I had a dream last night. I found a tiny fawn in the grass near our house, and I slowly approached her, stroked her back and watched as she struggled onto her toothpick legs.
Then I was inside, alarmed because the fawn was being attacked and killed by a ptarmigan. It was inevitable, the fawn was going to die. In my dream I felt shocked and sad by this turn of events. Mark got a big net and started going outside to move the carnage away from the front porch. I was irritated with him, thinking that he was putting himself in harm's way (because the ptarmigan wasn't really a ptarmigan, was it?) for a lost cause. Sometimes, well, only one other time, when I was irritated with Mark I called him by my first husband's name. That usually goes over quite well.
The interesting thing about this dream is that ptarmigan are rather small, grouse-like birds that are well-adapted to high alpine environments. And (according to Wikipedia so I know it's accurate) ptarmigan are vegetarians so it's unlikely that they would attack and kill a mammal. Curious. I'm fascinated by the workings of my own subconscious mind.
One of the things I'm working on these days is being mindful, fully awake and aware during my waking hours. That way, hopefully my curious subconscious mind won't make decisions based on faulty inputs. Does that make sense? If I'm not fully aware and mindful, it's likely that my actions, thoughts and feelings will emanate from someplace below the surface that I can't readily access or refute or counter.
This is a big subject, but the homework from my women's group is to be more mindful this week, to watch and really see what happens as I move through the world. So it's worth diving right in, ptarmigans and all.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Bruce
I don't recall whether I ever mentioned that I've named the prairie dogs that live on the mesa with us, but I have. And just to simplify things I named every single prairie dog Bruce. So whenever I walk on the mesa I greet my chubby little neighbors with an enthusiastic "'ello Bruce!", which curiously always comes out with an Australian accent like the addicted shark in the Disney classic, Finding Nemo. They chatter back to me in prairie dog, much of which I don't understand, but I smile encouragingly anyway.
It's blustery out today and there are actual tumbleweeds rolling across the open space. There's nothing like a tumbleweed to remind you that you're not in New England anymore. Almost all the leaves are down so the space around us feels wider, more open. I finally convinced Mark ("I'm not gonna pay anybody to do anything...")to let a lawn company come and do a fall clean-up for us, this after spending many hours last weekend with a new blower/sucker thing, a rake and a dozen leaf bags. Even though there isn't too much lawn there is a huge perimeter of river stones that trap the fallen leaves; left to winter over I'm sure they would crumble down into the stones and form a nice layer of organic matter for weeds to grow in. I think it's worth the expense to have 4 guys come for a couple hours and get it done. I actually don't like the sucker/blower thing and think I'll return it to Home Depot and apply the money to the 4 guys.
I transplanted my garden sage plant to a pot on the back porch near my other potted herbs. I'm hoping I can keep them all alive until Thanksgiving so I can use fresh herbs in the stuffing. Still have to plant bulbs, maybe this coming weekend.
I appreciate the comments I got on my last blog, the one about the guys who came to my door. Most of the comments were about the efficacy of trusting one's gut instinct, to not worry about possibly offending someone when you're not comfortable in a situation. Also, to err on the side of caution for one's own safety. Not to answer the doorbell at night when I'm alone. Thanks friends, thanks mom. xoxo
It's blustery out today and there are actual tumbleweeds rolling across the open space. There's nothing like a tumbleweed to remind you that you're not in New England anymore. Almost all the leaves are down so the space around us feels wider, more open. I finally convinced Mark ("I'm not gonna pay anybody to do anything...")to let a lawn company come and do a fall clean-up for us, this after spending many hours last weekend with a new blower/sucker thing, a rake and a dozen leaf bags. Even though there isn't too much lawn there is a huge perimeter of river stones that trap the fallen leaves; left to winter over I'm sure they would crumble down into the stones and form a nice layer of organic matter for weeds to grow in. I think it's worth the expense to have 4 guys come for a couple hours and get it done. I actually don't like the sucker/blower thing and think I'll return it to Home Depot and apply the money to the 4 guys.
I transplanted my garden sage plant to a pot on the back porch near my other potted herbs. I'm hoping I can keep them all alive until Thanksgiving so I can use fresh herbs in the stuffing. Still have to plant bulbs, maybe this coming weekend.
I appreciate the comments I got on my last blog, the one about the guys who came to my door. Most of the comments were about the efficacy of trusting one's gut instinct, to not worry about possibly offending someone when you're not comfortable in a situation. Also, to err on the side of caution for one's own safety. Not to answer the doorbell at night when I'm alone. Thanks friends, thanks mom. xoxo
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
The doorbell rang last night
The doorbell rang around 6 last night as I was starting to prepare dinner. This isn't typical, as someone has come to the door only 5 or 6 times in the 6 months we've lived here. Mostly the UPS guy, once a neighborhood kid selling coupon books to fund a school trip to California. Enzo reacted to the sound with his usual crazed high-intensity alarm; I picked him up and went to the door.
Two guys were there; one seemed rather young and was wearing a grey sweatshirt with the hood up. The other was a little older, maybe in his mid-twenties. He was better dressed, with a tie, I think, and a fleece vest. No hat. The older one did all the talking. He started saying things like, "I just talked to your neighbor Bill..." and "you might remember two young ladies who came here last year..." Well, no I really don't because we're new here, and my neighbor's name is not Bill. He must have interpreted my nonverbal cues as a willingness to listen because he came up onto the front porch and stood near me by the door.
He was talking fast, it seemed to me, and I didn't quite grasp the nature of his visit. My first thought was that they were Jehovah's witnesses come to try to save me. But there was a clipboard and something about needing to gain job skills, and didn't I remember what it was like, just starting out? Something about a mentor, something about customer service skills. He held the clipboard in front of me, showing me some writing on a page, meant to impart legitimacy.
I was uncomfortable. I was home alone, it was dark and this guy was talking fast. What did he want from me? The young guy just stood there and smiled.
So I said, I'm not comfortable talking with you. I'm just not comfortable.
The older guy actually scoffed, threw up his hands and snickered as he turned and left the porch. He probably thought (my projection) that I was uncomfortable because both of the guys were black and they were not from around here. It made me uncomfortable to think that they would think that. Rich white lady in a big house in a fancy white neighborhood doesn't want to give the time of day to 2 young black kids trying to make their way in the world. Ummmm, no, not really.
Mark was more matter-of-fact about it. People don't come to your door at night just to spend time with you. They either want to save your soul or sell you something. Or worse, case your house.
When I was talking to Mark about the visit, I felt small and old and vulnerable. I felt out of practice being savvy and street-smart like I was when I lived back east near hard-hittin' New Britain. I felt unnerved at 3:30 this morning when I woke up with this on my mind. I connected this event to the horrific murders of Dr. Petit's wife and daughters in Cheshire in 2007. That time it was 2 white guys who cased the house and came back to rip a family apart. That was an event that left a permanent scar on the psyche of every person who heard about it, watched it unfold on the news, read about it day after day in the papers. It reminded us all about how vulnerable we are all of the time.
If it had been 2 young white guys last night, one standing silently wearing a hoodie, the other one a smooth-fast-talker standing a foot away from me in the thin yellow pool of the porch light, I believe I would have felt just as uncomfortable and would have tried to get them to go away just as quickly. I suppose I wouldn't have had that instantaneous internal white-oriented conflict of wanting them to leave while hoping they wouldn't think I was sending them away because they're black. But I would have wanted them to go away, of that I'm sure.
Two guys were there; one seemed rather young and was wearing a grey sweatshirt with the hood up. The other was a little older, maybe in his mid-twenties. He was better dressed, with a tie, I think, and a fleece vest. No hat. The older one did all the talking. He started saying things like, "I just talked to your neighbor Bill..." and "you might remember two young ladies who came here last year..." Well, no I really don't because we're new here, and my neighbor's name is not Bill. He must have interpreted my nonverbal cues as a willingness to listen because he came up onto the front porch and stood near me by the door.
He was talking fast, it seemed to me, and I didn't quite grasp the nature of his visit. My first thought was that they were Jehovah's witnesses come to try to save me. But there was a clipboard and something about needing to gain job skills, and didn't I remember what it was like, just starting out? Something about a mentor, something about customer service skills. He held the clipboard in front of me, showing me some writing on a page, meant to impart legitimacy.
I was uncomfortable. I was home alone, it was dark and this guy was talking fast. What did he want from me? The young guy just stood there and smiled.
So I said, I'm not comfortable talking with you. I'm just not comfortable.
The older guy actually scoffed, threw up his hands and snickered as he turned and left the porch. He probably thought (my projection) that I was uncomfortable because both of the guys were black and they were not from around here. It made me uncomfortable to think that they would think that. Rich white lady in a big house in a fancy white neighborhood doesn't want to give the time of day to 2 young black kids trying to make their way in the world. Ummmm, no, not really.
Mark was more matter-of-fact about it. People don't come to your door at night just to spend time with you. They either want to save your soul or sell you something. Or worse, case your house.
When I was talking to Mark about the visit, I felt small and old and vulnerable. I felt out of practice being savvy and street-smart like I was when I lived back east near hard-hittin' New Britain. I felt unnerved at 3:30 this morning when I woke up with this on my mind. I connected this event to the horrific murders of Dr. Petit's wife and daughters in Cheshire in 2007. That time it was 2 white guys who cased the house and came back to rip a family apart. That was an event that left a permanent scar on the psyche of every person who heard about it, watched it unfold on the news, read about it day after day in the papers. It reminded us all about how vulnerable we are all of the time.
If it had been 2 young white guys last night, one standing silently wearing a hoodie, the other one a smooth-fast-talker standing a foot away from me in the thin yellow pool of the porch light, I believe I would have felt just as uncomfortable and would have tried to get them to go away just as quickly. I suppose I wouldn't have had that instantaneous internal white-oriented conflict of wanting them to leave while hoping they wouldn't think I was sending them away because they're black. But I would have wanted them to go away, of that I'm sure.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
walking thankful
On my walk a couple of days ago, out on the mesa, I felt a powerful rush of gratefulness come over me. I was walking briskly in the cool, late October morning, thinking about my first Hospice patient, whom I was to meet the next day. She is a woman about my age who's dying of metastatic cancer. I am to be her companion, to provide companionship.
On this morning, here I was, walking, free, able, unencumbered. I chose to walk and I walked. Under the bluebird sky, a harvest breeze around my face, a quiet nod to others on the path, I chose to walk and I walked. And for that, I felt really, really grateful. I haven't even met this person and she's already had a profound impact on my life. I hope I can have a gentle, comforting impact on her life as well.
So as November, the month of thanksgiving begins, I'm ever so thankful for my life and for my healthy body that I can take walking whenever I choose. What a gift.
On this morning, here I was, walking, free, able, unencumbered. I chose to walk and I walked. Under the bluebird sky, a harvest breeze around my face, a quiet nod to others on the path, I chose to walk and I walked. And for that, I felt really, really grateful. I haven't even met this person and she's already had a profound impact on my life. I hope I can have a gentle, comforting impact on her life as well.
So as November, the month of thanksgiving begins, I'm ever so thankful for my life and for my healthy body that I can take walking whenever I choose. What a gift.
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