Thank God for people who open their doors

This morning at 5:15 a.m., our doorbell rang at the precise moment that my husband’s alarm clock went off. I didn’t question the second layer of sound, but my husband padded barefoot across the cold tile to see who it was.

In below freezing weather stood a tall, bare-armed, crying woman who’d just escaped a physically abusive relationship.

My husband brought her inside and came back to wake me in the bedroom, saying, “Honey, we have a problem in the living room.”

I thought our cat had died.

Her name was Laura and she was in shock. She began crying very hard and her words were mangled and muffled. We learned that her boyfriend had tried to strangle her and had hit, shoved, and kicked her.

He’d fallen asleep, and she’d grabbed her clothes and purse and left their apartment. She wandered the neighborhood finally ringing our bell.

My husband called 911 and we put Laura on the phone with the emergency operator, who dispatched a police officer to our home. We then had her call her sister who lived about 30 minutes away. I was afraid that she would call her boyfriend, but she didn’t.

While we were waiting on the first officer to arrive, I put on water for hot tea, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, gave her some tissues, and talked with her.

Laura said it was her fault for what he’d done. She was terrified to go back and terrified to stay away. I told her that she’d done the right thing in leaving and stopping at our home. I said that what he’d done is wrong – wrong for anyone to hurt another person, and that she’d made the right choice in getting out. My words bounced off her agony.

When the officer pulled up, he parked his car under the streetlight back a house, so I couldn’t see that he was legitimate, but he was in uniform, so I let him in while my husband got dressed.

At first, we were a little bit afraid that what was happening could be a charade and that we would be at risk. Each incident compounded and supported Laura’s story. She was shivering and distraught – fearing that he would come after her family because he’d taken away her phone with its contacts list.

The officer took her report and called for back-up. She said that she’d seen an old friend – a parole officer, actually – and that she’d stepped out of her car to say hello and give him a hug. Her boyfriend was furious that she’d disrespected him and not introduced him. It was not the first time in their ten-month relationship that he’d hurt her.

She cried out that she didn’t want him to get arrested, and that if the police went to her apartment that she’d get in trouble too. She worried that he’d go after her friends. She worried that she’d be evicted because he was staying there but wasn’t on her newly signed lease. She blamed everything on herself.

Her sister arrived after the second officer and brought great comfort to Laura. She expressed her relief to us that her sister was out of harm’s way and okay. "Thank God you opened your door," she said.

Soon we had a domestic abuse officer on site, another tall woman with high cheekbones and a gentle but commanding presence. She began talking with Laura about how she’d done the right thing to leave and contact the police.

Two EMS workers arrived and began to examine her physically, and we stepped out of the living room to give them privacy. I heard comments about her emerging bruising and marks. One of the attendants said that when someone attempts to strangle you that the swelling can continue several hours after the incident, so it was important that a physician examine her.

The officers (three of them by now) were going to go to the apartment to attempt to pick up the boyfriend. The sister planned to drive her to the hospital. The domestic abuse officer gave them paperwork, phone numbers, and web information for resources and then gave special instructions on how to get her quickly processed at the emergency room without a long wait.

The kindness, grace, and professionalism demonstrated by each of these individuals were testaments to their callings.

At 7:20 a.m., everyone left and my husband drove on to work. He wouldn’t leave me until everyone had gone.

When I got to work at 8:15, I shared Laura’s story with a couple of coworkers, but I didn’t feel like broadcasting such a sorrowful event in someone’s life as water cooler entertainment. I felt subdued and thankful that my husband had let her in.

Just 30 min. later, he would have been gone, and I’d have been alone. I would not even have looked through the peep hole much less open our door in my pajamas to a stranger at that hour.

Laura was several inches taller than me or my husband. I initially worried that her hysterics had been a ruse to get inside our home – maybe she was homeless or dangerous to herself and others. Maybe she would aggress against us.

Maybe she would have gone back to him if we hadn't taken the risk.

Thank God for people who open their doors – this was repeated several times by the sister and by the domestic abuse officer.

Laura said that she chose our house because she saw the Air Force sticker on my husband’s truck. She thought it meant that she could trust us.

Thankfully, she could.

I count my blessings tonight for all the doors opened to me in my life, and for my loving, kind husband.

Thank God for people who open their doors. I will carry this with me for some time.


National Domestic Violence hotline: http://www.thehotline.org/
800-999-SAFE

Needle Dee and Needle Duh

At dinner this week, I was admiring a friend’s new heart-shaped tattoo. It’s blue and filled with embellished swirls that she designed. She got this in the same month as her flu shot. I think she likes being needled.

Among my friends, I’m almost the only one un-inked. I don’t wear a lot of jewelry, and I just got my ears pierced once. It’s not that I’m afraid of needles – I just lack a fondness for most sharps. In fact, the only swoon-proof needle in our house is the diamond stylus on the turntable.

I may shirk the points, but I always honor my commitments to donate blood. It’s that little big thing you can do to help out a person in need. The worst part is the initial iron test jab when they prick your finger and mangle out blood into the tube. I can’t eye it; I just turn my head and look away.

Monkey no see, monkey no spew.

My tattooed friend says she has to look at the needles administered by the phlebotomists – by watching she feels more in control. I choose to close my eyes and trust them – which backfires – it makes me look like I’ve passed out, so they shake my shoulders and talk to me. I hate to be a big drip, so I squeeze the stuffing out of those little rubber balls. If it speeds me off the table and into the snack room, it’s a bonus.

Have you donated blood recently? Is it time to make your next appointment? Are you a Nutter Butter or an Oreo fan in the post-drip snack zone?

I wish someone would needle my good dress pants; two fugitive buttons went AWOL in the laundry and I’m making do with a paper clip until I can pick up replacements. I’m not hemming and hawing about donating blood, though, I’ve got a date with the Oreos and OJ this very weekend. And this kid’ll eat the middles first.

https://www.inyourhandsonline.org/

Deal with It

We recently played a long night of cards with a ten-year-old family member who loves the game Uno! With six people at the table, we kept it pretty lively with reverses, draw two’s and wild card draw four’s. As plays flew back and forth, the colors changed as fluidly as a bad acid trip in the sixties.

The object of Uno is to play all the cards in your hand. You want to hold them close to the chest, so that the others can’t see how you are suited. You have to give the warning call when you are down to one card, or you risk being penalized by having to pick up two more.

Life, it seems, does not mimic Uno. At least in my house, we wear our colors on our sleeves. It’s a perennial come-as-you-are party.

Instead of dumping cards, we’re accumulating possessions faster than the space to store them. It’s shameful to admit that we have a storage unit to hold all of our stuff that doesn’t fit in the house. Out of sight, out of purpose?

Perhaps not: I often refer to our storage facility as marriage insurance – with things out of sight, clutter is reduced. It also has a lower back indemnity clause – my husband’s not toting heavy seasonal boxes in and out of our attic up and down the fold-down ladder in our garage that taunts, “Climb me, I dare you!”

Nonetheless, in this era where lean is cool again, it’s time to pinch the love handles of those possessions that are weighing us down and consider giving them the boot. Except that I can’t give the boot to my shoe collection – I need them, all fifty gazillion pairs of them. My overflowing closet is a caterpillar’s heaven.

Make that a hungry, hungry caterpillar if you examine our pantry and kitchen appliance closet. Our stacks of canned goods from the Carter administration make ours a habitat for inhumanity as we bicker over what to keep and what to toss. A good clear-out might convert it to a demilitarized zone.

If it has a motor, boasts an on/off switch, and makes a noise when it runs, then my husband is likely to buy it off a 3 a.m. infomercial. Embraced at first, they all follow the same stop-motion trek from countertop, to under counter, to closet, to garage, to storage. Like broken down satellites orbiting the earth, they begin their out-of-this-kitchen trajectory as soon as they’re launched from their cartons, ending up in peripheral drift as space junk.

Are you handing yourself another “Draw 4” instead of playing what you’ve been dealt? Does your space give you abundant peace or an abundance of peas? What’s taken up residence that ought to be tossed in the discard pile?

I’ve pledged to reduce our storage unit to half its size within two months. Rather than go all out, we’re still tapping it for spinal protection. I’d rather us be shouting Uno! than oh, no! the next time we’re shoving the Christmas tree back in its cubby. No one wants a truss in their stocking next year.

Hold the Popcorn, Pass the Ballot

My husband and I are still discussing the films we saw at the 17th annual Austin Film Festival. We’ve passed the popcorn for nine years during the week-plus celebration of competition and marquee movies, documentaries, and short films.

After the screenings, we cast our ballots rating our favorites and dinging the stinkers. Audience votes can help the filmmakers acquire distribution for their films, so we always participate. It’s hard for me, an industry outsider, to rate any of the movies harshly – no matter how outside my taste they are.

The courage to pour your heart into your work and see it through to completion, deflecting all obstacles is admirable and inspiring. The ability to assemble a diverse crew, on a scant budget, that can cooperate and tell cohesive stories demonstrates the conviction of the urge to create.

Hubby and I split our votes on several occasions. Higher or lower, one of us walks out with a different level of connection or distance, ah-ahs or uh-ohs. We may split the vote, but we are always united in our love of the festival and the fascinating people it draws, particularly during the Q&A sessions.

The “Casino Jack” screening was followed by the final interview with the Emmy-winning director, George Hickenlooper, who passed away the next night from a heart attack.

During the Q&A, Mr. Hickenlooper talked about the upcoming election and said that he voted for candidates from either party, depending on the needs of the country at the time.

It’s been a while since I’ve heard anyone admit this in public. Folks are polarized beyond conversation. Civility seems exhausted and has turned in for the long, dark night, pillow over head, shutting out the glare and growl.

I hate “pulling a single lever” – or now, clicking a straight ticket square that speeds away my convictions over little bits of copper into a portable chunk of magnetic memory. I’d never do that at the film festival – tick the same score again and again.

It struck me: do I pour more thought into rating a low budget horror movie than on choosing the leaders who will guide us into the next decade? Now, that’s a scary story!

Are you feeling the power of one? Will you make your voice count? When the polls close, will you have voted your true convictions?

I’m inspired by Mr. Hickenlooper to finish reading that stack of articles I’ve been clipping and collecting before I stand in the queue and the election volunteers call, “Action!” When it’s a wrap, I’ll pat my “I Voted” sticker to my shirt and head straight home to our “craft table” and delicious conversations on festival favorites.

Just hold the popcorn, please. I’m still picking kernels out of the laundry.

http://www.austinfilmfestival.com/new/
http://www.lwv.org/Elections/index.html

A Show of Tiny Hands, Please?

The Texas Nonprofit Summit in Austin last weekend, sponsored by Greenlights for Nonprofit Success and the OneStar Foundation, brought together 700 of my closest, like-minded, do-gooder, non-profit amigos –- all eager to do better in an age of making do with less.

One of the breakout sessions that I enjoyed was “Lighting a Spark: Volunteer Engagement for Maximum Impact and Effectiveness,” with Rosa Moreno-Mahoney and Sarah Jane Rehnborg.

If you’ve ever had to recruit people to accomplish a goal, you know that they’re not knocking down your email pinging pick me, pick me! It’s more about having to burst through call screening and email dodging to pluck them out of a self-imposed identity protection program.

Many people suffer from volunteer fatigue. We often ask too much of too few.

But there's a smarter strategy to engage but not tire out those raised hands: in micro-volunteering, the requestor provides a task, the volunteer brings the skill, does the work, and gets out: small time blocks, big benefits.

When you plan up front, understand the gifts your volunteers can share, task them to achieve specific results, provide them the authority and tools to accomplish their missions, and then close with some praise and lessons learned, you complete a successful cycle.

We’ve all experienced good volunteering and bad volunteering.

In bad volunteering, it’s a cluster crash. Three people BELIEVE they’re in charge. Half the supplies are missing or no one has skills to use the tools at hand. Keys have ambled off in absent-minded pockets. At least two people rearrange the supplies for the task because the stapler belongs on the left, even if you’re right-handed. There’s no water or web connections, the bathrooms are locked or, it’s 103 degrees and the steaming port-a-pot stalls were emptied last Thursday. No one has a cell number to call for direction -- but if you could dial any number at all, it would be to a cab to speed you away from that hell. Three dozen tacky Tweets and Facebook unfriendings later, you’re enemies for life.

In good volunteering, you show up, there’s a person in charge who knows what they are doing and, better yet, has a clear plan for what you should be doing. The needs and capacities have been considered and there’s a shared measure of a successful outcome. There are snacks and enough to drink. People say thank you and mean it. The group works cooperatively, goals are met, and everyone parts satisfied with the group’s accomplishments.

With planning, in-depth skills assessment, and delegation, the latter can be history not fantasy.

What was your last volunteer outing? What it something you gladly attended, or did you slouch toward the commitment? If you had the day to live over, would you do it again?

Keynote speaker Linda Crompton, President and CEO of BoardSource, wowed us when she stated that nonprofits will need 80,000 leaders by the year 2016. That’s a lot of leaders organizing a lot of volunteers to serve a lot of needs in just six short years.

Well, that’s if that Mayan calendar thing is wrong.

Of Butterflies and Cockroaches

My husband and I recently treated ourselves to a night at Zach Theatre for Mary Zimmerman's "Metamorphosis," a production that wrings an interesting twist from Ovid's classic tales of transformation.

Upon booking our seats, we were warned of the splash zone, an indicator that this wouldn't be your average night out on the planks. In the center of the theater, the Whisenhunt Stage cradled a luminescent aqua swimming hole. Overhead, perfectly choreographed aerialists in long spans of white silk climbed, soared, and spun with mesmerizing grace and strength.

Though we sat one row above the splash zone, we still got sloshed a bit from the diving actors. They did not follow the adage: Say it, don't spray it.

When I hear the word metamorphosis, images switch from flittering butterflies to Kafka's dark tale of Gregor Samsa transforming into a giant cockroach. A monarch butterfly takes around five weeks to complete its four life stages. An American cockroach can live up to two years.

Either way of going through "the change," you end up with six legs.

Dorothea Brande wrote, "Old habits are strong and jealous." We struggle more with change than do the butterflies, resistant in our habits and habitats. It takes just one quick, brave poke through with our antennae for us to launch ourselves and soar to new perspectives.

Are you ready to burst from your chrysalis? What's the tastiest "host plant" that nurtures your transformation? Where will you let the wind take you this fall?

On their way to becoming butterflies, our caterpillars spent their summer vacation mowing down our host plants of dill, fennel, and parsley. Our salads have been lackluster, but its been our most glorious butterfly season ever. Besides, my seeds for next year's herbes fines are ready for their encore.

The Screech of an Arching Eyebrow

On my nightstand is The Fifth Agreement, by Don Miguel Ruiz and Don Jose Ruiz, with Janet Mills. This is the latest in the popular Four Agreements Toltec wisdom series. If you aren’t familiar with these books, they are a collection of life principles from the Toltec society of artists, scientists, and healers in central and southern Mexico.

While the Agreements are not a religion, I have found that if I follow them faithfully, life just works out better and with a lot less calamity.

The Agreements came into my hands nearly a decade ago, when, in a difficult work situation, I needed a new approach for navigating a too-long string of spirit-killing days. Succinct and direct, the minimalist guidelines are:

1. Be impeccable with your word.
2. Don’t take anything personally.
3. Don’t make assumptions.
4. Always do your best.

Like the board game, Othello, these agreements take about a minute to learn and a lifetime to master.

I greatly benefitted from practicing the first four, so this summer, I’m eager to explore the challenges in the new book, The Fifth Agreement: Be skeptical but learn to listen.

Be skeptical. The power of doubt is alluring. I like questioning things, having learned to do this early in life. Before I entered first grade, I once asked my mother, “If it’s on TV, it must be true. They can’t lie on TV can they?” This was when I first heard the screech of an arching eyebrow.

Did you know the word gullible is not in the dictionary? Screech! Gotcha!

Discerning when to be skeptical is a lifelong challenge. How do we carefully consider the cacophony of incoming messages and identify what’s distorted or true – those twisted fibers so difficult to unravel?

On the zero of the spectrum: a child’s arms wrapped around your neck with sweet “I love you’s” in your ear. No skepticism allowed.

There’s doubting, and there’s being questioned or doubted, a dimension of skepticism that’s suddenly uncomfortable. That’s where practicing the previous four agreements comes in handy. If you’ve done the work, you’re centered and sturdy for the journey. When someone probes your pronouncements, you’re in sync with the integrity of your words. Let them question away.

Learn to listen. I’m all ears for good advice on listening in a world where you can’t hear yourself think over pod players, multiple speakers barking over themselves, the poly-pummeling of pocketbook-plundering promotions, and multi-tasking minds scurrying to get past one another so they can get home and multitask some more.

Listening may be more difficult than skepticism, but it can be practiced into fruition, and become quite fun. Removing the roadblocks is challenging but essential. When shyness creeps over me at a gathering, I shift my thinking to: This might be my only chance to understand that person’s perspectives. It’s easier to engage and open your mind when you are on a mission.

Listening involves receiving whole points of view without judgment, pro or con. Per Toltec wisdom, we each live in a dream world where we each create our own truths, some beautiful, some detrimental. No two people exist in the same dream. This perspective is as exciting as it is frustrating – depending on whether you’re fascinated by others’ visions, or you’re time crunched to create your own truths of the moment.

What will you be skeptical of this week? When will you make time to really listen? Who’s been a good listener for you?

The Fifth Agreement may not be summer beach reading, but I’m ready to kick the sand out of my ears and explore some new perspectives on truth. I doubt I’ll regret it.

And the Horse She Wrote in On

Last weekend I volunteered at the annual Writers’ League of Texas Agents Conference. Over 300 writers came from all over the U.S. and beyond to attend professional development sessions and to pitch their books to agents and editors. The amazing stories-behind-the-stories of these tenacious authors brimmed with hope and conviction.

At the luncheon where keynote speaker Calvert Morgan, with HarperCollins, shared “The Top Ten Things You Should Know about Publishing,” I sat next to author Lynn Reardon who runs the non-profit organization LoneStar Outreach to Place Ex-Racers. LOPE, as it’s called, helps find new homes for retired racehorses.

I probably didn't know ten things about horse racing, but I learned that these animals, like greyhounds, need homes and opportunities to transform their lives – and their new owners’ lives – and build new careers for themselves.

Lynn’s terrific book, Beyond the Homestretch: What I've Learned from Saving Racehorses, offers inspiring stories of several horses that have lived on their ranch. Her own tale of bounding from an accounting career into a Texas rancher role is a fantastic feat for a woman who didn’t even learn to ride until she was an adult.

It struck me how writing is both an endurance race and one of skill: jumping the obstacles that block the track (e.g., the exploding calendar) and navigating turns and changes of direction. At times we need to trade our sunglasses for blinders to stay focused. Yet every paragraph moves us four hooves closer to the finish line.

Lynn writes of a persistent sense of being an impostor while learning the ranching trade. Many beginning writers feel the same, fleshing out stories and re-tweaking dialogue until the voice is clear and authentic. They slash, tweak, edit, and trim their way into lean story-telling machines. Every deletion is a riding lesson toward perfecting a consistent rhythm and stride.

She shares that the horses constantly teach you life lessons, especially about facing your fears and pushing your limits. Showing up with courage, whether in the stall or at the page is the only option to realize your dreams.

As a young rider, I slid off or was bucked off more horses than I stayed on – to me, all saddles hide an ejection button somewhere in the horn. I never became fearful, always swinging right back on, until the day I climbed into a friend’s pasture, and, without provocation, a mare they were boarding decided she wanted to kill me – not hurt me, kill me. My friend gigged her horse and backed him in between us, and I bolted over the fence to safety. Years later I forced myself to help a friend groom her Arabians, and it took weeks of rhythmic brushing, stroking, and proffers of apple nibbles to break my fears.

Writing is like this: it takes courage to climb atop a bucking 700 pound manuscript and hold on through revisions, critiques, pitches, and rejections. The brave writers and their tenacious desire to tell their stories inspires and teaches us to grip the reins, hunker down, and gig that bronco across the finish line to publication.

When was the last time you flew out of the saddle when working toward a goal? What prompted you to climb back up and keep course? How did you face your fear and conquer it?

I’m planning to visit LOPE this summer to meet some of the characters in Lynn’s book that still live on the ranch. With any luck, I won’t be run out of the corral. Of course, there’ll be a carrot or twenty in my pockets to help make new friends.


http://www.lopetx.org/
Horse Tales blog: http://lopetexas.typepad.com/horse_tales/success_stories/index.html

Soil and the City

It’s the end of May and already it’s too hot. Too hot to do much except gulp frozen spoonfuls of Texas peach ice cream in the air conditioning. It’s about choosing brain freeze over brain melt.

Nonetheless, as the thermometer whipped past 95 degrees, I spent half my day outside on the porch repotting plants, digging and mounding and squinting as rivulets of perspiration and bug repellent tracked into my eyes.

With the last dip of the sprinkling can, I was head-to-foot in Miracle Grow, having repotted some two dozen plants, and grinning from dirty nose to dirty toes. Every plant looked so cheerful: so grateful to exhale and settle into their new diameters, so thrilled with the extra wiggle room for their roots.

My mission was to spruce up some bushy new plants to decorate my office, so every weekend this month I set out with different friends also courting new fronds. Who wants to meet for cocktails when you can plant shop?

Walking into a nursery is like strolling into a magnificent chocolates shop. I ooh and ah over all the plants and apologize that I can only take a few of them home. By the end of repotting, stacks of empty containers mound like discarded bonbon wrappers. I get giddy thinking of trays of annuals and perennials lined up just for me. Think Flat Week instead of Fleet Week.

If I’d penned it, I’d have the “Sex and the City” ladies star in “Soil and the City,” hunched over damp, earthy nursery tables instead of racks of vintage designer clothes. They’d be drooling over 8” glazed pots instead of 4” Manolo stilettos. Instead of being dressed in haute coutre sipping pinkish cosmos in thin-stemmed crystal, they’d be in cushy gardening clogs clinking Ball jars of brown compost tea.

Like all intimate relationships, some plants require lots of attention and face time. It takes a little prodding with my husband to get past the “just fines” and get him to open up about his day. Full eye contact and a smile works every time. I also know that when he says he’s watered the potted plants, he’s been waving about a garden hose like an elephant bathing in a stream. Some get a little, some get a lot. I have to poke a finger in each one and ask them if they’re thirsty.

My husband does not talk to our plants. I always do; and I can tell they are listening: they answer me with blooms and buds and magical overnight growth. He thinks I'm one pickled pepper shy of a jar.

At one of my favorite Austin eateries, Casa de Luz, you pass through a lush green canopy of bamboo and stroll up a bricked path until you reach the vegan restaurant. The food is delicious, but I most relish the transformative wandering under the cooling branches. You’re relaxed, forgetful of the traffic snarls, and perfectly at peace by the time you’ve reached the restaurant steps.

What’s your favorite place to connect with nature? Where do you go to transform yourself? If you talk to your plants, what do you say to them?

Tomorrow I'll flash the lingering dirt under my fingernails like fabulous jewels, kind of a Miracle Grow manicure. Sitting amid a jungle full of plants is like being surrounded by diamonds at Tiffany's. So many cuttings, so little time.

Memories of Mela

On my nightstand now is a book written in 1966 by Alan Watts entitled The Book: On the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are. I’m an avid reader of leadership books, and when one recently cited many of Dr. Watts’ quotes, I was intrigued to pick up a copy from our local library.

Dr. Watts was a British philosopher, writer, and speaker who introduced and popularized Eastern philosophy to Western audiences. As a writer, he was an early master of the sound bite, as demonstrated in the many provoking quotes in this slim book. An excerpt that resounded with me:

“Real travel requires a maximum of unscheduled wandering, for there is no other way of discovering marvels and surprises, which, as I see it, is the only good reason for not staying home.”

When I contemplate the “Who Am I Really” question, I could simply let my wallet do the talking, overstuffed with dog-eared artifacts that prove I am who I am: as a driver, a voter, a reader, and a shopper.

But who I am really is a tally of the many life roles I play in my relationships. Along with wife, friend, and slave to cats is one I call Discoverer. What better way to find out who you are than to explore other cultures and lifestyles?

Economic times being what they are, it’s fortunate that we have a plethora of multi-cultural opportunities here in Austin to experience worlds outside our own. Recently I gathered with friends to attend the annual Mela celebration at the Barsana Dham, a Hindu temple and ashram sitting on over 200 acres of beautiful Texas hill country.

One of the largest Hindu Temple complexes in North America, Barsana Dham is a savory treat every spring with its fluttering fields of red poppies bowing in the wind. Under the most perfect azure sky, we were greeted by hundreds of rose bushes abounding in blooms--an astonishing gift from Mother Nature after our unusually difficult winter of extended freezes.

The word mela means fair, and every year near the last weekend of April, throngs gather for this festive welcome to spring and wander the open air shopping bazaar, win prizes playing games, ride in a Clydesdale-drawn carriage, pose for a fast flourish of mehndi flowers, and wince while excited children batter the rabbits, chickens, and baby pigs at the petting zoo.

One special treat of the fair is sampling the authentic dishes they prepare. To dine in their indoor cafeteria, you plop your shoes outside on racks or in piles and cross the threshold barefooted into an exotic world of sultry, spicy cuisine. From their Northern and Southern India menu options, we bought and shared a variety of vegetarian specialities including crisp roti, dosas, lentils, and rice. We drank the thick and satisfying mango lassis, black pepper lemonade, falooda (rose milk), and chai. For dessert we nibbled on gulab jamun, fried milk balls in a rosewater and sugar syrup flavored with cardamom seeds.

On the performance stage, a kaleidoscope of stunning saris swirled about on the colorfully swathed dancers. Both traditional and modern songs vibrated across the grounds, with the audience nodding in rhythm as an ensemble of young performers pounded out a Bollywood hip-hop routine to “Jai Ho,” the theme from the film "Slumdog Millionaire." Jai ho roughly translates as “victory to thee,” and its jubilance perfectly lifted the day's spirit.

What do you consider a really great reason for not staying home? What recent adventure taught you more about yourself? Where does your Discoverer self lead you?

It was a challenge to stay clear of the roving acrobats on stilts, but I’m glad we stepped out of our homes and transported ourselves to India for the day. In coming together, we learn that we are far less separate than we may have believed.

Laughter Yoga

Someone in our neighborhood just got a new trombone and is blowing it like a depressed elephant.

When I first heard it, I thought there’d been an outbreak from the zoo. Then, the more I listened, the more I could discern the great effort behind the bellowing.

It’s mostly in the afternoons. When it starts, I visualize some kid losing a lung in a rented and dented piece of brass. So far, there’s no real tune evolving, just a series of toots and hoots in the key of confusion.

One person’s ear pollution, another’s joyful noise?

Laughing, to me, is one of the genuinely joyful sounds we share, so last weekend when a friend invited me to join her in a Laughter Yoga class, I decided to give it a try.

After all, Readers’ Digest has expounded for years that Laughter Is the Best Medicine. It seems there’s some truth to it after all. Per the Laughter Yoga International web site:

"Laughter Yoga combines unconditional laughter with Yogic breathing or pranayama (breath control)…. The concept of Laughter Yoga is based on a scientific fact that the body cannot differentiate between fake and real laughter. One gets the same physiological and psychological benefits."

At the onset, our leader explained the breathing techniques and informed us of the physical benefits of laughter on the body: increasing oxygen in the blood and endorphin activity, lowering blood pressure, and generally reducing stress while boosting well being.

You have to be pretty gung ho-ho-ho to get down and giggly with a group of strangers, especially in the belly laugh pose, where you lie head-to-tummy like a folded gum wrapper chain while everyone belts out a hearty laugh. Who knew you could get this much bouncing without a stack of quarters in a cheap motel room?

It felt silly and odd, for sure, but the breathing exercises were deep and clarifying. The good vibrations seem to melt away the muck and help you put things in perspective, just like a double-up guffaw with a close friend after you’ve been too stressed over the small stuff. It’s the lightness of laughter that lifts us and gives us the energy to keep going.

Have you laughed today? What incited your last great belly laugh? With whom did you share it?

I’m thinking our budding trombonist's parents could use a little Laughter Yoga before they employ a little forced pranayama on their prodigy.

http://www.laughteryoga.org
http://women.webmd.com/guide/give-your-body-boost-with-laughter

Eat a Lot of Peaches

Why do they say that you know a song by heart instead of by head?

I don’t listen to music as often as I used to. Our home stereo configuration is still something of a mystery to me since dear hubby wired it so creatively with the television. (Wanna play a CD? Just flip about 40 switches and click through three remotes and you’re there.) Close and play, it's not.

Living in the self-proclaimed Live Music Capitol of the World, we have plenty of opportunities for hearing terrific live performances everyday in Austin. With hectic lives, it's rare that we get out, but last weekend, we treated ourselves to the pleasure of an amazing performance by John Prine at the Bass Concert Hall.

I’ve probably seen him at least a dozen times and will go few a dozen more as long as he keeps traveling south from Nashville. When you’re hooked, you’re hooked.

His followers are often called “rabid John Prine fans,” which is a pretty funny description for a crowd so mellow they would only be foaming at the mouth if their plastic Shiner cups runneth over.

This ardent following is not about drinking the Kool-Aid—or the beer—it’s about eating the peaches. It’s about biting into the sweet fleshy melody, letting the sticky lyrics of life run down your chin, and savoring a soulful of sunshine.

We found ourselves in good company amidst the denim-clad cadre of hippy-fied working class folks sporting their long hair, beards, and cotton clothing. It’s not really a Spanx kind of crowd, or at least they’d all peeled themselves free for the night.

His fans seems to float in on a happiness high with beaming faces, emitting a positive, karmic vibe. In fact, there’s such a spiritual connection at his shows, it’s kind of like going to church (except that they pass the collection plate in advance, online, and charge you a “convenience” fee).

At first, I found the choice of venue odd for a folk artist. It’s where the flashy Broadway shows stomp through town. There’s not much that’s funky or Austin-hip about it. It doesn’t have the bourgeois charm of some of our bygone venues like Liberty Lunch, the Backyard, or the Armadillo, long blazed over by the bulldozers of the bully developers.

Basically it’s a giant beige space with terrific acoustics and some interesting lobby wall art, and nearly enough seats to house his many followers. And there they filed in, like worshipers streaming under the tent at a revival, packing the pews from orchestra to balcony.

Each of these die-hard fans would readily share their stories of the first time they heard one of his albums, their inaugural John Prine concert, the show where they met their spouse, or even the sultry summer night where, afterward, they were almost arrested for a midnight, post-concert skinny-dipping splash-in at Barton Springs. (Oh, yes, you know who you are.)

His music feels so authentic and personal, it’s like he wrote the lyrics in a letter just to you. Yet here you are with a couple thousand people swaying and singing along. In fact, most of the upper balcony around us kept chiming in, but the guy sitting next to me wasn’t even humming. I figured with tickets the price of two weeks of groceries, maybe he didn’t need me warbling along with the rest of the choir loft.

But there in the dark, I lip-synched every single word.

What was the last song that you sang along to, recalling all the words by heart? Do you have a personal anthem? Whose music speaks to you and makes you feel connected?

I’m still tapping my toe to “The Spanish Pipedream”:

Blow up your T.V.,
Throw away your paper,
Go to the country,
Build you a home

Plant a little garden,
Eat a lot of peaches,
Try an’ find Jesus
On your own.

Now, I do like fresh peaches, and I loved living in the country as a girl. And, there are definitely days when blowing up the TV sounds like a pretty good idea.

But that’s never going to happen, now that I’ve finally figured out how to turn on the stereo.

http://www.ohboy.com/

Wake Up, Little Suzy

Over dinner with the girls recently, we were talking about our favorite childhood toys. I remembered a “life-size” cloth dancing doll with elastic bands on its feet that you would slip over yours, and then you could dance with it. I still need all the help I can get when it comes to dancing. I have two left feet, no rhythm, and I like to lead.

I called her Suzy, which I think was the doll’s commercial name. But when I Googled it, the search returned a long list of pole-dancer dolls, and I felt Bob Dylan whisper in my ear, “The Times They Are a Changin’.” These are a few of my favorite things?

I got Suzy a few years before the 1968 television debut of “Laugh-In,” which showcased bikini-clad Goldie Hawn dancing in a palette of fake body tattoos. Suzy even arrived before Nancy Sinatra’s boots were made for walking. As young girls, we all wore go-go boots like hers. I remember thinking how slick I was at age 10.

As a matter of fact, I still own one pair of those boots. They are shipped back and forth between my friend Sandy and me – I think I first gave them to her for her wedding in the 1970s. They are gone just long enough to forget about them until the postman brings that odd box around again. Those boots were made for mailin’, not walkin’.

The bit about Ginger Rogers doing everything Fred Astaire did but backwards and in heels was supposed to resonate that anything men could do, women could do…backwards?

Via the television and movie programming of the era, we processed messages of what a woman should be: shapely frames in little black dresses with classic strands of gleaming pearls and French twist up-dos - and heels, always high heels. We were destined to date and marry Robert Wagner – or a dreamy facsimile with Cary Grant charm in a sleek tuxedo. We’d feel protected and, well, girlie.

But the times, they were a-changing. I grew taller than Suzy, and she was cast in the corner with the other well-loved dolls. Soon we had new female messages of bra-burning, pants-wearing, afro-sporting, and Staying-Free women. From my rural worldview, I had only known that women could be homemakers, teachers, lunch ladies, teeth cleaners, and shot-givers at the doctors’ office.

On the glamorous side, they could be models, actresses, singers, and stewardesses. Now these were the gals that got our attention.

I’ve been playing DVDs of Marlo Thomas in “That Girl” and laughing about the old mod styles we coveted. She can’t imagine how influential she was in shaping my young brain. Watching her, I believed that someday I could leave the farm, live independently in a sunny metropolis, and sport a giant up-do and brushy fake eyelashes. As much as I idolized Ann Marie, I never could stand teasing my hair. I’ve only worn false eyelashes once, and that was on Halloween when someone mistook me for a hooker.

The early sixties influences soon morphed into more modern Breck Girl messages via shiny-haired models like Cheryl Tiegs and Cybill Shepherd. We glued our eyes to American Bandstand, Shindig!, and Hullaballoo, and we tried to look Twiggy-chic. We traded-up for knee-length pull-on black crinkle boots to emulate Mrs. Peel from the Avengers. Forget playing house. I got busy acting out spy-fi adventures with my friends.

Somewhere between then and now, life happened. These days it’s more like, “My Birkenstocks Are Made for Walking.” When did we stop fantasizing about our bold adventuress lives? Can we recapture some of that zeal and enthusiasm that comes with the promise of a scathingly brilliant tomorrow?

Who were your childhood idols? What did they teach you? What do you want to be when you grow down?

This year I’m making it a point to revisit more of these old role models and see what lessons they still can share. In the meantime, here’s a little bit of wisdom I gleaned from my other American Idols:

• Patty Duke (as Patty and Cathy Lane on the Patty Duke Show): Always temper the finer things in life with the wacky.
• Elizabeth Montgomery (as Samantha on Bewitched): A twitch on the nose and you’ve got him in the palm of your hand (when cousin Serena is around, anyway).
• Barbara Stanwyck (as successful rancher Victoria Barkley on The Big Valley): A woman can run her own business and look good in gauchos.
• June Lockhart (as Dr. Maureen Robinson on Lost in Space): You don't need a PhD in biochemistry to cook dinner on another planet, but it doesn’t hurt.
• Sally Field (as Gidget): A girl cannot survive with her surfboard alone; she must use a good sun block, too.
• Anne Francis (as Honey West): Black cat suits are hot.
• Stephanie Powers (as April Dancer on The Girl from U.N.C.L.E.): Girl power rocks.
• Sally Field (as Sister Bertrille on The Flying Nun): Who needs wings to fly? (In the sky, you still need sun block.)
• Peggy Lipton (as Julie Barnes on The Mod Squad): When you go after the bad guys, flail your arms from left to right to run like a girl. Not much of a life lesson, but she looked cool running.

God bless Netflix.
http://www.netflix.com/

Nancy Sinatra sings on Ed Sullivan.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AG8gcUfKrug&feature=related

Hey, go-go boot aficionados, shoebuy.com still carries them!
http://www.shoebuy.com/womens-go-go-boots.htm

There’s a Moose in My House

My darling husband, who finishes every project that he starts, is painting our front door red. This means that our rambunctious kitten, Elvis, is sequestered away until the paint dries. For the remainder of today, there will be no going near it, or so go our best laid plans. Our other kitty, Maizie, is accommodating this mandate by lying, unwelcomed, across the computer keyboard.

The red looks festive against our pale green house. A friend told me today that she plans to paint her front door black. I guess Sir Mick Jagger might croon to have ours painted black, too. Sorry, Mick, we’re sticking with red. It’s very inviting, overall a good thing for a house.

But beware what you welcome into your home.

We spent a fun holiday playing games with our granddaughter, Jasmine. One of them was “There’s a Moose in the House.” As the box says, it’s a very silly card game.

The object is to keep moose from getting into your house. With the right cards in your hand, you can slam the door or set off a moose trap and keep them out. Without these moves, you just get a houseful of moose, which I doubt are house-broken. I can only imagine what happens if you give a moose a bran muffin.

You might wonder, what’s so wrong with having moose in the house? Well, for starters, they just sit there and take up a lot of space. I can’t think of a single feng shui book that tells you in which bagua to put your moose.

Then, there’s the constant, silent staring.

So, I’m thinking today about the moose in my house, which has been crazily neglected through the holidays. I ignored them and spent a lot of time coordinating our annual fundraising efforts for the Bess Whitehead Scott scholarship fund with the Writers’ League of Texas. We head out into bookstores and wrap books for donations that fund two writing scholarships awarded each spring. Similar to what writer Anne Lamott shares in Bird by Bird, we get there bow by bow.

My first act of eradication it to take a moose inventory around the house. Just the cheese drawer alone is teeming with them. Some of them have been in there since about 1998. This makes me want to categorize my moose: stinky and stealthy. The former you get right away, but the latter sneaks up on you.

I have some moose to shoo from my mind, as well. These go into the sneaky moose category. Negative thinking that creeps in before you can slam the door or snap the trap. To counteract them, I’m loading my mental deck with healthy thought patterns to clear the clutter. A friend told me that at the end of the year she writes her regrets on bathroom tissue and drops them square by square to be flushed away – I like her style!

What moose are you going to shoo or flush away? How do you slam the door on counterproductive thinking? How has focused, positive thinking impacted your life?

When the paint dries, I’m shutting my red door and opening up my schedule for some serious de-cluttering (and flushing). And I’ll get there – moose by moose.

Avacada Stigmata

A friend of mine received the miracle of the virgin vegetable recently when she punctured her palm pitting an avocado. We called it “Avacada Stigmata.”

Okay, technically, an avocado's a fruit. But I am one of those persons who can’t classify a savory thing as a fruit (or ketchup as a vegetable). Mmmm, would you like your avocado cobbler a la mode?

Back to the point at hand: a simple, routine cooking activity took a sudden and painful turn that disrupted her life for several days. Luckily no stitches were required, although she bruised a bone. It was during this time that she realized that she’s fairly ambidextrous.

Gandhi, too, was an ambidextrian. Did that help him turn his other cheek?

Ambidexterity is something that I do not share with her or Gandhi. I write, eat, and reach with my right hand, and my left one just tags along as a helper, without any sort of “pick me! pick me!” over-achiever attitude. It’s just happy to observe and assist.

When something’s “two-fisted,” it’s hard-hitting or virile (per Merriam Webster). That doesn’t sound much like Gandhi.

But on the other hand....

If you “single-handedly” do something, you are praised for your accomplishment. It generally means you’re working alone. That I can do.

November is “National Write a Novel in a Month” month (NaNoWriMo), and for the fifth year, I’m at it again, pouring forth 50,000 words of new fiction. (But not really single-handedly since I type with both hands.)

NaNoWriMo is not quite like a paring knife in the palm, but it does release a creative stigmata of writer’s ecstasy when the words flow onto the page. You feel this amazing satisfying rush as dialogue and description flood across the keyboard. For a few precious moments you’re dishing up dollops of Pulitzer pulp.

And then the holes heal and the ideas dry up. And then you notice every household chore you haven’t done in the last ten years. But you know that they’ll still be there in December, so you write on. Fiction feast or famine, you strike at the pit of the avocado in your mind to get to the meat of the story. You remove all the obstacles and dig in to achieve your dream.

Come November 30th, there will be several thousands of happy writers who meet their numbers and succeed in getting their books drafted. Some will miss the mark, but whether you write 50 words or 50,000, it’s still a great event to attempt. I consider it a mental endurance feat similar to the dance marathons of the 1920s and 1930s. Write ‘til you drop. At least with NaNo, we don’t get bunions.

What was the last goal you committed to and successfully completed? Was it something done single-handedly, or did you have help and support along the way? How did you feel when you finished?

I’m a little behind this year and am working hard to catch up, still jabbing at my imagination to get at the good stuff. I may end up with a big mess of guacamole on December 1st, but one thing’s for certain – I’ll be high-fiving myself when it’s done.

http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Good-night, Sweet Prince

We lost our eighteen-year-old kitty, Clovis, early this morning. He’s been failing gradually for months, really, over a year. Decaying teeth gave him problems that led to a permanent throat infection which could be fought back, but never fully beaten. Bit by bit, he began tiring this summer, in spite of prescriptions, tonics, vitamins, and cajoling. He slipped away last night embraced in love, reassured that he was, indeed, the best kitty ever.

I say this about all my pets that pass. They are all the best ever. Clovis, though, was truly special.

I met Clovis on my first date with my husband, Stan. A man with a cat (and a vasectomy) gets bonus points in the dating world – well, to each her own scale. I actually thought that Stan had a dog by the way he’d described him. I was surprised to see a giant ball of Siamese-blend fluff greet me at the door. Clovis immediately demanded that I hold him. He had no use for idle hands, believing that they should always be petting and stroking him.

During our first few months together, Clovis developed a terrible allergy to fleas and began breaking out in hives and losing his luxurious fur. I had to take him to the vet for Stan, who was working so much overtime that year, and get him medication. Over the summer, as his fur grew back long and lustrous, he wrapped me around his paw and himself around my heart. Always cheerful and ready for love at the end of your most tiring day, he would melt away your cares with his loud purr and affectionate gaze. His love was so reassuring: everything would be okay with just a little petting and scratching. A rake of the brush through his beautiful mane would send him over the top and make you feel you’d accomplished at least one worthwhile thing that day.

He had his peculiarities. Clovis loved peppermint. We confirmed this one night when we caught him on the bathroom sink licking our toothbrushes. Nothing intrigued him more than freshly brushed teeth and the scent of toothpaste on your breath. If cuddling on the bed or chair, he would rush at your face and sniff and start to slobber with widened eyes.

Thus, I learned that I had to keep my mint plants up high – Clovis loved them like catnip. We’d occasionally snip off a strand and toss it in the grass. He’d rub his nose all through it and roll around with it - and slobber. He would always patrol the yard at Stan’s heels, never really much of a wanderer. When Stan first brought him into his pre-house apartment, Clovis, originally an alley cat, wouldn’t cross the threshold. He would kind of shake his head in a been-there-done-that attitude about the great outdoors. But he instinctively knew when Stan bought his house that the backyard was his domain and the front yard was to be guarded and kept free of strays. He would do his border patrol cruise every morning when let out – and would always be near when Stan worked the garden, silently observing and perpetually following him from the composter to the garden hose to the house.

Had he not been so well fed, he would have been an admirable hunter. He brought me a bird once, of which he was so proud yet very confused when I wouldn’t let him bring it in. He loved to play and chase, especially every morning when Stan laces his work boots. They would play the “shoelace game” where Clovis would dart back and forth and pounce on the fluttering shoestrings. It’s been several weeks now since he last chased much of anything, but he would still sit at Stan’s feet every morning and look up at his “Daddy” with that adoring face.

Simply put, Clovis was love in its purest form.

When strong enough to jump up on the bed, he’d nightly nose his way in to sleep between us, preferring his head on the pillow – or better, his head under your chin. While you were reading the paper, he’d climb into your lap and flop over with adoring eyes, offering up his belly for a rub. He would target the most allergic houseguest in the room and make a convert of them by the end of the evening with his insistence for affection, they with tissue in one hand, Clovis in the other.

When Stan and I first started dating, our two former alley cats were arch enemies. I tried a few times to get them together, but Clovis, with his claws, and Harry, with no claws, were never meant to bond. In their first meeting, although matched pound-for-pound, when Harry accidentally darted out of his confined area, Clovis took him to task with fur, feces, and urine flying. They could never be together after that. After Harry died in his sleep in August 2003, I thought, no more pets for a while; I’d just enjoy Clovis at Stan’s. Then, in November a friend who was moving to London burst into chin quivers and glistening eyes when I asked what she was doing with her cat. I heard the words leap from my mouth, “I’ll take your kitty,” and thought, oh, what have I done? Here we go again.

Maizie came into Stan’s house on a visit and immediately became Queen of the Mansion. Clovis took one look at her and his little heart nearly burst with love at first sight. She, on the other hand, was having none of it, à la Pepé le Pew and Penelope Pussycat. As he tired of her rebuffing him, he began to torment her, and she him. They would chase one another around the house, hide behind corners in ambush, and generally provoke one another. She would “torture him with her beauty” by rolling on her back and sides, slowly clawing her way on the carpet toward him. If she were under the coffee table, he’d be on top of it, tail switching, glaring at her and jabbing a paw down to remind her who was alpha cat. They were the worst of lovers but the best of playmates.

In his eighteenth year, perhaps nineteenth, he began to slow considerably. His teeth decayed to the point that each one had to be extracted. His system didn’t tolerate the medications well, and he began to lose kidney function. In his last days, he was crouching and wincing but always ready to sit in your lap and be petted. We decided to let him make his transition at home, surrounded with love instead of taking him to the vet. He went from sitting in an afternoon sunbeam on the porch to unable to raise a paw within six hours, uttering his last purrs around 9 p.m. We took turns holding him and stroking him until we both fell asleep. Sometime after 1 a.m., his labored breathing stilled to silence.

There is a little hole dug in the backyard by the plumbago bed beside the spot where we buried Harry – now they’ll have to tussle it out in the afterlife. This afternoon in the bright sunshine, we’ll set Clovis to rest with a few of his toys, like a pauper King Tut. There will be tears and hugs and sobs. In time, we’ll adopt another kitty and begin the journey all over again. Why? Because a pet’s unconditional love always surpasses the chasm of the loss. If a pet teaches you anything, it’s that you shouldn’t waste a single day of your life without loving someone.

We are rich in memories of our beloved. Won’t you share a few stories of your pets, current and past? Your best pet ever?

Today is a good day to appreciate your creatures. Take a few extra moments with your furred, feathered, or finned pets and toss that ball or catnip mouse that you’ve been too busy to throw lately – well, maybe not with your fish – perhaps a little face-tank time will do. Just enjoy them while you have them – while they’re living to love you.

Honest to Goodness

In the movie lingo of Eric Von Zipper in Beach Blanket Bingo, “Stand aside, everyone. I take large steps.” Did he suffer from summer thigh-rub rash too?

With Labor Day around the corner, I feel like fluffing my hair into an Annette Funicello up-flip and singing a duet with Frankie Avalon in the glow of an evening bonfire. It’s hard to believe after 67 days of triple-digit heat (with more to come) that we are setting the sun on summer. Even with three weeks to the first day of autumn, it feels like summer’s packing its bags and waving so-long as local schools re-open and the commuters jam the roads to queue back into their fall routines.

Oddly, even in this record-setting string of blistering days, the folks around Austin seem to keep their cool. We've developed a camaraderie watching our tuffs of turf wilt during mandatory water conservation. I recently looked out on our back yard – the stepchild lawn receiving the least water – and had a flashback to fall hayrides in Indiana bumping along in wagons full of scratchy straw. Is yellow the new green?

Because of, or in spite of the heat, we seemed to speed-dance away the summer like frenzied teens at the beach. While the drought parched the yard, my calendar was flooded with a wealth of busy-ness and new engagements: summer classes in Project Management Certification, learning new software applications, and enrolling in television studio production training. It also brought some recurring experiences: completing the Danskin Triathlon, enjoying the Indiana State Fair with family, and breakfasting with my old grade school chums – still great blessings even after decades and miles apart.

We’ve seen a good friend survive and thrive after open heart surgery, continue to learn ways to lovingly nurse an aging pet into his final months, and have lived to tell of tasting Pigs in the Mud (chocolate-covered bacon – why? because it was oddest and weirdest fair food we found – and we especially like to Keep It Weird when we’re away from Austin).

Have you yet to shake the sand out of your bikini bottoms? What large steps did you take this summer? Which images will you paste into your memory scrapbook?

As we ride the last summer heat waves into fall, I’m going to flick up a Gidget ponytail and croon to my Moondoggie, “Honest to goodness, it was the absolute ultimate!”

June Bugs and June Brides

You might wonder where I’m going with bugs and brides. What could they possibly have in common? With June brides come the images of flowers and showers, preachers and parties and the meshing of new families. With June bugs come the sounds of head-buzzing and lampshade pelting, swooshing fly swatters and cats rocketing across the living room and smashing into patio doors.

I’m thinking of both as we glide past spring into summer. We’ve had two family weddings this month and seemingly more fat brown June bugs dancing around our light bulbs than all years past. Both brides and bugs have swept quickly past leaving a fluttering of invitations and, well, wings and legs. Perhaps it’s analogous that we’re also counting more blessings than ever in our lives.

Life doesn’t always follow our plans, but along the turns of the past year we’ve found ourselves growing richer in relationships as every page falls from the calendar. The hours of this month fly past with old friends getting back in contact, new acquaintances from the weddings filling our address book and the activities of summer crowding our schedules.

Even after all the years since graduating school and university, there is still something delicious about welcoming summer and its possibilities for fun: jumping in a pool to escape the heat, slipping into a chilly matinee on a bright afternoon, choosing just the right flavor of syrup on snow cones or nestling down with that great paperback in the middle of the afternoon. It’s all lightness that we create for ourselves. Life isn’t perfect, but there is a perfectly magnificent blue sky beckoning us outside to gaze upward.

With triple digit heat in Austin, it’s important to create some slow-down time outside to slurp on a juicy watermelon and feel the condensation dripping down your wrist from an icy beverage. We find that it works to write “Down Time” on the calendar and commit to it. I’m much less likely to bump it when it’s committed on the page.

I am however, much more likely to bump into the sticky fly paper strip my husband posted on our patio to catch the bugs before they slip through the sliding glass door. Who knew they still made this stuff? Twice now while watering the plants, the breeze has shifted and sent me flailing about during a facial assault. It’s far worse than a tangle in a silky spider web. When it’s on you, it marries you and leaves a nasty trail of goo all over your face, arms, hands and hair.

I refuse to let this ick replace my happy summer memory scents like Sea & Ski lotion and baby oil. These take me back to blissful teenage afternoons in a pink gingham bikini lying on a quilt in our back yard listening to Motown hits on the radio. The sweetness of watching the clouds drift past and wondering about the future still invigorate my love for this season.

What are you doing to create lightness in your life this year? Which are your sweetest memories of summers past? What are your tricks for beating the heat?

We welcome the newlyweds into our lives and outfit ourselves for the battle of the bugs, accepting the sweetness of new love with the stickiness of just living. We’re just not using the fly paper near the brides.

Jockeying for First Place When the Old Grey Mare Just Ain’t What She Used to Be

The film “My Life in Ruins” opens this week, and as accurately as this seems to describe life some days, I compile yet another daunting To Do list and dash off like an Olympian to finish what I’ve started.

Thoughts of racing come easily just days away from the third leg of the Triple Crown at Belmont and the Austin Danskin Triathlon, and I’m betting that this old mare can accomplish as much as any three-year-old thoroughbred.

As the Belmont bets are placed and we wager whether jockey Calvin Borel will achieve a triple crown astride Mine That Bird, I think about what a triple threat the female drivers in the 2009 Indy 500 were. Milka Duno, Sarah Fisher and Danica Patrick are fascinating to follow. All three qualified, competed and finished the race this year – which resonates as I tackle my objectives.

At the speedways, the pit crew can make or break a driver’s success. In the flat racing game, the jockey can guide a horse to a win or a loss. If we serve as our own pit crews and jockeys, how are we guiding the success of our goals? Are we whipping the tar out of our hinies or focusing our energies in unison to change out the tires and fuel up? Who’s spotting for us as we navigate the track? Are we working for or against ourselves in achieving our goals?

I’m trying to sweep the track of habits that undermine my efforts, such as staying up too late and not getting enough rest. Now, if they held an Indy 500 Napping race, I could take the trophy for sleeping 500 minutes. While I’ve been training for the Danskin, I’ve added a phone alarm that says “go to bed” as a prompt to shut it down for the day and not work into the wee hours. A full night’s rest is invaluable in how you recharge and embrace the next day. It keeps you from falling asleep at the wheel of your life.

The point of my ever overflowing To Do list and all the goal setting, task tackling and exercising is to make the old grey mare better than she used to be so she can win her races with skill and grace– and not be set out to pasture just yet. There’s still a lot of hoofing around I want to do, and I’m grateful for my family and friends who keep me moving and motivated. As I run for the roses, they all deserve bouquets for their love and support. Thanks to their faith, I’m not like I used to be – I’m better.

What’s on your To Do list? Are you including time for healthy essentials? Are you appreciating your pit crew?

One item on my list is to attend a movie this weekend. For anyone who says that women’s cinema doesn’t make money, I hope that they are proven wrong with the opening box office returns on “My Life in Ruins.” I’m putting my money where their mouth is and buying a ticket. Won’t you join me?

http://www.fandango.com/mylifeinruins_118572/movieoverview

All the News That’s Shocking to Print

I narrowly escaped death by blow dryer this week. While I was arranging my locks, my grip slipped and my blow dryer tumbled out of my hand, hit the counter, did a triple Lutz, and splash-landed into the john. At the sound of the little zzzzt-pfff, I jumped back looked at my hands and limbs, ascertained that I was still alive (and still had straight hair), and quickly unplugged the cord.

For a few moments I just stood there in slight shock and then I started to laugh. It just seemed so funny. I’d been thinking of changing my ‘do to something easier. Was this a sign that I should get a “bowl” cut?

The day before, I was at my gym early to train for the Danskin triathlon and pulled on my Speedo swim cap to protect my hair. I know that professional swimmers probably love these things, but I can’t figure out for whose tiny heads these were designed – certainly not my Jolly Green Giant knob. I have to fold it, roll it, and cajole it onto my noggin. Forget covering the ears – it starts slipping up the moment it’s on and demands constant adjustment to keep it from popping off in the water. What I really want is one of those old models with the big daisies springing up all over and a nice fat chin strap – now that’s a classy look!

That morning during the tug of war, a big handful of the cap fell apart in my palm. Undaunted I cocked it around and started my laps, grateful that I was the only one at the pool. I enjoyed an entire hour by myself practicing the strokes that would serve me best in the upcoming half-mile water course. Of the triathlon challenges, the swim's the most daunting. Not only is it physically taxing for a mediocre swimmer, with the cutesy caps it lacks the glamour of, say, getting spiffed up in tennis whites.

But the varied training infuses fun in my fitness plan. It motivates me to keep moving and challenges me to push my limits. The medals are a big plus – I can’t think of anything since winning our grade school spelling bee that has made me feel so special. During my first triathlon orientation, they asked the question: when was the last time you did something that you were afraid to do? I must stay that getting into that water with waves of other folks passing you by is pretty intimidating.

Biking, though, has always been a great pleasure – even since my first ride without training wheels. It just looked so hard, maintaining balance on two wheels. I lacked the confidence to believe that I’d ever be able to do it and imagined breaking bone upon bone tumbling across the driveway. But one day my brother, who was supposed to be holding on to the back, just let go. I was far across our yard before I caught on that I was riding solo. And when I realized it, I promptly fell over. But I got up and rode independently from then on, without ever looking back.

For me, the event has never been about finishing under a certain time, it’s been about finishing. Period. So when it comes to the 5K run, the final portion of the triathlon, I prefer to walk at least half of it. Texas in June can be monstrous, so I pace myself according to the heat index and the distance between watering stations. As it’s tipping up toward 100 degrees Fahrenheit, I take my time and tank up like a camel.

When the end is in sight, I like to run across the finish line – I feel more like a champion. When they slip that medal around your neck after you cross the threshold, it's impossible not to grin like a beet-faced Alfred E. Newman. The inscription reads: The woman who started the race is not the same woman who finishes the race. How true.

So what was the last thing you did that really scared you? Have you pushed yourself beyond your supposed limits to reach a goal recently? Have you shocked yourself at what you can achieve with focused effort? What training wheels are you ready to shed?

While you’re mulling it over, I’ll be looking for someone who can give me a good bowl cut.