Thirty years too early....

Usually, I think I was born a century or two too late. I wish myself back to the world before the industrial revolution, to a world more pristine if no gentler. A world before freeways and concrete blocks and monster trucks. Yes, I could live with some of the lack of modern day comforts if the trade off was a less paved planet.

 

I certainly never think I was born too early. A future of shiny steel and glass and machines and less and less land, forests, animals and birds holds no appeal for me. I hope I do not live to see it. My life is devoted to slowing down this so-called progress.

 

And yet, and yet. This boy gives me pause. If I went to his school of thought, how different might my life have been? My brain? My outlook? If children of the future go to his school of thought - Hacker School - might there not be hope for the future?

 

What do you think?

 

 

In The Fog

It's one of those fabulous, foggy mornings. Mornings that make me think of magic, of Merlin, of Celtic warriors bursting through the fog on horses dripping in dew and breathing dual plumes of steam. In slow motion, of course, with stirring music thundering in the background.

Truth is, of course, all that is really hidden in this fog outside my window is my dogs and my donkeys. The only sound I can expect is the blaring braying of a donkey lamenting the size of his hay portion. The horses are in the barn for their breakfast after a long night of dripping dew in the dark field. The dogs are busy exploring what came and went in the night while they slept in the mudroom. All is quiet, all is well, all is just as usual, only hidden in mist. But within the mist, the trees are just as solid, the grass just as yellow, the rock is still a rock. The truth of their being is still the truth, however shrouded it may be. That is the ongoing gift of Nature. The closest thing we come to real reality in our solid world.

 

Photo by Cindy Strate

Yes, the truth is still the truth, however shrouded in myth and mist it might be. That could be a slogan for the state of the world today. All the debating,  posturing,  justifying,  theorizing,  intellectualizing, politicizing and  rationalizing gather in one great whirlpool of gray at the very core of which lies one still, little grain of truth, all covered up in the swirling mess, all covered up and unspoken for. Call it what you will, wrap it in bubble wrap, wrap it in pretty paper and a big red bow, cover it in syrup and jam it down our collective throat, the truth is what it is, it never changes despite all that mental fog we keep dishing out in all directions. Everybody is right, and everybody is wrong, but how many of our talking heads are actually addressing the underlying truth of anything?

Photo by Cindy Strate

 

They are not. We are forgetting the most fundamental truths. We are being taken in by the pretty mist and the fabulous fog, drowning in the gray whirlpool of debate. We don't even look for that grain of truth anymore, the quiet center of clarity. Political correctness does not allow for that, nobody must be wrong, nobody can get their feelings hurt, everyone's claims must be met. Unless, of course, they don't fit your bill. Then you can call them every name in the book, ridicule, denigrate and bury them in your assessment of their own inferiority. And the crowd goes wild.

It's all smoke and mirrors. We are back in the Coliseum of Rome. It's us against them, them against the others, the others for themselves. And justice, ah, well. That is in the eye of the beholder. Why look for the driver of the machine when we can rage against the machine itself?

Because the truth is just too damn simple. The truth does not allow for everyone's little drama to be important, to matter, to be heard. The truth doesn't care about anyone, it doesn't take sides - the truth simply is. The truth is a bare bones debacle, where voices are raised only to fall silent, for all arguments fall away in the face of it's simplicity.

So what's true anymore? The same as it's always been. Hidden in the fog, mosying in the mist. Only this mist won't clear out by noon. If you want the truth, you're going to have to dig for it, and dig deep. Not out there, either. In there. In you.

Sucks, doesn't it?

Picture of The Week

 

This is my favorite picture of the week. Every time I look at it, I start laughing, and count the ways in which I relate. Is it just that this is a less polite way of saying "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade"? Or is it that perfect blend of defiant resignation, that sulking acceptance of something that just won't change? The empty flower pot begging for attention but noooo, let's sit on the one with the poor plant? Maybe it's the great mind that put this photo together with the perfect caption (forgive the language, but it hits the mark) that tells a whole story in just a few words. I just don't know, but it gets me every time.

Hope it gives you a laugh today too, and perhaps inspires you to accept what you can't change, and not just make the most of a challenging situation, but make the most of it - with an attitude!

 

 

PS I'd love to give credit to whoever this came from, so please step forward should you happen to come along.

For Spite!

 

Spite. What a word. Very evocative, don't you think, of exactly what it means? It kind of spits itself out of your mouth, just like the person directing their anger at you would probably like to. Spit at you, I mean. Interesting how the word spite is so close to spit when you think about how spiteful people often spit spittle. At least, they always seem to in the movies. But I digress.

Spite, according to Webster is: a desire to harm, anger, or defeat another person especially because you feel that you have been treated wrongly in some way ...

I have been on the receiving end of spite a few times, and it is always a strange and disconcerting experience. Because there is no talking to spiteful people, no matter how well intentioned you may be. I have acted out of spite a few times in my early foolish youth, (as opposed to my later, foolish age) and it was always a self correcting experience. In other words, I soon learned the truth of that old saying "...to cut off your nose to spite your face." I also found I did not like myself much before, during or after, so by the time I was a teenager, I pretty much gave up on spite. Besides, I lucked into a fairly decent nose. Apparently it was my great grandmother's but since she was done with it, she passed it on to me. Might as well keep it for posterity.

I like to think everyone is always doing their best. Their best to be fair, their best to be kind, their best to be considerate, their best to be earnest and truthful. I like to think that of myself, too. Of course, the hard truth is, we all fail on such noble quests from time to time. Sometimes due to negligence, other times due to simple self delusion. But every so often, I just don't know why and I have to accept that as well as the experience. And it sucks. Especially when whatever you did to anger someone to such a degree they descend into the seven hells of spite, was your very best to handle what was perhaps a far from perfect situation. Then spite sucks double because no matter what you do, youse agonna be wrong.

What I have learned from my own forays into spite, however, is that while being on the receiving end of spite sucks, being on the spewing end of spite sucks worse. Because you are deaf and blind to reason, you know only the pain of what you perceive to be your victimhood, and all the while you twist and turn in the screeching gales of your rage, the emotional damage done by the stomping rampage of spite through your heart and soul and mind leave behind footprints burned in acid into the sensitive pathways they travel. And in the end, you are the one who are defeated, on every level, for you were bathing in the poison of ill will and waiting for your opponent to die. And you know what? That sucks triple.

So this is what I know of spite. It is not worth indulging. It is not worth reacting. It is not worth your pain. Respond as you must, and cease. Do what you must, and move on. Give the benefit of doubt, but draw your line in the sand. Protect yourself, but know the true source of spite is pain and self hatred, and offer compassion when you want to drop a bomb. Never mind if it is received or not. Be your best. Then get on with your life, and live it well - in spite of it all. Because anything else? Would suck......well, worse than anything else I've mentioned so far.

The Birdie Blog

One of the great benefits to snow and ice is the birds take a sudden and profound interest in my birdfeeders. I run out, bundled up like the Michelin man loaded up with bins and canisters of birdseed and they flit around, shrieking and calling and whistling while I load them up and feel like Cinderella in The Sound Of Music singing the The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Birdsong. For which I will receive an Oscar, weeping profusely while I cry out "You like me, you really, really like me!" to an audience of feathered creatures. Yes? No?

 

Well, they like me now when I am Source of Food Numero Uno. But I'll take it. My reward? This may be a little talked about fact, but birds Will Model for Food. So I get to tune up my camera skills and once in awhile catch something I like, really, really like.

Like this one:

I call it the The Angel and The Cardinal, which might sound kind of naughty to some, and I know who you are. Come on now, it's Christmas, clean it up! It's a hymn, don't you know?

This one:

Is Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal, which could seriously spoil everyone's fun, especially the Angels.

 

The cardinals are really fun so I have a lot of those, they are bright, active, stand out in a crowd  and can kick some serious birdie bootie:

They can also levitate, which I think is another little known fact:

Mrs. Cardinal is so over this fun party trick though once it sure sealed the deal, but if you look closely you can see that this particular ability has one little sparrow running for the statue. Scaredy cat. Yep, there he goes...

 

Now here comes a favorite - both a favorite bird, the dove, and the favorite pic so far. Because it's action and beauty with a little mystery thrown in. Or so it tells me. What does it tell you? Or do I really want to know? Hmmm...

 

 

Not to be left out, here comes another cardinal looking like the mysterious stranger who just rode into town in his many colored coat. Yes, I am mixing up characters and storylines all over the place. Why? Because I can. It's my blog. And I'm getting cabin fever and it has addled my brain, if you must know.

 

 

Now, it's almost Christmas, so let's end on that note shall we? I mean, is this photo just made for a Christmas greeting card or what???

 

 

 

Oh wait! I almost forgot. I call this one,

The One That Got Away.

And it was THIS big!

 

 

Iced and Diced in Texas

So whew! A whirlwind fall, the weeks fly by and my poor blog has suffered extreme negligence. But now a fabulous winter storm came along and allowed me to catch up on all manner of stuff as even my arena is frozen and I have six horses left to exercise themselves as best they can, to slip and slide around frozen pastures....

So the other afternoon I wrote a little post on Facebook with a photo and had a little fun with it as a pretend commercial for a new book. I had so much fun, I continued the next morning. Then it started to get a response, and before you know it, I had photographed and written my way through a very silly, tongue in cheek romantic thriller.

So just for kicks and giggles, I thought I'd add it on here. Enjoy!

Iced and Diced in Texas

 

 

Stay tuned for my new thriller coming soon… 'Iced and Diced in Texas' !! When the north winds blow, the windows freeze over, the stew is on the stove and on the boil, anything can happen! Will the ice ever melt, the wind die down and will the stew be any good? Brace yourself and batten down the hatches - It's a fast paced thriller that will keep you guessing till the end...

 

 

The stew was fabulous but the night cold and long, and in the grey morning  light, the ice just kept coming...tap, tap, tapping on the north-facing windows like a glacial stalker begging to be let in. Dripping and draping itself in insidious icicles that rendered dreams of summer immobile and forever young, frozen in time and place...in Texas...will it ever end, she whispered, icicles clinking as they dangled from her fake eyelashes, will it ever end or will we run out of stew first!!!!?

 

The wind still howled like a thwarted witch but the stinging bite of her frozen curses (aka snow) had finally ceased it's ceaseless assault. Inside, they huddled, floor heaters blazing and PC's all fired up, their only access to the far reaches of civilization a flickering screen... But outside, in the newly minted Texas Tundra, a new subzero drama was unfolding, ruffling it's frosty feathers, readying it's sharp beak for a fresh assault. And Nature held her breath in the face of this new challenge, cloaked in glittering ice....Oh for the love of God and all his Angels, cried out the birds in the trees! Never mind the stew, will they run out of birdseed!?!!!!!

 

 

 

 

The evidence was right there in the sink, staring her in the face. He had not even bothered to cover his tracks, adding insult to injury. What had happened to their love, their promises, all their ardent oaths to share, honor and protect - forever?  Passion still burned in her veins but now it left her with a bitter and disappointed tinge... Her fake eyelashes, clotted mascara smearing and still dripping from the melting icicles, now fluttered weakly as the enormity of his betrayal hit her. There was no denying it. He had enjoyed a bowl of their precious stew without her.

 

 

Outside, Winter Storm Klingon raged but inside the little Texan Tundra farmhouse, a different storm was brewing. Within its frozen shell, a call for action had been…called . And while answering it filled her with a pain and suffering that all but blinded her as tears mixed with her cobalt mascara – his favorite, or so he had said, but now she must doubt his every word, second guess his every gesture – she knew he had left her no choice. HE had done this to them, not her. But now, though it pierced her to the very depths of her shuddering soul, it was up to her to bring this down upon them, this, their frigid, towering, turbulent hour of reckoning….

 

  Leaning on the chrysanthemum walls of their bathroom, she remembered when they picked out the color, how they had laughed, how they had loved…. Now her cobalt tears slid down the wall, a blue flood as blue as she felt…but no, this must stop. She must be strong, if not for herself then…because she had birds to feed.

She must pull herself together. She may be just a Danish mail order bride to him, but he had been her sun, her moon and stars. Ah, but words are wind, whispered her latest favorite author in her mind’s perfectly shaped little ear. Words are wind. Had all their email correspondence meant nothing to him then? She felt a migraine coming on. And God knew she could not be held responsible for her actions once a migraine clasped her in its murderous grip….

 

It was all over. She stared mutely at the glinting knife and the blood slowly coagulating on the blade, on her hands as it dripped, plink.. plink... into the creamy enameled sink. One never knows, she thought distantly, one just never knows how a day will go once you’re up and out of the feathers. The feathers, ha! Ha ha! She felt hysteria well up inside, like the bubbling cauldron of a tempestuous volcano threatening to blow. She was just so relieved it was all over. The feathers, yes, she mustn’t forget to feed the birds….the dear, freezing little things…how fragile and precious life seemed to her now, now when hers had felt all but extinguished by his callous disregard for her needs. But she was a survivor, oh yes. He knew it now, too. Oh yes. He had learned his lesson. How she loved him but he had to learn.

That hell hath no fury like a woman starved. She better get on with the stew. Confrontations made her hungry.

 It had been short but oh so sweet. Their reconciliation still sang in her blood with all the heavenly luster of a choir of angels. The Chippendale kind. Or was that Victoria’s or…oh, she was so happy, she just didn’t care. She sighed with happiness as she set the new stew to bubble on the stove, washed her hands then flopped on their bed, all but engulfed in the Texas size duvet as she clutched her stuffed, baby blue teddy bear to her chest. Her saltwater breasts rippled in ecstatic response. He had given her those, her nose and the teddy bear, too. The color of your eyes, he had whispered.

How could she ever have doubted his love? He would never leave her now, she knew that for sure, and never again would he deny her stew. They had an understanding that went bone deep and yet it reached for the heavens. Oh, the joy of it. They had crossed the bridge that spanned the gorge that had separated them, fallen into one another’s arms….He had looked so sweet on his knees, begging for reconciliation, admitting his wrongdoing…who knew the power of true love? Oh she did. Now she did. They did.

 

Smiling secretly to herself, she remembered. Her fear, her pain, her fury as she prepared to bring him to justice. She had looked her best. Texas had taught her to dress and dress big and he could never take that away from her, ice storm or no. She added a new layer of cobalt to her freshly applied eye lashes and teased her hair to new heights. She loved her new platinum blonde bangs. She slipped into her favorite fuchsia hot pants and the frilly cream blouse with all the sequins. Her favorite rhinestone bangles were next, and the belt with all the turquoise conchos. Real turquoise, mind you. After much thought, and with a nod to her distant ancestors, she slid into her lederhosen – his favorite. They fit snugly over her hot pants. It would drive him mad, she knew. And it did.

She’d clean up the mess later. Right now, she’d better go feed the birds.

The End.

 



So Long, Old Friend. So Long.

September 9th, 2013

I put a treasured friend to rest today. If old rules of thumb hold true, he was well over a hundred years old. You may be guessing my old friend was a dog, and you'd be right. But he wasn't just any old dog. He was my constant blessing for over 16 years and as my husband likes to say - this dog was a one in a million. Of course he was. He was my boy!

 

   When I was but a wee little girl, someone, probably my parents, gave me a floppy toy dog. I loved him dearly and well above all my other beloved toy pets, and for some strange and inexplicable reason, I named my stuffed toy Chico. Where a tow headed, blue eyed little Danish girl living in Danish suburbia came up with a Spanish word like Chico, nobody knows, least of all me. I don't even remember receiving the dog, I was so little, but I remember loving him for years and years, no matter how tattered and matted and worn he became.

Years later I was a twenty something year old woman living fancy free and footloose, travelling the country in an old Ford Econoline cargo van. I worked odd jobs at Renaissance fairs, never knowing where I was headed next, or if I'd have the money to get me there. I loved every second of it, the freedom, the leaps of faith, the solitude on long drives.

I was between fairs, visiting my dear friend Tracy. Sipping wine on the front porch of the home she shared with 3 other girls and two big dogs, we were commiserating over our useless love lives when the dogs went berserk at the back door. There on the back step, with only a screen door between him and two big dogs barking and growling ferociously, sat a calm puppy gazing up at us with warm amber eyes lined in kohl, all smiles and politely wagging tail.

Ignoring the dogs, he turned his little white and brindle head and looked directly at me as if to say: "I have arrived. Please adjust accordingly."

Tracy laughed and said " I think you just got yourself a dog!" I denied and denied. She reminded me I had often said I'd like a dog. I had no recollection of ever saying any such thing. My lifestyle allowed for no such thing. By his condition it was clear he was a stray but we made the usual rounds to no avail. Nobody knew him.

But I never knew where I was headed, never mind if they allowed dogs. No dog for me.

But I allowed we should bring him in and give him a bath and feed him and so on. He politely put up with it all, but if I moved, he moved. An hour later when I walked out behind the house to fetch something from the van, I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard an awful yelping and yapping. Seconds later came a little bundle of flapping ears and tongue and tail, tearing down the driveway to my side, where he sat down and wagged his tail happily as if to say "I thought you left without me! But I was wrong, wasn't I?"

Yes, he was wrong, and I just got myself a dog. When thinking of names, Tracy, her mind as always much quicker than mine, began reeling off names at the speed of a livestock auctioneer. "Fido, Mickey, Wooffie, Waldo, Chico, Lassie, Puppy, Fred, George, Fluffy, Bingo....." Wait, I cried! Did you just say CHICO?! And so it was my stuffed toy dog came to life and was the best living, breathing, walking, talking dog ever.

I always joked that Chico should have been a guy's dog - after all, he was a bona fide 'chick magnet'. I couldn't walk him anywhere without adoring crowds of girls and women fawning over him. All the more amusing, as he rarely let them touch him. He was a one woman kind of dog, and he didn't much care for men. It took my boyfriend-future-husband months to get on petting terms with Chico, but then they remained firm friends. Most people did not have that luck. Chico would put on his polite and friendly front, the smile and the slowly wagging tail, even sniff their hand, but should they move to pet him he'd flinch away and look at them with indignance, his meaning clear: " I didn't say you could TOUCH me."

 They loved him anyway. He was the kind of dog everyone in the neighbourhood knew, even if they didn't know me. One day I was walking him through the equestrian center where I worked and as a woman approached, I happened to call Chico to my side. "Oh!" she called to me with a friendly grin, "Are you with Chico?" Oh yes, said I, and proudly. I'm with Chico. He acquired me some time ago.

Nobody knew what Chico was though everyone wanted to know. He looked like something different to everyone. A Corgi in a Jack Russell suit. A Jack Russell in an oversized dachshund body with the paws of a mastiff. A PBGV with short ears ( yeah, I had to look that one up too). Finally I wearied of the endless discussions and opinions. If anyone asked what he was, I simply said :"He's a GOOD dog." And he was. He was always just perfect, with a sixth sense of what circumstance required of him. He was a gentleman.

If I was feeling mischievous, I'd say: "He's a French Roadrunner." When the listener looked puzzled, I'd follow up with: "Also known as a Louisiana Shrimper, or colloquially as a Cajun Swampdog." That usually did it. Chico and I would exchange conspiratorial glances and be on our way.

I considered having him DNA tested. But somehow that would have spoiled the fun and dampened his air of mystery. I left his ancestry to his ancestors and Chico to his own unique self.

In his last years, I began to take him to the groomers for a wash and then after a year of baths, we added a haircut. I had done the honors myself for years on the bathing, but now I had a second dog who required serious grooming and it was just easier. Besides, he was struggling under his many layered coat, it was starting to mat, and I was struggling to keep up with the brushing. They say he wagged his tail the entire time they buzzed off all the hair.

When I asked if the groomer had an opinion on his particular ancestral cocktail, she laughed and said "All twelve of them? He has at least 12 different types of coat in there!" I know, I said. And they all shed at the same time. Which is - all the time, as copious hairballs flitting about the house could attest to. Five minutes after a thorough vacuuming, there they'd be, teasing and tickling. And even straight from the groomers with his perky little scarf, he managed to look scruffy. (That is, until he started getting buzz cuts).

It's fun telling all these little stories, remembering my little shadow of over sixteen years. But then I remember what it means and my stomach plummets into deep, dark recesses. But that is all we who are left behind can do, isn't it? Remember and relish the memories of those who touched our hearts and souls beyond words, be they two or fourlegged..

I feel like an amputee searching for a missing limb. Oh, Chico Man. You were with me for the better part of my adult life. I grew up with you. Now, you are here but not there. You are gone, but you have not left.

So I will remember you, Chico. I will remember your beautiful amber eyes and friendly smile. The way you picked me and never let go ( unless treats were in the offering, then you became any man's best new friend for the duration), the funny trot and bouncing run and the way you'd sit and rise up, to go all melty and soft eyed when I rubbed your paws. Which was pretty much anytime you asked, how could I resist? Even if it was in the middle of teaching a lesson....

 I will remember you as a cheerful puppy bumbling through a field of blue bonnets and trotting beside my horse, your matched white paws striding out with alacrity. I have memorized every hair on your brindle ears in your white face, your glistening black nose and the comical sight of the perfect white tip on your tail waving above golden grasses like the flag of a ship on high seas.

I will remember how you'd gently bump my leg for attention, and how it felt to hold your silky head and kiss you softly in the little hollow between your eyes and how you'd lean into the kiss, ever so slightly, then pull away like, yeah, yeah, enough, woman! I will never forget the warm affection you saved just for me, the special look you'd throw my way when you knew I was paying attention, the way your eyes would squint for a second as if you were winking at me with both eyes. I will laugh at how extra funny you were when hit by bouts of playfulness, all decorum and gentlemanly demeanour put aside for leaps, bounds and excited barking.

 And how you'd do anything for a treat. After learning 5 tricks you'd try to do them all at once, perhaps thinking then you'd get all the treats at once, too.

I will remember your quiet dignity that lasted till the very end. I will remember how you slowly and quietly let me know it was time, and the gentle breeze that ruffled your many coats as I carried you to the shade of the oak tree my mother planted just after we moved here, 10 years ago. I like to think she was there to greet you when you relinquished your tired old body. I will remember how, for the first time ever, you, a dog who hated to be held and carried, simply lay softly in my arms and rested your head on my shoulder as I hugged you closer and closer, desperate to not let go, though I knew I must.

And I will never forget how you took one final, long hard look around, then looked me full in the face for a long, long moment of silent communication, your beautiful soul shining through your eyes, so warm and present for the first time in days, beaming at me one last glorious shot of pure affection. I felt your love for me then as I felt mine for you, and I knew then as I have always believed, that there is more, much more, to a dog than so many will allow, as there is so much more to every sentient being on this earth than mankind will admit.

At the end, words failed me and I can't remember the many blessings and prayers of gratitude that poured from my heart but never passed my lips as the final injection was administered. Even now, I feel like I fail to do Chico justice. He touched the heart of everyone he met. He touched them and somehow, challenged their perception of 'it's just a dog'. Chico was never, ever - just a dog.

Perhaps no one has described Chico better than my close friend Jennifer, who wrote:

Here's to you, Chico!

You returned Love with Joy. Your perky trot and upright tail will never be forgotten, you jaunty gentleman! Thank you for the laughter and comfort you brought to all who knew you.

Hear, hear, Chico, and may you find a limitless supply of treats in Heaven and may all your tricks be rewarded tenfold.

So long, old friend, so long. I'll be seeing you.

 

(While I took most of these photos, my thanks to the friends who over the years shared some of these photos with me. )