The Right Frame

Change and embellish.  Those were the thoughts propelling me up and down the picture frame aisle at a discount retailer just the other day.  I found two possibilities, one decorated with silver highlights, the other multilayered but monotone.  The picture which needing reframing was a black and white portrait of my son. It’s stunning, it’s intense and it’s my favorite of all his childhood portraits. The current frame is wood, black and fades into the portrait.  The back of the frame is in disrepair, nobody really sees it unless they walk around the back of the coffee table, but I know it’s there. Well, I couldn’t decide, so I left the store empty-handed.

I asked my daughter her opinion and you’ll learn her reply a little later in this story.

It was one of those days with too much time on my hands.  I had actually run away from my life because of the death of my dog. 

The three remaining dogs and 4 cats vied for my attention and they, too, realized the significant loss within the walls of the house.  For me, it was a heavy dose of guilt as I signed the authorization at the clinic.

So now my days would never be the same; time for change. Start small I thought.

I’m not the only one having this conversation with myself.  My psychic counselor

started me on this path last week, Monday it was. I requested a life reading…it would be the fourth in a series of intuitive sessions.  Two previous visits within the last three years had been contact readings, but last week, I felt the need for redirection.

My message was two-part: first that my life, as I know it, is not authentic.

To begin the hour’s session my counselor shared the following (I am paraphrasing):

She has a sister who, as a small girl escaped a lot.  This drove their mother to

find a way to keep the little one happy and safe in the back yard so she found a rope and tethered her to the swing set with plenty of room to reach the back door to come in.  Her sister stood in the yard and screamed.

This is me in my present life.

I am tethered to this never-ending stage production, playing all the roles (including playwright and director). All I know is that I am repeating other’s expectations and fulfilling their needs while depleting my own.  Trouble is, I don’t know what I need.

Other message…that my end of life Karma will repeat in the next life if I choose to return.  We are reincarnated into similar circumstances if we do not change and grow.

I wanted to grab a suitcase and leave after the hour’s lesson. Well I did, the next day, just for a day. Drove a couple hours, checked into a lovely hotel and know what happened?  I became invisible.  I explored the city into the hours just after dusk; dined with me, shopped with myself, lost half a day enjoying the exhibits in the art museum. Almost had to look twice when I realized that I was in the presence of an original Norman Rockwell and then again when I stood mesmerized by an original bronze of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

No one knew me or cared. The pressure of keeping up appearances did not exist. I was totally me but in an understated way.  That’s what most people do when found in new surroundings.  Feel your way through.  Give and take, re- define and breathe.

Yesterday, I listened to the recording of my session.  Having had time to consider all the hidden innuendos one misses when in the moment, I realized that there was a pleading in her voice.  I realized the importance of the messages, the vital life-affirming messages there to guide me.

I want to tell you what my daughter said when asked her opinion on the picture frame.  She said, “get the plain one, it won’t compete with the subtlety of the portrait."

Maybe it’s time to shed the embellishments of my identity.  Opt for black and white; for within the realm of neutral, lies my destiny.

It all begins with knowing how to choose the right frame.

Meeting Aunt Sarah

By all definitions, this is my year.  Having taken a full week of the new year to ponder on how to officially begin, I am on a decidedly new path and I am excited to follow, without question, the unexpected and delightful road signs along the way.

I left my rut, packed an overnight, waited for my girlfriend to collect me and we drove half a day’s distance to “almost” Georgia.  I say “almost” Georgia because we stayed in a welcoming ancient bed and breakfast on the Florida side. 

Without giving too much detail, (as I am a rather private woman), our arrival was timed for late afternoon to allow for a side trip to a natural hot springs.  I had been and was over the moon excited to share this pristine treasure with my pal, Diana.  We dined leisurely at the lodge; lunch was perfection on a plate.  She chose a portabella burger and for me, the “bee keeper’s salad” (a trademark of the establishment) which was just too delicious. We took a moment and warmed ourselves by the fireplace before heading to the loading dock for a nautical guided tour of the state park.  You noticed I said “warmed ourselves…” “In Florida”, you ask?  Well yes, it’s early January, unseasonably cold and the icicles were still adorning the lower branches of the Cyprus which lined the banks of the springs and river.  Salt had been scattered on the stone pathway to ensure the safety of all guests who were not focused on looking down as they entered the lodge.

Kept warm by the several layers we were in (under our very best winter coats), we joined the remaining few brave guests and were soon underway in a windowless, ferry boat for a look see at the undisturbed magnificence of Mother Nature.

Our Park Ranger was passionate and the rehearsed monologue was dotted with personal observations and pleas for us to understand and appreciate our surroundings. The emphasis was to educate and encourage preservation efforts both ongoing and planned in the near future. 

I was amazed, my friend was equally amazed and busied herself crossing from one side to the other photo documenting the many native bird species and reptilian occupants.  The family behind us had an ongoing oral interpretation between mother and children.

This area has Hollywood history as well as we were told three Tarzan movies and the cult classic, “Creature from the Black Lagoon,” were filmed in their entirety at this location.  All in all, the few hours spent there gave the day a five star rating.

A short hour’s drive brought us near the bed and breakfast which would welcome us home for the next two evenings.  This is small town America

where the locals know all the shortcuts across town, this fact was not readily available to the two in the car however and I needed to call our host for clarification.  Embarrassing or not, we were three blocks too far in one direction, but with encouragement and plenty of patience on the other end of my cell phone, we found the driveway at the end of the white picket fence and parked, unloaded and waited for our host to join us.

In the meantime, having been given permission to “move in”, we explored our rooms on the second floor of this historic 1872 residence.  Our host arrived with a cheery “hello” and soon we had wine and dessert in hand amicably chatting with her and learning about the best of three restaurants still open at this hour for dinner.

Another scenic encircling of the downtown area brought us to a parking spot just caddy corner from the Mexican restaurant.  We hurried in as the wind had picked up and were plopped in a booth and greeted by who we believe to be the proprietor.  The menu was bountiful and after deciding that we were indeed hungry, ordered from the “entrée” list.

It was evidently near closing, as we were the last patrons, so we paid and I delayed our departure because I could not resist the opportunity to show off my Spanish speaking ability.  I was impressed that I remembered so many of the verb conjugations and the young man who ran the cash register was equally delighted at my wanting to carry on a conversation.

The final drive “home” was lighted by a glorious full moon.  Heading upstairs to our rooms, we agreed on 8:30 for breakfast.  It didn’t take long for me to slide under the 600 thread count sheets sandwiched between feather topper and powder blue duvet.

Everything in the room was blue or slightly blue . . and this has significance.  I was in the “Blue Room”.

Traditionally bed and breakfast establishments name the several private rooms.  When booking online, photos entice the guest to experience ambience specific to their taste.  My friend had the Magnolia Room, fitting as she is a Southern lady.  For me, the color blue reminds me of my mother.  It’s both color of my spirit animal totem (blue bird) and it was her favorite color as well.

The house hosts 6 bedrooms, parlor and dining room which comprise the common areas available to guests. Outside is a deep front porch resplendent with rocking chairs and the focal point in the garden is a three tier fountain which stands about 15 feet tall. Between two bedrooms upstairs is an entrance way to the cupola.

The following morning, we were greeted by husband and wife, already seated at the table, who were also guests.  Conversation was relaxed and interesting.  They were from the United Kingdom and shared insights into the daily life they have shared together in their 47 years of marriage.

Our host informed us of the several courses she would be serving. Citrus,

sausage (local), eggs, and maple pecan pancakes.  The condiments included mayhaw berry jelly. As each item was brought from behind the closed door to her commercial kitchen and private suite, our host delighted us with personal glimpses and factoids about the neighborhood.  The local Chamber of Commerce is lucky to have elected her President.  She stated they had been trying to do so for the 14 years she had lived there.

Our itinerary planned, the first day was designated for exploring Georgia; Thomasville to be exact. It’s just a short 20 minutes to the city limits.  Of course we didn’t pay attention to the sign and were headed out of town before realizing that we missed our turn.  This prompted an unscheduled stop at a chain motel for directions. We were able to gather multiple brochures, thanked the man at the check in desk and headed back in the opposite direction arriving at THE sign stating “Thomasville, right”.

First stop was to the Visitors center, which lead us back to the car for a 9 block trip to the Museum of History.  The tours, both guided and self-navigated were well worth the couple hours transported back to the glorious days of antebellum plantations and glimpses into the pre and post -Civil War era in the “Real South”.

Time for lunch, the museum’s director suggested a soup and sandwich shop. We found it nestled among the rows of converted former office buildings; nothing fancy, but historically significant and telling of the laid back, never in a hurry, atmosphere that we had come to appreciate.

Just moments after being seated, we were greeted by a well -dressed elderly gentleman (long wool coat, scarf and hat- maybe in the Dobbs style, freshly shined shoes and gentile appearance) who made a point of asking how we were and shared with us the recent loss of his wife of 65 years. This self-appointed ambassador, having executed his duty to welcome us, walked to the counter to inquire of the health of the wait staff and to order the daily soup special.

Food was hot and definitely regional as I had never been served a grilled cheese sandwich with red peppers. I liked it. We both ordered the chicken and rice soup and agreed that there was a very good cook running the kitchen.

And what girls day out would be complete without shopping?  Downtown didn’t disappoint. The next to last stop was to a newly opened wine and tapas shop where we enjoyed wine tasting before making selections for our private collections as well as a gift for our host.

Dinner had been decided earlier in our day and we found the local’s favorite pizzeria, ordered take out and once back to the B and B, we enjoyed our 12 inch room temperature pesto and veggie pizza.

As we sat at the designated table for two (rather than the massive formal dining room table), we were greeted by the proprietor.  She had just a few groceries to put away and stopped to ask about our day.  Conversation turned to how she became owner to this establishment and how her years of dedication brought about the transformation and status the home now enjoys.  Every wall, floor board, window pane, stair step and fireplace was now original, the imperfections lent to its stateliness and charm.

Bed time was around 10 for me.  I settled into a guide book of the town before welcoming the solitude I had so desperately needed. And then it happened…after the text I sent to my friend stating that I had just read we were staying in the exact town with the distinction of “most haunted small town in the South”.  She replied “Cemetery, homes”?  I said, “No further information, see you at breakfast”.

Light at bedside out, night light in bathroom on for emergencies, I closed my eyes and after several minutes…heard “thump”.  I got up to look under the bed.  I walked into the bathroom to see if something in my make- up bag found its way to the floor.  No. on both accounts.

The blower for the A/C Heat came on and I rolled over and just listened.

“Thump” again and again.  “Well, is someone tossing pebbles at the windows? No, I think not, no one knows I’m here”.

I fell blissfully asleep, remembering the fabulousness of the day.  Remembering this celebratory birthday get away was to be the catalyst for my very successful and intuitive year ahead.

First to breakfast, as we wanted to get an early start, while Diana headed to the coffee pot, I questioned our host about the hauntings and she said with a twinkle in her eye…”you know the Blue Room is the only room visited here in this house.  Wait a minute, I’ve got something to show you.

She brought a brochure and told me to gaze at the photo in the lower left corner…said “see the Orbs”?  “They appear in the garden, it’s documented.

And now it’s time to tell you about Aunt Sarah.

She was the maiden Aunt of the doctor and his family.  She lived here and died childless; such a shame.  Have you been to the cupola?  “No, not yet, I replied”.  You should go, her rocking chair is up there.”

Food came to table, other couple arrived and time got away from me.  Always being a polite guest and one to love conversation, “Aunt Sarah” and hauntings slipped my mind. 

The wife did share, however, that she had also read about this phenomena and asked me what happened.  I explained best as I could and she smiled. Her husband always so stoic at meal time also smiled.

Girlfriend and I had to check out, the morning would be first and last opportunity to explore this small community. Almost out the door, I remembered that we hadn’t seen the cupola.  We headed back upstairs and were met by our newest friends who were navigating their I pad in the hallway.  The door was pointed out and she and I climbed the almost vertical staircase and arrived in the octagonal loft with the solitary rocking chair on the original wooden floor. On the way, we noticed the well -worn doors to the attic spaces. Some were taught and others characteristically warped with hinges frozen in time.

You could see the whole city through the magnolias. Each window framed a glimpse of life in all directions. We gazed at the rocking chair, Diana extended a hand to caress the curve at the tip of the arm rest. On the descent from the cupola, the poem “Desiderata” was hung for all to read.  We read. We were lifted to a higher plane of compassion and we tip toed down the last few steps in reverence to those who had gone before.

Did I meet Aunt Sarah?  I believe she visited and in doing so, gave me permission to release my fears and embrace my destiny.

·         I would like to thank Pat Inmon, owner of the 1872 John Denham Bed and Breakfast in Monticello, FL for welcoming us and making us feel at home. My personal journey shall be forever forged by those I meet along the way, both in the natural world and from far above the clouds.

Shadow's Corner

This title may allude to a myriad of subjects depending on the reader’s point of reference.  I shall clue you in that I had a beloved dog and this is his tribute.

All legs and prancing on the other side of the pet store window, he wasn’t our first choice for another family member.  I had chosen a petite greyhound, the breed which doesn’t run the track chasing after the bunny.  As we had multiple pets already, this addition seemed perfect in size and temperament until…the pet counselor stated that any rough housing by well -meaning established family pets could result in a broken leg.  Well, next!

Erik, our then 2^nd grader (I think), fawned over this puppy.  So we asked to meet him. We left the store with him being mostly all legs, docked tail and grey colored short coat in my arms. He stayed in Erik’s lap all the way home.

Having researched the breed and being captivated by the “grey ghost” description, “Shadow” was the perfect name. A hunting breed and loyal to family, the Weimeraner joined our family.

Never had one, didn’t worry about his fitting in.  We’ve always had multiple animals and never really researched the breed standard. 

Yes, he was definitely one of us.  We never discriminate, dogs are people, too.

He lived 12 years, did his best to raise our son and daughter and remained the only male of our “pack” for the last 8 to 10 years. He passed away a year ago last month. At least his physical presence did.

To explain and share the remaining story, you must be open to the realm of possible. This open ended frame of mind is rather new to me.  I chose it over the comfortable religious indoctrination of previous generations. 

I am spiritual and now understand the connection to all living things and the interplay which creates a constant unfolding of my destiny.

There are sacred spaces in my home.  They are in yours, too.  Some are hidden and do not speak, some are deliberate and beckon the rituals of daily living.

My kitchen sink is one.  I can hand wash all the dishes and cookware, utensils and glasses while I meditate.  The double sink (wash on the right, rinse on the left) and dish rack, the designated dish sponge, refillable round scrub gadget, the constant streaming of really hot water all coerce me into a semi -comatose state of “well it’s been a successful day” kind of thinking. I can stand there and stretch my calves and roll my head from side to side.  When finished, I can wipe my dimpled hands on the towel, hung just below the counter lip, and go about my evening.  The dried items will be waiting when I return…later…or maybe in the morning.

The conservatory is another of my sacred spaces.  It houses my concert grand piano.  Shadow’s spirit is there…under the massive ebony instrument. He laid there whenever I played, back legs just near enough to the foot pedals to cause me to miss the sustain pedal.  Oh well, my practices were not for public viewing, I could pretend that the phrasing was as intended by any of my favorite classical composers.

The other dogs gather under and around my feet now, but there is a cavernous space, almost as if it were outlined, where the dogs do not cross.

Several weeks before he died, a corner in my office/parlor garnered his attention.  Curios because there had always been a two cushion love seat neatly and snugly fitted on the wall, leaving maybe 5 inches space to the wall seam. He would just stand facing the corner, intent on…well…I don’t know. The other side of the wall behind the back of the love seat was the staircase with crawlspace underneath.  There’s nothing in the crawl space; hasn’t been for the last 15 years. He would

just stand and when his curiosity passed, would lie down and study whatever I was doing.

He never tried to squeeze his 96 pounds into the corner and he never sniffed about the love seat as I would predict a hunting dog would do. He never chased one of the cats behind the furniture, there was no hidden bone under the skirt of the sofa for him to guard. 

This was his sacred space. I cannot explain his choosing that exact location.

My remaining quartet of aging dogs have their territories.  We have exactly two small rugs and I often find them piled together a top one.  When the sun streams through one of our south facing windows, each will claim the warmth for themselves and only share if necessary. The Schnauzer will find an unoccupied chair and call dibs.  Our female Weimeraner will pounce with as much stealth as possible on the king size bed and the elderly pug will seek out her even older terrier pal to snuggle up.

Recently, during a grueling 7 months of surgeries and therapies, our other Weimy has discovered Shadow’s corner.  She visits; doesn’t stay but rather returns to her previous activity in other rooms in the house. It doesn’t matter if I am in the room, she comes as if she is honoring his memory. 

Today the Pug came and toured the sacred space, being purposeful and slow to not bump into the wicker chair and table which have replaced the love seat.  She’s visually challenged and her advanced years make any journey problematic if she pauses too long.

This beloved room, in the front of my house, is filled with mementos of my life and shares square footage with the necessary technology which keeps my life organized.  His presence is comforting and I am reminded of what unconditional love should be.

As we go about our daily lives, are we being guided and nurtured from beyond our understanding? If we open our hearts and share this lifetime with animal companions, are their journeys similarly directed? These questions are for your benefit.  I already know.

My Shadow is keeping vigil.

Motivation

I have no motivation. This is NOT what I want today. It’s gloomy outside and I’m an internal reflection of today’s forecast.  I haven’t even glanced in the mirror to see if the outside matches the inside.

Had an eye exam yesterday and prompted the question: “Does stress affect vision”? His

answer was yes and then my doctor followed that with some combination of consonants and vowels which I can’t quite remember. I wasn’t thrilled to leave his office knowing that a second pair of bifocals would be ready in two weeks.  First pair is for distance and close up, now I have one for mid vision and close up (more precisely for the range up to and including 24 inches from my nose).  My computer glasses are actually painting/ piano playing variety.  The other option was trifocals and you might just as well shoot me now.

My reason for the appointment was my annual checkup.  I don’t participate in the cart Blanche variety of preventative health care. Refuse to search for a primary care physician.

I am healthy, nearly 60 and really don’t want intervention to my daily routine.

Stress has come to stay with me.  It’s an inconvenient time. At this age, I am ready for some quality narcissistic, selfish, pampered "me time."  Trouble is I’m apparently not in charge.

Stability would be nice as a precursor to this stage in my evolutionary journey. Being removed from the whirlwind, which is currently my life, would be ideal…but not possible.

The reasons being:  retired, married, mother of recently engaged twenty-four-year-old daughter,  mother of fulltime college student/Navy Reservist, multiple pet owner and on and off again community volunteer. You understand that the list is not prioritized.

Now I remember, just recently, stating that the aforementioned stressors culminated in what I USED to call “positive stress”.

So what’s happened? I GAVE UP AUXILIARY VOLUNTEERING.  Thought that would resolve the internal conflicts. Nope, others have replaced it.

Now, I just wander around making lists and tacking the lists on the bulletin board in the far back hallway between kitchen and garage. Sometimes the list says “make a list”.

Okay, I’m an exceptionally detailed woman. Ask around.  I can plan a strategy for any

situation. I used to be able to act on it; but not today.

Maybe I need to redefine who I am. Not the psychiatrist’s version, requiring personality tests but from the perspective of a bucket list…or in my case a wheelbarrow list (one which can be easily dumped out if it’s not working for me).

Maybe I am not who I used to be. Is anyone? For that reason, I have not and will not ever, not in a gazillion , attend a class reunion. I left awkward behind decades ago.  Along with it went nerdy and budding sex kitten. That world didn’t prepare me for this one.

So I’m stuck, on a plateau of my existence.

I need tools and a toolbox; pink one I think or yellow. I already have one for my paints, brushes, pallets etc. How does one organize a life toolbox? Where does one begin? Will it have a combination lock for access?

Okay, now that I have established that I HAVE NEEDS, selecting tools is another excuse for a retail therapy. I can do retail therapy.  Used or new? Probably new.

Damn, another list.

And so it goes. While waiting for motivation, I’m going to exist on my rote memory of daily life…it keeps me out of trouble most of the time.