AUGUST ESSAYS, ADDICTIONS

Addiction, the dictionary defines the word as : ad·dic·tion

əˈdikSH(ə)n/

noun

1. the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity.

   "he committed the theft to finance his drug addiction"

   
   

   
   

   I admit to my addictions openly, i.e.  dark, organic Chocolate, especially Green and Black, dogs, horses, laughter and fine art. I am hopelessly smitten with any number of things within those categories. Cats I, unwillingly (joke!), admit to needing in my life too. And family first and always above all others, family.

   
   

   I am so addicted that I make all of my life decisions based on those categories. If I can't have my horses, dogs and cats live with me I won't move. The year of 911, when my store and business collapsed, I threw everything I had at it trying to save it. My husband was right there beside me, working as hard as he could too. We lost our house and my business and retirement and we bankrupted. When it came time to move, my first criteria was that my animals had to go with us. I would have lived on the street first rather than give up my animals.

   
   

   

   They ground me, keep me centered and connected to the earth. I can rebuild a garden anywhere but the animals are a kind of sacred trust. I promise to care for them when I bring them home. The world is a rapidly changing and frequently unfriendly place for animals, especially horses. Their wild habitats are nearly gone. If they come to live with me, they are here for the length of their lives. When you are willing to give anything you have away to keep another, that is addiction in the finest sense.

   
   

   Chocolate? Ahhh, well that is pure indulgence, pure pleasure. I keep a small box in the pantry with just one or two bars of much too expensive and oh so worth it dark chocolate. John calls it the SACRED BOX OF CHOCOLATE. It has to be written in italics and caps. It's that important. Every afternoon I indulge in just one or two small squares of perfect chocolate with a big cup of english breakfast tea. But, again, that is easily moved, easily refilled, like a garden.

   
   

   Dogs? I have a very few friends who are not dog people, but they are that rarity and not the norm. I have had dogs in my life since I was four years old. I have pictures of all of them and remember them, would know them anywhere, as if they were still here. They've taught me the true definition of unquestioned love. They are always at my side, sleeping next to or on the bed. I had Gypsy with me while I ran the store. She sold as much as I did, meeting and greeting customers at the door with a toy in her mouth and a big smile. All of my dogs are country dogs, living without the restraint of leashes. And every one has been happy, healthy and polite, staying on the property. Dogs are a necessity in the country, my companions and security. 

   
   

   Cats? They come to me just when I need them. They show up on the door step, hungry, or out in the barn or in the tree in the front yard. We always have two or three and, when the cat that shows up is a pregnant Mama, a few more until I find homes for them. 

   
   

   

   I'm an artist by trade, and designer. The Fine Art addiction is self explanatory. I started buying at auctions when I was in junior high and when it was time to declare a major at university, I gave up my pre med classes in favor of the path of the artist. 

   
   

   But at the top of my list, above all others, is family. I would give up everything including my life for my family. And part of my family lives in Alexandria, Virginia. If there is any other reason for us to move to Essex County, it's because we could go visit with just a few hours of driving. It's far easier for me to move my studio, computer and animals than it is for them to leave good jobs.
   
   

   

   
   

   
   

   There is one last addiction that I haven't addressed, the land. Presently we lease a house, a couple of pastures and a barn on a preserve. Part of our job as caretakers is protecting the land. We care for the trees, restore the prairie areas, protect the wildlife from hunters. I would love to live on another piece of land, calling it our own, and care for it. I want to have it in place and healthy, leaving it for our children and their children. 

   
   

   My hope is that the legacy of the land becomes a pattern that is in place, ready for future family to care for. If we do our jobs well, they will carry our love of animals and wild places in to their lives, giving that to their children.

   
   

   I am an addict of my life.  

   
   

   
   

AUGUST ESSAYS, HORIZONS

That place we all move towards, where the sky meets the Earth and the light is always changing, we seek the horizon. It draws us, like the north takes it's direction from the needle in the compass. The wind takes us there, blowing along with with the leaves, dancing to the south in Autumn. Every moment of our lives we seek the edge of our days.

The American Dream, or the idea of it, takes us forward. It isn't that the only place to be happy is the horizon. We know that it's the journey and not the destination that fills our days. We live our own stories, protagonist, antagonist, drama and comedy. Still, the draw is there carrying us along in it's wake. And we move.

I live in Kansas. I can't begin to count the number of people who've quoted lines from the Wizard of Oz when I tell them that. " Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore." or, on the other end of the movie, " There's no place like home." Classic. And I've never met anyone who didn't like that story either. 

A lonely little girl and the dog she's trying to protect get caught in the tail of a tornado and blown in to a magical land, somewhere over the rainbow. It's so entangled in to our culture now that pop stars sing Dorothy's song, Somewhere Over The Rainbow, and now there's a Rainbow Bridge that we all cross from this life to the next, where we find all of the animals we've loved in life waiting for us. 

I've lived on both sides of the Ocean, but Kansas always draws me back. It's a place of big skies, neighbors who help without question, and that wave that we all give each other as we drive down back country roads. It's quiet here. I like that. I love my days spent in my fields with nothing but the wind in the grass, frog song along the edge of the ponds and the sound of my horses grazing. 

Some of my ancestors lay in the ground here, my Grandparents who showed me the joys of gardening, cooking, caring for my horses and dogs and the cranky independent barn cats. 

I went to University here, studied, watched the inevitable KU basketball games, celebrated when we won our Big Kahuna status along with several thousand other raucous fans who clogged the streets, honking horns and dancing. And I've painted, established my career as a Midwestern artist, designer, photographer and illustrator. And, like all Kansans, I never pass up the opportunity to tell a good story. 

But part of my family now lives in Virginia. I'd like to be able to drive an hour or two away, not fly for hours to visit. And the artist in me is yearning for a new landscape to paint and explore, gardens to nurture, southern winds to sing me to sleep. 

I miss them. And I see myself in a place with a beautiful old saltbox house, like my Mother's Mother's, with deep Virginia grasses and the Atlantic just over the horizon. I want to ride my horses down a beach at sunset and stand at the edge of the ocean with them, letting them seek their own horizon so much like the sea of grass that is Kansas.

I'm ready. Carry me back to Virginia where the green grass calls and the countryside waits for me behind split rail fences and graceful trees, bending over the drive home. Take me to new places, to air scented with salt and skies hazy with lazy white clouds, noreasters on the far Winter horizons.

HORSES! ALWAYS RIVETING...

It hasn't changed. I still get up, run to the kitchen window and exclaim, " Horses!". I am in awe every single day of my life. I live with horses, beautiful, funny, intelligent, independent, fierce, emotional horses. 

How can I not be excited? 

A friend came out to visit. She'd never actually been up close to a real horse, only read about them, watched my posts and pictures. She worked up her courage, called and asked to come out. I almost always say yes. I love to give people, especially artists, the opportunity to meet a horse.

They're all individuals, like us. I see them as giant snowflakes, each one a different pattern, never repeated in exactly the same way. Some of them have softer, rounder, easier to understand and interact with personalities. Others are more reactive, higher energy, sensitive or athletic, funny, game players. 

My tiny herd is an eclectic mix of a tall, sorrel, kind and willing but very aware of changes in his environment Foxtrotter ( a gaited horse with different specific movements for every environment and, in this case, Lucky is also a jumper who can mule jump a four foot fence from a stand still.), a stocky, athletic and surprisingly graceful, independent Curly who holds my heart in his, a smaller athletic American Mustang with an efficient trot that goes all day and a zero to forty mph flat-out run that takes your breath away, and a wee, tiny Miniature Donkey named Willow who runs the show with hutzpah and attitude.

Each of them is at a different place in their journey as a skilled horse, and all of them are my teachers. I have a true diversity to offer people when they come out to see us.

I'm the only one that rides them. If a mistake is made I want it to be mine. But I am comfortable allowing people to be with them, happy to show them how to stand with a horse, introduce themselves politely to a horse. We talk about body language, energy, presence and whatever else the person asks me about. And I'm always careful to tell them I'm by no means an expert. I will probably be a student to the end of my life. Good thing I love to learn!

My friend was, not surprisingly, blown away by their sheer size and presence. We never knock the curiosity out of our horses, and all of them are treated with dignity and kindness. They are part of every decision we make here, for them. If it's one of those days that they just don't want to play/work, I sit down and wait. They always end up coming to me sooner or later. And I try to be aware of where their energy is for the day, the weather (extreme heat is very difficult to manage so playing in the Summer time is at a softer, quieter level with plenty of time to walk and cool off and a cool bath afterwards) and what we are working on.

 I keep books in the barn with lists. (and, yes, it's probably the only part of my life that has that kind of organization in it.) And, sometimes, we work for only five or fifteen minutes, and always until I see them relaxed and in a good place mentally and emotionally. We always end on a good note, always. Even when I broke my arm John put them away and stood quietly with them until they were calm and focused.

My friend said, " They're so quiet. And curious. I thought they'd be running around, hiding from us. I saw you having to go out with a whip cracking, whistling and yelling, to get them to run by." Uh huh. Too many movies. I think maybe she was a bit disappointed, wanted more trauma drama. 

I know they're beautiful in motion, poetry and music in every step. Their muscles ripple, manes and tails blow, hooves beat a rhythm that inspires. But I'm proud of the fact my foursome greets people quietly, calmly and politely. If they aren't interested in meeting you they turn and walk away. And that sometimes happens.  giving me an opportunity to talk about energy and body language, the art of being able to draw a horse to you. Everything, with a horse, counts. You're either teaching them something you want them to learn or another thing you didn't intend. The learning curve is steep and always fascinating.

A few evenings back I watched Stony, my Mustang, play a game of approach and retreat backwards through the door of the shed stall. I wanted to catch it on video, to post here, but my phone was full and I'd left the Canon inside, more the fool I. 

The shed stall is big, twice the size of the usual 12 foot by 12 foot space available for horses. And I always leave it open with a fan running in the Summer. It's deep and shaded, a place that deters flies especially with the fan blowing. Stony wanted to be inside the stall with Lucky and Apache but, every time he tried to walk in frontwards, Apache would pin his ears at Stony. Stony's solution? Go in backwards.

I stood there quietly, my hip cocked and leaning on the fence, and watched. He stood there, thinking. And his lips started to move, a small turn to the left and back he went, just a few steps. He was quite aware of Apache, could see him with that amazing peripheral vision that a horse has. He would step back just until Apache's face would start to tighten, then step forward until Apache relaxed. Forward, backward, forward, backward and each time just a tiny bit further in to the shed. It went on for almost ten minutes.And then, for whatever horse reasons, Apache completely relaxed and in Stony went, still backwards. He relaxed and sighed under the comfort of the fan and lowered his head. Game done!

Always, always riveting, always! 

My friend learned how to stand quietly with a horse the day she was here, how to be vigilant and relaxed, a kind of Zen place to be and so very equine. That was all we did that day, practiced being part of a herd. It's surprisingly difficult to do, but she got it first time out. She's a practitioner of martial arts and meditates, so she found her center very quickly, grounded herself and learned how to be in the moment, horse style. I've never met a horse who wasn't a Zen Master. They exist in a perfect state most of the time, letting go of fear immediately when the reason to be afraid has passed. 

When she left she was in that right brained place, time irrelevant, quiet. It's that way of being we all had as children before schedules and tests, peer pressure and bill paying pushed us in to adulthood. She arrived an adult with questions, left as her child within, content.

I think she'll be back. Her comment when she left, " Horses!"

I am, ever yours, Nancy, in the moment, learning, being and smiling, equine style

THE PATH AHEAD...AND BEHIND

I love this place that we live in. Every single day it changes. It continually surprises me, even on the days when the weather is 110 F or -20F. I dress for the weather and get the job done and love all of it. I am challenged, exhausted a good part of the time and laugh every day. And some days I cry too. 

I get frustrated, whiney because I  have to figure out how to get my job done without anyone to ask for help. We chose to live here. Mine to do as best I can. 

John keeps me centered when I'm on the verge of a meltdown but it's still mine to solve, ponder, learn from and make hay while the sun shines, get along when it doesn't.

One of my horses and three of my dogs are buried on this land. We've trimmed the trees, hiked out and brought back junk left by previous owners while we try to keep the forrest and fields clear. My grandparents and their grandparents lived like this. I try to remember that they worked much harder than I do. That history is always in the back of my mind.

The past nine months we've been waiting to see whether we will continue to be allowed to live here. I've lost sleep, lost weight, panicked, cried, had a melt down or two with poor John holding me because sometimes it isn't something that can be balanced. 

I've looked and looked for another place we can afford, some place where we can keep our small herd, grow our organic produce and live out our time together with no more than the usual worries about how to pay the bills. 

I know that home is where the heart is, that it's the people you love, the animals who depend on me who are important. And that is where part of the pain comes from, the anger while we wait and wait and wait. I've been telling myself this is a door opening, a new direction to go. But if I can not keep my horses and donkey, I just don't want to go there. I made a promise to them. It's my job to keep it unless my time ends and it really is out of my hands. 

This is the way that I feel about this place. I dance and sing and sweat and cry and sometimes I stand in awe of how beautiful it is. I've had deer walk in to the front yard and stand ten feet away while standing on the front porch. 

An immature Golden Eagle took up residence one Spring until it was ready to move on. It would sit in the top of our Broken Oak or one of the giant trees at the end of the East pasture and watch everything that we did. And the morning it left, it flew on the thermals right over the paddock and called to me. 

A Bard Owl sat on the railing of the deck more than once one year, watching us through the doors. It was huge, intimidating and beautiful. It was an owl that shook me out of the depression I was in when moved here fourteen years ago, after loosing our business and home, bankrupting, the year of 911. 

I walked out every day with Spirit, my first horse, and my dogs. I was trying to get my bearings, trying to convince myself that I wasn't a failure. I did my best. It just wasn't good enough to save a business that went down with buildings that fell and brought us all to a slamming, screaming halt. 

I sat on a rock while the dogs took naps and Spirit grazed next to me and watched the sky, doing my "What's it all about Alphie?" thing, crying nd moaning about the unfairness of things.  And a tree branch turned and looked at me. I was so startled I fell off the rock backwards and ended up on the ground looking up at a surprised Spirit. " Hey, what are you doing down there? I thought it was my job to put you there?" And I started laughing again. It was as simple as that. the branch was an owl and I was still alive, still breathing. Anything was possible!

I laughed because there's always something funny going on, something to make me smile. 

You know that guy who wrote about small stuff? He's right, it's all small stuff. And there's always a reason to tilt my head back and laugh until my sides ache.

Tomorrow we meet with representatives from the new owners of the land to discuss a rental agreement. Do I like leasing? No, not really. We owned for years, had rental property, homes, the full monty. I liked the freedom of being able to paint murals on all of the walls and floors, setting up a business out of our home, planting anything we wanted to plant anywhere, any time. I liked painting the outside of my home, putting on a new roof, setting up paths for neighborhood kids to walk on when they took a short cut home from school through our yard.

But here I love the wildness, the raccoon we've named Rocky who comes up on to the deck and looks in the doors at us, wondering why there isn't more cat food out there for his dining pleasure. 

I love the big sky, the tall prairie grasses and our small bit of the last of the old growth trees that were, somehow, over looked when the developing in this region went on. I'm pretty sure that if I looked, there might even be an Endt with a few Unicorns living under it's branches. Heck, we might even be where some of the Endt Wives are hiding.

Heaven help me I'm even so smitten with the place that I don't even mind the ticks, chiggers, snakes or mosquitoes. We've made our peace over the years and now we all just sort of fit together like raggedtey puzzle pieces. 

We tried to buy this place or, at least, buy in to it. We wanted to be part of it. That wasn't an option so we let that one go. 

I've looked at places over the years, even found two I would have moved to but every time the market would go up then down, like some kind of out of control roller coaster ride. There was a real danger that we would end up with one of those upside down mortgages. I did not want us to go through yet another bankruptcy just so we could say we were owners again. Too much anguish involved. Too much stress, anger and fear. So we stayed.

How could we not like it here? It's like this every day, every single day there's a spectacular sunrise, a breathtaking sunset. There are trees with giant thorns, ancient oaks with hollow spaces at the base of their trunks where birds build nests.

We've heard a cougar scream in the hollow out back of our house (a converted barn with crookedty floors and doors that don't quite work, windows that look like something from Alice Through The Looking Glass) and watched a deer give birth in the side yard. There's the opossum that stops by the studio door to look in at me, on his way to the cedar bushes in the front to eat the berries and the Great Blue Heron who has visited every year, or his children. It stands over five feet tall and soars in over the house like a glider coming in for a landing, always absolutely silent, huge, majestic.

Our fourteen years here have been magical. I've felt more at home here than any other place we've been. My roots are almost as deep as some of the trees now. 

Tomorrow we meet to find out what the proposal is. Our contract rolled over in July so we are safe for that amount of time at least. It will give us one more year to search and prepare if leaving is what we have to do. 

I am taking my horses with us. I made a promise. I never go back on my promises. Even when we lost the gallery I managed to place almost every artist we represented, in a new gallery. 

This will work out the way it's supposed to. But just between you and me, I hope the path is longer here for us. If we do leave part of my heart will be left behind, here in the land . 

I'm not as afraid of tomorrow as I was, but I will cry if the parting is sooner rather than later. 

And I'm curious too. Wonder what happens next? Anything is possible, anything at all. 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling and scratching my head in wonder

CHAUCER'S CIRCLES AND LITTLE SHIT

Ever have one of those days where things just keep going south? I got up tired.  I didn't sleep well last night. No worries. If I keep myself moving, drink a bit of caffein and stretch ever so often I can deal with the after affects of insomnia like a champ. Really, no worries. Watching one of my all time favorite funny Golden videos helps. Laughter. Just what Doc Nancy ordered.

I'll think about Chaucer. He's one of the horses that just shows up at our gate sometimes. Happens nearly every year. Someone finds a loose horse and puts them in our pasture. Or someone dumps a horse (two times, two horses each time!). Or one of the neighbor's horses makes the great escape. That was Chaucer.

He was older, polite, a total sweetheart. I'd never seen him before so I did what I always do. I filed a report with the sheriffs office, post images on line, call neighbors and local Vets. And in this case I went ahead and called my farrier. His hooves were in appalling shape. He was uncomfortable. So, hoofs trimmed, wormed him, ran a coggins on him and a blood titer to see if he needed inoculations. Groomed him and welcomed him to the club. He'd already been outside over night visiting with my guys. They'd  settled their differences. He walked in the gate at liberty like he'd always lived here. 

By the time we found out where he belonged I was ready to keep him. I bond pretty quickly with most animals and he was an easy one to love. He had the presence of a poet, of a true intellect of his time. Besides, he told me he liked Chaucer so Chaucer he was. And,  unfortunately, he belonged to some folks living up the road a piece. I didn't know them well but their animals have ended up here fairly often during the years. They have slovenly fences, no shelter and nothing but weeds and junk in the pastures. I could see why Chaucer found his way here. The person he belonged to told me she had rescued him. He was an only horse. And she was surprised that he needed to have all of those things done. She thought horses just took care of them selves! 

Sending him down the road was very difficult for me to do but he did belong to her and she was not interested in selling him. So he went back to his weedy pasture with junk in it, reluctantly on his part and mine. I cried. And, over the years, I've snuck up the road to check on him and, if no one was home, I called the farrier and we'd sneak in to the pasture and trim his hooves. And, when no one was home, I'd drive up and throw hay over the crummy fence and take him buckets of clean, clear water. I never had to call. He always came.

And then he was gone. I'd tried to buy him from her several times but was always refused. I called to ask about him again. She'd sent him to auction two weeks before. That sweet, old horse ended up on a truck to Mexico because of her prickly pride. She didn't call me because she didn't want me to have him.  I called the auction house to find out who bought him. Then I called the kill buyer. Chaucer had already shipped out. He really was gone. 

So, I got up and moved. I cleaned the upstairs. Tidied up the downstairs and my studio. And laughed while I remembered him and how well he handled Apache, my LBE who wants to be head honcho. He was considerably bigger than Patch and, when Apache did his "MOVE!" routine on Chaucer, Chaucer moved backwards right in to Apache. Didn't kick him. Just kept walking backwards until Patch had to move ... and then he did it some more. He walked circles around Patch backwards and made Apache move in every direction. Slow and easy, no worries. Just " That, son, is how you move another horse. " and I'm pretty sure Chaucer was laughing the whole time he did it too. Slow and easy, no worries.

No worries. It became my mantra for today. I said, " No worries." when the landowners called this morning and told me a truck would be by to clean the septic out, would I mind handling that. I said I was busy, and I was. So a big truck shows up and drives down the side yard right through the gardens, smashing them flat and leaves twin canyons besides because we had three inches of rain yesterday. And then I get yelled at by the land owner because there are flushable wet wipes in the septic. Must be my fault they're there. I'm the one who works out of the house, keeps it clean, built the crushed gardens and I'm the female. Must be my fault. 

I gritted my teeth, made no reply. I do use baby wipes but I never put them in the toilet. But John did until I read him an article about the mess they make in sewers and septics. He offered to call them to explain. I thought about Chaucer moving in backwards circles and ending his life in a slaughter house. No worries.  I would handle it. And remembered how Willow would run back and forth under Chaucer and then snug herself up under him because rascal Apache couldn't get to her there. More laughter. And reasons to smile.

And I go out to do chores. The heat index was up to 100, humidity high. The horses were probably going to need showers to cool off. And that was fun too. Always trashes my clothes and soaks my boots but they were cooler and all took turn rolling in the mud afterwards. Clean horses? Nah, not more than five minutes of that. But they have a great time getting dirty and it does keep the flies off. Not a bad system really. Cold shower then a nice roll in pond mud, some hay and grain and then spend the afternoon standing in front of fans in the shed. 

I'm walking back to the house covered in flung mud, sweat, hay, the usual and the crabby land owner calls me around to the side of the house, the one with the canyon sized ruts and destroyed gardens. " Nancy, they left the pile of ancient, gross ( you do not want to know how gross!) wet wipes here for you. They're your responsibility but I'll help. Where do you want me to put them?" 

Really? REALLY? Breath Nancy. Smile until your cheeks hurt, then smile some more. " Let's put them over on the cement pad across from the barn. I'll take care of them. " He says, " Yes, you will! What were you thinking?" Siiiighhh. Be Chaucer. Walk in circles backwards. So, I did! I walked in backwards circles until he stopped jabbering at me. I would have given anything to have Chaucer here so I could tell him I learned from him. I wish he were here so we could laugh together about me walking in backwards circles until Flappy Lips shut up! 

I waited until he left and then shoveled the grossness in to a plastic bag and dragged it down to the dumpster that he had told me not to put them in. And, just for fun, I walked in backwards circles up the drive, laughing. No worries! " Now that, son, is how you move a horse!"

We laugh a lot around here. I meet the most amazing four legged "people" and they always have better manners and something more important to say then most of the two legged creatures I meet. 

My garden is crushed, and there's a muddy grand canyon for a side yard. I smelled rather ripe when I came in and everything I was wearing went straight in to the washer and me in to the shower too. 
                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My blender that I've used for forty years exploded when I dropped it. Today is dog food day. The blender is used to grind the bones and to add them back to the pot. When the glass broke it flew everywhere, tiny little shards all over the table, counters and floors. sigh.... I had to clean the kitchen I'd already spent the morning cleaning because I was angry and crying. And somewhere in the middle of all of that I could feel the presence of a handsome old fellow named Chaucer, watching and chuckling at the things we two leggeds get ourselves all in a twist about. No worries! 

The day is young and anything is possible! And all of it will give me reasons to laugh, every last bit. Today was Chaucer's Day. And, grand old man that he was, he is teaching me still! Love you handsome horse. I'll see you some years down the line on the other side of that lovely rainbow bridge.

I am, ever yours, Nancy, head back and laughing...and crying...and laughing at the way things go.

JUST ANOTHER DAY, and I like it like that.

How many times have I seen movies, read books, where the protagonist says, " Eeeeuuuwww, I can't marry him. He's my best friend!" Happens all the time, doesn't it? Like spending your life with your best friend is inherently wrong. Why in the world would you want to be with someone you can relax with, be yourself with, laugh, cry, burp and fart with? I mean, how romantic is that?

I can not imagine my life without my best friend. We fall in love over and over again and always for different reasons. Right now I love his greying hair, silver beard and freckled knees. Last year I loved his determination to heal after having knee surgery. And the year before that I loved his ability to stand outside in the heat and pound fence post holes in to the ground one at a time because he loves our horses as much as I do.

Without that rock solid core of friendship, laughter, fear, pain, history, and always our curiosity, we would have split years ago. It's the relationships that exist without that center that dissolve. Nothing wrong with passion. It makes the world go around, no doubt about it. But without the ability to laugh together, gripe and complain about the tiny peccadilloes that make us crazy (and it's always the small shit that pushes me over the edge. I'm good with big stuff, good in an emergency or while reaching for a goal. Little shit makes me crazy!), getting old together and being amazed at how quickly that happens would be a lonely place indeed.

Making love is fun but it only lasts, physically, for just so long. It's the lead up and the afterwards that makes it wonderful, at least for me. Maybe that's what makes me a story teller. I love everything about the story, beginning, middle and end. I like the adjectives and adverbs, the exclamation marks and just plain periods.

If we can't laugh at this...

Or this! How in the world will we get through the rest of it, the aging and disappointment, loosing friends or family, being afraid of political corruption or loss of habitat and species we haven't even begun to find, meet or understand or even just grey days and simple boredom. 

Magic happens in the little moments, while you're watching a rented movie and your silly puppy rolls over and grabs her foot and you laugh. 

It happens when your baby barfs down your front just before that big interview and ruins your best dress shirt and tie, or when you see your shy mustang walk up to your husband just to stand with him while he does evening chores. 

It's all of the small things, the moments you see and forget, that fill your dark places with light. 

It comes with sitting in your house during a rock and roll thunderstorm in the middle of the night, no electricity, lightning flashing like strobes in a disco, thunder booming so hard and fast you can feel it in your chest. Sitting there on either side of a terrified Saint Bernard who's shaking so hard she's making the bed move and it knocks a picture off the wall. How can you not laugh at that?! How can I not be in love with that kind of life?

And it's loading up a video when you can't remember what's on it and laughing when you see what you chose. 

I live with my best friend and I have since I was nineteen. We were babies, had no idea what was coming and we still have no idea what's next either. We won the lottery forty five years ago. It doesn't pay the bills but who cares? Bills aren't what you think about at the other end of things. I learned to pay those when we can and let the rest go because life is way to exciting to just wait it away, hoping it's going to "get better". 

So what next? More writing, more painting and photography, more mistakes and learning that, at least, I won't do that anymore. 

Today? It's a weed pulling day, a clean up after the storm day, a scoop the poop, brush my ancient cat because she can't keep herself groomed kind of day. It's just another day and I LIKE THAT. John's at work, the horses are out in the field rolling in the mud to keep the flies off, dogs are under the table farting and panting. My kitchen needs to be cleaned, again. ( Do the math. 45 x 365 = 16,425. I've cleaned my kitchen at least that many times and usually more since I cook more than most people do and the only ones to help have been John and, when they lived at home and I held them down long enough to help, my sons.) 

I know you read cliched statements all the time about living in the moment. There's a reason for all of those repeats, silly memes and goofy puppy pictures. They come from living with your best friend who loves you just the way you are. It's because of those over and over moments that I love my life. That's my idea of romance.

I am, ever yours, Nancy, laughing at the way things go

A ONE WORD PHILOSOPHY, THE PERFECT SALAD

Several years ago, perhaps because I was lazy or because resolutions were one of those things I tossed aside a few weeks in to the new year, I decided to choose one word as my goal rather than a list. At the time I thought I was being terribly clever. I was saving time. No more agonizing over lists that made me feel like a looser from the beginning. I would choose a word, post it in three places so I see it everyday and move on without a care in the world. I was footloose and fancy free. Only I wasn't.  

I started with a word like BREATH. The next year it was SMILE. And it went on like that, one year after the next. It also turned out that I spent more time on selecting that one word than I ever did on writing sentences . Focusing on one word and following through, making it fit in to the context of my life was hard, truly and genuinely difficult. How do you interpret a word like BREATH? Something we do without thinking about every minute of every 24 hours for the entire time we inhabit our body. 

Oh, the agony. I was, unintentionally, becoming a philosopher. When you focus on one word and try to follow through on it every day it becomes a profound experience, almost a religion. One year it was FOCUS, the next LAUGH. You see the pattern don't you? It was a true yin and yang. I was trying to balance myself one year at a time. COMMIT, JOY and ... wait. Let's go back to that word, COMMIT. 

commit

verb

com·mit·ted, com·mit·ting, com·mits

verb

, transitive

1. To do, perform, or perpetrate: commit a murder.
2. To put in trust or charge; entrust: commit oneself to the care of a doctor; commit responsibilities to an assistant.
3. To consign for future use or for preservation: We must commit the necessary funds for the project.
4. To place officially in confinement or custody, as in a mental health facility.
5. To put into a place to be disposed of or kept safe: committed the manuscript to the flames.
6. a. To make known the views of (oneself) on an issue: I never commit myself on such issues.
   b. To bind, obligate, or devote, as by a pledge: They were committed to follow orders. She committed herself to her art.
7. To refer (a legislative bill, for example) to a committee.

verb

, intransitive

To pledge, obligate, or devote one's own self: felt that he was too young to commit fully to marriage.

Origin of commit

Middle English committen, from Latin committere : com-, com- + mittere, to send.

And that's the simple form of the definition. Some of the definitions I found went on for pages. Still, it was a word I used a few years back. It came along after FOCUS. And I've kept copies of all of the words on my bulletin board over my desk and on the wall in my studio too. Each time I add another word I string together a set of ideals that become increasingly challenging to stick to.

COMMIT was a word I used with my sons when they were growing up. If you say you're going to do something, understand that you're in it for the long haul. In kid's language that's usually a semester commitment to something like baseball or soccer. If you sign up for it you can't back out even if you don't like it. (the one exception to that was football. I went to watch a first practice and a second. These were little kids and the so called coach was working those kids until they passed out or threw up. Huh uh. No way. A game should be just that for children, a game. None of this para military crap. Making a child dangerously ill during practice in August in Kansas was unacceptable. ) A commitment was a promise to complete a task and that included learning how to push yourself through something that wasn't what you expected until you found a better choice or solution. Finish for your own sake as well as the person or animal, team or project's . "Make it so!" if you want to get Trekie about it.

You're wondering what this has to do with gardening or with this month's focus (don't you love the way these words start showing up in the story?). A COMMITment is a way to reach a goal. When I set things up with the idea of reaching a forseeable future I always do a better job of following through. It's my way of giving some definition to my right brain life style. It's one of those Zen things again; be child like and impulsive/exist in the adult world and pay the bills. Balance which was BALANCE one year too. Now you're really seeing that pattern aren't you?

I find the places I feel I'm weak in and reinforce myself for a year, make it a habit. This year's word is CONNECT, last year's was JOY. And, for me, it's working. I researched ways to deal with depression, to find a way to see JOY in something everyday. Writing it down, saying it out loud, practicing smiling in front of a mirror, learning how to laugh at the small stuff and it's all small stuff! 

This year my word, CONNECT, has taken me in directions I didn't expect. In the process of opening my world view more I've ended up clearing my personal space of people with a negative approach to the world. I've been told that I have " no self esteem" and " no self confidence", that I'm "selfish" and "thoughtless", careless of other's feelings because I ended relationships that were based more on the negative than the positive. Not an easy barrage of negative accusations to deal with (How interesting!). The up side is the people I've reconnected with, the support, sleeping better, being more focused and understanding more about the importance of starting here at home, making that a better place to be first. 

Be very clearly ME, and then find my goal outside of that state of being. CONNECT myself to my past, my present and to ideas for the future. Even better, CONNECT all of the words from past years and begin to make sense of becoming a life long philosopher. I'm thinking maybe a pipe, a faded velvet bathrobe, perhaps a small beard on my chin may be just the thing for my new self definition. Ah, but back to gardening...

Back to the process of keeping my hands in the earth, watching seeds turn in to tiny sprouts, sprouts in to plants and plants in to a harvest. ReCONNECTing myself to a more natural rhythm, understanding that change is better from the inside out (and one year the word was CHANGE). 

Something I learned this week: put a teaspoon of epsom salts, mixed in to the soil, under each pepper and tomato plant. Works for roses too. They all need extra magnesium, something the soil is sorely lacking here. As soon as the plants begin to show blossoms, mix a tablespoon of epsom salts in to warm water in a one quart sprayer and lightly spray each pepper and tomato plant. Repeat ten days later. Your yield will be higher, fruits larger and healthier with fewer pests. And you are still growing an organic garden. 

A RECIPE: The perfect salad. There are endless variations on this theme. That's where the word perfect comes from. All of the vegetables I planted this year have greens I can use in a salad, ie. beets, mustard, several different lettuces, kohlrabi, radishes (a great vegetable to start children with because you can harvest in just three weeks), turnips and so on. Combined with the raspberries and strawberries that are just coming in to season I can make a different salad every night with a side of eggs or cheese, a sprinkle of nuts or roasted or glazed tofu. And all of this for the cost of $2.50 per seed packet compared to $5 or $6 per five ounces of each of those greens, an obscene savings. We can have salad from the garden for weeks! And if I let the plants bolt and seed out we have harvestable seeds for the next year. Not too damn shabby!

Dressing: anything you like. Your imagination can take you just about anywhere with this one. I like the classic olive oil and balsamic vinegar with freshly ground pink sea salt and pepper, but you could also add in any commercial dressing you like (Nancy's Organic dressings are really good. Newman's Organic dressings are tasty too.) Dressing is one of the places you can play.

Do you have left over veggies from other meals in the fridge? Add those on to your salad. You can even give them a quick sauté to crisp them up, maybe with a light glaze of Organic Tamari Sauce. Add a handful of sunflower seeds or pumpkin seeds, well you get the idea. Dinner is like this all season long,a really nice way to eat especially if you're outside doing things until sunset, later and later as the summer goes along.

This week we're putting in the sweet potatoes, a vegetable that can be planted late and still yield for your garden harvest. I've been experimenting with growing my own sprouts from a couple of potatoes. Sheesh. We're going to have more vines than we know what to do with, so I'm putting them in flower pots and along fences. I'll let you know how that works out as the season flows along.

Gardening this intensely, especially when we don't know where our year is taking us since the land is changing hands and it officially becomes a protected preserve, is a toss up. It's a commitment with an unknown outcome, a connection to the earth that may end up in someone else's kitchen. 

But still, here I am, finishing the task, taking it to whatever the end result is. 

Who knew how challenging and complicated this one word life style could be!

I am, ever yours, Nancy, head back and laughing at the way things go!

PS. And horses? Five rows of different kinds of carrots were planted. Can't wait to see how they go. Carrots and I have a tendency to duke it out. We shall see. Life is good!