Out on a Limb

New Year's Day began gray and drizzly. And with something in a tree. See the whitish blob?

A closer look reveals Spotz the barn cat. Why is she out on a limb?

Hmmm. Let's look at this from another angle.  Not only is Spotz in the holly tree, but Jim-Bob is in the bird-bath.

But Spotz isn't really out on a limb—she's way on the edge of the holly's branches. Isn't this dangerous? And maybe impossible?

So how does she do it? Take a closer look:

Have you figured it out? Maybe you need to sit back and study the situation a bit.

Spotz has a support system—the entwined branches of a grapevine that grows in the holly tree. She's actually sitting on the grapevine, not the holly itself. The grapevine makes a nice nest for her.

Spotz gets to her grapevine perch by climbing the holly branches. Then she takes her place out on a limb—er, out on a grapevine.

There's a lesson here. If you're going out on a limb, make sure you have a good support system in place first. And what you think you see at first glance might be something else entirely when you take a closer look.

Appearances can be deceiving. A bit of philosophy for the New Year. . . .

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Frisbee Fail

Try explaining to a border collie why you can no longer throw her broken frisbee.

Maggie knows you could figure out a way to do it.

You could at least try! So what if the frisbee is in several pieces? It's just getting (ahem) broken in.

Quitter!

When something is beyond repair, it's best to give up on it.

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Seeing Red

The colors haven't been as intense this fall as other years—especially the reds.

Several of my blogger buddies have posted pictures of leaves in their neighborhoods: Blue County Magic and Blue Ridge Gal are two counties over from me and I think they've seen more intense color.

Nevertheless, we did have a bit of color at Smith Farm a few days ago, but not much red:

So—where did I see the red color of fall? Maybe on a foxhunter's coat where the Smith Mountain Hounds were hunting.

Or maybe in my own backyard—like this burning bush at the end of my bottom driveway.

Sometimes what you're looking for is right under your nose. Or in your own backyard.

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Little Oak

This is a close-up view of a little tree that grew of its own accord—or its own acorn—near my front porch. It's been here a couple of years now. It looks pretty big in this picture.

When you look too closely at something, do you really see it for what it is? Let's move back just a little. 

Doesn't look quite so big now, does it? But it still dominates the landscape. Let's move back a little more.

Has the oak gotten smaller? No, but our view now takes in much more than part of one little tree. Let's step back even farther.

Now we see where the oak is in relation to the porch column, the shrubbery, the woods beyond the field across the road, and Smith Mountain in the distance.

Perspective matters. If something seems to dominate your view, perhaps it's time to stand back and look at the big picture.

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Bits From the Blogosphere

Happy Winter Solstice!

Lately, I’ve cruised around the blogosphere, where I’ve found myself enlightened, amused, and entertained. Sometimes a combination of all three.

On the Editorial Anonymous blog, in which an editor gives an inside look at what editors do, I found some words of wisdom. In one particular post, the anonymous editor answers a reader’s question about writing under a pseudonym. But these two paragraphs from her answer could apply to a lot more situations than using a pen name:

We meet lots of people under the mistaken impression that they need to be bizarre to be seen as original. That being imaginative is an excuse for being impossible. That being an artist is a substitute for being honest.

No. The unbridled freedom of your creativity does not give you license to behave like a total weirdo. Feel free to wear your wolf suit when you go visiting the wild things. But if you expect any damn dinner, you'll put some pants on.

Something to think about on this Winter Solstice.

Something else to think about: what books should all women read? There’s a list of seventy-five books every woman should read posted on Jezebel. (OK, Jezebel isn't a blog. But heard about it from reading someone's blog.)

I’ve read twenty-one books on the list and own two others that I haven’t gotten around to reading yet.

Perhaps I’ll celebrate the solstice by reading. I doubt I’ll do house work because . . .


Maybe I’ll pop over to the Surrealist Compliment Generator and see what compliments await. When I tried it the other day, I generated these compliments:

Your wit, your teeth, your pasty reflection can but incorporate freely into the powerful surface of a disintegrating mirror set afloat upon a swarm of locusts.

I love your eyes, but only with ketchup.

Every time, you hit the reload button, you generate another compliment. Theoretically, you could compliment yourself—surreally—for hours.

Perhaps I’ll pop over to the Six Word Blog. Each day’s post never takes long to read. Friday’s post was “Child rearing: not for the weak.” Last Sunday’s was “Another day, another disaster, another depression.” The comments are each six words, too.

If I wanted to celebrate the Solstice in a Druidish fashion, perhaps I’d retake the “What Kind of Druid Animal Are You Quiz.” My results from last time:

Inspiring is what you are, Air Dragon, with insight and vitality to spare. You are a bolt of lightning to the psyche, a freshness for the intellect, and someone who needs to be treated with respect. Use your insight wisely, and you shall be rewarded, for you are the Messenger of the Sky God.

So much to do, so little daylight time. Especially if you're a Messenger of the Sky God.

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Seizing the Moment

(or, Learning From Experience)

Two days ago, I’d meant to get a picture of a spectacular sunrise, but I waited a few minutes too long. I figured that if a little red sky is good, more would be even better. All I had to do was wait for the sun to rise just a little more.

By the time I went outside, the red sky—which promised so many fantastic photo opps—had turned gray. By waiting, I’d missed my chance.

This morning when I let the herd of cats out, I saw pink clouds and a strip of blood-red sky. I grabbed my camera and seized the moment.

I recorded the sunrise's progression:





Then, just as the sunrise was approaching its most spectacular, my batteries went dead.

Fortunately, my other camera was close by in the kitchen and still had some disk space left. So, I grabbed it and took these:



Not long after I’d taken the second round of pictures, the fiery sunrise gave way to ash-gray clouds.


Life’s lessons: (1) Waiting for things to get better—expecting things to get better—is sometimes a mistake. (2) Seize the moment. (3) Have a back-up plan.

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To Dust or Not to Dust

Yesterday, my Lake Writer buddy Marion e-mailed me this bit of inspiration:

Dust If You Must
by Rose Milligan of Lancaster, England

“A house becomes a home
when you can write,’'I love you’ on the furniture.”

I can't tell you how many countless hours that I have spent CLEANING! I used to spend at least 8 hours every weekend making sure things were just perfect—“in case someone came over.” Then I realized one day that no one came over; they were all out living life and having fun!

Now, when people visit, I find no need to explain the “condition” of my home. They are more interested in hearing about the things I've been doing while I was away living life and having fun. If you haven't figured this out yet, please heed this advice.

Life is short. Enjoy it!

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better to paint a picture or write a letter, bake a cake or plant a seed, ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time, with rivers to swim and mountains to climb, music to hear and books to read, friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world’s out there with the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair, a flutter of snow, a shower of rain. This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind, old age will come and it’s not kind. And when you go —and go you must—you, yourself will make more dust!

It's not what you gather, but what you scatter that tells what kind of life you have lived.

Consequently, I did no housework whatsoever yesterday except to unload and load the dishwasher, sort a few socks, clean the cat-box, and pull the quilt up so the bed looked made.

I did finish a story and send it off the THEMA, finish another story that I’ll submit to Cup of Comfort, finish my column, cruise the Internet and answer e-mail, feed all the critters, walk around the yard with the cats, play fetch with Maggie and pet the other dogs, spend some time with the horses, go to three of the farms and “drink Spring,” take a book to Debi down the road, go to the post office, go to the dumpster, plant a few flowers, read two newspapers, read more of On Agate Hill, etc.

Last night I walked around in the dark and listened to the night sounds—mainly the spring peepers in the pond across the road. I saw the rising of a red-orange moon. I enjoyed myself.

My mother lived her life on “What will the neighbors think?” and she was usually miserable. During her last years in Roanoke, she didn’t even know who most of her neighbors were. She didn’t dress comfortably because she might “look bad.” A couple of rooms in her house were rarely used so they’d stay neat. Certain chores, at least while she was able to do them, had to be done—especially sweeping the porch every morning.

I think I swept my front porch a couple of weeks ago, but the last storm blew some debris onto it. Or maybe it was the bird that always has a nest on top of one of the columns. I think I saw a bird dismantling the old nest a few days ago. I swept part of the deck last week. At least I think I did. I know I mopped the kitchen floor day before yesterday.

But yesterday I petted my critters and heard the peepers and watched the woods green up and the flowers bloom. I was “drinking Spring” off and on all day.

In a hundred years, what will a little dust matter?

Life is short. Enjoy it.

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Sign on Route 40

The other day, I saw a sign that reinforced my philosophy that we are responsible for our own happiness:


Yeah, I know it's missing an s and it needs punctuation. . . .

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A Matter of Choice

A few weeks ago, my animal communicator buddy and fellow Lake Writer, Karen Wrigley sent me an e-mail titled “A Matter of Choice.” She wanted me to pass it on, but I rarely forward e-mails—especially anonymous e-mails.

Nonetheless, I was curious who wrote it. A bit of Googling produced its real title, “Attitude is Everything,” and the name of the author: Francie Baltazar-Schwartz. This essay is posted on numerous websites. I found it here and here and here.

Maybe you’ve seen it before. If so, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to see it again:

ATTITUDE IS EVERYTHING
by Francie Baltazar-Schwartz

Jerry was the kind of guy you love to hate. He was always in a good mood and always had something positive to say. When someone would ask him how he was doing, he would reply, "If I were any better, I would be twins!"

He was a unique manager because he had several waiters who had followed him around from restaurant to restaurant. The reason the waiters followed Jerry was because of his attitude. He was a natural motivator. If an employee was having a bad day, Jerry was there telling the employee how to look on the positive side of the situation.

Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up to Jerry and asked him, "I don't get it! You can't be a positive person all of the time. How do you do it?" Jerry replied, "Each morning I wake up and say to myself, 'Jerry, you have two choices today. You can choose to be in a good mood or you can choose to be in a bad mood.' I choose to be in a good mood. Each time some- thing bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from it. Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or I can point out the positive side of life. I choose the positive side of life."

"Yeah, right, it's not that easy," I protested. "Yes it is," Jerry said. "Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people will affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line: It's your choice how you live life."

I reflected on what Jerry said. Soon thereafter, I left the restaurant industry to start my own business. We lost touch, but often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it.

Several years later, I heard that Jerry did something you are never supposed to do in a restaurant business: He left the back door open one morning and was held up at gunpoint by three armed robbers. While trying to open the safe, his hand, shaking from nervousness, slipped off the combi- nation. The robbers panicked and shot him. Luckily, Jerry was found relatively quickly and rushed to the local trauma center.

After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, Jerry was released from the hospital with fragments of the bullets still in his body. I saw Jerry about six months after the accident. When I asked him how he was, he replied, "If I were any better, I'd be twins. Wanna see my scars?"

I declined to see his wounds, but did ask him what had gone through his mind as the robbery took place. "The first thing that went through my mind was that I should have locked the back door," Jerry replied. "Then, as I lay on the floor, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live, or I could choose to die. I chose to live."

"Weren't you scared? Did you lose consciousness?" I asked. Jerry continued, "The paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine. But when they wheeled me into the emergency room and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read, 'He's a dead man.' I knew I needed to take action."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Well, there was a big, burly nurse shouting questions at me," said Jerry. "She asked if I was allergic to anything. 'Yes,' I replied. The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breath and yelled, 'Bullets!' Over their laughter, I told them, 'I am choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead."

Jerry lived, thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude. I learned from him that every day we have the choice to live fully. Attitude, after all, is everything.

I come from a long line of pessimists. I remember, when I was a kid, my grandmother and mother always started their conversations (both phone and in person) with “Wadn’t it awful about—” and then they recounted a tale of woe and misery. I don’t remember them being happy. If something bad wasn’t happening at the moment, give it time. It would. I even have letters that my great-grandmother sent my grandmother. All contain complaints or tales of woe. Or both.

When I was a kid, I figured everybody dwelt on life’s miseries while waiting for momentous event that would make them happy. Later, I found that this wasn’t so. I actually met a lot of happy people. Some had no particular reason to be happy. They just were.

A couple of decades ago, I realized that you could choose your behavior or your attitude. You could choose how you react to situations. (I think I learned this in some psychology class I was taking for teacher recertification, but I could be wrong.) Freedom to choose—what a concept!

So, I chose to be happy.

My mother was, of course, horrified that I could be happy when so many bad things were happening all around us—to everyone! The idea that she could choose her attitude was alien to her. She stayed more or less miserable all the days of her life, though she often pasted on a smile and pretended to be happy when she was around people she didn’t know very well. But she didn’t keep the pretense up forever.

One of her health care workers once asked her what she liked to do. “Sit in the dark with my eyes closed,” Mama said.

The health care lady asked me how long Mama had been depressed. “As long as I’ve known her,” I said.

Anyhow, Karen’s email and a comment that “Country Dew” (one of my Pen Women pals) posted on my “So Much to Blog, So Little Time” entry, “You always seem to be enjoying life. I think that is great,” made me think about happiness.

Now, I always thought the “Don’t worry, be happy” slogan from the 1980s was kind of lame—too much like pasting a fake emotion over the real one. And I never cared for pasting those yellow smiley-face stickers all over stuff, either.

I can’t choose the things that happen to me—and bad things can happen to everyone—but I can choose how I react to them. I can choose my attitude.

“Choose” does not mean “paste on.”

“Happiness depends upon ourselves.”
~Aristotle

“Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.”
~Abraham Lincoln

“Man is the artificer of his own happiness.”
~Henry David Thoreau

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