Drawn Into Battle

I went away. Checked out. Got the hell out of Dodge for a while. We all do it, or at least we all need to. It was heaven: warm and quiet, a Hawaiian womb.

But now I'm back. And what I want to know is: why do things always seem to change while you're gone? The air grows cooler, damper. The list of to do's grow longer. Frazzled relationships are even more frayed when you return. Re-entry is impossibly hard.

I saw The Hurt Locker while I was gone and (spoiler alert) the protagonist found that he was drawn back to battle because it had become the only truth in his life. I wouldn't begin to suggest that my life compares with what our soldiers see, in reality, but as an analogy it's applicable. The battlefield at home has become my truth.

Like the moth drawn to the proverbial flame, and like some soldiers, I am drawn back to battle because it's what I know. The difference for me is that, unlike my winged or uniformed counterparts, I know I'll have the privilege of returning to my flames over and over again.

Remembering Aunt Dottie

Hearty breakfasts, beaming faces, leaflike coasters, hide-and-seek;
Ceramic cats and wooden cats, cats on blankets, Dusty Blue;
Skirts and heels and short brown bangs with handbag always at her side;
Watching us with her brown eyes.
Spiese eyes.

Sewing projects, knick knacks, weddings, whiskey drinks, Hawaiian trips;
Downtown office working woman, notes sent in italic type;
On the train with Mom when younger; later carpool rides with Dad;
Muted peachy lipstick shades.
Warm smile.

Organized, meticulous, straightforward, honest, to-the-point;
Christmas Eves and Christmas grab-bag, waving camera girls away;
Faithful wife and loving sister, loyal to big brother Stan;
Loving aunt, always caring.
Always there.

Getting a Leg Up

Sitting around your house, with your feet up, watching stupid television shows, and having your family wait on you sounds heavenly. For about five minutes. Then, it's pure torture.

Under doctor's orders following minor foot surgery, I've been doing just that for three days now. I finished a book, edited a couple of chapters in my under-way novel, checked email a bazillion times a day, and occasionally ate something. I have asked my kids to return the remote control to me at least seven times a day. I have hobbled to the bathroom only when absolutely necessary. I have endured those pitiful, wanton stares from my black Lab who will never forgive me, I suspect, for abandoning our daily walking ritual.

And I find this whole 'sit back and relax' concept to be a bit overrated.

But I also find that it forces me to take a look around, and a listen, and so on. By sitting here I realize the fireplace needs to be swept and the floors desperately need vacuuming, and it reminds me of how much I hate housecleaning, and dust. I listen to the sounds of water in the pipes after someone's taken a shower or flushed a toilet and it makes me worry: with all the subzero temperatures we've been having, what if a pipe burst? I hear a distant dog bark, somewhere in the back of my subconscious, and it dawns on me that someone (me?) has left the dog out for too long.

I feel the cat rub against the back of my head as she creeps along the top of the sofa behind me; her fur and my hair generate static electricity, and she too wonders about my sudden fit of laziness, as though I had turned into a cat like her. I hear the clacking of my laptop keys; I am thankful my arms are no longer than they are else the thoughts in my brain might dissipate before they get to the keys. The sparkling water, I notice, tastes a bit sweeter than I recall.

Outside, the pine needles quiver as the branches bounce around in the breeze. How often do I even look at those trees? The snow looks like a frozen souffle about to collapse. The sun is shining and the sky is blue but I know they're fooling me; it's still bitter cold and for a brief moment of insanity I am grateful I am stuck inside.

But then I listen to the tense voices, observe the creased foreheads, feel the thickness in the air. The cupboards are almost bare. Christmas is still in boxes. Everyone is tired of the slavery.

The expression 'getting a leg up', I've read, originally referred to the help offered to a horseback rider when mounting her horse. In a way, I feel like that rider. Climbing a big horse can be a challenge for the inexperienced rider; climbing a big mountain poses obstacles for the inexperienced mountaineer. And climbing onto a sofa, to just sit around as a blob, is nearly impossible for the inexperienced couch potato. She needs help.

And with that help, the world begins to look a little different, whether sitting atop a steed or sitting right here on my sofa. Things look and sound and feel and taste (and even smell) a little different right now. And maybe that's a good thing. Sometimes it's good to tweak your perspective on your world. So I think I'll stay put, with my leg up, for a few more days until my doctor gives me permission to put my foot down...and do things my way once again.

Young Entreprenueurs Ignite Bend's Economy

Three cheers for the young teens who scoff at entitlement and take their destiny (and wallets) into their own hands. While local restaurants are struggling in this recession, new lemonade stands are popping up around town, and business is booming.

It's great to see these kids set their sights on a goal (a dirt-jumper bike, for example) and then set their minds and hands to work. And these kids have found the critical keys to success: the right facility (prime real estate location for selling lemonade), products that meets the market's need (tasty lemonade on these scorching summer days, supplemented with sweet, gooey brownies), strong marketing efforts (colorful, friendly signage leading up to the stand), and loyal employees (moms, dads, friends, and dogs who help with product development and marketing).

But what I like best of all is how these lemonade stands evoke memories of the past: hot summer days that don't need cell phones and video games but instead just require a little creative thinking to explore the world beyond our doorsteps.

When the Shoe Doesn't Fit

Carl and Raylene Worthington had criminal felony charges brought against them for failing to care for their sick daughter. Raylene was acquitted, and Carl was found guilty of criminal mistreatment in the death of 15-month-old Ava. When I'd first heard of the case, I figured the parents were obviously bad parents and that there'd be no question as to guilt. But as I followed the case over the past few days, I realized (as with most things in life) that's it's just not that simple.

The questions involve faith, familial hierarchy, and parenting: three issues many adults struggle with all their lives.

"Leave it in God's hands." It's a message I've heard over and over in the Christian world. A friend of mine recently confided that she leaves her family issues in God's hands, and a pastor last Sunday encouraged his congregation to do the same with their troubles. My husband and I discussed this on the way home from church. I'm sorry, but I have a hard time giving up my parenting rights and responsibilities and giving it all over to God. Without even thinking of the Worthington case on Sunday, I commented that such behavior sounds like an easy cop out. Acutally, I think it reeks of neglect. I can pray, but I can't just give my kids' lives up to God and dust responsibility from my hands. Faith should be a strengthening element in one's life, not an excuse to give up. But when you hear that message about letting go and giving your problems up to the Lord often enough, as I suspect Raylene and Carl did, there are times you start to wonder.

And then there's the question of family hierarchy. One of the jurors reportedly said, after the trial, that most people are partners in a marriage. In an ideal world, that might be true. But I wonder how many Christian families she surveyed before making that statement. Members of the Worthington's church said that, in their faith, the husband is the leader. Sadly, that belief isn't unusual. In fact, this has been taught through the ages in many churches and many households, often attributing this "wisdom" to the apostle Paul. I have heard plenty of friends say that their husbands are the leaders of their homes, and I have often deferred to my husband over the years because this belief, whether traditional or religious, has been pounded into my head. It didn't always feel right, but it can be downright frightening to risk harmony and go head to head with your husband. One of my kids used to remind me that "Dad's not the boss of you." If only I'd listened to that youthful advice more often I might feel more at peace right now. Fortunately, one of the good things about growing older is having the strength (or stubbornness) to stand up for what you believe, even against the people upon whom you depend most. But Raylene is much younger than me, and I suspect she would have struggled immensely had she argued with Carl, shaking the security of her home. Does that make her decision to withhold treatment from Ava excusable? No, I don't think it does. But I do think I understand, a little, how family dynamics may have influenced her.

And finally there's the issue of good parenting. I don't condone what the Worthingtons did. Based on what I've read, I'm pretty sure I would have had my child at the doctor long before the symptoms became life threatening. But nobody can say for sure what decision he or she would have made because nobody wore the Worthington shoes. Thankfully most of us don't need to face a court of law with our parenting decisions, but we do have to face the informal jury of our peers every day. Ever watched a temper tantrum in a store and judged the mother's reaction? Ever heard of a dad losing his temper and shaking your head in disgust? I have felt cold eyes watch me throughout my parenting years, evaluating whether I made the right school choice for my kids, or whether I delivered the right consequences, or whether it was wise to let them take certain risks that some parents wouldn't have allowed. Wasn't rock climbing awfully dangerous? How could you let him jump off that waterfall? How could you let him drink so much soda? Watch that movie? Fly on a plane alone, or stay home alone, or spend time on the computer alone? Spend time with a girl alone? Every child is different, and every family is different, and every moment is different. Most parents make the best decision possible at any given time. We love our kids, and we want the best for them. But that sometimes involves making hard decisions that others won't agree with, and a parent needs to wear a full coat of armor as protection from a society that seems free, perhaps even invited, to pass judgment whenever it chooses.

I am sorry for Ava's short life, and I am sorry for the Worthington family's loss. But I am especially sorry that I passed judgment on their decision without having all the facts - which of course I'll never have, because I am not wearing their shoes, and never will.

Six Words Can Say It All

My blog is back for now.

I'm inspired by things I've read. Few words can say a lot. Six words can say it all.

On relationships:
You love and then you change.

On parenting teens:
And now you break my heart.

On writing:
It's much harder than you think.

On the world:
It's hard to hope these days.

On health and fitness:
But where's the fun in this?

On fun:
The stuff that makes you smile.

On spirituality:
Done right, it builds you up.

On getting older:
Can wisdom really trump good looks?

On rivers:
You float, you work, you see.

On cats:
Bundles of fur, creatures of mystery.

On dogs:
They love you no matter what.

Now tell me what you think. What six words work for you?