, one large viewing screen, and a stage. Instead of cup holders, the arms of the seats had mini ashtrays.
People in those days did not have cellphones to disturb theater patrons, and talking and rude behavior were not tolerated. Ushers with flashlights monitored the audience and seated late arrivals. The cost of admission was fifty cents or less for children under 12 and purchased an afternoon of entertainment. Instead of previews and one main feature, my friends and I could see two feature movies plus cartoons and previews. If one time around wasn’t enough, we could stay and watch the movies and cartoons a second time for the price of the one admission ticket. My cousin Patty and I saw the Beatles movie “A Hard Day’s Night” eleven times in two days.
As time passed neighborhood theaters lost their clientele and many, like the Lyell, became “Adult” theaters. Others adapted and survived by showing independent, foreign, and art house films and cult movies. The Vogue Theater took this route. After moving to Kentucky with my husband, I remember going to the Vogue following a showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. The floor was slick with water, rice and other things thrown during the movie. The Vogue Theater opened on December 22, 1939 and closed September 1998 - the last single screen, privately-owned theater in Louisville. KY. Today it has been “reborn” as part of an upscale shopping center. The theater has been gutted, the stage and seats removed, but the marquee remains to remind us of the days when children could walk to a neighborhood theater unchaperoned without the fear of child predators lurking behind bushes or sitting next to them during a movie.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We have become a country of whiners and finger-pointers. I am tired of complainers and crabby people. I am sick of negativity, naysayers, and people who blame their problems on others. I am frustrated with people who constantly make poor choices and continue to repeat their mistakes. I am angry with those who fail to take responsibility for their actions and those who are doing well, but feel no need to extend a helping hand to others. As my husband so often states, everyone sees himself as a victim.
I am surrounded by people who see their cup as half empty instead of half full, who focus on the negative instead of the positive, and who only see problems instead of opportunities and solutions. Their failure to see what they have and their need to focus on what they don’t have is a dark cloud that they carry with them. They suck the happiness out of life and infect others with their inner darkness. Other people can’t make you happy, but they can make you unhappy.
Many years ago a TV commercial featured an elderly woman getting out of bed. I don't remember the product she was trying to sell, but I remember what she said: “When I get up in the morning I can choose to be happy or I can choose to be sad. I choose to be happy.” This philosophy may seem simplistic or unrealistic, but the fact is our feelings and expectations affect our lives. We can’t move forward or resolve our problems if we believe the obstacles are too great to overcome or that we have been dealt a bad hand in the game of life. Some people are born lucky while others make their own luck. We are self fulfilling prophecies.
If you have a home, your health and people who love you, you have more than most people in the world. For some people, whatever they have is never enough. The grass always seems to be greener elsewhere. Everyone has problems, some more than others. It seems that the people who have been faced with the worst situations, who have been blindsided by tragedies that should have crushed them, are the ones who have the best outlook on life. Their losses do not overwhelm or define them. They are the ones who are generous with their time and money, who appreciate the simple things in life, and who have found a purpose that is not self serving. They have discovered what it means to have "enough".
"Make a note to yourself to start thinking more about what you have than what you want. For perhaps the first time in your life you’ll know what it means to be satisfied." ~Richard Carson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My grandfather was a gardener. He grew roses in his front yard, a grapevine on an overhead arbor near the side door of his house, and a vegetable garden in his backyard. A visit to Grandpa’s house during the growing season always included inspecting the progress of what was growing in the garden. This backyard was the site of my parents’ wedding reception, many family gatherings and celebrations, picnics and clambakes, and annual Easter egg hunts. My cousins and I would put on our snowsuits and build snowmen in the backyard during the winter. My grandfather constructed a fireplace/grill in one corner of the yard and another corner was designated for his garden. An old apple tree dominated the backyard until it died. As I grew the size of the backyard seemed to diminish. The yard that was the location for so many happy childhood events was in reality no larger than a postage stamp.
When my Uncle Dom, my grandfather’s oldest son, purchased a house outside the city limits my grandfather moved his garden to the much larger backyard. My aunts told me that while inspecting my grandfather’s new garden, I held out my hands palms pointed upwards and asked my grandfather, “but where are the watermelons” which I pronounced as “water mel-owns” just like grandpa. Years later my father bought a small farm even further out on the same road and my grandfather created an even bigger garden. He chose a site far from a water source and spent much of the day carrying buckets of water to his garden and then resting in the shade.
I am a gardener. I plant vegetables in a space in my backyard as small as my grandfather’s original site and when the seeds burst from the ground and the plants grow and bear fruit I feel a connection with my grandfather and those simpler times. Last year I planted a watermelon plant. The vine grew and produced three tiny melons no bigger than baseballs. I think my grandfather would have been proud of me.
"There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again." ~Elizabeth Lawrence
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The local weather stations are predicting a spring storm tonight with heavy rains, high winds, thunder and lightning - my favorite kind of evening. I love lying in bed in the middle of the night hearing the storm passing overhead, shaking the tree branches and battering the roof. When thunder shakes the house and rattles the windows, my dogs bark in response. If the storm intensifies and sets off a warning siren, the dogs join in with a howling song to ensure that no one sleeps while danger is near.
I like dark rainy mornings when I can pull the covers over my head and sleep as if time has stopped and the obligations of the day have been suspended. I like rainy days when I have nowhere to go and I can idle away the hours with my dogs, a good book, and a cup of tea. I like the way the world looks after the storm has ended - everything is clean and renewed, and the raindrops sparkle in the sunshine.
I have many memories associated with rain and thunder storms: Standing in the backyard at my cousin Joey’s house, imagining that the thunder was caused by giants bowling in the sky; Walking back to the dorm at night after seeing a movie at a local theater with a group of college friends, dancing in the street and splashing in the puddles; Driving to New York in the early morning hours with lightning so bright the pre-dawn hours seemed like day, my children sleeping in the back seat and the windshield wipers thumping out a monotonous tune. My favorite memory is sitting with my parents on their front porch during one of our annual summer visits to their farm. We watched the lightning in the distance as a storm approached. My parents and I talked, enjoying the evening, while my children played on the front lawn.
My children are grown, my parents long gone, and my extended family and college friends far away. The passing storm reminds me of those moments that seemed insignificant at the time, but it is those simple moments that are the essence of life.
When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning or in rain. ~Madelein L'Engle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“My mother always told me I wouldn't amount to anything because I procrastinate. I said 'Just wait.'” ~Judy Tenuta
When I began this 365 days of change project, I thought it would be easy: just do one thing every day. I was enthusiastic, I was inspired, I was ready to take on the world and become a new me. The reality is humbling. I feel overwhelmed. My website needs updating, the house is begging for a spring cleaning, the yard keeps beckoning me to plant, weed, and water, and the clutter I want to eliminate is a constant reminder of my lack of initiative.
I don't know what is more difficult: fitting in something new, starting a project I have been avoiding, or finding something to write about. When I am working in the yard, cleaning the house, or exercising I am inspired. I have ideas of subjects I want to write about, my thoughts are clear and well-formed (or so they seem as they rattle around in my head), and I am anxious to write something down. However, as soon as I sit at my computer or try to outline my ideas on the back of an envelope, the thoughts evaporate. When I am at the computer, I tell myself I will just do one more thing and then I will wash the windows, sweep the patio, or spend 15 minutes cleaning out a drawer or closet. Twenty minutes later I am still at the computer doing one more thing that can't wait. Before I know it the whole day has passed and I haven't accomplished anything. Every day it's the same story.
At night I can't sleep. I think of all the projects I should have started, all the weight I should have lost, and all of the people I should have "reached out and touched." The days, weeks, and months are flying by. Wasn't it January 1st a week ago when I made my New Year's resolutions? What happened to Lent and my pledge to give up sweets and bread? I have always been proud of the fact that I finish what I start, but I am beginning to realize I never get started! It's late, but not too late. Tonight I am Scarlett O'Hara. I'm not going to think about the past. I am not going to worry about today and the missed opportunities." After all, tomorrow is another day"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today is the 40th Earth Day and from where I am standing the world has gotten a lot worse. The earth is polluted, overcrowded, and overused. The need to consume and destroy has increased. The people on Earth act as if they have another planet to go to. Somewhere along the way the idealists and demonstrators of the 1960’s and 1970’s have lost their way. Many have become politically conservative and worship the god of conspicuous consumption. In the past few days I have read reports of oil spills, roads and dams being constructed in the Amazon, destruction of old growth forests, and poverty in the mostly densely populated areas in the world. Locally, the news reports focused on the amount of trash left behind by people attending Thunder Over Louisville, a local business dumping remodeling debris in a ravine near their building, and warnings not to swim or eat fish in the Ohio River. I don’t have to look further than my own back yard to see evidence of global warming; the birds are returning earlier each year and flowers are blooming two weeks before their “normal” bloom date.
When I was in college 40 years ago the young people of my generation were in a position to make changes that would benefit the world. They protested against the Vietnam War, supported equal rights for women and people of color, and for a moment believed in the ideas discussed in books such as “Diet for a Small Planet” and "The Silent Spring”. They used catch phrases like “Zero Population Growth” and “Make love, not war” and I thought they were sincere in their beliefs. Greed and profit appear to be stronger than altruism and common sense. My husband remembers participating in the first Earth Day Parade held in the small town where we both attended college. He says he and a friend drove to the site of the parade in the friend’s GTO, walked three blocks, returned to the car, and drove back to their fraternity house. We had an opportunity to change the world and we threw it all away.
Mother nature is beginning to show signs of her wrath. In the last few years reports of earthquakes, intense hurricanes, mudslides, ice, snow and rain storms, and most recently volcanic eruptions seem to be on the increase. If humans are unable to control themselves and realize that the world was not made for them to use and abuse, maybe they need a wake-up call.
“For a moment, or moments, it was as it had been in the beginning, before fear, before evil, before death, at the time of the creation, when the earth was new and living things flourished therein, where the earth was fair and all living things dwelt together as kindred. For a moment, or moments, beasts and children were friends, there in the sweetness and silence of the night, there in the calm and lovely fields of the Lord.”~Glendon Swarthout
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My mother never spoke about her early childhood. I really didn’t think about that fact until after she was gone. I do have some information about those early years because two of my aunts, my father’s sisters, were constantly telling stories of their childhood. My father’s family and my mother’s family were backyard neighbors. My mother had two sisters Rose and Lucy. Rosie was one year younger than my mother and Lucy was 13 years older. My father’s sisters, Anne and Connie, were the same ages as my mother and Rosie and they were best friends.
One of the stories that was often repeated was one told by my Aunt Connie. She remembers the day the four companions played a game that included my Aunt Rosie being struck by a car. This was the late 1920's and the fact that not every family owned an automobile probably influenced this macabre "play." A wheelbarrow served as the automobile. After the “accident” Aunt Connie picked up Rosie and carried her to a place of safety. Three days later my mother’s godmother came to visit. My mother, my aunts, and their dog Puchinello crossed the street to greet the visitor. Aunt Rosie was the last one to cross. A car driven by a chauffeur struck her. Aunt Connie picked up Rosie and carried her to the house. Aunt Lucy, who was married and expecting her first child lived in a nearby apartment house. She heard the noise from the street, came out onto her balcony, and saw her youngest sister being carried away.
Rosie died the following day. Due to the stress my Aunt Lucy suffered a miscarriage and began to hemorrhage. She died three days later. My aunts remember Lucy wearing her wedding dress in her coffin. They never spoke of Rosie’s funeral or the grief that most assuredly surrounded those terrible days. In retrospect I now understand that they viewed the events through the eyes of children and they remembered the facts, but not the emotions. My mother never spoke of those days and rarely mentioned her sisters. She did remember her mother going to the parish priest and asking to borrow a bible and her father expressing his grief by throwing bottles into the street to flatten the tires of passing vehicles.
Lucy and Rosie died many years before I was born. I assume I am named for Rosie even though my mother never admitted this fact. When I would ask about the origin of my name, she would say it was the name of a character in a long forgotten book or movie. Lucy’s wedding portrait hangs on a wall in my home. Every day I see her in her wedding dress with her new husband forever captured in that happy moment untouched by the foreknowledge of what was to come.
"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next." ~Gilda Radner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If angels exist and walk on earth, then my grandmother Marialetta Guigno Andolina was one of them. Grandma asked very little from life and gave everything she had to others. She placed great faith in God and her life reflected the values of true Christianity. She was the personification of goodness, charity, and selflessness. My father said that grandma was the best woman he had ever met, which is high praise coming from a son-in-law.
My memory of Grandma is of a small, careworn woman with wire rim glasses perched on her nose. Her hands were wrinkled and lined with veins. Photographs of her when she was much younger than I am now show a woman aged prematurely by hard work and loss. When I look at photographs of her before she married my grandfather, I see a face I don’t recognize, a pretty woman who does not resemble the woman I knew and loved.
Grandma never owned a house or a car, never traveled more than 60 miles from home after she emigrated with my grandfather from Sicily to the United States, and was preceded in death by of four of her nine children. When she went to her church to borrow a bible after her daughters Rose and Lucy, ages 7 and 21, died within three days of each other, she was told by the parish priest (who later fathered a child) that “her kind of people couldn’t be trusted”. For many years, and without complaint, she cared for my grandfather who was blind and a double amputee.
Grandma was deeply religious and constantly quoted the bible. She was kind, generous and loving. She gave money to those who needed it even though she had very little and shared her home with others when they had no place to stay. She always wore an apron with pockets filled with candy for neighborhood children and she was known for crocheting scarves, hats and blankets for friends and family. She once gave a friend the dress off her back and the curtains from her windows because the friend had admired them. Grandma was a wonderful cook and baker who never used a recipe and she loved flowers. I remember her saying, “Give me flowers when I’m alive”...and when she died so many people sent flowers that the hallways of the funeral home were lined with flowers floor to ceiling. For many years I couldn’t stand the smell of flowers or look at a gladiola without thinking of Grandma and those sad, sad days.
My grandmother died when I was 14, too soon for me to fully understand all the wisdom and knowledge she had to share. I wish I had asked her about her childhood and her journey to the United States, about leaving her parents and a sister behind knowing she might never see them again (which she didn't), and how she survived the many losses she suffered. I now understand that her faith in God and the belief that one day she would be reunited with her family were her salvation. My grandmother was not rich, or famous, or well-educated. Like many people she lived her life unnoticed and unappreciated. Despite the hardships she endured, Grandma never lost her faith in God, her belief that there was good in the world, or her ability to find joy in simple things. Her legacy was a life well lived.
The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone. ~George Elliot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am an agnostic, bordering on being an atheist. This is something I don’t often admit although it is no secret to my family. My loss of faith was not a sudden decision, but rather a natural process over time. I come from a long line of Catholics and I was raised a Catholic. While I was growing up I attended mass every Sunday and on religious holidays with my aunts and sister. I loved the mystery and rituals of the church, the words spoken by the priest, especially when the mass was in Latin, and the ceremonies marking passages. My favorite church was the cathedral-like St.Joseph’s located in downtown Rochester, NY. The church had large stained glass windows, tiered rows of lighted candles, an enormous altar that encompassed the entire front wall, paintings of animals with angel wings on its high domed ceiling, and a large pipe organ in the balcony.
When I went away to college I stopped attending mass. The only Catholic Church in town was not close to my school and I didn’t have a car. I probably could have found a ride, but I made no effort to do so. I felt no guilt about my decision. My husband and I were married in a Catholic Church, but we did not have a full mass since my husband was an Episcopalian. Religion was not an important aspect of our life. All three of our children were baptized in a Catholic church, but attended Sunday services with their Episcopal grandparents. We celebrated Easter, Christmas and other religious holidays, but we were not a religious family. We taught our children to be good, kind, and honest, and to "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."
Over the years I began to question my faith influenced by logic, inconsistencies in the Bible, and the hypocrisy of some people who claimed they were religious. I invited people of various religions into my home when they came to my door and we discussed our beliefs. These discussions lead me further away from religion. When my son’s friend became ill, I prayed and pleaded with God to save her. Her death was the final blow. I didn't suffer a loss of faith; I made a conscious decision not to believe. Benjamin Franklin once said, "As we grow older, it becomes difficult to just believe. It's not that we don't want to, but too much has happened that we just can't.”
I will not, cannot, choose not to believe in a deity who allows suffering, who allows the young to die, and who stands by while bad things happen to good people. A deity who expects allegiance without question, belief without proof, and faith without thought. “It was God’s will” or “God saved me” are two statements that anger me. What kind of God chooses to let someone die because he wants them to be with him? Why is one person more deserving of life than another? Man has given God human attributes, human weaknesses, and male gender. Man has created a god in his own image with all of his cruelty, selfishness, and ego. Why are natural disasters called Acts of God? Why was everyone banished from the Garden of Eden for a wrong supposedly committed by one or two people? Why do people who are "born again" use the lack of God in their lives as an excuse for their previous bad actions? They always had the option, the choice, the free will to be good or bad.
Am I am bad person because I no longer believe in God? Am I less moral, less kind, less deserving of love and respect than I was the day before I made my decision? Doing the right thing should not be something that is motivated by a fear of hell and punishment. We should do good, be good simply because it is the right thing to do. I don’t need commandments to believe lying, stealing, and killing are wrong nor do I lack a moral compass because I do not believe I will be rewarded in Heaven. It is as if I have walked out of the shadows into the sunlight and nothing has changed.
"He who toward all living things is kind... Ah! He indeed will true religion find." ~The Sacred Book of the Sikhs
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday should have been a gray day with a weeping sky. That was the forecast. Instead the day was sunny and cool - a perfect spring day. The sunny weather was a betrayal. In a world where children die and dreams are destroyed, a sunny day can be unbearable. Eight years ago yesterday my son A’s friend Kelly died. Kelly was 20 years old and had been diagnosed with Leukemia when she was fifteen. Kelly never learned to drive a car, but she graduated from high school at the top of her class, spent the summer before college working with children in the Americorp program, and became engaged while away at college. Her whole future was before her.
“I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving..."
~Les Miserables - I Dreamed a Dream
The following summer everything fell apart. Kelly began to come out of remission and her oncologist recommended a bone marrow transplant. Instead of giving up and retreating from life, Kelly chose to live. She enrolled in college locally, moved into her own apartment, worked part-time at a hospital with the goal of becoming a physician, and adopted a cat she named Sage. In October of 2001 she underwent the bone marrow transplant. Over the following five months Kelly was in the hospital for every holiday - Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, St. Valentine’s Day, and Easter. One day I asked my son when Kelly would be leaving the hospital and he responded, “Not in this lifetime.”
"I had a dream my life would be
So different from this Hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.”
Kelly died on a Wednesday and was buried on the day Louisville began its pre-Derby celebration. The day was gray and rainy as if the whole world was weeping for the loss it had suffered.
I am not a religious person. I do not believe in a literal Heaven or Hell. Children should not die before their parents and dreams should not be destroyed. If there is a hell, it is here on earth. Scientists say that energy cannot be destroyed. I hope that somewhere everything that was Kelly still exists ~albeit in another form. To believe otherwise would make life unbearable.
What the caterpillar perceives is the end, to the butterfly is just the beginning. ~Unknown
Every time I see a butterfly I think of Kelly and what should have been.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We have good neighbors. When we moved into our house many years ago, the woman across the street brought us a loaf of fresh baked bread. When a storm struck the city and knocked down trees, people worked together to remove them from the road. One neighbor cuts an elderly neighbor's grass in summer and shovels his driveway in winter. Last year a neighbor divided her iris and set the extras on a table with a sign “free to good home.” I adopted some of these orphans and they are growing happily in my garden.
Many people in our country have forgotten what it means to be a good neighbor. Instead of working together to solve the many problems our society faces, the people who were silent or attempted to silence others when those in power made decisions which impacted negatively upon our economy, our personal welfare, and our status in the world now believe the solution is to condemn big government and its alleged intrusion into their daily lives. They have jobs, and homes, and access to health care, so why should they care about those who do not.
Common sense and civility have been replaced with name calling, negativity, and hypocrisy. These people, whom I call The Madhatters, come to the table empty headed and empty handed. They complain about attempts being made to solve problems, but offer no solutions of their own. They claim they don’t want the government interfering with their lives, but many receive Medicare, Social Security, Disability and/or Unemployment benefits while wanting to deny similar benefits to others. They see no contradiction in a “wanna be” politician receiving $250,000 in farm subsidies while stating that the government should not provide universal health care.
Photographs of gatherings of the Madhatters show a sea of white faces, grey hair, flags and guns. Like the followers of cultist Jim Jones, they see themselves as ignored, disenfranchised and used by society. They drink in the poisonous words spouted by their leaders and know-it-all talk show hosts and accept lies and misinformation as fact. We have become a society that judges success by wealth, values personal welfare over that of others, and equates capitalism with democracy. We have forgotten that our founding fathers lived in a time when neighbors helped each other and people believed in the Golden Rule. I want to live in a neighborhood, a country, a world where people care about each other, where we share our bounty with those less fortunate, and where tea and sympathy replace cyanide laced grape drinks.
The individual who remembers that we are responsible for the beasts, children and those who can no longer fare for themselves - that is the individual who will prosper and thrive in times both harsh and plentiful. The individual who cannot or will not acknowledge these most basic tenets of humanity... are destined for a life of inhumanity and may be the one flailing their hands when they themselves most need assistance. ~Unknown
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Ponder well on this point: the pleasant hours of our life are all connected by a more or less tangible link, with some memory of the table.” ~Charles Pierre Monselet
Friday night is pizza night at our house. This weekly ritual was not planned, it simply evolved. When my children were young and the days long and hectic, I looked forward to Friday night because it was the beginning of a few days together without the bustle of school, work and scheduled activities. The evening meal was always something simple like tacos or hamburgers or, on rare occasions, a takeout pizza.
One of my earliest and fondest childhood memories was going to my grandmother’s house on Wednesday for dinner. My mother, who did not drive at that time, would walk to my elementary school and from there she and I would walk to my grandmother’s house. Upon our arrival we would be greeted by the smell of bread baking in the oven, fresh made pasta drying on a towel laid over the back of a chair, and a homemade pizza sitting on the counter as a pre-dinner “snack”.
Grandma’s pizza would not be recognizable by most Americans. It was thick, but light and the toppings were usually limited to tomatoes, cheese (not mozzarella), and the occasional anchovy--which I always removed. More like focaccia than store bought pizza, grandma’s creation was good hot, cold or day old for breakfast. It was the standard by which I have measured every other pizza. After my grandmother died my Aunt Ida replicated my grandmother’s recipe, which was not written down anywhere, and continued the tradition.
After years of ordering pizzas and trying the various products offered in stores, I decided to try my own hand at making pizza. Initially I purchased frozen bread dough and applied my own toppings. My children often helped, so even if the dough was less than satisfactory we were pleased with the results. As time passed, our expectations grew. Several years ago I purchased a food processor that could blend dough. I experimented with many different recipes and finally found one that comes close to my memory of my grandmother’s pizza.
Every Friday at noon I make fresh dough and let it rise all day. The toppings each week vary depending on what is in the refrigerator, pantry, and freezer. My son B makes a wonderful pizza consisting of canned tomatoes, bacon, caramelized onions, and oregano. I favor a pizza with fresh tomatoes, basil leaves, a variety of fresh vegetables and a thick topping of mozzarella cheese, My husband likes a traditional pizza with tomato sauce, meat and cheese. If I suggest that I make something other than pizza on a Friday night, I am met with complaints. Friday evenings have become a time of family, relaxation, tradition, and memories. Some of the best things in life can’t be purchased. They are created.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As we grow older our memories of the past change and fade. This is evident when listening to members of an even older generation repeat stories of their younger days and we realize that some of the people and events in the stories have changed or don’t match previous tellings. Personal and family history are important to me. I come from a family of “memory keepers” who maintained photo albums documenting their daily activities. When I was in high school I began compiling a family tree and as a freshman in college I created my first scrapbook chronicling that significant year of my life. I subsequently became the caretaker of the dorm scrapbook, which hadn’t been updated in years, and created annual scrapbooks of my four years in college.
After I married and before I had children the need to document my life faded. However, in 1981 when I had my first child, the urge to record family history began anew. Each of my three children has a completed baby book and their own scrapbook/album recording their activities during the first year of their lives. Since that time I have made an annual family scrapbook. The early ones were created in the days before scrapbooking became popular, so instead of stickers and fancy printed papers many of the pages are embellished with drawings and memorabilia. Our collection of scrapbooks also includes scrapbooks that document a life rather than a year. I made a “This is Your Life” scrapbook when each of my sons turned 21, my daughter turned 18, and my husband celebrated his 50th birthday. I have started a wedding scrapbook and a scrapbook of the “missing years” between marriage and parenthood is in the planning stages. Most days these scrapbooks sit on the bookshelf untouched and unnoticed, but at least once a year a family member gets the urge to “relive” their past and we spend hours browsing through the books and remembering the days when our lives were a blur of endless activities.
Now that my children are grown the new scrapbooks are thinner and document holidays, parties, special days, and things I believe are important enough to remember, like the pumpkin I grew last year or the new koi we purchased at an annual fish show. Three years ago, when my daughter began her freshman year of college, I gave her a scrapbook for her to fill. I come from a family of memory keepers. The tradition continues.
"Remember me in the family tree My name, my days, my strife; Then I'll ride upon the wings of time And live an endless life." ~Linda Goetsch
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One of my favorite movies is “The Wizard of Oz”. It is the first movie I remember seeing at a movie theater and a movie my children and I watched over and over again. I love the characters, I love the songs, and I love the way the movie changes from black and white to color when Dorothy leaves her house to enter Oz and Munchkin Land. At the end of the film Dorothy is asked what she has learned from her experiences and she replies: “If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard.”
I like to think of myself as a gardener. Each year I know spring has arrived, not because the weather is getting warmer or more birds are singing outside my bedroom window each morning, but because I feel it in my bones. My garden “calls” to me. I feel a compulsion to dig in the dirt and plant flowers. I think it is genetic. My paternal grandfather planted a vegetable garden every year and he had grapevines and roses. My maternal grandmother’s yard was filled with snapdragons, hollyhocks, hens and chicks, and tomato plants growing next to the garage. When I work in my yard, when I plant, water, mulch and sow, I feel I am carrying on a tradition. My grandparents are with me and I am creating my own Eden.
Yesterday was the perfect day. It was warm, but not hot. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and my five dogs stayed close by while I pulled weeds and mulched the beds surrounding the Koi pond my family had created in our back yard six years ago. After my work was done, I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs next to the pond with my lap dog Pinch and read a book. Birds drank from the stream and fed at the nearby bird feeder, the dogs chased squirrels and wandered through the various garden rooms I have created, and for a few moments the problems of the every day world disappeared.
"What is paradise, but, a garden, an orchard of trees and herbs, full of pleasure and nothing there but delights." ~William Lawson ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All of us have collections of one sort or another. I used to collect rolling pins and cookbooks; my husband collected mugs; and my children collected pins, key chains, frogs, and thimbles--and most recently, shot glasses and travel stickers. Presently, and for many years, I have been a collector of quotations.
I can’t remember when this fascination with quotes began. I think it can be traced back to a line in a poem that stuck in my head as a child, “I think that I will never see, a poem as lovely as a tree,“ from “Trees” by Joyce Kilmer which I had to memorize in elementary school. I also clearly remember a line from “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost, which we were forced to read in high school.
“I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
As a freshman in college, when the Vietnam War was raging, the poem "Patterns" by Amy Lowell expressed what many young people were feeling: “In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?“ In my freshman English class I chose to analyze T. S. Eliot’s poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” as my major project. For some reason the “song” of an aging man who “measured his life with coffee spoons” resonated for me.
My real “collecting days” began when I worked at the reference desk at a law library. I had access to “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations” and other similar works and read through them whenever I had a free moment. Years later, I found quotations to include in letters we were asked to write when my children went on their senior high school retreats. Currently, I collect quotes to post on my website and to send to my daughter whom I have been emailing every night while she is away at college. The quotes I send to my daughter usually relate to something I mentioned in the email or a line or two to inspire.
I don’t know what the appeal of quotes is, but I find it somehow comforting to know that others share my thoughts and feelings - and have expressed them in a form worth remembering and repeating. The quotes capture a moment, an idea, a feeling, or a goal we would like to accomplish. I will never say or write anything worth remembering, but I am still a work in progress.
"Love the earth and sun and animals,
Despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks,
Stand up for the stupid and crazy,
Devote your income and labor to others...
And your very flesh shall be a great poem."
~Walt Whitman
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My daughter and I are criers. We cry at sad movies, we cry when we are stressed, and we cry when we are so angry that we need an outlet. And sometimes we find something so ridiculous and funny that we laugh until we cry.
I have cried at the funerals of friends and relatives, for the young whose lives have ended too soon, and over the graves of our animal companions buried in our woodland garden. I cry in rage and anger about the ignorance of people who kill each other for a piece of land, in the name of their religion, or because of greed. I cry about the needless deaths of unwanted animals, about the destruction of habitat, and because we are destroying this planet that is our home.
As I grow older, the world and the people in it seem to be getting worse. We have become self-centered, self-absorbed, and value our personal wealth and happiness over the welfare of others. Power, money and profit have become our gods. Everything and everyone is disposable. People think about themselves first and everything else is secondary.
I have always been a "glass half empty" type of person. One of my former employers called me a cynic. I think of myself as a realist. When I became “involved” in animal rescue I cried every day for the animals that were dumped like trash in shelters, for the ones that were abused, neglected, and abandoned, and for the ones we could not save. Sometimes my sadness and helplessness were so overwhelming that crying was the only way to cope. After four years I still cry, but I try to focus on the ones we have saved and channel my energy and anger into something positive.
So this is what I have learned. Crying helps when problems overwhelm us, but the release is only temporary. I always wondered how people who have suffered great losses can survive. I believe their "secret" is to make something positive come out of the negative, to find a purpose, to do some good, to create a legacy.
"Mourn not the dead, that in the cool earth lie, dust unto dust; The calm, sweet earth, that mothers all who die, as all men must; But rather mourn the apathetic throng, the cowed and the meek, who see the world's great anguish and its wrong, and dare not speak!" ~Ralph Chaplin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Many years ago, when I was a junior in college, a group of students and I spent our one month short semester studying law and politics in England and France, and subsequently traveling an additional two weeks in Europe. We visited many countries and enjoyed the different cultures, the food, and the opportunity to visit places many of us can only dream about. Some memories are crystal clear - traveling on trains with strangers, climbing the steps of the Coliseum, eating goulash soup in Germany, having tea at Harrods in London, riding a cable car to the top of a mountain in Switzerland, and the horrors of attending my first and last bullfight in Spain on my 21st birthday.
These days I am mostly an armchair tourist. During the past three months my travels have been vicarious--my 21 year old daughter is studying in Paris for a semester during her junior year of college. Every day, through the modern day miracles of email and Skyping, I am revisiting Europe with my daughter as my guide.
The Paris I remember is not the Paris my daughter is experiencing. I remember the crowded sidewalks on the Champ-Elysees with people speaking a language I could not understand, visiting the Louvre and Notre Dame, riding a tourist bus past the Moulon Rouge, side streets smelling of trash, and a hotel room with eight twin beds and cut up newspapers serving as toilet paper in the communal bathroom.
My daughter’s Paris is truly a city of lights. She lives in an apartment with a woman who teaches English at a French school and three other American students. The apartment is near a park and within one block of the Metro and a French bakery. She tells me the people are attractive and well dressed, the streets beautiful and lined with trees, and the food delicious. She speaks French and she loves the language. Many of the museums and art galleries do not charge admission to students, traveling is easy on the metro, and the city has an active night life. My daughter says she has finally found a city that has all she needs to live. While I sit home content to pass my days with the simple joys in life, my daughter is stretching her wings and enjoying her new found freedom. I feel like I have come full circle. My daughter's happiness is mine.
It is while you are patiently toiling at the little tasks of life that the meaning and shape of the great whole of life dawn on you. ~Phillips Brooks
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In August 2008 I started a website to help animals in Kentucky. My transformation from animal lover to animal advocate was gradual. My parents and my family have always had dogs, most of them black, the occasional cat, hamsters, and various fish held captive in bowls and tanks. My husband and I continued this tradition. Five years ago our two elderly dogs, Cuttysark and Windsor, died within 10 days of each other. My grief was overwhelming. Wanting something good to result from our loss, we adopted two puppies rescued from a puppy mill in Missouri. Within nine months we adopted another puppy, this one a kennel release, and fostered (then adopted) two dogs from Cincinnati whose elderly owner had died. We subsequently became a foster home for a mama cat and nine kittens that were going to be “disposed of” on a tobacco farm in Kentucky, and moved on to driving legs of volunteer transports taking animals to rescues and forever homes. I joined animal related Yahoo groups and became a cross-poster, begging people to rescue or adopt animals on death row in shelters or abandoned by their “families”. When I realized that there were too many unwanted animals for “me” to save, I started the website hoping to find a broader audience. http://www.kycentral.org/
People who know me will understand this journey was inevitable. As a child I “rescued” worms sizzling in the sun after rainstorms and cried when my cousin Jimmy threatened to kill the ants I had been feeding on the sidewalk. I would catch and release insects in the house to keep them from being killed and when I was 10 years old I brought home my first puppy, Lady. We already had a family dog Inky who was a year older than me, but Lady was the first dog that was “mine”. Lady was my constant companion and my first love. Inky, Lady, and all that have followed exemplify values many humans have forgotten or never learned: loyalty, forgiveness and unconditional love.
People often don't understand why people like me "waste" our time and energy on animals when there are so many other problems in the world. I can only speak for myself. I feel strongly about many issues and problems, and try to make a difference when and where I can. If each of us focused on something that "speaks" to them, the world would be a better place.
"This is the true joy in life - being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy." ~George Bernard Shaw
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Did you ever hear a song on the radio or in a movie and you couldn't get it out of your head? You sang or hummed the song or parts of it to yourself all day without realizing what you were doing? This replaying of a song over and over again is called a "mind worm."
Last week my husband and I watched the movie "Delovely"--a musical biography about Cole Porter. Mr. Porter was a little before my time, but many of the songs he wrote are so familiar that everyone recognizes them. For some reason I can't seem to get one of the songs from the movie out of my head - Let's Do It (Let's Fall In Love) - I even went so far as to search for it on Youtube and have replayed it many times. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElPKuJGWjjQ
I don't know what I find so appealing about the song or the video, but it evokes many different feelings: I find it uplifting; it makes me want to dance; it reminds me of the old movies I watched as a child on Saturday afternoons and the songs my unmarried aunts sang when reminiscing about the good old days; it speaks to me about happier times; and it has created in me a longing to find something I didn't even know was missing.
Maybe that is what growing older is all about: creating a biography of yourself in your head; reviewing the good and bad, the failures and successes; and coming to terms with our lives and mortality. But, after listening to "Let's Fall in Love" for the hundredth time, I think it is also about living life to the fullest, experiencing new things, and recognizing that the journey isn't over until we take our last breathe.
"There is a need to find and sing our own song, to stretch our limbs and shake them in a dance so wild that nothing can roost there, that stirs the yearning for solitary voyage." ~Barbara Lazear Ascher ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~We don't always get second chances in life. We put things off for another day and take the people and animals in our lives for granted. It isn't until something bad happens that we realize that tomorrow never comes and we have missed an opportunity that will not come our way again.
Paws is my 13 year old cat. She is the last off-spring of a pregnant cat that we adopted 14 years ago. Phantom, Paws' tiny sweet Calico mother, and Goliath, her very large mellow yellow brother, are gone and buried in our garden with many other family companions. Paws was always the indifferent one who refused to sit on our laps and didn't need us for anything more than a bowl of food or an occasional scratch on the head. She rarely sought our company.
Two weeks ago Paws stopped eating. She had gained weight over the years and when she honored me by sharing a chair with me as I sat at the computer, she often pushed me to the edge of the chair. I didn't realize she had stopped eating until I suddenly noticed she was a lot thinner. Sensing that something must be wrong, I tried to entice Paws to eat by offering her different foods. Nothing worked and after two days I realized that I couldn't wait any longer and took her to the vet. After charging $270 for an examination and blood tests, the vet concluded Paws appeared to be in good health for a cat her age. He recommended we pursue further tests, but suggested he give her a "shot" to see if that would help her get back her appetite.
Luckily, something worked and Paws is eating again. However, the new Paws is a shadow of her old self and her illness appears to have been a life altering experience. Paws now seeks human companionship. She shares the chair with me more often--and her new svelte physique allows both of us to sit in the chair comfortably. She greets me every morning, luring me to her food bowl, and visits me often throughout the day, begging me to scratch her head and ruffle her fur. She rewards me with head bumps and loud purrs. Paws "talks" to everyone and in the evening she will come into the family room to be with us--something she had never done before.
It wasn't until Paws became ill that I realized how important she is to me. Like many people and things in my life, I had taken her presence for granted. She was here with me today and I assumed she would be with me tomorrow. I now see her with "new eyes" and I believe she feels the same way. Sometimes we do get second chances.
“Live this day as if it will be your last. Remember that you will only find ''tomorrow'' on the calendars of fools. Forget yesterday's defeats and ignore the problems of tomorrow. This is it. Doomsday. All you have. Make it the best day of your year. The saddest words you can ever utter are, ''If I had my life to live over again. ''Take the baton, now. Run with it! This is your day! Beginning today, treat everyone you meet, friend or foe, loved one or stranger, as if they were going to be dead at midnight. Extend to each person, no matter how trivial the contact, all the care and kindness and understanding and love that you can muster, and do it with no thought of any reward. Your life will never be the same again.” Og Mandino ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. ~Lao-tzu
Yesterday I took the first step in what hopefully will be a year of change by starting this blog. While deciding what I wanted my "goals" to be and planning the separate pages, I realized that several of them overlap--which is like everything in life--interconnected. You can't do something without affecting something else.
I also realized that I can't achieve every goal every day. Some days accomplishing one thing will be an achievement and a step forward. Yesterday I was full of enthusiasm and planned to tackle several projects/goals. As it turned out, scrubbing the downstairs bathroom from top to bottom was my greatest achievement--and a task that I had been putting off for quite a while.
I exercised for 10 minutes, but didn't get around to starting a food journal. I ate three pieces of candy, which I probably wouldn't have if I had started the journal. Writing down what you eat is a good way of controlling how much you eat because it lets you see how much and what you are consuming.
I bought a hula hoop as an Easter present to myself. I was planning to use it when I begin my interval training. However, I haven't been able to get the hang of it. I had a hula hoop when I was a child, but I guess it isn't like riding a bike--something that you can relearn quickly. Every day I spend a few minutes trying to rediscover the technique of hula hooping, but so far it has eluded me. I will not give up!
An article in the newspaper today discussed a study that showed women who walk 30 minutes/day decrease their chances of having a stroke by 30%, which is another reason why I should begin walking again. On days when the weather prevents me from walking, I will try to make an effort to use my son's elliptical machine. Upon reflection, my goals seem small, but having a small goal every day and accomplishing that goal is better than undertaking too much and setting yourself up for failure. Five minutes of doing something adds up to many minutes over time.
Let the day begin!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Soon I will be 60 years old. Just admitting that fact takes courage. I don't like to think about my age and its implications. I don't feel like someone who is almost sixty. Someone once stated, "A woman at 50 has the face she deserves." I don't believe that is true, but I am often told I don't look my age - whatever that means.
Many years ago on my 30th birthday my Aunt Anne called me and we discussed the inevitability of growing older. She mentioned that she had recently visited her uncle, who was 90 years old and living in a nursing home. One of the things he said to her has haunted me for years: "I don't remember growing old." At age 30 my whole life was ahead of me. The young don't think about age and mortality. At age 60 I view things with older, if not wiser, eyes. Thirty years have given me a new understanding of the words uttered by my great uncle. Only those who have lived long enough to experience the aging process can understand that the changes are so gradual we don't realize it is happening until an ache, the death of a friend, or the face in the mirror brings us to full realization that time has passed.
I often think of my life as seasons of the year. The first 20 years were spring--years of growing, discovery, and branching out. The salad days that the young think will never end when we are full of hope and make plans for the future. The next 20 years were summer - completing my education, getting married, and having children - days reminiscent of a summer break - filled with endless days of work and activities that upon reflection passed far too quickly. The days have blended together, leaving memories both sweet and bittersweet. Autumn was filled with days where I saw my years of effort bear fruit - my children graduating from high school and attending colleges, seeing them break the apron strings that bound us together, and taking tentative steps towards a future without me. For me, it was a time of endings.
And now, as I approach the winter of my life, the days have lost some of their color. Each day passes more quickly than the one before, most without any purpose or accomplishment. I procrastinate more each day. It is easier to think about the past than look forward to the future. And yet something about the human spirit keeps us from giving up. The old want to live and the sick want to survive. The poor dream about winning the lottery and hope for something better. Even on the gray days, winter holds the promise of another spring. So today I am embarking on a one year journey to change my life. I don't have have any major goals or expect drastic changes. I want to move forward instead of looking back, accomplish something every day, and discover new things along the way. I may be getting older, but I refuse to grow old.
"But where was I to start? The world is so vast, I shall start with the country I knew best, my own. But my country is so very large. I had better start with my town. But my town, too, is large. I had best start with my street. No, my home. No, my family. Never mind, I shall start with myself." ~Elie Wiesel
Tomorrow I will begin 365 days of change. I will try to exercise more and eat healthier. I will work in the yard, take more walks, and stop to appreciate all of the little things in life. I will sort through the clutter that has overtaken my life and dispose of what I don't need. I will start a project and see it completed. I will encourage my son to get on with his life. I will contact someone whose presence in my life I miss. I will try something I have never done before or do something that I haven't done in a long time. I will appreciate those who make my life worth living. I will do something to make a difference in the world, so when I am gone it will matter that I lived. I will live each day to the fullest and remember that every day is a gift. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
