Savoring

 The holidays this year were nice, on purpose. Step one: manage expectations. Every day I carried with me the best advice: "strive for a B- Christmas". Not perfect, not A, not gold star. Not even memorable. Just tender and sweet and full of treasured details. Absolved of any responsibility to make everyone's (anyone's) wishes come true. I approached this fully alone (not even church) Christmas for Jack and I determined to have something to look forward to. Step 2: plan ahead! As someone steeply tipped toward melancholy on a good day, the holidays are perilous. So I marched family up a mountain in deep snow on Thanksgiving for one they'll not forget soon (one girl's first pee in the woods!), was virtually first to the lot for the prettiest Fraser fir available, and make a full Christmas menu. The prep was extensive so I had to remember it was the prep itself I was enjoying, not laboring through it to get to some nirvana at the other end. And so I planned a Swedish Christmas Eve meal complete with Glogg (but missing my grandmother's braided cardomom braid because keto) and a German Christmas day meal with keto cranberry Moscow mules for pregame. There may or may not have been spreadsheets involved. And I am perfectly happy - ecstatic, in fact - that after my planned festivities he got to watch football while I delved fully into the magic of Bridgerton. All was merry and bright. 

Going into the dark time of the year it felt important to breathe into the details, to spend more time on the bark and the needles, let alone the trees or forest. The whole seems too big right now, but in these small moments a whole is made. Like our New Year's Eve hot toddies and my state park adventure first day hike from 7400' to nearly 8000'. Start the year off the way you intend to spend it, right? Moving about in nature, learning, covered in sunshine, adventuring with my dog. What happens deep within brings forth what happens above, becomes visible. If we do it right, the rest will come. Slainte!

Craving

I made bread today. Not real bread, of course. Although who gets to decide what real bread is? Everything is a construct. Even toast. My bread will accept butter smeared on top just like 'normal' bread. It will not, however, send me into craving spirals like 'regular' bread does. The ingredients are also 'weird.' (So much judgement in our daily lives!) Things like whey protein isolate and inulin and psyllium. No wheat flour. 

As a librarian, I notice things can be better understood often when we go up a cataloging level. Books are grouped by broad topic: history, then again by increasingly narrower topics. History - American slips to History - American - Mississippi. You get the idea. It is the physical manifestation of our human need to lump things together to ease cognitive response. If I know which box you belong in I can quickly decide if you are good or bad, safe or worrisome. The truth is our b
rains never really graduated from second grade. 

While my bread does not have wheat flour, it does have flour - almond flour. It as leavening. It has fiber. Binder. The subcategories, where things get narrower, are where things get hairy and debate enters the scene. And with debate, values and controversy.  The details matter, yes. But not so much as the reality: the kind of flour and the kind of binder are irrelevant, aren't they? At the end of the day we both have bread. We eat and are nourished, sustained. 

This does not work for everything, of course. For example, words. Each one carries distinctly different weight and purpose. Animals; indisputably varied. However, context also matters. If the described situation is about communication, about how ideas are transmitted from one consciousness to another, words is one way. The precise words used may not matter. They are distinct from physical or psychic communication. Same with animals. A forest scene, for example, may contain plants and animals and that is all we need know. It is in fully completing the picture that we need the details. What color eyes? How long a tail? How much baking powder? How much sweetener? The full naming - the kingdom, genus, species - of a situation brings it to fruition as an idea or as food. 

Poetry uses words to bring forth the intangible sensation of being that is indescribable by most of us, but in a poet's hands awareness is expanded: a greater truth experienced perhaps only in our subconscious is brought forward into the frame of recognition. And it is recognition we all seek. Technically, recognition means 'identification of someone or something or person from previous encounters or knowledge'or 'acknowledgment of something's existence, validity, or legality.' What it feels like in practice is a lot like what happens in a great a capella group: the song is good when one or two are singing, but when the harmonies join together it is next level. We access a greater whole. The same comes with the spark of recognition: a deep inner resonance that lights us up. 

Recognition is the path to connection, what we mean when we say connect: I see you in me and me in you. We are connected. And this becomes possible when we go up a level: I do not like water skiing. I do not see me in you. You do not like horses. You do not see yourself in me. But we both enjoy fast-paced hobbies in the outdoors. I love reading. You hate it. You love movies. I never watch movies. We both love storytelling, escaping into other worlds. 

Since our brains are second-graders (mine is a toddler, I'm quite sure) it is my job to guide it. When we look for recognition, sift up and down the categories until we find a point of connection, we tune into the harmony. I can't sing a note (true story: my mother wouldn't let me join in Christmas carols) but I train myself every day to search every interaction, every moment for a spark of recognition. Unless you are my husband. Since day one he has been a mystery. A compelling one, I might add. 

We crave connection more than anything; it is the human condition. Unfortunately, the shadow side is that because we want it so very much, we protect ourselves from rejection and instead of training our brains to connect in every situation, we allow them free rein to zero in on the disconnect, the difference. Stalwart against the difference, righteous in our position, we maintain defenses and our second grade lizard brain thinks we win. But our deepest selves cry out from behind the ramparts, lonely and unrecognized as part of the greater story. 

This, I believe, is the source of all addiction (food, alcohol, social media, drugs). We are numbing the pain of disconnection. The only balm is connection, the stroke of reminder we are part of the whole. For we are all, at the top of the umbrella classification, humans. Whether a tele-skiing vegan with a herd of Afghan dogs who dresses all in black or a wool spinning knitter who collects Polly Pocket dolls and eats hard boiled eggs for breakfast every day, each person has points of intersection, of connection. It is up to us to search for them and, further, to cultivate new ones. 

His and hers: Pandemic edition

On so many levels we are a mixed marriage. Age doesn't even scratch the surface of differences. Politics is not a space we wander into often. Religion has about one inch of overlap. And most of all, people. He would claim he is as introverted as I am, but this has brought out the truth. I have prayed diligently for years for a lifestyle that allowed as little interaction with people as possible. These past days have been pretty great: horse, husband, dog. I work over Zoom and that's OK. It isn't peopling all day, every day, as most days are under normal circumstances. I come home wrecked, often unable to even go see my horse because I am so tired from all the peopling. I love my peoples, but time alone is GOLD. These days there is plenty of time for restoration between interactions and I can be present and pleasant (I hope) when I do show up in the videoconference. I get to do this alot and my eyes belie how happy I am.

By contrast, he calls everyone he knows all day long and plenty of people he doesn't know but would like to. Despite dire warnings and my death stares he still goes over to his friends (older than him) house for beers every afternoon. And yesterday, our neighbor and his son were digging in the yard by our fence. Another neighbor had come by. Keep in mind he has had VERY few conversations with these men; two barely speak English. We are not friends. Have never been in one another's houses. But when he saw this little gathering at the fence he literally trotted out the door. People! Whee! 

 And so, we have confirmation. I am indeed an introvert. Excuse me, an INTROVERT. He is an extrovert.  Please remember:

Dream come true

For ages we have chatted about what we would serve if we had a restaurant. I fantasized about a customized menu geared toward my way of eating of the moment (gluten-free, vegan, now keto). He fantasized about locally sourced foods featured in unexpected ways. For the most part this was the kind of mindless dreaming we reveled in: buy a camper (or wagon, if you have a handlebar mustache and penchant for mules) and travel the country a la Nick and Rinker Buck if you are him, or Steinbeck if you are me; move to the town with the hot springs and spend our days in sulfur cloud stupors; fill the backyard with miniature farm animals (did you know there were miniature longhorns?) - definitely me; have a team of big horses to feed cattle with. We are excellent dreamers. Creative, detailed. Meanwhile, I pursued my education and stayed the course with my job at the college. He remodeled the house, sang in the church choir, and dabbled in local food.

This year the dabbling led to business cards. A board of directors. A business plan. Presenting to legislative committees. A podcast.

And now, a restaurant. The Local Food Exchange opened about a month ago with a vision, a prayer, and a lot of community support. Suddenly we are shifting gears from lackadaisically imagining what life would be like if... (cue chewing on straw in the front porch swing) to bumping around in the midst of confusing logistics, learning how to tread water a little more effectively each day.

Today, a load of locally-grown potatoes was delivered that will soon become french fries. A little more efficient than the half-day trip out to their farm we did last time. He let his new helpers open for the first time without him today so he could come with me to the blood draw. Our city manager has been up every morning this week for his breakfast.

I keep joking to people that he is failing at retirement, but look at him, peeling boxes of local apples I made into pie that he later traded for a Google business listing (a born trader!): Happy, invigorated. The brain atrophies in the kind of disuse I plan for my retirement: porch, hammock, book. Researchers recommend constant learning, and not the kind of learning that comes from reading an article or two. The kind that comes with trying new things, trying to be something different, stretching who you are.

Norman Mailer wrote: "Every moment of one's existence one is growing into more or retreating into less." We all know that growth and discomfort are inextricable. No growth happens in the comfort zone. Turns out Jack's growth zone comes with a side of gravy and pie for dessert. Come and get it!

Meat, Meat and more Meat

I was a vegetarian for 10 years. Jack's livelihood all of his life has depended on the production of meat. On our first date we wandered into a restaurant in the basement of a historic house in Independence, Missouri. We were supposed to have visited the Truman Library that day but he hijacked me and instead we went to the National Historic Trails Museum. It was fitting: we were our own kind of pioneer, after all. In the restaurant I ordered a salad. He ordered chicken livers and gizzards. I was appalled. Disgusting. He might as well have ordered the dredge from the bottom of the mop bucket.

Last year I found my way to a ketogenic way of eating, which has been life-changing. No more the inner angst, grinding weariness, and persistent frustration with life in general. Oh, and I lost some weight, too. Keto means mostly protein and virtually no carbs. I find I do best when eating virtually only eggs and meat. So here we are. I didn't even plant a garden this year. We have gone through several sous vide wands this year and half our back porch is occupied by a giant smoker. Jack feels quite vindicated since this seems to have worked out better than my forays into veganism and raw food. Even after 14 months I still flip outside myself and look back, incredulous.

When he tells people he converted me (not true!) to meat eating I respond that I'm making up for lost time. Ten years of meat for me! And thankfully he IS the source to find all local meat in our town (and working to develop that market for others) so I have my very own Butcher Box supplier who even cooks it just the way I like it. This pork steak (from our pig) was sous vide and smoked!

We have three freezers full of mostly protein in the garage, though one has homemade stock of all varieties (even buffalo!) and half of another is full of offal: the unmentionables no one else in town wants. Word has gotten out that Jack wants it! Chicken livers and gizzards were nothing, as it turns out! He and a few friends are threatening to start an offal lunch club. When a man at church had a kidney removed, Jack baked him a steak and kidney pie. He even cut out little kidneys in the pie crust top. I don't think anyone ate it but him, though.

So, dear, what kind of protein do you require today, he asks while pouring his coffee. I have smoked roast beef, pulled pork, turkey breast, bacon, and grass-fed tri-tip in the fridge beside the three dozen local eggs. "I think I'm fine for today, thanks!"

My favorite Doodle dog

It is the end of an era, the death of our fine dog, Skip. He was to be named Kip, Jack said, like a good cattle dog he’d once known. But It kept coming out with an S on the front. So Skip he became. Not that the name ever mattered much to him. What mattered to him was belonging. Having a place to come home to, where there would be food and love, always.

The boy was just there waiting on the stoop one day when we got back to the ranch. A black dog with brown points above his eyes like a Doberman or a Rottweiler. Nothing about this thin mangy guy was threatening, though. He tilted his head, pushed his ears back and smiled. I’m a love. Can’t you tell?

And so he stayed. As an outdoor dog, a decision which nearly split my marriage. Having a furry dog covered in snow lying next to the door with temperatures well below zero was not in me. Jack insisted he was an outside dog, with a job, and bringing him in would confuse him and his system. (Only after I found a scholarly research article about this did I relent - it indeed was hard on them to come in only to go back out.)

His job was to keep the coyotes off the place, and he was especially good at guarding the chickens who never even had to be locked up at night. I once watched as a few coyotes (or a pack - who can ever tell how many there are?) came close into the ranch and he ran them off. “Regular” dogs often fall victim to their tricks, but never Skip. He charged them, but always came back before they could get him surrounded and turned around to charge again until they gave up and left. Wileyer than a coyote.

When we moved to town we worried most about him. The transition from roaming hundreds of acres with nary a fence in sight to one acre would be tough. But here he came in. A dog bed. Treats. A ball to chase after (and never return). A ditch to soak in on days when the heat made being a fluffy black dog more intolerable than the snow and freezing cold.

Nicknamed Skipper LeDoux by a friend, at home he began to answer to Doodles, a ridiculous name that suited him just fine.

The bounding leaps of joy! The racehorse dashes down the fenceline after his arch enemy! The belly rolls with one foot flopped to be extra cute. His special nest in the middle of the giant lilac bush. Laying down to eat, while the hyena corgi circled. His squeals when his favorite people came to visit. His last ears relaxed, bright eyed smile at me in the vet’s office.

In 2002, an intuitive told me that I’d live in a white house at the base of a mountain and a back dog would come and bring my deceased uncle to guard my life. Did I mention that our house was beige? And surrounded by mountains beyond the plain? That Skip was black? Whenever I touched my head to his head all the stress drained immediately. It was magical medicine.

He was a blessing in our lives and we miss him. Thank you for coming, Skip.

Marriage as C25K

I am reading Kate Braestrup's second memoir, Marriage and Other Acts of Charity. 

Her tale reminds me of my favorite admonition about marriage: a successful one is where both man and wife each think they got the better end of the deal. Today is our anniversary. And let me tell you. I won. 

What he got: neuroses, debt, abhorrence of household maintenance, neuroses, vegetables, political rants, oh, and did I mention my neuroses?

What I got: Love. 

A few months ago, in the midst of the time that shall not be mentioned (still processing) I found this was my horoscope:

 

I was crying a lot in those days but this made me grin from the inside out. Because that girl? The one with the mix tapes full of Bryan Adams, Journey, Cheap Trick and every other longing ballad? I want to tell her that those nights of wishing and hoping and thinking and praying - they worked! She won the marriage lottery!

 I just read this amazing obituary; Pink's story is the story Jesus wants to hear from every obituary he reads over his morning coffee. Love. A lot. Openly and with abandon. 

I am not guilty of this behavior.  I fail to love on many - well, most - occasions. My husband, on the other hand, is a gift. My first reaction to anything - a bird at the window, a letter in the mail, a new recipe - is analytic. 

My brain goes to all the factors, the whys, the implications, the context and relation to all things known before. It asserts dominance every time. Let's just say I don't radiate love and grace the way Pink did.

Jack, on the other hand, is the Ghost of Christmas Present. Come, and know me better, man! He lives fully and radiates love. He is grace when I have a tantrum, solace when I am afraid, hope when I doubt. His arms are always open. 

Why do we celebrate anniversaries? Some do to honor what the couple has made of their life together. Home, children, community. Some mark the survival of tumultuous years. Some renew their vows. 

 Today marks six years for us since we first said our vows.

We kept the whole better or worse stuff, the richer or poorer, the sickness and in health bit (see previous post).  We agreed faithful was probably good to stick in. Honesty, respect, trust, etc. Then we took a little creative license and declared: 

"I promise to honor you; to share all that I am with you and to love you all the days of my life."

"I join with you on your journey; that we may learn to better understand ourselves, the world and God." 

Yes, I love him every day. And every day he shows me how to be a little better at it. 

In her conclusion, the lady who performed the ceremony admonished us. "Cory and Jack, treat each other with respect and remind yourselves often of what brought you together. Give the highest priority to the tenderness, gentleness and kindness that your marriage deserves. If each of you takes responsibility for the quality of your life together, your marriage will be marked by abundance and delight." 

She was right. So today we celebrate this 5k victory while training for a marathon. Love is choice every minute of every day. Someday I hope I will finally learn it well enough so love will become my default the way Jack learned it to be from his parents and Pink - and Jesus - taught us it should be.

Springing into summer

Which is longer, a saga or an epic? Please hold while I transfer you to Google. (Response: A saga is an Icelandic epic.) Either way, it's been a long haul.

 I won't bore you with the episodic details since the characters are all the same. The bottom line is that Jack's outfit has had an open back for most of the past four months. In those rare weeks when it didn't, it had suspenders. Needless to say, the heart surgery had some complications. Which led to other complications.

 

 It has been a trying time. We will certainly be different people at the end of this. 

Have a heart, or a cow

Many years ago we were watching a program about medical advances. They were discussing prosthetic limbs and other artificial body parts that were creating bionic people. Jack was having none of it.
"If I need one, give me one of those pig valves. Or even better, a cow valve!"

We laughed. Who had ever heard of a cow valve?

Fast forward to last fall.
Me: "You really need to see the cardiologist. They found concerns a couple of years ago and there hasn't been any follow-up."
Him: "I didn't like the last guy we saw."
Me: "There are others. Give them a call."

Eventually, the call was made. Tests were ordered. An appointment scheduled. We never made it to that appointment. After the second test the doctor who happened to be there came in. I was at work so he recorded it for me.

(In a Romanian accent:)
"You need an aortic valve replacement plus one, maybe two bypasses. We need to get you in for a heart catheterization immediately."

The past few weeks have been a bit of a blur. That was week one. Week two was the catheterization, which was not pleasant. Watching the video of the vessel function was pretty amazing, however. I'm a big believer in alternative medicine but am properly awed - and grateful - for modern medicine as well. The surgeon on call that day said the surgery was necessary but that the symptoms weren't significant (fatigue and shortness of breath). Because of that he thought it could wait until he was back from covering other cities (Wyoming has two heart surgeons. TWO.) and a vacation. "My office will call and set you up for about a month from now."

Today is Sunday. On Monday last week the office called and said the other surgeon could do it sooner and could we come see him tomorrow? His office is two hours away. We went. He scheduled the surgery for Friday.

"Now, you have a choice. An artificial valve will last the longest. They never wear out, but you have to be on blood thinner for the rest of your life. You can have a tissue valve, which doesn't last quite as long but longer than we used to think. We used to think they would only last 10 years. Now studies are showing they last up to 25 years."

"What kind of tissue?"

"We prefer to use bovine pericardium."

We looked at each other. A cow valve??

Friday morning they installed an extra-large aortic COW valve in Jack's heart. He has been missing the cows since we moved. Now he literally carries one around with him. Or maybe more bull. 

In My Room

I don't have any before photos for this post, but I'm guessing you can imagine. Perhaps you even have a similar space in your house somewhere. You know, that room/corner/basement that is stuffed full of boxes, strewn with unwanted decorations, unheated and saturated with dust?

That one.

A couple of strands of lights never made it back into the Christmas box. A rare trip to the city yielded *the perfect* fabric. And I remembered. A room can make you happy just by being in it. 

Bright colors. Whimsy. Treasures only I care about. I piled them in and sat back to soak it in. Well, after I cleaned (how fun was it to clean those blinds? Not very. But so worth it.) 

The day before the city trip I began Amish Grace and a phrase they use resonated with me: 

JOY: Jesus first, Others second, Yourself last. 

Irony in putting that up in a room all for me? Why yes, there is. I'll go meditate upon that. In my room. 

Home makeover: Office edition

Before: 

After:

Here is the curtain fabric. It makes the green shag carpet seem purposeful instead of inherited.