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.

“Coughing up” My Latest Post…

Hi, all.  I’m back from the depths (again).

This little fella has been giving me a hard time for the past month or so. Living in North Carolina during the spring sure is pretty, but it SUCKS for those of us with highly-reactive sinuses and lungs.

When I can’t type because I drip all over the keyboard, or the ink from my pen starts to mix with post nasal drip to create “art on paper,” I know I need to surrender for a while…

But this week, I loaded the “big guns” and am fighting back with more meds than I’d really like to have in my system, but hey – it’s starting to do the trick.

So, the oxygen level’s starting to climb, the snot’s less-snotty, and the drips are less-drippy. And I’m feeling like writing again. Yay!

So, please stay tuned for some interesting stories.

There’s the one about a desk named Flossie…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and fishing in the cemetery pond.

 

See ya soon!

Ethel and Her Armpits

Star-Spangled… Me?

When I was young, I spent lots of time at Granny’s house.  She was a career public school music teacher and, after retirement, taught voice and piano privately. Even had a “musical kindergarten” called Rhythm Band. In her small town, everyone knew her as the spunky, creative… and slightly nutty…  lady who brought joy and beautiful music – and a bit of the unexpected – to nearly every holiday gathering in town.

Aside from Christmas… and Halloween… and Valentine’s Day… well, hell, she loved every holiday, who am I kidding? It seemed that July 4, 1976, was a challenge for her.  She went nuts, decorating EVERYTHING in sight with red, white, and blue, and honing up on her piano versions of all things patriotic.  It was insane but really amusing to watch.

Tonight, thumbing through a box of old photos, I came across one that truly represented just how geared up she was for our 200th birthday celebration. Okay, so let’s build a giant birthday cake out of boxes, wipe out the local dollar store of its miniature flags, stick the thing in the back yard, and get the oldest grandkid to dress up like Uncle Sam to pose for pictures.

Geez, the other two grandkids were BOYS, for crap’s sake!  At least she didn’t make me wear a beard. Well, they were only about four and two at the time… they weren’t tall enough to peer over the top layer yet.

Yep, that’s me.  Nine years old.  The curse of being the oldest was always serving as “guinea pig” for photo shoots like this. I think she secretly enjoyed this – thank goodness she never showed it to any of my friends. Ugh.

Truth is, this year, I would have given my left, er, ovary, to have climbed up on that damn cake, listening to her direct with more finesse than a Hollywood producer, “Now, wave the flags and smile, Leigh,” as she snapped the photo.  I would have sung every patriotic song I knew, if it would have meant a little more time with her.

Well, except for that awful “God Bless the USA” song.  Forgive me — if you were subjected to that song as often as I was as a kid, you’d feel the same way.  Seriously, you would. (Sorry, Granny.)

July 4, or any holiday for that matter, doesn’t quite have the same sparkle as it did when she was in charge of making them fabulous.

The Writer Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree…

Tonight was one of those nights where I needed a little “perking up” and some inspiration for writing, so while rummaging through the boxes of old photographs acquired over the years (and yet to be properly archived), I came across something so very unexpected – a “confirmation” of sorts.  It was a little booklet that my aunt had made and shared with the family shortly after Granny (my mother’s mother) had passed in 2004.  It contained poems she had written in 1937, when she was 22 years old and not yet married to Pa-Paw.  Even more exciting was the fact that a poem written by my great-grandmother in 1940 was included. She was 62 years old when she wrote it.

Not only was this a wonderful surprise, I also found it quite interesting that my great-grandmother’s poem was about a bird – now, the mystery of my strange attraction to them may have finally been explained.  Apparently, bird lovers run in the family.

Apparently, so does the love of writing as well.  Not only did Great Grandma Archy enjoy writing the occasional poem, I learned from my aunt that she also wrote for the Charlotte Observer sometime in the 1920s and 1930s under the pen name, “Ichabod.”  During that time, I suppose women weren’t strongly encouraged to write for the paper, so she found a way to get around that barrier.  (Way to go, Great-Grandma!) I am currently in the process of contacting the archives division in Charlotte to see if they can help me find more information…and hopefully some of her articles.

At the back of the booklet were some loose pages.  Brown and ragged at the edges – I discovered they were the original handwritten poems.  There was something about holding those pieces of paper in my hand and lightly running fingers across the words that made me feel as if, for a moment, I was right there when they were being crafted over 70 years ago.

Digging deeper into the box, two yellowed envelopes also appeared.  They were typewritten – addressed to my Granny from my Momma.  They had been returned to me after her death, and I never realized exactly what they contained – until opening and reading them tonight.

Before me was three generations of writing – and I couldn’t help but see a similarity in my grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s style.  But what touched me the most was the letter from Momma to my Granny – 40 years ago, just after Pa-Paw had suffered a heart attack.  Momma had graduated from a business college and worked for a while as a secretary for J.P. Stevens Company in Greensboro when I was young.  I vaguely remember us having a typewriter, and I also think I remember her allowing me to use some of her onion skin typing paper and “practice” now and then.

But I digress.  Momma’s letter was dated 1974 – less than four years before she died.  As the years go by, it’s growing more and more difficult to remember little things about her.  But this letter brought all the memories flooding back when I saw how her writing reflected the deeply caring nature I still remembered and how she expressed specific concern over making sure that a close eye was kept on Pa-Paw because “he was used to doing what he wants to.” She mentioned me in the letter and that I was excited about going to see Elvis (yes, I saw him!) and that she regretted not buying a ticket for herself.  When I read that sentence, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of deep regret also – had she bought another ticket to the concert and joined my neighborhood friend, his mother, and me, that would have made for just one more fond memory to add to the small handful I was able to gather in her short time here with me on this earth.

Great Grandmother Archy’s poem was written about a Mockingbird, but it reflected a mother’s sense of loss after her last child left the “nest.” She needed to “keep on singing” after her children left home, as did the Mockingbird, despite losing her own “nestlings.”

Granny’s poem was an ode to her mother – the one who was her best friend and her “lighthouse.”

Momma’s letter to her mother was one of deep caring, compassion, and encouragement in a time of difficulty — and a precious, unexpected and much-needed gift of memories for her daughter 40 years later.

Three generations of mothers expressing themselves through writing – and confirmation to me that what they say about apples… well…

 To My Mockingbird – by Archy Harris Morrison (1940)

Oh, little bird, come sing your sweet song;
With your notes full of cheer the whole day long.
You sit on your bough and sing to me;
As if you are happy, as happy can be.

And, oh, mockingbird, sing on your sweet song;
Put pep in my step and cheer up the throng.
Who chance to pass and hear your sweet song;
Sing your sweet song, sing on, sing on.

Sometimes the cruel cat your nestlings take;
And you are left to mourn your sad fate.
But you sing your song from early morn;
Oh, who could guess you were left so forlorn.

May the sweet melody that you make;
Cause us some joy and courage to take.
That when our home ties are broken may we;
Still scatter sunshine where ’ere we be.

 

Mother – by Willie Morrison Taylor (1937)

You, mother are the dearest
Of all my friends to me.
You’ve been the inspiration
Of all my childest glee.

Tho’ all the years have passed
Since I was but a child
You have been my lighthouse –
Even your bright smile.

You’ve cheered me when I’m lonely
And helped me when I’m blue,
You’ve made the burdens lighter
And skies of brighter hue.

I hope when life is over
And our days here are done
You’ll have a crown victorious
With every battle won.

 

Come on out… the air’s just fine…

A story I wrote has been accepted for publication in the book, I Am Subject: Sharing Our Truths to Reclaim Our Selves.

I’m extremely excited about this. I believe there are over 70 stories from women – all over the world – that will be included in this anthology. It’s amazing and quite humbling to know that my story has been heard… and acknowledged.

And it couldn’t have come at a better time in my life — a time when “the change” has my body going haywire, the mind following suit most of the time, and my spirit jumping up and down, waving its hand in the air, frantically screaming, “Hey!  Remember me?  Can I please come out and play now?”

Through this project, the box lid on my comfortable, safe, secure little world has been ripped open and exposed to the elements, and I’m finding that the air outside is safe to breathe. Actually, it’s quite refreshing.

 

So go on, spirit. Climb out now. Inhale deeply… and play ’til your heart’s content.

For more information on Diane DeBella and her wonderful project, visit her website: http://www.iamsubject.com/

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.”

 

The Granting of Permission

What would you do…

If the simple act of reading a book opened doors of possibility and healing beyond that which you ever imagined?

If that book helped spark a desire to help others who share the same life experiences and losses as you did?

If you secretly wished, deep in your heart, to meet the author one day and share your story with her?

If the author asked her readers to submit their “stories,” and for once, you heard that still, small voice loudly say, “DO IT. Send her your story right now.”

 

If, several weeks later, you received an email from the author, asking for permission to use your story in her next book?

If you connected with another person who experienced your same loss and offered the support and encouragement in pursuing that goal of helping others?

If you began to share your story… and people from all over the world began to read it and respond?

 

 

If you learned that author/mentor was going to be coming to your state, and that she welcomed the opportunity to meet with you?

If, after 36 years of feeling alone in the journey, you entered a roomful of other women – your long lost “sisters” who had endured that very same journey – and in that instant, you felt as if you had finally come home?

 

 

If you were presented an opportunity to experience something so potentially life-changing that it scared the complete hell out of you to even imagine yourself doing it?

If you knew that it would force you to climb out of that safe little box you’ve lived in all of your life and challenge you to go places, both physically and emotionally, that would stretch your comfort zone to the limit?

 

 

If your daily work gets pushed aside by visions of walking ancient paths and hearing the sound of your heart as it beats in time with the rhythm of your steps…and the steps of those who have made the same journey?

If you knew that you would try to find any reason possible as to why you couldn’t… why you shouldn’t take this opportunity?

If you were afraid to ask permission from the only person who needed to give it?

 

Would you give yourself permission?

Pigment Therapy

I’ve had a rough week.  The weekend started not showing signs of improvement, either.  But on Sunday, I woke up with less pain in the back and neck and was looking at a sunrise that seemed to promise a nice day in store.

One thing that has always made me feel good when life wasn’t going so well was picking up a paintbrush or a pencil and doing something creative.  Getting lost in the messiness of pigment and graphite or calligraphy ink just helped me achieve that rare moment of mindfulness — being completely lost in your creation and forgetting your troubles.

I have this wrought iron patio set that’s just been sitting out in our back yard natural area.  You probably wouldn’t even notice it — rusting and a really depressing dark green.  Heck, even the birds and squirrels won’t sit on it. That speaks volumes.  And go to the local home improvement stores right now, and you’ll have to take out a second mortgage to get a new patio set.

So I got in the car and headed to the local paint store.  I was going to invest some time in “pigment therapy.” I’ve got this thing for that robin’s egg/retro seafoam green color lately.  I picked out my color and headed home. Just that easy.

Here’s the patio furniture BEFORE…

…and here’s the patio set AFTER!

Well, I still have two more chairs to do, but that’ll give me something to look forward to on the weekend.

I got so wrapped up in the painting thing and listening to NPR, that I went inside to rifle through the stacks of paint cans I had stored.  Colors I thought would look great in the half bath, but after a few paint strokes, it went right in the closet.  Hmmm…I found it. “Earthen Jug.”  This feels like a challenge…

So I set my sights on this old milk can that I had covered years ago when I was in my “daisies and ladybugs” phase.  It was a perfect candidate in need of some TLC.

About 30 minutes later (most of that time spent stirring a 2-year-old can of paint back to life), the results were pretty cool…

I’m going to use it as a “side table” for my front porch retreat.

Pigment therapy… it’s amazing what $21 and a little bit of color can do for a run down piece of furniture… or for one’s peace of mind.

Life (and Rocking Chairs), Remembered

It’s no secret.  I love porches.

When I was young, my front porch was “home base” during heated games of tag.  It was the safe place where neighborhood parents knew we would be until late at night in the summer.  It was the place where my friends and I would camp out and watch Monty Python episodes on a battery-powered mini TV.  The place where I sat and talked with my dad the day I decided to leave an alcoholic, narcissistic husband.

I also loved my Grandmother’s front porch.  The way the gigantic Boston ferns swayed in the hot summer breeze was almost hypnotic.  Comforting.  When the house was filled with family members (and too much cigarette smoke), I would slip outside to sit on the white wicker loveseat.  It had puffy cushions and was the best place to catch a quick nap… at least until my cousins came outside to pick on me or to try and steal my spot.

The first Christmas after Momma died, I spent a good deal of time sitting out there on my own, just attempting to understand all the feelings that were overwhelming my twelve-year-old heart and mind.  Someone came out and captured this picture of me, sitting in one of Grandmother’s rocking chairs. For many years, I learned how to smile, even though inside, I was far from happy.

One of the things I love the most about my current home is the “farmhouse” porch that spans across its front.  It reminds me so much of Grandmother’s — a comforting retreat to clear my head, to consider the day’s tasks, or to do some reading and writing.  Of course, a nice cup of coffee or hot tea is mandatory.

My seat was a tan Adirondack chair.  One of those plastic ones that had a comfort duration of only about 30 minutes because it didn’t have that fancy lower back support thing that the more expensive versions did.  Yeah, I was a cheapo when I bought it.  Its twin didn’t fare as well, breaking one night after a summer wine-drinking session.  The back just broke off… instant recliner.  Thank goodness for wine, or that might’ve really hurt.

Finally, after about six years of serving me through 100-degree days, being brutalized by windstorms, and enduring several butts — mine, my husband’s, my stepkids, and my dog’s — the Adirondack finally called it quits.  I felt lost — the other chairs we had just didn’t fill the vacant space.  So began my search.  When my dad heard that I was looking for a good porch-sitting chair, he offered one that couldn’t have been more perfect…

…or any uglier. It was a wicker rocker that my Momma had purchased when I was little.  Over the years, it was neglected.  Abandoned in the dark corner of my dad’s living room.  It had been painted cream and accessorized with a nondescript cushion. A perfect candidate in need of some well-deserved TLC.  This thing is probably over 40 years old, and boy, did it look it.

As I painted it, the project took on an even bigger meaning to me, as I recalled brief memories of sitting in it as a young girl.  While I don’t really remember when it was purchased (my dad told me about it), restoring it to a new life also helped restore some happy memories as well.  Couldn’t help but think that my Momma would approve of the quirky choice of colors and patterns.

It’s amazing what a fresh coat of paint, a comfy new cushion, and a whimsical pillow can do to brighten up a forgotten treasure. I cleaned up a cool daisy table that was hiding in the corner of the porch.  Now, all I needed was the perfect pillow to coordinate the colors…

…and, thanks to a friend’s help, I was able to locate it!

Now, my favorite spot is almost complete.  A place to relax, read, write… and remember.  Once again, as an adult, I’ve found my “safe place.”  Just need that huge Boston fern.

There’s something about a front porch…