RACHEL LOHRMAN

Resembling My Horse

2012-02-07T20:43:00.000-07:00

I've heard it said that people often resemble their animals. Or is it that animals resemble their owners? And is there actually any validity to this idea anyway, or is it just superstition built on anomalies? This is what I was wondering the other day, as I took Rocky on a new trail.

He backed out of the trailer and snorted, stepping quickly, looking around at his new surroundings. He calmed quickly, and I saddled him up and joined the other two horses we were riding with. As we started out, Rocky was on high alert. He was anxious passing other horses, spooked over a few dogs who rushed the fence - just nervous. After a mile or so he relaxed and we settled into our usual (and comfortable) trail position - last, and lagging way behind the other horses. I trotted him forward every so often to catch up, but we always ended up quite a few strides behind. When it pointed out that he's a slow poke, I just laugh and say "yeah, he's a slow walker". But I have to admit, it's where I prefer to be too.

For training purposes, because Rocky is still a young horse, I sometimes put him in the lead even though I know it makes him (and me) uncomfortable. He has no desire to lead (nor do I), so unless I make him (and me), he (we) never would. He (I) don't like other horses (people) rushing up behind him (me) and scaring him (me); and he (I) don't like other horses (people) following too closely behind him (me). It makes him (me) nervous. Regardless, I put him in the lead. He stopped at first, and looked around, as if to ask "um, are you sure? Why? Why do you want me to lead? I don't want to lead..." He took a step and stopped. Then another and stopped. I had to urge him forward, and even then he kept looking back, checking to see if the other horses were there, and if one of them would perhaps like to lead, and to make sure he hadn't been tricked and left behind. He began to walk at a decent pace, but his ears flicked back every few seconds to listen.

We came off the trail into an open space, where he graciously tried to step aside and let another horse lead. But I thought he could use a little more training, so I asked him to lead again. He spooked at a blue sign marking the beginning of a new trail, and began breathing hard. He did not want to lead; he didn't know what to expect, and he was scared. He wanted to turn around, but I kept pushing him forward and after a few circles, he moved past the sign. His behavior at this point was nervous but he didn't stop, just kept looking around, breathing hard. Then we came to a hurdle, and there was no where to go but over it. This took some coaxing; he had to sniff it, look around, then sniff it again. A little more coaxing though and he stepped over the hurdle. But I am left to wonder whether he stepped over the hurdle because he was finally comfortable with it, or because of my coaxing?

We continued on across two more hurdles, which he hesitated at, but stepped over. Then we turned around and went back the same way we had just come. This time through, he didn't hesitate at all - just stepped right over the hurdles and took the lead like it was no big deal. We came off that trail, back into the open space, and I finally Rocky to step aside and allow the other two horses go ahead. For the remainder of the ride, Rocky and I hung in the back. I let him walk at his own pace; he relaxed, I relaxed. And it was peaceful. The other horses were strides ahead of us. He wan't worried about where to go because he was following the horses ahead of him, and there was no one behind us so he wasn't tuned in to that either. We were content, which made me wonder: was I content because he was, or was he content because he sensed I was? And did I happen to buy a horse that had my same fears and reactions to new situations? Or did he adopt these behaviors because of me?

These are my thoughts: we both came to each other with preexisting personalities - similar, but not exactly the same. One thing is clear - neither of us like new and unfamiliar situations. They make us nervous. When put into an uncomfortable situation, we both prefer someone else to go first; and he (I) prefer having someone who is comfortable leading us. If we can follow someone we trust into uncomfortable surroundings, we don't hesitate to try new things. We don't like to lead, but will do it when asked or when necessary. Our hesitancy to lead seems to stem from that fact that we don't like people watching or scrutinizing us until we know what we're doing. We are both suspicious of our surroundings unless someone is there to show us things are okay. And we both have an irrational fear of being tricked and left behind, so we constantly want to look behind us and check. After we conquer an uncomfortable situation however, going back through it is usually no big deal, and leading becomes quite easy. We both prefer to like to hang in the back because we watch, listen, and take in our surroundings.

So, do I resemble Rocky? Or he me... Either way, we just seem to fit as a team.

Childhood Dreams Come True and My Word of the Year

2012-01-11T12:23:00.000-07:00

I used to be nostalgic for my childhood. For the days I would spend tucked away in my room writing, reading, creating - dreaming. But I realized something today: most of my childhood dreams have come true. How many people can actually say that?? I'm married. I am a mother. I have a horse. I am a college graduate and I rescue. I have my sisters and family close-by. I am an artist. I have a Diana to my Anne. I am surrounded by books. I have a home that reflects my inner-self.

I was one of those girls who dreamed of her wedding and husband-to-be. I bought Bride magazines, cut out pictures, and arranged a binder full of ideas. This dream was fueled by my best friend at the time - also a hopeless romantic; we talked often about what our lives would be like one day. I met my husband when I was only 19, young by today's standards, and I knew right away he was the one for me. When I look ahead - at forever - he's there. It's hard to believe we've been married for almost 8 years, and I've known him for more than a third of my life. Funny, when did 'one day' become 'today'? I've also come to understand that the planning of my wedding, my life - my future was really a need to look forward, to have an objective I'm working towards. I need to plan, to organize, and to be ready for things ahead of time. And I knew that way back when.

These planning skills came back into play when I began college. I loved college - creating my schedule, organizing my notes, deciding on a degree, attending classes, turning in papers... College cemented my need for, and desire of, structure and organization.

I used to think a lot about what I would be when I grew up. I remember wanting to be a paramedic; I can't remember when and why I let go of that dream, but I know now that my desire to be a paramedic was really a desire to rescue. This desire morphed into a degree in psychology, a career in social services and an intense desire to rescue the mind. I am still hungry for information about the brain - how it works, how it stores memory, but mostly what happened when things go wrong. My need to rescue shows up in other ways too. Adopting children. Taking in a stray dog. Falling in love with a horse. I have an innate desire to put protective arms around certain things and make their lives easier and better than they were.

Then I wanted to be in the FBI - I was fascinated with crime, the art of investigation, and guns. Funny though, it is now my daughter's greatest desire - to join the FBI; perhaps my dream will yet be realized through her. But this dream has been fulfilled in another way. I married a man who not only has a fascination with guns, but a knowledge of guns that makes me envious, and proud. He can pick up any gun, anywhere, and not only tell you about it but knows exactly how to use it. For our children, this means they are growing up with best of both worlds - my romantic fascination with guns, and Johnny's knowledge and good sense of them. And that makes me proud.

I always knew I'd be a mother. The desire has always been there; although back then I wanted ten kids because I had ten beautiful names picked out :) This dream came to be in an amazing way because God didn't give us biological kids. Instead, He led our hearts into adopting three amazing kids - handpicked for us, like wildflowers God carefully removed from the side of the road and neatly arranged in a vase in our home. My oldest child said to me once: "do you think since God knew we would be your kids someday, He gave us traits like you and dad?" And He did. Because they are like us in so many ways - they even look like us! I've learned through adoption that when the desire comes from God, but it doesn't seem to coming true, He may be planning to fulfill that desire in a way other than what you expect. I look for that now. When my heart has a desire, I try to be open to a rearrangement of the fulfillment of that desire.

I used to draw floor plans, dreaming about the house I would someday have. Each drawing had several stories, and ten or more bedrooms (for my ten kids, remember) - well, actually I guess I drew mansions. When I married, we bought a house. It was the second house I looked at and we moved on it immediately. I had no idea how perfect this house would be for us in so many ways. It has led to friendships for my children, the dog that's closest to my heart, close proximity to our church, friends, family.... It's odd looking back now, at all the times we thought we wanted to move, and how something prevented us each time. I love our home because it is filled it with colors, things and people that are comforting, peaceful and bring us joy.

I read a lot as a child. I brought home stacks of books from the library, bought books with babysitting money, and read and re-read thousands of books. I remember thinking about how great it would have been to be locked in a library or bookstore overnight (okay, maybe it was because I read the book 'Help! I'm Locked in the Library,' but still). Today, my home is filled with books - upstairs and downstairs, my walls are lines with books. You might say I live in a bookstore. And I love it.

I thought it would be so much fun to be an artist (all those years of drawing floor plans maybe). Really though, I wanted to be a painter or a sketch artist. But I can't paint, and I can't draw. However, I had the desire to be an artist; and God fulfilled my desire when He put a camera in my hand. Photography has become my art. Taking a photo from the right angle, with the right colors, and perfect lighting; then editing it to perfection. And so, I am an artist, just not in the traditional sense. My love of photography gave me a greater appreciation for life and landscapes because I look at everything through the lens of a camera. I look for those moments you want stilled in your memory forever. I look for the unique, and for the mundane that becomes beautiful. I view life in snapshots.

I remember assuming I'd grow old with my sisters and their kids. By today's standards, this was a naive assumption but we all actually live within a five-mile radius. In a world where kids grow up and move away, only coming home for holidays, I feel so blessed to have all my sisters, their husbands and kid(s) just around the corner. (If only my dream of living in a Gilmore Girls town would come true now...)

I used to think the friendship between Anne and Diana in the book Anne of Green Gables was the epitome of true friendship. But as I grew older, I became more cynical: childhood friendships don't last - we change, we move, we disagree, we marry. And friendships begun in adulthood are often complicated - life gets in the way, you don't know a person's past as you do with a childhood friend, and I've found that trust is so much harder to give as an adult. But God happened to think I still needed an 'Anne and Diana' friendship, and my image of 'kindred spirits' has been restored. We are the same and we are different, and she makes my heart happy.

I dreamed of horses as a child. I remember wishing I'd lived on a ranch in Montana, surrounded every day by horses. But I grew up in a suburban neighborhood so I had to live this dream other ways. I read westerns. I watched westerns. And I wrote about horses in my stories. About a year ago though, God decided it was time to let this dream come true too. I began by riding horses that belonged to friends; then I met Rocky, and I was in love. He became my horse not even six months ago. Of all my dreams, this is probably the one I thought most likely not to come true. Hmmm.... my words are stuck now - I can't seem to find the right ones to tell you the joy I've found in belonging to a horse. I learn something new from him everyday- about me, about life, about love. He is as much my life-coach as he is my baby. The connection to a horse is an emotional bond that makes me as happy as it does fearful, because I know one day I will lose him. Looking forward, however, I can see an expansion of this dream - I can see a ranch, more horses, and living the life I wanted as a girl. It also means my kids and my nieces and nephews will grow up with horses. And that makes me glad.

As I began this blog, I thought it would be about my childhood dreams. But it's become about the person I am today. And the person I am today is someone I'm completely happy with. God has brought things and people in my life to help me, mold me, and yes, change me - but for the better I think. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I talk often to God, but lately it's hard to ask for anything because I am so blessed with people and things that my cup is overflowing. The realist in me knows, however, that this blissful happiness will not last forever. There will be tough times, painful times to endure, and loss.

So I've decided my word of the year is: ENJOY.

I want to remember to take the time and enjoy everything. To take snapshot memories and store them away. To spend time with people. To not put off until tomorrow what could be done today.

The Peppermint Chronicles...

2011-10-10T21:10:00.000-07:00

I know a horse named Lena who loves peppermints. She knows the crinkle of the wrapper from across her stall. If you give Lena a mint, she puts it immediately in her back teeth - crunch crunch - and it's gone, at which point she tries to nudge you for another one.

Rocky treats peppermints a little differently. I'll hold the mint to his nose and he'll take an exaggerated sniff and excitedly take it off my hand with his lips. But then it gets odd. He doesn't chew it, but kind of rolls it around in his mouth. He'll try to crunch it with his front teeth but the pieces can't stay in his mouth and they'll fall to the ground. So I've started keeping my hand under his mouth to catch the pieces and give them back, which he sucks back up. He'll take the smaller pieces and do the same thing again, rolling it around, like he's actually savoring the mint. After all remnants of the mint are finally gone, he stands there licking his lips, for forever... At first I thought it was treats in general, that maybe he just didn't know what to do with a treat - but he crunches his apple-flavored horse treats right away, keeping the pieces in his mouth. I can't imagine, however that this will go on forever - I don't truly believe that he's really sucking on peppermints instead of eating them, I think he just needs more experience with them.

It got me thinking though. (Shocking, I know). As humans, I think we tend to adopt one of these methods when a good thing falls in our lap. Some of us accept it immediately, taking it in without so much as a second thought, devour it, and are instantly ready for the next thing. Others, although excited about the good thing, roll it around first - maybe savoring it, maybe unsure of what to do actually do with it - but letting a few pieces will fall out along the way; maybe you get the pieces back, maybe you don't.

On a deeper level though, one could argue whether or not a 'peppermint' is really a 'good thing'? And does a 'good thing' depend on the intrinsic value of the thing itself, the 'taste buds' of the beneficiary, or the ideology and opinions of the person giving the thing? And finally, if it's determined that the 'peppermint' is actually a 'good thing', can one achieve a happy medium? Somewhere between Lena and Rocky? What is it that gets us there...

Just a little food for thought...

Dark and Early in the Morning

2011-10-08T10:17:00.000-07:00

You've heard the expression bright and early in the morning? Well, I'd like to tell you about dark and early in the morning, and how it is quickly becoming my favorite time of day.

I've never been a morning person; as a teenager I slept in on the weekends often until early afternoon; as a college student, I much preferred the still and quiet of night to study which only reinforced the idea that mornings were for sleeping; as an adult, I got up if I had something to do, but much preferred to sleep in; as a mom, this became less and less of an option. Of course, because I have older children, I'm awakened to the smell a kid making waffles, not the cry of a baby, but I'm up regardless.

Enter a two year old, named Rocky, who is teaching me about dark and early, about the time of day I've been missing all these years - the time of day my husband has always preferred and I never understood why. Whether I want to or not now, I'm awake around 4:30am. I hit the snooze for about 15 minutes and then throw back the covers, pull on jeans and t-shirt and tuck my hair under a hat. The dogs watch me move around the room, lit by only one light so I don't wake Johnny, until they realize that it's for real, that I'm actually getting up. I kiss Johnny good-bye and follow 12 feet who barrel down the stairs. I'm out of the house a little after 5am, a Red Bull in hand.

Down a bumpy dirt road, I pull up to gates behind which sit a house and stables - both still dark and quiet. I pull in, turn off the engine and step out into the dark. It's hard not to look up at the stars - they are the only lights out. I walk into the stable, set my things down and check on Rocky. He is often still sleeping on the ground inside his stall and will let me come in, scratch his neck and ears, and give him kisses before he even stands up. Just like waking a sleeping baby...

The only sounds that early in the morning are my footsteps, the creak of the tack room door as I open it, and horses - their nays, the crunching of hay, and the rattling of buckets from horses waiting (impatiently) for their grain. I slip Rocky into his halter and lead him out of his stall and into the cross-ties to be brushed and groomed. He is usually still sleepy but loves to be scratched on his neck, extending it out as far as he can. If you scratch under his chin he will tuck his head down and turn it from side to side so you can get the right spot. Sometimes, when he's tied to the hitching post outside the stable, he rubs his chest and neck on the wood. You can tell when he's finally starting to 'wake up' because he'll start to nibble on, well, anything - my shirt, my leg, my back, my phone, or most recently my hair. I saddle him up, swap his halter for a bridle and lead him into the arena to stretch his legs before taking him on a sunrise trail ride.

By time the rest of the world is just waking up and reaching for the coffee, I've been on the back of a horse for an hour and watched the sun peek over the mountains and light the sky, bringing us into a brand new day. Maybe the sunrise is why I like dark and early so much...

Photo Credit: V Lowe (taken during one of our mountain morning rides....)

The Cabin: A Place of Magic and Memories

2011-10-06T10:30:00.000-07:00

My memories today are colored by childhood summer days spent at my Grandparent's cabin in the Arizona mountains, in a little place called Happy Jack.

It's cloudy today, and breezy and cool. At sunrise, the sun painted the clouds pink and orange, then disappeared entirely behind billowing gray clouds. Which is when my heart started to ache for my grandparents and the cabin, for the days when there was nothing more to do on a summer day except dream and play. When walking into the cabin midday meant the smell of dinner cooking. When being lazy meant watching the pine trees sway from a hammock tied beneath. When getting the mail was the best part of the day because it was a twenty minute walk down the driveway, up a hill and to what seemed like an endless row of metal mailboxes. When the greatest joy was finding a letter inside the mailbox for me. A handwritten letter from a friend back home. When rainy afternoons were best spent on the screened in porch watching the rain saturate the garden and soften the pine needles on the ground. When playing games meant playing cards and Mastermind. When reading a book wasn't just about reading, it was an experience. I didn't just read (every) summer about the city girl who finds refuge in Montana and meets the handsome rancher - I was her. And writing. Writing meant paper and a pencil, and dreams of becoming an author weren't smothered by time restraints, self-doubt, and a dead laptop battery.

There were the days when the monsoons kept up indoors and it meant curling up on the couch under the deer blanket and watching a movie like Guys and Dolls or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Dinner was eaten in the afternoon and evenings were reserved for tea time (my favorite), hot chocolate and Dominos. And hearing the news meant Grandma was getting tea time ready as she watched the black and white kitchen TV. And opening up the double solid wood pantry doors was like opening the wardrobe door in Narnia. Because if there was a secret door to another world, it would most definitely have been in there.

The cabin was a place where dreaming was done while you were awake, and the world was wide open with nothing in front of you except forever. It was a place of magic - where pine trees smelled like chocolate, vanilla or strawberry, the floors creaked, laundry was hung outside to dry, and attics were filled with treasures. Where going to the store meant a day trip to Payson or Strawberry, and if you were lucky meant breakfast at a restaurant. Where walks in the forest were adventures, forts were built, mud pies were made, berries were picked, the creek was for swimming, church pews were orange and hymns were sung. Where cereals were meant to be mixed, Bible Studies were done before we were ever quite awake, crafts were created, and beds were made with electric blankets so you could leave the windows open to the night air.

Now the cabin has been sold and I can't bring myself to go back one last time. I say its because I don't have the time, but really I think it's because I don't want my memories to be replaced. What I remember most of the cabin are my grandparents, and the world they created there for me, my sisters and my cousins. It was a world free of responsibility, and full of safety, dreams, and rest. A place where all was right with the world. I know that going back just wouldn't be the same. I don't want to let the cabin go but I know that my memories will always be somewhere I can go on days like today - when the air blows cool on my skin, when the clouds make me want to pick up a book a read, and when the rain makes me want nothing more than to curl up under the deer blanket that is now my very own. I know I can always go back to the cabin, if only in my heart.

To my grandparents: you created magic all those summers, thank you :)

In Love with a Horse

2011-09-16T10:20:00.001-07:00

I bought adopted belong to a horse named Rocky. Seven months ago, I knew practically nothing about horses. I've always loved them - lived my childhood in many western novels, dreamed of riding them, admired them - but a horse isn't an animal you can just go to the pound, pick out, buy a collar for, and take home. You have to know what you're doing first. And thanks to the very dear friends whom God brought into my life, I've learned enough about horses to have one of my own.

But the story I want to tell you isn't about my journey from February to September. The story I want to tell you is about the beginning of a love affair. With Rocky, with horses, with a way of life.

"The Horse: Here is nobility without conceit, friendship without envy, beauty without vanity, a willing servant, yet no slave."

I read these words over and over growing up; they rest below a picture of running horses.This still hangs in my childhood home to this day.

But I didn't truly understand those words until I fell in love with a horse named Rocky. He is still a baby...only two and half years old. A Dunn colored Quarter horse who loves to be scratched on the neck and under the chin, and bites his tongue when I ride him. He gives you kisses and tucks his nose into you so you can hug him. He is beautiful, and he's a horse with heart.

"He doth nothing but talk of his horse."

This is quickly becoming a true statement about me. Perhaps because its all so new, perhaps because he and I are still in the 'getting to know each other phase'. Or maybe because I'm in love. Don't you remember that feeling of first being in love? Of talking about the person all the time? Of wanting to tell the world about the one you love? It's kinda like that. Except with a horse.

"Horse, thou art truly a creature without equal, for thou flies without wings and conquers without sword."

A photograph that hangs in my home...

"Riding is a complicated joy. You learn something each time. It is never quite the same, and you never know it all."

I've come a long way since February, but I still have so much to learn. And I do, I learn something new every time I ride. But I've also learned that no matter how much general knowledge you have about horses, each horse is different and you have to learn the intricacies of that horse. Which means that no matter how much you know, or how long you've been riding horses, a new horse offers you the opportunity to learn something new.

“To ride a horse is to ride the sky.”

"In riding a horse, we borrow freedom."

There's nothing quite like the feel of being on the back of a horse - its a natural high. Not simply because of the power beneath you, but because of the life a horse leads you into. A life lived outdoors - in God's country - and a life lived at a slower pace. A life where you take the time to look around you, to be aware and appreciate the beauty of the surroundings around you. A life where getting a little lost simply means more time on a horse. A life that makes you ache for times gone by - for life 150 years ago and the simplicity that life offered then. But this life - this freedom - comes through a relationship of mutual trust and respect.

A painting hanging in my Grandma's cabin...

"Yet when all the books have been read and reread, it boils down to the horse, his human companion, and what goes on between them."

You can't tell a horse you know what you're doing, you have to show them. You can't communicate through words that you respect your horse, you have to prove it.

“All I pay my psychiatrist is the cost of feed and hay, and he'll listen to me any day.”

Horses understand actions, and simple commands. They can't talk, can't converse...yet still we talk to them. Because they offer what a good shrink does - a unbiased, non-judgmental listening ear. I wonder if the sound of our voice is as comforting to them as their presence is to us.

"There are only two emotions that belong in the saddle; one is a sense of humor, and the other is patience."

Horses are extremely perceptive of your emotions, of your decision-making and leadership skills, and of your level of confidence. Horses each have their own personality, and they make me laugh. I've also learned that humor leads to patience. Training moments don't have to be frustrating if you first find the humor, take the time to understand the fear or hesitance, and then work patiently through the situation. If you are frustrated, your horse knows it. And they don't respond as well. Horses have fears, just like we do. Some are rational, some irrational, some they anticipate, some they smell, some catch them (and you) off guard. But they are fears just the same. And like children, it takes the parent, or rider, to help calm and educate their fear.

“Feeling down? Saddle up.”

The second your foot hits the stirrup, a bad day - a bad mood - can simply disappear. But again, it isn't simply the horse that offers this - it's the way of life. When you are on a horse, you are either riding or training in solitude - which means you have quiet time to think and eliminate the noise of life - or you are riding with a good friend - which also has a way of lifting your mood.

"The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse's ears."

God, are there horses in heaven? Please, please say yes! Because the joy that comes from riding a horse is something I would love to have for all eternity.

Top Ten: When Your AC Goes Out...

2011-08-08T13:08:00.000-07:00

(Since I'm becoming a pro at this whole 'no ac' thing, I thought I would pass these on these tips...)

The Top Ten thing you find yourself doing in Arizona when the AC in your house goes out:
1) You walk up and down every aisle at Target as slowly as possible and then leave without buying anything.
2) You go to the store at ten o'clock at night and buy three different types of popsicles and four kinds of ice cream.
3) You order a Tall iced latte in a Venti cup filled with ice.
4) You take several showers a day, not to get clean, but for the five minutes afterwards your skin feels cool.
5) You drench your dogs with water every five minutes because you feel so guilty that they are hot and panting and covered in fur.
6) You run all the annoying errands you've been putting off because there's AC in the car and the stores, and then try to come up with more of them just to stay out of the house longer.
7) You blast the AC in the car until you're frozen and shivering, hoping it'll carry over for a few minutes when you walk into the house.
8) You find that it's cooler in the garage - in the dead of summer - than it is your house.
9) You find its too hard to get up from your spot on the couch in front of the fan to eat, so instead you starve rather than exert any unnecessary energy.
10) You drink your weight in ice water.

Dear Chopper: I'll Miss You

2011-08-07T22:16:00.001-07:00

Dear Chopper:

We haven't seen you in days. We are wondering where you are. Did something bad happen to you? Did you leave because you knew it was your time to go? Is that why you found me a few days ago and begged for attention? Did you know? Did you try to tell me good-bye?

The kids are hoping you are just hiding. They put up 'lost cat' signs today and walked the neighborhood, hoping to find you. They asked me if I thought someone found you and kept you because you were such a 'cool' cat. They asked if I thought your collar came off, and whoever found you doesn't know you are our cat. They are still hoping you will come home. But I don't think you will.

We picked you because you were a clever cat. At the Humane Society, seven years ago, you were in a cage with another kitten. While we distracted the other kitten in the cage, you pounced on it and wrestled it to the ground; Johnny thought you were smart. We adopted you and took you home. We introduced you to Bella, who was just a puppy. She was happy to have a playmate and you two became inseparable, always playing together, and napping together.

When the kids came along, you accepted them - and loved them. You started sleeping in D's room at night. E thought it was funny to see you walk down the latter from her top bunk, one step at a time. They would sling you over their shoulder and walk around the house with you.

Dancing with the Chop

When we brought Sneaker home, she was curious, and you were not happy. You tolerated the pup, but made it clear 'it' was not part of your pack. Finally, you learned to tolerate Sneaker. But really, I think you were sad when Sneaker taught Bella how to be a 'real' dog because you became the third wheel.

Then Audrey came to live with us. At first, she didn't bother you, so you followed her around. But again, your curiosity turned to tolerance. You began to spend a lot more time upstairs, in the windowsil or under the bed. You would 'make your appearance' every once in awhile, earning you the nickname 'the Phantom'.

The kids always rescued you when the dogs chased you, and came right away to tell on Audrey when she'd given you an unwanted 'bath.' They defended you when I accused you of taunting the dogs, while you sat on the step, licking your paws. And Johnny laughed at me when I tried to tell him that 'he didn't hear what you said to the dogs to make them chase you'. But I don't blame you, I would have taunted them too. They displaced you, and you handled it well.

About a year ago, we watched as you learned how to open the patio door, when it was unlocked. You'd sneak out, wander around outside, and then come back inside. At first it worried me, but then after you always came back, I didn't mind as much, although I would 'yell' at you for not closing the door behind you when you came back inside. A few times, when we didn't realize you were outside, we locked the door and went to bed. But by morning, you were meowing at the door, mad that we forgot you...and hungry.

You even killed a rat once. Johnny found you stretched out a few feet away from it in the morning, proud that you protected your family from such a beast.

You were the most tolerant cat I've ever know. I could wrap you around my neck, hold you like a baby, hold you upside down - you never minded. As long as we rubbed your head, you were content. And finally, when Isabel came along, she was infatuated as soon as she was conscious of your existence. Over the last few months, she would wake up from her nap and find you there too, napping right along side of her. She called you "Choppy." And she would also yell at the dogs when they chased you.

But Choppy, it's been days now, and no one has seen you. We miss you. We wish you'd walk through the back door and come home. But if you're gone, if you're never coming home....

Thank you for saying good-bye.

Bobcat: RIP; Lizzie: Please Forgive Me; Audrey: Don't Leave Me

2011-08-02T16:24:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago, to the month, I picked out a screeching, tiger-marked kitten from the Humane Society whom I named Bob because he sounded like a bobcat. I had been determined to replace the beloved cat I'd had to put down just weeks prior - the cat I loved, and the memory I still have a hard time thinking about without the sting of regret, sadness and grief.

I sat down today to memorialize Bob with a blog post, but all I think of was Lizzie. I never dealt with the pain of her death, the suddenness of the ending of her life, or with how little time and how little I remember of her last few days. I figured 'time heals all wounds', so ten years ago I pushed it all aside and let the scar tissue form over the memory. But the wound reopened today as I went with my mom to the vet to put Bob to sleep.

It wasn't Bob I was sad to lose, it was Lizzie - all over again. I couldn't help but compare and contrast the differences in situation. Lizzie was put down with a child's heart, letting Bob go was done through the eyes of an adult. My teenage heart was stabbed with the knife of loss when Lizzie breathed her last. But today, I was relieved when Bob's body - which had been wheezing and brittle - finally relaxed and his life melted away. Both were released from their suffering; with one I felt loss, the other peace.

Afterwards, we took Bob to my mother's and buried him in the garden he loved so much; and because my mom makes all things beautiful, she gently wrapped his body in a towel and tied it with a bow. She laid him to rest with the sticks he loved so much to be scratched with. On top of his grave, she placed his food dish for the days he was so fat he could hardly move, a flower, and a feather from Bob's pet bird whom he routinely let eat from his food dish. There, in the soft soil of the very garden I was married in, Bob is at rest.

Bobcat, the early years

I never buried Lizzie. Her ashes have moved with me from my childhood home, to my apartment with my sister to my home with Johnny. I didn't - I don't - know what to do with them. I'd like to bury her - perhaps in the same garden with Bob, but to do will mean I would become vulnerable to the emotions I have tried so hard to stuff down and avoid. And I'm not ready for that yet.

My first memory of my Lizzie is coming home from my Grandma's cabin the summer I turned 14 to find a big eared, tiger-striped kitten curled up in my sister's arms. She was a birthday present, one that took me completely by surprise. I named her Lizzie, after the character in the book Pride and Prejudice. She had beautiful markings, like an Egyptian Mau, huge pointy ears and bright golden eyes.

For five years she was my constant companion. She would lay on my school books, stretch out on the keys of the piano, take naps with me in the sun, wait for me by the door to get home from work, and follow me around. She was my cat, but loved every member of my family - often spending time with them when I was gone. She was spunky and playful and even had a favorite stuffed toy dog - named Oatmeal.

Then she got sick. And I wasn't there for her. My mom reminded me yesterday that she went 18 days without food before my mom made me take her to the vet. When I took her in, I learned she had eaten several long piece of string, and it was wound up so tightly in and around her intestines that even surgery may not have been able to remove. I couldn't spend the money to save her, so I decided to put her down. And to be in the room with her when it happened.

She was sedated, stretched out on the table, looking relaxed, a catheter in her leg. Her head rested on the cold metal table. I crouched down by her head, the tears already falling while the vet and assistant busied themselves preparing the syringe of liquid that would take her life. As they put the needle to the catheter, Lizzie looked up and made direct eye contact with me. It was that moment when I lost it, that moment of connectedness. It is the only time in my life I can remember sobbing so much I couldn't see. Sobbing because of the pain in my heart. Sobbing because because it wasn't fair, and because I couldn't explain to her what was happening or that I was sorry. Sobbing because I was losing something I didn't know enough to appreciate while I had it.

Quickly afterwards I shut off the memory of Lizzie's death every time it surfaced. I couldn't risk dwelling on what I could of - what I should have done. I paid to have her cremated and they put her ashes in a white box with a label that had her name and date of cremation. July 31, 2001 - the exact day, ten years later we made the decision to ease Bob's pain and put him down.

Although Bob was my cat - I had adopted him - I remained distant, unattached, until finally I disowned him. I had tried to get back what I'd lost - but you can't do that. Bob wasn't Lizzie. So my baby sister became his surrogate mother - loving him desperately until the bitter end.

Bob wasn't the last animal I adopted. First there was Bella, the puppy Johnny and I adopted after putting his 18 year old cat down. Then there was Chopper, the cat I made Johnny adopt because he was 'a cat person, not a dog person' (or so he thought), and his cat had just dies. Then Sneaker, who I adopted so the kids could have a puppy and I wanted a baby something. I love each of these pets, but not in the same way as I loved Lizzie.

Then came Audrey. My love for and attachment to Audrey is the same as it was to Lizzie. Why? I don't know exactly, it just is. Maybe it's why I love her so completely and unconditionally, defending her against everyone and everything. I forgive her every indiscretion, ignore any wrongdoing. Maybe I'm trying to make up for what I don't remember about Lizzie, maybe I'm trying to love and cherish every minute of Audrey's life. Maybe I'm trying to appreciate her while I have her. I'm scared to death she'll die young, get hurt, jump out of the yard or get hit by a car. The thought of losing her scares me.

Bob is gone; he had a good life.

But it's Lizzie's death I'm still trying to reconcile, so that eventually I may lay her to rest.

Storm Lighting

2011-07-19T20:14:00.003-07:00

To a photographer, storm lighting is one of the most coveted forms of natural light. As I captured a few storm-lighting images today, I began thinking: what makes that light so sought after? What makes it so dramatic? And I came to a few conclusions.

It takes a storm to bring on storm-lighting. No storm, no storm-lighting.
It can't be planned on or predicted, it just happens. Weather reports may predict a storm, but not whether the clouds will produce the coveted storm-lighting.
The dark backdrop of storm clouds forces you to look at things you see everyday in a different (pardon the pun) light. Mundane things become more beautiful.
It is the ultimate contrast of dark and light.
Storm-lighting is only as dramatic as the intensity of the storm that brings the clouds.

Today

A few years ago in Sedona, AZ

Now, apply this philosophy to the storms of life. Because without the storm, you'd never see the lighting the storm produces. And without the storm-lighting, you may miss something beautiful. And finally, without the storm that brings that clouds you'd never see the rainbow of colors the setting sun paints on those clouds.

Tonight's Sunset

Personalities and Waitressing

2011-07-14T11:07:00.001-07:00

The kids and I went to Mimi's Cafe this morning for breakfast. E and I sat on one side, D and Shy on the other in a booth. It started me thinking about personalities. After we ordered, as we were waiting for our food, D and Shy carried on a lively conversation - mimicking voices from movies they love, and laughing, laughing, laughing. E and I just stared at them - E organizing the ketchup bottle and salt and pepper shaker and wiping the sticky spot off the table while I twirled my coffee cup, contemplating whether or not to take a picture of the steam swirling and rising from the black liquid....both of us silent and content.
When we were finished eating, E made a comment about waitressing and we began to identify whether or not each of us would be able to be a server at a restaurant, and what our 'serving personalities' would be like.
E: No way! The first time someone told her her coffee needs warm up, she's answer them 'finish that cup first and I'll be back when you're done'; or she'd be OCD about keeping the table clean; or offer to take all the little kids to the bathroom when they needed to go, neglecting her customers but lining up babysitting gigs.
D: Nope! He'd have to come back to the table three times before he remembered the order, or because he lost the ticket and would still probably forget something; he'd giggle if they yelled at him; and when someone asked for juice, he'd answer 'maybe' instead of yes, or no.
Shy: Definitely. She would be very sweet and diplomatic, even if someone didn't like her; she would go out of her way to be friendly and accommodating and all the other staff would love her; she would always have something to talk about with the customers; she would make the perfect server.
Me: Uh, no. I'd probably tell them 'you don't want that, you really want this - I'll just go ahead and order it for you, in fact, let me just order everything for you...'; I'd tell the owner I could re-decorate the restaurant to make it look more inviting and that I could re-design the menus, and website while I was at it - right after I finish taking fabulous pictures of every plate that comes out of the kitchen, that is...oh and don't bother paying me either, just buy me books ;)
Johnny: Yes. But he would convince people to buy more than they really need and they would thank him for how stuffed they were and how much they paid on the way out, and then ask for him the next time they came in; and he'd create Excel spreadsheets about how the restaurant could make more money if they would just do a, b, and c; however, he'd probably be running the place after a week though, so he would never truly make it as a longtime server.

Ah, personalities.

Book Review: Frenchman's Creek by Daphne Du Maurier

2011-07-13T16:47:00.001-07:00

Long before there was the Black Pearl and Captain Jack Sparrow there was the La Mouette (the Sea Gull) and the French pirate Jean-Benoit Aubery. Du Maurier seems to have had the foresight to make make pirates 'not what people expect' long before Disney adopted the concept and (thankfully) before Johnny Depp came along with his slurred drunken accent and his dreads and silly hat.
After reading This Much is True, and stopping three other books midway thru due to disappointment, I was in desperate need of a good book. So what else could I do? I went back to the classics.
Daphne Du Maurier, whether you truly believe she is a literary great or not (and there is great debate over this), is a favorite author of mine. She wrote the haunting story of Rebecca, which I read when I was young, and one of my all-time favorites, Jamaica Inn. Coincidentally, these are two of her most famous three novels. Frenchman's Creek is the third book for which she received notoriety. All three were inspired by Daphne's love of Cornwall, where she lived and wrote, and each centers around a house, which is perhaps the reason I love them all so much.
Frenchman's Creek begins and ends with vivid descriptions of the Cornish countryside, and the sea. The story begins the same way as Jamaica Inn, in a carriage ride to a house - Navron House - in the Cornwall countryside. Dona is fleeing London for reprieve from her bore of a husband and the frivolous life she led there, seeking the quiet of the country house in which she could come and go, sleep, eat, and entertain as she wishes, and not as society dictates.Upon arrival, with her two small children and their nurse, she finds a solitary servant named William, who seems to have 'uncanny intuition', and who previously served a mysterious master. William quickly and accurately describes Dona as "a fugitive from your London self and Navron is your sanctuary." And they later share an unbreakable bond on trust and absolute loyalty; he is a memorable, and easily a favorite, character.
Dona falls in love with Navron House, and the sense of freedom she experiences there - the time alone, and her frequent walks towards the sea in the setting sun. But one night she happens to see a ship steal into the creek, and later, a man visits Navron in the dark to speak with William. The next day, following her curiosity, she ventures out twoards the ship and is captured and brought before the ship's captain, a Frenchman - a pirate wanted by all of Cornwall. But he is not what she expects; the Frenchman is much more of a gentleman than a savage and spends his time drawing birds and reading poetry. Thus begins their adventurous affair.
Frenchman's Creek is very much a story of self-discovery in which the over-arching theme seems to be happiness verses contentment. The Frenchman has learned the difference: happiness, he says, is "elusive, coming maybe once in a lifetime", and not a continuous thing. Happiness has degrees, however, and for a man - he tells Dona - "happiness tends to come from things achieved". Contentment, on the other hand, is "a state of mind and body when the two work in harmony, and there is no friction. The mind is at peace and the body is also."
The ending of the story is foreshadowed in the very beginning, when William explains that the Frenchman's ship is his castle; that he comes and goes as he pleases, and dislikes a lifestyle that leads to habits and customs - fearful that it will kill all spontaneity; "he is without ties, without man-mad principles;" he is truly free. Dona, who initially wishes for the very same thing - the very same freedom - remarks that "the rest of us can only run away from time to time, and however much we pretend to be free, we know it is only for a little while - our hands and our feet are tied." Dona and the Frenchman are the same, yet worlds apart in their differences. And it's their differences that ultimately decide their fate. The gravitational pull that the sea has upon the Frenchman is as great as the gravitational pull Dona's children have upon her. After experiencing a degree of true happiness, each ultimately settle for contentment.
I loved this book for several reasons. One - the house, the sea, and the countryside are much characters as Dona, William, and the Frenchman. Two - the book is filled with dialogue, which is a lost art, and one you only tend to find in classic literature.The author rarely has to 'give' a character's state of mind because she shows it through dialogue. This is what I consider to be 'writing to the intelligent reader'. It's easy to be told what a person is feeling, harder to have to glean it from conversation and witty banter. Three - it's about the desire to escape from the mundane to the unknown, from the chaos to the quiet, and from contentment to happiness...and who hasn't as some point felt all of these?
My only critiques are these - the omniscient point of view is distracting at times;without it though, it would be hard to achieve such beautiful descriptions and foreshadowing. There isn't enough tension between Dona and the Frenchman for my taste. Their affair is, and stays, easy for them for almost the entire duration of the story.
However, Frenchman's Creek has easily made it to my list of favorite books, and is one I will most likely reread (perhaps on a cruise?).
P.S. I happened to find a early reprinting of Frenchman's Creek at The Old Sage Bookship in Prescott, last year. It sat on my shelf (in it's library plastic lining to protect the dust jacket) for over a year before I pulled it off the shelf to read.

Travel Reflections

2011-07-11T16:35:00.001-07:00

I went to Prescott this past weekend to photograph a wedding. I went by myself, which gave me quite a bit of time for reflection, and I came to a few realizations - some I knew already, some were brand new.
1) I love Prescott. It's my favorite place to visit, and someday I could definitely see a second home there someday. I love the rolling hills, and the small town feel (but all the modern luxuries like Starbucks, Barnes and Noble, and Target). I love the air, and how I can somehow breath easier there. And I love the architecture of the houses downtown; if I were to buy one, I think I would prefer one with a ghost story attached - a lonely widow who died of a broken heart perhaps, who still pulls aside the curtains in the attic window and wanders the upper floors looking for her husband who was killed in a war.
2) I love driving. There's something about it that relaxes me - the monotony of it all maybe, or the frequent Starbucks stops that are justified because you're traveling, or just the fact that I'm forced to do 'nothing' for awhile.
3) Road trips and audiobooks go hand in hand. They make the trip seem faster and more productive - especially if you are able to finish an entire book or two in one trip. Its multi-tasking a task that, in theory, shouldn't be multi-tasked.
4) Road trips are also much more fun when you get to chat with someone else who is also on a road trip with similarly nothing to do for hours on end. A rarity, but it made the trip all the more fun.
5) I love hotels. I'm not sure what I love exactly, but it may have something to do with having a maid clean the room every day, the endless hot water, sleeping in because the black-out curtains block out all the light, or maybe its room service, breakfast downstairs in the morning at a table in the sun, or maybe it's just a break from the routine. Any which way, they make me happy.
6) All long, windy, bumpy dirt roads should lead to a working horse ranch and vineyard. Living 'out in the middle of nowhere' took on a different meaning during this trip. It was the kind of ranch that made me wish I lived a hundred years in the past.
7) I tend not to eat well (or at all) when I travel alone.
8) I need a weekend away, all to myself, every once in awhile.
9) I am still very much in love with Starbucks. We have had a bittersweet relationship, over the years. I find a drink I love and ask for it the same way every time and it's always different. I order a Venti Iced Latte with flavored syrup and an extra shot and stare in shock at the $6.75 I owe them (thank God for giftcards). They only have the Pumpkin Spice Latte seasonally :( I swear I'm never going back several times a month, I say that I'm never paying for a drink I can make at home again! But I keep going back, like a jilted lover determined to make things 'work'. I like all the codes they write on the cup, the way they always misspell my name, and learning new ways to order my drink. I love their Panini sandwiches. Actually, just the sign alone - that delightfully-stupid green goddess - can brighten my day. And I love the feel of the cup in my hand as I drive; a Starbucks coffee is a personal, artistic creation; its is comfort and happiness in a cup. So I say to you - dear Starbucks - I love you, I hate you. No. I love you.
10) And finally, I was reminded that leaving - that a break from reality - is not nearly as sweet as coming home to the people and animals I love.

Book Review: This Much I Know is True by Wally Lamb

2011-07-10T16:24:00.002-07:00

My sister Vanessa and I are hit and miss - when it comes to books we both will like, that is. We both loved The Likeness by Tana French and The Weight of Silence by Heather Gudenkauf. But she couldn't make it through Grange House by Sarah Blake or The House at Riverton by Kate Morton (two of my top five favs). And she prefers the lightheartedness of Jane Austen to my love of the gothic and moody Charlotte Bronte. Still, I selected This Much I Know is True on Audible because Vanessa highly recommended it.
While I appreciate that she loved this book, I suffered through it like a car accident I was forced to observe because it stopped all traffic both ways for six hours. The kind of car accident you try to look away from - not wanting to invade the privacy of so many wounded - but there ware just too many severed limbs, bloody bodies and flashing lights (metaphorically speaking) that you have a hard time not watching. Like that kind of car accident.
The story's premise is an intriguing one: two brothers - twins - one schizophrenic, one not, set in the early 90's. The story recounts the boy's childhood through the eyes of one brother, Dominick - the one who does not battle with mind demons. Dominick loves his brother Thomas as much as he hates him, often trying as hard to protect and take care of him as much he does trying to separate himself - detach himself -from Thomas. As adults, Thomas desends into full-blown schizophrenia, acts ont he voices in his head, and ends up in a psychiatric hospital. Ever devoted, Dominick continues to try and do what's best for his brother, always struggling with a sort-of survivors guilt - wondering why his brother was the one with a disease, and then whether he would wake up one day and be as crazy as his brother. So great was the description of twinning in this book that halfway through I was actually convinced that this wasn't a book about twins, but about one man who at times suffered from schizophrenia and was at other times normal. That would have been a true psychological twist for me, but this is not the case. It is the story of twins.
The book takes a surprising turn about three-quarters of the way in, which left me wondering what the rest of the book was going to be about. The turns got even twistier still right up until the ending. But the author managed to bring everything full-circle, tied up all loose ends and gave the meaning of the title "This Much I Know is True" with the last sentence.
After mulling it over, I've decided that I did enjoy this book, but more as a sum of it's parts rather than a collective whole. It is told in first person, from the perspective of a man; I found I do not enjoy being that deep into a man's psyche and thought processes. There are, however, parts that I reveled in. The author paints an accurate picture of the decent into paranoid-schizophrenia - which is fascinating, and accurately portrays a borderline-abusive stepfather and his relationship with his stepsons (the weak one and the one who didn't put up with it). Lamb also depicts the relationship between a psychiatrist and the brothers that is both accurate and captivating.
In conclusion, I'm glad I finished this book (instead of turning it off like three other Audible books in my library right now) but it's not a book I can recommend. I kept feeling like I was in a courtroom - on a roll with the jury's attention locked onto me - and the the other attorney kept calling sidebars, distracting me from the main objective and causing me to have to constantly regroup. It is just cluttered with far too much junk that is distracting from the true psychology of the story.

Creative-Bipolar Disorder

2011-06-30T18:33:00.001-07:00

I suffer from what I call Creative Bipolar (which I have completely made up, by the way). The real Bipolar Disorder (previously known as Manic Depression), is a mood disorder characterized by abrupt and extreme mood changes. During a manic period, someone may goes days with little or no sleep, have more energy than usual, experience abnormally high self-esteem, make reckless decisions, engage in risky behaviors, experience 'racing thoughts', and can be quite easily distracted - moving from one project or situation to the next. The depressive period is characterized by feeling 'down', sad, emotional, worthless, sleeping too much, not spending time on things you once enjoyed (that sounds like a drug commercial right?), a lack of energy, and a hard time making decisions or staying focused. It's a disorder that has always fascinated me, especially when manifested in a child, who often cycle rapidly (minutes or hours) rather than days or months, as in adults.
But I do not have Bipolar disorder. I do suffer from cycles of highs and lows - but not in mood, in creativity. I go through periods where I seem to have endless creative energy (creative-mania) during which I take on new projects, re-tackle old ones; I decorate, I design, I edit, I write, I play the piano. I only eat when I have to, sometimes fighting stomach pains so I don't have to stop what I'm doing. I stay up late, enjoying the quite of the house, to work. My mind feels overactive (the tag line of my blog comes from this very concept) and I am constantly thinking about the next thing I can do, design, create or write about. I make fabulous meals, and I organize everything I see. Sometimes I stand in the middle of the living room or kitchen thinking about how I can re-design or change it. I fall in love with something new about my house and resolve never to move because I can turn this house into everything I want or need. I start five new books, intending to read them all at once and then write papers comparing and contrasting them. I edit pictures quickly and efficiently. I scour the internet for a new purse, with the design in my head, instead of watching TV. I start a dozen new blog posts - sometimes finishing and posting them, sometimes not. I decide I want to study something new, or begin making plans to go back to school for another degree - in writing or photography (sometimes philosophy). My creativity also tends to cause an elated sense of self-worth during these times - it convinces me I am a great writer, an amazing web designer and photographer, that I am a super-parent. This is why I have diagnosed myself with Creative Bipolar - I myself am not manic during these times, my creativity is - acting as if it is it's own entity. I don't take part in risky behaviors during my creative manic state, my creativity does. I am not easily distracted, but my creativity is. I do not experience a heightened sense of my self-worth (as a person) but a heightened sense of the worth of the results of my creative energy.
The counterpart to my creative-mania is creative-depression. After the up comes the down - the creative crash, where my creativity goes to a 0 (or becomes "depressed"). I tend to use the phrase "I'm bored" a lot when I'm in my creative-depressive state. I put projects back on 'the shelf', I walk by a pile of papers and don't organize them, I never write, and I only take and edit pictures if I have to. I am more entertained by what's on TV than what's on my laptop (unless it's Facebook). Angry Birds and Bubble Pop seem to be my best friends, and I find myself resting a lot - taking a lot of naps, or planning outings for coffee, lunches or drinks just to waste time. Spending time with family and friends however, is much more enjoyable during a creative-depressed episode because I'm not constantly thinking about everything that I could be doing; I can relax (something I never seem to want to do during my creative-mania). I also tend to doubt my creative abilities - looking at everyone else's photography and convincing myself that I am no where near as good as they are, or reading a book and wondering how I could ever have considered myself to be a 'writer' when "look what they wrote! I could never write that..." I become dissatisfied with my house, wishing I could just pick up, move and start over in a house that's better, convinced I could never turn this one into the one I love.
With the real Bipolar Disorder, episodes of mania or depression can be brought on by events such as life changes, medications, or insomnia, but sometimes there isn't a clear event to bring on the change. It seems to be the same with Creative Bipolar. Creative-depression can quickly go to mania after a photo session I'd been dreading because I was lacking 'creative energy', or cleaning the house because 'it needed it' and moving a piece of furniture and deciding to re-do the whole room. Then there are times when it seems nothing has triggered the change - it just changed.
You see, the basics of life remain the same - no matter what state I'm experiencing - I still enjoy things like getting up in the morning, getting dressed, walking the dog, eating, going to bed at night, teaching the kids, making sure the house is neat, etc. It's just that my creative-mania causes my mind to race during my walks about my book, makes me think about new and creative things I can do with the kids and the science lesson I just taught, makes me not just want to keep the house neat but perfectly clean (and often re-decorated or organized), and makes me want to make going to bed a creative ritual (getting in early with a good book and a candle) instead of just getting in when I'm tired and closing my eyes; during creative-manic episodes I find new and different combinations of clothes in my closet, whereas during creative-depression I hate my wardrobe and just wear jeans and t-shirts because nothing else seems to look right. I'm either creatively-high and creatively-low at any given time (never in between), and can always tell you exactly which state I'm experiencing at that time.
But I am okay with this (although I would prefer to have creative-mania all the time, which is also what actual Bipolar's say), because with Creative Bipolar, the cycle is so predictable - sometimes lasting weeks, sometimes months, but after the up there is always a down, and during the down I know there will inevitably be an up. So when I am down, kicking myself because I should be editing all those pictures or finishing that one project, I just remind myself that I will get to it when the creative-mania strikes again. It always does and I always do.
Oh, should I mention I just began a creative-manic episode??

A Book Review: The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry

2011-06-23T15:31:00.001-07:00

I think I may finally have learned my lesson. I have a bad habit of starting books and putting them down a third of the way through, then picking them up a year later only to discover I found a favorite book! The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry is just such a book. I discovered it at Borders about two years ago; it was stacked on a table with other books by 'break-out authors'. I've also learned that the old saying 'don't judge a book by it's cover' applies in reverse to books! I always judge books by their cover! If I find a book cover (especially combined with an appealing book title) appealing, it's very rare for me not to enjoy the book. On the flip side, I can always tell a novel from a book by a chain author (sorry Jodi Picoult).
The Lace Reader is Brunonia Barry's first novel, published in 2006, and is a New York Times Bestseller. When faced with how to reveiw this book, I was at a loss for effective words to convey what the book is about, so I'm cheating, and giving you what's on the back of the book: "Every gift has a price...every piece of lace has a secret. Towner Whitney, the self-confessed unreliable narrator, hails from a family of Salem women who can read the future in the patterns in lace, and who have guarded a history of secrets going back generations. Now the disappearance of two women is bringing Towner back home to Salem - and is bring to light the shocking truth about the death of her twin sister."
As if the cover, title and book summary weren't enough to intrigue me, I began reading the first chapter. I was hooked after the first few lines: "My name is Towner Whitney. No, that's no exactly true. My real first name is Sophya. Never believe me. I lie all the time. I am a crazy woman...Than last part is true."
At first I thought this was just a creative story about women who can 'read lace', about the fascinating city of Salem, about the intricacies of family relationships, and about reconciling of the death of a loved one. But The Lace Reader is a deeply psychological novel -my favorite kind- and one I become so involved in that I didn't realize the depths of the mind the author had reached until the very end. I can't tell you any more of the story, (although I can share a few key words: lace that tells the future, secrets, witches, Calvinists, an old house, tunnels, the sea...) so you will just have to read it for yourself. But this book has definitely earned a spot on my list of Books That Change Me because of its intense psychological threads.

A Book Review: The Kitchen House by Kathleen Grissom

2011-06-15T12:28:00.000-07:00

Rarely have I found a book that is as beautiful, brilliant and gripping as it is painful to read. The Kitchen House by Kathleen Grissom was a book I bought on a whim, at Barnes and Noble, on one of my many browsing excursions. It was stacked on the corner of the table in the entry. The cover caught my eye, the title - and promise of a book about a house - intrigued me, and the prologue reached out and pulled me into the pages. I began to read it at once; it was my vacation book in fact...

Last year, that is.

Somewhere in the middle, for reasons I can't remember, I put it down and never finished it. I recommended it to my mom, half a year later. She read it, loved it and told me it was a page-turner - that I should finish it. I tried to, really I did. But I failed and put it back on the shelf, added it to my list of 'books I intend to read' and forgot about it. Until I needed a new audiobook to listen to. I had credits stacked up, so I downloaded The Kitchen House and began to listen to it from the beginning. When I got to the part where I'd stopped I remembered why I hadn't continued - the main character had left 'the kitchen house' for the big city and I couldn't see the author's vision for where she was taking the book. I desperately wanted to read more about life on the plantation, to read more about 'the kitchen house' and the slaves who worked there. If only I had pressed on just a little further...

When I began to listen to the story, it tugged at my heartstrings - just as it had before. I loved the senses the author invoked - I could taste the meals being made. I could see the characters, I could hear their voices, and I could touch the dining room table in the 'big house'. The story is told by two characters - Lavinia and Belle. Lavinia is seven years old, at the story's beginning, an Irish girl whose parents had died, who is given Belle, a slave, to work 'the kitchen house'. Although she is white, Lavinia is accepted into the kitchen house and into a family of slaves. As she grows up, the color of her skin begins to blur the lines of her place in society. Her heart belongs to Belle, to Momma Mae, to Papa and Uncle Jacob - but she is reluctantly drawn away into a white society to 'learn her place'. In her naievity, she ends up accepting a marriage proposal that brings her back to Tall Oaks and the Kitchen House. But what she had hoped would be a reunification with her 'family', and a happy home surrounded by those she loves, turns into a nightmare at the hands of her new husband.

Halfway through the book, when I sailed past the part where I'd put the book down before, a dull ache crawled into my heart and even now - though I've finished the book - the ache remains. The author wove the characters into a web of terror, pain, sorrow, joy, loyalty, love, acceptance, class, and forgiveness. She was successful in provoking the same fear in me as her characters were experiencing. I couldn't put it down. But it hurt. It hurt to read it. It was a good thing I was listening to the audiobook and had loaned my book copy to my sister because this is a book I would have flipped to the end to read and make sure there was a happy ending. Otherwise why was I putting myself through all this misery?

Kathleen Grissom is a masterful storyteller - willing to put her characters in constant peril and to allow so many of them to die. She achieved a state of constant tension and this book has earned a spot on my shelf of 'books that changed me'. Spots of peace were rare, and short-lived. But the characters came alive so vividly that the ache I felt was for them - for fictional characters! It was a same ache that remains camped in my soul after I finished The House at Riverton. I hate it. And I love it at the same time - that words on a page, that a fictional story could affect me so greatly. In the author's note, Kathleen talks about the process of writing the story - how it was revealed to her, and she simply put the words on a page. She said there were certain events she tried to take out - because they were so painful and awful - but when she did the story just seems ...to stop. How familiar that is to me. And again, as with The House at Riverton, I am left to wonder: do I have what it take to weave a story to intense it will leave someone else with this same ache over my characters?

A Book Review: The Help by Kathryn Stockett

2011-06-09T11:26:00.000-07:00

This book was highly recommended to me by so many people that I thought it time to actually read it for myself. I downloaded the audiobook because I was about to begin editing thousands of wedding pictures and I needed something to occupy my thoughts. The audiobook is read by three different voices, just as the story is told by three different women, but more than just being read, it is acted out in such a way I felt like I was watching a movie.
My sister Kelly was reading it at the same time (except she was actually reading it). She'd ask me how far I was and I'd say about five hours, which meant nothing to her so we'd have to talk about where we were in terms of events: have you gotten to Minnie's part yet? or has she gone to the party yet? Have you discovered the secret of the pie? When we were about half way through, neither of us could put it down. Kelly even said she wished she could stay home from work to finish it. I plugged into it any free second I had - and even extended my morning walks with Audrey longer than usual because I couldn't stop listening.
You notice right away that The Help is written beautifully, and that it is a book about relationships. It is told from the perspective of three women, two black, one white, in 1960's Mississippi. It felt like such an accurate portrayal of the 'way things were' back then, and you couldn't help but feel sorry for and proud of the characters - all at the same time. The three main characters - Minny, Aibileen, and Miss Skeeter - join together in an unlikely friendship with a common goal - to tell of the way it was for black women to wait on white families. The author paints Jackson, Mississippi through the eyes of these women; it is a picture peppered with their experiences and influenced by their position in society. It is a story about the color that once divided our country, about duty and honor, about loyalty, about doing what it right in the face of adversity, and of love, kindness and friendship.
I love this book for its literary construction, its rich characters, its detailed imagery, its heart-reaching story, and for the imprint has left on my heart.

A Book Review: Chosen Forever by Susan Richards

2011-06-09T10:41:00.000-07:00

I was so enamored with Chosen by a Horse, that I immediately picked up this book - a sequel of sorts to the story of a horse named Lay Me Down who fixed her broken heart. Written in the style of an intimate blog, Chosen Forever is an open and honest journey into Susan's life after the death of Lay Me Down, the publication of her first book, and the book tour she embarks upon. Along the way she reconnects with old friends, family members, and (ironically) the man she purchased her house from 24 years prior - Dennis. With Dennis, and his pursuit of her, Susan faces her biggest challenge (accepting love) and ultimately finds her greatest joy. Through the progression of their relationship, Susan recounts childhood memories - pleasant and unpleasant alike, as she begins to make sense of why she is who she is today. The funniest part, I think, was when she finally did the math and realized Dennis, a man she thought was 68 (a mere ten years her senior), was really 78! The internal dialogue she writes about this 'sudden twist of events' made me smile, and sometimes laugh, but it was an example of just how honestly Susan portrays herself in this book. In the final few words, Susan closes with this thought - real love, the fulfillment of lifelong dreams, the reconnecting with lost family and friends - it all happened because of a horse named Lay Me Down. This book is a testament to how when something unexpected is thrown our way (even though ultimately heartbreaking), it can lead us to the greatest gift we've ever received.

A Book Review: Chosen by a Horse by Susan Richards

2011-05-17T16:50:00.002-07:00

This story found it's way to my bookshelf....twice. This is either an indication that I truly suffer from a book-buying addiction, or it is a book that captured my attention enough to purchase it two separate times - the second time (honestly) without realizing I already owned a copy. Then I bought it (on purpose) a third time - on audiobook - to listen to as I drove to Sedona last week. This book has made it to my list of 'books that changed me' because the story is something we all know too well - the comfort and unconditional love of a pet and the agonizing pain of having to decide the time of their death.

Chosen by a Horse by Susan Richards is a memoir about 'how a broken horse fixed a broken heart'. The 'broken horse' comes to Susan, a social worker, through the SPCA as a foster horse, with a foal kicking along side her. When the case is settled, the foal is returned to the owner (to pay his debt to a vet) but Susan is told she may keep the mare, whose name is Lay Me Down. Formerly a racehorse, Lay Me Down experienced extreme abuse and neglect her entire life. Sick, and separated from her foal prematurely, Susan is baffled by how Lay Me Down is still open and unafraid - friendly even. Lay Me Down very quickly works her way into Susan's heart - in a different way then her other three horses had. As the attachment begins to grow, we learn about Susan's own past of abuse and neglect, of the death of her mother at the age of 5, of being the unwanted relative, of her decent and defeat of alcoholism, and of her role as a social worker in a drug rehab. We see her relationship with Lay Me Down - of Lay Me Down's approach and openness to life - begin to affect how she views and interacts with the world, and with others. We see how a horse can be the epitome of therapy.

But Susan notices that something is wrong with Lay Me Down's eye, and learns that Lay Me Down has an eye tumor. Susan takes Lay Me Down to Cornell University for further testing, but the tumor is inoperable. She is informed that it is no longer of question of if she will have to euthanize her horse - but when. And we find Susan face to face with something she thought she's tucked neatly away in her past - death. The death of her mother and the empty space it had left behind.

The ending is as beautiful as it is tragic, and it made me cry - books don't make me cry. I was glad this morning, as I was walking Audrey, that I had sunglasses on to hide the tears while I listened to the last few chapters of this story. Maybe I cried because it forced me to come face to face with a memory I tucked away neatly in my past - of having to put my cat to sleep - but I felt the sting of Susan's pain in the final moments of Lay Me Down's death. Maybe I cried because Lay Me Down reminded me so much of Audrey, the dog I rescued, the dog my mother says 'can do no wrong in my eyes', the dog who didn't just take carve out of corner of my heart but resides in every square inch. Maybe I cried because I have been so sheltered from the death of a loved one that it scares me to be face to face with the fear that it is inevitable.

And maybe it was just a beautiful story.

Susan Richards captured the heart, the personality, and the life of a horse; in doing so, she captured the heart, personality and life of every beloved pet.

Camping, Dutch-Oven Cooking and the Best Nap Ever

2011-05-15T18:38:00.000-07:00

I am going to shock you. I am going to tell you something that you won't see coming. I am going to reveal a side of me you have never seen (or knew could even exist).

I went camping.

And I loved it.

Johnny has been trying to get me to go for ages, but going to the bathroom in nature, a lack of showers and roughing it in a tent have never been on my bucket list. But for the kids sake, last year I promised to go camping at the beginning of our annual vacation to Sedona. For weeks beforehand, Johnny planned and packed the camping gear. He bought several dutch-ovens to cook in so we didn't have to survive on hot dogs and hamburgers the whole trip, and scouted out several camping spots. My only requirements were: a babbling brook and real bathrooms. We found a beautiful site online, about 15 miles north of the shops at Sedona, and I started to get a little excited. I searched for recipes to use the dutch oven - there were literally thousands, but I narrowed it down to a few that sounded yummy, and packed the ingredients.

We left mid-afternoon on a Monday - arriving in Sedona around five o'clock - and pulled into the campsite. The camp hosts checked us in, and wished us well with: 'hope you brought warm sleeping bags, gonna be cold tonight...'

We set up camp with the little daylight that was left and as the sun dipped and set, it was cold. But we were hungry, so Johnny built a fire and I pulled out ingredients for our first dutch-oven meal ever - Chicken Pot Pie. I was a little frazzled trying to set it all up - and hungry and cold, and we had to cook by the light of a lantern - so there are no pictures to document our first meal. But it was really good! Afterwards we made s'mores with giant marshmallows and Recees peanut butter cups. Then we crawled into tents, onto air mattresses and snuggled into sleeping bags for our first night. Apparently, while I was asleep, Johnny stepped outside the tend and came face to face with a skunk - of which there are no pictures, so I have no evidence of this fact, other than the annimated stories he tells of shining his flashlight in it's eyes, and then it scampering off, lifting it's tail and pointing it at Shy's truck before it ran off. EL apparently bore witness to this episode. And names the skunk 'Flower'.

We were up the next morning making breakfast in the bitter cold. I made a dutch-oven breakfast goulash, as I called it. Sausage, eggs, hash browns, bisquick and cheese. After breakfast, we sat around the fire, trying to stay warm - it was cold in the shade, but beautiful and warm when the sun peeked from behind the clouds. So I took a little mid-morning nap in the chair by the fire.

Then we started out for a walk by the 'babbling brook'. We hiked along the edge, hopped across the stones to the other side and then hiked up a ridge - where I dropped the lens hood to my favorite camera lens. So we hiked back down and Johnny, DL and EL formed a search and rescue party (that I'm told involved a downed tree), and brought me back my lens hood.

Back at camp it was lunchtime. So we made dutch-oven pizzas - which ended up being Johnny's favorite meal. The sun was not cooperating, due to the clouds rolling in, so we all crawled into the tents for a nap. A four hour nap. Complete with waking up to the pattering sound of rain on the tent. I can honestly say it was the best nap of my entire nap. When I awoke, Johnny had a blazing fire going. We relaxed for awhile, reading and enjoying ourselves and watched EL make friends with a groundhog whom she named 'Peek-a-Boo'. He would come up, she would feed him a flower, he would disappear and reappear a minute later pushing an enormous amount of dirt from his hole. He'd take the flower, and disappear - this went on for about an hour. She helped him by pulling the dirt away and even got close enough for her him to nibble on her finger.

Then we prepared dinner - Mountain Dew Chicken, Potatoes and Carrots. Also a hit. Then came the second best part of the trip - Peach Cobbler, also in the dutch-oven. This was a little slice of heaven, something I still dream about.

Another cold night, and we were awake with the sun again. Breakfast was Cinnamon-Raisen Bread Pudding. We began packing up. Once the vehicles were loaded, we sat for an hour of so around the fire with books. After that it was off to the time-share in Sedona.

Things about camping that made me the most happy:
- Sitting around all day with nothing to do - literally.
- Living and sleeping in nature.
- The constant sound and feel of a crackling fire.
- Dutch-oven meals.
- Watching it get light and then dark
- Starring up at the stars.
- Not hearing "I'm bored" from the kids.
- The sound of rain on a tent.
- Throwing your dishes in the fire to burn.
and then finally getting to take a shower and get clean afterwards....

Jamaica, a Lucky Coin & $1000 for a Book!

2011-05-04T16:57:00.002-07:00

We're going to Jamaica. To celebrate Shy's 16th birthday, Johnny and I wanted to take her - just her - on a special trip. Originally, I thought New York - to see a real Broadway show - but she decided she'd rather go to Washington D.C. for a historical/political trip (yuck). Then it was Alaska, because we were watching Sarah Palin's Alaska at the time. When it came time to actually plan her trip, however, I was a little terrified at the rising cost of airline tickets and trying to figure out and budget for hotels, food, sight-seeing, etc. But today, while waiting for her singing lesson to finish, a little email popped into my inbox (from my friend Travelzoo) announcing 65% off packages to an all-inclusive resort on the beaches of Jamaica. Three hours later, we were booked for five days, four nights for the end of July. Needless to say, we'll a little excited. Now, all we need are passports, cute bathing suits, sunscreen and we're on our way. I'm especially excited because my last time was pre-photography days. I can't wait to take photos in Jamaica...

So why Jamaica? Well, when Johnny and I took a Caribbean cruise the first year we were married, we stopped in Ochos Rios, Jamaica - and loved it! We went horseback riding through the hills, and rode bareback into the ocean. Then we walked into the little town, wandered through the stores and ending up in a little bookshop (I'd forgotten to bring a good book with me and the cruise ship library was seriously lacking). I browsed the shelves until I stumbled upon a book called A Scream Goes Through the House: What Literature Teaches Us About Life. Perfect. Then I noticed the price - $1000!!! Jamaica money, really it was about $14.95. I handed her a $20 and she gave me four ones and a Jamaican $5 coin because she didn't have any nickles. I only read half the book (I still intend to finish it one day), but the Jamaican coin has been lucky ever since. It gets misplaced all the time, but manages to resurface every so often. Once, it was kicked back from a CoinStar machine. Somehow it ended up in my bathroom sitting on top of a stretched canvas painting. Currently, it's missing. We'll have to see if it turns up.

Until July.

Birthdays, Cute Aprons, and Osama bin Laden

2011-05-02T18:01:00.000-07:00

Two of my sisters were born in May - Vanessa and Emily - so we planned a family get-together to celebrate both birthdays on the same night. In a strange twist of events, Vanessa and Emily ended up preparing and bringing their own celebratory dinner! Vanessa marinated chicken all day, and made sure there were hot dogs and macaroni (made with Velveta) for the kids. Emily sliced up lots of veggies and drenched them in yummy garlicky oil. I brought drinks (so easy), Kelly brought odds and ends, and Mom made brownies and Angel Food cake with chocolate frosting.

As is tradition at our family gatherings, the girls bustled around the kitchen, my dad manned the BBQ grill and the husbands hung out outside - playing guitar, watching YouTube videos on their phones and playing with the kids every now and then. Isabel was sporting a new apron so she could look just like Mimi and Shy Shy when they cooked on Tuesdays. I was the official bartender/photographer of the evening. Emily burned her thumb pulling pans out of the over, which she was yelled at for because she put the pan on the counter (which apparently is bad for it)....another indication that I am turning into my mother more and more each day.

Dinner was fabulous. We ate outside and the weather was breezy and cool. At dark, we headed in for presents - around which time Emily's phone beeped and she announced that Osama bin Laden was dead. The phones came out, news sources were checked, and we discovered that it was true. Which is when the boys demanded that we put on Fox News. However, the girls insisted we make it through presents first.

Kelly made custom recipe books with pictures on the front and back. I brought jars with fake fruit (a family tradition) and Target gift cards, my girls painted special pictures and packaged them creatively, and my mom gave them an ice cream maker and Popsicle maker with cute and fluffy slippers.

Then we watched the news. All in all, a great night and a memorable birthday celebration.

A Book Review: Half Broke Horses by Jeanette Walls

2011-04-26T21:26:00.001-07:00

This is Jeanette Walls' second book. Her first - The Glass Castle I read several years ago and couldn't put down. The Glass Castle was an memoir - the story of her childhood, her charismatic father, her free-spirited mother and her siblings growing up in a captivatingly dysfunctional life.

Half Broke Horses is a true life novel, written about Jeanette's grandmother's childhood. You begin to understand The Glass Castle, to understand why Jeanette's mother was the way she way. It is written in first-person, and the voice of the character is as clear as Scout's in To Kill a Mockingbird. I listened to this novel on audiobook, due to spending hours on end editing pictures. It was read by the author herself, which I really enjoyed.

The story begins in Lily's childhood, where you begin to see a fearless daughter of a rancher emerge. You journey with Lily from childhood to seeing her first grandchild. You move from ranch to ranch, from one Arizona city to another. Outhouses to indoor plumbing. Horse and wagon to automobiles. Both World Wars, droughts, one room school houses and the breaking of horses. Lilly has spunk and spirit and doesn't let anything that happens to her break her will to survive and see the best in life.

It is a heart-warming glimpse into a rancher's life in Arizona in the early to mid 1900's. I almost wish I'd read this book before I read The Glass Castle, so I imagine I'll have to pull The Glass Castle off the shelf to reread. Either way you read (or listen) to these books, they are worth the ride.

A Book Review: Facing Your Giants by Max Lucado

2011-04-26T15:14:00.000-07:00

Some books find you. Facing Your Giants by Max Lucado beckoned to me from the bookshelf and quickly found it's way into my soul. I opened it without reading the back (which is rare) and happened to flip to chapter six, titled Grief Givers. I sat down on the floor of Borders and read it. At the time I was struggling to understand a situation I was in the midst of and this chapter spoke to my heart. I closed the book, added it to the top of the stack I was buying that day, and took it home. That night I started at the beginning, and read a chapter or two every night - so it was the last thing on my mind when I went to sleep.

Last fall, as I was teaching DL and EL about the Bible, I began teaching them about David. Everyone knows the story of David and Goliath. Most people know the story of David and Bathsheba. Many people know that David was the author of most of the Psalms. But do you know David was called "a man after God's own heart"? But why? I needed to know. I remember telling my mom that week I was going to study David. But I didn't. I casually looked for a book in the bookstore but found none.

Until 2011, when all I seemed to find were books about David, books that referenced David and books about the Psalms David wrote. It became clear that it wasn't my own curiosity leading me to study David, but something that God wanted me to understand.

Facing Your Giants (I'll bet you can't guess...) is about David, and the giants he faced: there was the obvious - Goliath, but it went through others - Raging Sauls, Desperate Days, Dry Seasons, Grief-Givers, Barbaric Behavior, Slump Guns, Plopping Point, Unspeakable Grief, Blind Intersections, Strongholds, Distant Deity, Tough Promises, Thin Air-organce, Colossal Collapses, Family Matters, and Dashed Hopes. Lucado takes each 'giant' David faced in his life and shows what he did (or failed to do) about the giant. They are giant that we face today - grief so great it hurts to live, stressful marriages, rebellious children, keeping promises, consequences from failing to take good advice, and so many more. This book was a gentle reminder that the poeple in the Bible aren't perfect, holy individuals who did and said everything right; they were human, they made mistakes and God used them anyway - despite their flaws, bad decisions, fear, questioning nature and disobedience. I love the story of David because he was so gifted, yet so hopelessly flawed. David made so many blunders and mistakes - yet God chose him (a shepherd boy) to be king. I learned so much about David through this book, and in doing so I learned so much about myself.

Lucado's easy to read style made this a quick read. But content and meat it did have! Whatever you are facing, I'll bet you David experienced a version of it at some point in his life.