Let It BE!

February 21, 2014February 21, 2014 / roughwighting / 42 Comments

Do you remember those middle school essays: “What I Did on My Vacation” ?

Back then, I proudly wrote: “I read, I swam, I sunbathed by the pool, I caught fireflies.”

Back then, we didn’t have computers and cell phones, I-Pads and I-Pods, Twitter and Facebook.

Back then, we didn’t have a hundred choices of things to DO, like skydive or zipline, paraglide or climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, river raft or whale watch.

Back then, vacation was a time to just BE.

Now, most of us are always doing, especially on vacation.

So I’m kind of embarrassed to answer the question about what I did on my vacation this month:

(1) I read six books: The Light in the Ruins by Chris Bohjalian, Me Before You by Jojo Moyes, Time and Again by Jack Finny, Through the Evil Days by Julia Spencer-Fleming, Marry Me, by Kristin Walker, The Magician’s Assistant by Ann Patchett.

(2) I walked hand and hand with my man, with no destination in mind.

A path to nowhere.

(3) I watched giant turtles teach me the power of floating to wherever I am taken.

I could do this all day.

(4) I shopped at the U.S.’s western-most bookstore in the little town of Hanapepe, Kauai.

(5) I dozed in the sun after an hour of a yoga tai chi class along the ocean.

(6) I admired the sunrise…and the sunset.

(7) I caught waves of memories, splashes of insight, whispered tradewind words of wisdom, sand drifts of dreams, and a beach load of joy.

Many say I didn’t DO anything…

I say I explored the world of BE.

“A vacation is having nothing to do and all day to do it in.” Robert Orben

Are Your Ears Ringing?

February 14, 2014February 14, 2014 / roughwighting / 30 Comments

A week before we’re to leave for our winter vacation this month, the ENT peers into my ear canal and says, “You can’t fly with this ear!”

“Okay, I’ll take my other ear,” I crack.

The doctor doesn’t crack even a glimmer of a smile. “Your eardrum will rupture. You can’t fly.”

“I am NOT missing my vacation, or my flight,” I respond, rising from my reclined position in the doctor’s chair.

“I suppose I could rupture it for you,” she says calmly.

I sit back in the chair, beginning to sweat. I’ve had ear “troubles” since I was a kid. My mom tells me that when I was a toddler, the doctors wrapped me up like a mummy to pierce my eardrum. I don’t remember this incredible horrible form of childhood torture, but have wondered if those repressed memories are the reason that I suffer from claustrophobia.

And a fear of ear doctors.

I like my ears
just fine.

Is there a phobia for that? Upon looking it up, I found that (1) there is an ENT doctor whose name is Dr. Fear. I promise, you won’t catch me dead or alive in his chair, and (2) there’s a fear of ears, called Kaciraffphobia. But I like my ears fine. No, I just have ENTphobia.

“I can’t let you near me,” I whisper to the doctor now in what I had hoped would be a threatening growl.

“Let’s try steroids first,” she suggests. “We have six days before your flight. If prednisone doesn’t reduce your inflammation and allow you to pop your ears, come back the day before your flight. We’ll make a small incision in the eardrum to drain the fluid.”

Incision?

Eardrum?

Back in six days?

I back out of the room, prescription in hand, ears chiming like the Notre Dame bells, knowing that this ENT specialist won’t see the front of me, or my ears, again for a long, long time.

Sorry, doc. Are your ears ringing now, too?

I Want My Nap!

February 7, 2014February 7, 2014 / roughwighting / 35 Comments

A few weeks ago my man and I take two of our son’s three little boys for four hours of fun, fun, fun with PaPa and Pammy.

We drive the 45-mintues to pick them up, making plans along the way: walk in the park, an hour in the new playground near our house, a swim at the local pool, maybe we’d even have time to bake cookies!

After car seats are maneuvered into the back seat, the 3-year-old and 4-year-old grandsons are strapped in, and we make the noisy ride back to our place amidst:

“When are we getting there?” “Where’s Henry the dog?” “Can we sit on Henry?” How does a dog get arthritis?” “What IS arthritis?” “Can I have a drink?” “I’m hungry!” “How much longer?”

When we arrive, the 4-year-old plops himself on the lounge chair in our deck overlooking the Bay, puts his hand behind his head, and exclaims, “What a view! I’m going to sit here allll day.”

The 3-year-old has found the puzzles I store in the kids’ closet and throws the pieces of all three, together, across the living room floor.

“Man-to-man coverage,” my guy suggests. He takes the puzzle tot, I take the “unmovable boy” who now has found the bookcase in the hallway and asks, to my delight, “Read this one, Pammy!”

Six books later, the 4-year-old insists he wants to read all day.

“Let’s go to the playground,” I suggest.

“No! I want Llama Llama Time to Share again!”

In the meantime, Henry the dog has a puzzle piece in his ear, and the man-to-man defense is weakening.

We squeeze in a 15-minute trip to the pool and a few bites of peanut butter and jelly, but it’s close to nap time, when we promised the munchkins’ parents we’d bring them home.

The 4-year-old begs, “can’t we stay and reeeeeaaaaaaaadddddddddd?”

The 3-year-old insists: “I want my mommy!”

So we hustle to the car and begin the ride back.

Five minutes into the drive a sound as loud as 20 chalk pieces screeching on a board emits from the back seat. My guy and I jump so high our heads hit the car roof.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, turning around to check on the distressed 3-year-old.

“I WANT MY NAAAPPPPP!” he screams.

Huh. I thought parents begged children to nap, not the other way around.

The 4-year-old consoles his brother: “It’s okay, you can nap in the car.”

“NOOO!” his younger brother retorts. “I need my MOMMY, then I can NAP!”

A tense ride ensues, with a strangled sound coming from the 3-year-old’s side every so often: “Naaaaaappppppp!!!”

In a record 39.5 minutes, we deliver our charming grandchildren to their relieved parents.

“You’re late!” our son exclaims.

As I unbuckle the blonde-haired, sweet-as a-snowball 3-year-old from his seat, he strokes my face lightly.

“Pammy?” he says softly.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Ah, I’m a good grandmother, I sigh to myself, until the little one continues: “But I’m not coming to your house ever again.”

Defeated, I give him a light kiss with a chuckle and hand him off to his mother for a long afternoon’s nap.

On the way home, my guy drives over the speed limit. I gaze at him quizzically.

“I need my nap, NOW,” he exclaims.

Which only proves that little boys never truly grow up.

Hmmm, is it nap time?

Guiding our Genes

January 31, 2014January 30, 2014 / roughwighting / 31 Comments

A writer once said, “Journeys, like artists, are born and not made.” (Lawrence Durrell)

Really? Are we born into who we are? I know we contain these things called genes, which help us become who we are – the tall gene or the short one; blue-eyed or the brown-eyed gene; the one for a dimple in the cheek or high cheekbones; a gene tendency to grow up lean, or fat.

But are we also comprised of a gene to be an artist or a stockbroker, a train conductor or an engineer?

And then I remember Tory.

Tory was my family’s first dog – a golden retriever bred by the Guide Dogs to be a perfect animal to guide and protect the blind. The right height, weight, disposition: sweet, docile, loving, yet with a streak of strength and stubbornness.

In fact, Tory was so perfect, the Guide Dogs organization used her as a breeder (of other perfect dogs), and we became her adopted parents, taking care of her until time to do her duty and produce offspring. Once her litter was born and nursed, Tory came back home with us.

For us, Tory was a perfect family dog. She never met a human she didn’t love.

However, she disliked just about every dog or cat who crossed her path. People oohed and ahh’d when Tory and I walked the lovely Bay path, but if another leashed dog came along, my sweet dog would snarl tightly and lead me firmly away from the unsavory beast.

A mere inconvenience for us as dog owners.

But when it came time for her to breed a third litter, the Guide Dogs rejected her!

Yes, they fired Tory.

Why?

Because every single one of her puppies – 8 in her first litter and 9 in her second – disliked dogs and cats. And a Guide Dog who snarls at other dogs cannot be used as a loving companion to a blind person, because that loving dog could lead her person the wrong way, just to avoid a four-legged creature.

So, then, are we only how we arrive, genes intact? Are we born as artist or preacher, as anthropologist or philanthropist?

Are we born mean or nice?

Do we snarl at strangers because our great-grandfather did, and do we bake the best apple pie this side of the Mississippi because of our great great great-aunt?

What do you think – can we guide our genes, or do they just guide us into who we are?

Smart Tory learned new tricks every day…
thanks to my guy, or good genes?

A Wintry Flight of Fancy

January 24, 2014 / roughwighting / 30 Comments

http://lichtyears.wordpress.com/

I wake my daughter at 7 a.m. and exclaim: “It’s snowing. We have to go for a walk!” I’m spending the weekend with her and her young family, who are hushed into dreams. But I can’t let her sleep and miss this fun.

A best friend would turn over in bed and fall back to sleep. But a daughter rises and brushes her teeth with her eyes closed, puts on her warmest woolens, and trudges out in the air-brushed world of a winter wonderland with her mother.

The air sparkles as the soft snow cascades onto the open land. We find the path that leads to the woods and listen to the crunch of our boots on new-fallen snow atop a hard crust from past storms. I laugh and skip through the white delight; my daughter grimaces and tells me I’m crazy. She’s not awake yet, but I know she’ll appreciate all of this soon.

I stick out my tongue and taste the snow as if it’s candy. She shakes her head in disgust and walks on. I shut my mouth and decide to wait until her soul awakens and she thanks me for this time.

The air rushes through the pine trees that are iced like a wedding cake. The sound of the wind through the branches gives me a brain massage. I am so happy I think I’ll burst into song until I remember my pledge to keep quiet. But my daughter’s head snaps up, snow sticking to her surprised face. Muffled hoof beats get louder and louder, until the source of it is upon us.

“Whitey!” she exclaims. I stare at the two-winged horse in utter astonishment. When my daughter was young, I’d tuck her in bed with stories of a fairy wonderland, where the snow always fell like diamonds, where elves played hopscotch with snow imps, and where Whitey, the snow-white fairy horse, flew with the wind to find little girls to ride on her back.

I look upon this mirage with awe, but my daughter is not fazed. She’s always believed that Whitey exists.

“Ladies,” Whitey says in a soft female tone as she lowers her head, encouraging us both to slip on her back. I hold on to her stiff white mane, while my daughter circles her arms around my waist.

“Imagination is based on reality,” the horse’s feminine voice whispers toward me as we rise into the white polka dot sky. “Imagination is a free ride toward joy.”

I close my eyes and smile as I hear my daughter’s voice ring out: “Yippee!”