The Voiceless

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I don’t actually remember this happening, as tends to be the case when something traumatic or core-shaking happens to me, but the story goes as follows.

I was in fifth or sixth grade and had just started attending a Lutheran school. One day, for some reason, the topic during a class discussion turned to animals — pets specifically. I had apparently made a comment about how I can’t wait to see the ones which have passed when I get to Heaven. These days, I hope I make it there, but that’s another post for another time. My, how the years weigh us down.

At any rate, my teacher — aghast at my thinking that pets had a special place above after passing — berated me in front of the class. It was such a severe lecture that I cried.

She told me that animals had no souls. She asked what was wrong with me. She said that animals are under man’s control, and nothing more — that they essentially exist, then don’t. Period.

This might be true — I have no idea. And, yes, I know what’s written in scripture. But you know what? How dare she. Instead of educating a child, she squashed a soul. I personally prefer to think of heaven as having indestructible balls of yarn for cats to play with, endless supplies of bones and tennis balls for dogs to enjoy, trees for birds, vast fields for horses and cows, and oceans for the sea creatures held in captivity or tortured in the name of supporting someone’s livelihood.

It pains me to see news stories of dolphins that are killed and used for shark bait — and even “killed” is too kind a word. Some are skinned while still alive, alive only because the bludgeoning wasn’t thorough enough and failed to spare them from the worst act imaginable. Media coverage of a man who was so annoyed by the cats in his area that he gathered them up, put them in a box — then in a fire — enrages me. My teacher may think that animals don’t have a special place waiting for them, but I most definitely do. They have to. They have to be given better than what we — sometimes accidentally but often knowingly — subject them to here on this planet.

Today I saw an article that included a link to donate to a German Shepherd rescue. I wasn’t going to, but its plea was well-crafted and resonated with me. “Instead of drinks or dessert this weekend, why not help save a life?”

I thought of my happy hour plans for this evening, and clicked the link. Surely I could do without a drink.

Tonight I am thankful for causes that support the animals that so many of us know and love, and — even though the coverage is maddening and makes me question humanity more often than not — I am thankful for the media spotlighting the harm that people do to these creatures. They may not have a voice, but it doesn’t make them feel pain any less than we do. For the saviors of animals and the rescuers of those who can’t ask for assistance, I am grateful.

Plan W

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It’s nice to have one in mind, but sometimes Plan A just doesn’t work out.

The first option might be the best in your head at the time, but maybe you’re meant to experience a little tough love, a bit of character-building until it’s your time. Really your time.

A friend of mine is in a career that is not loved (by Friend). It is, in fact, hated. Despised. Loathed. Friend took the job because the world requires a paycheck, so a paycheck Friend set off to seek.

Lacking the love, Friend could easily throw in the towel and skip town, move in with a parent, other relative or a buddy, but Friend’s head is down and focused — focused on getting back to a more ideal place. Friend knows that what they say is true — nothing lasts forever. But Friend is not content to be complacent and wants the current situation to be in the rearview mirror as quickly as possible. It is in the best interest of Friend’s spirit, outlook and ability to be worth anything to the next employer to move on.

Plan A didn’t work for Friend. So Plan B was dabbled in, which led to a better option. Enter: Plan C — also ultimately a no-go. By this time — probably about seven years ago, Friend was cognizant of the years piling up and acutely aware of society’s expectations: achieve X by a certain age, have Y by the next decade, be on your way to Z shortly thereafter. Friend is on something of a Plan W. Fortunately, Friend is not a box-checker — society be damned! Sure, there are wants and needs, some materialistic and other things truly necessary. But Friend is getting there, slowly but surely.

What Friend often fails to realize during the journey is that the path, while trying and anything but easy, is one that has provided test after test, trial after trial and — interestingly — Friend is now poised to move. Literally. A less than desirable location is about to be in the past and, while the job is still in place, moving is surely a catalyst that will help Friend find a more ideal fit, professionally-speaking. I can practically hear the sigh of relief in emails, and I can feel the weight of the world being lifted off of Friend’s shoulders.

I don’t think Friend realizes the opportunity that will surely present itself someday. Picture it: someone 20 years Friend’s junior, going through the same things: feeling like they’re wasting away, feeling like things won’t happen for them. They’re banging their head against a wall and thinking there’s no end in sight. No professional endeavor has worked out, and they feel as though they’re being left behind. But Friend has something only obtained by being in this person’s position back in the day. What’s it called? Perspective.

Earlier a colleague and I were discussing people who insist on being the victim versus the victor. The former is exhausting — who has the time to consistently be defeated? The latter, while hard, promises a reward often times more valuable than gold, more treasured than riches and more grounding than giving up. The reward? It’s multi-faceted. It speaks to a sort of stick-to-it-ness that a lot of people lack these days, it speaks of humility, of character gained by standing on one’s own two feet and it blesses someone with the ability to be empathetic. What an honor in a me-world full of people who subscribe to “every man for himself.” Friend has, in fact, emerged as the victor.

Today I am thankful for Friend’s determination and for not letting the disappearance of Plan A translate into the end of further alphabet exploration. I am proud of Friend. It may take another step or maybe it’s another 23 — but whatever plan we end up on, it’s a plan that was meant for us all along.

Change your homepage.

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Today is one of those days that feels extra heavy — I think it’s the abundance of soul-depleting news headlines that I’ve read. I often try to find a decent, all-good news site to hunker down in for a while, but my homepage is set to iGoogle, complete with a clump of shocking blurbs in the lower right corner — until iGoogle goes away, that is. Before I know it, I’m waist-deep in news that seems to get worse with every quarter-hour. In the blink of an eye I’m sidetracked by thoughts of non-profits I can start to help this animal, that country, those kids or that group of survivors.

Without being too much of an ostrich, I think there’s only one solution for me: I need to change my homepage.

We’re often told of change. Change your outlook, your perspective, your thinking, your mindset, your attitude. Easier said than done. But if a small change automatically cultivates uplifting news and puts it in front of you whenever you log on for the day, it can affect all those other things. And that’s a good thing.

I’m in list-mode this afternoon, so instead of a lengthy post about something I’m thankful for, I’m going to make it short and sweet (novel ideal, I know). Since waking this morning, I am thankful for:

My morning coffee, my odd but loveable cats, for a commute that — while worse than usual — didn’t take me down with it, and for my parents’ safe arrival home after a long weekend away.

I am thankful a friend is soon to be moving home from his time on the East Coast, and for the dilemma of not knowing what to wear this morning before heading out the door. Many are without proper clothing; to have it in abundance is nothing short of a blessing.

I am thankful for a nourishing lunch in a world where news does anything but nourish the soul, and I am thankful for the realization that improving upon my choice of homepage will likely lead to improvements in other areas throughout the day.

Inspired creations.

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I can’t not create something. It seems there’s always something brewing, something in the works.

Maybe it’s a batch of biscotti, perhaps it’s one of these blog posts. Sometimes I’ll hear a song on the radio and give it a classical spin on the piano, full of ascending and cascading arpeggios that give a nod to the familiar. Recently it was an idea for a documentary; a quick, wine-fueled brain-dump resulted in a single page turning into a full write-up in no time flat.

A number of months back during a particularly slow day in the office, I felt the need to identify beauty in the mundane and, in this case, said beauty came in the form of a haiku — made out of a work email.

I mixed up the words from a paragraph-long request for data, rearranged them and before I knew it I had something shiny and new, sparkly and interesting. What landed in my inbox as a black-and-white, blasé bundle of nouns, verbs and the like was reborn. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a shot of energy into a regular ol’ workday was found in three lines of 5-7-5.

When it comes to creating, inspiration can come from the most interesting of places. It doesn’t always shout, “Look at me! Here I am!” Instead, it can come in an email, in the way a falling leaf drifts to the ground, in the glow of a sunset, sometimes in the smell of freshly brewed coffee. It can come from the way a book’s pages feel as you flip through them, from the sound of a breeze stirring in the trees, and even that moment where something in the air just catches you the right way — something that makes you perk up a bit, stand a little taller and smile.

I’ve crafted a few more haiku since the first, and it’s always amazing to me the way they transform something so gray into a myriad of colors. Who knew something so uplifting could be just around the bend? Who knew that something so charming could be crafted out of a reply, a forward or an email delivering an attachment? For inspiration and beauty that might be hidden but which are never all that far away, I am thankful.

 

Fog City

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This morning ushered in the first of the season’s fog, at least in these parts. It stayed darker longer, the morning was fuzzy and gray, and I did something I’ve not done since before the summer began: I made a cup of coffee to accompany me during my morning routine.

Something about coffee in the morning during the summer rubs me the wrong way. And, if I’m honest, summer rubs me the wrong way. I appreciate it for what it is, but I so prefer the coziness of the fall, weather that’s more damp and the little rain that we get.

Summer is perky. It’s tiring. It wakes me early and keeps me up late. Longer days lead to more things. More stuff. More exhaustion. More of more. I clearly have remnants of a previous life left over in my being, despite being a California native in this one. Looking out the window, fourteen floors above the city streets below, the day is still a little hazy. The fog hasn’t fully burned off yet, though that might be a side effect of working near the beach, as well.

One of my favorite cookbooks made a cameo in Under the Tuscan Sun. The Fog City Diner Cookbook is everything I love about the crisp, damp, occasionally dreary Southern California days and nights bundled up into one sleek, delicious package. Sunshine reigns supreme in SoCal, but because of its abundance, many of us seem yearn for the exact opposite — the same way relationship-challenged Alaskan Women Looking for Love yearn for men and Miami. Even on perflectly clear, balmy afternoons, I only need to flip through the pages of recipes before my head finds itself in another place — a place full of blankets and Ugg boots, fireplaces and pajamas.

The great thing about fog on a Monday — for me, anyway — is that it makes the day that much better. Many would disagree, perhaps citing fog as a close second behind an 8 o’clock meeting or running out of gas during one’s morning commute. In my way of thinking, it’s on par with my brain hitting the snooze button: no abrupt beginning, a leisurely awakening; I assume I’ll be fully ready to go sometime during the 3 or 4 o’clock hour. Monday will have almost entirely passed by in such a cozy manner, its name is all but forgotten. Enter: Tuesday. One down, four to go. Perhaps some more fog? One can hope.

Today, I am thankful for my foggy city and the calm it brought to my morning, my day and my Monday. For a misty start to the week and a blanket of comfort to start my day, I give a round of applause and much gratitude to Mother Nature.

The Mourning Dove’s Lesson

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I was heading home from the grocery store. It was dusk.

I took one of my favorite side streets home and was the only car on it, so I drove slowly and took everything in. The street is well known for tidy yards, manicured gardens, house flags and illuminated walkways, and what was left of the day’s light made everything look warm and inviting against the evening’s cool blue backdrop to the east.

When my eyes fell upon something in the road, I immediately adjusted the wheel so that I’d pass over the top of it. It looked like a fairly large rock, though I’m not sure where it would’ve come from. Then I realized: it was a bird.

I slammed on the brakes and my eggs went flying into the back of my seat. It looked like the bird was stunned, as it was just sitting there in the middle of the street. I pulled over, thinking that if passing over the top of it might scare it into action, it could meet my tires and not live to see another day.

It was a mourning dove. While they do like to wreak havoc on my bird feeder and make a mess of the seeds, I enjoy watching them; they, along with the sparrows, all seem to ultimately enjoy the makeshift buffet that the doves create in the grass below the feeder each time I fill it with seed. Perhaps the little guy I was looking at was one who had visited my backyard before.

Since the street was still empty, I approached the bird slowly and got within about two feet. His head finally moved a bit and off it flew, its wings whistling as they cut through the night air.

It’s hard to say if the bird was stunned or if it was just there for a rest — though, if the latter, I’d like to encourage him to opt for my backyard in the future, given it’s protected by a wall, sees few predators — and certainly never a car. But better to stop and check on the little thing instead of assuming it would be OK and having it get caught up in the undercarriage of my car, or crushed by my tires. The only thing that lost its life this evening was one egg out of the twelve I purchased. No worries — I’d rather a cracked shell and a runny mess than a dove that would have me mourning its loss.

Sometimes I see people who probably should be checked on, but I never do — I assume that they’d use their voice or seek out assistance if it was needed, and then there’s that whole thing about personal safety. It’s easier for me to check on animals since they can’t communicate with us and aren’t able to say whether they’re in need or not. But tonight’s mourning dove was a beautiful reminder that regardless of whether it’s an animal or a person, everything is worth being checked on — or, at the very least, alerting someone who can help if they are in need. They may be perfectly fine and we might experience a minor loss in the process — a broken egg, a few minutes of our day lost forever — but if we’re all here coexisting, isn’t continued existence reason enough to raise our hand and help when the opportunity presents itself?

For the lesson of the mourning dove, I am thankful.

Decades.

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Earlier this week, our agency’s activities committee sent around an email asking people to bring a photo from high school. We’d be able to post them on a board, see what everyone looked like back in the day and marvel at how time a) flies and b) changes people.

The ’90s — to me, anyway — don’t sound like they were that long ago, but they were. My graduation year was almost 20 years ago. Two decades.

Two.

Decades.

Exactly half my life ago — 18 years, to be exact — I was just starting college. How did 18 years pass so quickly? Better yet, will the next 18 pass at the same speed? Will I wake up one day and remember writing this post, marveling at how I’m suddenly 54?

I printed out my senior photo and had a good chuckle. My hair color back then was courtesy of a grocery store, and I’m pretty sure I used on a daily basis the same amount of hairspray I currently go through in three months. My makeup was also direct from a drugstore aisle and did nothing for me — starting with the fact that the foundation shade I used to use wasn’t exactly the best match for my skin tone.

Appearance aside, I sometimes feel like I’ve made very little progress as a human being who should be contributing and giving back to the world as a whole. That is why we’re here, right? On the other hand, I feel like knowing myself is one of the first things that needs to happen before any sort of big, monumental giving back can occur, and I think that’s been going well in recent years. With distance from the rush of my early 20s, the recklessness in my later 20s and the constant pushing and go-go-going in my early 30s, a bit of perspective has been granted. It’s like the key is turning slowly in the lock, and with each millimeter I’m getting closer to unlocking a door that will reveal a path to the contributions that I’m supposed to make. At least that’s how it feels — I hope my feelings are right and that I’m not sitting here in 18 more years still trying to unlock that door.

The thing about contributions is that they might end up not being realized until the end of a chapter, or the end of one’s book. We might think there was little in our wake to be proud of, but others might see things very differently. I wonder if people who are publicly recognized for significant contributions also feel that they were significant, or if — perhaps — they think they could’ve done more. Do they discount what others see as having been a big deal, or do they embrace it? It sort of begs the bigger question of whether we can truly be happy. If we’re not accomplishing, we might feel we need to start doing exactly that. Or if we are perceived as someone who is out there making things happen, will we brush aside that which we’ve done and keep trying to do more?

There was no guarantee when I graduated from high school that I would live to see this day, nor is there any guarantee that I’ll live to see the year 2031. The only guarantee is from my end, and it’s that I’ll keep trying to give back to this life that I’m blessed to be part of, for however long I have. For time, for our days which are all numbered and for the drive to give more than just a thought to my life, my purpose and what I’ll leave behind, I am thankful.

Be who you are.

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I have a cat that’s an odd duck.

He’s a rescue that I adopted from my vet. One day, I decided that my other rescue, a young, sleek, all-black junior kitty named Jack, needed a buddy. I learned that Jack and the odd duck had been in neighboring cages and used to bat paws at one another, so Jack and Tucker, as I named the funny little guy, ending up being reunited.

He’s nothing like Jack. He’s not social, isn’t very affectionate, doesn’t meow a whole lot, and — while he uses his litter box — is easily confused in it. He’ll dig in one area, do his business in an entirely different area, then cover up a third area which neither was dug in nor “used.”

He’s not especially coordinated and doesn’t seem to have much interest in playing. In fact, he seems to get more enjoyment out of watching Jack tear things up, so sitting quietly at a distance is clearly more his speed.

Where Jack is long, lean and elegant, Tucker is stubby, stocky and compact. He’s the cat version of Danny DeVito.

Jack will play with a jingle-ball for hours on end, whacking it around the room and sprinting after it, tail high in the air. Tucker will simply walk around the house with it in his mouth, growling and making prehistoric noises which inspire Jack to keep a safe distance.

Tucker does lean into his feline-ness and enjoy a few of the obvious things: vacant boxes and cramming himself into a small, empty bag for a good snooze are two of his favorites.

Two of his front teeth are a little too large for his mouth, and they hang down like kitty fangs. His coloring makes him look like a miniature version of a Bengal tiger, though, so they sort of fit (without actually fitting).

Tonight, I freshened their litter boxes and sprawled out across the bed in my guest room. I was watching Tucker sniff around a bit and found myself wondering what kind of life he had in his younger years. He’s not old, but he’s definitely older than Jack. The vet thinks he might be anywhere from two to four years of age, but it’s really hard to tell — his build throws me off. My eyelids started to feel heavy, and before I realized it, Tucker had jumped up next to me and was laying with his body against mine. He wasn’t up for any head pets or behind-the-ear scratching (no surprise there), he just wanted to lay down, and he was leaning into me.

He’s a bit of a loner, doesn’t say much, isn’t really one to seek me out, but tonight he did what he does best: he simply let himself be. And I allowed him to be as such. No toys, no friendly touch, just resting together.

We dozed off and on for about an hour, and when I got up, Tucker didn’t feel like laying there anymore, either. He found a cozy place in the corner of the room, curled up and went back to observing and being — on his own. It’s what he does best, after all.

It’s easy to want someone to conform to our expectations of what they should be, how they should act and what we’d like them to say. Unfortunately, expectations can muddy the waters and often lead to disappointment. There’s no good solution unless “live and let live” is something that either party might warm up to. Sometimes people will meet us in the middle, other times their mannerisms, tendencies and habits may be so set that all we can do is either walk away or accept. If acceptance is possible, then the hard part is done. If changing them to fit your mold is ideal, prepare for an uphill battle.

Regardless of which end you’re on, there’s only one sure way to be seen for the person you are, and it’s to be who you are — fully, visibly, every day. In time, that person who is meant to be the lid to your teapot will become known. For Tucker reminding me of this tonight, I am thankful.

Take stock.

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When I was little, I was fascinated by the moon, the stars — the whole of space. I wanted to be an astronaut, but I was terrible at math and science. I settled for a telescope and enjoyed the heavens that way.

During elementary school, I decided I wanted to have horses someday. That day has not yet come, but in the meantime my life has allowed me to volunteer for them, learn to ride them and take drives to not-so-distant pastures where I’ve fed them bunches of carrots, leafy green tops and all.

In high school, I said I wanted to be a writer. Well, part-time writer, part-time psychologist — whatever that meant. While you won’t see any of my books stocked in Barnes and Noble and while I don’t have an office where I listen to or counsel others, these days I write daily about things for which I’m thankful, and I look inside myself to discover the genesis of such gratitude. I am a writer and psychologist after all.

In my 20s, I was dating someone who ended up getting a DUI while he and his married client were on their way back to her hotel. We broke up. I vowed that the next person I’d be with would make me feel safe and bring me peace. I haven’t found that person yet, but in trusting my path I now know myself better than I ever thought I would — and there is peace. I made my own vow come true.

When I finished school and starting working full-time, I wanted to make a difference. But working on national campaigns for cars didn’t do that, working in sports marketing didn’t do that, and analyzing clients’ data still doesn’t do that. Yet everything I’ve learned and am learning may ladder up to something still, something that makes a “difference” — and I suspect that it will be one of those lovely, serendipitous moments when it arrives.

As humans, we want. We promise. We vow. We shoot for some things and end up on their outskirts, while we hit the bullseye for others. I think that all the things we’ve ever wanted have really come true in one way or another. If better parents were wished for, perhaps becoming the type of parent you never had is how that wish came to fruition. If wealth is what we’re after, we have it every day — we might not be rolling in it, but we have access to technology, a roof over our heads, air in our lungs and food to sustain us. If what we’re after is balance, perhaps you’re finding it here right now — reading through various sites, blogs, and letting your mind wander until things feel somewhat more whole, more aligned, more Zen. Anyone who says life isn’t fair hasn’t stopped to smell the roses or sat in awe of everything that’s right with it. It’s easy to see what’s wrong and what’s missing, but looking around and taking stock of everything good is a game-changer. No, it’s a life-changer.

For taking stock, realizing the good, embracing the small and aiming for the stars, I am thankful.

The Bus Stop Hitchhiker

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During my commute home, I saw a woman hitchhiking.

At a bus stop.

It was as though she had no idea she was standing in a designated, covered location where a bus would stop multiple times each day. Others were waiting for the bus, as well, and they were watching her with much curiosity. I could practically hear their thoughts.

“What is she doing?”

“Is she waiting for the bus, or for someone else?”

“Is this a joke?”

“Am I on Candid Camera?”

Seven strangers milled about, checking their watches, their purses and their backpacks. Each observed her for a second here, another second there. None of them spoke, but they were all connected in a strange, twilight-zone-ish kind of way.

If she was waiting for the bus, the hitchhiking was amusing, yet clearly unnecessary. Did she know it would get there when it got there? She might’ve been ready for it, but it obviously wasn’t quite ready for her.

Hm. Such is the case in life sometimes, yes?

Sometimes we think we’re ready to be picked up by something. Maybe we think we’re ready for a significant other, a new job, a new city, for some travel, for anything that can be life-changing. But if it’s not ready, then we can stick our thumb out all we want — we might be doing that for a while, though. When your better half is ready, you’ll know it. When the job is right, it will become known. When you’re meant to be with something or part of something, all the waiting will seem silly, because we’ll know that things don’t happen in our time — they happen when the traffic clears, when the weather allows it to arrive, when it’s time. Anything else will be forced, and anything else will be premature.

Tonight I am thankful to the hitchhiker at the bus stop for the inadvertent reminder to be patient, to keep my thumb tucked and to know that when the bus comes along that I’m supposed to be on, it will be very, very clear.