A Little Miracle

When I went in for a routine echocardiogram, I didn't know what it was. I had a vague image of being hooked up to something like a lie detector, with needles scribbling lines on a graph. It turned out to be (am I the last person to know this?) a lot like the pictures they take of babies in the womb, cold jelly and all. When I looked on the screen, there it was, the engine that runs everything, pumping its continuous complex rhythm:  in with the good blood, out with the bad blood. Little doors opened and closed with perfect timing, over and over and over. I was astounded. How had I not thought about this mysterious machine that floats like a living planet in the middle of my chest? What makes it go? Where does its life come from? My reaction was not unlike my amazement at seeing a sonogram of my son. (I almost expected to recognize little fingers and toes.) I was confronted with a miracle. I am thankful, on this Thanksgiving Day, for miracles.
(This is not my echocardiogram, by the way. I pulled it from the Web. I wish I had asked for mine, though.)

One Man's Trash Is . . . Still Trash

Nothing ruins a good walk like globs of trash littering the sides of the road. After muttering curses for a while against the people who use the scenery as their wastebasket, I finally realized that I could pick up the trash and then I wouldn't have to look at it. The next time I set out, I carried a kitchen trash bag and a pair of gloves. Before I had gone half-way up the hill, I had filled the bag and could barely carry it. (That was when I learned to start collecting trash on the way down the hill.) It was a Sunday afternoon and several people drove by, but no one acknowledged my lonely quest for tidiness. Maybe some of them said to themselves, "Look at that poor lady cleaning the roadside. I swear I will never toss another beer can out the window."

I did have plenty of time to make some observations about litterers:
In my neighborhood, at least, Busch is the beer of choice to swig in the car and toss out the window.
Malboros are a favorite of litterers.
Cigarette filters are not biodegradable. Couldn't we get them to put that on the packages? Would anybody care?
Construction workers seem to lose a lot of equipment along the road. I found a level, a box of screws, and some siding.
I couldn't understand the reasoning of people who toss out soiled disposable diapers. Then I looked up "disposable" in the dictionary, and it became clear. "Disposable" means "designed to be thrown out." The diaper tossers are very, very literal.
The strangest object I found was a long green shoelace tied around the neck of a plastic alien. Maybe someone was taking the alien for a walk and it got away. I took the shoelace home to repair something, and the alien--well, it's pretty cute. I think I'll keep it.

Will You Won't You Will You Won't You

I have been noticing with pleasure the play of serendipity in my life. It happens when I make myself open to invitations to do something on the spur of the moment--those gentle nudges that are so easily drowned out by other voices: That's a waste of time! Too tired! Too far! Too hard! Too cold! Etc!
Examples:
I decided to sort and file a pile of papers in my office that I had been avoiding and found an important document that I was afraid I had lost. Hidden in plain sight.
Even though I was busy doing other things, I decided to drop by the library in a nearby town to see if they had an audio book I could listen to on an upcoming trip. There I met a wonderful librarian, Irma, who's going to be a new good friend.
I decided to take a road trip to visit a friend in Massachusetts and ended up getting to spend a couple of days on a island, in a cottage she had serendipitously found on Craig's list.
While there, I wanted to go exploring. But when I woke that morning, the wind outside the window sounded like a cold winter gale. I went anyway, and found my way around to the wild and rocky "back shore" of the island. The wind had only been bluffing.
Spur-of-the-moment walks when the weather is iffy often reward me with surprises: a graceful waterfall, a perfect rainbow.
So I'm trying to keep an ear out for those whispered invitations: "Go this way." "Try this." "Won't you join the dance?" They rarely lead me astray. Or rather, they do, but sometimes astray is where I needed to be.
By serendipity, when I was thinking about this topic, I found this quote in Peaceful Living, by Mary Mackenzie: "This is your moment to live. How can you spend it in the way that you most enjoy? Be conscious and present as much as possible in your life and you will feel more connection and joy in all of your activities."
And this quote comes from One Day at Teton Marsh, by Sally Carrighar: "The Otter found the outlet of String Lake, traversed another lake and came to the outlet of it. The deep drift in the lakes was slight. No senses could perceive it. He swam, however, with so little willfulness that the flow could could give his movements a direction. The guidance of instinct is like that flow, is like a trail in the water that can be followed, although it cannot be consciously scented, seen, or felt."
I wish all of you many moments of serendipity in your days, going with the flow.

The Groundhogs Are Back

Sometimes we make a mistake. Cora was (is) a sweet, adorable, little lady, and if I had been in the right place and time for a dog, I couldn't ask for a better one.

But. Soon after I brought her home, I realized that I had made a wrong turn. I had so clearly relished the freedom of being on my own. That feeling of freedom took a nose dive. I felt tied down, accountable, distracted, frustrated, and trapped. Really, all of those--just because of a lovable--and loving--little dog. I tried to convince friends that she was just what they needed, but apparently she wasn't. I tried to grit my teeth and accept that we were meant to be together, and got more depressed. The last thing I could see myself doing was taking her back to the shelter. What could be more heartless?

But. Cora's one bad habit was getting into the "briar patch" that surrounds my property and had worked effectively as a fence for Sisko. Admittedly, she was just doing exactly what I had brought her home to do--taking care of those groundhogs. I tried to explain to her that she didn't need to be QUITE so thorough. She ignored me--tracking down critters was her area of expertise. So the neighbors had to put up with my constantly bleating "CORA-A-A!" when she disappeared. Or I had to keep her constantly on the end of a leash. Who was tied to whom?

Finally I decided to see what would happen if I left her to her own devices in the yard. Maybe I was underestimating her. Maybe she understood what her limits were. She didn't. She worked her way through twenty feet of brush, across a big road, into the field on the other side, and didn't show any signs of stopping. I'm telling this to illustrate why I believe sometimes our wishes are granted in mysterious ways. My fear for her safety was the push I needed to return her to the shelter. Although I felt all kinds of rotten and sad, I also felt my inner compass swinging around. Unfortunately, just because something is the "right" thing to do doesn't make it easy.

On my way back from leaving Cora at the shelter, I stopped to talk to a friend, and she said the magic words: "They'll take good care of her. Don't beat yourself up. I know they will, and I'm trying not to. Another friend said, "Maybe you were the half-way home she needed." And my own inner wisdom reminds me that dogs don't take things so personally. They are more adaptable to life than most of us.

I'm praying for a wonderful home for Cora. (You can contact the shelter here if you're interested!)

And meanwhile . . . does anybody know what to do about groundhogs?

Around the Bend

Last Thursday was my real, official last day at Highlights. They organized a lovely luncheon for me at a local inn. I appreciated all the kind things that were said, and I appreciated all the people who came to help me celebrate. One of my luncheon guests was Ron Zalme, who is the talented current illustrator of "The Timbertoes" and "The Adventures of Spot." I thought you might like to see him. I'm holding a cool piece of art he did for me of the Timbertoes.

People kept asking me how it felt to be retiring, and I was stuck for an answer. I've never retired before! But eventually (and as with most of my best responses, after the fact) the answer did come to me.

In 1932 John Gee illustrated a storybook called The Timbertoes. This was twenty years before the Timbertoes appeared in Highlights. The little wooden family has lots of adventures in the book, including an episode in which Tommy gets abducted to be a child's action figure. Toward the end of the story, summer has ended, and winter is coming. Pa Timbertoe decides the family should head south. He builds a raft for the journey. This is how the book ends: "On down the brook they floated. Around the turn went the little raft. Around the turn and out of sight went the Timbertoes."

I don't mean to imply that I'm going to disappear. It's the image of heading into new waters that appeals to me, trusting the river to carry me to new places, in its own time. That's how it feels.

P.S. Thanks to Sue Erb for the photos of this and the previous event. She's a pro!

The Power of O Gbona Vivi

In one of my former lives, I taught English for the Peace Corps in the West African country of Togo. I rented two rooms in a compound from a sweet older gentleman named Leon Mebounou. M. Mebounou considered himself my in loco parentis. It worried him that I was a young, single woman far away from my home and unsupervised by my family. When the male Peace Corps volunteer in my village began spending a lot of time visiting me, he arranged for a little engagement ceremony for us, just to be on the safe side.
M. Mebounou and I had long, wonderful talks. One day he told me, "You Americans rush around too much. We have a proverb: O gbona vivi. It means you only breathe one breath at a time. Relax and take things little by little. When you get back to America, tell them this."
I've been pretty faithful to my mission to deliver this message to people I've met over the years. I even wrote a song about it. But it popped into my head again the other day when I was raking grass, and I thought about how useful it has been in my life.
It was useful when I looked at all the grass I had left to rake. I realized that I only had to rake this little section, and this little section, and this little section . . . I didn't have to rake the whole yard at once.
It's useful when I start up the hill that begins the route of my morning walk. I only have to walk to that daisy, and then to that stick, and then to that beer can. I don't have to make it to the top all at once.
And it was amazingly useful when I was working on my novel. Me, who had never written anything longer than 1000 words! But I could do it, thirty minutes at a time--this 200 words, and then this 200 words, and then this 200 words. . . .
Akpe nto, M. Mebounou!

NOW I've Done It!

I've officially announced my retirement--no, my graduation. I feel the way I did when I graduated from college, ready and eager for what's to come. My friend Dimitrea put it beautifully: "I think the title retiring is for those who have been pooped out from what they've chosen to do, but I think in your case what you've chosen to do has only put you in a position to pursue your dreams more fully."

Chris Clark decided I was really serious about leaving this time and set aside some time for a presentation at a recent gathering at Boyds Mills, although my official last day isn't until August 25. That's Kent Johnson, the CEO of Highlights, on the right. He's holding a framed print of a vintage Timbertoes strip done by John Gee--they know the way to my heart.

When it came time for me to say a few words, I decided to commit, the way you do when you're starting a diet. I told a tent full of people that I was leaving in order to write. I have witnesses. I have no excuses. I'm pursuing my dreams. Wish me luck!