The Love Letter

I am sitting, facing my computer, while a war wages within me. “You must write.” “I cant write.” “You can think of something.” “No – I cant.” I listened to a webinar, as I do each day while getting ready for work. The woman said that anyone who is asking the Divine for abundance in love or money must be open to receiving. She said that in the book by Julia Cameron, The Artists Way, there is a lesson for each student. The lesson is to write a love letter to yourself. If you are not able to receive love from yourself, then you are not open to receiving from the Universe. Can you see yourself as worthy and deserving?

I quickly dismissed the idea. I’m sure I could do it if I wanted to. Each time one of my family members celebrates a milestone birthday, I gift them with a writing. For sure, I am able to find something to acknowledge about myself. After all, I will be crossing into the land of 60 in April. For two weeks I have stalled. Ignoring the promptings of my Spirit, I have made life busy and my mind preoccupied. I even folded up the computer and put it out of sight. Waking in the middle of the night, I can feel the test that looms before me. “I don’t have to do this. My Creator knows that I am worthy of love. This proves nothing.” “Ok, then. Do it.”

OK!


“Dear Pat, I like your hair”. No, I can’t say that. It’s permed and colored and really fine. It takes a lot of work to look even presentable. Alright, how about, “I like your eyes”. That sounds like a pick up line at 2:00 am on a Friday night.

Think back to the Valentine you wrote for your love last year. That was truly from the heart. The love you expressed to him brought tears of joy to his eyes. Can you not offer yourself that level of devotion?


I’ll try it again.

Dearest Pat,

If I could hold you, I would show you how much you mean to me. My arms would enfold you and make you feel safe and secure. You would know that I will never let any harm come to you. I will always be right here to love and share my life with you. I will not forsake you. 

You mean everything to me - our crazy, rambling conversations; our giggling like children; our supporting each other in times of need; our dreams of the future raising grandchildren and traveling to exotic destinations. I am so grateful for your continual forgiveness and compassion. You allow me to grow and encourage me to become all that I can be. You want the best for me regardless of how that may impact other aspects of your life.

I don’t care about the excess pounds that you agonize over. You are so much more than that. I am inspired by your strength and courage. You are relentless in your pursuit of healing and transformation. Like the Hermit in the Tarot, you lift your lantern and offer a light to others along the path. Your willingness to be vulnerable and share what you learn motivates younger women that follow in your footsteps. So many times, I have seen you fall, but somehow you find the Will to soldier on with your evolution.

I am so proud to call you friend. Everywhere you go and everyone you touch is changed by the loving energy that you vibrate. I see it when we walk through town, build fires in the woods and sit with your animals all around you. The flowers bend to greet you and the hummingbirds hurry back to your front porch each spring. Hawks, pines, lakes and horses all whisper their affection to you.

Never forget how much I love you, the angels love you and the Divine loves you. If you ever feel lonely, open your heart and know I am here. I will be with you until you draw your last breath. I understand that sometimes life can be scary and uncertain. Those are the times I hope you can feel my arms embracing you, reassuring you that it will all be ok. My love is eternal. You have not been forgotten. No matter where you go or what you are doing, I love you.

You are so blessed with amazing daughters, caring family, and a multitude of friends. Realize each day how much has been given to you and stand ready to receive even more. Keep being you. I know you will. We are a team and I am so happy to be with you.

Happy Birthday, Sweetie.

All my love,

Me

 

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” “No, not entirely. Not once I let go of the conditions I feel I have not met and the goals I have not achieved. I’m OK. I have followed my own path and I’m happy about that.” As I enter the last trilogy of my life, I am content. There are places I’d like to go and things I’d like to do, but overall life is grand as it is. Yes, I am open to receive the abundance that Spirit holds for me. I challenge my readers to complete this exercise, it’s well worth the effort.

Seeds

 

It is - 15° tonight in Kalispell. I am sitting in front of the fire with my Irish sweater pulled close. My rabbit has been brought in from the porch and is snuggled into a crate in the mudroom. She is happily munching alfalfa hay and animal crackers. The dog and cats are snoozing contentedly near my legs. As I imagine all of the wildlife outdoors in this frigid cold, I think of my garden and my seeds that lay resting under the snow.

I planted hollyhock and poppies late in November. The timing has to be just right. If planting is too early, the seeds may be tempted to germinate. If I wait too long, the soil may freeze hard prohibiting the planting. Right now, the blanket of white is protecting them from the sub-zero temperatures and keeping them hydrated. The soil rises and falls as it freezes and thaws throughout the winter. The upheaval softens the tough exterior of the shell. The seed actually benefits from the harshness of the conditions. The flower sleeping within would remain imprisoned if the shell was not worn and weathered from stress.

The seeds do not question the timing. The seeds do not pace or fret under the snow. They seem to know that all the difficulties they are going through will allow them to open even more fully when conditions are right. It is me that sets up a happy light to cope and is anxious about the future. Will there be enough wood for the season? Will my loved one return? My seeds wait in quiet anticipation. The idea that spring will not come or that they will not bloom, never crosses their mind. Embarrassed, I admit, I do not have the faith of my tiny seeds. I look behind me and I see tattered dreams and broken promises. Do I dare to imagine that spring will bring growth and healing? “Trust,” says the seed.

 I see that the way I greet each day as a choice. The sub-zero temperatures and continual clouds can push me deeper into the recesses of coffee and doubts. Or, I can decide to accept the circumstances I face and stop resisting life. Winter winds blow and the thermometer falls in spite of bracing myself against them. Surrender is the best option. I lay down my shield of protection, my need for control. The effort is futile. Life will have its way with or without my permission.

 Inside the seed is a memory of sunshine and a vision of green tomorrows. I too, hold the remembrance of the heat of physical union and the effervescence of unbridled laughter. Love waits within me for the right conditions. My garden seeds can wait decades, if necessary, to burst forth in magnificent display, their colors bringing joy and happiness to all that see them. The same can be said for a Divine Partnership. When the love is unconditional and the timing is perfect, the relationship is a blessing to all that meet them. Their energy reverberates across humanity and beyond boundaries. These couples truly walk hand in hand with their Creator. They are living examples of compassion and forgiveness. This path is not for the weak of heart. There are obstacles and tests of commitment all along the way. This relationship is worth the delays endured. 

 My seeds will continue resting under the snow, realizing that soon this phase will pass. It’s not long now, when they can burst through the soil and unfurl their leaves in the warmth of the sun. The rain will patter down on their buds and they will burst forth with enthusiasm. I will give thanks for them and shower them with gratitude for demonstrating that there is a Divine Plan, that all is in order in the world. I am not the Master of my Universe. I can let my seed coat drop and relax in the reassurance that all is well. Faith and Trust, my seeds keep reminding me. I may not be able to see it out my window today, but it is all I need to hold.

 Spring is just around the corner. The trees will bud out in their beautiful yellow-green and the robins and the red-winged blackbirds will return. The lake will thaw and the cherry blossoms will bring forth their pink radiance. My love is ready. My seeds and I await the perfect conditions to break free of constraints and bring joyfulness into the world. Watch out, here we come!

 

 

 

 

 

My Do It Yourself Project

I have been working on a project for most of my adult life. There have been moments of discouragement when I think I will never see the final result. Each year I get older and each year I see how much more needs remodeling. Maybe, I should just plug in the television and drink a beer. Then there are times when the progress is noticeable, and I give thanks for the hours invested. I’ve spent decades peeling away the layers, sanding off rough corners and sewing the fabric that was torn. I’ve returned the pieces that were not mine to their rightful owners and restored the treasures that had been lost or stolen. Defensive walls have been removed brick by brick; boundary lines have been set stone by stone. Plans have been drawn and modified. Ideas have been revised and discarded. Locations have changed. The challenge has been to sort out what is rubbish and should be tossed, and what is truth and should be saved. The physical exterior has deteriorated slightly but the interior is polishing up quite nicely.

As any do-it-yourselfer knows, there is a plethora of opinions out there on any subject. I consult with experts. I read books, watch You Tube videos, attend conferences, listen to eminent speakers and gather with like-minded students. But, it is ultimately up to me to get the work done. I am my project.

I cannot hire a contractor to complete this self-improvement task. I wish I could employ someone else to run on the tread mill when I am feeling tired, but the results would be disappointing. I could sit in a chair and read about exercise but the desired effects would allude me. I must do it myself. No one else can sweat for me. After a 20 year sabbatical, I am practicing karate. There is no short cut to remembering the forms or strengthening my muscles. It’s going to take effort and focus to reap the benefits. I am helping myself by watching videos and practicing in between classes at the gym. It’s up to me to commit the time to hone my skill. The same goes for my horseback riding with Lakota. I cannot improve my proficiency with her if I do not get on. It’s up to me to establish the body language and cues that allow us to communicate. 

I have chosen a spiritual path. My intent is to learn how to discern between the egoic mind, which is forever playing in my head, and the Divine Spirit that moves through me. My Creator has a heck of a time getting through to me when there is an endless dialogue of old conditioning blocking my guidance system. I challenged myself to 100 days of one hour meditations. In the stillness, I am allowing old fears, triggers, parental accusations and limitations to rise to the surface and be healed. I know when it is my mind bubbling forth when I can watch the thought and label it “past” or “future”. The Divine speaks to me in the moment, in the “holy instant.” My Spirit is calm and steady; it has no needs or wants. It is love, flowing in and out. Worry, fear, and anxiety are only the mind. I get to this place of awareness by doing the work. I cannot hire an expert or drop off my brain for dissection while I go to the office. If it was possible, it would be worth taking out a loan for this job. Sitting with my heart and mind for countless hours is committing to the project. I have to do this myself. Each session leaves me more peaceful than the previous. Even if I am distracted or feel heavy in my center, I continue because I know my connection to my soul is worth the investment of time. Serenity and spiritual evolution are my goals. There is no race or deadline. I’ll keep at it until I get there. 

Each person and situation that comes to me is a mirror for me to reflect my progress. My outer world reveals my inner being. Judgmental individuals no longer hold power over me; I see the punishment they inflict on themselves. There is nothing that could be done to meet their approval since their mind is continually berating them with criticism. The mind is forever creating separation between people and with Spirit. If we tap into the knowing that is deep down inside of us, we will be reassured and comforted. The static is our societal and familial belief system smacking up against our knowing. Peace is possible once we sort through the clutter and reorganize our inner space. The mind is a useful tool once it has been tamed and is not allowed to run the show. “Be still and know that I am God.” Let your heart guide you. Find the stillness between the thoughts. Rest here. Finding true peace is a do-it-yourself project. Volumes of journals that I have written over my life, track my progress. They are also a recording of how many times I fell off the track. What I can say is that I have somehow found the strength each time to get up and go back to the stripping and painting, the digging and sowing. The love I embody becomes purified and shines brighter after every opportunity for growth, which can - at first glance - look like an obstacle.

There are times when I can hire someone to help me with my project, like getting a good haircut or enjoying a massage. The rest is up to me. I realize I am a fixer-upper. Peace and happiness visit me more and more often in my rehabilitated vessel. I am worth the time I spend. It has taken me a long time to feel this way. Each time someone walks out my door, never to return, I understand that I may have insecurity or a fear that needs healing. Or, it can be that they are not in a place of receiving love at this moment. The other person may feel unworthy or broken in some way. I bless them and thank them. When I am in connection with the Divine, my being burns brightly with an internal fire even in the midst of a cold Montana winter.

Best of luck on all your projects. I will always be a work in progress. I’m going back to my buffing and scouring.

Empowerment

 
I had rented a tiny cottage in Cape Town, South Africa. It was the last segment of a solitary trip that had taken me from the Kalahari Desert to the precipice of Table Top Mountain. The rainy season had settled in on this southernmost tip of the continent. Sheets of rain pelted the windows of the bungalow as I sat curled up on the sofa. No phone, no computer, no television, and no place to go. If I had wanted to find myself, then here I was. No distractions, just me face to face with me. I wondered how I got here and why? I had just survived an incredible ordeal in the desert alone with a disreputable guide. Thousands of hectares of nothing but sand and scrub trees were the only witness to the intended assault. What was I thinking? I had been so trusting and vulnerable. How had I allowed myself to be in that predicament? What force had protected me?

Now far from the desert, while I sat in the safety and comfort of the cottage, I kept hearing a faint line pass through my mind, “Seek healing in unexpected places.” Anyplace around here would be unexpected, I imagined. What was that supposed to mean? Where was I supposed to go? I paced around the house. With nothing else to do, I could walk into town to get something to eat or find a computer to check in with the states. I donned a raincoat and headed down the steep hill into town, the refrain to seek healing still playing through my head. My favorite expression directed at the Universe is to state, “Show me a burning bush. Don’t make me guess.” Wind whipped the rain in torrents and it quickly soaked my jeans and shoes. I trudged on. Laughing out loud, I read a purple sign in front of a house, that clearly spelled out, “Energetic Healing.” “OK” I said to the Universe, “I’ll play.” I walked up to the door and knocked. A man answered and said, “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you. My car won’t start and my afternoon appointment cancelled, so I figured someone must be stopping by”.

His name was Alan Davies. It was an amazing afternoon of conversation and drinking tea. I told him, “I don’t even know why I am here. This is crazy.” He asked me, “How far do you have to go to run away from who you really are?” It was pretty amusing that Cape Town is about as far as you can get from my home on a globe. “You are a healer. You have a gift. Your mother and your grandmother had the power and they gave it away. You are running away from yours.” I was aghast. I refuted his statement. “What am I supposed to do? Hang out a sign?” He replied, “I did and you came.” That shut me up. I told him I had just spent the last five years completing a Ph.D. This does not compute with my logical mind. Alan reminded me of how many young women had sat at my table drinking tea while we were all students at Cornell. He explained that I had been gifting them with so much more than tea. Most of them were the same age as my daughters. I had been helping them recognize their power.

During my discussion with Alan, I realized that I was in the midst of growing into my power, my own sense of worth and ability. This is what I was doing at 50 years old. This was the answer to my questioning and traipsing around the world.

 As a child, I had grown up in an environment that stripped that from me. The women in my life had relinquished all power and expected me to follow that path. The religious teachings I had received reinforced that edict. Here was a man telling me that I was powerful and that my role was to share that with others. We all have an inner power. We all have an inner knowing. It’s a peeling away of our conditioning that frees us to see and embrace this power, to know the Divine is in us and not somewhere in a far off heaven.

It’s almost ten years later and I see how profound that meeting was. My greatest rewards have been helping someone else be successful, find their confidence, realize their potential. Sometimes, it is as simple as educating a person about the needs of a plant in order for them to grow their own fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, it’s helping a student perform a persuasive speech or complete a winning job application. More often than not, it’s assisting a fellow adult to see that we are only trapped in our mind. There is always another way of seeing a situation. If we can let go of expectations and attachments, we can surrender to our inner power and the greater part of ourselves that holds a deeper wisdom. Eckhart Tolle says that, “We are never upset for the reasons we think we are.” Often it is something that happened a long time ago and an event has triggered the old wound. Accepting and surrendering to life as it is can feel like giving up, but in truth it takes a great deal of courage. It is the greatest challenge of the Spiritual Warrior, to stand in our own power and know we are alright without controlling the outcome. Once we have come to own our inner strength, there are limitless ways to share this with those that are experiencing uncertainty.

I have witnessed people I respect over the years give this gift to others.

I watched my friend take the two ends of the baling twine and cross them over, first right over left and then left over right. He pulled the string taut and behold, a perfect knot. “Now you try it,” he said to the young man sitting on the bale of hay with his legs dangling off the trailer’s edge. The youth struggled to keep the twine under control. He dropped it not once, but several times before getting the first twist accomplished. “Great job, keep at it. You’ve almost got it this time,” said his enthusiastic teacher. “Don’t give up now.” Concentration and coordination were failing as the handicapped boy tried again. His eyes began following the path the dog was taking and his focus left the string. “Come on. Let’s try it together. I know you can do it.” The young man looped the ends once more and this time when he pulled the twine, the knot held its position. He beamed with pride. A simple twist of a string had boosted his confidence and left him with a sense of accomplishment. The kindness of the mentor had enabled the boy to reach a new level of achievement.

The woman was terrified of her horse. She had experienced a traumatic fall some years previous and had not been able to conquer her fear. I was there the day the trainer led the woman’s horse and encouraged her to get onboard. The rider climbed up, outfitted with a helmet and a flak jacket. Slowly the horse walked around the outside of the round pen, while the passenger clung to the mane and reins. Around and around the trainer led the horse until the woman began to breathe a little easier. She began to sit up a little straighter in her saddle. It was a first step toward overcoming the anxiety that had kept her grounded. The trainer could not erase the terror but she could help the woman reclaim her power.

At Cornell University, a common ailment is the “imposter syndrome.” I was a middle aged divorcee attempting upper level graduate degrees at Cornell University. Who did I think I was studying and working on a PhD? Who was I kidding? Someday, someone would find out that I wasn’t that smart and that I had no right to be there. I was just a mom and I must have gotten lost somewhere along the way. In the midst of one of those self-flagellation tirades, I met a professor emeritus in the education department. He was 85 years old and still teaching classes. Verne had published more text books than all of the other professors in the department combined. He didn’t care that he hadn’t been paid in 20 years, he taught for the love of his students. Maybe he could see my self-doubt, but for whatever reason he assigned himself to be my guide. We would meet for a sack lunch in the arboretum on a bench. He’d ask me about my classes and my daughters. Verne was always there explaining his latest science experiment or his latest research paper. He became my hero, 40 years my senior, and he was still coaching the track team and inspiring fledgling science teachers. He couldn’t do the work for me but he could be an understanding ear. He described his own challenges when he was a student and during his academic career. His faith in my abilities encouraged me when my conviction flagged. With Verne as my support, my own research projects blossomed. I don’t know if I would be where I am today without his empowering me along the way.

I know what it is like to feel powerless in the face of a hopeless relationship, financial situation, dead-end career and health crisis. I have been there. With that said, I have also watched amazing, selfless teachers and guides show the way through these dark nights of the soul. They hold the light and raise the vibration, all the while asking and prompting others to find the power that is hidden within. Helping another individual to get up off their knees and embrace their inner strength in the face of adversity is one of life’s grandest rewards. I claim my power for the women in my past and I challenge my daughters to hold on to theirs in humility and self-assurance. Empowerment is a quiet sense of dignity.

Offer a helping hand to those that are lost. When someone feels there is no way out, do not make the way clear for them. Instead, show them, teach them that they have the power to release themselves. Open their minds to alternatives. Power comes from finding the answer within you. Be a living example and shine your light.

 

 

 

My Valentine

If I could, I would give to you: the scent of the pines after a summer rain, the tingle of the ocean surf as it tickles your toes, the song of the meadow lark on an August afternoon, and the blaze of a fire deep in the snowy woods. I’d bring to you: the thrill of an eagle lifting off with his catch, the fuzzy comfort of a decades old blanket, and the romance of a candle lit dinner and a fine bottle of wine. I’d gift to you: the promise of tomorrow with each goodnight kiss, the soothing calmness of a mountain stream and the feeling of home in cookies fresh from the oven.

 I wish I could somehow dip each of these experiences into a chocolate decorated with telltale hints of the surprises enclosed. The box would hold dark, milk and white chocolates - sprinkled, frosted and wrapped - to be enjoyed at your leisure. You could select the dark chocolate truffle with the white sugar sprinkle. As your teeth penetrate the outer shell, the magical chill of frozen fog surrounds you. The lake appears clear as you gaze, the mist hanging just above the surface. Each blade of grass and dogwood branch is coated in a crystalline cocoon. The air is still and calm. The snow covered pines begin to tremble and you expect a medieval knight to emerge on his steed. This time it is a doe and her yearling fawn. The taste of magic and possibility linger on your tongue as you smile.

One more, you tell yourself, only one more chocolate. You decide on the milk chocolate delight with the dash of cinnamon red on top. Maybe it is paprika, nutmeg or chili powder. Here goes. As the truffle melts in your mouth the sun washes over your exposed skin. The rays are welcome and life giving. Your face turns to greet the radiance like a flower catching the full benefit. You feel the sand under your toes. The red rock rises up to the clear blue sky and the sage brush surrounds you. You are slightly winded from the exertion of climbing this precipice. The view is breathtaking, nourishing your soul. All the aches and pains your joints have held in the past dissolve in this healing environment. You can sense the spirit of the native peoples that lived here long ago. The notes of a tin whistle float through the canyon below. The heat and the sensations liquefy all of your concerns as you make the last swallow of honey colored, caramel deliciousness.

What if there was another way of packaging these experiences? Could I take the fraction of a second before a long, slow kiss and wrap it in a rose bud? As the rose unfolds, the scent wafts into the nostrils stimulating the entire brain. Captured is that instant when we are only a whisper apart. Your 5:00 shadow barely brushing my chin. Hearts pounding, anticipation peaking. Eyes close, skin shivers, the ever so slight inhalation and the mingling of soap and perfume. Hands caressing, pulling closer, lips meet – surrendering, giving, receiving, crushing. That is the gift I would give my love in a floral bouquet.

The traditional Valentine – a lovely, lace embellished card, a heart shaped box of Russell Stovers and a deep red rose are lovely but they leave so much lacking. I wish to give much more beyond the store bought perfunctory items.

I wish to give him love and sunshine, magic and wonder. I have not discovered a way to capture these experiences so I will take his hand and begin creating them. Valentine, let us go into the world walking in gratitude each day for the love we share. This is a day I honor you and I honor what we have together. Let us always realize what a blessing this is. Come with me and let’s be off on our adventure, my best friend, my lover, my muse. 

Happy Valentine’s Day!


written January 2016

Reunion

My heart is a flutter.

My breath comes quickly.

I feel the blood coursing through my veins.

The wait is over; our reunion is at hand.

I hear my name slipping from his lips.

He reaches for me. I am a ship sliding into port.

The days have been endless.

They piled up like drifts across my soul.

My pen is breaking free of the icy stillness.

I feel warmth returning to my body.

A thaw washes over my being.

Months melt away in the blink of an eye.

A blessing is bestowed upon us today.

A healing is at hand.

Time has no meaning right here, right now.

As the sun rises to greet me, I share with him my dreams.

I thank the Divine for giving me this day.

I let him know, I did not waiver. I did not falter.

I held to my heart’s calling.

A quiet encircles me in a peaceful embrace.

Knowing expands in the freedom of this space.

Joy bubbles up gently to tickle my nose.

Soon, I tell myself.

The waiting is over. Our reunion is at hand.

September 15, 2015

Fire

Each evening we gathered sticks, rotten bark and fallen trees and added them to the pile. We talked, we laughed, we shared as we gathered our load. Conversations would blend one into the other, topics often spanning from one night to the next. The effort could take hours on one day and only minutes another. The discussions rode their own wave of calmness interrupted by peaks of emotion. My friend and I, sometimes consoled each other, providing support. Then again, sometimes playing devil’s advocate to see a new perspective. Our branches often aligned but could also cross in disagreement. As the talks grew deeper, the pile became higher. Summer heat and winter cold may have slowed the building but still it progressed year after year. We were eliminating scaffolding material from the forest floor and tending the land. This desire we held in common. Snow would settle on the pile and the wood would shift and groan. The spring melt would reveal that our pile had become stronger and meshed into a solid foundation.

It was not time to set fire to our construction. The conditions were not right. There could be no wind, the soil must be moist, the wood must be dry and there must be time to tend the intensity. So we continued to add brush and open our hearts in friendship. The fire was not the objective. It was the time in the woods, the watching the pond turn to glass, the deer creeping close enough to nibble the moss that clung to the branches at our feet, throwing sticks for Dodge and Aries, and embracing the good fortune of these moments.

Then one day we saw that the pile was smoldering. We did not know how this had started or when. We had been so careful in our actions. Each time my friend and I met to work in the forest, we avoided stirring up the heat that crept under the pile. Water was pored over, soil was dumped on top, and leaves were raked away. Still we could feel it linger.

Then one night, the mountain that we had built, ignited. It started deep within and flamed out in every direction. Instead of fighting the fire, we drew close and relished the warmth. I looked at my friend and he at me. The light from his eyes told me all I needed to hear. The years of building and tending, talking and sharing had secretly prepared us for this moment. Love had crept in like a thief in the night. Quietly without fanfare, sure and true. As I moved into his embrace, passion exploded and would not be extinguished. An inferno burned across my guarded heart melting the walls of defense in an instant. The sparks flew even higher into the starry sky and I knew I was safe at last.

October 16,2015

 

 

 

The Christmas gift

The wainscoting’s surface was cracked and marbled with age. He had removed it piece by piece from his great grandfather’s farmhouse, salvaging a few feet of his heritage from the then vacant homestead. The boards were now even more significant since the house had eventually been destroyed by fire. Each nail had been cut to avoid splintering the wood upon removal. The layers of ivory paint hovered in sections over the original red stain like ice floating on a river during spring break-up, patches moving in assorted sizes and patterns. These precious boards, he cut to size to form the long sides of the shadow box. He had measured the dimensions secretly, using only his arm, to ensure the box fit into its intended space.

The door, he built from an antique window sash rescued from his family’s historic home during an upgrade. He had resized the deep colored molding. Mitered corners and fine sanding made it fit just right. The old varnish was worn with use and darkened over time. Holes from bygone window latches gave it a rustic charm. A single pane of glass had been neatly set into the grooves to provide a perfect view of the treasure to be placed inside, while protecting it from dust or soiled hands.

The top and rear panel was constructed from lumber resurrected from a little red barn where I kept my horse for years. The paint was flaky and bleached by the sun. A mixture of dried wood and faded paint made a flawless background for the anticipated collectible. Exactly where in the barn it came from, I have no idea.

He couldn’t wait until Christmas. The gift was delivered on a snowy evening three days early. It was for me. Newspaper embraced the box, sheet after sheet. The handcrafted gift stood straight and proud, as the wrapping was torn away. Astonishment and appreciation overwhelmed me. I could feel the love that poured from the box and emanated from his soft, brown eyes. Night after freezing night had been spent creating the gift, he, warmed only by the wood stove in the shop. Beaming, he recounted the history of each component and what it had meant to him. I was receiving not only his love but a gift of his past and his future; where he had been and where he was going.

Along with my horse hair bridle, I keep the cards and sentiments he has written to me in the shadow box. It has become my most precious belonging, made with love, deep understanding and friendship. It is a place to keep each token of affection. Our bond has matured, as we have, over the years. First strangers, then friends, and when the time was right, so much more. We are like the box, a compilation of weathered pieces that have come together to form something that serves a new purpose. The construction has had its challenges but the result is a thing of beauty. If I ever doubt our relationship, or if we are separated by time or space, I touch the box and I know. This is for forever.

Gifts from the heart, last the test of time. It is not the most expensive or the most lavish presents that linger in our memory. Often it is a simple act of kindness or support when we are down, a thoughtful gesture, remembering an anniversary or birthday, a car repair or a dish to eat and conversation. Allowing our fellow man to feel acknowledged and valued is what we can offer every day, an ear to listen, a smile to say, “I see you.” Let us offer forgiveness to those who may have wronged us as they followed their path; let us forgive ourselves for seeing them this way. Remember each time someone has gifted you, no matter how small and take that forward into the world. Let’s take the holiday spirit into our being, magnify it, and pass it to all we meet.

Many blessings for a season of love, light and laughter.

Gifts from Life

My holiday gift list is lying on the table before me. In turn, my children ask me what I would like for Christmas. They don’t realize that they are themselves one of the greatest gifts I have received from Life.

Throughout my years, Life has brought me everything I need. Just yesterday, I returned from a meeting in Bozeman. I had quickly grabbed four audio books from the library in Kalispell before the long drive. One of the books, I had read as a hard copy years ago. On the way to the university, I listened to two of the books, one about eating a more healthy, plant based diet and the other about living as the “dangerous, wise old woman” archetype. Turning the car around and heading home, I listened to Eckhart Tolle, the book I had read in the past. It was exactly what I needed to hear. His words began pulling aside the veil of resistance I have had towards Life lately. Deeply buried resentments began to surface and dissolve. My unwillingness to accept my Life as it is, had created a wall of separation between me and everyone I met. I would remain safe behind my barricade until Life appeared the way I imagined it should. This translated into ever increasing isolation and despair. Questioning my choice in career, my home and my town, I had been considering moving to escape from this anxiety. Allowing me to see my resistance and face the shadow I had been feeding, brought a feeling of calm to my being. I stopped feeling the need to run away. Peace had found me. This book, at just the right time, was my latest gift from Life.

My home is a rustic cabin that Life gave to me. Sometimes I mutter to myself as I drag the forty pound bags of wood pellets up the stairs from the basement to fill the stove every morning. Yet, whenever I have looked at homes to purchase in town, they cannot compete with the view from my front porch of the park, the quiet of 40 acres of trees and meadows, the enjoyment of seeing my cats romp up and over the ancient apple trees or the delicious taste of the well water fed by mountain springs. Living simply in my cabin, affords me the pleasure of owning, Lakota, my wonderful horse. My landlord built a garage for me this summer. I have never had a garage in my life and for this, I am so grateful. If I need help carrying heavy loads, plowing my driveway, fixing the plumbing or picking me up when my car breaks down, I can call my landlord, who after all these years feels more like a brother. I plant flowers, keep the cabin clean and tidy, maintain the lawn and honor his family’s memory while living here. I am sure his mother and his grandmother are pleased to see one more lady tending to the cottage gardens and keeping the weeds at bay. This cabin suits me perfectly and only Life knew the happiness it would provide. 

Life has gifted me with animals of every shape and size. Each one has its own story, its own purpose and we have had a unique connection. For seven years in upstate New York, I was the creator and director of Farm on Wheels, Inc. It was a non-profit organization designed to teach urban school children about the source of their food and fiber. I hauled a sixteen foot stock trailer into inner city schools and set up on the playgrounds, baseball field or parking lot. I taught agriculture lessons, aligned with the New York State learning standards, using my dairy cow, horse, sheep, goats, ducks, chickens and rabbits. I also taught a federally funded violence prevention program in the toughest middle schools with a border collie and a chicken – but that’s a whole other story. My barn was overflowing with animals that were children friendly and would load themselves in the trailer. Not one of these animals was purchased. I never went searching or reading ads. Life would send them. Each animal had an interesting background; each one needed to be there. This was the most rewarding work of my life. Every time an inner city child, raised on concrete and asphalt, set foot on the pasture grass at my farm or wrapped his arms around the neck of a fuzzy sheep and beamed an ecstatic smile, tears would well up in my eyes. I could feel the students resonate with the love that flowed between my animals and me. What a gift I received from Life. We titled my Jersey cow, Maybelline, a “professional kid kisser.” Her long, black tongue could slurp a child’s cheek three feet past the fence. She lived to go to schools and teach children. I was so fortunate to have been the facilitator that enabled these farm animals to connect and educate urban youth about respecting all of earth’s creatures. Every animal and every interaction with these children was a gift.

Life has chosen for me all my dogs, cats and horses. Even Aries, my faithful companion at this time, was dropped into my car with a bag of food and a warm hug by my dear friend and veterinarian, David. I wasn’t looking for a dog or feeling ready to take on that level of commitment. Searching for a career path, after obtaining my Ph.D., I was not ready to take on a dog, in case I ended up with employment in a metropolitan area and lived in an apartment. No, was not an option, as he plunked the puppy into my front seat. “Consider that you are fostering her for me,” he said. That was over nine years ago. It’s impossible to describe what a gift Aries has been to me.

How do I begin to categorize all of the people who have been and are a gift to me? Some are still here and some have moved on along their journey. My sweet ex-neighbor who watches Aries when I travel, enjoys Costco and going to the movies on rainy, Sunday afternoons also helps me with home maintenance projects. He is always there, dependable as clockwork. The woman that is my horse trainer and cares for Lakota, is my friend and confidence booster. She encouraged me to keep trying when I was convinced I had to sell the horse. I watch and learn from her trust building exercises every time we ride. I will always treasure the cattle drives I shared with my rancher friend and the nights at the symphony. He exemplified living each moment with passion and joy. I learned about Mozart, stringed instruments, navy seal secret missions and how to deliver and breached calf from him. What a gift he was. I have a group of lady friends that are always up for a beer on Friday night, if it’s been one of those weeks and a shoulder to cry on, if that should be needed. I have a self-proclaimed Montana Dad that I adore. He treats me with all of the respect and affection any daughter could desire. I have friends from 20 years ago, that encouraged me to join them on a trip of a lifetime through the United Kingdom this past year. We visited sacred sites for two weeks and I will forever carry the magic and energy we experienced. I would have missed that trip, if they hadn’t kept nudging me. My closest confidant is someone who listens to my stories before I publish, shares my most intimate thoughts and dreams, creates wooden keepsakes and accepts me unconditionally. This person reminds me to keep play in my life and that we are never too old to giggle. I am continually grateful for the gift of my family- mother, brothers and sisters. They are my foundation, my touch stone and cheer leaders through life. Last but not least, are my daughters, the greatest gift Life has given to me. I am honored to have had the privilege of caring for them while they grew and blossomed into the incredible adults they are.

More and more gifts flow into my mind as I conclude, vying to be added to the list. My blessings are endless. Thank you, thank you, Life. Let me always recognize the gifts that have been sent to me, not in paper and ribbons, but in each person I meet. Allow me to be a gift to others, not in what I purchase but in the support and energy I offer. Let me be a light in the dark, as so many have been for me. I have all that I need and am eternally grateful.

Peace. May the gift of the holiday spirit be always with you.

 

 

Knowing

 I walked along the rocky trail and instead of seeing a lovely, purple flower, I labeled it knapweed – noxious, invasive, must be destroyed - weed. The asters were a similar shade, with a golden center, growing along the same path. These I bent down to smell and honor their beauty.

From the middle of a dirt road, fields of horses look majestic with mountain peaks in the background. Instead of focusing on the magnificent view, I notice overgrazing that has occurred because the pasture is overstocked by 400%. The grass can’t regrow because the stems have been chewed off too short and all carbohydrates, have been removed. The hooves disturb the soil and thistles take the place of the grass.

I see residents transplanting weeds from the forest and putting them in their gardens. Field bindweed is allowed to grow in lawns and up chain link fences. Trees are thirsting for water because their roots have been covered in asphalt and concrete. Shrubbery is “maintained” by scalping with electric trimmers and shaped into globes and boxes.


Why did the top of my spruce tree die?

 Why is there a worm in my apple?

My tomato has a black spot on the end, how do I fix it?

How can I get the woodpecker to stop hammering on my house?

My maple tree gets white spots on it every summer, will it die?

I am paid to know these things and make these observations. In my world, everything is to be identified, categorized as good or evil and then controlled. Yet, knowing is a double edged sword. I wonder what it would be like to not know for 24 hours. What if I could switch the knowing off? I would like to take a rafting trip through Glacier, down the middle fork, and not see the ox eye daisy along the rail road tracks. I’d like my mind to go off duty at 5:00 pm and not notice weeds, poor planting and inadequate animal husbandry.

That said, is it the human condition to want to know? Or is it just me? I do enjoy learning and gaining understanding. If it’s out there, I want to experience it. I want to taste it, feel it, understand it and smell it.

There are so many things that we cannot know. It can be frustrating, if we can’t accept this fact of life. For example, no one knows for sure where we will be living next year. We cannot be positive of our health, our relationships or our finances. We can speculate and weigh our odds, but positively know? Sorry, no guarantees.

Why do we want to know? We want to protect ourselves against loss, against pain, against the unknown. The unknown can be seen as negative and harmful. The unknown is not always embraced with exuberance and out stretched arms. My grandest dreams can only be realized if I plan it, work towards it and keep my eye on the ball. Is that correct?

 Recently, I visited my oldest daughter. I had purchased my airline tickets six months in advance. When I arrived, she was in a different town, in a different house, and in a different relationship then when I had set my itinerary. We had no idea, when I bought those tickets, how her world would have changed. I could not have planned that visit better. My not knowing was in harmony with her life alterations.

Subsequent to my visit with her, I joined a tour in Europe that had been organized by a couple of dear friends of mine. I did not know where we were going exactly, how we were getting there, who were my traveling companions or what the activities would entail. Meeting in London, at a specified hotel on a designated day, was what I needed to know. I relinquished my desire to control and organize to my trusted friends. I had asked to have my knowing put on hold and here it was. I didn’t know where we were going to eat each night or where our bus was taking us. Every day was met with anticipation and surprise. I felt like a child at Christmas. My knowing was replaced with trust and a sense of magic.

When I returned home my need to know hit me full force. There were no lifelong friends to plan my days. My trust was compromised. How do I know that my new co-worker will be an asset to the office team? Do I want to move forward in this career or change direction? Will I find an affordable house in an area that I like? Do I see myself committing to a relationship? I want to know. I want to plan. I was back to the need to categorize and control. Somehow this style didn’t fit the way it had before. It felt like putting shoes on that were too small and restrictive.

What I did know was that I have to trust in something outside of myself, outside of my friends and outside of family. I pulled a rune stone this morning and it was blank. “Blank is the end. Blank is the beginning. The Unknowable is moving in your life. Relinquishing control is the ultimate challenge of the spiritual warrior.” That something was listening.

 Can I picture that the something grander than me wants me to be happy, successful and loved? Do I dare dream that my wishes have been heard and are manifesting in ways I cannot imagine? Am I brave enough to jump into the void and know I will be supported?

I have to accept my not knowing. It is not a weakness; it is my greatest strength. To know when it serves those around me and be willing to surrender any control to manipulate my future; that is my goal.

Stonehenge at dawn

 

The first stone

I stopped writing several months ago because there were people stalking my blog in order to learn about my life,  in hopes of hurting people close to me. It just boggles my mind that there are people out there that will use anything they can to control and inflict pain. I shut down the blog and then had emails to open it so that my stories could be shared. 

I love writing about Montana, the friends I have, the insights I gain, the inspirations I receive. 


Our thoughts and emotions always begin from a place of fear or love. I choose love. "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do." I am doing my best to practice forgiveness and acceptance.  Why is it that those that purport to be holy and sinless are the first to the throw a stone?

Surrender

I was finished grazing Lakota and headed into the coolness of the indoor arena. Stacia, the trainer, was working with the latest arrival. I soon learned that the horse was 15 years old and recently gelded. He had attractive markings but was seriously over weight. The bay hadn’t been ridden in 10 years and someone remembered that he had a history of bucking. The owners wanted him to become a roping horse. The first step was to get him to walk safely on a lead rope. This is where the ground work started.

I was in no rush to go back to the cabin that evening. I had mowed the lawn, fed Aries and finished giving Lakota her ration of grass. I took a seat on a stool near the fence.

By the time I got in position to watch, Stacia had him walking with her on his left side. Now, she was about to start on the right. We chatted as she worked. A good number of horses have never been led, saddled, mounted or worked from the right. She picked up the lead rope and asked him to move forward. To keep herself in the “safe zone” near his shoulder, she lifted the lead with one hand while tapping on his hip with a dressage whip with the other. The first thing he did was to fling himself backward, his head went up as he tried to escape. He hit the end of the lead and then threw his body towards her. The trainer stayed consistent. She held her grip on the lead, hand up towards his face to keep him from turning into her space. She continued to reinforce the forward movement with the tap of the whip. Around and around, they went. The bay would fly into reverse, bolt towards her, try to use his shoulders to push sideways - anything to escape following her request. As I sat there, I thought this could go on all night. Stacia said this was not unusual and that the majority of the horses that came in for behavioral problems went through this to one extent or another.

As I watched them, I thought about how his life had changed. He had been out to pasture, doing as he pleased, fathering offspring and not being asked to do anything more than eat and sleep. All of a sudden, he was being told how to walk, how to behave and to put his desires aside. He was not having it. In spite of her running to keep up with his movements, her voice and her emotions remained steady.

I continued to observe his resistance. Then all at once he took a step. The trainer stopped asking and immediately pet him. She let him stand quietly while she rubbed his now sweaty head. Then slowly, she asked him to step forward. I could see him begin to back up and then change his mind. Once more he stepped forward. Again, she stopped and rewarded him. After that, he walked with her, head and neck soft on the lead as if he did this every day. What I thought would take hours, took 15 to maybe 20 minutes. Stacia had remained consistent and calm. She allowed the horse to take the time he needed to understand without giving in or rushing him. He tried all his tricks that had worked in the past. At some point, the bay must have sensed the futility and accepted her command.

The horse did not know what surrendering to the trainer would mean for him. Would this woman lead him off a cliff, would she mistreat him or starve him? Would he ever see his pasture of green grass again? He did not know her and had not learned to trust her, yet. If he traded his resistance for acceptance, what would he gain? Stacia’s tag line on her promotional material is “It’s all about Trust.” Incrementally, step by step, she earned his trust.

It wasn’t until the next day that, while I was reliving the training session in my mind, I made a connection. I could see myself as the horse. I could see my Will. I can see the way I have resisted where Life wants to take me. I am like the horse, not trusting the guide.

My desires have been my green grass. I’ve always felt if I could just try harder, learn a little more, and persevere – I could take control of my destiny. It has rarely gone that way. If it did happen, it was God’s timing, not mine.

What keeps going through me is “Thy Will be done.” It’s past time that I release my Will and let my Creator’s Will be done. I have become disillusioned with myself. My running away, hiding, pushing forward and resisting has accomplished only the accumulation of bumps and bruises. All the seeking and striving that I thought were signs of strength have left me exhausted. It’s time I face the music. If an outcome takes place, it will not be because of my trying. If an opportunity is mine, it will come to me. What I thought was quitting, may be wisdom. You can only run to the end of the lead so many times before you give in. With horses it might take 15-20 minutes, with me it has been decades.

I think it is time for me to try travelling in a different manner. I will walk softly where I am led. I will do my best to trust. I realize this is difficult for me. It does not mean I do not have dreams. I hold them in my heart. But I will let Life guide me and show me the route that is being selected for me. I will trust that it will be the path that is for the highest good of all around me. My Will left me broken and beaten. I’m ready to give up my resistance. I am learning to be led. I am surrendering to a higher power. Life picks up the lead and my heart bends to it.

Thank you, Stacia, and thank you for teaching me to trust.

 

 

 

Whitefish Winter Carnival Parade

 I could not have been happier with Lakota at her first parade in Whitefish, Montana. There were over 10,000 people lined up along the streets with barking dogs, costumed Yetis, loud music, winds whipping signs and plastic flying across our path. She never faltered. Chalk off another bucket list entry!

Waiting for spring

 

The windows reflect my movements as I set up my natural light box on the table. The bulbs are a poor substitute for the morning sun but they will have to do. The long nights of darkness and endless days of clouds wreak havoc on my psyche. A light box, exercise, vitamin D and outdoor walks are my weapons to combat these dreary Montana winters.

Yesterday I could see the sun ever so slightly through the blanket of clouds. The wet snow descended on my windshield as I drove towards the light. Maybe, if I drove up the mountain high enough, I could rise above the mantle of grey and feel its rays. Too quickly the cover thickened and vanquished any brightness emanating from the sky.

But I had seen it. If only for a moment, I had witnessed a glimpse of blue and the shape of the sun through the veil. It was a promise and a reassurance that the sun will return and spring will arrive soon enough.

I am reminded to be patient. I cannot push the seasons or change the natural progression of time. Season will come after season, regardless of my actions or emotions. This is not the time to use my will to force an outcome. There is a time to plant and a time to harvest, right now is not the time for either. It is a time of waiting. Passing the time can be done with frantic pacing or in quiet contemplation. No matter what my thoughts, time will pass the same.

 In my class, I caution my students not to plant too early. If the soil is not warm enough, the seed will rot in the cold, wet ground. If the soil is walked on while it is still wet, it will compact and ruin future plantings. Starting seedlings in the windowsill before the time is right, does not insure a jumpstart on the spring garden. They become gangly and pale and will not survive when transplanted. Having been a grower all my life, I know these things and yet, I still find myself yearning for spring instead of accepting and relaxing into the winter.

The dancing of the candle flame in front of me brings a smile to my face. I see him as a light in the dark, one more sun behind the clouds. “Have faith and trust”, he offers me. “All is right in the world.” There is a Divine order even though I cannot always see it. For some reason, when the sun is on my back and I am making progress, it is easier for me to remember this. When I am forced to be still, I feel powerless and unproductive. But then what of the wheat field as it lays under the winter snow? It is resting and recuperating in order to provide once more in the proper season. 

I will sit myself down and drink my coffee. There are no windmills to battle or mountains to climb this morning. Spring will come, the days will be long and there will be plenty of time to till the soil. The buds will swell, the trees will green, the soil will warm – and then, it will be time to plant. Today, I can select my seeds, plan my rows and dream my dreams. All is in Divine order. I will sit calmly today, waiting for spring.

 

shoe shelf helper

Harvey Carroll was the man that helped me with the shoe shelf. He was my neighbor on Ashley drive and is still a dear friend.  Incorrect speculations mave been made.

Calendar

Each year begins with unwrapping a new calendar. Hopefully, I have located one with the moon phases and signs. It usually takes me a few trips to find just the right version. Next, all the birthdays are added and a note a couple days ahead to remind me to buy cards on time. After the birthdays, the calendar is taped onto the side of the refrigerator where I can see it when I am doing dishes or making the coffee. Dentist appointments, upcoming birthdays, and social events accumulate on the once pristine squares.

The calendar from the previous year is difficult to part with. Flipping the pages, I go back to the rafting trip on the Middle Fork, the party in the hops yard, trail rides in Herron Park, my daughter’s wedding on the Atlantic, the long awaited visit from my sister, a retreat in California, the Halloween costume party and the Christmas Stroll in Kalispell, to mention a few. These events were initially just a note on the calendar to reserve the time in a crowded schedule, then came the planning and arrangements. The laughter and joy are now a memory, a few notes in my journal and a scribble on the jam packed page. Yet, the recollection lives on in my heart with related tastes, aromas and sounds.

Every year has its ups and downs. It’s unavoidable. It’s a part of life on this side of the turf. In spite of any loss, these scratches on my calendar help me recognize how lucky I am. I had more opportunities to join in activities than time to do them, more invites by friends than days in the week. My life is brimming with potential. Not reflected on these pages were the quiet mornings with Aries at the lake and the evening rides with Lakota. These treasured moments need no reservation. The solitary wish I have is more time with my daughters. Lately, our calendars have intercepted around holidays, weddings, graduations and birthdays. I am humbled by the amazing women they have become and grateful when I have even a minute to share with them. This too, is a part of life once our fledglings have flown the nest. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This blank calendar holds the promise of new adventures and untold stories. What will I be reviewing next year at this time? What color threads will I have added to the tapestry of my life? Will I visit somewhere new? Will I make a new friend? Will I find my new house? Will family find time to visit this majestic place I call home? Will I take up a new hobby or return to an old one?

My intention for this year is not the eternal lose ten pounds, keep healthy, call my mother more often. It is to be a light in the world. There is a great deal of strife and conflict on the planet right now. I look at it like an infection. How can anything or anyone heal if there is a festering wound that has been lying hidden, undiagnosed? It must rise to the surface to be treated. Hatred is fear. It can only be addressed with compassion. Let us all seek to be mindful of those right around us. Can we be more aware of our fearful, judgmental thoughts? Can we turn them around and be more understanding?

At the end of next year, when I look back, I hope that I have given something of myself each day to another person that benefitted them on their journey. Maybe it is as simple as a smile in the grocery store, gardening advice in the office or taking an aging friend to dinner. Let me be an instrument of peace. Allow me to be a part of the solution. I set my intention to be even more than I am this year, to continue to grow into the Divine Being I was born to be. Permit my freshly unwrapped calendar to reflect a life of goodness and joy, easily shared, continually optimistic, weathering the storms and loving as wholeheartedly as possible.

Happy New Year!

Best wishes,

Pat

What's on your tree?

Each year we would wrestle the giant cardboard box out of the attic and down the fold-up ladder to its place of honor on the toy box to be gently unpacked. At first, as toddlers, my daughters were only allowed to watch as each ornament sprung forth from its tissue paper cocoon. Their eyes danced with excitement as one by one the characters, buildings, animals and sparkling pine cones were revealed. It was as if old friends came each year to share and add to our holiday joy.

The Christmas tree had been carefully selected. Sarah and I preferred fat trees that barely fit through the door. Kate and Jim preferred tall thin trees that dared the angel to find room at the top. A compromise was always found and we hauled our treasure up onto the front porch for its trim and mounting into the wrought iron stand. The ever present cat and dog gave the final inspection and approval before the intruder came into our home.

The lights were strung, multi-colored and festive, before the gold beaded garland. Now it was time to hang the ornaments. A tradition of telling the story of how each ornament had come to find its place on our tree had been established my mother and my grandmother. The girls would sit with rapt attention as each tale was told as it had every year.

There was the tiny glass church that looked exactly like the place that Jim and I had married. A tiny angel made of gold safety pins and glass beads had been made by Grandma Kid, our neighbor. On family vacations we had purchased a seagull and sailboat in Rockport, a golden leaf was from Vermont, a Mickey Mouse was from Disney World. My mother had given me a silver spider whose Christmas legend had been lost a long time ago. Sarah selected ornaments that reflected her sweet tooth: sugar coated cupcakes, fruit slices and shiny lollipops. If there was a penguin, that would be hers, too. I had acquired a fuzzy sheep, a Santa hugging a cow and a stack of chickens. Kate possessed a soft ball pitcher, horses and snowmen.

As the girls got older, they would recite the stories. Each detail had been committed to memory. It was if there was a sacred wisdom being passed down from generation to generation through the telling. The girls knew the rich history of my mothers and my grandmother’s ornaments. My grandmother had glass ornaments from England, tarnished real silver garland and hammered brass leaves from Germany. My mother’s ornaments were beautiful. Her favorite was a long glass hand painted Pinocchio. I could never understand her affection for this pointy fellow, but there he was, always front and center.

My assortment of ornaments has changed through the years. The girls have taken many of theirs with them to seed their own collections. The construction paper and dried dough decorations have long ago departed. The majority of our favorites were lost when several years ago, the tree slipped out of the stand and fell onto the hard wood floor. There were not many survivors. Over time, some of my mother’s and grandmother’s items have joined mine. A cloisonné teardrop followed me home from a trip to China. I was gifted with a deerskin horse made here in Montana. New friends mingle with the old.

There are years when I travel back east to visit family for the holidays and the ornaments stay in the box. There is no tree that year. They wait faithfully in their wrappers. I have the same rush each time I bring them out. It does not matter how much time has passed. I smell the orange peels and cloves that I used to keep boiling on the wood stove. The girls are once again covered in frosting and sprinkles decorating Christmas cookies. The music is playing Oh Holy Night. Presents are hiding in the attic ready to be wrapped. The stockings are ready to be filled with Santa’s treasures.

This cardboard box is worth the world to me. It is a container of cherished memories. I may be old fashioned, but I’m ok with that label. There is no price that can be placed on a little felt angel with button eyes and ric-rac trim that says “Sarah 1992” on the back.

I can’t wait to unpack my old friends again this year. I will tell myself the stories in front of the fire in the cabin. It’s a Wonderful Life will be on my screen. Somethings change, somethings stay the same.

Shoes

A friend helped me put up a couple shelves in my mudroom in order to better organize my shoes. It’s difficult to hold the level and the board, while screwing in the brackets single handed. I carefully measured my tallest boots for the bottom row to maximize space. My knee high dress boots are first, one pair black, one pair brown. Then the fleece lined snow boots, one pair black, the other cream. I bought the fleece-lined, cream pair when I was on the east coast for Christmas several years ago. They were such a bargain and I pictured wearing them every day in Herron Park walking my dog. When I packed to return to Montana, they would not fit in the suitcase so I was forced to wear them on the plane. Total lace ups from ankle to knee, insulated and hot, oh my gosh. It’s always three flights back from New York. I had those boots laced and unlaced so many times, six foot laces dragging behind me. The black pair has fake laces up the front and an easy zipper on the side so you know which ones I use more often. Next on the bottom row are my cowboy boots. A red pair, I got at the consignment shop, a black pair at least 25 years old but with new treads, one pair with turquoise stitching for dancing or dating, two brown pair – one for work and the other for riding. Then there are the Ariat ropers. The oldest pair are over 30 years old. They are all beat up and wear Army Navy bicolored boot laces. Twice I’ve had them in the truck to take to the dump but they manage to find their way back to the shelf. So many memories of hunter jumper classes and the “fossils over fences” we had labelled ourselves, camping trips with the horses in the Adirondacks with daughters and crossing the Cornell campus when I returned for my graduate work. In a place of honor at the end of the row are my best friends, the L.L. Bean pack boots. I’ve had these boots most of my adult life. Every winter morning and evening for over 20 years they joined me in farm chores: feeding sheep, cleaning horse stalls, carrying water, and tending chickens. I had a tortoise cat that would follow me each day to the barn. She’d jump in and out of my boot tracks all the way up the long drive. The liners could be pulled out, if they got damp, and dried by the wood stove. They look tired and worn but are as faithful and protective as my German Shepherd Dog.

The second shelf is only 12” tall. I started with lining out my steel toed work boots. These I now use for inspecting over a thousand acres of hay each year. Originally, Cornell purchased them for me as protective equipment while I worked on a biomass research project. I smile when I hold them and examine the repair job visible only to me. Aries was a puppy the summer I had that job. The boots were only days old when she decided they were a chew toy as I slept. The ankle padding and top grommets had been neatly removed by scissor like teeth. Thankfully my supervisor could not see the damage under my boot cut jeans. Eventually, they were restored good as new. Next are my hiking boots, they haven’t seen as much wear as I’d like. They are a reminder to take some time off next summer. Rubber bottom moccasins sit alongside the hiking boots. They definitely look brand new. My mother bought them for me and my daughters one Christmas. Mud is an issue on the east coast but rarely in Montana. Maybe I’ve worn them twice but they are from my mom and I see them as a symbol of wanting me warm and dry. Next are a variety of clogs: red patent leather for the holidays, Ariat western, brown suede with a buckle, plain black and fleece lined. These are for the office in the winter when I change out of snow boots.

The top shelf holds my dress shoes. I should just leave them all upstairs for as much as I wear them. A single, agriculture agent doesn’t have a lot of opportunities for heels. Maybe I just like to look at them and imagine pulling on stockings and fancy shoes. Several of these were purchased for special events and I remember them fondly. I go back to pulling on long gloves, a gown from Madrid, a wedding feast and bottles of champagne. I arrange three pairs of sneakers towards the end of the row. One pair is dedicated to mowing the lawn. The lining is falling out and grass stains cover the toes. My gym sneakers are reserved for indoor activities and never touch the soil. The last pair make me chuckle. I have never liked them. The advertisement said that the sloping sole and rounded heel helps strengthen leg muscles as you walk. I have always felt off balance in them and afraid I’m going to twist an ankle. But of course, they remain on the shelf because I paid good money for them. Crazy, I know. At the end, are my slippers. Fleece lined leather buddies.

The sandals have all been taken upstairs to reside in a bin until spring: some with sparkles, some rubber for rafting, and some simply to wear into town. I don’t use them regularly. Owning a horse and working in agriculture does not lend itself to open toes shoes very often. The only boots that rest up in the attic near the sandals now are the leather, knee high lace ups I had in high school. I have never been able to let them go. They have been meticulously oiled and tended. I slid them on yesterday. Yes, 45 years later and they can take me back to Tully in a nano-second. I wore them my first year of college when I was so homesick. Funny, that was 120 miles away and here I am over 2,500 miles away now.

My shoes remind me where I have been and how I became the person I am today. I cant say I am a fashionista. My wardrobe has been practical and durable. I think this is a reflection of me. I am down to earth, steady, centered and occasionally red open toed with sparkles. I challenge you to look at your shoes with an eye on what they say about you. Are they piled high in boxes to be worn once and then tossed aside? Or are they your closest amigas traveling with you on your path? There are women’s shelters who need your no longer treasured shoes. I find great satisfaction donating my previously worn items to them. I invite you to share this pleasure.

Have a wonderful day.

Wrong

Wrong

I sat in the backseat of that old Chevrolet with my sisters packed in near me. Of course, I had a window. I was the oldest. My patent leather shoes were polished and gleaming. My white sailor dress with the navy trim had been meticulously starched and pressed. Lace embellished the dainty socks that peeked over my ankles. My hair had been permed into tiny curls and a barrette kept it pinned to one side.  Nails cut short and cleaned with a brush. Grass stained knees whitewashed with Comet. The girls looked identical. Matching shoes, matching dresses and matching hair. “This is the way girls are supposed to look,” said my father. “Don’t move, don’t get dirty and don’t speak. You are to be seen and not heard.” The welts from some infraction my father had imagined still burned into my backside. My five year old mind could not comprehend the laundry list of shoulds and should-nots demanded by our leader. This one thing I knew today. We were visiting my father’s parents. We all had to be perfect. I felt my life depended on it. There would be cousins at my grandparents but we were not allowed to play. We might get dirty. We would sit together as trained, in order, oldest to youngest on a bench. Others would play ball, or play tag or run up and down the stairs to look out the bathroom window that overlooked the lawn, but not us.

As we rambled along the country roads up and down the hills, I stared at the meadows and the sky.  The sun poured into the window and the vinyl seat became sticky under my legs.  The feint whiff of exhaust seeped up from the back of the car.  My stomach twisted and lurched the further we traveled. I rested my head on the door to cool my face. I shook, I tremored and then it happened. I began to gag and my parents began screaming at me.  “Oh no you don’t!” Pull over!! Out I was yanked onto the roadside where I emptied the contents of my interior. “Don’t get it on your sisters! How could you? I worked so hard to make you perfect and look what you have done?!You are going to pay for this, Missy.”

Once again, I was wrong. I was wrong for being sick. I was wrong for spotting my dress. I was wrong for upsetting the schedule. I had disappointed my parents one more time simply by being me.

Fifty years later, this memory still elicits nausea and heart racing. I can feel how deeply it has invaded my walls and hides within my core. “See, I am being perfect. I am following all the rules. See, I got an A in all my classes. See, I am wearing my hair just right. I am hiding my tom-boy desires to run and fall and get dirty. I am sitting on the bench while the others rough house and tumble.”

Being wrong brings about pain and suffering. It is to be avoided at all costs. This is the indelible writing on my psyche.

How can I swim with my creativity when this anchor of fear drags me down? Creativity by its own description dares to be wrong. Not everyone will agree with the creator’s design and that is acceptable. Someone will pioneer a new way of thinking or being in the world. Unique paintings, futuristic architecture, imaginative storylines are expressions of creativity that break the mold for others. It is the creator’s imagination brought into the physical.

My words are my play. They are my freedom. My life is my joy and my words are my expression. The child in me craves acceptance and reassurance. The adult knows that to embrace happiness and find peace, I must face being wrong. If not, my world collapses and imprisons my thoughts and yearnings. How can I be all that I imagine if I stay on the bench? Too often I have felt the welts of criticism from bosses, lovers or society. Staying orderly was my attempt at staying safe. If I sit here quietly maybe then I will not earn the lashings of their disapproval.

Brilliant scientists and famous inventors courageously defied naysayers.

Thomas Edison the inventor wrote about himself: "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." Henry Ford failed and went broke five times before he succeeded.  The director of the Blue Book Modeling Agency, told Norma Jean Baker, "You'd better learn secretarial work or else get married." Norma Jean, of course, became Marilyn Monroe. Today’s technology companies encourage their employees to take shots in the dark. Sooner or later one of these ideas will be a hit. If you aren’t failing then you aren’t trying, you are not thinking out of the box. I was encouraged, in the job I have now, to design my own programs and set my own agenda. At the same time, I was told, “just don’t screw up.” How was I to be innovative and creative while guaranteeing my supervisor that I wouldn’t make a mistake?

I enjoy seeing older, retired women who have been designated “eccentric” by the rest of the community. What a hoot. These ladies have just stopped caring if people want to disapprove or make them wrong. They are wearing outlandish accessories with crazy makeup. I don’t think its dementia at all. I envy their lack of adherence to admonishments by roving fashion police. They are no longer restricted by a performance appraisal or risk of unemployment.

  

I release myself from the weight of responsibility of never being wrong. I allow my hair to be untethered and my thoughts to follow suit. I will stop corralling my dreams and let them wander the countryside. I roam within the parameters of my job description aware that not all my efforts will be appreciated or understood. I follow my heart and do my best to be of assistance to others. My intention is pure. I will make mistakes. I will try and at times I know that I will fail. I welcome my creativity back into my life. I dare to be wrong. I cannot have one without the other. Welcome home inspiration. Welcome home.