Sweet Surprise

Who doesn't like a sweet surprise? Well, I do anyway. I like to deliver as much as I like to receive. It may be as simple as an unexpected card in the mail, a bouquet of flowers, a friend who shows up with an unexpected gift. Or maybe an unexpected word of appreciation and a fine show of support when you thought yourself all alone in an awkward stance.

Sometimes, it can be a bit more elaborate than that.......

One of the best things I ever did was surprise my mother for Christmas. Actually, I surprised everyone but my co-conspirator, my sister-in-law Grith. The idea was simple.

1. Tell no one.
2. Fly home, take the train from airport and show up at their house unannounced.
3. Swear my brother and the kids to secrecy.
4. Next day, surprise Mama when she shows up for Christmas dinner.

This was one of those blessed times when a simple plan went off without a hitch. As I wheeled my suitcases up the road to my brother's house on an early Saturday morning, I was giddy with the fun of it. I wanted to tiptoe the entire way, never mind my suitcases were making a hellish noise of their own that I feared would wake all the neighbors never mind my family. But I made it to the house unnoticed and rang the doorbell.

To my great glee I could hear them arguing about who should go down to open the door. Everyone was in their pyjamas. Grith did an admirable job of talking my brother into it. I straightened up and smiled broadly as he opened the door. I was giggling like a mad woman as I sang out Merry Christmas, Ho-Ho-Ho, to his stunned face. The look on his face was worth the airfare alone.

Next came the kids tumbling down the staircase, eyes big as saucers, and finally Grith, grinning every bit as broadly as I knew I was. It was a fine surprise, but best of all was still surprising my mother.

When she arrived the next day, the kids and I huddled on the couch behind the Christmas tree. We had decided against me opening the door for her as she was carrying the much coveted Christmas roast and we feared it could end up on the floor. Eagerly we waited and watched, giggles kept in check as we watched her make multiple trips to and from car to kitchen with various platters of food in hand.

When finally she returned empty handed, we counted to three and yelled Merry Christmas as she stepped through the door. She turned, a touch taken aback at the loud children and stopped dead as she saw who the third loud child was. Her eyes popped wide, her mouth opened in a slight huff and her hands flew to her heart. She stumbled a step backwards and my brother rushed to her side and grabbed her arm.

For seconds she could make no noise. Then it came out all in a rush, a confusion of my name and tears and how and when and big gulps of air. I don't know who felt more loved in that instant, me at her reaction or her that I had gone to the trouble and expense of flying home to surprise her. But love was in the air and a happy Christmas was had by all......

It's a fine memory on a cloudy day, a fine thing to remember. It was a moment when I felt at my best, a living pillar of love, an expression of the finest in me that I had to offer - pure tenderness for another being and the desire to bring that being joy.

I thought of that day when I came across this little video of jazz singer Michael Buble in a very fine moment indeed as he appears to receive an unexpected surprise, courtesy of a determined mother. Perhaps it was staged as some will claim, but if it was, they all do a very credible job of pulling it off. However it came about, it's a fine interplay of the human spirit at work, an interplay of love, grace and plain good humor.

And that, in itself, can be a sweet surprise.

Choice. Chance. Change.

Look before you leap. Don't fly higher than your wings can carry. When in doubt, don't. And don't burn your bridges!

Sage advice we all have heard, many a time. But is it always right? What happens when it leaves you petrified? Life stops, you stop, growth stops. Everything gets smaller, tighter, contracted, boring. Depressing.

There's a reason perfectly sane people suddenly break out and seek the rush of adrenalin, whether in a mad leap into craggy canyons when bungie jumping, shooting and snorting up drugs, driving too fast on narrow roads with hairpin turns. Because taking a chance - and surviving it - makes us feel good, exhilarated, powerful.

Alive.

I saw this on Facebook the other day.

It made me stop and think. I have taken a lot of Chances in my life. I have made alot of Choices, some that made friends and family question my sanity, to the point a few declared they could not respect the choices I was making and turned their backs on me for a time. Still, I carried on down my path. Because I had to. I was compelled by some inner conviction. Was it fun? Was it easy? Was it joyful?  No.

It was Change.

Fun, easy and joyful came later.

I made the choices that I had to, the choices that called me, the choices that fit me. Not everyone else, or what they thought I should do to be a decent, perfect, civilized human being. Sometimes it took courage, sometimes it took heart, sometimes it took a massive leap of faith.

Always it took a Choice.

When people ask me about my life they often exclaim how interesting and exciting and lucky my life has been. Yes, it has. I have been lucky, but I have also been the maker of Choices, the taker of Chancers and the seeker of Change, the Captain of my life to the degree that I could fathom at the time. Which oftentimes, was not much. Not much at all. I only knew that Life could not bring me a new day untill I left the old one behind. Sometimes, you gotta burn a bridge. Or two. You gotta leap without looking, knowing full well there is no safety net in the traditional sense of the word. You have to crack your life wide open so you can let Luck in.

 It's also been alot of work, fears, tears, doubts and second guessing. There have been lots of what if's, what now's, and what for's. Long hours and longer days.

But sometimes, when life closes in, you can't take it anymore and you stand at the fork in the road, bewildered because nothing is clear, obvious, all is shrouded in fog.......that is when you have to make a Choice, take that Chance if you want things to Change. It is a choice made in the heart and when all the voices around you and in your head have had their say, there is only one voice left that counts.

That is when I close my eyes and listen to the teeny, tiny tug on my heart that tells me where to turn. And then I leap. I don't even look first. After all, once my heart has spoken, I am no longer in doubt my wings will carry me every bit as high as they need to.

The Story of Clancy

I have just come in after letting the dogs out on a glorious, sunny, dew drenched morning. My hands were chilly after handing out the obligatory morning treats, so I buried my hands in the warm fur of our big, shaggy Aussie mix, Clancy, his beautiful golden eyes gazing happily into mine as I gave him a good rub. It's hard to believe it's been 10 years since I first looked into his soulful eyes, then the hazelgreen of an adorable puppy who looked more like a bear cub than the offspring of a dog. These days, grey hairs around the muzzle and arthritis are setting in and the bouncy, kind little furball has become a little stiff, not to mention big, but he is still the same infinitely kind and patient dog that I first met in May of 2003.

It was a meeting that would question my sanity and confirm my intuition.

Many moons ago, on a Monday, no less, I was looking for a new dog. I went to the shelter and took a good look around. This, of course, is always pure hell, the kennels like prison cells on death row, the pleading brown eyes, the wagging tails, the jumping puppies, the chorus of barks pleading to be chosen. After several rounds, I was at a loss. I wanted to rescue them all, but none in particular spoke to me. I went around one more time. Out of thin air, a new dog had materialized in cell #16. Odd, I never saw him on the first two rounds. A darling puppy, shaggy red fur of an Australian Shepherd with exquisite, calm green eyes. All the more impressive since the two dalmatian cross puppies I had noticed in #16 before, were jumping on his head as he lay quietly, head on his paws, nose to the gate and watching my every move. I was sold.

Rushing to the front desk, I breathlessly asked about the Aussie mix in #16. The indifference of the desk clerk all but left him mute, but he managed to look at his computer and inform me there was no Aussie mix puppy in #16. There is, I insisted. There is not, he/the computer said. Just a pair of Dalmatian mix pups. But if there were........he'd be released for adoption on Thursday, just like the Dalmatians.

Now, I was supposed to wait for my husband who was out of town and arriving on Saturday. Could I wait to pick him up till then, I asked. The desk clerk looked at me blankly and said "If he's not gone by Thursday, he's dead by Friday."

I went home in a dither. I convinced myself he was so gorgeous and darling and cute, someone would take him home. Someone indeed.

Thursday rolled around. It was pouring rain, thunder and lightning, my husband was adamant I wait for him to help choose a dog and he was two days away. I paced the floor. All my bells were going off, alerting me that action must be taken. I called the shelter - has the Aussie mix in #16 been adopted? What Aussie mix in #16? No such dog. If there was, he must have been picked up. Phew, I thought, he is safe.

I drove to the shelter.

This is nuts, I thought, as I drove the 40 minute drive through a deluge of rain and hail, thunder and lightning, booming and crackling all around. I am going to get there and he will be gone and I will feel even more like an idiot. Still, I drove on slowly, windshield wipers at top speed as I peered through the windshield at the crawling traffic.

The same desk clerk informed me there was no such dog that I had come to see, but allowed I could take a look. An employee accompanied me with a leash. I was convinced he'd be gone but lo and behold - there was my puppy, right where I had left him. As soon as I stepped through the door he sat up and starting wagging with every bone in his body, his eyes fastened on mine. Oh how cute, said the woman, funny, I never noticed him before. Really? said I and grabbed that leash and rushed to the office with my dog before she could start asking questions.

The clerk never even looked over the counter. Here he is! I said brightly. Well, he's not in my computer, said he sourly. Oh how odd, I said brightly, smiling widely, feeling like I was in the Twilight Zone. If he's not in my computer, I can't tell you if he is released or not, said he even more sourly. Oh dear, I said brightly, but they told me he was free to go today. I had looked down into my puppy's hazelgreen eyes and known instantly to use the ubiquitous 'they' that covers for a multitude of possible sinners, rather than point out that he, the desk clerk himself, had told me that. Whatever, said the desk clerk and printed out the release forms for me to sign.

Just then, a woman on my left said "Oh good, are you taking him home? He is such a great dog." Yes, I said happily and was about to ask her who she was. But the clerk stuck a pen in my hand, and when I looked again, she was gone. As if she was never even there. Twilight Zone reboot.

I drove home with a perfect little puppy watching me intently from eyes that shone with an intelligence and kindness beyond his few months, a puppy that would grow into a handsome and independant dog that has freely roamed the farmland surrounding our home over the past decade.

Still, one thing hasn't changed - it's funny how he always shows up right when he is needed, that wonderful wise and infinitely kind expression in his eyes as he presses his head into my hand.

Bond, Ellie Bond

This is so cool. I am sitting on my chair, looking out at a wet, cold and rainy day - which, in Texas, counts as a day of celebration. I know, I know, other parts of the world are positively floating away, you'll want to spit in my eye for celebrating rain, but here we are going from drought to severe drought to worse drought, watching trees shrivel up and drop like flies, year after year. It's no picnic, either.

But this morning, after three days of overcast and rainy days, the world outside my window is emerald green and sopping wet, my rosebushes are bursting with life, and the surviving trees are sporting little, fresh, bright green leaves. It's a respite from the cold and dry months that lay behind us, and a rest before the long, dry and excruciatingly hot months that lay ahead, where the outside world becomes as hostile and uninviting as the coldest, darkest, blanketed - in - 10 - feet - of - snow winter day.

Meanwhile, the world inside resonates to the most extraordinairy sounds in my ear. I've got my headphones on and the sound turned up, and a hypnotic beat pulsing away, underscoring the vocal orchestrations of.......elephants. And it is so well, cool and subliminally stimulating, I just had to tell you about it.

It starts out all subtle and slow, putting me in mind of one of those runway shows with flashing lights and emaciated models slinking down the stage with their cheeks sucked in (of course, in my mind, they are instantly replaced with plump elephants swinging along in their gravity defying and supremely graceful walk, posing with raised trunks and outspread ears) but then it slowly builds in intensity untill I am thinking Bond, James Bond, shaken not stirred. Or maybe that's Bond, Ellie Bond.

Come to think of it, that is an appropriate pun. The bond that exists between elephants, emotional, social, psychological and physical is, after all, famously profound and more than equal to what we would claim as humans. Which makes the current crisis in poaching and trade in elephants and their body parts all the more horrifying. But that is another story for another day.

For now, I shall just sit and listen to their song, listen with an open mind and heart and see what dreams may come as their voices resonate through my being, leaving behind their indelible footprints.

If you'd like to have a listen too - and I highly recommend it - click here:

https://soundcloud.com/#elephantvoices/elephantvoices-elebeats-first

Carrying Stars

 



You know how something can hit you right between the eyes and be so right it almost hurts? Doesn't matter if it's a shoe, a shirt, a pair of slacks, a hat, a dress, a word, a song, a look, a flower, a tree, a smile, a heart -  you want it in your life because somehow you know it speaks your language, it fills some little gap, completes some sentence you have left undone, inspires some wellbeing you never knew was absent untill it's return. It's a glove that fits your soul.

 

That is how I felt when I first heard Nikolaj Grandjean, a fellow dane, a singer/songwriter/poet/lyricist/musician extraordinaire. My sister-in-law sent me a song and before the song was over, I was running to iTunes as fast as my little internet legs would carry me....5 minutes later, his album, Carrying Stars, was playing on my iPod and I was in raptures.

 

It's a go-to album. When I am not sure if I am happy or sad, need to calm down or wake up, laugh or cry - I put on this album and whatever I was before, I am now just what and where I need to be. When I left Kenya recently after an 8 day horseback safari, and spent 30 hours en route, mourning my departure from a place that holds my heart in it's hands like no other place on earth, this was the album I played, and played, and played again, it's subtle tunes and soaring poetry easing me through a difficult time. While I could do nothing but sit and mourn, Carrying Stars carried me home.

 

 

Have a little listen. You never know - you just might find a glove for your soul. 

 

 

What's in a Word?

What's in a Word? A Please, Thank You, My Pleasure? A Yes, No, Maybe. Never, Forever. Always.

Power. The power to heal a wound or slash anew. The power to start a war or make a peace. The power to renew lost love, mend a broken heart, seed a valley of hope where before was only a barren wasteland of sorrow.

The power to uplift, to destroy. To create.

Who has not felt the soaring elation when a Yes defeated the expectation of a dreaded rejection? The sinking of a million hopes by one single little word, definitively spoken. No. The resurrection of a thousand more at the sound of a tentative.........Maybe.

It's a power of which writers are aware, attempting more or less consciously to tap into, to shape and to mould, to procure an image in the readers mind; the emotional response and the emphatic understanding they seek to convey. It is a power of sensory perception, and the use of words an exploration in consciousness, cause and effect - the subconscious need driving every artistic and creative endeavour.

It is a power of neutral charge, subject to a different power, the power of intention; in skillful hands it may be used equally well for good or for evil. And yet, and yet.......the power of a word can invoke the power of Grace, grace in the most mundane, every day words - Please, Thank You, You're Welcome - and elevate them, alone or in the company of an eloquent gesture, to the realm of some otherworldly language where Love resides and Grace blesses with free abandon.

A grace that exists just beyond the reach of our fingertips but informs our kindest words, our most sincere efforts, our moments of naked thoughtfulness devoid of agenda. A grace that culture upon culture has sought to emulate through cultivated manners and codes of conduct. A grace that lends a touch of sweetness to bitter times and pours oil upon the often tempestuous waters we must navigate in our busy, busy lives......

So why today do we scoff at the notion of such manners and codes of conduct? Have we so lost touch with the little things that make the difference, the power of a word, the beauty of a gesture, and the miracle for which they make way  - the subtle exchange of Grace betweeen two sentient beings, an infusion, however slight, of Love between people who may or may not ever meet again.

Some call it a lie, but this is a misunderstanding. A word offered in ignorance may mean little to the speaker, a door held open in simple respect just a habit - but it can be an offer of dignity where little has been found, a touch of kindness a rainstorm in a desert long left untouched by a single drop. And those who understand the power in a word, in a gesture, understand it is Love and Grace in little packages, hand delivered by messengers who sometimes do not even know the precious content of their parcel. Which, of course, makes it all the more precious.

The Dream

 

When you dream, do you dream in color?

Do you wander in a world of silence, still as the deepest, darkest ocean...

Or do your dreams burst with songs of life, the din of the living.

Do you dream in black and white, rusty shades of nostalgic sepia,

Do you flow and slip with ease from dream to dream in waves of distorted time, ebbing and rushing to the whims of some will you cannot define,

or are your feet anchored in mud, your arms heavy with the burdens that await upon

awakening.

Do you dream in your mother tongue

or like me, in the language that came second but ended first?

Does a dream need language to tell a story?

I can tell you only this.

That if I could capture my dream on a reel,

and throw it upon the wall, shadows and all,

 for you to see,

 

This........is what my dream would be.

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you, Chi Li.