Guts and Poop and Gray Hair…Oh My!

Every day I pick up the kids from school, I pass a massive carcass decomposing along the side of the road. Maybe a cow or a bear? I’m not sure. But the thing I find fascinating—and oh-so- delightful—is that it has remained on the side of the road long enough to rot. No well-intentioned citizen has called the Division of Wildlife to demand the unsightly skeleton be removed. Everyone here seems content enough to let the poor beast rot in peace.


Within the two short months we’ve lived here, I’ve grown quite accustomed to seeing “guts” and bones. Piles of intestines have frequently appeared on our porch, dirt driveway, and grassy, unkempt fields. By mid-morning, they’re swarming with an assortment of flies and flesh-eating bees (why did I never learn about Vulture Bees in school?? SOOOO interesting!!), and by early evening, all traces of the shiny, coiled intestines have been efficiently consumed.


Speaking of guts and carcasses, I’ve started the strange habit of collecting bones as we walk about our property, and have amassed a small mound on the ledge of my back porch. While this ossuary of sorts might seem grotesque to many, it constantly reminds me of death’s ever- potential nearness. I find myself increasingly grateful for every glorious breath I’m allowed.


~


Back in Windsor, I used to audibly groan whenever so my phone would vibrate up with a “Next-Door Neighbor” alert. Even so, I read them all the same.


There was once a guy ranting over the “dog poop” that covered the golf course, only to be duly chastised by the manager that the green logs were, in fact, goose turds, and not much could be done to control the wild geese. (I’m sure there were quite a few people who might have favored shooting the birds rather than permit their precious golf course to be littered with poop).


Sneakily snapped photographs often popped up on the neighborhood app, intended to shame the lazy dog-walkers who didn’t utilize the free doggie bags provided along the way. The captions always read something like, “PICK UP YOUR PET’S POOP!!! WE’RE WATCHING YOU!!!” in all capital letters, with no less than three exclamation marks.


I get it—no one wants to step in a pile of poop while out on their morning jog, and it’s certainly in poor taste not to clean up after your pet, especially in public places. I just always found people’s extreme rage amusing, along with the looong thread of comments that ensued, and I constantly questioned how people had so much time and energy to expend on a few pieces of poop.


I laughingly wonder how they would have responded to guts?


All this to say, my favorite, favorite, favorite thing about now living in the mountains is the imperfections.

Down in town, very few cars are ever squeaky clean because it rains—a lot—and almost everyone seems to live off of one dirt road or another. Sometimes, a lone dog wanders around the main street because, well, who knows why, and occasionally, they even poop! But I’ve yet to witness someone snap a photo to shame their neighbor. No one shakes their head or clucks their tongue over the poor, impoverished animal whose owner clearly doesn’t deserve their furry friend. Perhaps due to the generous population of deer and elk that roam the valley, people here understand that, once in a while, animals poop.

Suggested reading for my golf-course friends 😂


Additionally, scattered across the face of every mountain, dead trees lie crisscrossed wherever they’ve fallen. Even so, no HOA committee seems to be sending out notifications requiring the owners to clean up their yard. Weeds—even noxious ones—sprout up abundantly amidst the vibrant wildflowers. But to my knowledge, no board is being formed to address this earth-shattering problem, and I feel free to cherish the beauty of even the weeds.


Our new house has woodpecker holes in the cedar siding, and while not idyllic, we’ve accepted it for the time being as our reality. Additionally, our house has no gutters, so the afternoon rains careen down the metal roof without impediment and free fall to the soft, dark earth, resulting in slightly grooved trenches.


“Maybe we will add gutters,” Arin muses, then quietly rescinds, “or maybe we won’t.”


Here, there is an observed synergy between nature and people that is so easy to forget in more populated, “civilized” areas: Animal poop fertilizes the earth. Rodents run rampant, but their flesh provides food for larger animals, and their innards nourish the smaller ones. Trees fall, dirt makes things dirty, and none of these things, although acknowledged and addressed, seem gripe-worthy on “Next-Door Neighbor.”


Ironically, the things that are, perhaps, fit to be posted on social media are calmly accepted with a simplicity that I find both foreign and fascinating.


Our neighbor across the way informed us that a woman was found chopped up approximately a mile-and-a-half up the road a few years ago. He sees bears and mountain lions all the time. These events, he shares matter-of-factly, as it were somehow less of a crisis than golf-course dog poop, and something about his calmness simultaneously amazes me and sits just right in my soul.


When we first moved here, Arin used to grow flustered by the uncontrollable afternoon rains that interfered with his outdoor work plans. Now, he just looks to the darkening sky as his signal to rest, and rather than shaking his fist at the gathering clouds, he comes in for our afternoon cup of coffee, and we head for the porch to watch the storm.


As dramatic or cliché as it may sound, it feels acceptable to just BE for the first time in my life. This place, this air, gives me the courage to be me, to neither despise nor celebrate my imperfections, but to simply permit them to exist. It’s emboldened me to aggressively tackle the issues that I wish to conquer (like my fears) while exposing the “dog poops” I wasted so much energy fretting over (like the gray hairs that keep sprouting from my head faster than the purple musk thistle on our mountain).


As seemingly trite as hair is, it’s consumed many of my thoughts lately. I’ve religiously colored my grays for as long as I can remember. But somehow, up here, it doesn’t seem so unthinkable that a woman under the age of sixty might (gasp) “let her roots show.” I been thinking on a quote I recently read by an older woman concerning her graying hair. “It’s not so much about letting yourself go, as it is about letting yourself be.”


I contemplate the way I’ve promised myself to age gracefully, how I’ve preached it to my girls, admired the trait in my husband—and recognize my potential hypocrisy. Turning my thoughts to our property, I then consider my reticence to use commercial weed killer on land so pristine, and concurrently ponder my willingness to marinate my own scalp in such harsh chemicals month after month.


What if I gave myself the permission to JUST BE?


A smattering of wiry, gray hairs seems to be surfacing some fairly big questions.


In Wayne Muller’s excellent book, A Life of Being, Having, and Doing Enough, he talks about a geological term called Isostasis, which refers to the idea that when something in nature is removed, another is free to grow in its place.


What if I removed my expectations of what I should do, of who I should be? What would be free to grow in its place? What if I learned to just accept instead of always trying to manage and control? What if, instead of fighting against nature, I became a calm, willing, and thankful participant?


These thoughts ramble around in my head, and I feel free to let them percolate—unresolved— and with every passing day, my gray hairs grow longer and more noticeable.


What if I look old? Ugly? What if my husband no longer finds me attractive
?


My thoughts bombard me like an internal HOA board, “Clean up your yard! You must be manicured and pristine, or we will fine you!”
But then I lift my eyes to the surrounding mountains, I open my ears to the chattering locusts and swarming flies, and there is something about the wilderness around me that makes my own chaotic wildness feel slightly more acceptable.

I’ve always been a rule follower and a people pleaser…to a certain point. But there’s also been a latent wildness that I’ve fiercely protected and allowed to remain subdued, partially out of self-preservation, and partly due to my fears and insecurities.


However, there’s something about riding a magnificent horse outdoors, where mountains erupt from the earth on all sides, that makes it slightly harder to suppress everything I feel, to tamp down the woman I’m becoming; besides, I’m running out of reasons not to be fully me. I’m so in love with the life we’re creating that I find I want to be fully present in my own skin instead of escaping my one, wild ride of a life.


Arin and I were talking yesterday about the idea that when you live in nature, surrounded by God’s handiwork versus man’s concrete jungle, something begins working on you from the outside in. Your efforts become multiplied almost magically by something beyond yourself, and for us, something about this whole moving process feels like we are no longer fighting against the goads but being lifted up and carried along a current higher and greater than ourselves.


I fall asleep every night, insanely proud that we’ve fought through so many fears and hurdles to be here and so thankful to be living our best life. Certainly, it’s not been without trial and tribulation, but rather, because of them that we are where we are, and this, I suppose, is a bit like my gray hairs. They are a part of me, whether I acknowledge them or not.


Perhaps it has come time to just let them be.

❓❓❓😵‍💫👵🏼🤷‍♀️❓❓❓

~


To my small handful of readers:

Most likely, this will be my last blog of the summer. The kids are back in school, and it is time to return to a love that has only recently surfaced, a part of myself never knew existed.


As some of you know, I’m working on writing my memoirs, which in the long run, I am hoping to publish. Pray for my endeavors and potential success.


Thank you for journeying with me through these brief summer months and our move to the mountains.


Blessings to you all!

The Making of a Man

Sack-LunchI packed a lunch for my oldest son today.  I literally can’t even remember the last lunch I packed for him.  But today was his first day of work…a real job…manual labor.  Packing that lunch and sending him off on his own made me realize that even though on one hand, I’m counting down the number of days until I can send him on his way, I’m still holding onto him tightly with the other.  Even though he daily makes me want to scream, I don’t relish the thought of anyone in the “real world” doing the same.  I’m not a hoverer or a very tender mom.  I even feel a little calloused at time compared to other moms I know.  But today was hard.  It was hard to bite my tongue and not give advice.  It was hard to not worry.  It was hard turning him over to someone else who I know will (thankfully) make his life very physically challenging.  Ultimately it was hard to let him go and recognize that this is how men like his father are made…through hard work and hard knocks, through trial and error, falling down and getting up.  And none of that involves me holding his hand any more.  Just like that, my time with him has shifted and it is time for me to step back and lead from behind instead of in front, to teach through listening and silence instead of repetition of words.  Dropping him off, I felt the urge to reach out and grab his hand for old times’ sake, but refrained as common sense warned against it.  So I just watched him walk away without looking back, swallowed a little lump in my throat and drove away, alone with my thoughts and empty handed.  Who knew what a little sack lunch could do…

Nothing New About This Year

I’m sitting by the fire in my pajamas at 11:00 p.m. on New Year’s Eve.  Everyone is sleeping or gone.  The smallest tinge of wistful sadness has settled in with the quieting of the house as I look back over the course of this year.  There is a sense of finality with the passing of 2016…another year gone, completely unretrievable.  My oldest will soon be driving on his own, we have no more babies in our home, and I am quickly approaching 40.  Time seems to pass like a hurricane through my raking fingers and I am left gasping and grasping after something that refuses to be caught.

But my sadness is not over the passing of time, nor over the approach of teenagers or mid-life (as I am enjoying both).  Rather it is a sadness over the ways that I have failed to encapsulate and cherish every moment of the last year.  I grieve all of the times that irritability presided over gratitude.  I regret every moment that I rushed through and missed, moments that will never be recovered.  I especially and deeply mourn every unkind and impatient word I’ve wasted on my children (and there are many).  In my mind, I so badly want to suck the marrow out of life and slowly savor every last bit but I so often fail to live this way.

160121_slatest_blizzard-jpg-crop-promo-xlarge2I recognize the irony.  With this being New Year’s Eve, it would be the perfect time to resolve to do things differently next year.  But the fact of the matter is, I know that I won’t.  I will make the same mistakes.  I will fail…and succeed…and fail again.  However, lest I be mistaken for a brooding pessimist, allow for a clarifcation.  This cycle, in my humble opinion, is in fact the very essence of life and I believe it to be exceedingly beautiful.  Life is a compilation of moments: heartaches and joys, peaks and valleys, tragedies and triumphs.  Yet, when standing nose to nose with life, it is not always readily apparent which are the successes and which are the failures.  It is foolish to bask in the glory of freshly fallen sparkling snow, and then curse the very same when it turns to sludge.  So often, our darkest moments become our greatest success stories.

This is why I do not resolve to do anything differently in 2017.  Rather, I resolve to do the same thing day-in and day-out, year after year.  I resolve to accept defeat and success with gratitude, knowing that both are changing and shaping me.  I resolve to put my best foot forward every morning, recognizing that my best may look different one day to the next.  I resolve to accept the snow and the sludge, the sun and the sunburn, the rain and the flood (although I know I will not always accept them gracefully).   Ultimately, I resolve to always struggle…to fall down and get back up and fall and get back up.  It might take me a while to find my feet again, but I will get there…eventually.  For it is in the struggle that we are strengthened and made whole.  I wish you all good strength and a great journey…Happy New Year!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The New Man in My Life

There is a strange new man living in my house.  He is tall, dark and handsome.  Apparently, he is also extremely smart.  He’s always brandishing this alleged intelligence and for some odd reason, constantly feels the need to remind me of his self-proclaimed autonomy.  But it’s ironic…although he can drive a car, he can’t make a sandwich.  And even though he’s able to decode insane chemistry equations, he looks at me like I’m speaking in Charlie Brown’s teacher’s voice if I ask him to clean his room.  This same “man,” who I am barely allowed to touch, also crawls into my room at 4 a.m. asking me if I have any medicine for his “tummy-ache.”

This paradoxical way of living is making me a little insane.  If I relied on his feedback at all, I might be a bit schizophrenic and (only) slightly insulted.  I have been told I’m a dictator, a crazy woman, completely irrational, and even a crack-addict!  The unfortunate thing is, I’m not even sure that I completely disagree.  Sometimes I feel like the wicked queen, wanting to wave my wand and banish him from my kingdom forever.  Other days I feel psychotic, like I could literally strangle the life out of him that I imparted 16 years ago.  At times, I cry, mourning the loss of childhood and sweet innocence.  And on rare occasions, my sanity returns to me (if only briefly) and I am able to look into his eyes and see my child.  I see his fears and struggles, his pain and insecurities, his dreams and failures.  In an instant, he becomes a mirror to me and I am laid bare before my fears and struggles, my pain and insecurities, my dreams and failures.  I am amazed and humbled as I realize that even though it seems that he is fighting against me, in reality, we are fighting together…fighting for his personhood, his character, his soul.

This stage of his life can only be likened to a second birth.  Many days, I feel as though it is one big, fat, long contraction…sweating and toiling, but painful and very seemingly unproductive. But this time, I am not laboring to bring forth a child, I am laboring with my whole heart and soul to bring forth a fully grown man: a man who is loving and appreciative, respectful and kind, hard working and moral. This is not an easy task in today’s world.  So to get through the labor pains, I keep before me the hopeful glimpses into his heart…images of him on the river, hunting with his dad and brother, the amazing photographs he takes, his hidden self-reflective side…and I find my hope that one day, the hard work will be over and standing before me will be an exceptional human being.  Lord willing, we will be able to look back and laugh together at these days and what he has put us through.

43810047-young-woman-eating-popcorn-while-watching-tv-isolated-on-white-backgroundAnd then…when time has passed and he’s grown and married and fathers my first sweet grand-baby, I will pull up my chair and popcorn and eagerly await for the arrival of my dear friend Karma!

 

Mundane Motherhood

I remember I broke down in tears after I gave birth naturally to my first child.  I had worked so hard and had been so strong that the tears of relief literally came rolling down my face.  Today, I look at my boys. We are well into teenage years and even though the hardest years might yet remain, I could almost cry in relief because those early years were just. so. much.  To all of you moms with young kids and babies… now that I’m on the other side and have regained (some) sense of sanity, know that you are amazing. You pick up the same toys day in and day out. You hold the hand of a new walker and let them go up and down the stairs fifty billion times. You listen to the same incessant chatter and even though you feel like you might lose your mind, you smile and encourage the novice talker.  You sit and endlessly keep a drawer from shutting on their little fingers just so they can learn how to open and close.  You have the strength to get through the mundane, the love and loyalty of a mother bear, and the patience of a saint. The bad thing is, you don’t feel like it. You end so many days feeling like a failure, like you did nothing worthwhile, like nothing got accomplished.  All I can say after being a stay at home mom for fifteen years so far, is that everything will one day be worth it. You’ll see a picture of your teenage boys sleeping in a truck after a long hunting weekend and every little mundane task, and every never ending day will be so, so worth it.  Give yourself room to acknowledge that you have a very. hard. job.  Respect yourself enough to take the time you need to regather, and love yourself enough to be kind.  The world can be cruel enough without your own self-condemnation.  I know that everyone says this, but you will blink and they will literally be grown.  But contrary to what others may say, I don’t find it sad or remorseful.  I find it beautiful.  I love seeing my kids grow into their own person.  I love having real, tough conversations with them.  I love seeing their passions and even their pains.  It all reminds me that as a mom, I have been allowed to co-create another life, another real, live, struggling person.  It is humbling beyond belief.  I know that I still have a very long way to go.  But for tonight, I can fall asleep believing in my heart that every seemingly pointless moment was all beyond worth it.