READ, READ, READ or the Voices Between the Covers of a Book

" Scout yonder's been reading' ever since she was born, and she ain't even started school yet. " Jem, Scout's brother, in TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

I think I've identified myself with the fierce, brave, independent Scout, also known as Jean Louise, since I read Harper Lee's book the first year it was published in 1960. I was nine years old that year and had been able to read for as long as I could remember. My Mom told me I taught myself, put the idea of 'black lines' together with the stories I'd memorized when she read them to me before bed. When I was three, or there abouts, I read the book with her and, from there, generalized to other groups of 'black lines' in magazines, newspapers and books. I don't remember that though. I do know how excited I was every time we went to the library and how much fun it was to come home with a stack of books that I picked out. It was such a luxury, being able to spend a whole Summer under my favorite tree with my dog, Shotsi, laying across my chest with my books piled next to me and endless days ahead. 

I had bookmarks that I'd made from bits of construction paper and pictures in magazines, crayons and glue. Each book had it's own bookmark and I would read a chapter or two from one book, then switch to another story and read that one. My world was rich with Scout and Jem, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Joe from LITTLE WOMEN. I read about the LAST OF THE MOHICANS and the BOXCAR CHILDREN, NANCY DREW and the HARDY BOYS. I'd wonder from one time and place to another with abandon and no one to tell me I couldn't.

" 'd you see him, Scout? 'd you see him just standing' there? ... 'n' all of a sudden he just relaxed all over, an' it looked like that gun was a part of him ... an' he did it so quick, like ... I hafta aim for ten minutes 'fore I can hit something' .... "  Jem, just after Atticus shot Tim Johnson, the rabid dog, TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

I still read all of those books from time to time. They've become dear friends who bring great comfort to me when the world seems to be rocketing out of control. I can step back in to those pages and relive their stories, 'listen' to them as they solve the problems in their eternal worlds during the Civil War, The Great Depression or World War II. If they could live through what must have felt like their end times then I can do that now, depending on what my 'now' is. 

When Martin Luther King was assassinated I read HUCKLEBERRY FINN. His epic journey down a river with escaped slave, Jim, was a story about a boy coming of age and realizing that everyone, black or white, rich or poor, had a story and a life worth living.

The NANCY DREW MYSTERIES taught me to be a creative problem solver, to do my research and to observe my world before forming my opinions. Even more important that set of stories showed me how to look behind the story, to see under the reflective surface that might not be what I thought it was.

 

Books, new story lines and old, are still my solace. And every year that I've read one of the classics I've found something new to learn, another character to identify with. Some of the recent novels are excellent reads to and nearly every author has an opinion or idea worth listening to. (I do wish the self published authors would use an editor though. Bad grammar, unless it's part of a character's language, and poor sentence and paragraph structure usually drives me away before the author has a chance to give me his 'world'. Guess I've become picky with age.)

"...it took an eight year old child to bring 'em to their senses, didn't it?" said Atticus. "That proves something - that a gang of wild animals can be stopped, simply because they're still human. Hmp, maybe we need a police force of children ... you children made Walter Cunningham stand in my shoes for a minute. That was enough. " , Atticus the morning after the mob comes to the jail, TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

I suppose, if I were a teacher, I would try to get my students to put down their smart phones and disconnect from the internet for a while. I'd give them a list of books to choose from, such as A WRINKLE IN TIME, TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD, JANE AUSTIN, LITTLE WOMEN, STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND, DUNE, or any of a thousand others. I'd ask them to read the book, spend a semester exploring the story line and characters, the author's life and what he or she had to say. And then I would ask for an essay and presentation on how they've related that book to whatever set of issues are relevant to them. 

I wish I could get people to slow down, take a breath and try on another's boots for a while. Turn off the TV and read, think, rest and let your inner voice take you on your own journey. Maybe we should take a page from our four legged friends lives and just let be. Breath. It's all good. And maybe we should listen to the inner voices of people from another age too. It would give us all a new perspective on the same old issues.

" Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good-luck pennies, and our lives. " Scout, as she remembered Boo Radley after Jem's arm is broken, TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

The 'models' in my pictures are Apple, my two year old Golden / English Setter and Scout, my Heinz 57 variety, all of 4 1/2 months old. We spend our evenings on a corner of the sofa, in my favorite place where it sags just right. One of them or the other is in my lap, the other snugged up close or laying across my feet. My pile of books is there on the end table with bits of colored paper bookmarks and a notebook to write down my favorite quotes. I've been reading, reading, reading this past year while I search out my own answers to the dilemmas in my life, small and large. 

The voices are all there, talking in their own accents and limited to their eternal worlds, living between the covers of a book. 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, reading glasses on the end of my nose, smiling at you...

HOPE AND THE AMERICAN DREAM, or Using Your Voice and the Privilege of Living Here

I'm writing about hope here. This past year has been a horrible mish mash of corruption in American politics. The hardest part of having your eyes opened, after walking in the dark, is adjusting to the light. It hurts. And, in this case, it's taken me outside of my comfort zone, way outside. But that's OK. I learn when I'm there, in that place where I have to pay attention and do my research, collate what I find and make a decision.

I'm an Independent voter. I always have been. I don't, as a general rule, belong to any organizations. I've never identified myself based on other's expectations of who they think I am. I observe, taking in to account my surroundings, the people around me and how they interact with each other. I'm one of those people who stands back quietly and waits before I step up. I like to know where the exits are, so to speak.

In the past I've voted Republican, Democratic, and write in. Sometimes I vote more to one side than the other because I see an imbalance. A government that goes in only one direction is dangerous. 

I've been waiting for someone with true clout to step forward and make an important statement, one worth listening to. I am someone's Mom, someone's Wife, an Artist and Storyteller. I'm a daughter and sister, an aunt and Grandmother. In short, I am ordinary. I do not have the draw to get people's attention. But Dr. Pieczinek, MD and Phd does. 

I do NOT like either candidate in this election. They're both terrible people focused on one thing : themselves and power. ABSOLUTE power corrupts  absolutely. HRC and her husband are brilliant psychopaths (in my opinion) who are very good at manipulation of the media and the people who are easily hypnotized and led. They are liars, thieves and disconnected from their constituency. They could care less about American Citizens much less the USA, except as a method to attain yet more power. On a scale of one to ten, ten being highly dangerous, I put them at fifteen. 

Trump is no better. If HRC has been bought by the corporate mind, he is the corporate mind. He knows nothing about how the different sections of our government works, nothing about the Constitution and doesn't mind letting people know that. He has no viable plans to make a change much less a positive change. He still plays his role out like it's all publicity for his next reality TV show. On a scale of one to ten I put him at fifteen also. 

I hope people are paying attention to the other candidates up for office in their states. And I am holding out yet more hope, HOPE being the operative word here, that people will VOTE. Please, your voice is very important. Your vote is a powerful tool when combined with millions of other votes.

I'm not voting for either HRC or Trump. I will vote for either Sanders or Stein. Sanders insists he has dropped out (and what a shame! He was one of the few who may have been able to turn the tide of sludge washing over us) so it will be Stein for me. 

Please, take time to watch the video I've posted twice. It's that important to me and IMPORTANT FOR YOU too. It's just four minutes of your time. He makes his statement clearly. 

Make your own observations, form your own opinions and VOTE. 

I am, ever yours, Nancy, a believer in honest dreams and HOPE, smiling at you!

AN INDEPENDENT DEFINITION OF PROSPERITY or how I skinned my elbows ... again

Well, here I am without a farthing to my name and it's October, my all time favorite month (or it is tomorrow...wishful thinking!). I spent the morning outside in the fields with horses and a sketch book, trying to improve my drafting skills. It's time to get back to the fine art of being an artist. For some reason I let that fall out of my days this past year. 

I've been doing some research on illustrating to see what kind of additional income I can generate. I have the skill set for it. I haven't done it for several years. And if I can use my own stories then the possible income generated would increase, depending on the success of the book. It isn't huge but it would be enough to make a difference in our comfort levels and, perhaps, would allow me to release some debt and buy a second hand trailer for the horses.

In the meantime I have to go through all of the practice that comes before the actual finished product. I've been experimenting with various papers, water colors, pastels and pens. The cool thing is that I can generate the images and then tweak them with photoshop if I want to. Even better there are programs I can use on line to generate the images. I kind of think I want to paint by hand though. I would miss the process of making my own mess and discovering happy mistakes that always occur when I paint and draw.

That isn't what this post is really about though. It's about prosperity, or my definition of that word. The dictionary defines it as :

pros·per·i·ty

präˈsperədē/

noun

1. the state of being prosperous.

   "a long period of prosperity"

   
   

   synonyms:

   success, profitability, affluence, wealth, opulence, luxury, the good life, milk and honey, (good) fortune, ease, plenty, comfort, security, well-being "she deserves all the prosperity she now enjoys"

Being the stubborn independent that I am, my definition is different. I grew up with periods of poverty and wealth in my childhood. I was happiest when we were poor. Those were years of such freedom. I made extra money babysitting, did well in school (because school was something I could control) and, after chores, I was entirely free to do what I wanted. We lived in rural Wisconsin so I sometimes spent entire days by myself in the woods, wandering. I would take an old beat up, green canvas girl scout back pack stuffed with pencils and paper, a sandwich and an apple, cookies if I was lucky and a book to read.

No one checked up on me. I would turn for home when the afternoon sun was at a certain angle and would make it back by dusk. I'd sometimes came home with mosquito bites or ticks, dirty or smelling like the lake because there were always lakes and ponds to swim in. I loved being by myself. I still do.

I suppose there were dangers but I was a girl. It never occurred to me to be afraid. I loved that time in my life. I had friends because I liked to make people laugh but I never sought them out. I was happy on my own, a prickly independent even then . 

My definition of prosperity was formed by my childhood. 'Things' were nice to have but they didn't make me happy. A good book, some paper and something to draw or paint with, the horses across the road who loved the extra attention and my dog who went with me everywhere, filled my days. I had too many freckles because I never wore the hat my Mom gave me to protect my skin. I wore my hair in a pony tail or a braid so I wouldn't have to mess with it. My elbows were constantly scabby because I was forever falling down and, most of the time, my knees matched my elbows.

Over the years, especially in my twenties and thirties, I thought I wanted things. Mostly I wanted them for my children ; toys and clothes, fancy vacations and all the books they could ever want to read. And I was happy in those years too. But it wasn't things that made me happy. It was being with my family. 

And, later, it wasn't loosing those things that made me sad. It was having an empty house. I had to rediscover and redefine what 'prosperity' was for me.

I see all kinds of programs on various social media sites that teach us how to find our way to wealth and prosperity. They have a certain kind of merit. Usually there are some ideas about how to stay focused and inspired, how to believe in yourself and how to balance your time to reach your goals. Those are all skills worth having. We do need money, unfortunately, to get along in this world. I have indulged in some of those courses and learned a few things, but nothing to merit the costs. 

I think I've been searching for what I already have. Confusing thing to say, I know. But not too surprisingly I've discovered that everything I really need is right here, inside me. I have a family who loves me and they are all successfully launched in to lives that are a thousand times better than I could have wished for them. I am married to my best friend who still surprises me, challenges me and makes me laugh. And I am still that girl who loved being by herself in the woods.

So all I really have to do now is find a way to translate what I have around me in to a story line that I can illustrate for children. The idea of the circles in my life still draw me to them but now it's the stories that are the makeup of those circles that I want to define with color and that inner landscape I've carried all these years. 

It's my favorite time of year and the woods draw me to them again along with horses in the fields, a silly yellow dog by my side and that place inside me that has been waiting for me to catch up all of these years later. I'm still who I've always been and it isn't the things that define me. It's the story I have to tell and the circles that need completing. 

Time to get back at the fine art of living and discovering...

I am, ever yours, Nancy, out the door with a beat up green pack, something to draw with and an Apple to keep me company, smiling!

PS. And horses...always horses. 

A BEGINNING AND AN ENDING, and it's all good...

A friend of mine is leaving the world. She's been sick for a long time and has fought the good fight. We've known each other for thirty years or more. Her son and my son were best 'get in to troubles together' skate boarding buddies. I've known it was coming for a while now. And I couldn't stop it. 

I spent the evening outside in the moonlight with my herd and my dog. They always ground me. And they remind me that there are natural cycles we all are a part of. But I admit that I cried too. I'm kind of greedy that way. I don't care for endings. I've always been a 'beginning and middle' kind of person. I've had to teach myself to accept the endings and to see them as a completion of the circle.

We spent a lot of time together over the years laughing, crying, being frustrated with each other and bickering the way old friends do. We worried about our sons together and laughed at some of the things they did, although we never let them know that.

I was her son's Mama2. He's grown in to a man with his own children and lovely wife, an exciting job where he sees the world from the top of giant buildings. He helped me, years ago, when I was struggling with a business I couldn't manage. He came in to help on some of the weekends without accepting money. He was there as one of my sons. He helped to keep me grounded and focused when I was so tired and frightened I could barely function.

And she has been my friend for all these years. She tried to teach me how to use a sewing machine, much to both of our chagrins. Being patient with fabric and threads is not my talent. But it was hers and I loved her for it.

Favorite memory : After we lost our gallery and home, we moved out to where we live now. It's a wonderful, funky place with crooked doors and windows and rolling hills and woods around us. The whole center of the house was once a barn so the floor plan is a bit eccentric. 

She came to see me, I think to check and make sure we were OK. We were sitting in the kitchen having tea and talking about girlfriend things when she looked up, jumped and nearly fell out of her chair. I had forgotten that another friend had given me a joke gift of a huge, full feathered and very life like rooster. I'd set it up on a ledge in the kitchen to roost, so to speak. She had no idea it was there.

We both laughed until we were bent over with it. God, that was a good day! Laughter has carried me through all of the hard patches that life always gives to us. That day was a good place to begin the healing. And the rooster is still sitting up there right where I put him. He's become a fixture here and I always laugh when I see him now.

I've decided to say goodbye by living larger. I'll do my best not to take anything for granted. And I'll try not to whine about the challenges but, instead, to see them as a place to change and grow from. I'm going to paint brighter, ride further and dig deeper. And next year I'm planting thousands of wild flowers for her too. I always do that when someone is born and someone else dies. I'll buy a pound of seeds and drive around doing guerrilla seeding, throwing seeds in to the wind from the truck and singing to old Beatle's albums. 

She has been a true force in my life, filling the room and shifting the walls when she is around. Just because she leaves her body doesn't mean she won't be doing more of the same. This year is going to be a good year and so will next year and the year after. In fact it's all good.

Tomorrow I will go say my good byes. And tonight I will sit quietly and watch the stars and remember. It's been a wonderful ride together. And I have no doubt she is going to rock it when she gets to her Heaven.

I love you friend. May the road rise up to greet you and the sun be always at your back. I'll see you somewhere down the line. It's good. It's all good.

I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling and remembering

MINIVER'S CIRCLE, Best Dog Ever

We finished our book together. " I willed myself to stay awake, but the rain was so soft and the room was so warm and his voice was so deep and his knee was so snug that I slept. " Scout, last page of TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

Mrs. Miniver died in my arms, held up close to my chest. She ended her life quietly, without pain and looking in to my eyes with that same, clear trust that she always gave to me. I'd told her it would be OK, that I would be there with her all the way. John and I spent the afternoon telling her Miniver Stories, letting her know about who might be there to see her through to the next place. 

She wasn't interested in any of that. It was just us humans comforting ourselves. She had no fear. She was ready, quiet, calm, waiting and watching my face. As long as I was there, she was fine. I was the human she had chosen, and not the other way around. She loved that part of our time together. It was always her choosing and not humans making it happen to her. 

It isn't too hard to understand that when the bond goes in two directions and both of us treat the other with respect and kindness, love and devotion without expectations, neither of us wants to walk on without the other. She was always with me, always.

Five years ago, just weeks after my sweet glossy dog, Gypsy had died, I had a dream. In the dream Gypsy came to me, jumped up on the bed, and laid down where she always had before and told me that there was someone waiting for me. All I had to do was go find her. When I woke up the pillow was warm where she had laid next to me in the dream.

That morning, I did my chores and drove in to the animal shelter in Lawrence (Kansas). It was a busy Saturday morning in May, the weather was cool and people were there looking for puppies and kittens. That wasn't necessarily what I was doing. I told the tired looking young woman  that I was there, looking for my next dog. I told her we lived out on a nature preserve. " There are predators so it can't be a small dog. I need one large enough to fend off a coyote or owl."

We spent all day looking. I met nervous dogs, depressed dogs, frightened dogs, busy dogs. I looked at puppies and old dogs, big dogs and small dogs. They were all wonderful, even the ones who were a bit aggressive because they were frightened. I walked dogs, rubbed tummies, scratched behind ears but it still wasn't 'my' dog. And then we came around the last corner to walk down the aisle where the really big dogs were. She told me some of them hadn't been out for a walk in weeks because the volunteers and even the staff were frightened by them, so I might not find who I wanted today. I wanted to look anyway.

And there, in the middle of the last aisle in a room filled with the cacophony of dogs trying to get our attention, was a huge, red, Saint Bernard mix. She was laying at the back of her kennel quietly, no barking. She got up with great dignity and walked to the front of the kennel, sat down next to the door and looked me straight in the eye. No fuss, just a direct inquiry. " Are we going for a walk?"

The girl told me she hadn't been out for the seven weeks she had been there except for the Vet and then with a muzzle on. She never barked. She frightened nearly everyone there. I got down next to her and let her smell my hand. I wasn't listening to the girl at all. I was entranced! " Seven weeks is much too long. Let's go for a walk, shall we?" The young volunteer told me she was supposed to get her out, but she was afraid. She would have to go get a staff member. I didn't hear her when she left.

I opened the door, took the leash down from another kennel. Miniver didn't even have her own leash. And off we went. " Ma'am. Ma'am! You can't do that. She doesn't have her muzzle on. MA'AM!" I never heard him. Miniver and I were out the door and heading for the biggest yard. No one was using it and we were going in for some play time.

Miniver's tail was wagging and she was looking at me with that unadulterated, blazing, bright open smile. " I knew you would come!" We were in our own space by then. Even the young guy with the muzzle hanging from his hand could see that. He was wise enough in the way of dogs and the people they choose to let us be. All we had to do was pass the last test. And then it happened. Instead of running away from me Miniver leaned back against my leg and sat on my foot. All of my dogs have done that. They all choose me by sitting on my foot. Happens every single time, almost like they get coaching from someone. " If she's the one you want all you have to do is lean against her leg and sit on her foot. " And she did it. Miniver sat on my foot and never left me again. I'd found my dog, the one who was waiting for me.

We called her the Water Diva. She was very fussy about her water bowl. If she saw someone, even Apple, drink from it before she did she would stand there and wait, look at me over her shoulder, then very pointedly look at the bowl. " I need a clean bowl and fresh, clear, cold water. Thank you very much!" And that was that. She trained me and John very quickly to keep the water bowls in the house (we have several so no one ever goes without water) clean. It was the same outside too. I keep a bucket my Grandad would have called the Fire Bucket full of water. It's always outside the paddock and within easy reach of either the barn or shed. It's for emergencies but in Miniver's mind it was hers. It was always sparkling clean and full of fresh water. Her standards were very high.

She didn't bark much. When she did it was full throated, a huge boom that would echo across our little valley. She had a job, protect Nancy, protect the herd, protect John and in that order too. If she barked, we paid attention. Apple is a vocal dog, loves to talk all day long. But Miniver was sparing in her barks and growls. She was careful to preserve them and use them only when needed. No one that she barked at ever came down the drive very far and I never invited them to either. She was very discerning and I always appreciated her work ethic. She did her job very well indeed.

Favorite Miniver story, or one of many anyway:   A car load of religious people came up the drive. I can always tell who they are. They come in a group dressed in suits and dresses. The men are always officious and the women look like they're eating lemons. They have bibles and pamphlets tucked under their arms and a determined look on their collective faces. I'd always tried to be polite but polite never works. It becomes an invitation. I do not like being proselytized to or patronized. Not my cup of tea.

Miniver stepped outside with me, stood in front of me with her body cross wise to mine, and gave them 'the look'. It was direct and clear. "Stop. Leave." But, fools that they were, they came ahead. She took exactly three steps away from me, took a deep breath and out of her mouth came this enormous BARK! It echoed and rolled across the valley. I've never seen four people pile back in to a car so fast. It was like one of those games we used to play as teenagers, when you all throw your doors open and run around the car and change places at the stop light. Only these people were knocking each other out of the way to get behind the doors. So much for their religious ideals of charity and putting others before yourself.

And again they drove ahead towards me. They weren't very smart. Miniver walked up to the driver's side, put her head in the open window (yes, she was that big) and let out three more huge booming barks. She was just inches from the driver's arm, which he moved along with his body, right over the lady in the seat next to him. What a wimp! 

The teenager in the back came over the seat in record time and gravel flew as he turned that big, old, ugly Chevy around and left marks down the drive, heading for the road. And that was the last we saw of any religious people ever again. My response? I got down on the ground next to Miniver, threw my arms around her and told her what a wonderful guardian she was. I scratched behind her ears, rubbed down her back and sat on the ground next to my big, wonderful girl. She always had excellent taste in people!

The last weeks of her life she was tired. It was a massive effort on her part to get up. I'd bought a sling to hep lift her and had to teach myself how to leverage her up. She would walk a few steps and then sit or lay down. And if the heat was too bad, sometimes she would simply fall over. Getting all of my chores done was increasingly difficult. She would panic if I wasn't where she could see me and I was loath to leave her. It was my turn to be her caretaker. She'd even lost that booming bark. It was nothing but a loud, expressive snort of air now.

I knew she would tell me when it was time. And she did. It was one of the hardest calls I've ever had to make. I think I probably did more crying on the day I called the Vet's office to make an appointment for a farm call, than I did later. But she had made it very clear to both of us. For the first time John 'heard' her voice. She walked over to the place he had prepared for her, looked at him and said, " I'm tired John. I'm not afraid. " And she told me that morning too, by walking, just a few steps at a time, to the place where she would lay in the ground and looking at me with that clear gaze of hers. She was ready.

Time takes on a strange, fluid quality when the final days are here. Years ago I had told John that I was sorry I'd never had to take care of my Mom or my Grandmothers for a long period. There's something about that process that deepens your strength and inner resolve to live, really live. And it teaches you the value of compassion and love in simple, direct terms. Miniver weighed 180 pounds at the end of her life. She was bigger than me by almost forty pounds, weighed more than John. She was so big that she could stand next to the table with her head resting on it without reaching. She gave me the gift of caring without expecting anything in return. Except she always gave more to me than I did to her. 

At the end, while I read to her from TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD, and cried, she spent her time in my lap comforting me. I'd been bringing her sparkling clean water bowl and food, to her,  for weeks. She could still get up but only by leveraging herself against a wall. Her back legs had sore places where she had rubbed so hard to get herself up so I wouldn't have to. I kept her clean and doctored the sore places. I don't think she could feel them. Her spine was decaying. She walked because the front of her body remembered how to. She would swing herself from one side to the other. " I got this Miss Nancy. Don't you worry. I got this. " She never complained.

We spent our last hours outside laughing about all of the funny things that had happened over the five years we had her. We remembered the raccoon she had treed and then decided to guard because that was her nature. That old raccoon laid on a branch, legs dangling to either side, just above Miniver, and dropped acorns on her head. She watched the raccoon. He watched her. And then some kind of signal passed between them and she got up, stepped back and the raccoon came down the tree. She escorted him to the edge of the woods and off he waddled. Job done. 

She and Lucky, my Alpha horse, had a friendship too. They would touch noses every morning at the gate. " Morning Mrs. M. " and " Morning Big Luck. " It was like two blue collar workers passing while shifts began and ended at the same time. She would pass me off to Lucky and then settle in the shade or go check out the best parts of the compost piles. 

That strange liquid feeling was there all that last day. She had her favorite for breakfast; stinky, greasy tuna fish. She got to have the whole can to herself. And the cookies were unlimited that day, although she mostly just piled them up and looked at them, licking them occasionally. Apple was with her, laying with her head draped over Miniver. The kittens slept between her front paws while I did short spats of chores and tried not to look at the clock. 

When the Vet arrived he was, thankfully, was very patient. We did our last walk together to her place. I sat on the ground and she laid down, putting her head in to my lap the way she always did. When she died, she was looking right at me with that crystal clear gaze. I felt her go. I knew she was gone from her body before the Vet had checked. I sat there and held her for almost an hour. It was so hard to let her go. 

I had her in my life for only five years. She aged quite rapidly although she was only six years old at the end of her life. It was too soon. Her face was grey and her body stiff and unwieldy. She was incontinent and exhausted. It was time. And I felt her go. Just like that she was out of her broken body. And, as usual, she gave me more than I could give to her. At the end she told me she loved me and would see me again. It's OK. It's all OK.

It's too quiet here today. Her massive, dignified presence is gone, leaving a hole in our home. Apple started the night in the bed between us, snugged up close. She hadn't done that for months. She always slept next to Miniver. 

This morning I found Apple laying on one of Miniver's power spots, the one on the mantle in front of the fireplace. She had piled up pillows, shoes and some of the uneaten cookies and was laying draped across them, whimpering. 

We kept Apple inside while the Vet was here but John let her out after Miniver's death and the Vet had left. She knew what had happened. She carefully smelled the place on Miniver's leg where the Vet had used the 'kiss of death'. And she smelled Miniver's face, her nose, her ears and even tried to move her with her paws. Apple licked my tears while I sat crying and holding Miniver and then she sat next to me on the ground, her head draped over Miniver for the last time. 

There's something cathartic about the process of laying someone you love in the ground, doing all of the work yourself. John had already dug the hole, had it prepared for weeks, and then carefully covered it with boards and a tarp. She was a big girl and the hole needed to be deep enough and wide enough to fit her stature. 

We carefully placed her in the ground on a bed of soft, clean hay. We all said our last good bye and then we covered her with the earth. It was hot and the sky was quiet, full of drifting thunderheads, massive and white. Miniver was going out in a blaze of glory while we took care of the last things that needed to be done. It was hard, sweaty, dirty work and we were all glad for it. It was a good time to meditate and feel that passing of time. 

Somewhere, in a place we aren't allowed to know until it's our turn to go, is a big, beautiful, leggy, red-haired dog with a massive booming bark, playing with my other dogs and cats, my ancient first horse Spirit. They're out there, rolling on lovely, stinky scents and running under deep blue skies, waiting.

Miniver's circle is complete. It was perfect and I was a part of it. How lucky am I?! 

I am, ever yours, Miss Nancy, bereft and complete. How lucky am I...

I ASKED MY MOTHER, " WHAT SHOULD I SAY?" , Memories, Hopes and Fears

"Get up sunshine. Rise and shine! The day is ahead and you've got places to go, people to see, things to do. Time's a wasting. " 

I woke up hearing my Mom's voice. That was how she woke me up every morning until I was old enough to set my own alarm clock. Of course I sat up smiling and said, " Be right there Mom!" It was so real! How I miss her. She's been dead for 42 years and I still hear her voice sometimes. This morning I could swear I felt her brush my hair off my forehead, like she did when I was a child. It was always so comforting when she did that. I wish I could call her up and ask her if she wants to spend the day with me. I think she would have truly enjoyed being with horses.

It's funny, the things you will reach for when you need comfort. This morning it was a memory from my past, my Mom's voice. Maybe it was the open windows and the late Summer sounds coming through, the breeze and the light. But there she was, with me to start my day. I even laid there waiting to hear the sound of her penny loafers scuffing around in the kitchen while she made breakfast. 

I have friends who sometimes complain to me about the exhausting process of caring for an aging parent. I always shut that one down immediately. I would have loved to have that honor. But my Mom was gone just months after my oldest son was born. She never had the chance to know her grandsons or to have a relationship with me as an adult. It felt like a cheat when she told me she was sick, terminally ill. And then she did one of the bravest things I've ever seen anyone do. She smiled at me and said, " Let's get cracking. The sun is up and we've got places to go, things to do and people to meet. Time's a wasting. " And she walked in to the kitchen to start a meal. 

She was the embodiment of bravery, true strength. She knew what was coming but she wanted me to see how to deal with fear, how to lead by example. She wanted me to understand that life is fleeting and time is the most valuable commodity that you have. It isn't pretty clothes or jewels, big houses or fancy cars. It's time and how you choose to use what has been given to you.

I've been dealing with a lot of fear and anger issues this past year. I'm worried about the Endowment and the odd choices they're making for renters in the other house, politics, money, all of the usual hoo haa that gets in the way of getting myself up and moving forward. 

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

― Frank Herbert, Dune

Fear is the mind killer. It's also the time killer and the murderer of creative thought. It gets in the middle of my head and tries to choke me off from the places I want to go to, the things I want to do and the cliffs I want to leap from. She gave me a gift and I never want to walk around or abuse the idea of it. 

She died very quickly. She had a tumor that metastasized . It was over before it was found. She made a conscious choice not to accept treatment except for pain management. She wanted to be here and present and able to spend time with her brand new grandchild and to lead by example. It was 42 years ago and there were very few effective treatments and most of those were so harsh they were more likely to shorten your life rather than extend it. 

And she smiled every day, insisted on helping me with my son. She never complained. She just got up and did what she could with what she had, where she was with the time she had left.

I think I forgot, this past year, what she was trying to teach me. I came to a slamming, screaming halt and tried to hide out. It made me sick. I lost sleep, didn't eat right, forgot who I was. Things felt chaotic. You would think that, as an artist, I would feed on chaos. Not so. My studio is messy but never chaotic. I keep it tidy between projects and make a happy new mess with whatever I'm jumping "off the cliff" in to. I forgot I had a voice. 

So how did I turn it around? I decided to take my own advice and my Mom's . First I cleaned up my act diet wise. No more sugar. None. In fact I've gotten so used to living without sugar that I'm not even using honey anymore. It's amazing how much more energy I have without sugar in my life. Saving lots of money not buying junk food too. (How in the world do people find the money to eat that stuff? It's like buying gooey air. The only habits worse are smoking or drinking and drugs. All a waste of energy and time. Addictions happen, I think, when people are trying to fill a hole that can't be filled.) And I've lost weight in a slow and manageable way. No cravings. Fruit tastes sweeter, vegetables are rich and I've been fitting in to my old jeans. Not too shabby!

Then I began to reorganize my time. I'm still working on that one but at least I'm moving forward again. And my herd is right there, waiting for me too. "Where've you been girlfriend?" Oh, I've been doing chores and small games but I lost my goals, lost my way forward. And I love the Zen of working/playing with horses. It fits seamlessly with my life as an artist. When I let myself get too goal oriented, too forward and predatory, I drive my horses and the relationship they offer away. Finding balance is key. 

It's the same with my painting or illustration, or any other project. Goals are good but play is better. Playtime with horses = playtime in the studio = playtime in the field = playtime in my head. If I'm not having fun, why? What's happened to bring me to a halt? Fear. It's always fear.

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.   H. P. Lovecraft

I guess it's time to get cracking. The day is a wasting. I've got places to go, people to see, things to do. and I don't want to waste any of it.

My Mom was here exactly when I needed her, this morning when I have to face the possibility of making more mistakes than achieving goals. She used to tell me it was better to try than to hide. Making mistakes is a good way to learn and frustration is fuel for change. 

Think maybe I'm going to see if I can find some old Doris Day music to add to my list. My Mom loved her. I have the whole day ahead. What a gift! Here I go. Wish me luck!

I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling and hearing my past...

AROUND AND AROUND AND AROUND WE GO ; Where we stop nobody knows...

I couldn't sleep last night. I kept thinking about circles. I've been watching a series on Youtube (just sections of it there) and on Netflix via disc, titled ART21. It's a series of twenty minute short documentaries, 3 or 4 in each show, about contemporary artists of the 21st Century. It's my own way of getting my inspiration engine going. 

And it's working. I keep thinking about circles. Today, while I did chores inside and out, I kept seeing circles everywhere, thinking about circles and even 'hearing' my Mother's voice telling me about the mathematical properties of the circle. I think maybe I am ready to work on a series now. 

I've been doodling, doing drawings and small paintings, while I waited for the ideas to come. My goal (and for me it always becomes a more concrete reality when I write it down) is to create a series based on an idea that has a universal meaning for me, one that will communicate with others. And it's circles. 

"If you love someone, put their name in a circle. Hearts can be broken but circles never end."

"A circle is the reflection of eternity. It has no beginning and it has no end."

" If people stand in a circle long enough, eventually they begin to dance. " George Carlin

"Protect your space and circle." Pat Parelli

"Keep your circles small."

"If you cut corners you keep going in circles."

"When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout." Cain Mutiny

"We've come full circle."

Proverbs 8:27

Verse Concepts

"When He established the heavens, I was there, When He inscribed a circle on the face of the deep,..."

And the list goes on and on, in a circle if you will. When I was a kid I loved spinning in circles until I fell down. It always gave me a different perspective on the world, although I'm sure I wasn't thinking about that when I did it. It was just fun! And when I rode bicycles I was fascinated with the patterns the wheels made when I taped different colored pieces of paper to them. I would spend hours decorating my wheels to see what happened when they spun around. 

Ever hold a glass up and look through the end of it? The world changes, light is bent and images distorted when you look through the bottom. And if you turn it around, it bends in another direction when you look through from the outside. 

It seems that even the 'aliens' are interested in trying to communicate via the perfect circle, an elemental shape used in every form of math. My Mom used to say that math was the true universal language. Maybe she was right in an unexpected, kind of prophetic way!

I doodled circles all night long. Maybe it's time to come to my own full CIRCLE and see where it takes me. More on this as my ideas grow and change. And for now, it's time for evening chores and, perhaps, playing in circles (Circling Game) with the herd!

I am, ever yours, Nancy, twirling and twirling but not dizzy or falling, at least not yet ... and smiling!

PS. In Zen Buddhism, an ensō (円相 , "circle"^?) is a circle that is hand-drawn in one or two uninhibited brushstrokes to express a moment when the mind is free to let the body create.

The ensō symbolizes absolute enlightenment, strength, elegance, the universe, and mu (the void). It is characterised by a minimalism born of Japanese aesthetics.