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Stop! I need to tell you something really important!
Vital!
Crucial!
Not to be missed!
This is my 2nd blog ever!
My web hosts provided me with a technological display of facts, figures, data, stats and page hits. I have graphs. I have charts. I have maps. I have arrows. I have bullet points, reports, file and folder phenomena!
Page hits. I am obsessed with page hits. I logged in 10X per day this past week. OCD at its finest or its worst?
Anyway, this addiction to numbers reminds me of days gone by staring down at the scale...and the survey says...Big Number=Bad Day. Or spying a spot in the shower and jumping on web doc to wade through pages of scary skin diseases. Or when my own doc says to keep my blood pressure in check, meaning "a little less salt", buying a monogrammed blood pressure cuff...to store right by the scale and next to the dermatology dictionary.
All of the above is akin to taking my emotional temperature with a mouthful of jalapenos.
Time for a little story. A true story.
Place: Small mid western town
Setting: Small mid western town hall meeting
Subject: Whether to buy a police car
Discussion: We have one police officer. The officer needs a car. If he had a police car, there would be less crime. He could write more tickets. The town would be safer and have more money.
Final vote: 149-0 No police car.
Rationale: Currently, the one policeman patrols the entire town on foot. No one ever knows where he will be or when. Sometimes he will pop out on Main Street just as the high school basketball game lets out. He writes speeding tickets. Sometimes he walks down the alleys...just as a fight is breaking out. He mediates. Sometimes, he hovers by the one motel, on the edge of town, to keep an eye on overnight travelers. A walking night light.
The policeman does not need a car. He does a much better job when no one knows when or where he will show up. He does not need to own a car. He "owns" the element of surprise.
The moral of this story: Often it is better not to know exactly what will happen next. Sometimes it is perfectly okay to be surprised and delighted when people show up.
Consider me surprised and delighted to see you.
The dermatology book is history. The cuff is in the trash..and I am inching away from the scale.
Page hits? I'll leave that up to you.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Whoa there! Where do you think you are going all in a rush?
Slow down. Relax. Take a breath.
I'm not going anywhere. In fact, I've been waiting for you to drop by.
This is a destination investigation...of sorts.
Where we are going...meets where we have been...paths cross. Leaning
back in our Adirondack chairs with the paint peeling off the armrests,
yellow wellies caked with dirt..it's time for a little conversation...or
quiet meditation..no matter, for in the garden whether flying solo or
side by side, flowers don't sass....they just look sassy.
Welcome to the home of my garden pages.
You are always welcome here.
Of the four sweet seasons, I now occupy a seat in
the Fall of my years...just on the cusp of Winter.
Outside my window,
winter hovers, but the breath of Spring whispers. From a distance, snow
covers the ground,trees are bare and the grass is brown.
Up close, if you linger, life is stirring anew.
Life, at a distance, is like life without my
glasses, out of focus and difficult to read. However, in the here and
now, glasses on, life is manageable. Actually, objects in my mirror may
be larger than life. Life should be large. Who wants a small life? As
for here and now, that is enough, more than enough and worth the
attention. One eyelash flutter, one soft intake of breath changes "is"
to "was". Stay focused. Rest here. Count your breaths.
This life is to be lived...glasses on..colorfully defined...sweetly sent.
I am closer to being underground than overhead, so
pardon me standing on tiptoe, stretching out my limbs taking up as much
space as I can, going as far as I can go, tasting, savoring and filling
myself up before eternity grabs me by the ankles and calls my number. In
other words, look out ...here I come and hopefully here we go...
Whatever your season or reason, you are always
welcome. I hope you leave smiling, wave as you pass by and come back
again and again.
Whoa there! Where do you think you are going all in a rush?
Slow down. Relax. Take a breath.
I'm not going anywhere. In fact, I've been waiting for you to drop by.
This is a destination investigation...of sorts.
Where we are going...meets where we have been...paths cross. Leaning
back in our Adirondack chairs with the paint peeling off the armrests,
yellow wellies caked with dirt..it's time for a little conversation...or
quiet meditation..no matter, for in the garden whether flying solo or
side by side, flowers don't sass....they just look sassy.
Welcome to the home of my garden pages.
You are always welcome here.
Of the four sweet seasons, I now occupy a seat in
the Fall of my years...just on the cusp of Winter.
Outside my window,
winter hovers, but the breath of Spring whispers. From a distance, snow
covers the ground,trees are bare and the grass is brown.
Up close, if you linger, life is stirring anew.
Life, at a distance, is like life without my
glasses, out of focus and difficult to read. However, in the here and
now, glasses on, life is manageable. Actually, objects in my mirror may
be larger than life. Life should be large. Who wants a small life? As
for here and now, that is enough, more than enough and worth the
attention. One eyelash flutter, one soft intake of breath changes "is"
to "was". Stay focused. Rest here. Count your breaths.
This life is to be lived...glasses on..colorfully defined...sweetly sent.
I am closer to being underground than overhead, so
pardon me standing on tiptoe, stretching out my limbs taking up as much
space as I can, going as far as I can go, tasting, savoring and filling
myself up before eternity grabs me by the ankles and calls my number. In
other words, look out ...here I come and hopefully here we go...
Whatever your season or reason, you are always
welcome. I hope you leave smiling, wave as you pass by and come back
again and again.
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