Books

My eldest was packing to return to the east coast when she groaned, “Crap, I finished my book and I don’t have another one.” I said she could borrow one of mine and she said, “thanks, mom, but I am fine just the way I am.” She had been staying in my room and the bookcase is filled with spiritual and self-help books. I did find a novel for her to borrow but it really made me think about my reading habits. How long can you spend trying to learn about how to be a better person, partner, parent or leader? Is there no end to it? I do find a new insight into my being each time I read a fresh book. I see something about others or me that I had not thought about previously.

I find myself hip deep in another lengthy book right now. In some ways I must enjoy having all of my beliefs challenged. I am ok with feeling a little lost until I can integrate new concepts into my personal paradigm. I don’t mind other people questioning me, because I am continually questioning my own thought system.

This book is stating that, in most cases, I do not really know what is in my best interest. We think we know, but only the Divine can truly see. After life’s twists and turns we come to realize that a situation was not what we thought it was. A person turns out to be someone we should not have trusted, or a job turns out to be a nightmare, or a move resulted in a life we had not anticipated. I am facing relationship choices, career choices, and location choices. How do I know what is in my best interest? I believe that it is true, I probably really don’t know. The text encourages me to have faith and to listen to my Creator. I always joke with my friends and tell them I don’t want to have to guess what the answer is; I want a burning bush. A big YES or NO on the front lawn would suit me fine.

What do I want in my life? Will these decisions bring whatever that is to me? Is my life about finding a body to sit on my sofa? Is it about making more money? Is it about achieving glory? No, at the end of the day I want peace and I want joy. Will any of the situations I am considering bring me peace and joy?

Closer to 60 than 50, I am not looking for another heart break or an unrewarding career. My pondering takes me to a place of faith and listening to my Creator. My book reminds me, that my Creator will not put me in a place of fear, limitation, poverty or pain. I am free to make the choice to be miserable but that is not the will of the Divine.  I was created to be happy. This is my function.  I trust that the burning bush I have asked for will lead me to my best interest.

The Divine created us to be content and supported by loving relationships. Are we able to receive this? Can we allow ourselves to be blissful? How many of us can give freely but cannot tolerate compliments or gifts? When we open ourselves to the abundance of the world in every direction, we allow the energy to pour through us. Our acceptance of an offering is a benefit to our fellow man. We deny our brother the pleasure of giving, if we refuse him out of our feelings of unworthiness.

I know in my heart that we can have heaven on earth. We can choose to be in alignment with our higher selves. If we wish to create a union of peace and joy, we allow ourselves to see the light in our partner. That light is shared and strengthened through our thoughts and actions. Acceptance, nonjudment and kindness.

I consistently see people my age in a place of fear about relationship. I have several girlfriends who simply say, “Never again; I am not going through that kind of pain ever.” My male friends talk about what they have lost in previous break ups: stocks, retirement, and real estate.  In our haste to protect ourselves, have we forgotten the love that we have shared over the years? Why do we choose to feel the fear and the loss? Maybe it is more difficult to talk about love, maybe it is more socially acceptable to share misery, maybe feeling only the loss justifies us withdrawing and closing our heart to everyone around us. Does this decision bring about peace and joy? Hardly. It makes us feel cold, afraid and isolated. This feeling of separateness is not Divine will.

I choose peace. I choose joy. I make a decision to remember the love shared in my past. I am in the process of forgiving myself for any blame I have bestowed on past partners because a relationship ended. It is a process, because no matter how much I think I have ferretted out any negativity, I can find it trickling up. I am ok with that. I will stay vigilant and will bring these buried thoughts to the light as they surface.

In order for us to see the light in our partner, we must see the light in ourselves. We must come to know what an amazing, unique gift we are to the universe. I know when I meet someone, if they do not love and accept themselves, there is no way they can love and accept me. When this happens, I look closer at myself because my brother is my mirror. Am I able to acknowledge all that I am? Am I willing to be as happy as my Creator intended me to be? Can I let my walls down and accept this person as he is without judgment or fear?  

My books on the shelf have served their purpose. After years and years of reading, the conclusion is simple.  It’s not complicated. Be happy. See your brother as the Divine being that he is. See yourself as the perfection that you are. Let the light shine on all of your relationships, past and present. Allow yourself the bliss you were always meant to enjoy.

Lake McDonald, GNP

Aries and I at Lake McDonald in December. Thank you, Sarah!

Play

Yesterday a group of friends and I held our annual sledding party on a private drive north of Columbia Falls. The weather was less than perfect.  There was an adequate base of snow but the day was unusually warm and rainy for January in Montana. This did not dampen our enthusiasm. Chili was cooked, a bonfire lit and the roadway groomed to a glistening sheen. Each year we celebrate our host’s birthday by pulling out the runner sleds that he collects and race neck and neck down the hill. There is a very large bend in the road and some of the sleds steer better than others. The contests often look more like bumper cars than races. I wonder how far the laughter and shouting can be heard as we barrel into a pile up. A four wheeler with a long rope pulls the willing participants back up the road at the end of the trip. This is a luxury we enjoy as adults. By adults, I mean there is no one in the group younger than 55 years old. If you close your eyes and listen, it sounds like any sledding hill filled with children.

I lie on my stomach and hold the wooden bars with my soggy mittens. I taunt my opponent as I slide back and forth revving my machine, loosening the runners from the slush that is forming. Then it’s off down the hill. My face is only about four inches from the glazed road, the sled making a crunching sound as it flies over the ice. I scream to my friend to “watch out” as she weaves into my lane. I am gaining on her but the bend is coming; if she takes the turn too wide we are going to crash. Her grandson, who is snowboarding along the edge, dives out of the way. Somehow we make it around the turn without a collision. We high five each other at the end when we see we have set a new record for distance this trip. My friend and I trudge back up the hill pulling our sleds since everyone else has disappeared to watch the football playoffs.

Sledding makes me feel like I am eight years old again. In our youth, we used to toboggan downhill in snowy pastures. We didn’t have a smooth road for runner sleds. The exhilaration is the same now as before -wind in your face, sounds of sled over packed snow, teasing, laughing, wet clothes, and matted hat hair – all good for the soul.

My dog, Aries, played all day with other dogs and youngsters who threw snowballs for her to catch. The children built snow forts and waged snowball fights with the adults. I think about all the ways that people and animals have of playing, actions that are simply for enjoyment; no purpose; no agenda.

My sister and I took a vacation to Sedona a couple years ago. After about our fourth day of hiking, she sat on a stump and said, “You go ahead and do your thing. I’ll be right here when you get back.” I was totally bewildered. She said, “You told me we were going to relax and have fun, but we keep hiking every day.” I was so totally absorbed in the rock, the beauty and the warmth of the sun, it never dawned on me that this was not her idea of play. I enjoy physical activity – kayaking, hiking, swimming and riding my horse. Sometimes, I like to just sit in a place of grandeur like Glacier, the ocean, a forest or the lake. After awhile, I need to move again. Taking her desires into consideration, my sister and I reached an amicable compromise.

Currently in middle age, my friends and I are exploring hobbies and opportunities to play. The kids are grown and gone. We are and have been conscientious, hard working and focused. It won’t be long and we will have more time on our hands. Now what? It has been so many years of being the responsible adult that I struggled to make a list in my journal of what I consider play. That cracks me up. To get my list, I play the game with myself, If I were King. That means letting my imagination go. If money or time was not a limitation, what would I enjoy the most? It’s a pleasurable exercise. I see myself visiting my daughters more often, taking excursions to the ocean, riding my horse into the mountains and writing stories. Just envisioning these activities makes me happy.

Our perception dictates our definition of play. A rancher friend of mine needed a hand to help move cows to summer pasture. To him, it was work. To me, it was glorious play. This does not mean I did not take my role seriously. I moved when and where directed.  I pushed; I guided; I ran back and gathered stragglers. Other times, I guarded dirt paths that could become an escape route. This was not an ordinary task for me. It was filled with excitement and camaraderie. I was definitely playing.

When I returned home last night, I listened to a webinar online as I cooked my dinner. The speaker mentioned “sacred playfulness”. He said it was a source of creative inspiration. That term has been running through my mind. When we can let go and play, relax, be in the moment, have fun without any expectations – we are in a place of openness. We are happy and joyful. This is where we are one with Spirit. Ideas, insights and motivation flow into our being. Guidance is delivered when we are not blocking and over thinking. The silliness of yesterday’s activities is still in my heart. I allow myself to be inspired, to create without purpose. I am giving myself permission to simply enjoy the writing of this story for my own pleasure.

I am fortunate to have a job that is rewarding. There are many times in my day that if I just slow down and become aware, I experience pure joy. Nothing makes me happier than to help others be successful tending their land, to see a child grow their first vegetable, or feel that I have contributed to protecting our environment. Sure, I can see it as work and then it creates a feeling of drudgery. If I look at it as doing exactly what I would be doing If I were King, it makes my heart soar. I am surrounded by the magnificence of the mountains, the spectacular reflections in the lake and the endless fields of wheat as I travel around the valley carrying on my duties. As I head into 2014, I will make room for more play in my life. It is all in my mind.  The way I look at my everyday activities will determine whether I see them as a chore or not. I will seek joy and share it with the community I serve. I invite you to add more play to your life and encourage your friends to do the same. 

Saturday morning

Sometimes I have to laugh at myself. This morning I realized why I live in a little cabin way out of town. I am a country girl through and through. In the middle of frying  a couple eggs, I noticed a chickadee hanging from an empty feeder outside the window. Already donning a red flannel shirt over my nightgown, I pulled on my Cornell sweatpants, shoved my feet into my old LL Bean pack boots and threw on my carhartt jacket.  My reflection in the window reminded me why I need to live where you can't see your neighbor's house. There are no fashion police out here. 

I will never be mistaken for a Diva and that is OK. I can and do put on red lipstick, a skirt and boots on Friday nights but oh I love Saturday mornings being snowed in the cabin. I can be me through and through. 

Sheep

The other day I was making a presentation and I told this story. I was painting a picture of me.

When my father passed away unexpectedly over 20 years ago, I had the sudden urge to buy sheep. I don’t know whether it was something biblical or what. My dog had died three weeks after my father and I was bereft. I had horses but the thought of a soft, furry animal gently ruminating while I sat in the grass made me feel comforted. Within days, I was the proud owner of a black Oxford cross and a caramel colored Tunis. They were bottle babies and followed me everywhere. Just as I had imagined, we spent many hours sitting in a meadow overlooking our pond. When it was time for their first shearing I kept the fleece. I met a group of ladies that taught me how to spin the wool into lovely yarn. Spinning proved to be a form of meditation and soothed my soul. The rhythm of the foot pedal and the easy slip of the roving through my fingers was heavenly on quiet evenings. I started taking my lambs and my spinning into the neighboring elementary schools. 

By now it was time to start considering a new dog. Wouldn’t it be fun to have a Border collie that would work the sheep at the schools and on our farm? I purchased a lively pup my girls named Charlie. The sheep were unimpressed with this young tyke. They followed me everywhere for a graham cracker and did not see the need. I was totally frustrated by my attempts to get the sheep or the dog to go in any direction that I desired. The ladies in my spinning group recommended an expert sheep dog handler. I was thrilled it was a woman. I invited her to my farm for a consultation.

The handler and I spoke while she met my dog and my sheep. She looked at me and shook her head. I will paraphrase, “You can’t have a dumb dog, dumb sheep and a dumb person. Someone in this mix has to know something.” I was not deterred. I had a vision in my mind and somehow we were going to get there. She said, “OK, bring your collie to my farm. I have dogged sheep and I will work the dog.” So off we went, Charlie and I on our adventure. We had a blast. I learned to walk with the trainer and hold the staff out over her sheep. The sheep clustered under the staff and when Charlie got too close, I would tap him with the staff to move him out. He learned to bye and way. He was a natural. Eventually, my dog and I tackled our sheep at home. The sheep were correct; there was no need for the dog. They went wherever I wanted for a cookie.

I had succeeded in creating my vision. We had muddled through – my dumb dog, my dumb sheep and me. I told this story about how it reminded me of my early days as extension agent in Montana. Once I had unpacked the boxes, I had this sinking feeling in my stomach. I don’t know about growing plants in Montana; I don’t know what kind of bugs or weeds they have here; I don’t know anything about cherry trees. What I do know is that I want to help people grow their food. I want to see them be successful and feel a sense of pride about their land. I held this vision and figured it out. When my clientele asked a question, I had no problem saying, “I don’t know, but I will find out.” I assisted my growers by consulting with the top researchers in the country. Just like with the sheep, I had to start with one piece of the puzzle. The rest fell into place.

I guess that is me. I can hold a vision, even if I have no idea how to get there. I don’t have to have the answers. They will come. This philosophy has served me so far. I am now in the process of building a house. I am gathering facts from excavators, framers, health department inspectors, general contractors, real estate agents, bankers and land owners. I can do this. My road may not be straight and narrow. It is sure to have a few bends and hair-pin turns, but that’s ok. I’ll get there. I always do.

Eventually, the dog herded sheep, the job exceeded my expectations and soon I will be peacefully curled up in my new house. I don’t know where or how, but it will happen. “Ignorance is bliss” – or so I have heard. I can’t say I know that to be true. On the other hand, I am not going to let my lack of knowledge keep me from my goal. I can always learn more. I’ll find my inner sheepdog and use it. I’m going to keep my sense of humor and smile when I realize I have taken the long way around. This will make a good story someday when I am in a rocker. Until then, keep a clear picture and soldier on!



xdx

Hercules

It started out as an ordinary evening of chores. “Sarah, close the chicken coop door. Kate, make sure the rabbit’s water bottle is not frozen.” All tasks seemed to be accomplished-horses munching; cow ruminating; chickens roosting; bunnies hopping; hog grunting; sheep jostling for position and goats…hey, there should be two goats. “Girls, Hercules is missing. Has anyone seen him?”

Hercules and his older sister, Clover, were grey pygmy goats. My daughters had crowned him Hercules because even as a tiny kid, he was a daredevil. Climbing up onto the walls of the barn, chasing bicycles, running to the beach to watch the girls swim, Hercules wanted to  be wherever there was action. He was especially fond of suppertime and his graham cracker treats. Where was he?

The winter nights were long and it was dark in the barnyard when we started our search. The girls and the dog began looking in the riding ring, along the driveway and down at the house. I headed down the dirt road towards the draft horse barn. Maybe somehow he had gotten into that building and gotten locked in, or found a way into the grain room. The moon was brilliant and it was easier to see without the flashlight. The snow was crunching under foot when I heard something odd. I stopped and listened once more. It was a scratching sound and sort of a crumple. The sound was coming from the pond on my left. I peered into the darkness and there it was again. It was then I saw him.

Hercules was boldly heading across the ice towards the middle of the pond. I called to him in desperation. The edges were frozen but the center was open. I could not walk out there to save him. The pressure of my weight made a cracking sound as I called once more. He turned towards me and seemed to skip with joy. Over his head, blinding him to his peril was a grain bag. He had obviously pulled it from the garbage can, put his head in to lick the crumbs and his horns had become snared. Was he bumbling around aimlessly or was he brashly continuing his evening rounds? What I do know is if I hadn’t found him within seconds, he would have fallen through the ice and drowned. I was shaking from the what ifs and he was totally unaffected. It was just another adventure to Hercules.

This scenario popped into my head the other day as I contemplated a job offer. It made me laugh to think about how many times we think we see all the options when we really are bumbling in the dark. How many times are we positive we know exactly where we are going when it ends up we are headed towards a cliff? Hercules almost traded a few sweet crumbs for his life. I have to hand it to him; he was doing it with confidence. 

Time will tell what my decision will be. I haven’t seen all the options yet. I have faith that my choice will be exactly what it should be.

Tribute to Dave

Dave Mann Brant 1934-2013

He taught me patience.

I was weeding in the courthouse garden when an older man in a beat up hat asked if I was the new county agent. I said I was. He proceeded to ask me gruffly why I had not told him the grasshoppers were coming. With irritation he told me they were eating everything on his ranch. I said, “for one thing, I just got here. I didn’t know they were coming.  There have been several articles in the paper submitted by APHIS, federal agency, about the insects.” “I don’t read the newspaper,” he explained. “There have also been news programs about the grasshoppers presented by Montana State specialists.” “I don’t watch television.”  “Then how would you have liked to get this information?” I asked. I shook my head and thought this is going to be a long year. Somehow he expected I would know who he was, where he ranched and had his cell phone number.

He taught me history.

One summer night after the symphony in Whitefish, Dave asked if I would take him downtown for a while. Now it was a school night for me and it was already 10:00 but I said yes. He introduced me to the Palace Bar. You have to know that Dave did not drink although he encouraged me to do so. I declined since I was the driver. He told me about raucous evenings in that place 30 or 40 years ago. Our next stop was the Remington across the street. Funny, these places had never been on my must see list. Dave told me how there used to be two bars in here and sleeping rooms upstairs filled with bunks for patrons that over imbibed. The stories he could tell of skiing and partying in his younger days. Whitefish had not changed in many ways.

He taught me humility.

Dave asked if I could do something about his cherry trees that never produced fruit. He said, I just want enough for one pie that is all I ask.” I stopped by one afternoon and trimmed the heck out of the trees. Brad and Dave dragged away a pile of branches as big as my car. I told him to put water on the trees as least once a week. Later that summer, I got a call in my office. It was Dave. He and Chica were parked out front of the health department building in the old Cadillac. He said he wanted to deliver something to me. I ran down and he handed me a half of a cherry pie. The crust was all carved and beautiful. Natalie had been able to make three pies from the cherries off the trees this year. He wanted to share the bounty with me. He said, “You know, you might actually know something about this stuff.” After five years, I had finally proved myself.

He shared his faith.

Dave told me how he had a heart attack right in the Kalispell Emergency room. While recovering in the hospital, he swore that Jesus appeared at the end of his bed. I believe him. It changed his life completely. Wherever we broke bread – restaurants, bbqs, picnics, or at the ranch, we always held hands and Dave would say a blessing. He thanked God for his friends, his gifts and even his challenges. His faith never wavered;  it seemed to strengthen every day.

He shared with me his love for music.

I accompanied Dave to the Glacier Symphony several times a year. We watched them perform at Rebecca Farm, on the water in Bigfork, at Flathead High School, the Christian Center and the Whitefish Middle School. He’d tell me about the lives of the various composers, the differences between the instruments, how he idolized John Zoltec, and his appreciation that came from his mother. We’d dress up, have a special dinner that included seafood and always a chocolate dessert. Those evenings Chica begrudgingly sat in the backseat. This past winter he sheepishly told me he was having a great time but it was at my expense. When I asked, he said everyone keeps asking me who the blonde is but I don’t answer. I had to laugh, too.

Dave and I shared a wonderful friendship. I still have bags of peppermint tea in my purse that I carried with me in case we went somewhere they didn’t serve his favorite drink. My mother was visiting from New York a couple weeks ago and we had lunch at the ranch. Dave said he really wanted to know where I came from. He could rest assured I hadn’t been hatched. He and Mom had a great time comparing their surgical scars as I prepared the meal. They talked about me as if I wasn’t there, swapping stories. He always included me on the cattle drives with Kathy and Steve. I realize it was work but those days were some of the best memories of my life.

I will always treasure everything that Dave taught me- love of God, love of family, love of the land, love of music and love of cattle. I know how happy he is now. He is my hero riding his horse well into his eighties. What I miss is knowing that there will be no more Friday afternoon phone calls asking if I want to meet at “our place” – Scottibelli’s. No more driving the cattle up the mountainside to summer pasture and down again in the fall. No more long conversations about the composers before the symphony. What I do have is the gifts he left – love, laughter, friends and a sense of home in Montana.

Pat McGlynn

11/27/13