Getting from A to Z: A Short Guide to Tuning In, Tuning Out and Turning it On

I’m never late.  I set multiple alarms, prepare diligently and build in time for unforeseen circumstances.  I also never stress in advance; but, it takes fail-proof preparation to ensure this model is successful. The key, I have learned over time, is to know when to tune out, when to tune in, and when to turn it up! Way up.

A very wise companion- ok, my husband- once assured me that in anxiety inducing situations I needn’t worry ahead of doom as should it actually come to pass, I’ll have adequate time to stress about it then. The assurance that I would be afforded the opportunity to worry eventually, allowed me to give up the privilege of worrying about things beforehand.  As the old adage goes “If it ain’t happening now, it ain’t happening”. I was previously sure that if I fretted ahead of time, the exercise might avert the anticipated crisis. I was unwilling to surrender my right to the uneasiness. Assured I’d have this chance should the need arise, I truly now let it go until the impending disaster is upon me.

For example, as I vigorously bobble on this tinker-toy of a regional jet in turbulence-the likes of which I've never before experienced- I'm soothed by the notion that I will indeed get a chance to shriek all the way down should we ultimately plunge to our deaths. Rather, I resist the urge to allow anxiety to take hold, my palms cooperate by not sweating, and I’m able to flash a smile of assurance to the nervous woman beside me.

Back in my skydiving heyday I was on a jump plane once where a jumpmaster was lecturing us experienced jumpers on the importance of wearing helmets. A follow skydiver, who was also a pilot, remarked that actually in the event of a crash the helmet would only melt into our heads as we burned in the fiery fuselage.  We all had a laugh and wouldn’t you know it, not a one of us perished on that day.

I am always prepared, but never too far in advance and this seems to work. Over the years I have accepted that I, in fact, do not blow deadlines, miss airplanes, or sleep through alarms. If my daughter were reading this she would no doubt remind me of the time I forgot her 2^nd grade science fair, and the other parents had to come look at her creation out of pity since she seemed to have no other support, but I was younger then. I had not developed the tools I have today, and this is only a blog, not an exact science. Everyone is perfect in a blog.

I travel extensively these days.  In the next 3 weeks I will take 12 airplanes, experience 24 takeoffs and landings, and meet with well over 100 people. I’ve become a master at tuning out things that don’t require my mental presence; thus amassing critical cerebral reserves. I don’t pay attention most times to where I’m connecting through and don’t look ahead much further than the next few hours. The key though is in knowing how to innately tune back in just in the nick of time. Most trips, I tune out the connecting city and often find myself looking at my boarding pass to see where I am. So this is Chicago? Good to know. However, when I take a call, respond to an email or meet a client or colleague for dinner, I don’t miss a minute, a look, a vibe, or a word.

When I travel, I sleep well, drink very little and make sure that my A game comes with me into every meeting. Someone once told me as I was preparing for a negotiation not to worry because my “B game was everyone else’s A game”. That felt good, but the truth is home and work get my A game. Everywhere else? Well, you’re lucky if you see my Z game.

Come to think of it, where did I park my car?

Saving Face (Crèam)

This week my twelve year old exposed me to extreme couponing. That’s true. Perhaps she thought that if she could affect lasting change and crack the weekly grocery nut in half we might redirect the funds to the betterment of her wardrobe. And really, where else would the money rightfully go - savings, home repair, education funds? Clearly not. This week’s bill, as of Tuesday, had already topped $300.00.

I used to be better at clipping coupons, but surely the upside to working full time and holding down all Mom duties has to be the absence of the need to clip coupons or at least a solid rationalization for not wanting to do so. I admit that watching these ardent shoppers made me feel like a slacker particularly when I am low on laundry detergent and they have a fifty bottle surplus.

I do respect these committed consumers for taking what is rightfully theirs. Coupons are available for our use and the money they leach out of the system is accounted for and made up by those of us who pay full price. You’re welcome. But there is no shame in working the system in this manner. I will likely never dump an entire display rack of 150 bottles of generic pain reliever into my cart solely because I have amassed 150 coupons for it, but I am impressed with the effort made by those who do. I also sincerely hope that whatever catastrophic pain they are evidently in is remedied by their haul.

By their example I will make more of an effort to clip coupons for those items which my family uses; and, I am grateful for the inspiration. I do have one observation however. I never see fresh fruits and vegetables in their carts alongside the pallets of Ramen noodles and cough drops. When they start making coupons for spinach maybe I will take the whole thing more seriously.

I Know You Are, But What Am I?

I love quotes. I often search the internet for one that will inspire my next thought and subsequent blog or column. But sometimes a concept is so concrete that I can make the quote up in my head, and there is likely to be a famous quote that matches nearly verbatim. I would imagine that “If you have to tell people who you are, you probably aren’t who you think” is already a searchable quote, but for me it was just a loud and clear thought I had the other morning.

I read new web content by an author who had taken the time to think through who he was and state it neatly. The sentiment was charming and prophetic. A headstone of sorts for a life well intended. “Here lies Joe, he had every intention of being these things, but never did get around to it”. While I appreciated the concepts, it was not in fact who he was; it was a collection of goals for who he very much wants to be. Ironically, the author is someone in whom I see profound hope, but who does not much care for me, and one can hazard to guess that this will not help the cause. Oh well.

I have spent years telling the world exactly who I am, though there has been a paradigm shift in the last few years to just show it. Here is the problem with the latter model. What if who you present to be by your actions, is not the stellar overachiever you wish for the world to know? When my cousin Lisa and I were little, we dissected my brother’s Stretch Armstrong doll in the basement bathroom to see what was inside. Stretch Armstrong, for those of you who are under 40, was a hulk-like action figure with bulging muscles, but he was stretchable. Think drawn and quartered, but with an indestructible flair. This is why no woman in her 40’s can be wholly satisfied by a mate: we are all looking for the bulging hunk with a soft core that we can pull in four directions and have him remain strong and unscathed. We took a razor blade to Stretch and found gelatinous red glop inside. I recall there was a pregnant pause between the two of us, in which I admit being a bit disappointed by Stretch’s pathetic secret. He felt like a fraud to me, and made me appreciate my solid plastic Barbies.

This is, though, how many of us go through life. We are our actions, our deeds, and our hearts. We are infrequently, if ever, our words. I still sometimes tell people who I am, but now recognize that if I feel the need to tell you who I am, it is probably because I am trying to convince myself as well. Here is a litmus test: If what you are stating is overwhelmingly positive and enlightened, it is probably a clue that you are sharing your goals rather than your truth; otherwise you would allow it to show through your actions. Here is my truth: I am a person who flosses a few times a week but tells the dentist I do it regularly, who rarely makes my bed, who often licks the spoon while I’m mixing something and hopes the germs are killed in the baking process (Sabrina, can’t wait to see you for dinner Sunday.) , and who complains about every load of laundry I have to do, but then tears up at the thought that the day will come when I won’t have a million tiny undies in every load. Now that is who I am, who are you?

But Enough About Me

Sometimes I go to bed and find that while I try to suppress them, entertaining thoughts slink into my head and I start to laugh. My husband once said that if we could bottle whatever seemed to be in my pillow, we’d be rich. I do routinely get my second wind the minute I lay down. Tonight was no different and what crept into my head was the below blog that I started months ago but never finished. It made me laugh then, and it makes me laugh now, so here it is in all its splendor. I genuinely hope that it makes you laugh too!

But Enough About Me or It is an Honor to Serve or Allow Me or I Have All Day

It turns out there are many things you can do with fishing line. I know this, because somewhere in the middle of a conversation while I was sharing with a friend the story of a troubling family rift, I was unexpectedly educated about the remarkable concept that is the “wind knot”. Without adequate segue, he told me about his newly acquired skill as a clear indicator that my three second time limit on the soapbox had unknowingly expired. Likewise, while discussing with my teenage daughter the experience of her premature birth, she asked me where we were going for Christmas this year, to which I responded, “I like cheese” to illustrate the irrelevance of her inquest. The older I get, the more I realize that no one really wants to hear about you anymore. In fact, the self importance that you felt as a twenty something has evaporated and instead reincarnated itself into a Mother Teresa-like form where we live to serve. It is a captivating concept - one that the wise among us will embrace, occasionally toy with, and then ultimately accept. I am not necessarily casting judgment on it, as Oscar Wilde aptly said, “All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of their attraction”.

There is something brilliant, however maddening, to being on the other side of the offending equation. Listening breeds insight, and subsequently gives us navigational life tools that make it possible to steer through rough waters. Kahlil Gibran said, “The reality of the other person lies not in what he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to you. Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says, but rather to what he does not say”. Human beings are complex and are forever in pursuit of that which they have to prove.

I like to talk. I like people who like to talk. But there is a shift that happens somewhere later in life, if we are lucky, where we realize that talking about ourselves precludes us from learning about others and that others need to be heard. Rick Warren, whom I had the pleasure of hearing speak years ago, opens his book The Purpose Driven Life with these profound words – ITS NOT ABOUT YOU. Those words, when fully digested, are life changing. The paradigm shift from self importance to selflessness is a gift and the younger it hits you, the better off you are.

Remember the scene from Casper the Ghost, where Casper becomes a real boy, but somewhere later on in his enchanted evening he begins to fade and is no more than an apparition? This, I find, is 40 or motherhood or marriage or wisdom. We somehow fade from everyone’s view but our own and that is where the wisdom lies, in seeing ourselves as we see ourselves, and not through the eyes of others. It is more than the idea of not caring what others think. I do deeply care what others think and it is a useful guideline for how we conduct our lives, but, there is freedom in having nothing to prove. This is less my personal experience and more my observations of the graceful and brilliant among me. Every day I see people who have achieved a level of comfort with themselves such that they seem to float across the room rather than amble. I can only assume that they are the ones who have walked through the fire, lived, and learned enough to know it is best next time to just go around.

Pass the Pepper

A decade ago we bought two rats to begin the process of introducing pets into our family. Despite their unpleasant reputation, domestic rats generally do not bite and will not run when dropped like gerbils, making them appropriate pets for small children. At $3.00 per rodent, this seemed like a good place to start. One was the color of a latte with too much milk and not enough foam and the other had common black and white markings. They were considered medium size fancy rats; though I think the word fancy was used loosely. Medium size means the tails are thin enough not to have that pronounced scaly look and feel. Something about the large class of rats made me feel more like they had been freshly plucked from the New York City subway or were out-of-work cartoon villains. Our daughter named them Sandy and Pepper and they were absolutely adored. On one occasion, she placed Pepper, the black and white rat, on her shoulder and innocently declared "Her my beffriend!"

Early one morning, before anyone else had woken up, I made my way to the kitchen for coffee. I glanced at the rat cage to find Pepper looking especially asleep. Deeply asleep. My instincts implored me to wait on the coffee and check on Pepper. If perhaps she was departed I had better make a plan before that sweet little three year old awoke. A couple pokes of Pepper’s stiffened body and I knew I was in for a long day. I lifted the lifeless rat’s body out of the cage and placed it in a shoe box perhaps in preparation for some later ceremony and because, unlike goldfish, rats cannot be flushed. In actuality, I had no intention of holding a rat memorial service, because I had no intention of breaking my daughter’s heart with this news. I placed the shoebox in the garbage and started to hatch my plan. Upon waking, my daughter went straight to the rat cage as she always did and asked where Pepper was. Quickly- and to this day I am still unnerved by my ability to lie on my feet- I told her that our babysitter had taken Pepper to school for Show and Tell and that she would be back later. I cringed thinking about what I would have said had Pepper died on a weekend.

For the balance of the day I searched Northern California in a 3 hour radius to find a rat with color and markings similar to Pepper's. At the risk of sounding insensitive, it would have been markedly more convenient had solid colored Sandy met a premature demise. After hours of looking, dozens of shady pet shops and hundreds of miles driven I bought the closest thing I could find to Pepper. I placed the new rat in the cage with Sandy and was relieved to find out that they peacefully coexisted.

When my daughter came home from preschool she went straight for the rat cage, pulled New Pepper out, gave me a suspicious sideways glance and said "Momma, Pepper got paint on her!" She had noticed the one unfamiliar black spot on this rat's tail. I explained to her my emerging theory that rats get new spots as they get older and that this phenomenon had taken place while at Show & Tell, a no doubt maturing experience for any young rat. She silently examined New Pepper for any other signs of this incredulous transformation as I sat on pins and needles hoping I would not have to come clean. I would have relived, a thousand times, any past hurt in my life to avoid this one for her.

A few months earlier a bird had flown into a friend’s window and broke its neck. She brought her two year old outside to see the dead bird. There, in the mulch, they had a discussion- 30 year old to 2 year old- about life and death. For me, I decided to let the magic of childhood go on a little bit longer.

She finally accepted New Pepper and they had a few more years together. We did eventually have to address the issue when New Pepper died years later and my daughter was better equipped to handle the loss. In hindsight, she was exceptionally perceptive and may have known something was not quite right, but she let it go and enjoyed her pet. In the years that came next we tackled similar truths, like the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, but never lost sight of the lesson that sometimes it is better not to overanalyze and just grab hold of the joy.

Tearing down Walls

As a rule, I like change. I enjoy moving and all that it entails. I like making new friends, having unfamiliar vistas, and feeling anything but complacent. A few years ago, we bought a post and beam farmhouse. Generally speaking, post and beam construction means that no interior walls are load bearing and any and all conventional interior walls can come down without incident. This is good, because while I welcome and encourage change, I am less captivated by detail. I delight in the garden destruction that is necessary in fall, but am far less enthusiastic about the design and replanting demanded by spring. I am, as I have admitted in the past, a bit of a ‘bull in a china shop’, not out of clumsiness but as a result of enjoying the process of making a mess. I do, however, clean up my messes…eventually. As an aside, when change is mixed with spontaneity, I am flat out enraptured.

Some years ago my daughter asked for, and received, a sledgehammer for Christmas. My husband and I both found the request endearing and the idea of owning a family sledgehammer selfishly inspiring. While she was instructed never to use it on her sister, we have many times since put it through a wall to instigate a remodeling project. Recently the sledgehammer found itself embedded in a wall to the north of our mudroom. In our neck of the woods, a mudroom is a necessity. Your only option to not having a mudroom in this climate is to have a mud house. Mudrooms have tile floors, shoe racks or trunks, and hooks aplenty! They are virtually indestructible and their existence keeps the rest of the house orderly and free of sludge. Our idea was to connect the mudroom to both the kitchen and the living room to capture infidels who entered the house through the living room door as opposed to coming in through the mudroom. Dirty shoes, snowy clothes, wet beach towels and assorted backpacks frequently litter the living room floor because, after all, the mudroom is seemingly too far away. Not anymore. Now whichever door you enter through the mudroom, with all of its convenient storage and coat hanging options, beckons. No excuses.

Admittedly, North Country farm living is not for the faint of heart, weak of spirit, or neat freaks. There are animals, muddy shoes, snow that blows inside and dirty jobs to keep one busy from sun up to sun down. That being said, everything needs a home, even shoes and coats, and I appreciate a clean and uncluttered floor. I have many nights told my children that I cannot kiss them goodnight in their beds unless I have a clear unobstructed path from their doors to their beds. I have stepped on too many Jax in my life, and while a good night kiss is imperative, it should not be cause for a puncture wound.

There is a time and place for order and for chaos. Order keeps the chaos manageable and balances impulsivity making it safe to be so. I am running out of walls to bash my sledgehammer through, yet I am marveling at the consequential look of my surroundings. Ironically, it is novel and fresh; and yet, it is unmistakably home. Tucked amongst the oversized tapestry pillows of my living room couch and looking straight through to the kitchen, I am grateful for open and airy spaces and wonder how long it will take the impulsive carpenters who made it so to put up baseboards and trim. Details…

Remains of the Day and Rebirth

As an evolving writer, I subscribe to numerous internet sources of encouragement. Strangers fling topics via Twitter in an attempt to thwart writer’s block and instigate imagination. Despondently, I offer that I can’t work this way. Having an unknown entity tweet about “ice cream” and then offer the inspired directive of “Now go write!” just doesn’t send waves of profound thought through my mind.

On this occasion I am too cerebral and too tired to create anything from something unrelated to me. This is not to say that I do not enjoy stumbling upon random, unrelated thoughts of my own to weave together into something cogent.

Tonight as I watch the sunset turn my outside view into subtle hues of cayenne, olive, and heather, I am feeling the slightest chill on my bare shoulders and accepting that the fading summer invites the resurrection of ritualistic bath time – a fall and winter benchmark. So tonight, we explore the Remains of the Day and Rebirth...because we can and why not?

Years ago I remember a particularly late night struggling through a college paper, fighting for inspiration and for the ability to stay awake and finish it. We find encouragement in the oddest places, and in that moment I self-soothed by assuring myself that ‘nothing in life will ever be that hard’ again. What I wouldn’t give now to regain the simplicity of those days. Though, as I tell my children on the occasions of their insistence that they are correct in a given situation, “I was as smart as I ever was at the time”.

Equally equipped and burdened with the souvenir of experience, I now recognize that complexity and pandemonium are talismans that graciously accompany age and family. The key to the city is knowing how to breathe it all in at the end of the day and feel appreciative and renewed. I worked with an older gentleman many years ago, who by all appearances had a less than charmed life, but you could no more than hand that man a pen and he would look you in the eye and say, not a colloquial ‘Thank you’, but “I’m appreciative”. And I believe that in every instance he was. Somewhere in his life he learned the value of gratitude; that everything, down to the pen he was handed by another, could be taken away and he was not going to miss an occasion to express his gratefulness for what he did have.

Some days we know enough to give thanks for grass, and sunlight, and for turtles that take their time crossing the road in front of our cars forcing us to stop and just watch their journey. Other days we ache for bedtime to shove one day out of the way and shepherd in the next. Years ago, around the Thanksgiving table, we all shared the treasured things for which we were thankful. When the gratitude soliloquies came around to my youngest daughter, then about 3, she said “I am thankful for doors”. We all laughed but have since humbly valued the promise of our many doors to keep out critters and keep in heat! Every Thanksgiving since, we have never failed to acknowledge our gratitude for doors as homage to the recognition of the uncomplicated. Not so simple a thought after all.

My landscape has vanished behind the veil of night, the prolific mosquitoes are beginning to give up their pursuit, and the cool air forces me to slip a blanket over my shoulders. I am grateful for the sweet summer that is now passing before my eyes. New England is awe-inspiring. Effervescent summers and radiant falls offer a reprieve that gives its inhabitants the potency they will need to prepare and thrive in the winter ahead. One more day passes and drags with it an opportunity for acknowledgement of our abundance - one less chance to see a silver lining. Life is many things, but mostly … it is short.

Cinderella in Wartime

According to Merriam Webster “memory” is the mental faculty of retaining and recalling past experience. There are countless quotes on memories- prose, short stories and musings about beloved recollections. There are mental health articles in abundance on retaining memories, jogging memory and improving one’s capacity for memory, but far fewer on how to obliterate a memory. In fact, the most available subjects when searching for ‘how to erase memory’ are largely relative to computer memory. While I am adept at extrapolating information from wise sources and applying it to the task at hand, I am hard pressed to find a mental delete button, and a metaphorical reboot seems to be the quest de jour of the Dr. Phil nation. Once after searching until dark, I was forced to ask a security guard to drive me around a parking garage looking for my car. I forget easily.

Nevertheless, memories of playing in the sand with our children do not wake us up at night; nor do they call on us to employ exercises of distraction to eradicate them. It seems to be the heartrending memories and the raw ones that attach themselves to us and demand to be brought everywhere we go. Eckhart Tolle in The Power of Now says, "The mind is a superb instrument if used rightly. Used wrongly, however, it becomes very destructive. To put it more accurately, it is not so much that you use your mind wrongly—you usually don't use it at all. It uses you."

The Institute for the Healing of Memories (IHOM), based in South Africa, addresses the emotional and psychological wounds suffered by those in war ravaged countries. The IHOM attempts to help affected individuals remove painful obstacles which can keep them from moving forward. There is extensive supporting evidence that forgiveness promotes healing and thereby peace. The IHOM asserts that holding on to the anger and hate associated with wartime experiences can give way to future conflict and violence. Healing takes place by acknowledging the hurt that led to the feelings and working through a series of exercises intended to permit emotional and spiritual growth.

Rhodes Scholar and renowned teacher of Creative Thinking, Edward de Bono said simply “A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.” Overused expressions like ‘unfinished business’ and ‘closure’ often pepper well meaning advice; but finishing and closing are not always viable options. Death, distance, and circumstance are thieves who strike without notice, depriving us of options and time.

On the complicated subject of eradicating memories it seems everyone is an expert on everyone else’s pain. Most of us march through day after day thanking God for every experience, every sunset and every person who ever walked through the doors of our lives. Still other times gratitude escapes us and we are stuck in a decayed but vivid scene when we wished that the sun had not set so fast or that someone had just kept going or never reached for us in the first place. Like a white gull pressed against a dark sky, the shadow of a painful memory allows for striking contrast and makes the sweet ones shine.

What Lurks in the Woods

I like to camp. I feel capable, simple and strong in the woods. I take pleasure in fashioning retractable bear-proof garbage systems in trees and using my Swiss army knife to solve problems. Being without modern amenities and setting up a tent takes me back to cherished days on the Pocantico Hills Camp bike trip when dirty was a state of mind and sweaty was a sign of triumph.

My father did not like to fly and so each summer we drove the 24 hours from New York to Florida in the most efficiently packed vehicle on the road. Prior to departure, my father would evaluate our luggage and the available cargo space of our Ford Bronco, then mastermind the most geometrically superior packing plan ever created. He would create a comfortable space in the back of the Bronco for my brother and sister and me to lay down with our pillows, blankets and books. Our vehicle was miraculously transformed into an RV every year and we were never short of amazed. As a result, I am convinced that in the area of packing a truck for a trip, I am genetically gifted. Sadly, my husband feels the same way about his own skills and so at the inception of each trip I bite my tongue and watch him pack the bed of our pickup. Admittedly he does an excellent job packing the bed, but then seems to forget a number of things including all that our children have packed and by the time the superfluous items are loaded into the back seat all that is discernable is a pile of possessions with four little blue eyeballs peering out from within it. Off we go!

We camp in the Adirondacks. Our entire road trip from front door to campsite is breathtaking and that truth is never lost on any of us. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we were forced to try a new campground on our latest outing. We arrived at the main office to find an old gas hearth outside with a filthy couch in front of it, I suppose in case one fancied sitting in a roadside parking lot on an infected couch gazing at a sham of a fireplace. In addition, there were two dozen motorcycles and bikers in the lot. As we assessed the situation we assured ourselves that the biker group must have only stopped to gather supplies at the campground’s convenience store. Minutes later they left and we were relieved. As my husband got out of the truck to check in, he offered us a comforting farewell, “If I am not out in 15 minutes, send someone for me”. The girls and I locked the door behind him.

As we headed to site 19 we were unnerved to find that the sites were extremely close to one another with no privacy. For those that do not camp this means, among other things, that you will either get up and walk all the way to the actual bathroom in the middle of the night, or you will hold it until morning. As a camping family we all get into the act and have a comfortable campsite with dining tent, sleeping tent, cooking station, campfire ring and hammock erected within 30 minutes. This was an impressive home for the next two nights, indeed. Moments into our camping adventure we realized that our fellow site mates did not speak English. All of Canada had come to enjoy the Adirondacks this weekend as well it seemed; and, as English speaking Americans we felt like foreigners in our own land.

To our dismay our site mates were young, loud and drunk making our home away from home so unappealing that I gave pause to consider sleeping in the parking lot, on the contaminated couch, in front of the broken fireplace. As I attempted to settle into my sleeping bag, I was struck by distant thunder. A loud roar built in the distance and rumbled toward us like an earthquake. As I considered the possibilities of what act of God would sweep us from our beds, the ground shook and the procession of Harley Davidsons made its way into our campground highlight after headlight. Later, I was pleased to learn that while their late night entrance was unsavory, the bikers were far more courteous than our foreign friends. Despite my family’s cornucopia of sleep aids, from iPods to ear plugs, I stayed awake all night protecting my young from the potential hazards of insolent heathens.

The Adirondack weather graciously provided us with sunny days and cool nights. All in all, we had a delightful weekend full of horse show jumping, kayak racing, swimming and hiking. Cooking together made us feel capable as a foursome and while our Killer Bunnies game turned ugly at times due to our collective competitive nature, the weekend was a success. There was even a bit of culture as we learned that everyone is different, manners matter, and most of all it is hilarious to yell “Fermez la bouche! “ as a family at 3:00am.

Finding Balance in the Oddest Places

This past Memorial Day I spent the afternoon cleaning out our chicken coop. We have a good size coop that houses twenty one laying hens and their one rooster. How we ended up with 20+ birds is an amusing story. In moving to the country it was our hope to raise children with an understanding of sustainability, agriculture and the value of hard work. My husband diligently built our red and white coop next to our barn with the help of our daughters. Upon completion, we festooned it with a navy blue metal star and an American folk art sign that read “Cackling Hatchery”. It was time to order its residents. After asking around, we learned of a popular mail order hatchery and placed the minimum order of chicks that they would allow – twenty five birds with one free ‘exotic’ breed as a bonus. As first time chicken owners, we thought it best to stick to one breed and settled on Barred Rocks. We received 22 hens and 4 roosters. The free exotic bird turned out to be a rooster and, upon maturity, attacked anyone who misguidedly made eye contact with him. He, along with two of the other roosters, was eventually on the losing end of hutch combat due to apparent congenital aggression. Dexter is our one remaining rooster who either successfully perpetrated the battles or simply knew how and when to just stay out of it.

When the call came from the local post office that we had received a peeping package, we rushed to pick up our tiny box of 26 one day old chicks. We felt quite smart for a short while until we realized weeks later that chicks can be purchased individually from Agway this time of year. Nevertheless, we were now the proud owners of a fairly large flock of birds. They have provided us with eggs dependably ever since and thanks to Dexter neither I nor my neighbors have ever woken up late or slept in!

This was the first coop cleaning of the spring and the task at hand glamorously involved chiseling away at months of chicken waste. The process is time consuming, back breaking, and bicep building. Aside from the overpowering odor which seems to draw oxygen from the lungs, the process is admittedly gratifying. With the neck of my t-shirt pulled up over my mouth and nose to protect what waning lung capacity I had left, my mind wandered onto all the folks soaking up the sun on shorelines around the country on this reverent holiday. I thought of my friends and family who were likely on the Cape showering sand off their sun kissed babies and getting dressed for seafood dinners. I wondered for a moment why I chose this lifestyle over one that more easily accommodates impromptu vacations and relaxation over three day weekends. Then I remembered one of my favorite quotes from a commentary by Andy Rooney. He said “Eating is good, sleeping is good and playing is good but work is best”.

Our faithful flock of healthy, free range hens dots our landscape and adds a balanced layer of activity and tranquility to our farm. Dexter has grown into a perfect gentleman -proudly policing the yard and continuing to prove the naysayers wrong who assured us of his inevitable hostility toward humans. Their ceremony of going home to roost as the sun sets is often the only predictable outcome I can count on in a day.

As I finished the coop, I stood back to inspect my work - dirty, sweaty and tired but proud. I would have enjoyed some time on the beach that weekend, but that time comes too, and on this day I was glad for the undertaking and the resulting sense of accomplishment.

Perfect Tommy's

Recently while visiting my home, my mother recalled a story for my children that I had long since forgotten. As I listened to her recount the tale, I was equal parts horrified, captivated, and inspired by my own cunning the likes of which I have at least tempered in the decades that have passed since the incident took place. She told the story of a night about 20 years ago watching a then popular news program-A Current Affair-on television that was featuring a local competition in a New York City bar. As she and my father flipped through channels they stopped for a minute because they thought they saw someone on TV that looked like me. They were right.

David Letterman had developed a ludicrous activity using the magic of Velcro back in 1984. A contestant dressed in the hook side of the Velcro material would leap from a tiny trampoline and attempt to stick onto a wall made of the loop side of the Velcro material. The object of this competition, and I use the term loosely, was to stick as high up on the wall as possible. This ingenious ‘sport’ became known as “Human Bar Fly”. A New York City pub called Perfect Tommy’s hosted a weekly “Human Bar Fly” night. On one of its first nights holding the event I begged a dear friend of mine to accompany me to Manhattan so I could try my hand at this sport.

I am a bruiser by nature, a bit of a bull in the proverbial china shop. So this activity was appealing to me. I did not tell my parents where I was going, nor did I make the mental leap between the camera crews on site and my truancy. Once I got there I remained focused and my objective was clear. There were several dozen contestants and the event was initially divided into men against women. I won in the female category. The winning height was measured by how high your feet were off the floor. While you were stuck on the wall a small group of judges would measure your feet to floor distance, briefly confer, and then viciously peel you off the wall.

While I was an athlete’s athlete among the women I was simply no match for the conqueror of the men’s category and to declare an ultimate champion he and I would have to go head to head. In a tremendous show of chivalry my rival geared up to go first for our final show down, the crowd cleared a corridor for him to run down, and with every leg muscle bulging from within his Velcro suit he began his run toward the wall. His powerful spring from the trampoline was impressive and his belly hit the wall high and hard like an ejected F16 pilot. He stuck it high. It was physically impossible for me to jump that high.

Koichi Tohei, the founder of the Ki Society and the practice of Aikido said, “Power of mind is infinite while brawn is limited.” And so an out of the box, or off the wall strategy if you will, was imperative if victory was to be mine! I quickly clarified the rules and verified that the measurement was simply feet to floor. With the information affirmed I zipped into my navy blue suit, took my place on the starting tape, scanned the floor for beer sludge or any other possible impediments to my success and began my run at the wall. Rather than the hard leap on the trampoline that my adversary had taken, I took more of a balanced and calculated bounce this time and then made a strong, close to the wall, head first front flip sticking to the wall upside down, back to the wall, with my feet high above my head and way above my opponent’s marker tape! Ingenious.

I won the admiration of every beer infused patron at Perfect Tommy’s on that night, the adoration of my friend (which I already had to begin with) and an on air interview on A Current Affair which would later prove to be my unraveling. In researching for this blog, it turns out my brilliant flip has been used by the masses since, as you can read for yourself in the following 1992 Newsweek article. http://www.newsweek.com/id/125528.

That clandestine trip to Perfect Tommy’s gave way to a hilarious night back in 1991 even after the news program aired my interview, and it made for even more memorable giggles with my family nearly 20 years later in a sleepy farm house. A good night, indeed.

Way Up On the Hill

I grew up surrounded by my extended family, on a small but handsome farm embedded in a suburban landscape outside of New York City. By the time my cousins and I rolled onto the place there was very little farm left but the easy sentiment of the land remained intact and we all reaped from it what our elders had sown.

My grandfather and his brothers immigrated to America from Italy in the 1940’s. Initially, they were 13 people living in a single family dwelling at the top of a hill all working industriously to make their way in a unfamiliar land. As the families grew they moved out of my grandparent’s home and built their own houses, and subsequently their children’s houses, in succession down the hill. My grandfather’s middle brother was Jimmy.

Uncle Jim was a sturdy man with a wide smile and sparkling blue eyes that lit up when anyone he cared about, no matter how far removed in relation, walked into the room. He never had an irate word for any human being. In fact, the only angry words he ever spoke are immortalized in family lore as he tried to explain the nuisance that was the wild boar which roamed Italy and often killed farmers’ livestock. While I am unable to freely share the broken English expletive he used to label the beast, the hand gestures alone will go down in history!

He was gracious and kindhearted to my cousins and me; we on the other hand delighted in toying with him. We played practical jokes on him like tying tomatoes to fishing line and reeling them in from the bushes while he harvested his tomato crops by hand. Occasionally, he would run us off, but for the most part he took us in his stride.

This past week, at a most respectable age and still recently in his characteristic spirits, Uncle Jim joined his brothers and wife in heaven. I imagine he greeted them with his signature smile and crystal blue eyes. In so far as a life well lived and one that touched so many cannot be regretted, his passing does make me wish for simpler days. New psychology advises us all to be present in the moment and live our lives authentically. While it is sage advice for these days it is nonetheless how so many of our family members in past generations already knew to live.

Laugh off the pranks, tell your stories with passion, light up when your loved ones walk in the room, and make sure they can see it in your eyes!

A Bird in the Hand

I get pleasure from irony! It wakes me up, smacks me on the tush and makes me walk taller. It is incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs. This morning while balancing my latte as I drove, I swerved my minivan to avoid a Robin that had made a most daring left bank into my path. In doing so, I nearly caused a head on collision with an oncoming SUV. It was a dazzling start to my day!

When my children were small I felt sure that I would meet a regrettable end careening down our staircase after tripping over a Polly Pocket playhouse left precariously at the top of the stairs.  I made my husband swear that, upon such an ill-fated occasion, he would write a wonderfully descriptive obituary that would claim my demise was a result of a heli-skiing accident and that he would groom the kids accordingly so they would support the bleak tale in their preschool, thus leaving me in memoriam with some shred of dignity.

Even now the idea, that I would perish trying to avoid the great Turdus Migratorius is fitting in an oddly satisfying sense. I have leapt willingly from airplanes, flown them solo a time or two, taken 1200 pound horses over stone walls, and dove down to the ocean depths with sharks, but today my obituary nearly read “died tragically and suddenly while irresponsibly drinking her morning coffee and maneuvering her minivan out of the path of an oncoming songbird”. As I brought the vehicle I fondly refer to as the MomBomb, which ironically emits a gentle airplane-like engine hum, back under control I remembered the days behind the yoke of my Cessna and laughed at the irony of this day and the many many days that had passed between then and now.

How had so much changed? There is a canyon like chasm between bypassing ultralight aircraft or even birds in flight under a parachute canopy and this. As an avid skydiver, I have spent many days mixed among clouds and azure skies doing the former and yet to use the term 'distant memory' is hardly descriptive enough. Continuing my drive to work, I laughed out loud at my choices, and time, and moments that force us to see ourselves clearly. I put my coffee mug securely into the cup holder and surrendered to reminiscences of the past.

Twelve years ago my husband and I boarded a King Air at Bay Area Skydiving in Byron, California. Our three month old daughter was on the ground with friends as we enjoyed another skydive. The engines revved and the smell of jet fuel filled the fuselage; a rush of adrenaline that I had become so dependent on filled my veins. A deep breath, a look around at my fellow jumpers, no doubt a smile from ear to ear and we rolled down the runway. Perfect blue skies. Seated on the floor, I leaned back between my husband’s legs and pressed my back up against his chest.

I had jumped hundreds of times, but the anticipation was different that day and I remember it well. I leaned back with my mouth near my husband’s ear and said “What are we doing? We are throwing both of our baby's parents out of a plane.” I can't remember if he heard me over the engine noise, but I heard me loud and clear. I love skydiving, I miss it, and I believe in it for everyone, parents included. But the irony of our actions that day made me see something about myself I had not seen before. It was my last jump.

I do love a thrill and admittedly adrenaline is still my drug of choice, though my fixes are few and far between. Life is kind that way, there is irony in the ordinary - subtle wake up calls to grab onto gratitude and acknowledge the value of simply being content.

I hope that Robin appreciates what I did for him this morning? He owes me a thank you. And I him.

Unlikely Rebel

I am a rule follower by nature. I miss opportunities otherwise seized by the majority on the basis that they may run a slight risk of violating some potentially unwritten law. To this end, I miss out on many a good parking spot on the off chance I could be towed. But today I broke as many written and unwritten rules as possible, most in the area of etiquette and human decency. In church this morning it was offered that we often express anger as a response to our own feelings of hurt, frustration and fear. While not angry, I did act out of all three emotions today and enjoyed doing so. Following service, which I attended alone, I drove without informing anyone in my family, to my favorite coffee house. Broken Rule #1. Off to a fine start. Upon arrival, I found that it had undergone extensive, and in my opinion unnecessary and unwelcome renovation. Nevertheless, I took a seat at the bar in the window and watched the prettiest snowfall, drank the worst latte, and enjoyed the solitude.

I chose this place because on past visits I had wondered to myself why such a gem was so sadly under patronized and today 'quiet' was on my agenda. Unfortunately, sleek cappuccino machines, shiny new bamboo flooring, flashy decking with modern handrails, and granite counter tops seem to coax the residents of Jericho out of their otherwise sleepy farmhouses on snowy Sunday mornings. In a misery loves company moment, a large woman dressed in pink sat uncomfortably close to me. I had taken the middle seat at the three person bar to make it less likely that anyone would sit next to me. These are not the rules by which I typically play, but this was not a typical morning. I was in an almost visible bubble and I was liking it. Her proximity was so close that it forced me to gather my newspaper innards, stack them neatly, tuck my elbows in and put my latte mug on top of my paper making it impossible to flip the pages at my leisure. I became so uncomfortable with this posturing that I hummed along loudly with the tune playing in the coffee house which seemed to work. A sideways glace in my direction on her part, and not one bar into "Round Here" by the Counting Crows and she was gone. Rule #2 shattered.

I was surprised to find myself feeling so mutinous after church and in the coffee shop to which I had come to soul search. But then I do enjoy the rare and sporadic digression into sarcasm and in fact at the inception of this blog I all but promised such forays to its readers. As a writer I find it fascinating to write in different states of mind and this was certainly a different state of mind. Immediately following the ingenious humming incident I decided that writing in this, at best overtired and at worst unhinged, state should yield something funny if not perhaps admissible in court. So I did what any Sunday morning-post church-rule breaker might do I grabbed the newly renovated coffee shop's menu, flipped it over and started writing. Rule #3...nearly unforgivable.

Sometimes I stare blankly at my laptop waiting for inspiration, but today I wondered how many menus I could swipe before they thanked me for my gracious $5.25 purchase and tossed me out onto the brand new porch. As the snow continued to fall the words gushed from brain to pen to menu and my smile grew wider and likely more odd to those around me. Two menus later I found myself less cantankerous, kind of liking the smooth granite counter, feeling bad about the girl I'd hummed out of there and looking forward to heading home. I am a rule follower by nature. So even when I set out to break them, I am generally the only one who notices. But sometimes going rogue, if only in one’s mind, is just the outlet we need to turn a bad day around. It really was a beautiful, sugary snowfall.











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An Honest Voice

""You're wishin' too much baby. You gotta' stop wearin' your wishbone where your backbone oughta be!" -Richard from Texas.

The world lost an extraordinary and honest voice this past week when Richard Vogt, a man made famous as, "Richard from Texas", a real life character in the memoir Eat, Pray, Love passed away suddenly in his sleep Thursday. His prominence would have been markedly less were it not for his implausible ability to shelf the appeal for pretty words and plainly say what he was feeling - a notion I sadly feel is fading into obscurity more every day. Among his many brilliant witticisms he said, "Sure those gremlins still gnaw at my heels but I keep kicking them aside". And isn’t that the objective anyway – to be better than what’s getting the better of us?

A little known fetish of mine, of which I am very proud, is my fascination with the origin of phrases and by fascination I mean I find it interesting not that it occupies time I don't have. In the 1800’s boots had a kind of tab or loop at the top known as bootstraps which allowed the wearer leverage in pulling the boots on. The phrase "to pull yourself up by your bootstraps" was conceived to metaphorically refer to an impossible mission or to convey the idea of bettering oneself without the aid of external assistance. It was the equivalent of saving oneself from drowning by pulling ones own hair.

Improbable though it may be, I like the suggestion of pulling yourself up by the bootstraps and Richard Vogt must have too. His hard-hitting cowboy love had a candor and truthfulness that made anyone who heard him want to do better for themselves. Some people have the ability to comfort others while not allowing them to go headlong into the chasm of self pity. These are the people who truly care for us.

In my experience there are three types of nurturers: the Enablers, the Hallmarkers and- in deference to the character we lost- the Cowboys. The Enablers need our depression. It’s a pillow top mattress into which they can contentedly fall. Our weakness minimizes their own, so they comfort us in our time of need all the while ensuring we become more deeply mired every step of the way in our own circumstance. The Hallmarkers are the card senders. Sorry for your loss. Their concern is genuine, but your pain does not supersede their children’s soccer schedule. The Cowboys are those who allow us to feel, but then spend the energy and invest in us enough to pull us out and back into the light.

Many years ago during our first misstep into foster parenting we were in the process of losing the first baby we set out to adopt. This was a baby born to a drug addicted mother and prior to the turn of events we were told by numerous attorneys that this adoption would go through. I will pause here to tell you that, as the parent of biological children, I can say unequivocally that the love you feel for a child you have raised from birth -biologically yours or not- is the same. Losing this baby was killing me slowly and surely. At this stage we had been told that the baby would be placed with biological family that had surfaced and had expressed an interest in adopting her. (Foster parents have no rights in this case.) During a candid and emotional conversation with the DCF Resource Coordinator, AKA “the woman who had gotten me into this mess”, she gave me a piece of the best advice I have even been given. A bit of cowboy logic, if you will.

She suggested I pick a sensible timeframe that was fair to me and to my family - three to five days- and allow myself the privilege of falling apart. She invited me to be reckless within reason, shop excessively, cry, scream, eat, whatever I needed to do to grieve, and then, pick myself up by the bootstraps. I think about that little girl often now and there was additional grieving that needed to happen, but the concept worked and the advice was compassionate and sound.

Things do not always turn out as we plan. Fields that looked wide open from the sky turn out to have barbed wire fences stretched across them as we attempt to set down our troubled airplane. People we trusted with our hearts sometimes unexpectedly mistake those very hearts for baby fur seals. And, as Richard Vogt’s Texas eloquence offered, the gremlins do continue to gnaw at our heels. But even when we don’t feel safe and our back is exposed during one long mad season we do have to persist and keep kicking them aside.

"Everyday when you wake up ask yourself, 'Am I going to be happy or miserable today?' Take it from me -choose happiness - I always do." - Richard from Texas*

*quotes were taken from www.richardfromtexas.com

Pretty Words

I was paid the highest compliment yesterday that a writer of my sort can be paid. As with anything I suppose, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but for me this compliment hit the core reason of why I write. It was, therefore, an accolade whose high I will ride for years to come. A co-worker, who seemed reluctant to admit that she had read my writing late one night, offered to me that while no one may remember what I wrote, they will remember how I made them feel and that I made them laugh.

I delight in the world around me. I am fascinated by every detail to the point that it holds me up sometimes from accomplishing ordinary daily tasks. I see the world around me the way a scuba diver sees the deep sea. Everything pops for me and overwhelms me with its intricacy and usefulness. I recognize coincidence in what others likely take for granted.

A couple of years ago I was free diving in Mexico when it occurred to me that I had three shimmering silver bangle bracelets on my wrist. Earlier in the day I had bartered zealously with a man at a street fair for these and was proud of my exploit. Strangely ill timed, while diving, I recalled an article I had read where a woman was bit in the head by a Barracuda because she was wearing a silver clip in her hair and the jagged toothed fish are attracted to shiny objects which they mistake for food. Perhaps my bargain bracelets were not a good diving accessory after all. The second I finished the thought, I looked to my right out toward the deep sea, and about two feet from me was a perfect, thin, silver three foot Barracuda looking back at me. I did a double take, stuck the arm with those stupid bangles out of the water and swam back to shore fast as my flipper assisted feet would allow me to go. That is me. I invite the unimaginable in, likely because I am aware it is possible. And I love this side of life.

Today I stopped at a local Starbucks. I went to use the bathroom to find it was occupied and so I waited patiently and checked Facebook on my phone. Pathetic commentary aside, a minute later a woman emerged. Slightly hunched forward, in a lint covered coat that appeared to be made of industrial felt, she scowled at me. I smiled and said "Hi" to which she replied "bad design and it’s a mess". I assume she was referring to the bathroom, though she could have been just as accurately describing her own coat. Given the recent disasters in our world, the obvious evidence of horror and hardship, why would anyone let the state of a public bathroom with fresh running water and flushing toilets get them down, particularly when right outside it is a latte for $5.45 and you have the money in your pocket to pay for that. To me, that alone is a brilliant day by the worlds’ standards.

I say delight in the ordinary, take notice of the absurd and have a laugh at it to yourself, let gratitude overwhelm you each time you walk in the door on a cold day and it's warm inside, entertain yourself and those around you, and when one more day feels like too many remind yourself of all those people who would kill to walk in your shoes!

For The Love Of The Day

Readers, friends, and family sometimes ask me to write about a particular issue. Last week, on our way home my daughter asked me to write about shopping. So I did. I was pleased with the result and it flowed somewhat effortlessly. I prefer to write purely from my own inspiration and am fortunate now to have a monthly column where I can do that. However, in my business writing I write only about what others ask for, so honing this skill is necessary. Let that be an invitation to you. A few days ago came a new request from a friend.

Consequently, I have been tied up in knots the last few days trying to write about that particular subject. It was dropped in my lap, anvil style, riddled with the angst of the past and I have at best written a sentence a night. More honestly, I have written several sentences each night and consistently deleted them all. I have tried writing after exercise, writing after wine, writing while delirious with exhaustion, all with no constructive outcome. Finally last night with the benefit of a long midday bath I wrote several well connected paragraphs about the proposed subject of time travel and the idea of visiting one's past. Minutes before entering the editing phase of my writing, iTunes and Blogger decided they could no longer peacefully coexist and both dug their heels into technical ground. I was forced to restart and all was lost. Hours of writing vanished and the auto save feature of Blogger had betrayed me, perhaps for my own good.

This morning, on Valentine's Day, I had hoped to offer some thoughts on love - again a subject more topical than inspired. As I searched the internet for quotes that might jump start my writing on the subject I found one that sits well with me. It is by Neil Gaiman -an English born American Novelist, Journalist, Screenwriter, and Children's author. I am sharing it with you on this most amorous day. Enjoy.

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

I am mildly tempted to hunt him down, take his hand, and run headlong into yet another brick wall in hopes of changing his mind. However, at the end of the day, he and I stand in complete agreement on this matter and would undoubtedly instead share a toast to rough roads and hard lessons learned. Cynical, world-weary, dark and twisted though it may be; it is fact. Love stings. Having walked this often broken road, I am certain that it is through these dreadful experiences he writes about that we find ourselves and are able to recognize what we want, pass on what we do not, and live with what is, and with what will never be. Time may not heal all wounds, but its generosity does infuse our hearts with all we need to make it to the day ahead and the next. AH HA! And this is why I have no need for a time machine to the past. Shheeww, I knew I'd figure out the connection eventually! Happy Valentines Day.

I Like It On You

I’m not a shopper. I am fairly frugal. I do not like clothes, crowded racks, narrow aisles, consumerism, materialism, dressing room attendants, 10% discounts if you sign up for store credit cards, buy-one-get-one-half-off, or any store that hangs items higher than 5’ 3”. I have always alleged that I do not have the shopping gene. However, I now know that I do have it, it was just recessive as I did throw a daughter who loves to shop and I do love to spend time with her. In order to meet her where she is, I sometimes spend whole days shopping. Today was one of those days.


These are the moments when God reveals to me that He is real, that He sees me, that He saw everything I did in college and that He gave me a daughter who loves to shop as a reminder that what comes around goes around. This is indeed a fair and merciful penance. It is a good thing, however, when a shopping day falls on a single digit Vermont winter afternoon when the mountain winds are too high and the chair lifts are closed. This takes the edge that I could be doing something more fulfilling off.

There are simple pleasures even when shopping that make the day a gift! Today they were too plentiful to mention exhaustively but I will highlight a couple. Nothing is sweeter than the little old man who sits patiently on the chair either outside the dressing room or at the entrance of the store waiting for his partner. I am choosing partner here because I have come to learn that it is not always a wife squeezing into something in the dressing room that the man waits on. I suppose earlier on I would have assumed this was the practice only of those married for decades; now I know those are very often men on their second or third marriages or even waiting on a girlfriend. Whatever the nature of the relationship, I think it’s sweet that they wait and that they are patient. So spotting the token sitting man has become a much loved part of shopping for me. A kind hearted Where is Waldo game.

Another highlight today was trying on dresses with my near teenage daughter in opposite dressing rooms. We had both taken in armfuls of clothes to try on and would periodically call to each other for a quick opinion. That alone was a favorite moment. At one point we opened our respective doors to find we were standing there in the same dress. A simple, casual, floor length, steel grey dress with black flowers fading out around the bottom. She looked beautiful, and graceful, and all grown up, but she said she loved it on me. Twelve and a half years ago I took a fairly uneventful ambulance ride to a Level One Neonatal Intensive Care Unit in Oakland, California to set free a tiny four pound baby girl with an apparent recessive shopping gene. Grandma Moses said, “Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be.” Oddly, I suppose, so too is shopping.

Fresh Dirt

The below was originally written in early Autumn with the intention of being submitted as my first column. It was to set the stage as the column's ongoing title "Fresh Dirt". It was never published and the column, while regular, does not have a consistent title. My unexpected inspiration to write more last night convinced me to finally place it here on the blog site. It was written from the gut in a very genuine place.

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Being raised in a suburb of New York City I attended a catholic school where recess was held in the church parking lot. A blacktop swath surrounded by a towering chain link fence that literally rocked and rolled on windy days. I recently visited that New York parking lot with my girls and as we drove in I asked them to close their eyes and picture their recess area here in our small rural town. Really, take a minute to envision it, the views in every direction. Now open your eyes. They sat in silent disbelief. “Mom, this is a parking lot”. So it was.

They are being raised in a small farm town. A suburb, if you will, of Burlington. The drive to school, the library, every friend’s house, and the convenience store is breathtaking. Here fourth generation farmers know more about the commodities market than wall streeters and have the business acumen of our greatest entrepreneurs, Yale grads choose to stay home to raise their children, and surgeons wear their baseball hats backwards on weekends. We raise chickens by choice, swap greetings and tractor restoration stories at Carrie's Market, and it’s hard to tell who is of what means by just sizing someone up by their boots. Work waits when hunting season begins and we measure time by before and after “the snow flies”. I have learned that no one here is smarter than their neighbor because everyone truly brings some knowledge to the table. The mottled generations and backgrounds here weave a collective genius that floats on the air and sticks to the bare branches of winter.

For some this way of life has been a respected family tradition of hard work, for others it has come with tough choices and sacrifice, still others have fought the enticement of subdivisions to be part of something genuine and simple. Regardless of how anyone came to this suburban small town, I respect it, protect it, and preserve it.

It's a dry sunny day and today I have seen the same tractor go up and down my road several times which can only mean one thing - FRESH DIRT. A newly grated, pillowy flat open road on which to ride my horse down and wave at my neighbors who drive by and slow down when they see us. A true simple blessing in this sweet life we share and count on.

Rural Route Today January Column (Many Too Many)

This morning I woke up sick and tired. As I made my way to the kitchen I was tripped, clawed, and tugged on by all three of my dogs. They are neatly ordered in size as small, medium, and large. The large one being Great Dane size and the small one being a cast off from a designer dog puppy mill. All rescue dogs with personality to spare. When we moved to property I had my heart set on having five dogs. This morning as I walked dragging my Yorkie from my pajama pant leg I mumbled to myself “Three dogs is too many”. Between the dogs and the two indoor cats, the floor around here seems to move under my feet. Couple that with tumble weed size clumps of hair and it’s a recipe for disaster.

As the effects of my latte graciously began to kick in I found myself smirking at the energy they all had. The little one vying for his share of attention; the big one with old sweet eyes as if saying “Lets you and I run away together and leave this chaos behind”; the medium one suffering the classic middle child syndrome, doing puppy tricks just trying to be noticed and different.

They all came into our lives under different circumstances. The big one looked much smaller at the shelter against the backdrop of Mount Mansfield, the medium sized one’s face was hard to turn down on craigslist and “Little Man”, as he is affectionately known, was a bonus I picked up when I went to get barn cats.

I couldn’t explain to them this morning that I was under the weather, nor would it change their agenda. In fact, knowing I wasn’t feeling well would only strengthen their mission. It would validate their need to heap their wet, sharp, vigorous love on me ten-fold. They share this love with our entire family. They provide protection, comfort to our children, and an uncomplicated sense of pleasure. How can there be too much of that?

It isn’t that I wouldn’t enjoy a cleaner house or less commotion, but those at the cost of less unconditional love hardly seems a fair trade. So while I nurse the fat lip I sustained from the nails of the smallest pup even while writing this column, I take immeasurable joy in watching them now wrestle and play with eachother.

Too many? Well maybe. But I have many “too many’s” and this is one I cherish.