Horrified, violated, angry; it’s difficult to choose just one word to fully describe my feelings. No; I wasn’t accosted, mugged or raped. I just received my local electric utility bill with what they say is “only a thirty per cent increase.” It is especially frustrating because my home is “total electric” depending on electricity for everything from heat to water. I normally don’t deal with bills but this bill makes me question the utility company’s mathematical abilities. It’s double what I expected. I’ve done all I can think of to deal with the situation: insulated outlet plates, indoor dryer venting, energy efficient bulbs, capped off with heat settings bordering on frosty. I don’t recall a bill in that territory since we ventured into the TVA (Tennessee Valley Authority) electric utility territory in the late seventies. All the elaborate system of dams throughout the south supposedly yielded some of the lowest electric utility rates in the nation. To “put icing on that rate cake,” our new home included two “new fangled” super efficient units called heat pumps that replaced furnaces and such. What a shock (and bill like this one) when I discovered that the heat pumps operated on pure raw electricity when winter’s chill drop below a certain temperature.
Since I received my recent bill I am very temperature conscious especially since our home is heated by electricity. Most times of the day I can probably tell you within a few degrees what the temperature is. I am not sure how much good it does because, other than being aware of potentially freezing road surfaces, most of the time I am at a loss to put that information to practical use. It makes me aware of how easy it is to pride myself in being a thermometer in life. I can routinely spot and expound on abnormalities not just in temperature but in many other life issues. Things like crop growth, the economy, the political landscape, child rearing, deep theological issues, and yes, the temperature.
The difficult issue is to be able to do something about the issues my “thermometer” registers. It’s not that I don’t try to change what I encounter. It’s just that the efforts often border on comedy. I spent most of my predawn hours this morning tossing and turning and trying to regulate my body warmth. The flannel sheets that were such a blessing early in the evening became unbearably hot. First, I stuck one foot out to “cool” and then finally threw the sheets and covers off completely. Soon, I was completely covered again (including my head) because I was freezing. I’ve witnessed friends (who don’t pay the costs) try to regulate the heat in their apartments by using their ovens for heat and their windows to cool when it gets too hot in the winter. January and a new year yields many examples of efforts to take dramatic corrections and over corrections in many folk’s lives. These efforts range from severe budgets (often overlooking provisions for food, etc) to “Biggest Loser” type exercise and diet programs. Many are now being re-evaluated or abandoned as I write in late January.
Reacting properly to things that I perceive is more difficult than it sounds. Often I think I’m just a “thermometer” and see my responsibility as informing others of things like “a latter day Paul Revere.” When I do venture to change things myself, I am prone to doing it “all or nothing” and that often rapidly proves unsustainable. Slight corrections and moderation are not things that come naturally to me. Perhaps it’s time to yield control to one of those new “automatic programmable thermostats” capable of perceiving needs and making almost imperceptible constant corrections appropriate for the time and conditions. I certainly have a great need for something similar as I sometimes erratically attempt to simultaneously multitask and cope with a myriad of life’s ever changing issues. Now, if I can only leave my hands off the programming and trust one far more capable than me.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Stress
The mere sight of the word “stress” raises my blood pressure noticeably. And that is before adding one of the words I’ve always dreaded most—“test.” Add the word “nuclear” to that mix and I think you get the picture. Today I am on a tread mill in physical therapy. Unfortunately my mind is racing ahead to tomorrow at this time when I am scheduled for a “Nuclear Stress Test” on a similar tread mill.
I know that mature grownup men are not subject to fear so perhaps I am not a “mature” grownup man. The stress test is “for my own good” but no one consults me or asks if I think I need one even though I am the victim patient. Stress tests are something routinely administered to those with heart event histories, but it’s far from routine for me. Even the timing of this test is stressful because it reminds me of the life changing events connected with a massive heart attack this time of year seventeen years ago.
If my recollection is correct, I think when I first experienced this type of test it was called a “Thallium Stress Test.” That reminds me for some unknown reason of Thalidomide from decades ago. Even though I am not sure what that is, I am sure it is “bad” and thus another bad association. Either way, the test involves being garbed in an assortment of harnesses and electrical leads connected to various parts of my body. In addition, an intravenous tube is threaded into and dangles from a vein in my arm. A team of observers is assembled around me as the tread mill starts a routine called “The Bruce Protocol” which is a series of increasingly difficult speeds and elevations. I am told to “exercise till I can’t go any more”- a daunting challenge. One of the assistants hovers poised with a hypodermic needle ready at some point to inject a solution into my IV tube (actually two solutions). I imagine this must be how someone facing lethal injection must feel as all eyes focus on me and my struggle to stay on a “runaway” treadmill. Once I breathlessly signal I can’t continue, the “executioner” injects a radioactive dye into me and tells me to continue for another minute. Finally, the stress test is all over. Now that the injected dye can illuminate any potential weaknesses, it’s time for the actual reading of how healthy my heart really is. Thus more testing, but thankfully laying still on a table under a huge rotary scanner.
I query every medical professional I meet to see if there is some other way to check things out rather than relying on this “barbaric” test. Unfortunately, they are unanimous in their resounding “NO.” I find that difficult to believe in this age of pill-sized swallow able cameras and elaborate imaging. Guess I’ll just have to accept it and endure with my thoughts and apprehensions till tomorrow.
My mind races and my blood pressure elevates to a level unseen in years even after I get home. Perhaps some time on the computer will have a calming effect. A quick search on the internet produces a fascinating little ditty called “the Holmes and Rahe Stress Test.” Though it’s not new (1967), it’s new to me. It tabulates the stressful factors that may have been experienced in the past year of one’s life (and correlates them to probability of experiencing stress induced illness). When I glance through the list they’ve compiled I realized that I really have relatively little stress. I do a few parentheticals based on what I know others have and are experiencing. Many results are “off the chart;” and they are friends with “normal” problems. I can’t imagine the stress for a single mom in a gang-infested neighborhood, or the special person providing 24/7 care to a loved one that can’t take care of themselves, or folks who are fighting to save a thirty-plus year “perfect” marriage, or a young person that doesn’t fit into another foster home, or a special lady I know who recently acquired the label “homeless,” or a grieving new orphan in far off Haiti, and the list goes on.
When I turn my eyes away from my situation in light of all this, I am embarrassed to think that my “few minute tread mill encounter” even bears the label “stress.” It’s time to refocus my thoughts, concerns, prayers, and actions to an outward perspective and a “stressed” world. Yes, I am called to be “my brother’s keeper”. In addition, I am learning that I can’t effectively focus on that challenge as long as my eyes are on myself and my own perceived “stresses”.
I know that mature grownup men are not subject to fear so perhaps I am not a “mature” grownup man. The stress test is “for my own good” but no one consults me or asks if I think I need one even though I am the victim patient. Stress tests are something routinely administered to those with heart event histories, but it’s far from routine for me. Even the timing of this test is stressful because it reminds me of the life changing events connected with a massive heart attack this time of year seventeen years ago.
If my recollection is correct, I think when I first experienced this type of test it was called a “Thallium Stress Test.” That reminds me for some unknown reason of Thalidomide from decades ago. Even though I am not sure what that is, I am sure it is “bad” and thus another bad association. Either way, the test involves being garbed in an assortment of harnesses and electrical leads connected to various parts of my body. In addition, an intravenous tube is threaded into and dangles from a vein in my arm. A team of observers is assembled around me as the tread mill starts a routine called “The Bruce Protocol” which is a series of increasingly difficult speeds and elevations. I am told to “exercise till I can’t go any more”- a daunting challenge. One of the assistants hovers poised with a hypodermic needle ready at some point to inject a solution into my IV tube (actually two solutions). I imagine this must be how someone facing lethal injection must feel as all eyes focus on me and my struggle to stay on a “runaway” treadmill. Once I breathlessly signal I can’t continue, the “executioner” injects a radioactive dye into me and tells me to continue for another minute. Finally, the stress test is all over. Now that the injected dye can illuminate any potential weaknesses, it’s time for the actual reading of how healthy my heart really is. Thus more testing, but thankfully laying still on a table under a huge rotary scanner.
I query every medical professional I meet to see if there is some other way to check things out rather than relying on this “barbaric” test. Unfortunately, they are unanimous in their resounding “NO.” I find that difficult to believe in this age of pill-sized swallow able cameras and elaborate imaging. Guess I’ll just have to accept it and endure with my thoughts and apprehensions till tomorrow.
My mind races and my blood pressure elevates to a level unseen in years even after I get home. Perhaps some time on the computer will have a calming effect. A quick search on the internet produces a fascinating little ditty called “the Holmes and Rahe Stress Test.” Though it’s not new (1967), it’s new to me. It tabulates the stressful factors that may have been experienced in the past year of one’s life (and correlates them to probability of experiencing stress induced illness). When I glance through the list they’ve compiled I realized that I really have relatively little stress. I do a few parentheticals based on what I know others have and are experiencing. Many results are “off the chart;” and they are friends with “normal” problems. I can’t imagine the stress for a single mom in a gang-infested neighborhood, or the special person providing 24/7 care to a loved one that can’t take care of themselves, or folks who are fighting to save a thirty-plus year “perfect” marriage, or a young person that doesn’t fit into another foster home, or a special lady I know who recently acquired the label “homeless,” or a grieving new orphan in far off Haiti, and the list goes on.
When I turn my eyes away from my situation in light of all this, I am embarrassed to think that my “few minute tread mill encounter” even bears the label “stress.” It’s time to refocus my thoughts, concerns, prayers, and actions to an outward perspective and a “stressed” world. Yes, I am called to be “my brother’s keeper”. In addition, I am learning that I can’t effectively focus on that challenge as long as my eyes are on myself and my own perceived “stresses”.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Scribe
Scribe; there’s a word I seldom hear or use. Actually it’s an apt description of one of my versatile wife’s many talents. My admiration of her skills started somewhere about the period when I worked for her when she was editor-in-chief of our high school newspaper (I think it was called the Defender). That held true even after she fired me for going to lunch instead of coming to a meeting (or two or three…).
Over the years my wife has chronicled things as they occur on small pieces of paper and sometimes index cards. Few if any are in a digital format. Recently she brought out the lists, now weathered by time, of things we’ve shared and been thankful for over the past thirty years. The first item on the list was a “brand new” picnic table purchased during some challenging times. It was difficult to see anything else on the lists for a while. The lists go on and on but probably have little meaning for others. Things like taking down a television antenna and getting cable, paying off a baby doctor in full, moving into a station wagon while the rest of the world advanced to minivans, taking a “real” overnight vacation, and the healing of many broken bones. Things like finally being able to do some repairs and maintenance on our property, and being able to purchase health insurance after navigating for years without it. The lists go on and on.
For much of the past year, I am privileged to serve on a small intimate assessment team to help nurture and support a couple in a new pioneering venture. The provided tools have been amazing and quite insightful for all of us but especially for me. One tool is a “life time-line” (my term). It’s difficult to describe but it is a chart-like chronicle of significant life events on one side and often correlating effects on the other. It’s been fascinating to follow this couple individually and collectively through their charted life’s journey and to see the pain and the blessing correlated. Through the unfolding of their historical saga I could now see how this couple was being woven together into a valuable cord to support many others. Yes, I am sure there were times when it would have been logically easier to start over but these results cannot be purchased, assimilated, or replicated without the process of patience and endurance.
Increasingly, even though I am not personally “into it,” I’m developing a growing admiration for the artful skills of a new breed practicing an old art form called “scrap booking.” Most recently I delighted in following the elaborate scrap book photo journalism of cherished family members in upstate New York. Another gifted relative chronicles my wife’s family with her skillful scanning and design. She always brings her camera and now her computer and scanner to family events. A special nephew documents the family’s history in written form even to the extent of checking out tombstones in distant areas. I am a “vested” member of the family and have been for forty-one years of marriage. I’ve had ample opportunity to see the fruit of all this toil. It’s impressive to say the least. There is a bond and closeness that I seldom see anywhere else and folks are genuinely interested in me and each other as we take every opportunity to share the markers of our heritage.
Perhaps these ramblings haven’t been as coherent as I’d like. However, I’d like to encourage you to take time to record and reflect your life events, especially those you’ve shared with significance folks in your life. I want you to be able to experience something similar to what I felt reading those little slips of paper from decades ago when I was reminded that we were blessed with a “brand new” picnic table. The yellowing paper itself isn’t significant and the picnic table only weathered twenty years or so. What is significant is that, perhaps unknowingly, my wife’s diligence was an investment in our growing mutual bonding through the pains and blessing of our shared life and values. Who could have guessed that someday that little paper would be so valuable? It is the catalyst for us to lay everything aside and discuss, explore, and treasure the “little” values and experiences that have woven us together into an ever-strengthening cord. Please take time soon to find something significant that helps you explore the precious irreplaceable heritage you share with those you love. I think I can safely assure you that it will serve to polish deeper beyond everyday surface familiarities. This polishing often will reveal a perhaps previously hidden faceted treasure that has grown through the pressures and aging of irreplaceable prolonged relationships. Please take time to relive and savor moments with someone special soon.
Over the years my wife has chronicled things as they occur on small pieces of paper and sometimes index cards. Few if any are in a digital format. Recently she brought out the lists, now weathered by time, of things we’ve shared and been thankful for over the past thirty years. The first item on the list was a “brand new” picnic table purchased during some challenging times. It was difficult to see anything else on the lists for a while. The lists go on and on but probably have little meaning for others. Things like taking down a television antenna and getting cable, paying off a baby doctor in full, moving into a station wagon while the rest of the world advanced to minivans, taking a “real” overnight vacation, and the healing of many broken bones. Things like finally being able to do some repairs and maintenance on our property, and being able to purchase health insurance after navigating for years without it. The lists go on and on.
For much of the past year, I am privileged to serve on a small intimate assessment team to help nurture and support a couple in a new pioneering venture. The provided tools have been amazing and quite insightful for all of us but especially for me. One tool is a “life time-line” (my term). It’s difficult to describe but it is a chart-like chronicle of significant life events on one side and often correlating effects on the other. It’s been fascinating to follow this couple individually and collectively through their charted life’s journey and to see the pain and the blessing correlated. Through the unfolding of their historical saga I could now see how this couple was being woven together into a valuable cord to support many others. Yes, I am sure there were times when it would have been logically easier to start over but these results cannot be purchased, assimilated, or replicated without the process of patience and endurance.
Increasingly, even though I am not personally “into it,” I’m developing a growing admiration for the artful skills of a new breed practicing an old art form called “scrap booking.” Most recently I delighted in following the elaborate scrap book photo journalism of cherished family members in upstate New York. Another gifted relative chronicles my wife’s family with her skillful scanning and design. She always brings her camera and now her computer and scanner to family events. A special nephew documents the family’s history in written form even to the extent of checking out tombstones in distant areas. I am a “vested” member of the family and have been for forty-one years of marriage. I’ve had ample opportunity to see the fruit of all this toil. It’s impressive to say the least. There is a bond and closeness that I seldom see anywhere else and folks are genuinely interested in me and each other as we take every opportunity to share the markers of our heritage.
Perhaps these ramblings haven’t been as coherent as I’d like. However, I’d like to encourage you to take time to record and reflect your life events, especially those you’ve shared with significance folks in your life. I want you to be able to experience something similar to what I felt reading those little slips of paper from decades ago when I was reminded that we were blessed with a “brand new” picnic table. The yellowing paper itself isn’t significant and the picnic table only weathered twenty years or so. What is significant is that, perhaps unknowingly, my wife’s diligence was an investment in our growing mutual bonding through the pains and blessing of our shared life and values. Who could have guessed that someday that little paper would be so valuable? It is the catalyst for us to lay everything aside and discuss, explore, and treasure the “little” values and experiences that have woven us together into an ever-strengthening cord. Please take time soon to find something significant that helps you explore the precious irreplaceable heritage you share with those you love. I think I can safely assure you that it will serve to polish deeper beyond everyday surface familiarities. This polishing often will reveal a perhaps previously hidden faceted treasure that has grown through the pressures and aging of irreplaceable prolonged relationships. Please take time to relive and savor moments with someone special soon.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Foot
“Sir….Sir….Sir, Are you okay, Sir?” Those words aren’t registering nearly as rapidly as the pain that is radiating through my body. I am in a stupor as I lay face down on the cold institutional quarry tile. Somehow a fulfilling day working with folks in a North Philadelphia neighborhood, followed just minutes ago by a pleasant late afternoon dinner with friends, now seems so distant.
If I wasn’t in so much pain, the shear embarrassment of having my six-foot-four-inch and amply wide frame lying across a busy walkway would have rapidly brought me to my feet. As it is, even with the excruciating pain, embarrassment is my dominant feeling as a small crowd of Good Samaritans and gawkers encircle me. This busy restaurant is on the verge of its “Saturday night rush” and I am sprawled in between the waitress station, the dining area, and the rest rooms. Much to my horror, I might add. I am not used to viewing things from ground level and all these strange feet and legs are a real change of perspective. This is not even remotely close to how I wanted to cap off an otherwise wonderful day.
You see, this particular chain restaurant is designed with their dining area on a platform perched on two innocuously positioned steps. Guess who missed one or both of the steps as I navigated for a last minute trip to the rest room before a journey home? Yep, me; and thus my painful, embarrassing dilemma. Slowly, I figure out how to drag myself to my feet without stressing my knees, hand, foot, or shoulder. Well, I think you get the picture. Finally I am teetering on my feet and facing a myriad of questions from an ashen-faced assistant manager. “Yes, I hurt and no, I don’t completely know how it happened. I’ll call you when I know what my condition really is.”
The trip home is painful but bearable. However, after I sit to check my email, I can’t put weight on my left leg to stand back up. My wife isn’t designed to get a massive husband up thirteen stair steps but somehow she manages. The next events are a bit of a blur. After a fitful night and a sixty mile trip to an emergency room, I am equipped to cope. X-rays show nothing is broken and that a brace, crutches and pain pills will suffice. I am advised that I will lose a big toe nail (and sure enough, I have) and that I will have a lot of pain, but that I should recover. Somehow that’s not comforting enough when I am the patient.
Now weeks later, it’s time to finish this story. The bruises have disappeared and the brace turned out to hurt worse than the injuries. The camera that was in my pocket has been replaced with another new model to hopefully take another 10,000 pictures. The crutches are now stored and much of this is now a memory.
However, the pain remains; especially in some situations and in one area that I didn’t expect—my foot. Yesterday I met with a podiatrist about my left foot and she told me that it was not uncommon to experience foot problems after a traumatic leg injury. In addition, she mentioned that I could experience it for up to a year till this is completely behind me. Just what I want to hear!
She then goes on to explain that the foot is a hidden stabilizing force for my whole upright body. When my body compensates for a debilitating injury it strains the alignment of the foot. In other words, even though my foot may not have been injured directly, supporting my massive body in a new unexpected way overloads it and may have injured all the delicate supporting structure of my foot.
It made me realize how interconnected we all are. Like my foot, each person is delicately designed to assist and support a larger entity of folks. Interestingly, even though that larger entity may appear to soon recover or “just get over” injuries, those “hidden” people on the extremities may take a long time to heal. Those “in lowly or hidden position” may not be the ones “carrying the weight,” but often play a stabilizing supporting role that is invaluable. Conversely, the prime movers can inadvertently overload and thus damage those whose crucial support they perhaps seldom consider. Please don’t ever underestimate how crucial your “hidden” role may be on the body of folks surrounding you or the effect of their functions on you. We’re designed to be linked and mutually supportive even though it’s not readily apparent. Sometimes it takes pain to prove it.
If I wasn’t in so much pain, the shear embarrassment of having my six-foot-four-inch and amply wide frame lying across a busy walkway would have rapidly brought me to my feet. As it is, even with the excruciating pain, embarrassment is my dominant feeling as a small crowd of Good Samaritans and gawkers encircle me. This busy restaurant is on the verge of its “Saturday night rush” and I am sprawled in between the waitress station, the dining area, and the rest rooms. Much to my horror, I might add. I am not used to viewing things from ground level and all these strange feet and legs are a real change of perspective. This is not even remotely close to how I wanted to cap off an otherwise wonderful day.
You see, this particular chain restaurant is designed with their dining area on a platform perched on two innocuously positioned steps. Guess who missed one or both of the steps as I navigated for a last minute trip to the rest room before a journey home? Yep, me; and thus my painful, embarrassing dilemma. Slowly, I figure out how to drag myself to my feet without stressing my knees, hand, foot, or shoulder. Well, I think you get the picture. Finally I am teetering on my feet and facing a myriad of questions from an ashen-faced assistant manager. “Yes, I hurt and no, I don’t completely know how it happened. I’ll call you when I know what my condition really is.”
The trip home is painful but bearable. However, after I sit to check my email, I can’t put weight on my left leg to stand back up. My wife isn’t designed to get a massive husband up thirteen stair steps but somehow she manages. The next events are a bit of a blur. After a fitful night and a sixty mile trip to an emergency room, I am equipped to cope. X-rays show nothing is broken and that a brace, crutches and pain pills will suffice. I am advised that I will lose a big toe nail (and sure enough, I have) and that I will have a lot of pain, but that I should recover. Somehow that’s not comforting enough when I am the patient.
Now weeks later, it’s time to finish this story. The bruises have disappeared and the brace turned out to hurt worse than the injuries. The camera that was in my pocket has been replaced with another new model to hopefully take another 10,000 pictures. The crutches are now stored and much of this is now a memory.
However, the pain remains; especially in some situations and in one area that I didn’t expect—my foot. Yesterday I met with a podiatrist about my left foot and she told me that it was not uncommon to experience foot problems after a traumatic leg injury. In addition, she mentioned that I could experience it for up to a year till this is completely behind me. Just what I want to hear!
She then goes on to explain that the foot is a hidden stabilizing force for my whole upright body. When my body compensates for a debilitating injury it strains the alignment of the foot. In other words, even though my foot may not have been injured directly, supporting my massive body in a new unexpected way overloads it and may have injured all the delicate supporting structure of my foot.
It made me realize how interconnected we all are. Like my foot, each person is delicately designed to assist and support a larger entity of folks. Interestingly, even though that larger entity may appear to soon recover or “just get over” injuries, those “hidden” people on the extremities may take a long time to heal. Those “in lowly or hidden position” may not be the ones “carrying the weight,” but often play a stabilizing supporting role that is invaluable. Conversely, the prime movers can inadvertently overload and thus damage those whose crucial support they perhaps seldom consider. Please don’t ever underestimate how crucial your “hidden” role may be on the body of folks surrounding you or the effect of their functions on you. We’re designed to be linked and mutually supportive even though it’s not readily apparent. Sometimes it takes pain to prove it.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Acoustics
I have two very creative daughter-in-laws. One of them creates exquisite cake designs for the Colorado bridal marketplace. I have followed her works for years and each is specially crafted for a hopefully “once in a lifetime” event. Her latest is an understated, elegantly “simple” masterpiece to delight hundreds of festive wedding guests. The focus of this ditty is not wedding cakes but I would be remiss if I didn’t add that it is sheathed in glittering white sugar crystals for those of you who are into that type of thing. (www.intricateicings.com)
Her reputation has spread throughout the Eastern Slope area of the Rockies and beyond. Today is a relatively local event up in the majestic Rocky Mountain foot hills overlooking the spreading Denver metropolis. This area is a people magnet, especially for “outdoorsy” nature-loving young families. This delivery drive is nostalgic since our family spent most of the seventies living and working in the Denver area. In fact, both of our sons are Colorado natives.
Today’s venue is at a world famous natural amphitheater called simply “Red Rocks.” The drive winds up from our suburban altitude of 5400 feet to eventually a little over 6500 feet. It’s not a Mount Everest altitude of 30,000 feet but it still registers on my sea level-conditioned body. I strain to see all that is new in our “old stomping grounds” and then try to spot the sprawling Coors complex in Golden. Finally, we exit in Morrison for the final short drive to Red Rocks.
What exquisite beauty! The slopes of the Rocky Mountains are actually situated in desert-type climate so foliage is limited. We do spot some large mule deer grazing. One looks up to display his massive twelve point rack. This is four-wheeling country but I think that activity actually takes a back seat to hiking. It seems everyone has escaped the city today to don their hiking boots and venture up these majestic slopes.
Finally, we round a curve and slip through a thirty-foot high entrance carved into the red rocks. Just beyond are parking lots and the entrance to a 9450 seat natural outdoor amphitheater sculpted into the massive hundred-foot high red rocks. We slip into the delivery entrance and my daughter-in-law disappears into a banquet area with her massive creation. Now it’s time to hoist my grandson on my shoulders and explore the amphitheater and accompanying museum. It’s nostalgic to relive our Rod McKuen and John Denver concerts of our younger days, framed by the distant Denver cityscape in the background. This arena was likely used long ago by the Ute Indians and called the “Garden of the Titans” but has been in use commercially for over one hundred years. Renowned opera singer Mary Garden put Red Rocks on the world musical map with her performance on May 10, 1911. Having performed at many opera halls around the world, she pronounced Red Rocks the finest venue at which she had ever performed.
All of this is fascinating, but what I really find intriguing are the “everyday” folks who come here to personally try out this venue. Some “jocks” come to “run the seats” in this rarified air like Rocky running the steps of the Art Museum in the namesake film. But the folks I’ve really enjoyed since my first trip here are those who try out their lungs “down in the depths” of this huge natural amphitheater. For verification, they usually have friends stationed far above them, a football field length away on the lip of this wonder. They whisper, they shout, they sing, and some even put on a mini performance after they escape their shyness. To me, it’s a confirmation that we all want to be heard in our own way. This venue with its natural acoustics can and does bring that out in many of us. Unfortunately, few of us will ever have this opportunity and then it will probably be fleeting. As I reflect, I realize that most of us aren’t looking for “perfect acoustics” or a famous venue—we just want an outlet to be heard. The is just one Red Rocks Amphitheater but so many of us with a desire to be heard. Perhaps I can be a readily available listening ear for those without access to this or a similar facility. The question is, “Am I available as ‘an arena’ for them to be heard?”
Her reputation has spread throughout the Eastern Slope area of the Rockies and beyond. Today is a relatively local event up in the majestic Rocky Mountain foot hills overlooking the spreading Denver metropolis. This area is a people magnet, especially for “outdoorsy” nature-loving young families. This delivery drive is nostalgic since our family spent most of the seventies living and working in the Denver area. In fact, both of our sons are Colorado natives.
Today’s venue is at a world famous natural amphitheater called simply “Red Rocks.” The drive winds up from our suburban altitude of 5400 feet to eventually a little over 6500 feet. It’s not a Mount Everest altitude of 30,000 feet but it still registers on my sea level-conditioned body. I strain to see all that is new in our “old stomping grounds” and then try to spot the sprawling Coors complex in Golden. Finally, we exit in Morrison for the final short drive to Red Rocks.
What exquisite beauty! The slopes of the Rocky Mountains are actually situated in desert-type climate so foliage is limited. We do spot some large mule deer grazing. One looks up to display his massive twelve point rack. This is four-wheeling country but I think that activity actually takes a back seat to hiking. It seems everyone has escaped the city today to don their hiking boots and venture up these majestic slopes.
Finally, we round a curve and slip through a thirty-foot high entrance carved into the red rocks. Just beyond are parking lots and the entrance to a 9450 seat natural outdoor amphitheater sculpted into the massive hundred-foot high red rocks. We slip into the delivery entrance and my daughter-in-law disappears into a banquet area with her massive creation. Now it’s time to hoist my grandson on my shoulders and explore the amphitheater and accompanying museum. It’s nostalgic to relive our Rod McKuen and John Denver concerts of our younger days, framed by the distant Denver cityscape in the background. This arena was likely used long ago by the Ute Indians and called the “Garden of the Titans” but has been in use commercially for over one hundred years. Renowned opera singer Mary Garden put Red Rocks on the world musical map with her performance on May 10, 1911. Having performed at many opera halls around the world, she pronounced Red Rocks the finest venue at which she had ever performed.
All of this is fascinating, but what I really find intriguing are the “everyday” folks who come here to personally try out this venue. Some “jocks” come to “run the seats” in this rarified air like Rocky running the steps of the Art Museum in the namesake film. But the folks I’ve really enjoyed since my first trip here are those who try out their lungs “down in the depths” of this huge natural amphitheater. For verification, they usually have friends stationed far above them, a football field length away on the lip of this wonder. They whisper, they shout, they sing, and some even put on a mini performance after they escape their shyness. To me, it’s a confirmation that we all want to be heard in our own way. This venue with its natural acoustics can and does bring that out in many of us. Unfortunately, few of us will ever have this opportunity and then it will probably be fleeting. As I reflect, I realize that most of us aren’t looking for “perfect acoustics” or a famous venue—we just want an outlet to be heard. The is just one Red Rocks Amphitheater but so many of us with a desire to be heard. Perhaps I can be a readily available listening ear for those without access to this or a similar facility. The question is, “Am I available as ‘an arena’ for them to be heard?”
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Chasing The Sun
After some late afternoon delays, Southwest Airlines flight 1053 finally got airborne from Philadelphia just as the sun started to set. We are finally over seven and a half miles above the earth and have been cruising westward for the past two hours. I am in my coveted (forgive me, but that is unfortunately the right choice of words) Row Eleven Exit Row seat. I am enjoying every bit of the extra legroom. Sure am glad I invested the extra ten bucks for priority boarding. For the first time on recent flights, there is no one in any of the middle seats and there is plenty of elbow room on this Boeing 737-700. The accountants back in the Dallas headquarters aren’t going to be happy with the lack of profits from this flight. Only eighty-three passengers and all are pursuing a wide variety of individual activities as we journey westward at well over 500 knots per hour.
My wife is re-highlighting a recently acquired book. (Mine was in yellow—hers is in pink.) Fortunately, she is very patient with me because I continually interrupt her concentration by trying to get her to look out the window. You see, for well over the past two hours I have been totally enraptured by the setting sun. Every few minutes there is a new dimension or hue in this slow motion panorama that wasn’t there the last time I looked. Except for when I was in Anchorage many years ago, I have never had the opportunity to get more than seemingly momentary glimpses of magnificent sunsets. I wish this plane could go faster so that we could stretch this two and a half hour envelope even further. Unfortunately, a thin fading band of lavender is slowly slipping toward a finale, well short of the distant darkened Rockies.
I am still in awe of the spectacle that I’ve witnessed. The prolonged spectrum and depth of colors was indescribable. Not since I discovered kaleidoscopes many years ago have I’ve had this type of an almost endlessly changing spectacle. My wife has since finished her book and moved on to her ever present Sudoku. The other passengers continue to be predisposed with a menagerie of interests. I wonder why the awesome sunset didn’t noticeably register with the others. I am happy to share and can’t believe it’s just for me.
As I sit and reflect, I think I feel a faint warmth permeating me or at least my mind and heart. It is a treat to view the sun up here this close to heaven with little of earth’s normal pollution to interfere. As I mentioned earlier, I wish I could “kick into afterburner” and chase and reunite with the sun’s magnificence. Someday; perhaps soon. And for certain, forever.
My wife is re-highlighting a recently acquired book. (Mine was in yellow—hers is in pink.) Fortunately, she is very patient with me because I continually interrupt her concentration by trying to get her to look out the window. You see, for well over the past two hours I have been totally enraptured by the setting sun. Every few minutes there is a new dimension or hue in this slow motion panorama that wasn’t there the last time I looked. Except for when I was in Anchorage many years ago, I have never had the opportunity to get more than seemingly momentary glimpses of magnificent sunsets. I wish this plane could go faster so that we could stretch this two and a half hour envelope even further. Unfortunately, a thin fading band of lavender is slowly slipping toward a finale, well short of the distant darkened Rockies.
I am still in awe of the spectacle that I’ve witnessed. The prolonged spectrum and depth of colors was indescribable. Not since I discovered kaleidoscopes many years ago have I’ve had this type of an almost endlessly changing spectacle. My wife has since finished her book and moved on to her ever present Sudoku. The other passengers continue to be predisposed with a menagerie of interests. I wonder why the awesome sunset didn’t noticeably register with the others. I am happy to share and can’t believe it’s just for me.
As I sit and reflect, I think I feel a faint warmth permeating me or at least my mind and heart. It is a treat to view the sun up here this close to heaven with little of earth’s normal pollution to interfere. As I mentioned earlier, I wish I could “kick into afterburner” and chase and reunite with the sun’s magnificence. Someday; perhaps soon. And for certain, forever.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Hearing
Courtroom 4A: What a classy, but foreboding place. The beautiful hardwoods, the hefty furnishings, and the regal carved seal on the wall indicate that this is not meant as some short term investment. After taking in the setting, there is little to do other than take in the human drama as it unfolds.
People of all types with vested interests “fiddle” nervously and it is easy to spot the concerned parents and relatives. The courtroom staff is atwitter with things they aren’t making the rest of us privy to. Finally, at exactly 1:30 pm, a dignified gent enters the room followed by the announcement of “The Honorable Judge so and so” and a directive of “all rise.” Court is in session. Little do I know then that I will be sitting here till almost five o’clock. The court works at its own pace.
This is not a jury trial but a hearing before this judge so there are no jurors on which to focus. Security is everywhere and the folks so empowered are serious. I quickly find that out when during a short break I mistakenly walk where I am not allowed. The setting is somewhat intimate but the acoustics are not designed for anyone but the judge to hear. I turn my hearing aids up to the “loud” setting and strain to hear everyone, especially the defendants.
It is a sobering experience when the first shackled prisoners are brought in from a holding area. Even though I’ve worked with prisoners for multiple decades, I’ve had little experience in this part of the process. My exposure has always been meeting with those incarcerated in a setting before or after this process. I’ve heard about “the system,” “Judge so and so” and this procedure for years. However, today is different. I’ve never actually witnessed the look on their faces as they come through the door into the brightly lit courtroom shackled, belted, and guided by stone-faced burly deputies. I can “feel” the slight gasp as concerned folks spot their loved ones in prison garb. It is sobering to say the least.
Most of the issues are parole violations. There is an almost universal thread of drug and alcohol abuse at the core. Drugs seem to pervade the news, but alcohol is silently making a dramatic comeback; especially, among the very young where I least expect it. Perhaps I just left the news of the “new” drug epidemic displace a stealthy old omnipresent monster in my mind. Now, it’s been joined by a high profile twin for a “double whammy”.
There are a few “thousand dollar suits” representing the defendants. Mostly, it is a team of harried public defenders trying to keep up with the overwhelming flow of cases and paperwork. In most cases, the public defenders have little to say and most dialogue is from parental-type parole caseworkers and the defendants themselves. I strained to hear the human drama that today has “come to a head” and the circumstances that led here. It is heart wrenching to say the least especially when the judge permits family members to speak. When one defendant is granted a “last wish” to be hugged by his middle-aged sobbing sister before being led away, I reach for my handkerchief. The parent in me comes out when I see young lady after young lady, the age of my own daughter, with long substance related “rap sheets.” I see the devastation in progress as young adolescent boys and girls are faced with another 23 months without an onsite parent. The actual case that I’ve come to support finally comes to the docket after almost four hours. It lasts perhaps five minutes. The judge is given little flexibility by the law with the defendant’s continuing bad choices. Twenty-three months of this young person’s “free” life slips away in an instant. I am almost embarrassed to turn to see his parent’s ashen faces. I come away with a new admiration of the Solomon-type task this judge faces and how well he reflects human values within the limits permitted by law.
Like so many choices in life, I would never choose to experience this hour after hour heart wrenching drama. (Even all those popular court and crime shows on TV have no appeal to me.) Like you, I have labored to experience the security and shielding of a self-contained suburban setting, social and church agenda, and the insulated resulting life style. However, I have not earned the right to not be my “brother’s keeper.” There is a hurting world of fellow “imperfect” folks that need us and what we represent long before there is a “hearing.” The question is: Do I have my “hearing” aids turned up to hear them before things get so entrenched in a devastating and sadly, often fatal, lifestyle?
People of all types with vested interests “fiddle” nervously and it is easy to spot the concerned parents and relatives. The courtroom staff is atwitter with things they aren’t making the rest of us privy to. Finally, at exactly 1:30 pm, a dignified gent enters the room followed by the announcement of “The Honorable Judge so and so” and a directive of “all rise.” Court is in session. Little do I know then that I will be sitting here till almost five o’clock. The court works at its own pace.
This is not a jury trial but a hearing before this judge so there are no jurors on which to focus. Security is everywhere and the folks so empowered are serious. I quickly find that out when during a short break I mistakenly walk where I am not allowed. The setting is somewhat intimate but the acoustics are not designed for anyone but the judge to hear. I turn my hearing aids up to the “loud” setting and strain to hear everyone, especially the defendants.
It is a sobering experience when the first shackled prisoners are brought in from a holding area. Even though I’ve worked with prisoners for multiple decades, I’ve had little experience in this part of the process. My exposure has always been meeting with those incarcerated in a setting before or after this process. I’ve heard about “the system,” “Judge so and so” and this procedure for years. However, today is different. I’ve never actually witnessed the look on their faces as they come through the door into the brightly lit courtroom shackled, belted, and guided by stone-faced burly deputies. I can “feel” the slight gasp as concerned folks spot their loved ones in prison garb. It is sobering to say the least.
Most of the issues are parole violations. There is an almost universal thread of drug and alcohol abuse at the core. Drugs seem to pervade the news, but alcohol is silently making a dramatic comeback; especially, among the very young where I least expect it. Perhaps I just left the news of the “new” drug epidemic displace a stealthy old omnipresent monster in my mind. Now, it’s been joined by a high profile twin for a “double whammy”.
There are a few “thousand dollar suits” representing the defendants. Mostly, it is a team of harried public defenders trying to keep up with the overwhelming flow of cases and paperwork. In most cases, the public defenders have little to say and most dialogue is from parental-type parole caseworkers and the defendants themselves. I strained to hear the human drama that today has “come to a head” and the circumstances that led here. It is heart wrenching to say the least especially when the judge permits family members to speak. When one defendant is granted a “last wish” to be hugged by his middle-aged sobbing sister before being led away, I reach for my handkerchief. The parent in me comes out when I see young lady after young lady, the age of my own daughter, with long substance related “rap sheets.” I see the devastation in progress as young adolescent boys and girls are faced with another 23 months without an onsite parent. The actual case that I’ve come to support finally comes to the docket after almost four hours. It lasts perhaps five minutes. The judge is given little flexibility by the law with the defendant’s continuing bad choices. Twenty-three months of this young person’s “free” life slips away in an instant. I am almost embarrassed to turn to see his parent’s ashen faces. I come away with a new admiration of the Solomon-type task this judge faces and how well he reflects human values within the limits permitted by law.
Like so many choices in life, I would never choose to experience this hour after hour heart wrenching drama. (Even all those popular court and crime shows on TV have no appeal to me.) Like you, I have labored to experience the security and shielding of a self-contained suburban setting, social and church agenda, and the insulated resulting life style. However, I have not earned the right to not be my “brother’s keeper.” There is a hurting world of fellow “imperfect” folks that need us and what we represent long before there is a “hearing.” The question is: Do I have my “hearing” aids turned up to hear them before things get so entrenched in a devastating and sadly, often fatal, lifestyle?
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Frrrrr….rigid
It is thirteen degrees with a wind that drops the chill factor to well below zero. Not unusual for winter but something never fully anticipated. A friend who moved due to some economic challenges left behind an unoccupied mobile home. Not a big deal—just shut everything down. That is, till winter shows its full wrath.
I learned firsthand when we moved into our home during a similar winter in the late seventies just how vulnerable sewer and water pipes can be. We were required by our lender to have a water test. Our realtor ventured into the freezing home we were purchasing and ran water for about 20 or 30 minutes. He needed to get what he thought would be a clear fresh water sample for testing. Unbeknownst to him our future home’s drain into the septic system had frozen solid. (Normal heat generating bacterial activity in the tank had ceased due to lack of use.) Believe me a fully flooded basement in January is a nightmare. As a result, I developed a healthy respect (bordering on terror) for frozen pipes.
It was evident that my friend’s mobile home was vulnerable and the only solution was sufficient heat to keep pipes from freezing. A tank of heating oil at a cost of hundreds of dollars was out of the question. Seventeen days ago we put a stopgap investment of ten gallons of kerosene into the 260 gallon tank. As of eleven o’clock last night that ten gallons of fuel was still miraculously maintaining a minimum thermostat setting of fifty degrees. Reminded me of a story I’ve read about oil lasting indefinitely in another time and place.
About four o’clock this morning I woke with a start as winds created a real commotion outside our home. I got up with a real apprehension that my friend’s mobile home was vulnerable to these winds and frigid temperatures. I walked outside into a clear expanse of sky where there wasn’t even a single cloud to help retain any last remnant of fleeing heat. Even the stars appeared to be shivering as they shimmered in the cold night sky. Once daylight broke I drove to my friend’s mobile home and quickly found out that my apprehensions were well founded—out of oil. I’d read that running water doesn’t freeze as rapidly as still water. Fortunately, I’d let a slight trickle of water running from each of the faucets. It was so cold I couldn’t hold my hand in the trickle for any period of time, but it wasn’t frozen solid the way I’ve feared.
There’s now another ten gallons of kerosene in that big tank thanks to the help of a friend. Hopefully the mobile home will sell before that is gone or is it too much to hope for that spring will come soon? I did once again make sure that the water was running and am forever grateful that the running water probably saved us last night.
As I often do in similar situations, once I got home I sat (thawing out) and reflected on the frigid situation and how it applied to life. I didn’t look up the root of the word frigid but suspect it’s a combination of freeze and rigid. I thought about my heart. My natural heart has some spots that are rigid due to an event almost seventeen years ago that I thankfully survived. I am very mindful that I can’t chance having that condition expand if I am to have normal life-giving blood flow.
Then, I thought of my other heart. I realized that just like the pipes in the mobile home, there needs to be a flow through it to avoid becoming “frozen” in this frigid world. Yes, there has to be something constantly flowing into and perhaps, more importantly, out of it to avoid conditions that will make it vulnerable to becoming hard and frozen. Perhaps I’ve been equipped with a natural “safety valve” as long as I don’t take matters into my own hands and try to shut off the flow. There is something to be said for the heartwarming flow and all that it accomplishes.
I learned firsthand when we moved into our home during a similar winter in the late seventies just how vulnerable sewer and water pipes can be. We were required by our lender to have a water test. Our realtor ventured into the freezing home we were purchasing and ran water for about 20 or 30 minutes. He needed to get what he thought would be a clear fresh water sample for testing. Unbeknownst to him our future home’s drain into the septic system had frozen solid. (Normal heat generating bacterial activity in the tank had ceased due to lack of use.) Believe me a fully flooded basement in January is a nightmare. As a result, I developed a healthy respect (bordering on terror) for frozen pipes.
It was evident that my friend’s mobile home was vulnerable and the only solution was sufficient heat to keep pipes from freezing. A tank of heating oil at a cost of hundreds of dollars was out of the question. Seventeen days ago we put a stopgap investment of ten gallons of kerosene into the 260 gallon tank. As of eleven o’clock last night that ten gallons of fuel was still miraculously maintaining a minimum thermostat setting of fifty degrees. Reminded me of a story I’ve read about oil lasting indefinitely in another time and place.
About four o’clock this morning I woke with a start as winds created a real commotion outside our home. I got up with a real apprehension that my friend’s mobile home was vulnerable to these winds and frigid temperatures. I walked outside into a clear expanse of sky where there wasn’t even a single cloud to help retain any last remnant of fleeing heat. Even the stars appeared to be shivering as they shimmered in the cold night sky. Once daylight broke I drove to my friend’s mobile home and quickly found out that my apprehensions were well founded—out of oil. I’d read that running water doesn’t freeze as rapidly as still water. Fortunately, I’d let a slight trickle of water running from each of the faucets. It was so cold I couldn’t hold my hand in the trickle for any period of time, but it wasn’t frozen solid the way I’ve feared.
There’s now another ten gallons of kerosene in that big tank thanks to the help of a friend. Hopefully the mobile home will sell before that is gone or is it too much to hope for that spring will come soon? I did once again make sure that the water was running and am forever grateful that the running water probably saved us last night.
As I often do in similar situations, once I got home I sat (thawing out) and reflected on the frigid situation and how it applied to life. I didn’t look up the root of the word frigid but suspect it’s a combination of freeze and rigid. I thought about my heart. My natural heart has some spots that are rigid due to an event almost seventeen years ago that I thankfully survived. I am very mindful that I can’t chance having that condition expand if I am to have normal life-giving blood flow.
Then, I thought of my other heart. I realized that just like the pipes in the mobile home, there needs to be a flow through it to avoid becoming “frozen” in this frigid world. Yes, there has to be something constantly flowing into and perhaps, more importantly, out of it to avoid conditions that will make it vulnerable to becoming hard and frozen. Perhaps I’ve been equipped with a natural “safety valve” as long as I don’t take matters into my own hands and try to shut off the flow. There is something to be said for the heartwarming flow and all that it accomplishes.
Friday, January 1, 2010
New Snow
Another New Year’s Eve passed; the finish of another of many calendar years on my life’s journey. There isn’t the hustle and bustle of many previous years. There is time to reflect. Sometimes that doesn’t always prove to be preferable to life’s nonstop activities but it is something to be explored and registered. My mind races with past events and “realities.”
As I sit at our kitchen table, a menagerie of thoughts flood my mind—not all well organized. I think of the passing of friends in 2009. Those thoughts are followed by thoughts of huge innocent blue eyes of my first granddaughter who blessed us with her 2009 debut. I think about the uncertainties of ever increasing healthcare costs. But then I think about how nothing has gone untreated, even my newest aches and pains. I seldom shop for groceries but was shocked yesterday that a foray for a short list of items cost $38.17 (I was informed “With a savings of $2.43, thank you”). But then I think that there is an abundant supply of food stored within a few feet of where I sit. My needs are covered for at least a month and probably more. My savings and security took a “hit” in 2009 and there is no cost of living increase. I think of my friends in Kolkata who invest all they have into helping others survive. I think of the suffering and loneliness I have increasingly witnessed as 2009 progressed. The perceived pressures of providing have taken a real toll especially in families and marriages. Few have escaped unscathed from this toiling. I look out the window at the birds clustered around the bird feeder. They seem to do quite well without “providing for themselves.” My day dreaming goes on and on as I think about the dichotomies of my life especially this past year. Through it all, I’ve been blessed with life itself and in fact “life more abundantly” although not always in ways I track and measure.
There is a new covering of ultra white snow blanketing our neighborhood. It is magnificent and glistens, reflecting the morning’s light. It covers any and all of the remnants deposited this past year (and before). The fluffy whiteness is utterly inviting to view in its entire pristine splendor. What a delight to look at this unspoiled beauty. I am deep into daydreaming and enjoying nostalgic bliss.
Suddenly, my wife points out a regal-looking red fox blazing a trail through the snow. As he trots through the neighborhood’s yards, I realize that he alone has stirred to venture into this bright new world while I sit here looking at it. However, his tracks in the new snow, no matter how beautiful, are now just a distant reminder of where he’s been. He’s off on new conquests without looking back. (Perhaps to the dismay of the neighborhood mice, rabbits, and other critters.)
I too, figuratively, am granted a new beginning in 2010. I am given an opportunity to leave some shortcomings, wounds, and even scars from the past be blanketed under a new all encompassing covering (which has been there all along). I want to follow that beautiful red fox’s example and blaze a trail into the beautiful fresh “newness” before me. Even though my tracks may be interesting and in some senses beautiful, it’s the where I am going and what I make of this “newness” that counts. I’m off to experience and fulfill all that the privileges and, yes, even the challenges that 2010 holds. I am grateful for the opportunity.
As I sit at our kitchen table, a menagerie of thoughts flood my mind—not all well organized. I think of the passing of friends in 2009. Those thoughts are followed by thoughts of huge innocent blue eyes of my first granddaughter who blessed us with her 2009 debut. I think about the uncertainties of ever increasing healthcare costs. But then I think about how nothing has gone untreated, even my newest aches and pains. I seldom shop for groceries but was shocked yesterday that a foray for a short list of items cost $38.17 (I was informed “With a savings of $2.43, thank you”). But then I think that there is an abundant supply of food stored within a few feet of where I sit. My needs are covered for at least a month and probably more. My savings and security took a “hit” in 2009 and there is no cost of living increase. I think of my friends in Kolkata who invest all they have into helping others survive. I think of the suffering and loneliness I have increasingly witnessed as 2009 progressed. The perceived pressures of providing have taken a real toll especially in families and marriages. Few have escaped unscathed from this toiling. I look out the window at the birds clustered around the bird feeder. They seem to do quite well without “providing for themselves.” My day dreaming goes on and on as I think about the dichotomies of my life especially this past year. Through it all, I’ve been blessed with life itself and in fact “life more abundantly” although not always in ways I track and measure.
There is a new covering of ultra white snow blanketing our neighborhood. It is magnificent and glistens, reflecting the morning’s light. It covers any and all of the remnants deposited this past year (and before). The fluffy whiteness is utterly inviting to view in its entire pristine splendor. What a delight to look at this unspoiled beauty. I am deep into daydreaming and enjoying nostalgic bliss.
Suddenly, my wife points out a regal-looking red fox blazing a trail through the snow. As he trots through the neighborhood’s yards, I realize that he alone has stirred to venture into this bright new world while I sit here looking at it. However, his tracks in the new snow, no matter how beautiful, are now just a distant reminder of where he’s been. He’s off on new conquests without looking back. (Perhaps to the dismay of the neighborhood mice, rabbits, and other critters.)
I too, figuratively, am granted a new beginning in 2010. I am given an opportunity to leave some shortcomings, wounds, and even scars from the past be blanketed under a new all encompassing covering (which has been there all along). I want to follow that beautiful red fox’s example and blaze a trail into the beautiful fresh “newness” before me. Even though my tracks may be interesting and in some senses beautiful, it’s the where I am going and what I make of this “newness” that counts. I’m off to experience and fulfill all that the privileges and, yes, even the challenges that 2010 holds. I am grateful for the opportunity.
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