Clean Feet

Some people think that the cleanest feet are those that spend all of their daylight hours tucked into warm socks and comfortable shoes.

Some people think the cleanest feet are the ones that first pop out of the shower in the morning, even before the towel makes contact to dry the last of the water droplets from their roughened surfaces.

Some people think the cleanest feet come with a proper pedicure, after being soaked in a warm foot bath and sandpapered down to resemble soft skin.

While I cannot dispute the pleasure surrounding all of these moments, I do take issue with which is indeed the superior method regarding the cleaning of the feet.

Where do the cleanest feet in the world reside?   Is there such a thing as "cleanest" for a pair of body parts that are so often just a fraction of an inch away from mud, muck, dust, and every form of dirt imaginable?

Well, of course.   But, instead of any of the options just considered, I would like to respectfully argue that the cleanest feet of ALL are found on the beach:

After a long walk in the sunshine, their soles have made countless contacts with soft white sand.   Every last bit of dirt has been sanded off through the gentlest of techniques. Color of sole and heel has softened to a gentle pink.  Grains of sand remain delightfully stuck between each pair of toes.

Most of all though, these are the cleanest of feet because not only have their soles been fully cleaned and softened, but also their souls.   Such is the simple joy of walking on the beach.

As a simple plaque in my bedroom reminds me:

"Some people see more in a Walk on the Beach than others see in a Trip around the World."

I LOVE clean feet!

Simple Service

Simple Service happens when the connection between the giving and the receiving is:
Direct
Immediate
Indisputable

Simple Service is the type of serving where imperfect human behavior doesn't mar the value of the gift given nor the joy of the gift received.

Simple service is, almost always, much preferred over the other more convoluted, long-term, and high-risk means by which we seek or are called to give light to an often dark world.

Simple service can mean serving a meal to someone whose hunger once sated, allows a moment of contentment to spread from one end of being to the other.

Simple service can also be teaching an elementary school child whose wide eyes and open mind will absorb and delight in new knowledge just for its own sake.

Simple service can be, too, a gentle touch given to a family pet who receives the gift with eyes of warmth and tails of joy.

It is, after all, like Chicken Soup:

With a bowl of chicken soup before me, I can close my eyes and name all the ingredients of this hot comfort food, right down to the spices.  My nose is not confused when it catches wind of the simple meal.  It doesn't have to sort through all kinds of trans-fats, saturated fats, unsaturated fats, or unlisted ones.   Instead, my nose instantly recognizes the healhfulness of what it smells, and along with my taste buds, its sets all signals on GO as the first, and then second, and many more spoonfuls slide smoothly and warmly down my esophagus into my eagerly awaiting stomach.

There, in my GI tract, the minions that I imagine doing all the hard work of separating the good things from the bad, the edible from the waste, are like the tireless workers at a fictional recycling facility.   Hour after hour, day after day, they will work to separate what is useful from what is not.   Though they don't complain all that much when for every ounce that is useful, another does not belong and must be thrown downstream in the GI tract to be discarded as waste... they relish the days when the Simple Meal arrives.   On these days, most of what the GI minions receive is healthful and is sent directly and faithfully to the fuel hungry cells throughout my body.  What little remains, the useless waste, is sent forward, neither overwhelming or damaging the machinery that follows.   Furthermore, the process is done quickly, with little inefficiency, so that the body's energy can be released for other functions, including service to the God that designed all this wonderful biological machinery in the first place.

Simple Service is like that .... it's a process that proceeds unhindered.  It is nourishment, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, that flows from giver to receiver without anything in the way to muddle, diminish, or color the gift given.

But, simple service is also an act that once transformed by the open spirit of the giver, becomes the drive toward more muddled, more troubled service whose outcome is not so often visible, rarely straightforward, but just as worthwhile as the simpler ways of serving both people and planet.

Menage a Trois

I have to confess.... this entry is not quite as exciting as the title implies, but at least it is rated G. I will wholeheartedly attempt to make up for the shortfall with cuteness.   After all, Belle, Lady and Lucky do have a domestic arrangement involving three.  If not mutually agreed upon, it is certainly mutually accepted:

Of course the sexual aspect of this Menage a Trois is entirely missing because (a) no one in our household needs any more puppies; and (b) all culprits in the photo have been spayed or neutered, as is expected of all pound puppies entering into the mainstream pet milieu in the U.S..   Perhaps, a title of "Mongrel a Trois" would be more appropriate.  But, it certainly wouldn't be as compelling.  

In the end, these three lovable balls of fur amount to only 0.0000375% of the 8 million cats and dogs that enter shelters in the U.S. every year.   Doesn't that statistic make you want to join one of those 164 million households that has a cat or dog?   Or, if you already have a pet, wouldn't you want to graduate to one of the 109 million households which already have one or more pets?  

Tempting, isn't it?

Hawkstasy

Four days after the NFC championship game, I am still having trouble believing that the Seahawks are going to the Super Bowl.   In my mind, Kaepernick's (QB, San Francisco 49'ers) pass still hangs in the air in the final seconds of the NFC championship game, coasting in slow motion into the end zone, outcome still undetermined.  If I blink or shake my head to disrupt these images that sometimes replay over and over in my mind, I'll see the outcome.  The Seahawk's cornerback Sherman will jump slightly ahead of 49er Crabtree to intercept the pass and deflect the ball into the waiting hands of Seahawk Malcom Smith.  Game Over.

I'll also remember Crabtree's rather rude shove on Sherman and then, Sherman's unorthodox rant on national TV at the end of the game.   Most of the rest of America will remember the latter but not the former.

After those videos play through my head for the umpteenth time, it will take just a little less time to start smiling with every passing replay, as I realize all over again that this is the real thing.  The Hawks are headed to New York (o.k..... New Jersey then) for the forty eighth Super Bowl against the Denver Broncos.   While much of America is in love with Peyton Manning, the entire Pacific Northwest is instead swooning over the Seattle Seahawks.  And, Barry and I are proud members of the latter bunch rather than the former majority.  Much to Barry's chagrin, I have become as crazy a football fan as any of the 12th man fans in Seattle, Washington.

Much as I enjoy the competitive high of my home team being the best in the NFC and in line for the best in the league, I am even more touched by the story this team from the so-often obscured Pacific Northwest has crafted during the 2013 season.   Start with Pete Carroll, once ridiculed but now extensively studied for the culture of positivity he has cultivated among the Seahawks alongside the process of taking the best out of each player and in so doing, making it the best team in the NFC, and possibly in the NFL.   Imagine making millions of dollars a year and going to work every day only to be beaten over the head with a truckload of positive energy and a celebration of the individual.   Some of us can't help but dub Pete Carroll "Petie the Sweetie", a nickname which I am sure he would likely not appreciate as much as I appreciate using it.

The attention paid to Richard Sherman's remarks at the end of the NFC championship game often overshadows the remarks of his quieter, more humble teammates on this well crafted and re-engineered team.   Also at the end of the NFC championship game, Seahawk Michael Robinson, after being cut from the team last August after illness and then re-instated upon his recovery, said -- "I've got no more tears.  I didn't think I was going to cry. But I've had a long year.  God wanted me to be here."

When asked about what was brewing in his mind at the end of the game, Seahawk Clinton McDonald, another player who had been cut and re-enlisted during the 2013 season, had our God in mind too:    “Romans 8:28,” That’s what came to my mind. I’ll take the extra step to read it for you.”  It says: And we know that all things work together for the good to those that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose .... Bad things happen every day, more serious things than getting cut,” he said. “People die. People get robbed. You lose loved ones. But all things work for the good of those who love the Lord."   And THAT was far more important on the mind of a Seahawk than what came out of Sherman's mouth.

And what I hope can be on your mind for a moment or two or more ... is a reminder that even professional sports, as rough, tumble, greedy, or ruthless as they may often seem, are not immune to the hand of God.

Of course, what a wonderful day it would be if on February 2, 2014, in front of at least 110 million viewers, God could be glorified AND the Seahawks could win all on the same day...

Of course if I had to choose, I would choose the former.  But, I can't help but pray for the latter too!

GO SEAHAWKS!!!

Blessings in Disguise

Most folks who spend any manner of time with me come to realize that I don't have a lot of patience with people around me who don't seem to take a moment to see the world out of the eyes of others.   This mode of impatience comes to the forefront most often while I am driving, but can appear in any circumstance where I happen to be out in public, or otherwise in the vicinity of strangers.

A unique set of opportunities to be impatient goes along with the Walking the Dog culture. My three large dogs have some very strong opinions about other dogs. Their opinions can become so strong that they pose a real threat to the rotator cuff or other essential component of the human shoulder.  In the best of circumstances, though, they just hopelessly entangle all of their leashes and make a ruckus, disrupting any peace and quiet to be gained from the walk du jour.

To avoid Ruckus and Entanglement, I will often just move the dogs away from the paws of others as quickly as I can.  On a relatively crowded walkway, such as that along St. Joseph Sound in Clearwater, this can often involve frequent and whacky maneuvers.   This evening, after Barry and I made such maneuvers to avoid a Jack Russell terrier (a.k.a. terror), we paused on a rock to catch our breath.  Henceforth, said owner of said terror decided to pause his evening walk and deposit himself on a bench some short distance from us, so all dogs (J.R. terror and our three) could continue pursuing Ruckus & Entanglement to their heart's delight (and my corresponding dismay).  In response to this clever move, we moved again, perching on another rock to take in the approaching sunset.

At which point, said owner arose from his bench and marched out onto the pier not a few feet away from our new perch (with said dog off leash no less) and promptly stood in the way of our sunset.

God, I am sure, is not all that patient with my impatience but seems to amuse Himself with it anyway.  I know this, because out of the latest chapter of Ruckus and Entanglement complete with a good dose of my impatience thrown in for bad measure, God delivered this photograph, right to my very own camera.

A classic photograph.  A Blessing in Disguise.
A true Kodak moment ... or, in my case, a priceless snapshot for my friend Cannon and I to share!

Thy Dear Lady's Affection Waxes then Wanes

I think Lady, our one year old puppy, is having an identity crisis.   Is she a lover of foxes?

Or a lover of the giraffe?

Or a lover of ducks?

Or, is she simply a fickle creature, prone to nuzzling whatever nearby creature still harbors an operational squeaker within?

As her affection for the duck wanes the same as her affection for the giraffe and the fox withered with time, what will she nuzzle, chew, and frolic next?  

Your guess is as good as mine.  Perhaps, I'll go to Petsmart and find out.  

Squirrel Wars, Part 797

Eastern gray squirrels, rabbits, deer, mice, and rats share one thing in common in my little world.  I refuse to lose the war against them.   I may lose a battle here and there as the little rascals find new ways to infiltrate my life in a myriad of unwelcome ways, but in the end, I will not let them win. There is no doubt that this is indeed a war, one which requires engaging in frequent battles, keeping munitions well stocked, and investing in new strategies on a regular basis.

On Whidbey Island in the Pacific Northwest, the Eastern Gray Squirrels have not yet located our property and I will be enormously pleased if they never do so.   On the other side of the country, in Clearwater, Florida where our other house lies, I am not quite as fortunate.  In Clearwater, there are more squirrels than people in densely populated Pinellas County.  Last year, these little rats with fur decided to claim the attic as their own turf.  This year, with every possible entrance to the house made impenetrable, they merely entertain themselves with a never-ending fascination with the bird feeders. My husband tells me that I can solve the problem by discontinuing my habit of feeding birds.   Both admitting defeat and refraining from feeding birds are not on the options list, so onward to Plan B.    

I believe I've tried every possible squirrel proof design of bird feeder on the market, to no avail.  These part gecko, part rat, part cute rascals find a way through, around, over, or <pick your preposition> into any bird feeder stocked with seed.   Onward to Plan C.

The latest strategy is to stock the feeders with safflower seed and spread ordinary (and inexpensive) seed on the ground underneath the feeder.   For some odd reason, the squirrels won't touch the safflower seed, but instead, entertain themselves along with a flock of turtle doves, fetching seed from the ground. Meanwhile, in other news, the songbirds have some peace and quiet at the feeder, indulging in this alternative seed with little loss of interest compared to conventional seed.   This new strategy also has the added benefit that it supplies endless entertainment via "Squirrel TV" for the puppy in the household. The only drawback of the latest and greatest strategy in Squirrel Wars is that safflower seed is becoming a line item on the household budget.   What a small price to pay for making a great stride forward in this very important war!

101 and Counting...

My grandmother will turn 102 this year in May.   Almost universally, the response I hear from others upon revealing her age is a very positive one.  "Wow, that's great!"

But, the reality is that all is not great with Grandma. She has trucked onward for years now with little quality of life and a healthy dose of fear following her around in both waking and sleeping hours. She is lucky to be in a warm, clean, and functional assisted living facility in Dunedin (Florida).  A few in the facility truly like her, hold affection for her, and bolster her daily life both in care of her body and her heart.   These few  think she is a sweet lady, although most of her words are now in German and no one really understands what she is trying to say.  Most think she is no longer lucid, in part because she only speaks in a language they don't understand and in part because she is, after all, 101 years old.

But when throwing assumption and presumption to the side and simply being present with her, I find her quite lucid.  She may fade or venture out into another place where I can't reach her, but for the most part, she is present, aware, connected.   I have struggled for many years in how to speak with her about God when I am not sure if she hears me, understands me, or has any interest in listening to what can be heard and understood.   I have felt for many years that the Lord continues to hold onto her life here in this broken world, because He is waiting for her to reach for Him.   

I have selfish motives for her.  I want her to reach to Him, so that He can embrace her with His peace, fill her with love that will cleanse all the fear and worry away.   I long for a moment in what her life has become where there is no more anxiety, no more fear, and no more pain.   At the same time I long, I know that I can't deliver those things for her.  They can only come from one place. So, I pray.  I listen and try to understand.  I hold her hand. I try to say words in response to her that indicate that I have been listening, if nothing else.

My sister Heidi has power of attorney for Grandma.   Heidi moved to Tennessee almost a year ago now and only visits once a year. I have the terrible habit of putting off going to visit Grandma when I am in Florida, although once I am with her, I have no real understanding of why I put something off that is not so unsettling but is still so important.   I have a lot of growing to do and I hope I do it fast.   

Today, Grandma continued to repeat "Help, Help, I am in pain … no one will help me here" in German.   She told me today that God will not help her, that He has given all the help He can to her. She underestimates Him like so many of us do.  I hope He finds the opportunity and open door to point out the error in her estimation very soon.  

When I leave her room, I long to leave love behind that will comfort her when no one is there.   Last year, I made a quilt for her to accomplish just that, but the powers that be have tucked it away in the closet somewhere and it no longer rests on her bed.   

That is yet another cool attribute of an all loving and very real God. You can't tuck His love away in a closet somewhere and lose it in the darkness.  No, His love just comes oozing right back out of any darkness into which it is cast, right back into the broken world and ready to do battle once again.  

My Chiropractor is a Lady

Ten days ago, I did something innocuous that couldn't possibly lead to injury.

First, I worked on my computer all day.  After a suitable period of time after which my eyes threatened to fall out of my head if I stared at the computer for one more minute, I arose from the couch which had held me captive for hours on end while I chased a conference paper deadline.

Next, I thought nothing of picking up a rather light office chair to move it out of my way in search of something in my desk.   Surely, it weighed less than ten pounds.  The risk of injury must have been annoyingly close to zero.

Then, as I lifted that innocent, guileless office chair from its spot on the floor, I felt the first muscle in my lower back start to tear.  Then, the next.  Then, a few more.   The pain settled in like a bomb, neurons firing in a loud, brash symphony which was only a preview of the nine days to follow.

As I struggled with the simplest of movements for day after day after day, I tried everything to push my back away from the pain and toward a more healthy place.

Heat. Stretch. Ice, Swim. Walk. Rest.  And so on and so forth.

Exasperated, on the ninth day, I went for a walk.   Alongside the water's edge, my eleven month old puppy Lady bounded into the ocean, completely oblivious to the fact that she was still attached to my hand, arm, and shoulder by a leash.   In her enthusiasm, she took me with her along an obstacle course of moving rocks, barnacles, and the like.   I tipped, twisted, and went helter skelter trying to reset my balance.  My back doth protested.   Then, after another twist, it doth protest again.

After yet another protest from my tender and still injured lower back, the muscles, nerves, and tissue magically moved back to their correct and original spots, into a land where the pain ceased and the shooting pains haunted me no more.   Thereby, after days of trying any and all remedies for my stubborn and screeching lower back, I found the remedy:

My Lady is a chiropractor.  Unbeknownst to her of course.

You are SOOOO on my Rock Dude.

Like all animals, the egret has particular postures to communicate certain non negotiable messages.   The one in the rear of this photo is doing the "Forward"posture... ordering the other egret, in no uncertain terms, to get off his rock.

The egret toward the front of the photo  is in the "Withdrawn Crouch" showing that he agrees with the other's order and will be exiting said rock in a quick and timely manner, to avoid the messy, feather ruffling fight that would otherwise come next. 

Other captions for this photo might include:

Politics in Academia

Modern day Teaching

... other ideas?

State Bird of Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, North Carolina, Ohio, Virginia, and West Virginia

Such is the Cardinal's claim to fame.  

Originally, a songbird found almost exclusively in the Southeast, the cardinal has expanded its range due to an increase in food supply in northern climes, as far north as Canada.  Such increases in food supply are reputed to be generated by suburban homeowners and an epidemic of winter birdfeeding.   Regardless of where it finds its food, in the South or the North, in the feeder or in the wild, Cardinals do not migrate.    

Instead, the brightly colored mail birds will expend their energy aggressively defending their territory.   Like people, that aggression can go a wee bit too far, as cardinals have a habit of running headlong into windows, believing their own reflection to be an intruding male.   The most aggressive (or stupid) of these birds will repeat the behavior often enough to commit suicide (a la window) in relentless pursuit of a non-existent competitor.  

 See any parallels to human behavior?

A Less Famous Pink Bird

Meet the Roseate Spoonbill. This one was spotted in Clearwater, Florida, feeding in Crest Lake, just short of the Gulf of Mexico.

Unlike Herons, this interesting bird flies with it neck outstretched and feeds by swinging its odd utensil-shaped bill back and forth in the water until it catches prey and swallows it. Not surprisingly, these birds were hunted in times gone by for their plumage to the point of joining the endangered species club.  Fortunately, they have largely recovered in Florida.  Over 1000 nesting pairs now reside in the state.    The boy approaches the girl with a single twig which, if accepted, becomes the very first building block to their nest and home.

The distinctive pink colors of the Roseate Spoonbill vary with diet, becoming pinker with certain crustaceans and paler with others. The moral of the story is simple ... You are what you Eat!