enroute365

The nature of life

Does life unfold for those who are open to embrace what it has to offer? Or should it be up to us take life "by the horns" and steer it in the direction of our dreams?

Is life a stream that takes us to our destinations as it will ... or is it the clay that we shape as we will?

I confess that I don't have the answer, although I suspect it lies somewhere between these two extremes. I just have to find where exactly that is for my own journey. These are the answers I still await as I continue to observe a period of stillness and listening.

I do agree with a recent post at A Day to Share with Tammy, that in many ways I create my life each day, even in the simplest efforts, as she describes:

During the summer months, when flowers are plentiful in my garden, I love to fill the house with these heavenly tokens. I arrange bouquets for my living room, bedroom, dining room, kitchen, and my desk. I know I am arranging them for me. With these flowers I am in good company ...

I may have stress and some complications, but in my heart I know that I can and will smile to myself knowing that I am in charge ... I create the roads that I will follow ...

Why be miserable when you can be happy? I looked at the flower on the table again. I saw a gift the flower was giving me.

But, when it comes to issues of personal achievement, I have on occasion been better served by letting my ambition take the day off! Some days God, fate or coincidence seemingly has other plans. And, from time-to-time, these plans have opened doors I could not have foreseen.

What about you? Do you accept life as it comes, mold it to suit, or adopt a different approach. Let me know! I'm still listening.

Lessons while waiting

Continued from the July 9th post, "Meeting Genie."

Doing what's best for someone else doesn't always come easily. And that was the choice Marla was desperately trying to make. She had gone to great lengths to find new people for her pet as she prepared to start a new life in a new location. But now, when an expected job clearance had not yet come through, Marla struggled over Genie's future.

I saw the signs of an inner battle on her face as Marla fought back emotion. "I don't know what to do if the job doesn't pan out," she admitted. Then, as if correcting herself, she added, "but it isn't really about me, it's about her. It's about what's best for Genie."

Marla is still in her twenties and isn't yet settled. Her life has been in transition for some time now, during which time Genie has been housed by friends and, most recently, boarded at a local vet's. Even earlier, Marla didn't quite have the time she'd first thought she would to care for a cat ... and she feels that Genie has suffered because of this. I appreciate Marla's honesty. It helps me understand why, when Genie first came to our home, she didn't know how to play.

I've walked in Marla's shoes before. I remember how, fresh out of college, I longed for the companionship of a cat ... even when my work hours and social life really didn't make me the best pet owner.

Seeing Marla's dilemma, I realize that I must be as selfless as she is trying to be. So, after meeting my husband's eyes from across the living room, I offer a proposal. "Frank and I have found that when something is right ... when it's meant to be ... circumstances fall into place of their own accord. We don't need to force it. Maybe adopting Genie is right for us ... maybe it isn't," I begin. The next words are more difficult to utter, but somehow I get them out. "Why don't we proceed this way," I continue. "Why don't Frank and I continue to keep Genie in our home until mid-July when you'll have an answer about the job." "That way, you don't have to pay boarding fees, Genie continues to enjoy a home-atmosphere and you can visit her whenever you'd like." If the job doesn't pan out and you decide to keep Genie, Frank and I will consider this time our kitty 'fix' ... a time to reintroduce us to cat ownership ... or cat servitude, as the case may be! No hard feelings. But if you decide, for whatever reasons, that we can adopt her, we'd like that very much. She's a very special kitty so this can't be easy, but know you'd be welcome to visit her whenever you're in town to visit your mom."

As I speak these words, I think back to some nine months ago when I found a stray kitten dashing around in a busy parking lot on a rainy night. To keep her safe, I'd taken her home and spent the next week alerting various rescue agencies, the area's postal carriers and every vet in the city. I blanketed that suburb with bright yellow flyers. After seven weeks I was ready to claim her as my own ... just as her owners finally spotted one of my flyers in a grocery store. Relinquishing that adorable bundle of fur was difficult ... and made all the more so because it seemed that her owners had put forth very little effort toward finding her. Even upon her return, they had few questions and not a single word of thanks. Yet, Jazz (as they'd fittingly name her) wasn't mine, so I tearfully handed her over.

This, I reminded myself, was a very different situation. Genie was very much loved by Marla. Still the prospect of losing her -- even after so short a time together -- tugged at my heart.

Marla agreed to my proposal. She recently stopped by to see how things are going. Since our first visit, Genie has discovered how to play. She loves chasing a felt streamer that we dangle enticingly before her ... and already has a favorite toy, a catnip mouse.Genie has also become a bird lover, strategically placing her twitching body behind a large potted plant beside the sliding glass doors.

I'm not a patient person by nature, but as these last two weeks have passed, I've learned a thing or two about patience as a virtue. I've seen that I can conquer my impatient tendencies by accepting not only the realities before me, but by accepting the other people who share that reality ... by respecting them, respecting their journeys. But mostly, I think I've learned about love ... and how intricately those virtues are tied together: I'm beginning to love this cat and therefore I can be patient and will be accepting of the outcome.

Marla continues to prepare for her big move to Texas. She's impressed with how Genie has progressed and seems content with allowing us to keep her. But her decision is, no doubt, bittersweet. Per our agreement, Marla still has several days to change her mind. While I feel confident that the adoption will proceed, I continue to reign that feeling in; I need to delay it for just a few more days. After July 15th we'll have our final answer.

To be concluded with PART 4 in this continuing series on July 16th.

Earlier posts:

• July 6th, "Of a Pet Lost and a Pet being Found"
• July 9th, "Meeting Genie"

Building a better family

My paternal grandfather was an ox of a man. Even in his 80s, as his shoulders stooped, he stood over six feet tall. Family lore has it that, back in the days of the Model T, he once returned a ditched car to the roadway, first hoisting its front end, then the rear section, up and over the embankment. This is the same strength that stopped a period of physical abuse in the family. After my granddad had reached adulthood -- and a size that outmatched that of his father -- Granddad intervened as a younger brother was being beaten. Relying on every ounce of strength he had, Grandpa grabbed his father's flying fists, pulled them down to his sides, then in his booming voice announced, “there will be no more of this.” And, the violence ended.

When my grandfather began rearing a family of his own, he meted out discipline with greater restraint that his own father had, but he still relied on the solid values he had been brought up with. Hard work. Thrift. Patriotism. Faith. He and my grandmother had what it took to survive the Depression with three young boys. Life was rough and, in response, these people could not be soft. There were no beatings in this household, but no outward displays of affection either. And might was still the yardstick by which my grandfather measured his sons.

In a home that valued the physical strength needed to meet the demands of farm labor, Dad was at a disadvantage. He was a late-bloomer and as the smallest boy felt the sting of his father's disappointment. It was years before my father was allowed to take the reins of the horses and plow the fields. In the meantime, he served as his mother's helper in and around the home, a severe blow to his sense of pride. And Dad could only watch as an older brother received all of his father's acceptance.

Feeling slighted, my father vowed that he would do better by his children than his parents had done by him. When he had children, they would be treated fairly. There would be no favoritism.

My father was true to his word. Yet he was not a perfect parent either ... and, in their turn, my siblings resolved to do better -- to be better -- with their offspring.

In this way my family has slowly improved, each generation feeling compelled to give to the next what we ourselves needed but never received. And, all the while, passing down the best of what we've been given. Perhaps this is nature's way of insuring progress in the human race: by instilling in us an assurance that we can overcome the faults of the past.

The next generation of my family will, no doubt, determine what mistakes have been made this last time around. I hope they will forgive us, just as we forgive our parents. But, more importantly, I pray that, when these children begin their family lives, they will continue the tradition and feel that they can do better. Who knows ... maybe the next generation will finally get it right.

What practices should end in your family?  What improvements can be made? Which traditions should endure?

A second glance at bears in Iowa

Don't tell the Immigration authorities, but Postville, Iowa -- the site of a recent raid by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement -- may be hosting a few other undocumented visitors. There is reason to believe that black bears may be in the area ... and they “have no legal status in Iowa" according to the state's Department of Natural Resources (DNR). I assume this is because the governor’s office is hesitant to grant them the full rights of citizenship. After all, they have indicated a reluctance to learn English, the official state language.

According to one news report, Iowa Bear Sightings Begin to Add Up, “There have been 11 reported sightings of a bear along Mudd Creek on the southern edge of North Liberty over the past two days.”

Another account, from the Iowa City Press-Citizen, tells of a single sighting and includes observations from DNR spokesman Joe Wilkinson about it. “If it was wild,” the article noted, “Wilkinson said the bear was likely a black bear, which once were native to Iowa. He said the bear could have wandered down from Wisconsin or Minnesota, adding bears have been spotted in Allamakee, Postville and near Dubuque.”

Bears in Iowa! Could it be true? Iowa ... the state noted more for endless fields of corn and soybeans than it's wilderness areas? But then again, Allamakee County, home to Postville, does boast of it's natural setting. And bears have been here before!

According to a 2007 DNR report, “Most present-day Iowans probably associate black bears with some of our large national parks and do not realize that they once occurred in Iowa.”

How true! Who knew that my dream of sighting a real live bear was so close!

The report continues, “When the settlers reached Iowa, they found [bears] widespread throughout the state ... Bears were killed because they would damage crops, harass and kill livestock, and because they were valuable both as food and for their hides.

“Currently, the nearest established wild populations of black bears are in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and southern Missouri. These populations are expanding their range towards Iowa from both the north and south.”

Hmmm! It seems that yesterday's skepticism was ill-founded. How is it that I so easily dismiss the possibilities in my own backyard while casting my gaze into the distance? Why do I overlook history when accepting status quo? Certainly reality is transitory. So don't let me tell you that I'm a realist: I still see what I expect to see! And now I expect to see bears ... in Iowa!

A will to see (bears)

Awakened by ribbons of bright morning light, I groggily stumble to the kitchen where my husband sits obscured by the newspaper. Hearing me enter the room, Frank glances up over its pages. A wide grin quickly spreads across his face. “Seems there are reports of bears in northeastern Iowa,” he says, chin quivering with suppressed laughter.

I'm now fully awake and not amused. I have, you see, a desperate desire to spot a real live bear and Frank knows it. Keep in mind that I have no need to spot a bear: the bragging rights would quickly fade, it's not the type of thing that would enhance my resume, and it's not even on my “To Do” list. Moreover, I don't have the slightest idea where the desire came from. And it might be dangerous. Still ... the thought holds an unshakable appeal for me. So perhaps I'm fortunate to live in Iowa where bear spotting is not likely to happen.

In baiting me, Frank is obviously recalling earlier vacation trips to national parks. Trips where I was so determined to see a bear that I spotted dozens as we drove through miles of woodland. Those dozens turned out to be three Newfoundlands, at least five full-grown black Labrador Retrievers, several Rottweilers, two black German Shepards, a Beauceron, what I now suspect was a Black Russian Terrier and -- as I neared desperation -- an obese black Poodle. Yes, in my enthusiasm, large dogs had been misinterpreted as bears.

Bears in Iowa? Not likely. I scowl at Frank. “I'm not biting,” I reply.

“No, seriously,” he continues. “Numerous witnesses have reported black bear sightings,” he insists. A pause fills the space between us.

“But... ?” I finally prompt. “But they're only finding dog tracks!” Frank howls.

I have to laugh. Not at the witnesses, but at human nature. I find it amazing how we tend to see what we want to see. Myself included. I am fully capable of deluding myself ... at least for a moment. So today, as a public service, I would like to illustrate the difference between the American Black Bear and a number of dog breeds. When you see the obvious similarities you might forgive me. Then again, you might not!

The last laugh, however, might still be on me! Find out how tomorrow when I probe a little deeper!

   

All photographs have been provided courtesy of a GNU Free Documentation License and/or under Creative Commons licensing.

Click on images to view enlargements.

Snow day flashback

Yesterday at the sandwich shop, the nice young man taking my order gave me a heads up. I'd just asked him to toast my sub; I needed something warm on such a cold, miserable day. "It's going to snow tomorrow," he cautioned. After expressing my displeasure at the news, I moaned, "that's exactly why I don't watch the weather reports!" Laughing at myself, I explained, "if I know about bad news a day in advance, I'm only miserable that much sooner!"

My husband repeated the dismal weather report this morning: a chance of snow today, continuing through tonight. I still wasn't ready to hear the news. "Why is winter so persistent this year?" I thought. Then, confident that this chilly weather was an anomaly, I turned back a year in my blog to see what colorful springtime words I'd written during those warm, sunny days of yore.

To my surprise, my post from a year ago (exact, to the day) was titled, "April Snows." What's more, I was bemoaning the same emotional battle I now found myself in: fighting to accept the world (and the weather) the way it really is, instead of the way I want it to be.

While I'm dismayed to find that I still wage war against the same foe -- my expectations -- at least I'm still in the fight. And maybe this is all I should ask of myself: vigilance in the effort ... persistence. Yet, I cannot help but hope that come next springtime, I might be found writing in this space about newly budding trees and plump, chirping robins. Or, at least, about how I adore the prospect of a new-fallen spring snow.

Revisiting childhood, Part 2

Part 1: Series Introduction
Part 2: The Forced Smile

There is a subtle but distinct difference between making someone smile and creating happiness. I should have learned this early in life, but the lesson, somehow, didn't sink in until I was much older. The first clue came when I was three or four.

Extended family had come to my home for a visit. Living lakeside made our place a popular draw and I watched, fascinated, as uncles streamed between the picnic table and pontoon, prepared for a day of fishing. Aunts hovered nearby with kisses, Kleenex and combs while older cousins crowded onto swing sets or dangled their legs from the dock.

It was against this backdrop that the younger children played with buckets and shovels in the sand ... and here that I was first introduced to my third cousin, Mary Kay. The girl, as I remember, was younger than I and an only child. Shy by nature, the commotion around her must have been daunting. At the time, however, I only knew my new cousin was unhappy ... and this was a thought I could not bear.

According to family lore, it was at this meeting, that I walked up to Mary Kay, stuck my fingers into the corners of her mouth and tugged upwards in an attempt to force a smile upon her face. “You need to be happy,” I urged.

As one might expect, my efforts to create happiness failed. Miserably. Mary Kay burst into tears and I could only watch in defeat as her mother rushed to comfort her.

What I did not understand then -- and what I still struggle to truly comprehend -- is that happiness is not something that one person can force upon another.

As a social courtesy, I no longer poke my fingers into the mouths of others, but on occasion I still find myself trying to mask the signs of someone's sadness with a joke or other distraction. These rescue and diversionary tactics are two of the patterns of behavior I've uncovered by looking back through my life (and where a later post will take up the conversation). But I'd like to stop here for now and ask, what about you?

What do your memories, or family stories, say about what was important to you as a child? What made you happy? Unhappy? Is this still true for you today? Let me know in the form of a comment. Or feel free to submit your story to me for anonymous publication at enroute365@mchsi.com.

Rewinding expectations

I'm spending the morning with Richard Simmons. It's not that I find him the best company. He can be quite annoying. But he gets me working harder than most of my other DVD or Playstation exercise programs do. So I'm reliving disco with Richard on VHS because I want to lose five pounds by the end of the month.  And, somehow, I've put on two. This result doesn't seem to be a fluke, but a trend in my personal life: the more I set my expectations in stone (ie., I will drop X lbs by November), the further I distance myself from my goals. 

It must be time to hit rewind. Time to re-evaluate how user-friendly my goals really are. Perhaps time to select Slow Play. I can still rock to the oldies with Richard. After all, he has a great can-do attitude. I can continue to eat healthfully (more so after the Halloween candy has been dispersed among the kiddies). But it's time to erase my expectations. The next time I hit Play, I want it to just that: play ... and just see what happens.

[Dark] secret to a spotless home

My extended family is coming to town for the weekend. As I look around my  home and begin to corral the clutter, I am tempted to test an observation made a few weeks earlier: that thorough housekeeping is, really, a selfish act.

This discovery was made during a tea date. I had invited a few colleagues to my home  and, due to a scheduling snafu, I had arrived with no time to spare.

The ladies saw my home as it was (and usually is): an open floor-plan, great expanse of windows, sturdy oak furniture ... mail on the buffet, dust on the mantle and cobwebs in the corners.

Kathy was the first to arrive. “What a view!” she exclaimed as she looked out the back sliders to the river in the distance. Guilt-ridden, I murmured that the windows remained unwashed to deter birds trying to fly into the house.

“A spotless home is no more an ideal than a cluttered one.”

Organization overload

“The purple bin is for bills, the teal bin is for ads. Are you paying attention?” I ask, forcing my husband to look up from the collection of mail in his hands.

I’ve been organizing again. Earlier this week I rearranged the freezer. Frank wasn’t paying attention to me then either. Which is why he didn’t know where to look for the meatballs last night (in the beef bin on the protein shelf, of course).

Yes, I’ve gone overboard. And now he’s having to deal with organization overload. That’s a different kind of annoyance than what I felt when I plunged into sort-it mode. Then, I was overwhelmed by clutter. The kind that creeps up on you when you take on too many projects. When new priorities displace old, unfinished ones. Or paperwork gets out-of-hand.

"Perhaps I'm trading one bad habit for another."