Ode to the Ordinary

This week was an ordinary week at my address.  No Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes (or even UPS) at the door, no hot air balloons in flight, dinner out, fancy outfits, or guests in town.  Not even a spectacularly warm, out-of-season sunny day, a road trip; no special flavoring in my coffee, just black with a touch of milk.  It was just normal.  But normal is good.  Indeed, "normal" is what the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, with their multimillion dollar nuptials, are seeking. 

So it was here, very normal, which means:

The wind blew. 

The sky was blue with clouds, ordinary, but magnificent.

We did morning chores.

On morning walks, Atticus did his usual crazed sprints through the neighbors' fields, searching for sparrows, voles, or whatever might want to play with him.

I did some work, billed some time, and spent plenty an unbilled hour answering questions over the phone about the water moratorium in these parts.

Dogs wrestled in the background while I worked.

Catcher lounged.

We made a few trips into town, to hit the Post Office, or pick up necessities such as water softener at Farm and Home.

Fixed a dripping faucet, knowing that another task will take its place next week on the "to do" list.  That's normal.  Always a "to do" list.  Cross one thing off, add another.

The horses grazed on the sweet sprouting spring grass, a welcome treat after a winter of hay, and Atticus raced the horses to the barn for oats.

We had our evening walks, with dogs sprinting after sparrows in the sunset or fetching sticks.

This is Riley, our house guest for the week.  We love him.

We caught ourselves enjoying a glass of water.  What could be more normal than that.  And, really, what could be much better?

Oh, there were the typical ups and downs and unanticipated events that are part of a normal week.  But it was a normal week, and I am aware of the treasure that it was.  Because normal does not involve battles with cancer, bombs and warfare, tornadoes, abuse, or mile long hikes to get less-than-clean water. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that my normal is boring, but it is not.  Normal rocks.   It's good.  Even miraculous.  And I will continue to remind myself of that.

"Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.  Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.  Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.  Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so.  One day, I shall dig my nails into the earth or bury my face in the pillow or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return."

                                                                             ~Mary Jean Iron

Showing Up.

Bill Gates, Sr., wrote a book and entitled it, Showing Up for Life.  We all know the Woody Allen quote:  "Eighty percent of success is showing up."  There are a number of similar, equally good, lesser known aphorisms:

Hope beings in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.  You wait and watch and work; you don't give up.  (Anne Lamott)

The world is run by those who show up. (Unknown)

Most of my life, I've operated on the notion that showing up (80%) is a given--not really a choice, and its that 20% that you do once you show up that really matters.  More and more, though, I find myself needing to rely on the "just show up" philosophy for motivation.  Like those mid-winter, early mornings when the moon is just a sliver, the house is dark and cold, the mercury near the bottom of the thermometer outside, and I am shielded from it all beneath heavy blankets on the bed, listening to the soft snores of the kitty and pup beside me.  Like those days when I have a meeting with a new client, or someone I don't know well, and I actually have to get dressed up and look presentable.  On the days when I have the opportunity to participate in a symposium or meet new people at a social gathering, and it all just seems so overwhelming.  On those days, which for whatever reason seem to be more frequent and foreboding than in the past, I actually find myself turning to, of all inspirations, the words of Woody Allen:  Show up.   Show up and perhaps great things will happen.  Show up, and perhaps it will be a mess, but it will be an experience, a memory, the possibility for something.

So it was, despite the pleasant anticipation of Easter morning, I found myself in bed, still fighting off the pangs of the migraine that plagued me most of Saturday, and thinking of the Sunrise Service that was on my calendar.  It was 5:00 a.m. and the kitties had not taken the holiday off--they were meowing and growling and letting me know that if I didn't get out of bed and let them outside, they would miss prime hunting.  My right eye socket was still throbbing.  In that sort of half-wake, half-sleep state when ideas seem more sane than they might otherwise and action more work than it might be, I thought of all the reasons that it made sense to stay in bed and enjoy the morning sunrise and celebration of Easter from there.

Of all words to inspire me on Easter Sunday, those of Woody Allen. 

Show up.

And so I did.  Running early, I dallied around a bit at the house, feeding the horses and enjoying the sunrise up from the mountain before leaving the house in plenty of time to arrive for the 6:30 sunrise service at Suncadia as marked on my calendar.

I showed up.  And I missed it.  The Sunrise Service at Suncadia, that is.  I pulled into the parking lot just before 6:30 and noticed a line of people bundled in their coats, holding programs, cups of coffee, and headed across the road.  Just in time, I thought.  These folks must be departing from the foyer of the Inn at Suncadia and walking over to the 9th tee where they would have the service (though I knew that normally the service took place overlooking the 18th hole, from the Inn).  I wandered into the Inn to get a program.

It soon became apparent that the service must have begun at 6:00 a.m., rather than the 6:30 a.m. that I had written on my calendar.  These folks were not heading outdoors to gather for the service, but heading outdoors to get into their cars and go home, or to Easter brunch, or to an early morning egg hunt.

I showed up.  I had gotten out of bed, put on the watermelon pink pants that seemed like a good idea when I bought them, bundled up, and driven to Suncadia, almost entirely motivated by the notion that it was enough to "just show up."  Don't worry about socializing or that people will think you are just an "Easter Christian," just show up.  The irony was not lost on me.  The result had somewhat proven wrong my newfound philosophy and motivation that showing up is enough.  Maybe there is more to life that just showing up.  But, it's certainly a start.  It makes good things possible.

Because I showed up, I enjoyed an incredible morning in a way I had not anticipated. 

I did have Sunrise Service, with the birds and the wind as the choir, and every bit of nature serving as testimony to the Creator of this world and all that is in it.  I did not hurry, I was not anxious for the service to end (or begin), and somehow everything I saw seemed to speak of Easter.  Even the Suncadia logo on the tee markers seemed unmistakeably appropriate.

It was worth showing up.  And I wasn't the only one whose "show up" timing was slightly off:

But those sprinklers, they didn't care that it was 29 degrees.  They just did their thing.  And it was magical.

So was the rest of my Easter Day.

Mom and John stopped by to drop off Riley and enjoy an afternoon hike.  I'll be on dogsitting duty for the next week. 

 Today's Song:  Just Showed Up for My Own Life by Sara Groves.  Lyrics here.

And I just showed up for my own life
And I'm standing here taking it in and it sure looks bright
I'm going to live my life inspired
Look for the holy in the common place
Open the windows and feel all that's honest and real until I'm truly amazed.


Showing up = Good.  Real Good.

Peep Show.

I finally did it.  I thought I never would.  I've deliberately avoided it all of my life, disgusted by the thought and by the visual.  But, yes, I did it... And I might regret it.

I bought Peeps.

It was my primary mission upon entering Target the other day:  to buy Peeps.  Little did I know what a complicated process it would be.  For starters, they were not selling them as the individual 3 or 4 peeps to a pack as I had remembered.  Instead, they had Costco-esque multi-packages consisting of three five-to-a-pack packages (a total of fifteen of sugar coated little marshmallow chicks) for $1.59.  Had I known that I was going to have to fork out $1.59 for these glo-chicks that appear to have been raised on a toxic waste site (and perhaps that is where they belong), much less, buy a whole fifteen of them, I may not have set foot in Target.

But, by the time I made a special stop at Target, my mind was made up.  This Easter I was going to do something I had never done before:  I would buy Peeps.

As if having no choice but to buy a "three pack" of chicks for $1.59 was not traumatic enough, I was confronted with a choice of colors.  No, not just of the trademark neon yellow and Barbie doll pink that I had remembered, but of alien blue, cyber purple, and chartreuse green.  I must have spent 15 minutes standing in the aisle at Target just staring at the Peeps, asking myself which color shall I get...

Asking myself why I should be wasting my time or spending $1.59 to buy fifteen of these silly little chemically coated, calorie-filled sugar chicks when I knew that my gag reflex likely would prevent me from even swallowing a single bite of one.  I was seeking to embrace my recent "just live a little," "do something daring or crazy" mantra; but, the thought of all the ways that my $1.59 (plus 9.5% sales tax in Issaquah) could be better spent. 

I was about to just leave Target, Peepless.  Nobody would know.  It wouldn't be the first time I had decided to muster the nerve to do something and then backed out.

But, with the chocolate bunnies across the aisle urging me on, I quickly grabbed the cyber purple Peeps and headed to the check-out.  No looking back.  I made my way home, with only minimal buyer's remorse, and unpacked the Peeps.

I have exchanged furtive glances with the Peeps sitting on the countertop for the past few days, trying to think of all the different uses that one could make with Peeps, short of digesting them.

Then it occurred to me.  I could use the Peeps as a teaser for my blog--as a segue for a blog post seeking to raise awareness of a standard in the egg-laying chicken industry that I believe borders on abhorrent.

The Peeps cracked a smile, I loosened the cellophane, and together, we sit down to share with you a few timely facts about battery-caged chickens and the current Initiative Effort that would prohibit the use of battery-cages for egg-laying chickens in Washington State.

"On average, each caged laying hen is afforded only 67 square inches of cage space—less space than a single sheet of letter-sized paper --on which to live her entire life. Unable even to spread their wings, caged laying hens are among the most intensively confined animals in agribusiness.  Caged hens also suffer from the denial of many natural behaviors such as nesting, perching, and dustbathing, all important for hen welfare.  The worst torture to which a battery hen is exposed is the inability to retire somewhere for the laying act. For the person who knows something about animals it is truly heart-rending to watch how a chicken tries again and again to crawl beneath her fellow cagemates to search there in vain for cover."  (Excerpted from http://www.humanesociety.org/issues/confinement_farm/facts/cage-free_vs_battery-cage.html).  

You may have heard of the current initiative that many animal welfare advocates are trying to get on the ballot, and get enacted into law, here in Washington.  It is I-1130 and would eliminate the widespread use of "battery cages" in Washington for raising and farming egg-laying chickens.   I-1130 does not go as far as many animal welfare advocates (including myself) would like (i.e. requiring egg-laying chickens to be completely free range) but it does at least require use of cages that are less-cramped.  The measure is supported by even the less "extreme" animal welfare groups such as the U.S. Humane Society.

The cost to the egg industry to transition from current battery cage systems to the larger caged system is estimated at about one cent per egg, or twelve cents for a dozen eggs.  I like to think that we as consumers (even the savvy shopper ones like me) would be willing to pay an additional twelve or fifteen cents for a dozen of eggs if it means that the chickens that are laying them for us are at least being raised in a cage where they can turn around, lay down, and partially stretch their wings.  For more on I-1130, click here or here.  Business such as Starbucks and UW have indicated a commitment to move towards buying/using eggs from farms that do not keep chickens in battery cages.

My Peeps and I are hoping that you will support  I-1130 (obliging those annoying signature gatherers in front of grocery stores, and taking just a minute to sign your name so that I-II30 will make it on the November ballot).  When you think about it, perhaps you will search out the cage-free eggs when at the grocery store, even if they cost you an extra twelve cents.  (The fact that a carton says it has the Egg Industry's seal of approval and that the eggs are raised in accordance with "standard husbandry practices" or the like typically means that the egg laying chickens are raised in battery cages, as that is the current industry standard). 

Chickens will be happier and your eggs might just be prettier, like these ones that Jodi, Leslie and I died this weekend:

Thanks for your interest in my blog and the subject matter.  

Happy Feet...Overrated?

The horses done gone and got themselves pedicures! Unlike me, they get their nails done every couple of months. 

I don't think twice about getting the horses' nails done, but for me to get a pedicure (or even painting my toenails on my own for heaven's sake) seems extravagant and a waste of time.  I suppose there is a good deal of logic in this:  my horses' "nails" are their feet and do the job of supporting some 1500 pounds on knobby kneed, lanky legs.  If their nails aren't well kept, it spells trouble, not just in an aesthetic way, but in a serious health-related way.  I, on the other hand (or foot), can live a perfectly complete and healthy life despite ugly nails...heck, even despite ugly feet. 

Whether it's the way I was raised or the way I was made, I have considered practicality, frugality, efficiency, and propriety as somehow morally superior or more desirable than the alternative.  I have placed a premium on "being good" over "being happy;" doing "the right thing" (whatever THAT is) over doing whatever I have (frequently, without justification) somehow thought is not the right thing.  The result--the feet in the photo above.

I have had two (2) pedicures in my lifetime.  One (deliciously lovely) at Sister Moon Spa and the other at a hole-in-the-wall strip mall in California.  I felt guilty at the extravagance of even the twelve dollar strip mall version.   Even in summer sandal season.  And, oh how I  love summer sandals!

But, I am now leaning into, ever so gradually, the notion that being practical and safe, frugal and logical, may actually be overrated...especially in summer sandal season.   (Thanks, Patti Digh).  I am realizing that many of the actions and ideas to which I have attributed some sort of "superiority" are really just actions and ideas that were mine, not ones that were somehow objectively or morally superior.  Don't get me wrong, I still very much believe in principles and in black and white.  It's just that I'm learning that many of the things that I once so fervently believed were black and white, good and bad, are not.  At least, I'm in no position to label either as black or white, much less a person's choice based on his/her circumstances (as if, I could be in such a position on most anything).  Historically, for me it has been "pedicures =  bad, wasteful, and money that could be spent on food for the hungry, college tuition for my nephew, nail trims for the horses." 

Now, as a result of my slowly loosening grip on the notion that being practical and safe and logical at all times is a morally or objectively superior way to live than the alternative, there may just be a pedicure in my future.  Well, actually, probably, not.  (Old habits die hard).  But, I will paint my toenails...



And, I will skip down the sidewalk when the sun is shining, and the smell of spring is oozing out of every sprouting tulip.

I will drive six miles to the grocery store to get the special sprinkles that I forgot to get yesterday (even though gas is $4/gallon) because life is too short to have Easter cookies without special sprinkles.

I will not cease bee-bopping in the car to certain songs playing on the radio when I see the car of someone I know rapidly approaching from the other direction.

I will mow the lawn in my swimsuit so that I can get a tan (through my 30-block sunscreen) even though the possibility exists that someone may see me and think I look foolish.

I will take poor photos and publish them here anyway.  I will write things for all the world to see, and publish without proofing, because if I did proofread, I'd never publish. 

I will live better.  I will love more.

Happy weekend.  Go do something with your one wild and precious life.  And savor this quote from a wonderful, insightful, and fun new author, Patti Digh, in her book Life Is a Verb:

"If I recall correctly, the death rate for people who play it safe and for people who live boldly is the same: 100%."  

Jailbreak.

Friday morning, 6:30 a.m.  The phone rings.  The answering machine prompts.  A voice I don't recognize is leaving a message. His wife was on her way to work and called to tell him that she saw two bay horses down by the DNR.  She thought they might be mine. I look out the window.  No horses.  I put on my boots and coat, grab the dogs, and head out to investigate.

Crime Scene.

Sure enough.  The gate is open and no horses are in the pasture.  This isn't the first time.  I've witnessed the crime before, and even caught them in the escape.  Frustrating (and embarrassing) as it is, it is quite a sight to see.  Ichee and Ellie doing like the locals and heading into town for coffee at the Cottage Cafe.  They jig and jog down the roadway, cute and carefree as can be.  Like Ellie has her purse slung over her shoulder and Ichee's sporting new shoes.  Off to the big city. 

I grabbed a couple buckets of oats and a halter and hopped in the Rover to round 'em up and escort them home.  If only I had thought to grab my camera.

As I pulled out of my driveway and headed into town, I saw some sort of strange vehicle headed towards me.  I squinted.  Yep, it was my neighbor, Steve, driving his old red and silver Chevy pickup.  Sitting in the truck bed, with his feet dangling off the tailgate, his snuggly green cap pulled over his ears, and both of his hands extended taught to lead ropes attached to my horses, was Gary, a good friend who keeps his cattle down the road.  I didn't get the whole story, but gather that the horses had made their way down to the place with the horses and the goat.  Steve was headed into town to get coffee, with two halters in tow in the event he came across the fugitives.  He ran into Gary and the two of them rounded up Ichee and Ellie.  I watched the pickup approaching with two big bay thoroughbreds keeping pace behind it, in the capable hands of Gary the cattleman.   The capture and return was every bit as cute as the sight I've witnessed (on more than one occasion) of two mischievous thoroughbreds dancing their way into the big city.

I did a U-turn and joined the parade back to the homestead.  Apologized and thanked Steve and Gary profusely, embarrassed by my poor parenting, grateful no harm had been done to anyone or anything, and regretting that I hadn't been able to recapture the horses before anyone found out they had escaped.

The gate is again securely latched, the horses recovering from their outing, and me likely to be in less of a hurry and to double check the latch for at least the next week or two.

Atticus finally got his chance to scold the horses.  I made sugar cookies for Steve and Gary. 

The kitties are back on duty.

And all seems right on the ranch.

All is well.  Life is full.