Otterly Unbelievable

Otters simply seem to have more fun than we do.   These playful mammals were having a grand ole time in the sunshine at Florida's Homosassa Springs State Park today, delightfully oblivious to the fact that they happened to be in captivity while innumerable visitors snapped photographs of them nearly every day of the year:

Otters hunt at night for fish, frogs, crabs, and any other tasty things that happen to be crawling or swimming in nearby waters.  Because of their nocturnal feeding habits, when we see them during the day, they are indulging in other more important things in life like playing with their Otterly Marvelous friends:

While the North American River Otter used to be endangered because its fur was in hot demand, Americans have recovered from such barbaric hunting behaviors and river otter populations are in many places restored and in some over-abundant:

Unfortunately, river otters are highly sensitive to environmental pollution and their long term survival in North America remains uncertain.

I don't think I'll ever get tired of watching otters play.  They are a good reminder of how I should be spending more of my time.   I'm sure it's no coincidence that we've never seen a happy otter seated at a computer, pounding away at MS Word or surfing the world wide web.  And those webbed feet may be the terrific for swimming, but they will never be good for texting or tweeting.    

Seven Dwarves, Nine Fruits

It is a woefully depressing testimony to my life that I can recite the names of the seven dwarves of Disney fame far more readily than I can recite the nine fruits of the spirit. Perhaps, my preference for the dwarves has something to do with the fact that I spend time in each of their shoes on a weekly basis:

On a typical morning, Grumpy is always the one who rolls out of bed.  If I am lucky, Grumpy has disappeared by the time I arrive at work, at which point Doc pops up from under the eaves and teaches my classes.   After a good bout of hard work, skipping a lunch break as usual, Doc departs as the late afternoon slump appears on the horizon.   Dopey is usually galloping along with the slump and hangs out until it's time to head home.  Grumpy makes another appearance somewhere between Traffic Jam #3 and Traffic Jam #9 on the freeway, but departs again as I pull into the driveway of my favorite place in the world, HOME.   When the phone rings after dinner, Bashful appears and eliminates any possibility of conversation on my part for the rest of the evening.  Finally, as Bashful slips under the covers of a nice warm bed, Sleepy takes his place at the end of the day.    If we continue to run at this pace all week long or I mow the lawn with too much vigor, Sneezy will show up and makes a snotty mess of things.   And there you have it.  No week goes by without at least one appearance by each of the dwarves.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same thing for the nine fruits of the spirit:   love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control (Galatians 5:  22-23):

Peace is usually a pretty easy fruit to keep around during the day.  I only have a problem with him, when my husband and I are both too tired to be having a discussion, much less a fruitful argument.

Love is in and out almost every day, although he could be bigger and bolder in many of my choices, thoughts, and actions.  I often have a knack for holding back on him for no other reason than his arch enemy -- selfishness, whispering in my ear.

Joy can be an elusive one, although she often shows up where I don't expect and I am always oh so glad to see her.  

Faithfulness is a fruit I experiment with often, but I am guilty of Loyalty to the point of stupidity when I load up on too much of this fruit.

I struggle with Goodness and Kindness every single day.  More, More, More is the name of that show, as the crazy pace of life often leaves these two fruits in the dust, lost and forgotten.

Gentleness is second nature when it comes to cats, dogs, birds, and other furry creatures, but try as I do to transfer this fruit to the human world, it is a continuing challenge to be gentle with the top of the food chain.

Self-control is like Love ... it's in and out almost every day.   I believe in the importance of this fruit for my spiritual diet, but I am challenged by consistency of application.

That brings us down to the error on the Fruits-of-the-Spirit list.  It must be a mistake, because there seems to be ongoing controversy on whether to call it patience, forbearance, or long-suffering.  Maybe the best thing to do to resolve the rotating vocabulary on this fruit of the spirit is simply to eliminate it.  

It's not that I have an ulterior motive in eliminating Patience from the List.  No Sir.   I am simply interested in resolving the difficulty in the use of the English language for the sake of clarity in Holy Scripture.   Better to be clear than confuse the reader, right?   Right.

Right.  Now, let's move on.   We've spent three minutes on this discussion and that's quite enough.   Onto the next three minute conversation, before the next one and the next and the next and the next.

Who's that following me?  Oh no .... It's the Pear.  The Pear has it in for me.  He's going to catch me so very SOON.   Then, like it or not, I will have to be PATIENT!!

Beware of the Pear.
He can give you quite the scare.
Better to keep him out of your hair.

Queen Du Toilette

Our house is home to three cats:  Ella, Faith, and Kickstand.  Kickstand is so named because one of her back legs is fused at the knee, causing it to stick out like a kickstand on a bike.  Not a very nice name for a crippled cat, but she came that way (both the leg and the name):

Kickstand was born on or around the day that Hurricane Katrina made landfall in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi in 2005.   When I met her, she was a scrappy, starved young feline mother.  A few days after I met her, she was walking through security in the airport in New Orleans, on her way to a new home and a cushy life in Washington State.  Now, like the rest of our animals, she makes the 3000+ mile trip from Whidbey Island in Washington and Clearwater, Florida and back, twice a year... and adventure that everyone has adapted to surprisingly well.

Most cat owners can identify at least one quirk for each cat in the household.  Such a quirk causes the frequent shaking of heads among human residents.  Kickstand's quirk is the rush to the toilet anytime she hears anyone in the shower.   There she perches, posing on her throne like one of true royalty:

When the shower is complete, whomever slides open the shower curtain will come face to face with Kickstand's precious little Tabby face.  At the point of eye contact, she will start making short, staccato meows that meander in rhythm up and down, to and fro.  We are clear that she urgently needs to tell us something, but lack the insight to know exactly what.

Perhaps she is just demanding that her Tiara be retrieved and placed on her furry little head immediately.

Perhaps she senses that the plumbing is about to collapse and is shouting the plumber's phone number in Kitty Morse Code.

Perhaps, she is writing a book about her adventurous life and is demanding a stenographer.

Perhaps, she is just being totally random.

Whatever she is trying to say, we clearly don't get it, because she keeps saying it over and over, talking rapidly and incessantly, shower after shower, seemingly frustrated that our little pea brains can't understand what she is so clearly trying to say.

Perhaps, I also need to get a life and stop pondering what my cats are trying to say.

But, then again, perhaps not!

Sub-Optimal Design

Arguments against the existence of an All-Powerful, All-Loving God, All-Knowing God annoy me.   I don't understand why anyone would altogether reject the possibility of an omniscient, omnipotent sidekick who, no matter what we do, stands right alongside us for all of our lives?   Yes, I understand that God is far more than a sidekick, but the term helps make the point about an endearing God who is never too busy to love even the smallest and most insignificant of creatures.

One of the arguments against the existence of God is the "argument from poor design". Some folks argue that an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving God would create things that have an optimal design. Since so many creatures and ecosystems on this planet have sub-optimal design, there must (therefore) be no God.   

Oh Brother.

Let's examine that argument.   Consider this sunset:

This sunset would be much brighter and our daylight would last much longer if God hadn't placed a plethora of particles, like nitrogen and oxygen, in the atmosphere.  The nitrogen and oxygen particles scatter blue, purple, and green light and what remains to reach our eyes are oranges, reds, and some yellows.   It's really too bad, because, according to the argument of poor design, if He were indeed perfect, He would have given oxygen particles no mass, no volume... so that they didn't scatter light from the setting sun and the sunset would be the exact same color as the noonday sun. Then, and only THEN would this sunset be truly beautiful, truly optimal. Perfect.  

And, what's up with the clouds anyway?  Are they really adding anything to this design? They have no useful function and as a wasted feature, they must therefore make the design even more sub-optimal.  

Right.    

Does that not make the imperfect human the judge of the perfect?   Who thinks themselves so knowledgeable that they can adequately assess the optimal?   

Not me, for certain.   Even as a highly trained engineer, I can't imagine having or believing I have perfect judgement of an optimal design.  By definition then, this flaw in my abilities must make me also sub-optimal.

Or maybe, it makes me just the way that God designed me to be.   

One Thrives, the Others struggle to Survive

Many of us have a rather naive view of the Plant Kingdom, where all of our green friends strive to get along, cooperate, and live in harmony among one another in their immobile (and therefore uncomplicated) worlds.  Strange shifts in our worldview can begin when we learn that plants and trees can be just as cutthroat with one another as human beings, all without moving a single muscle.

For example, look at the eucalyptus tree:

Commonly known as Australian Koala Bear fodder, the eucalyptus tree is capable of decimating many of its companions in the forest via the strategic manipulation of fire. Eucalyptus trees are not only designed to withstand fire, but they secrete oils that stimulate fire (and explosive ones at that).  To complete their firestorm repertoire, the Eucalyptus tree also drops leaves that no insect or bacterium in its right mind can readily decompose, thereby creating a surplus of kindling to tempt any wee little flame that ambles by.   After a fire, the Eucalyptus tree stands scorched but alive, quietly chuckling at the masterful elimination of many of its competitors.

Despite these and other murderous impulses among members of the Plant Kingdom, I can't help but invite many green friends into my home.  Each one grows in its own shape and size and it is easy to revert to the naivete that all plants are good-hearted and cooperative.  Of my interior green friends, one of my favorites is the Jade plant:

The Jade plant is a good luck charm in Asia.   The bright green color of the leaves represents growth while the shape of Jade leaf is close to that of jade coins, thereby symbolizing wealth and prosperity.   I have learned to avoid placing my thriving Jade "Money Trees" anywhere near my other house plants, because by coincidence or by design, any plant I place adjacent withers and threatens to die.

Unlike the Eucalyptus tree, there is no scientific basis for the Jade's impact on my other poor, defenseless houseplants, but there is plenty of metaphorical basis for the behavior.  When the Jade thrives, the others struggle to survive.

In her immobile innocent green-ness, the Jade gives me a much needed but gentle reminder of the false god of fortune who lurks in the shadows of everyday American consumerism.    

The Blue Madonna

I will be the first person to admit that I am clueless about art.   When I look at paintings, I often wonder what I am supposed to see, what I am supposed to think, and what I am supposed to feel.   This wonder is multiplied one hundred fold in the presence of abstract art; the more modern, the more I wonder.

I so often feel guilty because I see something pretty, don't think much of it, and feel only a passing glimmer of affection for even the most famous of art pieces.   I can try to write this off as being a hopeless geek, a typical engineer, or an overall, stuck in my left brain kind of girl.   Yet, I know several of my own kind who seem to have something intelligent to say while viewing pieces of art and can manage to sit or stand still while gazing at such art for more than seconds at a time.

Every time I go to a museum, I hope things will be different.  I hope I will suddenly have an inspiration, an insight, or an appreciation that I haven't tapped into or experienced before.   More often than not, I skulk out of the museum, having seen only half its galleries, feeling like an impostor for a human being. Surely, an MRI would reveal that part of my brain is simply missing:   the part with the word ART tattooed on it.

I amble through gallery after gallery during museum visits trying hard to look like I am taking my time to observe carefully and consider genuinely every painting gracing the walls therein. Typically, my thoughts are off in some other world, one which has little to do with the art before me.  I have to force those renegade rascal thoughts back into focus. SEE, THINK, FEEL.... I remind myself.   Ignoring me, my brain wanders off into yet another cubicle of la-la land, content to dwell on things that have little to do with art and nothing to do with the gallery in which I am standing.

Every once in a while, however, things are different.   Imagine my delight when during another forced stroll through a gallery, I suddenly have an emotion which comes forward, unbidden and spontaneous.  Such is the case this past Thursday with the Blue Madonna (Carlo Dolci, Italian Painter, 17th Century) on display at the Ringling Museum in Sarasota, Florida:

The first element of this painting that catches my eye is that this Virgin Mary is so very different from the many, many other Marys painted around the world and through the centuries.  This portrayal casts Marry as Young.  Gentle.  Peaceful.   Pensive.   Humble. Yet, in the middle of this genuinely holy, innocent, and near perfect image also lies a very realistic tinge of "I am in this thing Way Over My Head".  And wouldn't she be?  Wouldn't you feel that way if as a young teenager, God just popped into your life and informed you that you were pregnant with His Son?   For me, this portrayal of the young Mary is achingly tender, real, and very human.   A step beyond the typical portrayals where the Virgin Mary seems always to have her holy act very together.    And, in looking at her, I feel that very tenderness even before thinking a single thought on the technicalities of the painting.

Perhaps, there is hope for me after all.   Emotion springs forth only once among a hundred or two hundred paintings, but it does show itself, reminding me that I may have the equivalent of a right brain after all ... untrained, unsophisticated, but nevertheless present.   Hope rises within.

As I turn away from the Blue Madonna and step forward to the next painting, however, the mystery between Art and me returns.  I am now facing a dead hare and a dead turkey, both hanging upside down on canvas over a dinner table filled with a bounty of fresh fruit and other tasty morsels.   It is a morbid melange of dead flesh and fresh produce.

Who commissions this stuff?  Who hangs it on their walls?  Can you imagine eating dinner while gazing into the dead, limp eyes of poor Peter Cottontail, brutally murdered on his way down the bunny trail so that he can take his place in a piece of Art?

I rest my case.  I am a hopeless cause in this respect.  Art evades me.   And, concurrently, I evade Art.  

Dumped, The Solution

Dear Santa,
I heard a rumor that the Drama Queen (Lady) has been writing feverishly to you, attempting to rectify what is in fact, a very cushy situation for her, oversized and asymmetric furry ball of misdirected energy that she can be.

I hope you will consider telling her to stop whining and take charge of her own life.   When my people (who, by the way, are very nice...  thank you for sending me to them twelve years ago) dump me unceremoniously, I just take charge of the situation.  For example, when they decide to go off to one of their social things and flagrantly leave me in the car for hours on end, I am not a victim to the situation.  When I'm tired of waiting, I simply move on:

It's a little hard to drive, with all this fur between my toes and lacking an opposable thumb, but I've had years of practice to perfect my technique, and I always make sure that I'm back before they notice that either the car or I have gone.   Thank you so much for all the brain cells required to perform this little trick.

Maybe, next Christmas, you can give some more (brain cells) to Drama Queen. I think she really needs them.

Sincerely,
Belle, The Empowered

Dumped, Unceremoniously

Dear Santa,
My name is Lady.  I am writing to you from some place which has strange trees that look like bad hairdos on top of big sticks.  I used to live in some place where the trees looked like trees until I was thrown into this rolling thing for a very long time and finally ended up here.  Anyhow, I digress.

My people did something horrible to me today.   They dumped me at a place that smelled just like the doggy pound.  I know that I stole all those treats off the counter a night or two ago, but I can't help it.  I was just designed to be bad sometimes, being a puppy and all you know.   Anyhow, I digress.

My people left me at the place that smelled like the doggy pound forever and ever.  I think they finally came to get me, but I was so traumatized, I don't remember if they picked me up one minute before the end of eternity or two minutes before.   By the time they rolled into our driveway between the strange trees, I didn't even recognize my former home.   I collapsed in bed with not a single emotion left:

I hope that you can talk some sense into my people.  They call the place that smells like the doggy pound "Doggie Daycare" but I know better.   When they look at me, they also keep using words I don't understand... like "Drama Queen" or something like that.  

I am confused.  I am mostly a good girl.  Can you help me? May I please have people for Christmas who never leave me (like -- never, ever) and give me 27.6 pounds of dog treats every day to go with my 43.4 cups of dog food?

Thank you Santa.  I know you are a nice guy and can hear my pain and consider my plea.

Sincerely,
Lady Wilson, The Abandoned

On the Issue of Decor

I had the pleasure of spending a weekend with my friend Dawn in Vermont this past weekend.   She lives in a small village called Post Mills (population ranging from 80 to 100 depending on what time of year you decide to count) near the New Hampshire border and on a rather large Lake (Fairlee) which this time of year, was frozen and buried under a foot of snow.   Much like the bright green landscape offsets the dreary gray of the rain soaked Pacific Northwest Winter, the brilliant sparkling white snow landscape of Post Mills and its resident lake offset the biting, freezing cold temperatures of this New England winter:

Unfortunately, I missed the opportunity to wake up in subzero conditions, as the temperature bottomed out at three scant degrees above the zero bar.   Dawn lives in a house that was built in the 1930's as a fishing camp. Translated, this means no insulation, no foundation, and no luxuries.   A great deal of hard work has upgraded zero insulation to cozy insulation and other such necessities like winterizing the well so water continues to flow (for the most part) in the long cold winter months.   Freezing pipes notwithstanding, their home is now a warm, cozy place that spells Tranquility even during brutally cold winter days:

Dawn and her other half have managed to do with this former fishing camp what seems possible only in Better Homes & Gardens.   For example, I know of no one else in the known universe who has a deer head above the toilet paper holder:

and manages to get away with it in a decor where so much is chosen just perfectly to fit into this Vermont lakeside setting.   I do not have this talent for decorating, but I know when it is done right, as Dawn and John have done, I would much rather spend the weekend here than at the finest Hilton in New England.

And I say this even before I begin to factor in the value of our friendship and the time spent around the blazing warm fire.   What Hilton in the world could offer such perks?

A close relative of the Seahawk

The Osprey, otherwise known as the Fish Hawk but NOT the Seahawk, is an unusual species of bird because it has no clearly discernible subspecies and is found worldwide as a single species.   Anywhere, anytime, one can see a magnificent Osprey, just like this one who happened to perched on a telephone pole close to our home in Clearwater, Florida:

While the Osprey can be found nesting on many a coastline and making a dramatic show of fishing for dinner, it is distinctly missing from the Alaskan and western Canadian coastlines.   This absence can be directly blamed on the larger eagles who make a home along colder coastlines.   Bigger and with a distinct dislike for its Osprey competition, the eagle badgers all Osprey to consider moving south.  In the interests of preservation of the species, the Osprey comply.  

Almost everywhere else, however, the two bird species are of similar size and have learned to co-exist. While no love is lost between them, no lives are lost either and these two stunning raptors can often be found near to each other in adjacent territories along warmer coastlines.

Unlike many fish-eating birds, the Osprey can completely submerge itself in water to catch its fishy prey, activating a third eyelid in the process that acts as a natural goggle and  enables the bird to see underwater.  Underneath the ocean surface, stalking its prey with a clear vision, the Osprey has great success, fabulously better than most batting averages of mere humans.   Once an unfortunate fish is secured in its formidable talons, this beautiful raptor re-emerges from the water and promptly, re-orients the fish, head forward in order to maximize aerodynamic efficiency in flight.

After delivering the fish to the nest, the Osprey moves quickly on -- fly, fly, flying away to its next wet, wavy destination and the next unfortunate fish in its keen sight:

Crazy Seahawks People

Once in a while, right before a championship game in any sport, I catch myself thinking, while watching a bunch of crazy fans on television or reading about them in the newspaper, "I would never behave like that ... don't these people have a life?"

Well... shame on me.   Here I am in Clearwater, Florida, thousands of miles away from my beloved Seahawks, acting like a crazy 12th (wo)Man fan.   I am convinced, although I have not explored the hypothesis in grave scientific depth, that failure to act crazy in the circumstances surrounding the forty eighth Superbowl would violate an important and fundamental natural law.

All the press prior to the big game emphasized, with highly believable credibility, how close the score would be, a tense competition between the best offense (Denver) and the best defense (Seattle) in the league.   Peyton Manning, America's sweetheart, trumped the Seahawks in the national press coverage prior to the game, assisted of course, by a few boo-boo's involving drugs, ranting, and police with some of our Seahawks guys over the 2013 season.

As I sat down to watch the game, amidst a strong Bronco bias rampant among my friends, I tried rather hard to hide my nervousness.  What if, after all the fabulous football the Hawks played this season, they were to choke and fail miserably, getting run over by Peyton Manning, play after play after play?  What if Russell Wilson couldn't return to his old self, after a rather rattling bout of playoff  jitters?  What if, the Seattle defense looked laughable against the Denver offense?  On and on in my head, the thoughts turned, creating anxiety and chaos out of what was, after all, just a football game.  Everyone else gazing at the television seemed calm and unruffled.  

What fate would my ruffled feathers bear on this memorable Feb. 2 Sunday?  I received a clue or two about the answer to this profound question shortly after the failed snap to Peyton Manning (and subsequent safety for the Seahwaks) 12 seconds into the first half.  Thereafter, my jaw dropped to the floor and stayed there for much of the game.  12 seconds into the second half, delighted shock set in as Percy Harvin (former Gator -- yeah!)  carried the football a long ways down the field to my very favorite place ... the Broncos end zone.  Touchdown!

By the way, anyone who has watched the Hawks more than once NEVER gets excited when those chartreuse feet first hit the end zone.   Nope.  Instead, the seasoned Hawks fans must hold his breath for ten seconds, hoping that yet ANOTHER penalty flag will not spoil another beautiful moment in Hawks football.

The yellow flags did their usual dance during around the players during Superbowl forty eight, but nothing, not even the game officials, could stop the Hawks defense from rendering Peyton Manning ineffective and the Broncos offense helpless.  A few dashes to the end zone by Hawks defense and offense alike complemented the record-breaking show of defense during this joyfully lopsided game.   

The final score from a game that was expected to be close, tense, and up in the air was:   43-8 Seahawks .... This is a mind boggling score for a team that one journalist said, played ball in a city that many people thought was in Canada.   

Really?  Seattle?  in Canada?  Right.   

That's about as believable as any Pacific Northwest resident remaining calm and disinterested during the aftermath of one of the best Superbowl games ever.  

Yeah Hawks!