Dancing In The Rain

I know of several people who are planing to use the month of November to practice the art of gratefulness. The idea is to take a few moments each day, contemplate what we have to be grateful for and then write it down. Sounds simple. But after you go through all the obvious things, family, health, home, etc., it can become a little harder to notice the smaller, ordinary things that make life so wonderful. It takes practice. Some people are quite good at it. They tend to be the happier folks in our lives. Most of the time, it’s easier to find a hundred things to gripe about. I know. I do it every day. I have a litany of things that piss me off or annoy me or that I worry about all of which can put me in a crummy mood. With all the bad news and ugly side of human nature we are bombarded with every day, it’s just so much easier to complain.

Viktor Frankl, author of “Man’s Search for Meaning” and a psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor said ” Our greatest freedom is the freedom to choose our attitude.” We so often give up that freedom because it seems simpler to go along with the sour, cynical
atmosphere so pervasive in our society. But the route that appears easier, in reality, makes the journey harder.

So I begin tonight to choose a grateful attitude. I start with what I am most grateful for – my husband. He stands by me. He has my back. He encourages me. He protects me. He makes me laugh. He makes me beautiful. He knows me. He loves me. He is Life’s greatest gift to me. How could I not be thankful for such a partner and friend?

That was an effortless way to start. I know there will be days when I will feel anything but grateful. But that is why you practice gratitude – to get through those days. I hope by the end of this month to have developed the habit of being thankful. I know I am surrounded by a bounty of blessings. I need only to open the eyes of my heart and practice the art of gratefullness.

The Dream

Hair is an amazing thing.  It’s one of the few things about yourself that you can change over and over without psychoanalysis or surgical procedures.  It can be any color, any length, any style.  If you don’t have enough of it there’s extensions and weaves. And if you’ve got none at all, there’s always wigs.

I’ve tried all sorts of things with my hair.  I was born a strawberry blond that darkened to auburn as I grew.  It was an absolutely lovely color but of course, when I hit adolesence, it was imperative that it have blond streaks.  My mother insisted that I was too young to dye my hair, so I followed teenage girl lore and used lemon juice to lighten it up.  Nothing much happened except that I smelled like a freshly polished dining room table.   Then came Sun-In.  It promised to give you “that sun-streaked look!”  My mother couldn’t object because it wasn’t a dye, it was only a highlighter.  I used gallons of the stuff.  I sprayed it on everyday.  I even took strands of hair and snaked them into the bottle and tried soaking them.  All I got was a slightly orange cast that looked more Clowny than a Beach Bunny.

My senior year, my mother decided that she wanted to have her hair frosted. For those of you who don’t know what frosting is, it’s a technique for highlighting hair that involves tying a plastic cap with dozen of holes in it on your head and then pulling strands of hair through the holes with a crochet hook.  Then you apply bleach to the hair that’s been pulled through.  You look like a cross between Phyllis Diller and a horror movie baby doll.

Phyllis Diller

Before taking the plunge, she bought a short frosted wig to see how she would look.  The wig eventually became mine and started me down the long road of changing hair styles.  I would put it on to go to school dances.  I thought it made me look dangerous.  Right after graduation, I cut my hair and had frosting done for real.  Then I let it grow out and went natural for a few years. (Looked better with hanging earrings and peasant blouses.)  Next, blond.  I have pictures of me looking like Miss Piggy.  Then semi-natural with henna.  Henna is this green mud made from henna leaves that smells like – well like henna.  You pack it on your head and leave it there for awhile and it turns your hair henna color. (Which is a dark red.)  Then I cut it shoulder length and died it plum.  That’s right – plum. Then it was short-short and dark brown.  Then longer with blond streaks. Then strawberry blond. (You keeping up with me here?)  One time I went punk and had it chopped and chunked.  (If you don’t know what that is, you’ll have to look it up.)  My husband’s reaction was “What have you done!!!”

Lately, I’ve tried to go back to my roots. (Get it? Back to my roots.)  Well, not really.  My actual roots are sort of silver now.  So I’ve chosen a red that most closely resembles my own color as I remember it.  And I’ve let it grow because my husband likes it that way.

But my dream has been (I’m talking from back in the 70’s) to have blue hair.    I have no idea why.  I just always thought it looked fabulous.  And on someone like Katy Perry, it does.  I’m too cautious now though.  I’ve lost my edge.  I’m not close enough to that “I don’t give a damn what you think” phase of life that happens when you are very young or very old.  But I see it coming on the horizon.  Unfortunately,  by that time, my dream to have blue hair won’t have quite the cool vibe I was hoping for.

The Reality

My husband and I spent part of the day yesterday doing outside seasonal chores. We cleaned gutters. (Well, he cleaned them. I held the ladder and emptied the leaf bucket.) We dug the annuals out of the ceramic planters and put the planters away in the barn. We took down the humming bird feeders and wrought iron plant hanger. And we brought the firewood rack over near the backdoor. It was a beautiful fall day, sunny and crisp with a slight breeze. We worked mostly in silence. Our soundtrack was the birds calling and the soft sshhhhhh of the leaves rustling. And it was so peaceful.

So much of what we both do all week is mentally and emotionally stressful. There are always so many deadlines to meet, so many people who depend on us to get things done. By the time the weekend comes, we are both worn down. Just the act of focusing on simple, physical tasks is calming. The noise in your head turns down. Your monkey mind chills out for awhile. It’s like opening up all the windows and clearing out the stale, dead air. In a way, it’s a meditation.

Don’t get me wrong, we were both tired when we finished. My hands hurt and my husband’s legs were killing him. But we could look around and feel satisfaction at what was accomplished.

Sometimes you can find peace in a beautiful setting. Sometimes you can find peace in quite reflection. And sometimes you can find peace in the good, honest work of your hands.