As a person who participates in regular sessions of yoga exercise and believes in the power of the universe and love, a gift of a desktop Zen Garden was recently bestowed upon me by a friend. This little box included a shallow wooden tray about four inches wide by ten inches long. The kit also included a bag of very fine sand, some small rocks, and a teeny tiny plastic rake.

After adding some colorful rocks and a souvenir shell turtle with glasses, I found moving the sand around with the teeny tiny rake was indeed soothing and rewarding. Some days the sand became as smooth as glass. Other times, it would drift against the sides of the box as if a strong, desert wind had blown through my office cubicle.  Often, strange designs appeared in the surface of the sand as though the shell turtle with glasses had hopped about across the sand under the cover of darkness. Coworkers would stop by to rake the sand and rearrange the rocks. Overall, the desktop Zen Garden was a big success in the office.

In a seemingly unrelated event, a new addition to my menagerie of pets at home came in the form of a nine week old kitten. Thus, for said kitten, being too small to protect himself outdoors in the Central Texas countryside with hawks, raccoons and coyotes ready to eat him, a cat litter box was placed into service. At first, cleaning the thoroughly disgusting tray of offal was a nose holding, sometimes gagging experience.  But the discovery of an exceptionally effective odor control, clumping cat litter made this task much less objectionable.

One morning, after scooping out the now thankfully unrecognizable excrement with the slotted spatula type instrument designed for such activity, I quite unintentionally proceeded to smooth and move the cat litter around the box. The grains sifted through the slots in the scoop easily and gracefully. The surface of the litter moved like a wave with the strokes of the scoop. I smiled. Yes, you read that right. I smiled while leaning over the cat box. It was surprisingly peaceful.

Therefore, no wonder indoor cats and odor controlling cat litter are so popular. They combine to make a very desirable pet situation.   Between the warm, soft fur, the gentle purring, and the unexpected pleasure of litter box stirring, a person most certainly can reach a state of Cat Box Zen.

(This is based on a true incident which happened to my friend Sandie. It is fictionalized a bit, but not much.)




The beep-beep from deep within Sandie’s purse indicated a text had been received. Stopping at the back door, she rummaged past her wallet and various used and unused tissues to find the cell phone.  She was late, and she hated that feeling. The message stated, “I am here, where r u?” and was from her first client of the day. After keying a quick reply of, “on way,” she threw a kiss to the photos of her twin daughters and five grandchildren hanging on the wall. Grabbing a jacket, she smiled with the memory of her husband of thirty-three years pointing the electric heater toward the commode earlier that morning. He didn’t want her butt to get cold. Sandie happily rushed to the economy car used for her cleaning business.

Living in the country had its advantages like having space for horses and lots of cats, but Sandie had to cover the five miles to town in a hurry to meet her appointment. The woman was a longtime customer, and had a party coming up, so Sandie and the big guns were called out to spiffy up the house. With a giggle, she pulled out of the drive onto the dirt road and thought gladly that Herbert had been loaded the previous evening. She’d need the high powered Hoover on this job. Certainly the 31st president of the United States wouldn’t have appreciated having his name lent to a mighty sucking machine, but, it was a good joke which made her clients laugh.

A dust cloud rose from behind the car, as she pressed her foot on the gas pedal. Suddenly a large shadow passed over the windshield, momentarily blocking the morning sun. Sandie reacted by lifting her foot, and with a sharp intake of breath quickly stopped the car. Amazed, she looked at a figure in the roadway. Pulling forward just a bit, she saw it to be a large Red Tailed Hawk, a common predator bird in her area.

The majestic bird of prey stood directly in the middle of the dirt road staring intently in Sandie’s direction. The hair on her arms rose, as the bird’s gaze met with her own. She could see its eyes, wide and looking straight at her. Time seemed to stop for a moment during this unusual encounter. Abruptly, the hawk turned its head to one side, then looked back at Sandie in the car, and spread its wings to take off. It soared around the car twice before catching a breeze and disappearing over some nearby trees.

Sandie took a deep breath and continued on more slowly. As she approached an intersection of two country roads, a large pickup truck pulling a cattle trailer barreled across in front of her, running the stop sign and thoroughly scaring her already shaken psyche. She sat still in the car for a minute.

The shadow fell across the windshield again, as the hawk made another pass over Sandie. It again disappeared into the blue sky. That mighty and wild bird had delayed the car’s forward progress such that Sandie was not in the path of the speeding truck and trailer when it blasted past the stop sign meant to allow her lane safe passage. Closing her eyes, the woman sent a prayer of thanks to Heaven.

Call it luck.

Call it fate.

Call it the hand of God.

Whatever it was, that hawk was sent at that particular moment to keep this wonderful woman safe. It cannot be a coincidence.




E 6/19/14

Monsters. Multiple images of nightmarish shapes. Falling, stumbling, even jumping out a window. That’s what the film shown to a bunch of us teenagers in the early '70s taught me about doing drugs. Scared the peediddly squat out of this gal so badly that I never considered trying any drugs, cigarettes or more than two margaritas. And we’re talking forty years that lesson has stayed with me.

There is quite the discussion in America today for the legalization of recreational marijuana. Perhaps that indicates medical marijuana is already fairly commonplace. Some folks are adamantly against it, others are very much in favor of the drug being available legally. Arguments are made stating the effects of marijuana are no worse than alcohol, which, unless one is driving, is perfectly legal. Others take moral issue with the use of this drug saying it is just plain wrong-a sin.

Personally I sit on the fence on this topic. Being a fairly moral person, and having the crap scared out of me with a visual display of what could happen under the influence of drugs, I would not eat, drink or otherwise use marijuana. Never mind it is illegal. Except in Colorado.

Why are there laws? To protect John Q. Public from something, someone, or himself. Laws regarding drugs are an attempt at the latter. Good ol’ John, he shouldn’t be smoking that stuff, it’ll lead to other problems, or he’ll jump off a bridge or something. So it is illegal for John to have the drug. Trouble is, John gets it anyway. What was the lesson of Prohibition? Keep people from legally getting what they want and they’ll find an illegal way to get it. In some cases, the danger of breaking the law is part of the appeal. “Look at me, I’m really bad,” the guy with the bag of dope says. Funny how “bad” is both good and bad to some people.

As a fifty something year old, it is easy to say the morals of today are so loose, the line between right and wrong is so blurred, or that the country is going to Hell in a hand basket due the actions of the younger generation. But like that anti-drug commercial said, “Where’d you learn to do that?” “From you, Dad. I learned it from you.” One can go back in history and find entire decades spent under the spell of opiates or alcohol. Yet civilization has survived, and moved forward.

I guess those monsters and terrifying things shown in that movie so long ago would now appear hokey or commonplace. Heck, there are images in commercials that give me nightmares today. Perhaps I was, and am, impressionable; perhaps inherently moral activity is in my nature. My mom always said, “To each his own.” After all, each of us has different views and desires.

However, there is a line to be drawn. As long as an action doesn’t hurt anyone or anything, it should be all right. Whether a person is drunk, high or a violent sociopath makes no difference to the person he caused physical or emotional pain. Nothing is a good excuse for hurting others. But if somebody under the influence of drugs, or just plain meanness, does something which causes hurt to me or mine, he’ll need a different kind of drug to ease the pain of the gunshot wound he'll get from me.

 

After experiencing an epiphany regarding my next project, I began writing about my mother’s life in the 1930’s. She was born on April 2, 1918 in a log cabin on top of a mountain in West Virginia. Over the years she told me many stories of her childhood, so I felt confident the story could be told.

One incident which affected her tremendously is particularly disturbing, so I have been hesitant to write about it. As a teenager, someone gave my mother a Boston Terrier. Now, this was an unusual pet in rural West Virginia and so she treasured the little dog. Further, being ninth of eleven children during The Depression, virtually nothing was her own personal property. By all accounts, the dog was a delightful character well loved by everyone in the family.

The terrible occurrence was on Hog Killing Day. A vat or barrel with boiling water was prepared to receive the pieces of pork to scald, skin and remove the hair. For some reason, the Boston Terrier jumped up to be closer to where my mother was working and landed in that boiling water. The horror my mother felt at that time could be seen in her eyes thirty years later as she told the story to a ten
year old Elaine in effort to discourage my desire for a pet. This being such a difficult story, I postponed writing it for several days. That is, until yesterday afternoon while I was at work. It felt right to go forward and create the scene. After it was finished, I had to walk around a while to relieve the
emotion.

About the time I finished writing that horrific scene, something unknown to me was happening at home. Our three dogs were barking at an unseen intruder sounding urgent enough my husband went to investigate with a shotgun. Seeing nothing, he continued on with what he was doing. An hour or so later, he found our Doberman Pinscher, Magic, dead and laying in a natural sleeping position on the ground. He determined a poisonous snake must have bitten her directly in an artery. Shocked and angry, he broke the news as I arrived home. 
 
In the scene where mom’s dog died, I wrote into the story that she ran some distance away, and her brother approached to lay a hand on her shoulder in sympathy and support. As I knelt beside Magic’s body and touched her one last time, our neighbor appeared and gently placed his hand on my shoulder. I wrote that my grandfather and mom’s younger brother, took her dog to bury it out of her sight. That neighbor took my place in helping to bury Magic so I could go in the house and cry. 

The coincidence of this is not lost to me. After a few recent disappointing events, I felt compelled to present my mother’s story of life during The Depression on a farm, her entry into the Women’s Army Air Corps, and the victory of her life. Now, after experiencing this coincidence, I know the manuscript is meant to be emotional and very real. My goal is to finish it before the end of 2013.


 

Regret. Just what causes regret? Often we look back on a situation and see it more clearly than when we were actually facing it. We realize something should have been done, but for some reason we do not act. Emotional issues can be uncomfortable and one might be hesitant to step into another person’s predicament. A famous quote says one should not offer uninvited advice. But our hearts tell us otherwise.

What should we do?

If a person has a conscience, and an answer to  a problem, he will be compelled to help another person facing that same problem. Experience—knowing what someone is feeling in a certain circumstance—is a unique connection between humans who have, and are, facing similar issues.  That connection may allow an interaction which will have a profound effect on both parties. But when that connection is avoided, both people are left in a void. The person with the firsthand experience who fails to act on his compulsion to help another in the same situation will never know what might have happened. He will always wonder if a few words offered to the troubled person could have made
a difference. That is regret.

Conversely, when that personal experience is shared with another in the same struggle you have endured, an emotional connection deeper than almost anything you’ve ever known is created. The
knowledge that someone else understands, and truly knows how he feels is more healing than hours of therapy. No longer feeling alone, he can draw from his ally’s strength, heal, and forge a bond which will never break.

 Why do we not act when we should? Our hearts know what action should be taken, what words should be spoken. Something stops us. Fear. The fear of failure, the fear of ridicule, of rejection, of
embarrassment. Yet, are these valid consequences? What harm does it do to endure  any of those negative possibilities? No skin off your nose, as the saying goes. You tried. If you don’t at least try, regret will result.

Case in point: a former classmate from high school sent me a manuscript to review. I read a little of it and put it off for later. That friendsuddenly died. And I never talked to him about his manuscript. In fact, I still have it, this true story of a grackle who became friends with this man. I heartily regret not talking to him about it, polishing it and putting it out for people to enjoy. And that situation cannot be corrected. He is gone. The  opportunity has passed.

As humans we need each other. I try to do some good deed every day, smile and be pleasant to everyone I meet, and attempt  to positively touch their lives in whatever way possible. Unresolved unfinished business is contrary to our nature. We want a task to be over, done and move on to the next one. Do not let opportunities to help another person pass you by. If you think to take that action later, it might be too late. 

Consider this quote from Zachary Scott – 2/21/14 – 10/3/65, native Texan and actor.

      As you grow older, you’ll find the only things you regret are the things you didn’t do.


© Copyright 2013  Elaine Fields Smith.  All rights reserved.

July was my birthday month. Right. Not just one day, but a whole  month. When I was a kid there were no birthday parties. Oh, mom always made strawberry shortcake and often we got shrimp to eat. But no party. We were poor and lived pretty far away from most of the people I knew-which wasn’t many. In fact just recently I reached the conclusion that I must be an extrovert. However, as a child, shyness kept me from experiencing many things. Painfully shy is the term. But not now. So I was a shy extrovert then. I’m pretty much over the shyness, but it shows up occasionally. 
 
As Andy Griffith said, we’re driftin’ here so back to the subject. At this point in life, birthdays could be a dreaded affair. Back when I turned thirty-nine, someone asked if I was planning to stay at that age. My response was if I was going to stop, I would have stopped at twenty-nine! The aging process can be disturbing—hence the billion dollar “look younger/stop aging” business. 

But now being over fifty, there’s no denying this aging thing, so why not enjoy it? If my yoga buddies want to have a “birthday tea” after class one Saturday, I’m there. Friends want to go out to dinner, you betcha. Other friends make cakes but can’t deliver, sure I’ll come by and get it. Post a recipe on Facebook a month early with the words “Somebody make this for my birthday” and you’ll get several versions of that concoction. (That plan worked well!)

 Face it, all this cannot happen on one day. Seems like only once per decade or so one can gather a large group of friends for an event. So taking things as they come, and not being picky about when or how, allows one to have a birthday month. This year was great. So many people helped make it special. The husband not only took me to a mall (one of our least favorite places), he went in the store with me to help pick out my gift—good, gold earrings. So all in all, birthday month 2013 was a grand success. And get this, I didn’t even have to give myself a party. The parties were given to me.

Elaine 8/1/13

Isn’t it funny how a song can define your mood, or create a feeling of emotion within which reflects some inner conflict? On the way into the workplace today a CD with some songs played in the car. Through some friends a while back I heard a song, “The Richest One,” and had to know what it was. A quick Internet search turned up the recording artist, Toni Price, and Amazon happily filled my order.  The music filled the car...and me.

Chill bumps rise, my eyes close, breathing in the music I feel…well I just feel. The sounds and the words are sad, defiant, yet joyful. The song touches me. That’s a powerful thing. While walking toward the building, a line from the song rolled through my mind—“a good man’s touch in the mornin’ when I rise, baby, I’d give up every single dime,” and the memory of the kiss before I left home, the
miracle of my husband’s strength, tenderness, love and support washed over me.

There was something almost electrical in the air, an energy my soul couldn’t just leave. So walking past the door, those feet kept going. My free hand moved outward, gathering the energy, as smooth steps were taken. With a purse and a book occupying my other hand, the two free fingers extended to grab what they could. There, under the trees was a peace and power so much needed. Walking
through the bird droppings on the sidewalk, there was no fear of anything dropping on me from above—indeed I looked up through the leaves to see the sparkle of the morning sun. My deep breaths allowed it to soak in.

Suddenly a cool breeze wafted through the area. Currently, it is July in Texas and a high temperature of 102 is expected, so a cool breeze was a pleasant and surprising sensation.  My feet halted, eyelids closed and the power surrounded me. I did not want to move. In truth, leaving was optional. But duty and responsibility called and the powerful peace released me. Not completely, however. It is still there, hovering in the background, triggering my mind and fingers to create these words.

Perhaps such feelings should not be experienced very often else they might become commonplace. But taking a few moments to feel the breeze and the sun through the trees is something we should do more often.  

Link to the song on youtube: http://youtu.be/Lo0oRiEooog

The downfall of modern civilization can be narrowed to a few guilty aspects of our lives, the foremost being: cartoons. Gone are the days when Wile E. Coyote blew himself up with those Acme Corporation bombs and came away without shedding a drop of blood and with only a temporary bandage. In the next scene, he was his normal scrawny, but healthy, self. Elmer Fudd also suffered from such luck in pursuit of that “wascally wabbit,” but never did he lose a limb or actually blow off his extraordinarily large head.

Why, though admittedly somewhat violent, were these cartoons harmless? The same way playing cowboys and Indians with toy guns was harmless. It wasn’t real. Fiction through and through. And the goal was to make the viewer laugh.Actual injuries bleeding real blood caused real pain and meant a trip to the emergency room. Shouting “Bang Bang” at your friend and him falling to the ground to play dead wasn’t a reflection of reality. It was play.

Then came video games. Pac Man and Space Invaders were all  right-again, fiction. But advances in animation caused the games to become more  life-like. And then there was “Beavus and Butthead” and “The Simpsons.” Fiction morphed reality through these types of programs.The laughs became spiteful. The goal became the "high score."  Videos where one fires a gun and kills another person, who often falls in a full color pool of blood, are now considered “games.” 
 
What is the difference from the kid with a pop gun shooting at his friend who falls down and the video game where a futuristic vigilante fires an AK-47 and mows down a column of armed forces? It isn’t “play.”It is called “playing a video game” but it is not “play.” The kid’s friend hops up and they
run inside to get an afternoon snack. The formerly living beings in the video game do not get back up. They are dead and bleeding on the ground. This sort of thing desensitizes us to the realities of true injury and actual, tragic death. And I just heard of a cartoon about blob characters which capture humans to grind up and put in their soup. Unbelievable. 
 
One might argue the people in the video games are not real. Tell that to the kid who readily fires a gun in a computer game then does so in real life and is not concerned with the blood from the wound. That blood doesn’t mean anything  to him. Wile E. Coyote and good old Elmer Fudd always bounced right back. The people ground up for soup can’t do that. Perhaps the blobs will poop restored human beings. Kind of scary to think about it.


 

We used to do the drag. No, not dress in drag. We rode up and down the main street in our town to see what was going on and to say “hey” to people who were “out.” Gas was cheap then and there wasn’t all this electronic entertainment. Heck, if you had cable you were rich. So we rode around. Going to the movies on dollar night was an option, but one had to make a drag before, and after, to make the event complete. My first book, Ridin’ Around is about all that nostalgia stuff. As all old folks seem to say: them was the days.

Now, with friends spread far and wide and gas so expensive, we have Facebook. I can “make a drag” through the newsfeed and see what’s going on, who has been “out” and what they’ve been doing. Or, passing on by, stopping for a second and acknowledging them by “liking” their status, (this is what I call waving) or pulling over and posting in the conversation are all options. And even if they don’t answer my input right away, when it's time to make that drag through later, I’ll see if they said something. Yep, that’s what I like about Facebook. And the fact it saves on fuel.

It’s not as good as talking in person, but the opportunity to converse with such a diverse group is not to be taken for granted. So I interact as is appropriate, or sometimes not so appropriate. One can joke, sympathize, express horror or get on his soapbox. The beauty of it is, we don’t have to listen to all of it. You can just cruise on by.

That’s why I like Facebook better than Twitter. I’m an entertainer, not a news person. Reading the paper for me is concentrating on the headlines, the funnies and the crossword puzzle. Twitter doesn’t have the personal feel for me that Facebook has. Both are good in their own ways, much like chocolate and vanilla ice cream. Some folks only like one, some both, some pass on the whole thing. So excuse me now, I must go “make a drag” before lunch!

After accepting a challenge to read the 1200 page  classic, Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace, I’ll have to admit to feeling a bit overwhelmed. Along about page 150, the number of characters, not to mention the bewildering spelling of the Russian names, and varied settings was mind blowing. But I kept on reading.
Why?


Perhaps the reward for reading such an epic is similar to that of taking a long motorcycle ride or running a 5K—you have done something not everyone can do. It wasn’t necessarily easy or fun every minute of the time. But you are glad to have completed it. You did it. The accomplishment was worth the effort.


Overcoming the difficulties of traversing a rough road on a motorcycle or your weary feet climbing that last hill before the finish line is what makes the activity more meaningful. You might have an ache or two, but overall it feels good. You did it. 

So onward to page 151 and beyond to accomplish something difficult which, hopefully, will have some good stuff to enjoy along the way. Plenty of opportunity for that—only 1050 pages to go!