July 28, 2007

Size Thirteen Shoes

His feet weren't this large when he was born, thank the Good Lord, because his head about killed me as it was, but now with size thirteen feet I am hoping the 'growth spurt' is about done as far as his feet go.

We feel an almost sporting obligation to buy any reasonable looking shoes when we find 13 wide anywhere in the shelf. It's not that they don't make them, it's just that most stores apply principles of average sales and average sizes when they order for their racks. So, on those happy times when we find the right length paired with an acceptable width, shoes ride home with us. Sometimes I even belt them in like an honored guest. For the prices we pay, it just feels right.

So tonight when I acted on a tip from a really nice lady at church who suffers the same issues in buying shoes for her husband, I was able to bring home the bacon...or at least the shoeleather.
Not only were they the only white pair (we have a thing about white tennis shoes), they were actually the only size 13 wide shoes in the entire store.

Add to the unexpected joy of finding the shoes he needed, but they were also half-price as part of their back to school sales drive! Woo Hoo!!!

It was a little like winning a prize in a personal lottery.

While these little victories don't seem like a big deal for most people, I can assure you that once you surpass average in any way, day to day loses it's meaning in the mad shuffle for what works best for someone who just doesn't fit the average mold.

So celebrate finding the 'right' flavor of soup that rarely appears on the shelves. Dance in the aisle when you find that blaze orange underwear that you secretly wear to church. Jump for joy when you find not only the right size but when you actually save the money as well.

Enjoy and savor the moment.

Size thirteen moments.

You just can't find them all that often.

Flooding in odd places

While strange weather phenomena has slipped into the record books since someone bothered to start keeping the stats, the randomness of the weather of late has certainly been of apocolyptic regularity.

Someone higher than us is keeping stats and they aren't playing favorites anymore.

There are towns flooded, others are burned and yet others disappear in hostile winds like so many houses of cards before a breeze. New Orleans will never recover. It is a task that cannot be completed because the level of splintering amid the population is simply to great to put back together again.

The might of Mother Nature rival any wars ever conceived or fought.

The deserts have been flooded and the nation's breadbasket baked in the relentless summer suns that have banished the needed rain clouds from view.

Maybe it's time to pay attention and get our personal houses in order - before they are blown or washed away entirely.

Dreams

Do you remember your dreams?

I'm not speaking metaphorically or in terms of 'what you want to be when you grow up'.

Instead, I am speaking of those journeys into the psyche that occur nocturnally as we succumb to the effects of being surrounded in the arms of slumber. Those random thoughts and ideas that occur to a mind suddenly freed from the restraints of daily living that bring emotional surges as if the ideas that appear on the technicolor palatte of our dreams is somehow real and vibrant between the hours of our sleeping and wakeful hours.

Though the content of my dreams varies depending upon the circumstances and stresses of my life, there is an undeniable fascination with the nightly tableau of fantasy or jarring reality that plays out in my sleep.

Sometimes I am struggling against unknown assailants and running for my life against the horrors that the unknown represents. Other times, I am a world-wise traveler who is hopping the globe to all of the places that occupy my wish files of vacation destinations I will likely never see while awake.

Then there are the dreams that are pure horror. The nightmares which have no reason or rhyme but bring instead of logic or pleasure, bring terror and fear so strongly that they prevent sleep once I have screamed myself and the other occupants of the room awake. So real is the visual imagery, that sleep flees from the night and I am left to shake in the darkness against the dream that just won't go away.

I dreamed of my late mother last night. I needed the hug she gave me just before I awoke to the unpleasant realization that, for now, she is just beyond my reach.

Why we dream what we dream and just what those dreams mean is left open to interpretation of professionals and amateurs alike. No one can be completely assured as to what is going on in the dreams. And despite the sage advice that you can control your dreams, the fact is, if that were possible, most of us would choose happy and peaceful and restful dreams to counterbalance the reality of the world awake each day.

Since control is not possible, we are left to the rollercoaster of emotional highs and lows that our dreams bring to us. Some people claim to never remember their dreams upon awakening. Some can recall the night's offerings in startling clarity that rivals Hollywood blockbusters for intesity and color commentary.

Either way, we all dream. Even the dog.

Some days, I think I might like to trade for what the dog dreams. I don't recall ever seeing a dog have a nightmare.

July 27, 2007

2 Degrees South of Sane

Have you ever noticed that people say things but that the way in which they say them really tells more of the story?

Sometimes, we fall into the pattern of 'social' speech. We tell ourselves that if we say things in our lives are going okay that it will be an act of mind over matter and we will feel better and be able to deal with the burdens of daily living.

While that may work sometimes, there are definately moments in time in which that is precisely the wrong approach to life. When the detectable stress patterns in your voice and the levels of anxiety are no longer able to be hidden, it is time for a break and time to recharge.

Recently, it really became obvious to me that we have, by virtue of the speed of our lives, chosen to live under a level of stress that is slowly killing us all - both participant and bystander - in a tedious, painful ballet of irrational thought and action.

It is as if we believe we have become so invaluable in our particular sphere of influence that we can no longer be allowed time to ourselves or time off from our labors for either good or bad behavior. We have succeeded in almost convincing ourselves that if don't continue to plug along and instead we choose to take time for ourselves that it is a type of wicked indulgence for which we will be eternally punished and most certainly receive some sort of earthly sanction for having thought of ourselves or our need for personal recharging.

Like a penalty phase with a double edged sword, we feel personal guilt if we take the time off or we most certainly suffer personal anxiety, health concerns and bodily harm mentally and physically when we don't. High blood pressure, overeating, undereating and all manner of poor choices that affect our health begin to erode our level of sanity and our ability to 'just get along'.

So how do we find that fine line we must tiptoe along that separates enough from not enough?

It takes an almost perverse sense of insanity to be able to see that there must be enough 'me time' in order to survive against the press of demands both internally and externally applied. And like any theory of sanity and it's variables, there must be some kind of measure of when 'it's enough' to justify the time off.

Sometimes, it comes through a warning that we hear internally. We get 'the message' that we need to de-stress and shed the layers of life that have created the buildup in our heart, mind and soul. The process of becoming ourself again can take place and equilibrium is restored.

But at other times, it literally requires the intervention of an outside source who can hear the rising level of panic in our voices and throw out the lifeline we so desperately need. People who charge in with the cavalry that make our personal struggles, for that moment in time, their own and make it possible for us to change our lives for the better.

How grateful I am that I have been blessed with people in my life who can, at these moments of impending personal disaster, alter the outcome by a simple diversion of the rising tide of destruction into safe channels that can later be dealt with in a systematic and sure fashion. It truly has made all the difference in my world and it keeps me in a somewhat comfortable latitude somewhere near sanity. To claim to be right on point with total and perfect sanity would be to deny the birthright of being just eccentric enough to be an individual.

Today - I wish to offer this as a thanks for the people who have, in their own moments of personal clarity, helped me to find one moment for myself. Duration of that moment is not the issue. Instead it is that they have reached into my chaos and created an island of calm for that instant and brought the soul adrift to a welcome shore for a rest before pushing out into an uncertain sea once again.

Although we all must have our rides on the swelling tides that carry us through the ebbs and flows of our personal existence, we also need to have those trips into the calm estuaries and safe harbors that allow us to repair, renew and reflect before we cast our fates to the winds upon the seas of life.

My gratitude knows no bounds for those all through my personal journey who have been willing to throw out a lifeline when the storms have raged. They are, for that moment, a savior on the water and a master of the sea.

July 23, 2007

Feeding the Squirrels

Confession time here...

I have a weakness for squirrels.

While I realize that to a lot of hunters they represent nothing more than 'limb chickens' and a nice meal complete with hot biscuits and pepper gravy, to me they are a source of comic relief.

Leaping from branch to branch without a moments hesitation, they scramble down to the little log cabin feeder and eat the seeds and nuts I leave for them, moreso in the colder months than in the summer, but still a few days a month, I want to enjoy their company. So, I slip out early in the morning and stock the feeder and tell the birds and squirrels to 'come and eat, birds and squirrels, breakfast is served'.

And they do come. One or two at first but later, whole families arrive to fill their hungry tummies and enjoy the shade of the Wildlife Diner.

I love the squirrels scampering through the branches and chasing the opposite sex for mating rituals and the same sex for territory. And the sound they make as they scamper across the roof the nest in the front tree to the feeder in the back is like a tiny herd or horses galloping along towards the goal.

To me, they are much more than just 'limb chickens'. They are the acrobats of the circus in the wild. They are the clowns who make us laugh and the high wire artist who take our breath away. They double as ringmaster when they take the center stage for the family luncheon at the feeder. They are both the animal act and the animal tamer.

So I will continue to keep my little furry guests close by. Maybe one day, we can be a bit more than mere neighbors. Maybe one day, we will be friends.