My kind of Cowboy

Wow. Haven't blogged in over a year. Thought about it, fretted about it, wrote about it in my mind, in the car, in the shower, but never did it. Momentum lost, stride broken. A big year of life challenges; a big year of life gone by in a blur. Blurry, fuzzy, foggy, crazy zooming year of not remembering who, what, when, where is me? So do it already. 

Today while driving through town, I saw Cowboy. Every time I see Cowboy, I smile big from my belly button up. 

I met Cowboy when I was a volunteer dog walker at the Humane Society. He was incarcerated. He didn't do anything wrong, he was kind and gentle,  of average age, and had a great sense of humor. Most single women i know would gladly date a guy like that, but Cowboy is a dog, and he had gone unadopted for over 10 months.  He's a whitish, tannish australian shepherd mix of some kind, and he looooves to walk. None of us could understand why he was still there after all those months. He could have become a lifer, an official ambassador, but he just wasn't that crazy about kids. He tolerated them, but with a pained look. 

Then one day a kind looking, prematurely gray woman with kinda whitish, kinda tannish colored hair came in looking for a puppy. There weren't any, so she played with Sally the Boxer and Blue - a beagle from Hurricane Katrina, while Cowboy, as always, watched from an outdoor run. Then someone pulled Cowboy out to take him for a little afternoon walk and a quick game of ball in the play yard next to where the prematurely gray lady was meeting dogs--and it happened. That night Cowboy got his first overnight pass to go out on a trial visit. The trial got extended to a week and everyone asked about Cowboy every day. Was it working? Had anyone heard? More than 20 people all with fingers crossed, and it worked. It was a match. The woman worked at the local paper and Cowboy became a fixture there. A go-to-work dog, who's owner has since moved on to a new job, but there she and Cowboy were this morning both still smiling and walking. Cowboy with his usual tail-curled-over-the-back waggy walk giving the nod to every passerby on the chance that they were a fan from his former newspaper days. He just makes me smile. A happy ending kinda guy. Living proof that you just never know what a day might bring.  MK

Two negatives don't make a positive

Some days the negative spin can be relentless. This whole day has been an exercise in just trying to glimpse a positive outlook for a moment at a time. I am officially unemployed. This is not a surprise, and I know it is as much an opportunity as a challenge, but today as it has really sunk in, I am slogging through time in a thick, dark fog. A major retelling of the story is at hand. I have read memoirs of people who have completely reinvented themselves or their lives after far bigger and far more devastating life changes. I get that this is not one of those. Intellectually, of course I know everything works out; but viscerally, today at least, it feels grim. Again, I suppose the lesson is that nothing is all or nothing. I have to remember from minute to minute that embracing the positive takes practice, at least as much practice as I've already devoted to plowing huge crop circles of negative thought patterns. It doesn't have to all be worked out today, it just has to be worked on, worked at, made to work, for today. The trick is to figure out how to shift out of fear into forward, one little step at a time. That's good enough for now. MK

Driving force

     I drove all over the City last weekend, searched for parking for what seemed like hours, parallel parked in heavy traffic, picked my way through hordes of tourists, crossed two bridges, crossed Market Street even, and I only once turned the wrong way down a one-way street…in the Tenderloin…but mostly (whew) I kept my cool. It was a driving triumph. Driving with a car full of people in a busy city for two straight days isn’t something I normally do. Country roads are my usual course; it felt good to challenge the comfort zone--it’s that time-of-life thing again--and I know driving in tough circumstances will get even tougher the less I do it. I suppose it could happen anytime to anyone, but midlife is the classic fulcrum: lean one way and you are in contraction mode, but let go and lean the other direction, and you can swing open on your hinge. I guess we shouldn’t fear the inevitable crossroads, life is physics, it’s the fulcrum that supplies the capability for action.


Crossroads and driving are themes around here. Sam is learning to drive. It’s a major passage of parenting, and I realize we are now teaching him how to leave. I’m trying not to give too much attention to the fact that he shows more enthusiasm for the leaving skills than anything we’ve ever tried to teach him so far. But I can’t help notice the contrast, for Sam, driving isn’t one of life’s fulcrums, it’s not a crossroads, it’s pure trajectory. There’s less than three years to launch and I feel the pressure to teach him everything he needs to know, which I know isn’t possible, or even likely, we learn most of life’s lessons on our own. He’s heading toward 16 and he tells me the truth. My words of wisdom are generally the kiss of death to his psyche. He is, as ever, as much the teacher as the student, passenger and now driver, and like all teenagers, I imagine, as much frustrating as inspiring. I could never explain to him how the juxtaposition of our lives’ paths sharpens the focus of everything for me. How raising someone places you at once in the past, present and future. How in so many ways I see him beginning to make ripples on the pond. He’s starting to live in ever expanding concentric circles. It’s the flow. It’s a beginning of beginnings. It’s as it should be. MK

Every little thing you do

This afternoon when my son and husband asked, what's for dinner tonight, I said, "I don't know, I haven't been to the market yet." They looked confused, and no wonder, this is so different for me, Today, when it comes to dinner at least, we begin anew. I've had a small epiphany that will probably mean very little to anyone else. Usually when it's time to grocery shop, I start nagging and cajoling everyone to help me think of meals. What do you feel like having? What sounds good? Think of something, I'm tapped out! The epiphany came to me on a particularly desperate evening. I've been doing this dinner thing exactly backwards. Instead of trying to conjure up something to cook, how about going to the market and/or the farm stand seeing what looks good, and simply cook that. Cook in season. I know, it's certainly not a new concept, and it's essentially what good cooks, great chefs and health conscious eaters have done all along, but I've only trifled with the idea. I've never abandoned all planning and recipes and lists and simply gone to see what there is to be had. And why not? The thought of entering the grocery store without an ironclad list is a source of great fear and loathing for me. It's such domestic drudgery constantly having to shop for food, put the food away, cook the food, clean up after the food and plan the next episode of food. Ack! Going at it without a solid plan may lead to aimless, brain dead wandering in a giant store with an overwhelming array of choices--just more time wasted on the food. No wonder the joy has gone out of cooking. But what if it wasn't like that? That's the question I'm always asking these days. How could it (or anything) be different. Hardship or delight? Ordeal or adventure? It's a choice. In the midst of contemplating this change of perspective, Mary Ann called and told me about two recent trips she made to her farmers market. The first she undertook in a hassle-haired, beset frame of mind and ended up scouring through the stands, clutching her bag in folded arms, reticent and just unable to interact with the vendors for whatever reason that day. Needless to say, it was a bust. The next time though, she purposely set out with an open and inquisitive intent and, poof, the drudgery was transformed to delight. What had been a challenging chore, this time turned into a rich and enjoyable experience. So tonight, I shopped for food as though it was a fun escapade. No preconceived notions, no angst, no list. The colors, textures and aromas in my market basket were beautiful: bright green organic broccoli, yellow and white bicolor corn, orange, red and yellow mini peppers, a fragrant Dulcinea melon, smooth little yukon golds, and a deep cassis-colored local zinfandel.The epiphany is really this: there isn't enough life left to waste it resenting our daily repetitive tasks. Bon Appetite! MK

Go with the flow...

Star like water flowing - artwork by Alicia Austin
My Brezny's astrology comes to me via email every week. Today I realized how much it actually grounds me. Something about getting this email that makes me stop, read, relax and enjoy. This is so, even in the most hectic of weeks. What is it about this weekly mini-ritual that works? The surprise factor, the fact that his horoscopes have some sort of lesson. This week it is about going with the flow but he asks which flow and tells me he thinks the flow I need to go with is deep underground away from all the madness and noise. Not the flow of the childhood upbringing or the flow of other's expectations. It really made sense to me at a time when I am searching for a place all my own, my rhythm, my way. Yoga is in a way that rhythm for me. I am going with that flow...

What comes first, the happiness or the haircut?

Lately, my non-blog writing has focused on my current and particular sense of place. My place for the past 24 years has been wine country. Well, the other wine country actually. Sonoma County: less than 50 miles from the Golden Gate Bridge and home to vineyards, beaches, the Russian River, dairies, old hippies, farmers, horses, historic houses, young urban refugees, geodesic domes and some of the most beautiful views on the planet. Some days it seems that around every corner is a postcard view of an impressionist’s vineyard or a Currier and Ives farm scene.

But really, it’s the people who make a place. Recently I’ve been collecting impressions of the characters who populate our local scene. It’s helped me realize how at-home I feel here. I recognize people everywhere I go in this not-so-big town. Some of them I really know as great friends, some are longtime acquaintances and others are just people who regularly share the same haunts. This, I am happy to say, is the kind of place where people nod and smile as they pass just because we recognize each other, even though we’ve never met. I can’t think of how long it took to feel this way, this connected to this place, but I know it took a long while. For years I went to work, came home, found something interesting to do on the weekends, but never really felt at home anywhere. Then there were the sleep-deprived years of raising a child when some days I was lucky to remember where I was headed, let alone what I meant to do when I got there or whom I had passed along the way. Maybe it’s just age or familiarity that makes me look around now and appreciate everything and everyone around me so much more, or maybe it’s just a change in perspective. I hope it’s not a sign of early onset dementia or some crazy middle-aged potentially purple hat-wearing syndrome, but lately, I am more and more willing to greet the day with childish enthusiasm. Along with that shift has come this new appreciation and even compassion for “my people.”

Last week it was the guy at the grocery store. He’s a bagger and though I sometimes see him several times a week, I’m embarrassed to say, I can’t remember his name. I’ve always kind of wondered what his story might be. He seems a little too old to be a bagger, but maybe he’s not old at all and is just aged by a hard life or hard living. He’s friendly enough, he’ll always chat some, but then always be a little furtive, looking down or away before you can look back directly or meet his eyes. He doesn’t smile much, and when he does you can tell his teeth aren’t so good. He looks nice, but there’s a definite hard edge to him and a couple of tattoos showing a bit below his shirtsleeve. One day early last week I was in his line and I noticed he was smiling way more than usual. Then while he was bagging my stuff, three separate people who worked at the store commented on his haircut. They were right, it was a great haircut. He looked different--younger, happier. I had bought the huge, heavy bags of salt for the water softener, so he helped me to the car. He made conversation easily and the air around him just felt lighter. I drove off thinking, wow, that really is a great haircut. Then two days later I was back at the store for something and he was outside taking a break. I’d seen him take a smoke break around the side of the store before, but this time he wasn’t smoking, he was out front on the bench and he was talking to a nice looking young woman. They were flirting, and he looked confident and very sweet as he talked a bit and listened and returned her gaze with a soft smile. I dilly-dallied getting my cart so I could watch them a few seconds longer. Then I wondered what had come first, the haircut or the girl, the confidence or the happiness. I really don’t even know him, but I felt as proud and happy for him as I might after seeing one of my son’s life-long friends reach a milestone of some kind, and I was grateful for the extra joy this relative stranger brought to the day. MK

Off to Tahoe

Back to blogging on Monday. MK