I Could Learn a Lot from My Dog…

I could learn a lot from my dog… if I would only “sit” and “stay” in the moment.

After a year of trying to make it without anxiety issues, I found myself headed back to counseling this summer to try and get a handle on things. For those of you who struggle with it, you know that it can sometimes be debilitating — and for those of you who don’t, it can damn near ruin your whole day before it even gets started.

One of the many anxiety-related issues I discuss with the counselor is the one I have over our “new” dog, Sonny. He’s been with us for a little over six months now, and while there are some days where I’m very happy he’s here with us, there are others that are extremely difficult. In July 2013 – almost to the date — we lost our beloved Mick, a rescued corgi-husky mix, to lymphoma at the age of twelve. Watching him grow frail and worrying about his safety at every moment “amped” up my level of anxiety… until the night he looked me directly in the eyes and told me it was “time to go.”

For over a year after that night, we came home to a quiet house that had no furry carpets or dog kibble trailed through the kitchen but also found ourselves being able to pick up and go wherever we wanted to when we wanted to. My anxiety over worrying if I had done right by Mick lessened daily… until the day when my husband and the stepkids started talking about how much they wanted another dog.

Sonny Boy (named after Sonny Boy Williamson — we’re huge old school blues fans) came into our lives the week before Christmas 2014. Some friends of ours found him wandering through a local park. When no one claimed him, it was decided (by democratic vote… and I lost) that he would come live with us.

And so began my anxiety over whether I’d be able to take care of another four-legger… and over the inevitable moment when it would again be “time to go.”

 One of the things the counselor suggested was that I get out and walk or at least do some kind of exercise to relieve my general anxiety. This summer, the kids are at their grandparents’, so responsibility for the morning walks falls on me. At first, I was terrified — wondering if we’d encounter a coyote or a snake or perhaps another dog who wasn’t very friendly. Or maybe he’d eat something that was poison. The walks weren’t relaxing at all. My chest was tight, I felt like my throat was closing up, and often, I wanted to cry.

But eventually, something began to change. I felt myself actually enjoying our morning time together — before the sun was fully over the treeline, watching him with nose to the ground, sniffing for the best spot to, ahem, well, you know. He was in the moment, and nothing could distract him.

The more I realized it, this damn dog GETS IT. He knows how to practice mindfulness.
I could learn a lot from him.

So, as I work through my inability to stop worrying about the future and stay in the moment, I leave you with these wise words of wisdom from my “other counselor.”

Always greet the morning, ready to “play ball.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes you have to look at things from a different perspective.

It’s okay to sit and take it easy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stare down your fears. Eventually, they’ll scamper into the woods.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every now and then… let it ALL hang out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soak in a good sunset on your front porch… sit, stay… and appreciate the moment.

Throwback Thursday — Life in the “Ghetto”

Everyone seems to enjoy sharing their best “Throwback Thursday” photos on the Internet. I do, too, but this time, I wanted to do something a little different — dig in a box of old photos not yet organized (shame on me!), pull out a random one, and write the next post about it.

Well, the first random photo was so badly deteriorated, I decided to cheat a bit and flip through a few more.  Then, these little jewels appeared… from life on Mosby Drive in Greensboro, NC.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s me and my friend, Lloyd, whose last name escapes me right now. I’m guessing we’re somewhere between 4 and 5 — about 43 years ago. We had this thing about getting into costume and doing impromptu parades around the complex.  That costume I had on, along with the boots, were my Momma’s.  The costume she wore when she was probably the same age, and the majorette boots she wore in high school.  I loved them and really wish I had them now.  They made the best “clomping” sounds when I marched, and it made the performance all the more convincing — we were serious marchers.

Oh, and any of you hard-core Hardee’s fans from the early 1970s recognize Lloyd’s Speedy McGreedy t-shirt?  Killer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next one is of me and Marcy.  She lived in that building directly behind her. The greatest thing about the “Ghetto” was that it had a super cool playground and a huge yard.  It had a couple of see-saws, this climbing bar, and a swingset with a slide that must’ve been about 12 feet tall.  You know, the kind that, when it was the middle of summer, would stick to and burn the back of your legs when you tried to slide down it?   Marcy had a younger brother who everyone called “Bubba.”  Actually, his name was Stoney. I remember that he used to come barreling out of his front door, wearing nothing but a diaper. I’ll bet he grew up to be a biker dude.  Or a pro-wrestler.

Life in “the Ghetto” was great.  I always remember my parents referring to the complex that way.  Back then, it was a relatively safe neighborhood.  People from all walks of life lived there — attorneys, nurses, hippies, semi-pro golfers, cemetery managers (my Dad), and all my friends — we were white, black, Native American, mixed-race, but the great thing was, back then, none of that mattered.  We’d gather out on the front stoop in the early evenings, put some charcoal in the Hibachi, pull out the lawnchairs, and have jam sessions.  The only bad times I remember were when someone was arrested for driving drunk around the complex and the day that Marcy and Bubba’s dog had the mange and their parents washed him in creosote to get rid of it (somehow, I just don’t believe that was safe).  The dog got loose and took off through the complex, stopping at each door to shake off that awful stuff.  I remember my Momma trying to corral us all inside and shut the door before he was able to get inside the apartment.  We thought it was funny.  The adults didn’t seem to see it the same way.  To this day, it escapes me whether that dog was finally caught or how many front doors had to be scrubbed down.

We moved from Mosby when I was about seven — to a nice new neighborhood about 5 miles away.  The really neat thing was that several of my friends’ parents moved to the same place. Made for a much easier transition.  Years later, the neighborhood deteriorated, and crime around the surrounding area increased.  As much as I wanted to check in on how it looked, I never could force myself to go there.

The Internet can be a wonderful tool for those of us who are nostalgic but a bit “chicken.”  I looked up the address on Google Maps… and there it was…  

This photo was taken about two years ago, and I’m amazed at how good it looks, given its age.  Still looks the same — our apartment was in that middle building (can’t remember exactly which one it was).

Looking at this photo immediately takes me back to those carefree times, and I wonder where Lloyd and Marcy are these days.  Does Bubba still have the urge to run wild and free in his tighty-whities?  Did that poor dog ever recover from the trauma of the creosote bath and everyone running away from him? It’s getting close to a half-century since those days (gulp).

Although it now has a sign, labeling it as “Mosby Oaks,” it will always be my beloved “Ghetto.”

 

Yes, I Am… Well, Maybe…

(This post SHOULD have gone out back in August. Obviously, I’ve been slacking off a bit. So, here it is…)

I’ve had a few friends who wanted to know more about the book I just finished.

It’s by Jen Sincero — You Are A Badass: How to Stop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living An Awesome Life.

So, how’d I find this little jewel of wisdom?  I was looking in B&N’s search tool during a lunch hour.  Feeling kind of down and in need of yet ANOTHER self-help tome that would be read with great enthusiasm and discipline for the first few days… and then be added to my shelf and eventually covered with dust.

But this one was different.  Out of the literally thousands of titles that resulted from my search using the key words “life change,” came this bright yellow smack-in-the-face.  The moment I saw the word “Badass,” I knew this was the one for me.

She’s really blunt and to-the-point about taking charge of your life:  “Do not waste your precious time giving one single crap about what anybody else thinks of you.”    If you do, you’ll end up sabotaging your goals.  She says that there are only THREE things you need to consider:

1. Is this something, I want to be, do, or have?
2. Is this going to take me in the direction I want to go (not should go)?
3. Is this going to screw over anybody else in the process?

So, am I taking this book to heart?  I’m getting there. Gotta stop giving one single crap, though…

(Update… this photo was taken in the summer when I started reading this book – early July, I believe.  My furry buddy, Mick, used to always sit out on the porch with me when I would read.  He lost his battle with cancer on July 21, 2013.  I miss his “coaching.”  He was a true Badass.)