December 5, 2018

Tortoise Envy

Hare's Brain

I’ve lived the life of a hare. In The Tortoise and the Hare, the cocky rabbit bolted from the start line while the tortoise was more introspective and, frankly, slow, likely enjoying the plod. Of course, the tortoise was carrying a heavy shell on his back, but who doesn’t? As the race progressed, the hare decided he was far enough ahead, and would obviously “win”, so stopped for a quick nap. We see the tortoise slowly passing the sleeping hare, thus, winning the race with his own formula of … steady as you go. I think I have tortoise envy. Sigh.

My own hare feet pound with an intensity as I physically and emotionally make almost everything on my list completed in a fairly quick and hopped up pace -- even my resting.  Rather hare-brained way of living!

“You are hurrying to the sweet place,
To the nonsense chasing your spirit
And in the nonsense you look for answers.”
Dejan Stojanovic, Circling: 1978-1987

Open my eyes that I may see

The genesis of my transition was simple, yet poignant. I drove past a black-eyed buck which I didn't see until he was next to me. In that moment, I realized how often I don’t remember the trip so was incapable of enjoying the moment. My mind was stuck in an alternate, future thinking, list-directed mode. Days melded into each other and surprise – it’s the weekend - where did the week go?

Focus was needed – how to enjoy life’s moments before the weekend magically appears? What has and is working (most of the time) for me is:
·       3x5 cards of my important, urgent and interesting ideas for that day.
·     As I’d like to remember moments better … to look the buck in the eyes and acknowledge its existence ... keeping an online calendar with fun and memorable activities works well.
·       Writing important and necessary details in my journals – which I access more frequently than I’d like to admit. It allows me to focus more on the moment as my past is written down.
·       I complete a yearly “Vision Board” (see Vision Board Workshop). Writing my hopes for the next year, framing some, helps keep me on task. This year’s board will include spaces for action steps as I have specific goals which I want to complete.
·       I’ve intentionally slowed my frenetic pace. Leisurely walks in the woods and through town, coffeehouse visits without a phone, writing, visiting with friends.
·       Acknowledging how extremely difficult it is to change a lifetime of hurry, but realizing it can be done. It helped that I had a great need to stop - smell the roses - enjoy the experience.
·       I spend many tortoise hours of slow-paced walking, picture-taking, meandering, which have nourished a deep connection and balance with Mother Earth and Mother Nature, and myself.
·       I sit and breathe!

I think it cannot be disputed who won the race today.
Hayhoe Rivertrail, Mason

December 3, 2018

The Dancing Girl

The cold, penetrating freeze of winters' Siberian wind whipped through the open bus door, causing our eyes to tear up and drop ice onto our laps.  We sat inside the mini-bus in Perm, Russia, waiting for our interpreter to return:  my husband, Les, our six-year-old daughter, Addie, and our newly-adopted children, Ksenia, 11, and her brother Evgeni, age 13.  Dima, our driver, tinkered with the bus engine, yet again, with the hope it would carry us to our next destination.  Suddenly, Ksenia sprang out of her seat and jumped off the bus, engaging her entire body in a freedom dance.  I was enchanted with the beautiful smile on her very white face, which was framed by soft blond hair.  An unwelcome chill passed through me.  My new children.  Our new children.  

Zhenya & Ksusha at orphanage gates, Perm, Russia
Evgeni & Ksenia at orphanage
picture by Joe & Diana


Orphanage gates
Children at the gates of the orphanage
In June of 1996, we had been given a picture of the two children as they stood by the gate at the orphanage, which captured our hearts and led us to seek adoption.  One picture of the boy, Evgeni, standing by the gates with one shoe on top of the other in a pose of sadness burned deeply in our hearts.

Court house in Perm, Russia
Evgeni & Ksenia in courthouse hallways
The memory of meeting our soon to be daughter and son in January 1997 will always be vivid, especially Ksenia's first glimpse of us walking through the heavy doors of the orphanage.  I can still hear her squealing in excited high-pitched Russian as she ran down the hall.  She announced to the staff, to the other orphans, and anyone who would listen, that her new Momma and Poppa had arrived.  

Les, our daughter Addie, and I were led into the children’s home and taken to an office where the gracious director met us.  Our interpreter snapped a picture to capture the moment of the formal meeting of parents and daughter to two new children.  We wrapped our arms around our soon-to-be children in a big hug, breaking the language barrier with smiles and giggles.  They were beautiful and tiny:  One gangly red-headed boy and one very white blond girl, siblings, both standing shyly with their heads down.  We would have to wait for what seemed months for eye contact from our son.

Our future, in my rosy, naïve thoughts, was filled with happiness.  It wouldn’t be long before we could bring our children home to America to live safe in our embrace. 

In America, Les and I felt excited and brave anticipating this pilgrimage; we took Russian language classes and placed notecards with Cyrillic and English words describing items around the house.  But we  did not feel as emotionally strong on this foreign soil in sub-zero weather in frigid January.  The Ural Mountains separated us from Siberia, yet its winds reached deep into our coats. 

We had an unreliable van, traveled roads with pits so deep they could swallow any vehicle, and were surrounded by machine gun-toting soldiers, unfamiliar foods, and were continuously stared at with suspicion.  My concern was not totally unfounded.  A month before, a couple within our agency adopted two children from the same orphanage.  On one of their treks from the children's home, without the kids, a truck careening down the icy road crashed into their van, killing the couple. 

Adding to our insecurity in this foreign land, our translator encouraged, admonished us, to speak quietly in the apartment, explaining that he was frankly unsure what would happen if the neighbors discovered Americans living in the complex.  We were instructed to keep a low profile, not bringing any attention to ourselves.

Evgeni "Zhenya", Addie, Ksenia "Ksusha"
Our experience with those helping with the adoption, however, was refreshing.  These Russians were exceptionally hospitable and caring, both for our welfare and the comfort of our six-year-old.  Older women on the streets would stop, turn around, and lecture us in Russian, saying that our little one was “too cold.”  Sometimes they were even bold enough to kneel and wrap more clothing around our child.  This endearing act was strangely comforting at a time when I felt so vulnerable, especially with our young daughter in tow.

Addie at apartment
heading to the
orphanage

On the van between the orphanage and Perm's court















We traveled daily in the rickety bus to the orphanage in the high mountains.  Then, back to the agencies where passports and visas were processed and to the Embassy to complete reams of paperwork.  The old green bus required constant care and repair by the driver.  The roads were slick with ice, and the deep potholes tossed us back and forth in our seats.  The bus slid this way and that as it climbed the tall hills of the countryside along the Kama River, where the children lived, into the distant forests west of the Ural Mountains.

My daydreaming was broken by Ksenia’s exuberant, free-form, almost defiant, dance outside our bus in a busy section of Perm.  She threw her arms up to the sky, and raised her face to the bright sun with a smile so wide that my breath caught in my throat.  I sat there silently, filled with unpleasant thoughts bordering on regret.  Our new fledging circled the bus, as though oblivious to us, yet appearing to dare anyone to interfere with her dance by her sharp, flowing movements.  She appeared to be on the adventure of her life, and of ours together.  Yet, all I felt was a strange sensation of fear.


What have we done?  This girl child was already testing boundaries, and neither our interpreter nor Evgeni, our shy new teenager, had the ability to tame her and force her to return to the safe confines of the vehicle.  I could almost see her running down the street full of her new-found freedom, away from the orphanage where she had spent her adolescence, away from us.  I was frightened. Les and I cuddled our six-year-old daughter to keep her warm as we watched Ksenia dance and laugh, tempt and pull away, over and over and over again as she continued circling the bus.  Her normally white face was now red with cold.

Our dear Russian
helper with Addie
On the street corner, several Russian soldiers stood by silently, each holding a machine gun.  With what appeared to be steel-cold eyes, they watched our Ksenia in her dance of life.  What would it feel like if one of the soldiers entered our vehicle and shot us just for being there?  Would it hurt worse to die in a country where many of the people seem to despise us for being Americans?  How would our family react when they got the news of our violent deaths?  Our new daughter and new son are Russian, had been raised by Russian parents and Russian orphanage staff.  I prayed, silently, hoping they were not taught to hate us.  

The hospitality of the Russian people was heartwarming
All these thoughts made my heart beat faster while I watched my prancing new daughter’s continued spinning on the cobbled and icy street.  She smiled exuberantly at us, while her brother sat oblivious to her antics, playing with a car we gave him at the orphanage.  Yet, fear had its hold on me.  We even stumble to pronounce her name correctly, I thought.  She giggles when we try, and coyly repeats it for us for us to struggle with again.  Yet, she is now our child.  The brusque but fair female judge granted us the adoption.  Her gavel unhesitatingly trumpeted her decision.  Our children are so unaware of what challenges and homesickness they will face in the land of freedom.  Their grief, real pain, an intense fear of being abandoned, yet again, could be acute.

Our van drivers took
Addie under their wing
and had her help with
the repairs
Suddenly, a positive thought surfaced.  Maybe, just maybe, Ksenia was dancing because she was happy – truly happy. Life had been difficult – at times horrendous – for these two children. At bedtime they would cry and hold their tears up to Heaven with the hope that a family would adopt them someday.  They both seem to recognize the fact that that they were probably too old to be wanted by anyone.  How would it feel to be so totally alone in the world?

Then again, maybe Ksenia was a wild child, a child of the streets with no care for boundaries.  Maybe she was a survivor, abandoned once, and at the ready to discard us starting with the dance of rebellion.  Will she terrorize us in America, I wondered?  What if they try to harm us in retaliation for what they have been through in their short lives?  But we signed the legal papers agreeing to the adoption.  No turning back.  My thoughts were gloomy.  I silently whispered:  What have we done?  This girl-child cannot be controlled, she seems so unmanageable.

My frenzied ruminations were broken as the bus engine angrily sputtered to life in the frigid air.  My apprehension diminished and my fears softened to love as our new and precious daughter returned to the bus.  Her rosy cheeks literally glowed – a contrast to her chalky white skin.  She shared an angelic and happy smile, melting my hesitant heart.

Our dancing child snuggled up against Les, Addie and me, laying her little head on our shoulders.  As she took my hand in her cold and tiny one, my fears dissolved and my own tears fell with a prayer of gratitude.  I kissed the top of her beautiful blond head.  I love you (Я тебя люблю), I said, mispronouncing her sweet name.  And she giggled.

writing in her diary

October 16, 2018

Capturing the Heart - One Thing at a Time


Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do, so throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbor, catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore, Dream, Discover. —Mark Twain


I'm sitting in a coffee shop along the Black River and the St. Clair River sipping a dark roast coffee with thoughts about my motivation and focus and the get-up-and-go I’m known for. I am looking out at the water as the weekend continues its gloomy face with low hanging clouds that spit down. Nevertheless, I find this environmental hiccup enticing in that it is forcing me to stay single-minded. Some of my focus is thinking that my get-up-and-go has lately got-up-and-went. My gut says, you are tired.

In exploring this motivational lapse, I’ve concluded that I want to do so much and cannot seem to achieve singular focus - not an endearing attribute. I have lived in the shadow lie that women are great at multitasking, but not true! Our focus on one thing is good but when that attention is split on multiple things at once, all becomes fuddled, tired, and does not give the result we think it does. Our alliances are torn and our brain is constantly switching the track of the train - recipe for mediocre, perhaps disaster.

I acknowledge heartily that when I'm in extreme multitasking mode, the memories of the time (un)focused are blurred. What was the weather? Who did I talk with two minutes ago? Did I just post on Facebook - and what? This is scary to me as, like anyone, I want to capture and cherish my memories - good or bad - and not lose days to the disease of multitasking. 

Certain things catch your eye, but pursue only those that capture the heart.
Ancient Indian Proverb

I find focus and am energized when attending conferences, events, interesting meetings, reading true adventure stories, walking in the woods, and watching documentaries. Strange, but when I engage in these activities I have extreme focus and attention to every phase, word, and thought – I get blessedly lost in what interests me. Hmm … makes me think I solved my own concentration issue. Of course, singular focus is difficult in this society but believe it can be tempered a little with surrounding yourself with activities that delight your sensibilities.

If you hear a voice within you say you cannot paint, then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced. —Vincent Van Gogh 

Focus on the moment when you can and as often as you are able. This is why I love coffee shops!

from Raven Café & Coffeehouse bathroom wall

October 6, 2018

The Raven Doth Speaks to Me

Have you seen my Mojo?* I feel "she's" lost - or sadly replaced with a dull sense of myself. My Mojo was large, introspective, exhibiting bright thoughts and colors, and typically would have been found in a coffee shop, the woods, along a trail, or even shuffling through the house redecorating for the change of seasons. She was nerdy but indelible .. to me.

I'm worried and have searched in my heart for when and why she left me – there are clear concrete reasons on why and seems that these final ones created a rift between Mojo and myself. But I haven't lost hope of eventually finding and reclaiming her wonderful presence. Oh, my Mojo was tiring at times, always pulling me away from the mundane and relaxing to the realm of excitement and wonder. Frankly, during this loss I've been regaining the energy she demanded, still absolutely miss the spark Mojo was able to create … the gift of optimism she instilled in me.

The rain pours down in Port Huron today where I find myself with hours of me time. Delightful time, but truthfully, it's time to find that Mojo. As she's been noticed around coffee shops I asked around and was told I may find her again at the Raven Café and Coffee House in downtown Port Huron. The search is on … found the Raven and climbed to the second floor balcony to sit, drink in the sounds, atmosphere, and because it was rather funky - the music, perfectly suited for such a place - the Raven. The counter is narrow with a wrought iron "fence" you look through to the first floor. 
the view from my perch

As Halloween is approaching and Poe is well known for his tales of the macabre and mystery, this seemed the perfect viewing stage to spot my Mojo, so, I'm looking...

"When you come to The Raven, you’ll immediately notice something different; a feeling you can’t quite put your finger on. Part Hogwarts and part Cheers, the Raven is a unique place. When you step through the doors, you’ll get the distinct feeling you’re walking into a story. The walls are decorated with beautiful woodwork and packed with books, posters, and artwork of all varieties. Whatever time of day you visit, you’ll find an energetic atmosphere filled with the aroma of just-brewed coffee and, if you’re lucky, the smell of freshly-baked cookies or brownies." (from the Raven website). 

An hour of delicious pumpkin soup passed, ever alert, I continued to absorb the wisp of my Mojo. A sense of my need to continue this exploration was palpable. My Mojo is beckoning me to learn from this experience and will not fully re-engage with me until I follow the leads. My hope and faith get stronger as I swirl and swallow the last of my multiple cups of coffee. A peace settles in as I prepare the next steps. These passages from The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe speak to me - I'm listening. 


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.


And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

(*Mojo means 'finding the magic in what we do'. To have 'lost your mojo', refers to a loss of inspiration or creative genius; a loss of that special spark. Slang for Mojo from Answers.com)

October 5, 2018

Anatomy of a Murder

Many years ago I decided to (pedal) bike from Marquette to Big Bay, Michigan (and back again). On the chosen day there was an Upper Peninsula rain - a wet, breezy, chilly, relentless rain. I thought naively that bicycling in blue jeans would keep me warmer. True … but the material stuck to my legs, creating pull on every rotation of the pedal. I was chased by Bigfoot and a wolf causing my adrenalin to push me beyond my capacity - as my vivid imagination soared and scared me on these 27.2 miles of wilderness roads.

But, I digress. The purpose of this venture was to visit the Lumberjack Tavern where bar owner Mike Chenoweth was murdered in 1952. Big deal? The murder and court case were the basis for the 1959 film, Anatomy of a Murder, based on the book of the same name written by John Voelker (pen name Robert Traver), a native Yooper and former prosecutor for Marquette County who also loved to fish and write.

But, I digress. Our family elders shared our history over coffee, old camp tables, in warm living rooms, wherever there was an interested audience. The story goes that my grandmother loved BINGO and was quite the winner. On one occasion, in Big Bay where the family lived at the time, she had a particularly lucrative evening. Her winnings probably included dollar bills, soda pop, and donated items from local businesses, as was the custom in the 40s and 50s. She was so loaded down with her loot that she had to seek help - so went into the Lumberjack Tavern and asked Mike Chenoweth for a ride home. Family rumor claims he was afraid of my grandmother so acquiesced and gave her a lift. Nothing special in this story, except for the link with the main character in the book.  

Anatomy of a Murder was filmed in Marquette and Big Bay featuring Lee Remick, Ben Gazzara, Duke Ellington, George C. Scott, and Jimmy Stewart. Emil and Edna Olsen, my paternal grandparents, were extras in this film, as were others in the region. A huge honor and so very exciting.

Jimmy Stewart stayed near the old courthouse on Baraga Avenue during the filming - down the street from my grandparents. Jimmy had his own way of walking and was easily recognized, was friendly in his greeting to people and always spoke in his slow signature manner. Through our grandparents we heard he was a very nice and polite man. My grandfather was a stand-in for Stewart as they matched in height and he had some of Stewart's features.


Edna Olsen wore a black netting hat during the courtroom scene and can be quickly viewed – very quickly - as she traveled past Stewart and Remick. Emil Olsen can be seen standing next to these two celebrities during a break in the courtroom action.

One final digression. My love of family history began as a young person when we would stay at my uncle's camp along Lake Superior, where outhouses were common and skunks owned the woods. As we clustered around the table waiting for the coffee grounds to boil, stories were told. As children, we kept our mouths closed, drinking in these funny tales of sailors, relatives, and each other. My life regret would be that I did not journal all these delicious pieces of history - but have been able to write these down in my favorite hard-backed journals after "interviewing" the older family members.

September 2, 2018

A Sojourn to the Truth

"It is the mind that makes the body" -- Sojourner Truth. 

This makes sense to me. How about for you?

Sojourner Trut



My rudimentary interpretation of this quote is that Sojourner Truth believed we determine the way our bodies are presented to others by what we think about and focus on. I sense optimism over pessimism in her words. For instance and for some people, I believe you could discover studies proving if you tell yourself over and over that you will get cancer or some other disease, you just might fulfill your own prophesy.  By believing this intensely perhaps you allow your body to eventually receive what you fear. 

Further, I believe that if you are raised in a secure family where love and respect are second nature, your bearing and face may show testimony to your fortunate start in life. But truly, can we really look at a person and know that they have had a very difficult and challenging life ... yes, sometimes. But I've met people who've lived through horrible situations yet their face shows contentment and yet met others who have been raised with abundance and by loving families who bear a look of distress and sadness.

Sojourner Truth seemed to speak from ageless wisdom and experience. "It is the mind that makes the body” - so, it is not too late to adopt a more positive attitude - you know, a glass either half full or half empty outlook. 

Perhaps if we exercise optimism more than negativity - look at the shiny side of the coin on occasion - maybe we can create a mind and outlook we can be proud of ... even adore. 

I want to be a half full person who laughs and dreams in color. My mother was an optimist. I tend to be more positive than negative but there is much room for improvement. The choice is in our hands and opportunities for optimism and change toward contentment available - daily. I strive to embrace an attitude that will shape me on my Sojourn … and, that's the Truth. 

Sojourner Truth was an amazing role model for our times. Please take a moment to read her story. http://www.sojournertruth.org/Library/Archive/LegacyOfFaith.htm

August 31, 2018

I was a "Juvenile Delinquent"

Usually, when my siblings and I were called home from playing in the neighborhood we'd hear the plaintiff drawn out calling: C O O N N N I E E  D E B B B B I E E and so on. The parents never searched the street for their kids - we knew when playtime was finished or we were called home for another reason - always singsong in inflection. The memory of the name "song" warms me - all the kids knew - "be home when the street lights come on" - common in the 1960s.

But one afternoon my father altered the singsong calling with me. My skin still pricks with the memory.

I loved trees … climbing them, hugging a special tree, kissing a favorite limb, sitting under a huge umbrella of autumn leaves - did I mention climbing? As a card holding Tomboy, climbing was my favorite activity - the higher the better.

One lazy, hot summer afternoon I was watching a ballgame at the local elementary school when a tree called my name. I swear it whistled at me.

The tree wasn't big but the limbs were delicious looking, attracting my attention. So, up I went. An o so gentle crack brought me to the ground. The lower limb had, as you can guess, broken.

A dark colored car was parked by the field and a man came out of the vehicle (much like a Twilight Zone mutant), approaching me. He claimed to be a "Juvenile Delinquent" officer and wanted my name, address, and threatened my shaking 10-year-old self.

I ran the couple blocks home but the car beat me and was parked in front. Being it was day time I knew my dad was home as he worked afternoons at the prison. So obviously, I continued running down the street to my "safe" place - a treehouse in a neighbor's yard. The slats in the house were wide open revealing everything and boy, saw my greatest fear heading my way.

"Connie" dad shouted. No plaintiff drawing out of my name. "Connie, come here - NOW!" Was that a belt in his hand? I wondered as he drew closer to me. I knew I was in very bad, very bad, trouble, and it would hurt. My fear was intense as I climbed down from the hut coming face-to-face with this very, very, very, angry parent who grabbed my arm and half yanked and dragged me home.

As we entered the house, I looked out front and "the car" was gone. Dad was livid, saying that he had the embarrassment of having this "officer" come to the house (telling on me), demanding payment for the ruined tree ($16), which now we didn't have for clothes and food. I was a "fool" and a juvenile delinquent - and the officer issued me a JD card (which I never saw) as proof.

To this day I don't recall if he whipped me (and also have no memory of ever getting whipped), but vividly remember his cutting words. 
I was never to climb another tree (right!) and was grounded for the next month.

In his defense, Dad was a veteran of World War II and also a survivor of "Shell Shock" as it was called then … now PTSD. He was unpredictable and easily angered, didn't like sudden loud noises, but also loved his seven kids and worked hard to raise us. But, at times, I was afraid of him. 

Why is it that certain words are burned into our very soul, perhaps changing us for the rest of our lives, coming back in dreams, thoughts, and family lore? In the "early days" parents didn't know the psychology and power of words. Some don't know even in these Dr. Phil days of confrontation and reconciliation.

My love of trees never changed, preferring the outdoors to indoors, sharing the woods with my children - trying to develop their love of nature. Tomboys and optimists are not easily deterred!

Do you have a memory of where words hurt you?

August 18, 2018

Attitude at the 45th Parallel

Challenges

Sporting a brace on my recently broken ankle, my husband, daughter and I decided to go to our favorite northern lower peninsula cabin for a planned vacation where my husband could fish all day, my daughter and I could relax, read, write, take pictures. My ankle injury almost sidelined us as typically we are very active on vacations, preferring the water and being outdoors to staying tied down inside. But, we adjusted. 

The morning of our departure I found my husband awake with severe wrist and thumb pain … it was devastating after so many months of anticipation. After some soothing encouragement he went to urgent care, returning sporting a brace on his non-dominant hand. We made the decision to leave for camp, packed the remainder of our belongings, along with our daughter, and left home.

A change in plans

An hour from our destination, we stopped for gas -- I checked my e-mail inbox to find a desperate "...your cabin is not available, ...double-booked, ...so sorry, ...don't have your phone number, ...feeling frantic and awful, ...found a place for you to stay." We read this in shock over "losing" our favorite cabin. I called and told her, no problem, things happen, thanks for finding us another cabin (on the same lake). We updated our (beloved) Garmin with the new address, and drove on while eating sandwiches from a local store. My daughter was rather quiet for some time then said that when she bit into her egg salad it squeaked at her. We laughed and laughed - a small comic relief which we needed. I shared half of my tuna fish with her, trashing the "living" egg salad. Michiganians are so so resilient.

45th Parallel attitude

"When you stand on the 45th Parallel, the halfway point between the equator and North Pole, the ground doesn't vibrate and compasses don't go twirly haywire. Instead, you meet many fine people and see a heck of a lot of trees."  (from In Michigan, drive a crooked line to follow the 45th Parallel, Pioneer Press, June 27, 2009)


Our cabin is lovely, although a long way down a steep path to the water, challenging my balance with this brace. But, we settled in, enjoyed the "new" view from the window. My husband discovered he could both kayak and fish within the constraints of his brace. Our daughter paddle-boarded to her heart's content. I ungracefully plopped into my kayak and … all was perfect.



Coffee Coffee Coffee



This morning while my husband fished (for 6 hours) and my daughter paddle-boarded (for 4 hours) I re-discovered my old coffee shop haunt where I drank the best coffee ever. I wrote a blog about attitude and resilience. 

Returning to the cabin I wanted to make a couple changes to "Attitude at the 45th Parallel" and lost the entire blog. Dumbfounded, I sat. My tech savvy daughter was perplexed as my blog was truly gone. So, since I profess that Michiganians are a resilient people … rewrote this post, saving it every few words, of course. 

Through all these hiccups in this trip our attitude is what make me proud. Yes, we had a couple moments, but persevered and are stronger mentally to have weathered these small, very small, first world issues.




August 5, 2018

A Bad Break

A walnut cracked under my foot, or was that a stick? I thought about this as a sharp crack and immense pain forced me to stop walking. "Hold on" I told my friends, "give me a minute", as my breath escaped my lungs in a flash of light. A few deep inhalations and my equilibrium returned -- we continued our trek down a local trail, even veering off to explore another path, on our way to the cars. A funny catch in my foot was bothering me and made me wonder if I'd sprained my ankle but the day was going to be an active one.

A few more hours of walking and when I returned home made the decision to seek urgent care opinion for my foot. It was not only sprained but the ankle was broken on both sides. The crack was not a walnut! Booted and crutched up my main thought was of a lost summer of walking. My daily mileage goal would not be met as I was given a "sentence" of 6 to 12 weeks recuperation, at least!

A planned and important trip loomed a few days away with packing center on my agenda. At 65, crutches are NOT my friend and impeded everything I tried to do. The trip to beautiful Lake Superior over, we got home in time for calf pain and a diagnosed DVT (deep vein thrombosis) - aka blood clot.

My goal of walking 1100 miles this year was almost as important to me as my identity. It was a reachable goal, similar to years past. My Fitbit eagerly counted my steps all year with a daily goal met or exceeded. A deep breath and a moment of reality faced me as I pulled up my google calendar to reset my daily walk goal to meet the need for RICE: rest, ice, compression and elevation of my foot. I planned out 12 weeks of .5 miles a day - enough to get around to my essentials without blowing my recovery. An optimistic although less-enhanced walking goal … a positive move (if I must admit) rather than dwell in sadness over my inability to walk through the summer.

I know that this Barefoot Norwegian will return to the trails in autumn … a beautiful time of year in Michigan. My decreased mileage for this time period will be difficult at times, but it IS a goal, even if tiny - better than drinking weak coffee, that's for sure.

August 1, 2018

Ready for "Murder"

Ksusha Geissel in her coat of many colors
A daughter was visiting us while my family was watching a selection of the syndicated murder mysteries.  She pointed out that one of the suspects was too old to have murdered someone in the way described.  I told her that the suspect was only in his late 40s and asked:  "Do you think I’m too old to murder someone?"  Her immediate, somewhat sheepish response, was a quick, “no, but you would get winded.”

Perhaps her response points to the fact that, yes, I am getting older although I still have some zip left, daughter!  Sure, I get the occasional ache and may groan during the motion of standing, yet I consider myself rather young at heart and challenge anyone to say I have an old soul.  Plus, if I wanted to murder someone, which had not occurred to me until she brought my “lack of breath” to my attention, I can accomplish the task, and not get winded. 

This murder talk reminds me of this year’s journey or killing off - murder, if you will - a part of me that I find cumbersome. 

These are some of the ways in which I try to age with grace
  • To aim not to be discouraged with the process of my aging
  • Making sure to embrace each day
  • Absolutely include daily fitness activities - whatever strikes me at the time
  • Plan fun and challenging activities
  • Write an encouraging bucket list, and act on it
  •  Jot down daily “to do or to don’t” lists – the satisfaction of crossing an item off makes my heart beat faster
  • Make sure to smile at and be patient with young ones who think you are pushing close to death after the age of 35, because frankly, we probably thought the same thing at their age.  
If murdering is in my future, I’ll work on being in the best shape possible, so windedness is not a hindrance.

May 21, 2018

Sunshine On My Shoulders

This Baby Boomer is almost 65, exclamation point... Am I tipping the balance between too old to want to experience more of life's adventures "in its fullness". Am I physically capable or brave enough - or plain old tired out from my journey to this year? 


Retreat Center, Grandfather Mountain
Campfires, songs, sharing our days
When my mom was 65 I invited her to a group retreat at Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina. She bought new shoe-boots, packed “mountain” clothes (so cute), and slept in a retreat center along with other adventure-minded people of all ages. She went on extreme daily excursions with her peers, many older, and saw, experienced and embraced her week in the mountains, tubing on the New River, campfires, and, especially enjoyed the thick rich taste of Cowboy Coffee!


My friend, Kim wrote this to me a couple years ago: “It's great to think about things you'd still like to accomplish. A friend of mine decided to pick one thing and stick with it, rather than making a list, which can be overwhelming. So, at age 60, she decided to complete the entire Grand River Expedition (14 days kayaking the entire length of the river). She started training for it and met some new friends in the process. She completed the expedition, missing one day of the two-week trip because of illness. Six months later, she was diagnosed with stage-4 cancer. I'm not trying to hijack your live-today-for-tomorrow-we-may-die message, but it tells me that maybe I should focus on one goal at a time and make the most of that. Darn you -- you always get me thinking about this stuff.”

This message from Kim is encouraging, as was my mom’s optimistic zest for life, laughter and family … her spirit courses through my veins. 

Journaling on porch - mom on side of building

Lunch on way to the summit


Nearing summit, small planes flying below us

I am spending time reflecting on my younger-me "bucket list" with goals ranging from biking across Michigan to walking the Appalachian Trail (some accomplished). What would prevent me from dreaming up new and wild and crazy, along with some “tame” ideas? What would I like to add to my older-me idea list … would some scoff at this as a feeble attempt to regain my youth? What does that matter? It is my personal journey.

Last birthday I spent a solitary day walking around a rather rugged 5+ mile rocky, smooth, and hilly trail as a gift to myself. I was organizing my day as I never had. After the walk, on which I got magically lost, met up with my family and went to a lake where I learned to paddleboard. Supper was Kentucky Fried Chicken - decadent and a perfect complement to the way I wanted to celebrate my birthday. It was a lovely challenging day of following my heart, growing, and being supported by my husband and kids.

On a long-ago kayak trip with my kids and husband, my daughter found a bucket in the water. I remember the bucket, the emotions, probably over-dramatized, and the smell of the lake and wonder if this recollection is a sign to explore my wish list? Yep, mainly because I am not ready to curl up and only live in reminiscing – I want to make current memories.

Sunshine on my Shoulders
Portions of Grandfather Mountain

The Hardwood Walking Stick

All through my 30s onward, I’ve walked woods from the Appalachian and Smoky Mountains, along with the mountains, hills and valleys of Michig...