The Best Thing in Life

Food may just be the best thing in life - ever. After a stressful day, there's nothing better than sitting down to a savory, satisfying meal. For just a while I can relax and leave my troubles behind. Even if I've had a good day, topping it off with a decadent dessert can make things even better.

Like many people, I use food to celebrate, to commune with others and, on occasion to console. On bad days it may be the single best thing about my day. A day without good food is a day not lived, or at least one not lived well.

Some may argue that there are other things in life that would rate higher than food, but in my mind, nothing else compares to food - day in and day out, no matter our age, our culture, social standing or even the thickness of our wallet.

Preparing food, however, seems to require more patience than I usually have. So, it is a good thing that I married someone who has the patience, the desire to cook, and most importantly, a far better palette than me. I often watch as he prepares our meal: dicing, chopping, slicing, mincing, mixing, sautéing, grilling or braising. Each word we have for food preparation requires a slightly different technique and each technique requires patience.

So, it was only after watching him cook and we finally sat down to enjoy the delicious meal he prepared that it occurred to me that the true best thing was not something found among the ingredients. Yet, it was present in every meal he prepared. It was there as we sat down to enjoy it and even as we cleaned up afterwards. The key ingredient to everything was love.

Love is truly the best thing in life. Without love, even good food seems lacking. The spices may tingle our tongue, but without someone, whether it be a friend or a loved one to enjoy it with, everything can seem bland. I even enjoyed the cold and expensive little cup of soup up in the Rocky Mountains just because I was able to share it with my good friends. (We sure did share some other wonderful meals though.) So, to my loved ones, my dear family, my friends close and far, and even to my coworkers and the many acquaintances in my life, I thank you. You have each in your own way given me the best thing in life: love. And, a close second - you have given me the excuse to enjoy good food.

Be Gentle (revised)

I was recently out in Denver visiting good friends. On my last day there, the three of us sat on a picnic table in a quiet park outside a local library with Abby, my friend's dog, enjoying the welcome shade on a hot day. We were quietly sharing perspectives on life when a car pulled up in the parking lot, windows rolled down, radio blaring and a dog in the back seat. The three of us swiveled our bodies to locate the source of the distraction. The young man noticed us, but did nothing about the volume. Instead, we watched him open his car door and then walk across the expanse of grass that stretched between us over to a trash receptacle near our picnic table. 

All conversation had stopped as we watched him approach. We exchanged greetings. "Don't worry, my dog is harmless," he told us. His eyes were steel blue and he appeared to be harmless enough. I was still aware of the loud radio as each of us uttered a response. Mine was something along the lines that the dog was not the cause for our concern. The young man held the leash as the dog sniffed her surroundings and then greeted Abby. Abby exchanged a hesitant sniff or two, but lost interest quickly and resumed her spot in the grass. 

My friend exchanged some comments about dog breeds and the like and the young man said that Sophia's exercise was largely hunting squirrels. As if on cue, Sophia fixated on something in the distance that none of us could see. To demonstrate, the young man bent down, held Sophia's collar and then quite quickly released her from the leash and instructed Sophia to "Go get it" or some other command I no longer remember. It was as if we had stumbled into the middle of a dog park. But, none of us had seen the signs because, well, it wasn't a dog park. 

Sophia shot like a lightning bolt across the park far to the other side where a trio of trees stood in the distance near the street at the other end. She circled the trees and then began to jump several feet high up against the tree to reach whatever poor critter had scurried up there to save its life. My friend asked what the young man was doing, but didn't exactly mean this in the way that he proceeded to answer. My friend then asked if Sophia had ever caught a squirrel, to which the stranger said yes, she had. And, did she kill the squirrel? Oh, no, he said. What did the dog do with the squirrel then? She let it go once she was done playing with it. We stared at him in stunned silence.

At this point, he called his dog back. On command, Sophia raced back to her owner and then sat quietly and attentively pointed in the direction of the squirrel. I don't recall the next exchange quite so much, but know that my friend tried to explain how we had been quietly enjoying nature only to have him disrupt us with his loud radio. 

He explained that the radio station was 91.1 KLOVE, a Christian radio station - as if this was all the explanation required. We exchanged a few more awkward, marginally friendly, but increasingly sarcastic remarks - and for what outcome we were hoping, I am not entirely certain. The young man was utterly oblivious to his effect upon the world. Still, he must finally have picked up on the cues because he led his dog back to the car. As he walked away, we gathered our own party and headed off in the opposite direction somewhat bewildered by the surreal exchange that had just occurred.

As we walked back to my friend's house, I continued to think about this young man. Are we all searching for love and understanding? Did he believe that if we knew it was KLOVE that we would accept him more than if it had been any other radio station? He hadn't tried to convert us, but seemed to just want to talk - about his dog, and even himself perhaps. Did he have no one else to talk to? Or had he really planned this to be an opportunity to witness about his love for Christ? 

And what about his dog? His dog did seem to be an amazing animal, but even the smartest dog trained by someone who doesn't quite respect others is still a menace. I felt sorry for Sophia and of course, for the squirrels that she terrorized. And, I even felt sorry for the young man. Someday perhaps he would come to understand that acceptance isn't something that can be obtained by force. If he had accepted that we were perfectly happy without his interruption, perhaps we would have even engaged him in conversation. 

By the time we reached my friend's house, I was tired of thinking about him. I remembered the word my husband and I use when training our own sixty pound dog and thought that this perhaps might be good advice for the young man: "Be Gentle." 

Strabismus: Cross-eyed

I am reminded that I am getting older every time I am forced to pull my cheaters from my purse to read, well, anything. Of course, at fifty-something, a change in my vision is not a new experience. Years ago when I was in my thirties I realized I had just passed my exit to go home because I couldn't read the sign up ahead. I learned that myopia is when things up close are clear, but things at a distance are not. That was when I got glasses for the first time. 

As a kid I once faked my vision test hoping that I, too, could wear glasses. Oy vey. Lucky the doctor saw through my ploy.

Back when I had perfect vision, I wondered if myopia wasn't really caused by people focusing too much on themselves and too little on others. Thinking back, I was quite focused on me back then. Perhaps this intense focus on me really did make me lose focus on others - literally. 

Years went by and then like many people, when I hit 40 I noticed a different change in focus. This time, focusing on things up close became more difficult. This change is due to presbyopia, a hardening of the lens inside the eye. We compensate by bringing things closer and then finally by getting cheaters. Interestingly enough, this was around the time that I had shifted my personal focus. I became more active in professional associations and even started to do volunteer work as a tutor. As I focused more on others, my ability to focus on things up close apparently diminished. 

As kids, one of my brothers had a condition called lazy-eye or amblyopia. Ironically now as an adult my brother is always active, always going somewhere and almost always starting or completing a big project at home. No theory here, just an amusing side note. 

My mid-forties brought another change when it occurred to me that I no longer needed driving glasses. My distance vision had improved, but I still needed two sets of glasses: one pair for reading and eventually an even stronger pair for reading in dark places. I could no longer read labels and squinting no longer worked. This is called hyperopia and is when you can see clearly in the distance but things up close are blurry. 

So whether any of my theories hold true, I can no longer keep track. Perhaps the meaning of things is only what we make of them. When we are ready for a new perspective, something may come along to shift our focus. We must simply be ready and see the opportunities before us. 

When my brothers and I realized that my dad was deteriorating from Alzheimer's we all shifted focus to spend more time with him. It would be the only time that we would have this opportunity. After living in Colorado for two years, my husband and I were ready to pack up and move back to Minnesota. I was ready for a job change and chose a job that provided more stability rather than challenge where I could invest my energy in other things. 

Of course, I know that my vision will likely no longer improve. And, with that realization, I have a new understanding of why my near vision might suffer as I age. Quite simply, what I can't see doesn't bother me. Since it is much harder to keep the house clean, what with all that bending down and picking things up and all, this change in vision may really be a good thing. I am far less concerned about how clean the house is compared to when I was in my thirties. It may be because I can't see the crumbs on the counter, don't see the mess in the mudroom and forget to fuss over the little dog hairs on my sweats after I play with Sophie on the living room floor. Or, it could be that finally I realize what the important things in life really are. Either way, this new perspective leaves more time to focus on the more precious things in life. 

And, well this shift in focus suits me just fine. 

Changing Seasons

Grand Marais is a quaint little town in northern Minnesota that my husband and I have gone to a couple times around this time of year. It is a bit of a drive, but well worth it once you see the peak of fall colors against the backdrop of Lake Superior. 

We probably won't get a chance to get up there this year, but each year I think about what it is exactly that triggers the leaves to change. Years ago I researched this and read that science had determined that when the temperature of rain reaches a certain threshold this triggers the roots of trees to begin the change. Well, this year we would have had fall in June if that were true.

Now, science is settled once again it seems. It is the amount of daylight in a day as experienced by each individual tree. The change itself is not so mysterious. Trees begin to shut off supply of nutrients to the leaves. They close up shop, you might say. What determines whether the leaves are dull one year or brilliant the next is the amount of sunshine that occurs after this switch is flipped. Leaves on the sunny part of a tree will turn first, with the leaves at the bottom and in the shade to turn last. If you have a dull fall with overcast skies, the colors will not be nearly as vibrant as when the fall days are filled with gorgeous sunshine that we can bask in even on cool days. 

Around this time of year I am never ready to close up shop myself. I resist packing away my shorts and sleeveless tops just yet. And, I know that we will still have plenty of warm days to come. But I also know that the number of days I will sit out on the deck without a sweater are numbered. 

As I took Sophie for a walk this morning, the air was crisp and the sun warm. I found myself becoming more reflective and realized that maybe this is my own inner switch that begins preparing me for another cold Minnesota winter. It is a reminder for me to live life fully. Each day is a gift and should be lived as vibrantly as possible. 

Wag More, Bark Less

After I left the shopping mall where I realized that I had pathetically complained to the poor clerk who was stuck working over the holiday weekend about something clearly out of her control, I wondered at how suddenly my crabbiness had crept up on me. Sometimes when this happens there is a little warning and I can abort my plans and go hide out at home and perhaps just take a well-needed nap, but other times it comes upon me like a mugger in the back seat of my car, telling me to keep driving. 

Crabbiness comes in all forms. One day I was at my gym heading into the locker room when I heard a woman humming in the shower. This woman hums a total of four songs, only one of which is recognizable to me: Over the Rainbow. She showers for a good twenty minutes and hums the same song over and over. My reaction that day was to consider showering at home. 

Crabbiness. 

As I stood there pondering my decision, another woman who I talk to frequently asked what was wrong. I laughed and told her my dilemma. I told her my reaction was ridiculous but I couldn't seem to shake my annoyance. She laughed and told me that someone had complained about this very woman to the front desk. She then proceeded to tell me about another three or four other incidents, one about a guest who is frighteningly loud and many people had complained, another about a woman who screamed and called my friend a weirdo after she had opened the shower curtain thinking it was unoccupied, another about a woman erupting into song on the elliptical and even of a woman who did sit ups in the dry sauna. 

We could have complained about another dozen things that people do in the locker room that are rude and annoying. But we both smiled and adopted a more peaceful attitude. I stayed and showered that day, feeling more patient and accommodating. 

My complaint to the clerk at the mall was at how expensive clothes were now. How silly it was to complain to this woman who obviously had nothing to do with prices. Of course, the woman probably complained about me after I left the store. 

As I left the gym today, I saw a car parked next to mine with a bumper sticker that perfectly summed up everything: 

Wag More, Bark Less. 

Sleepless in Minneapolis

I like to watch Sophie our two year old dog sleep. I often watch her hoping somehow I will unlock the secret to deep and restful sleep. As I go through stressful projects at work, I notice how my sleep suffers. My mind is busy thinking of all sorts of things I need to do the next day. And, just getting older, the foods and spices I have always loved now keep me up at night.

Ah, but don't fret, I am told. There's a drug for that. Whatever malady I can name, there's a fix.

Maybe my cholesterol is too high - don't worry. I can take a pill and go back to eating what I want. Can't fall asleep, pop a pill before my head hits the pillow. Can't wake up, espresso will pick me right up. Too much acid in my stomach - a multitude of options will come to my aid. But each one of these potions often presents other problems that only leads to popping more pills. And some of these lead to even more sleeplessness.

No such problems for Sophie. Sophie requires no assistance. She circles several times to pick her spot and then flops down, always happy with her position. She rests her chin on my lap. I rub her soft furry head and can feel how every muscle in her body is relaxed and pliable. And then after a big inhale, she exhales like a deflating balloon.

Just watching her relaxes me. I settle and feel my muscles relax. I breathe deeper and exhale fully. And, if I give myself permission, I myself give in to sleep.

If I could only bottle up Sophie's method, I would be a millionaire.

How wonderful it is to sleep.

Peach Justice

I bit into a peach today and was delighted that it was both sweet and juicy. Of course, we have all experienced the bad peach. Therefore, I suggest we might all agree on one thing: not all peaches are created equal.

If a farmer tends to his crop and follows every good practice practicable, this farmer has a greater likelihood of reaping a good harvest. Should government intervene and declare that all farmers must be equally compensated and set the price of a peach, then the good farmer has little incentive to take so much care to produce the perfect peach. Still, no matter how careful she is, the farmer may befall all manner of calamities that will devalue her crop. She may also find that a risky innovation produces a faulty peach. But risking is what we do every day to produce value in an unknown future.

Why does my peach analogy matter?

Socialism proclaims that the value of all peaches are equal and that it is in fact our moral imperative to accept this premise. Socialism requires that you become "morally and intellectually enlightened" and treat all peaches equally. If you do not, you are a peach snob. To believe in the better peach, you are morally repulsive.

Perhaps you have been told the poor peach's story and are willing to pay equally for the grainy peach as if it were a fair peach. Your heart weeps for the poor and battered peach. And we will call this peach justice. Alas, you now find that you have a cause - to ensure that all peaches are valued equally.

But some in your household disagree. What then? You must find ways to ensure that no one speaks the truth about the imperfect peaches, lest this lead to pitching peaches. Coercion may even be necessary in the end. In order to achieve our peach justice, we must stop the practice of judging the true value of individual peaches entirely. Only this will enable the rise of all peaches. Every peach gets a pass for simply being a peach. Farmers that believe in the better peach are ridiculed and told that believing they are superior and can produce the better peach is egotistical, self-aggrandizing and they are narcissistic, greedy and perhaps even evil.

To be clear, I am not suggesting that one variety of peaches is superior, but rather that not all peaches in the basket are equal. In the end, what we have done is treat all peaches unequally. We must value the lesser more highly in order for it to reach the same value. And, the fair peach is ignored, forbidden perhaps and its value destroyed. When really, we could have used the less fair peach to more fruitful purposes such as a peach cobbler or even a fruit smoothie.

I say, here here to judging a peach by its fruitiness and letting the free market demand perfect peaches, and with this we will truly bring about peach justice.

Center Island

As I was driving home with a decadent piece of cheesecake in my car after a good workout at the gym, a sign along the roadway gave me pause: Center Island Ahead. 

With the Presidential elections once again engulfing us, sometimes I feel stranded on a similar sort of Center Island. It isn't safe to cross to the left and it isn't safe to cross to the right. At different points in my life I have stood firmly on one side or the other of the political spectrum. So, I thought I would tackle the top contenders and share my thoughts having seen things from both sides now. 

Even if Bernie Sanders hasn't come out and said it recently, he is still a self-described socialist. Most people can't tell you what socialism really means beyond some bumper sticker slogan that cites the rise of the working class and an end to economic insecurity with the "people" owning the means of production. Americans have had the luxury of a free society for so long that they cannot foresee how the idea of socialism could be anything but utopian. "Fighting for a better world" as they say -this all sounds pretty neat. 

And then, we have The Donald. There could not be two people on the planet with more opposing ideas and yet it is amusing to note how both have hit a chord with the American people. Trump is someone who has worked hard for what he has, believes in the free market and in private property. He believes and encourages people to use and develop their talents - no matter what they may be, all so that they can better themselves and their world. He uses his knowledge and skills to create wealth, not only for himself, but for thousands of people who work for him (over 22,000 in fact). Trump is wealthy and pretty damn proud of it.

Now back to Bernie. Socialism at its worst encourages NOT working while still expecting to get your "fair share" (i.e., entitlement). This cannot be more evident in our lifetime than it is today. Once you think that others are getting "their's" and not having to work, it is hard to feel good about working more for less with the government continuing to take more and more. 

No one handed me my success in life. I stuck with so many icky jobs that I try not to remember them. Just recently I worked around the clock over the weekend, including consecutive 20 hour days, just to get a project completed. I didn't do this because I expected a bonus or even because I was forced into it. I did this because it needed to be done and it felt good that I could do it. I know that one way or another, I will be rewarded - if not with a bonus or higher salary, then with a better resume and more job security. 

But under socialism, there is no reward for working hard. Your reward is the same as someone who merely shows up (or for that matter, even someone who does not). Because, they tell you, who can fault the other person who either cannot or simply does not work as hard. Maybe they just don't have it "in them" to excel like you. So, you need to work hard so that the fruit of your labor can be distributed equally among others. 

But, I believe that everyone has it in them to excel at something. And everyone has the right to what they earn. America is one of the most generous nations in the world and is capable of great compassion in taking care of those who need a helping hand. That is what makes America great. Giving when it is my choice is far more bountiful than when it is no longer a choice. 

So, I think we should all start somewhere, work hard and earn our little slice of cheesecake before the government decides that even this is too unhealthy and is ultimately a burden on the system. After all, once the government foots the bill for my healthcare, there is nothing that can keep their hands off my cheesecake. 

Feeling Fado

At the click of a button I can have any sort of music piped into my earbuds, whether it be rock, jazz, or even a classical symphony. Or better yet, I can choose Fado. Fado is the soulful and passionate music sung by Portuguese vibrato singers in cafes and taverns in Lisbon. The meaning of the word Fado comes from the Latin word fatum, or fate, which is "the inexorable destiny that is stopped by nothing" as several writers on the internet seem to quote when explaining Fado.

The attraction of this melancholy music for me isn't the lyrics, especially since it is sung in Portuguese, a language I do not understand. Yet, when listening to fadistas it is clear they sing of lost love, misfortune or despair. It is this yearning and desire in the music that requires no translation to stir my soul. As is explained in a Portuguese saying, "Fado can't be seen or heard; it simply happens." 

So when my day is filled with analytical left-brain thinking, with seemingly endless discussions about technology, servers and data - things that apparently have such urgency that they set off cell phone alerts in the middle of the night - well, it is a welcome break to just sit back and let the elusive and haunting beauty of Fado find my soul again. So for a time I am transported to a different world, one where love, life and beauty remind me of what it is to simply "be" once again. 

Enjoy:

Winter Cold

The winter cold brings the winter cold. Your choice on which comes first. Alas, I thought I was free and clear. I took the week off between Christmas and New Years and was happy to not go anywhere. And then, I got it. The bug. I don't think I got the really bad bug, but a bug nevertheless. So now after of week of this, my lungs still feel like I inhaled an old curtain left hanging in a Nevada nuclear test site trailer years ago. (Aw, a little hyperbole never hurt anyone.) Really, it did feel like I inhaled some sort of dog eared rag in my sleep. 

And, now to bring misery to my misery, the barbaric cold is here (again and again and again). It is that ruthless fifteen below zero with winds whipping so hard you don't want to open your mouth because your fillings will crack. The wind howling outside sounds like a big tank rumbling through the neighborhood that never ever arrives. 

Still, I can't help think about every generation that came before us that didn't park in an insulated garage, have cars that started up after a two second groan, cars that heated up within the first five miles or had all of thirty feet to walk to their work place where they would once again be warm, snugly and safe. 

And then I realized that, hey, I know people that still have to go out into that cold and make sure their animals are fed, warm and safe or hang their head out of trucks delivering mail to the same number of mailboxes they deliver mail to when it is 70 and sunny. 

Our little dog Sophie still has to do her business outside and girl, does she ever get 'er done quickly. So, to all my fearless and furless heroes who have to brave the bitter cold outside this year, here's hats off to you. 

I'm switching to ear muffs. 

Happy New Year everyone!