Long Time, No Blog, Much Happened

April 2009 added another change in my life--a divorce.
July 2009 found me in my own home, once more, the first I've purchased completely on my own with no man or family in tow.
August 2009 my tiny poodle, Misty, returned home since there was no longer the barrier of a husband who disliked her intensely.
October 2009 provided a good ten days of heaven on Lake Superior outside Copper Harbor, UP.
December 25, 2009 was the first Christmas morning in at least six years that had both my children and their significant others waking up at my house. What a joy!
December 30, 2009 my new friend June DesRosiers was taken off life support and died two hours later. She was courageous and generous and, after 13 years, had decided to come to terms with her divorce and seek new life. Carpe Diem.
December 31, 2009 was an anniversary of pain--and replaced with an incredible new memory of celebrating the New Year on the Lido deck, under a Caribbean sky with 3,000 people and free champagne!

My heart was broken. And now, it is broken wide open to love even more.

Thank you Lord.

Warrior Squirrels

Recently enjoyed a visit with my daughter and son-in-law out of state. Returned home to learn from the housesitter (and see) that my bird feeder was missing. A small tube-style, hanging from the eave on a large, substantial iron hook--meant for much heavier plants.

Feeder was nowhere--not under the deck, down the hill, or on the roof. I knew it would take some pretty muscle-bound squirrels to drag it up to the roof, but not impossible.

What was more amazing to me was that the hook was (and still is!) gone gone gone.

Rough times at home had me thinking "could someone have stolen it? and why?" or perhaps the recently-moved-out spouse thought to claim it for his new home, although highly unlikely since bird-feeding wasn't his pastime or a particularly affordable hobby, either.

I replaced the feeder, added a new wire coat hanger hook.

A couple weeks later, for a variety of reasons (bird-feeding can be barely affordable), I lapsed in setting out the daily wildlife chow for the host of squirrels. A couple cups of cracked corn, peanuts, etc., would be just dribbled along the deck rail each morning. It was intended as a bit of a decoy from the big feeder (there have been three in all), but wasn't especially successful. The largest feeder hangs from a large free-standing plant hook and has a wire squirrel deterrent cage which merely prevents them from chewing the plastic tube which actually holds the feed.

On top of that lapse, I let the two small tube feeders go empty, and then the large squirrel-deterrent cage enclosed feeder go empty, too. Ooooh-boy. Big mistake.

Came home Friday afternoon and discovered both tube feeders and hangers down and gone. We were due for fresh snow so I went looking, knowing I'd see nothing of the mostly clear plastic with a little green feeders once the snow landed on top of the entirely ivy bedded yard. I found one feeder, still intact and in good shape, three yards or halfway down the hill from the deck. The hanger was next to the window.

The second feeder I discovered had been dragged under the deck. There, the squirrels had gnawed the plastic perches off, the plastic tube around each feeding perch was gnawed, and, of course, the feeder was quite empty (which it was that morning, so why did they feel compelled to take it?). I still haven't found the second hanger.

My blessings are that in the Warrior Squirrels' (there's a gang of seven big and fat grays, plus a second tribe of two baby grays that are more rust than gray, and a loner black one) determination to get the feeders down--now three of them gone, two recovered--they have not broken the window. Their only way to reach them is to hang from the roof or leap from a nearby tree. As I've seen them eyeing and heard, once, the leap and crash against the window, I consider this a great blessing. Those guys are very fat!

My second blessing? I can help the Michigan economy some more by keeping the feeders filled!

Rescue Mom!

A week in Lowell Massachusetts with my daughter and son-in-law, plus Misty, the poodle-who-once-was-mine, has left me with lots of musing.

How did she get to be such a messie?
Was it really me that taught her to question authority so persistently?
Where did the compulsion to eat organic come from? and how can organic include chex mix?
If we truly want to be "green" then shouldn't the need to acquire be moderated by how the acquisitions will be packaged? Is it okay to keep buying when everything is delivered in styrofoam?

Lowell is a wonderful town--small town in some ways, historic town, vibrant and exciting arts center with much more potential.

I saw so many parallels between the small community in which I work and its need to find a new sustaining identity which I think will be a return to arts and culture center with Lowell. The competing factions of economic development through building, retail, food service and the preservation of history and historic buildings war in Lowell as they do in my small community.

I am excited for the potential of what daughter and son-in-law can achieve and for what they bring to every interaction. Watching her in action, creating connections and networking constantly--through social media, on the phone, in person--was an amazing lesson.

And amongst it all, I accomplished two loads of dishes in the dishwasher, 18 loads of laundry, the flattening of cardboard boxes into a 4'x4'x6' tall pile, and 30 bags of trash. And I got my first facial, a haircut, the poodle groomed, and visited the National Historic Park visitor center, the Whistler Museum of Art, and the New England Quilt Museum. I also ate far too well--two separate diners, the classic kind; Vietnamese for the first time; and a cool movie/dinner place with the viewing of Slumdog Millionaire (which I never would have gone to on my own, but am very glad I saw).

I am very fortunate for many reasons.

Yes Man

What if you said yes to everything--to every question asked, every opportunity offered, every occurrence? What would that change in your life?

And then, being open to everything, saying yes to all, what if it meant that you lose what means the most?

We cannot see the future. We can only know our hearts and minds, and some of us do not seem to find even that ability for nearly a lifetime, if ever. How do I know that saying yes to this today won't mean losing something valuable and even more important to me tomorrow?

My daughter once told me that she woke up and asked herself what would she do if she could not fail? I found a card that said that and carried it around with me for a long time. I dismissed the philosophy--I couldn't risk failure, I had to succeed, I had to continue working, striving, earning money, certainly, but approval, love, affiliation. Had To. no option.

and one day it occurred to me that I didn't have much left to lose. Daughter and son grown. sufficient success in my field to let it go and start over if I wanted. too much debt still, but even that had a way out. So what would I do?

Despite all my misgivings, despite my daughter's concerns I leapt for the one thing that I most wanted to do, if I could not fail. I married for the fourth time.

Today, nearly two years later, I know that to leap is not to succeed. There's a lot of living between the leap and the not-failing. I have failed again at marriage. But, taking this risk one more time--deciding to marry when everything in my head said I was a fool and half my heart saying it, too--is my success.

Because I could do that, I could also leave my comfortable job and retire. Because I could do that, I could also take a bigger job that means more responsibility and daily, if not hourly risks because I am responsible for 2.5 million and 32 people and service to nearly 25,000. Is it neurosurgery? Do I hold lives in my hands? No.
But what I do matters and I have even greater ability to effect change.

I proved to myself that I was neither too old nor too staid to make a change for me.

I said yes and it did not all turn out well but I would not have chosen a different path, not really. I am growing and I am excited about the adventures I can have yet and the even greater, kinder, more healing changes I can make for me but also in this world so in need.

Say yes. It can make a world of difference for all of us.

Seven Pounds

What is the price of forgiveness for being the root of an accident?

Is it seven pounds of flesh, literally?

How does one forgive oneself?

Does accident mean without blame?

We have responsibility. If we are all-seeing we might be able to exert responsible action before injury. We could suspend fate or Kushner's chaotic corner of the universe.

I am unable to see each result from each action I take. I am responsible for all, but knowledgeable of very few. If I knew the specific action I could take to prevent a specific result, and I ignored and refused/chose not to act, shall I owe a pound of flesh? or three or seven?

How does one forgive oneself when hindsight directs remorse and the hindsight rarely, if ever, is kind?

From Men of Grace to Dracula!

What a wonderful, marvelous, entertaining weekend I've enjoyed. Friday night I atended the 20th Awards Night of the Livingston Diversity Council. A celebration to recognize and commend leadership in the community, it included a performance by Men of Grace, an acapella ensemble of men who have come through the Grace Centers rehabilitation program, formerly the Pontiac Rescue Mission. Their music is phenomenal, their arrangements exceptionally creative, and their delivery so moving.

Saturday morning, I got to enjoy the presentations of the Hartland High School DECA, marketing club, pre-district competition as a judge. Tough work. There is not a bone in my body or desire in my heart to discourage a single one of those future marketing pros. But sometimes you just have to be honest and encourage them to practice more, research more, and drop the "you know," "also," and "like" phrases from their vocabulary. So creative, though!

Saturday afternoon, a gentleman I've only known a few months, enjoyed a surprise 80th birthday party at the VFW's American Spirit Center. His tears came easily as he was surrounded by family and friends who had traveled from all over the country to celebrate his upcoming (January) birthday. A very special afternoon for a fellow who says "My doctor told me my heart is the only thing on me that's good--good thing, too, today."

And this evening! Dracula performed, crewed, and designed by 80 Hartland High School students. I loved the vampires coming down the aisles preceding the performance, during every scene change, and between acts. The performance of Mr. Renfield was no high school student rendering, nor was Dracula's or Charles'. This was my first HHS student performance but will certainly *not* be my last.

And tomorrow? I start with church--last week I joined a church that reminds me so much of my historic one where I grew up, met the kids' dad, married, and baptized both of them. I won't be in the choir this Sunday--it's instrumental music--but I've had some God moments I can share, and some prayers to ask for, some mission gifts to bring and a place where I feel I belong.

In the evening, a special concert at another church--a group I've heard much about, Cats and the Fiddlers, and am very much looking forward to hearing.

What a terrific weekend...what joy there is to feel.

Grandma Henrika

Friday just past, I attended a workshop, Reconstructing Life Stories, to teach me how to conduct an eight-week guided autobiography for adults. I hoped to learn more about writing, always, but also to learn how to offer this opportunity to senior adults in my new community.

One of our exercises was to recall a grandparent. Although I am quite shy, I speak easily enough in groups, as though it is my mission to get others to talk by talking first. And I reveal easily in small groups of strangers (but not at all easily in one-on-ones).

Grandma Henrika Augusta Bjorndahl Watson was my lead-off story. She was my mother's mother, a Swedish immigrant, whose name I found on the Passenger Immigration Lists. When she was in Chicago, she heard a baby crying in the middle of the night in the distance and she knew to go to Pittsburgh. There, my grandfather, Ory Orville Watson, had lost his first wife to childbirth, but the baby was five months old. This baby, Aunt Martha, was the one Grandma heard crying.

Can you imagine that kind of risk-taking behavior? Grandma was a driven woman. Grandpa had two older children, Ruth and John, and shortly, he and Grandma, his housekeeper and nanny, were married. At the age of 42, Grandma gave birth to her first child, my mother, Esther Cecilia Henrika, and within two years, to her second, Dorcas Louisa Sophia.

All of these people are gone now. Their stories, some adventures, a few photographs (and even fewer labeled) live only in the memory of a very small number of us. We are all distant; none of us talk about the family with one another.

Grandma raised the children during the day while my Grandpa was a bookkeeper. At night, in Pittsburgh, they ran a storefront mission church. Bring in the homeless, feed them, preach to them, save them, send them on their way. Grandpa died when my mama was in her mid-twenties. Grandma lived on. She became a fanatical religious person according to my mother. My one significant memory of Grandma was the time she said she was going to take these matches and set herself on fire because there was no living left, no reason to live. A scary thing for an eight-year-old to witness, but what I know as an adult who reads and has learned a little about gerontology and aging, a clear depressed act, not unusual for an older woman with no apparent purpose. She spent some time in Pontiac State Hospital (now gone); my aunt Dorcas placed her in a nursing home.

Grandma died the night that the nursing home staff moved her room, mistakenly left a door unlocked, and did not realize Grandma wandered. She wandered out of the home (an old Victorian), down to the next home the James Oliver Curwood Castle in Owosso, fell down the concrete steps which led to the boat landing on the Shiawassee River, and cut her head. It's believed, although perhaps this was only for comfort, that she died instantly. Her body was found the next morning, hanging from a limb a little further downriver from the castle. She had drowned, if she had not died from the head injury first.

Today my Grandma is with me in the tatted lace she used to embellish the dress she made for my Tiny Tears doll and two pieces of homespun she created. Plus this memory of a woman who lived such an amazing life, and died so uselessly.