As you probably know by know, Celebrate Aging and I have been on vacation. It’s August, after all. Between the heat and the UV rays, we’ve headed to the far mental reaches to protect our delicate complexions. Wouldn’t want to wrinkle too soon . .

As for the fishing: Well, you might as well say meaning’s been bobbing to the surface left and right, and left again . . all month. It couldn’t be any more available for catching if it were doing back stroke! (More interesting, maybe. But not more available.)

And so, here we’ve been. A cup of coffee. A bit of conversation. And meaning and new meaning, everywhere! Sometimes I wish I could escape all the intricacies and innuendos. But then, that would have its own smorgasbord of meaning. So I’ve done my best to just hold a steady course amid the flashes of muted brilliance. So far, so good.

Yet in the weeks I’ve been here, it feels like these inner waters have hardly been tapped. I hate the thought of coming home when there’s still so much out here begging for my attention. And so after much consideration, I’ve decided to stay just a bit longer to make sure I don’t leave any important ideas behind. Besides, heaven only knows when I might get back.

And it’s not like I’m actually vacationing. I think of it more as a working holiday of sorts. I work. The world keeps spinning. Every so often, we meet on the Milky Way for custard. Nothing too deep.

The thing is: No matter where I set my line, new perspectives swim up to meet me. Maybe I’ve become addicted to this new-found sense of unbounded exploration. Then again, maybe I’m finally opening myself up enough to recognize that my limits have always been of my own creation . . and that only the creative spark I carry can release them.

Either way, much is changing in my world. I hope yours has shifted at least as much. (That’s not to say yours needed to shift, of course. But if it did, I do hope this month has been a good one for you.)

So, I’m writing to say that the vacation isn’t over. I’ve still more fish to catch. I’ve still more meanings to fry. Not to worry. I’ll be back. Just not quite yet. You can still catch me on Twitter and Facebook, should you feel the urge.

I hope you’re doing well. I hope you’re not forgetting to slather up with the sun block at every conceivable opportunity. Take care of yourself. I don’t want to hear any horror stories are waiting for my return.

Change is a foot. It’s also a tail, should that be your preference. Either way, enjoy the process.

I’ll see you again soon.

Keep growing my friend,
Gail

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.

If you’ve been around longer than a few decades, I’m willing to bet you’ll agree with me that Meaning is illusive stuff. We can search for a lifetime . . looking under rocks . . peering around corners . . without ever making more than a fleeting contact.

Lately I’ve come to realize that the only real way to catch life’s meaning – aside from bumping into it at the grocery store – is to cast a line and then hang around long enough for it to bite the hook. Simple in concept, yet far tougher in reality.

The key, I’m finally understanding, is patience. And there’s the rub.

Not being a particularly patient person, I’ve often caught far more half-meanings than the real things. And this hasn’t boded well for either my work or my life. (Maybe you’ve had a similar experience?)

Things, ideas, and meanings move so fast these days. Sometimes I forget that the stuff skimming the surface of my life is just stuff skimming the surface. What truly matters runs far deeper, and demands more time and effort on my part to catch it.

It’s with this in mind that I’ve decided to take a break from blogging and go fishing – for Meaning. I actually won’t be “going” anywhere. Yet, my line will most definitely be in the water . . and much will be in process.

Besides, it’s summer – vacation time. We all need a break from the routine if for no other reason than to gain some new perspective.

So you won’t see me hanging out in the blogosphere again till September. I will, however, be Tweeting (Follow me @GailMcConnon) and on Facebook (Friend me at Gail McConnon). Come play with me if you’re in the neighborhood. I think you’ll be surprised by the changes taking place. At least, I hope you will.

And if – while you’re out snorkeling or shooting the rapids of your inner world – you see Meaning swimming by, tell it I’m looking for it. I’ve cast a pretty big net. But as I said: Meaning is illusive stuff. And really hooking it can take a lifetime.

May whatever you’re fishing for bring you full bounty. May your days be warm, and your nights be filled with the stuff of moonbeams.

I’m off to vacation! Now where did I put that bungee cord?!

See you in September, my friend. Don’t forget to keep growing!
Gail

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.

Life never ceases to amaze me. Good thing.

It didn’t used to be that way.

There was a time when it seemed easy to discount the things I preferred not to see or to hear – or even to imagine. Of course, that was also the time when I’d convinced myself I knew far more than I did . . and didn’t dare welcome anything that might challenge or otherwise unravel my tightly constructed picture of the world.

Time passes, however. And, if we’re lucky, we eventually step outside ourselves to take a good, long look at the bone pile we’ve built ‘round our feet. And we – each of us – will at some point pick up those bony shards . . one by one . . to listen to their stories . . and turn them over in our minds to assess their role in our evolution . . before gently replacing them, or giving them up to the gods.

We’ve been told since the beginning of our times how different – how special – we are . . we human beastings. And yet, just like everything else, we move through time and space . . changing and evolving as we go.

Not so different, really.

If we’re receptive, however, some important learning happens along the way. Take that bone pile, for instance:

All the things we refused to look at . . refused to consider . . way back when we were so young, sure, and self-important, now suddenly hold meaning for us. Now, we’re afraid to let them go lest in doing do so we let go of too much of ourselves.

At the same time, we come to recognize the vastness of the tapestry into which our threads are bound. And we see that we are but a part of the progression of color and shadow – a part of the map . . important for what we contribute to the whole, but of little significance alone by ourselves.

On Big BANGS and Cool VIDEOS

With that in mind, I’ve something to share with you. A few days ago, I received an email containing a most astounding and thought-provoking video.  I want to share it with you now. Let me warn you that in some ways, this is a difficult video to watch. Then again, It’s an absolutely amazing video to watch! Here it is: “Big Bang Big Boom”.

Okay, what do you think? You certainly can’t walk away from this, and all its implications, without something inside your head having shifted. What was that thing for you, by the way?

A Thread In the Tapestry

You know, I’ve never been one to envision myself as somehow above or outside the rest of life. That sort of thing just never made sense to me.

And the older I get, the more certain I become that my strand in the weaving of life’s tapestry is no more nor less important than any other. It doesn’t matter the shade. It doesn’t matter the texture. What matters is that any missing thread leaves a hole that none other can fill.

I fear too many of us have forgotten that. Too many of us have come to see ourselves as the big – all important – picture, and at great cost to the really BIG picture.

We sacrifice the future to our ill-considered present. And we assume no one is watching. Or, we assume no one bigger than we are is watching.

But I, for one, believe we’re very wrong. We may destroy the air, and the oceans. We may foul the land, and exterminate species left and right in our wake. We may even eliminate ourselves in our foolishness.

And that may be part of the much larger map of which we, in our imaginings, are currently unaware.

Yet what ever we or any other species does, the map will remain . . ready for someone or something to begin a new journey.

It’s a circle, you know.

How do you see it? What imprint does this video leave on your ever-evolving mind? Share your thoughts. I’d love to hear from you.

Keep growing my friend,
Gail

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.

Startled by the realization, she glanced around quickly to be sure no one else had heard the stray thought . . and equally, that no one else had put it in her head.

No, she was quite alone – or so she did her best to believe.

But she didn’t dare relax, lest another of its number might creep in unannounced . . unbidden. And once comfortably settled and free of her awareness, the two together might multiply – as they always had in her long ago past . . and not with the most conscious of results.

Or, they might swing the gates wide to all their various friends and cousins – some of whose parentage was in serious question. (Being as she was part of that parentage . . most of that parentage . . ALL of that parentage, she knew of what she told herself. And she knew the embarrassments that could arise.)

And then one could only guess the sorts of strange and unseemly ideas that might join in.

Totally uncontrolled, they might eventually conquer her more rational attempts at thinking altogether, leaving her no safe foothold among the growing iridescent strands of her imagining.

There was no question in her mind that she had to stop it before it got totally out of control! She must put her foot down before her stories gained strength enough to overtake her objectivity. For, where would that leave her?

Then again, how did it happen in the first place? She’d spent years fortifying her defenses against such inner storying. How had they been breached?

Had she neglected some vital link?

Had a weakness developed in her mental wall – a crack perhaps – from years of general wear and tear?

Had she at some point fallen behind in her payments of attention?

Or, had she simply not guarded her objectivity well enough? And as a result, had her thoughts become too static . . too focused . . too vulnerable?

She’d heard such things could happen. But no one talked about it much. It was an embarrassment after all – a blemish of hindsight.

She could lose all respect if it got out to those like herself who paid attention to such things. And then where could she show her face? People would know.

She would know.

Yet, knowing was so rational – so safe and acceptable.

What if her imagination were bit by bit escaping its pen altogether? What if it were taking root? Would it attempt to take over . . everything -  to the point of completely erasing and replacing conscious thought?

No. At least, highly unlikely.

Perhaps if she just breathed a little. Perhaps if she stopped fighting herself and stepped back from all she imagined was happening long enough to ask her imagination what was really happening. Perhaps if she dared . . .

Then again, it had been so long since she’d checked in with her imaginings. How old was she back then . . 12? . . 13? What if they no longer spoke the same language? What if they wanted nothing to do with her?

But that couldn’t be true. They were the ones trying to get back inside her mind. She certainly hadn’t sent an invitation.

Or had she . . unconsciously, of course? She knew her rational thought wouldn’t approve.

But what if something else inside of her – something deep inside of her – were longing for . . even dying for . . more than fact? Her thinking had become so parched. Fresh new ideas scattered from her as if made raw by the constant searching, turning over, and re-cataloging.

Maybe . . just maybe . . imagination was coming to rescue her rather than to sneer at her frantic efforts to capture reality and to hold it so still and in place.

Maybe . . just maybe . . a new story . . a new spin.

And so, ever so cautiously, she summoned up her courage, took a breath and climbed over the wall to the spot deep in her soul where she remembered she had so long before stuffed her dreams and her imaginings.

And the innocent child in her called out to the great beast of her unconscious. And with just a hint of mischief in its eyes, it looked at her and gently smiled . . like an old friend who’d been too long out of the country.

And as it lightly picked her up and twirled her round the huge hall of her mind, she could hear it singing to all who’d been in hiding. She could hear it singing a story of battle and reconnection – a saga or sorts.

And as they spun, her conscious mind squinted at the pair through its steel-rimmed goggles. And it measured their steps, till an opening appeared. And it leaped into the dance with a new lightness of being.

And, as the sun rose on her world again . . they . . the three of them – conscious thought, imagination, and the girl -  began to imagine. And it was good.

Keep growing my friend,
Gail

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.

There she sat . . still . . waiting for inspiration to either strike her soul, or strike her dead. Either way, something would change.

Then again, there she sat.

Still.

Waiting.

Nothing.

Nothing but gaps in the fabric of time and space – gaps in the fabric she’d once so carefully knit to cover over her world and keep it in balance.

Holes, actually – holes so big she could climb through them, if only she could climb through them.

But alas, climbing wasn’t on her mind that day.

And so she sat, and she waited.

And while she waited, her mind wandered in and out of the gaps. It poked itself into pockets and around corners, looking for lost threads that might reconnect her to all the people and ideas that had disappeared from her life . . and left only holes . . gaps in her picture of the world . . gaps in the cosmic fabric she wrapped round herself to stay warm at night.

And something about all that disappearing made her feel a little too vulnerable. And the vulnerability was almost stifling. So she pulled the fabric ever more tightly over her shoulders, and she sat . . and she waited.

And in the waiting, she listened for a sign. Surely she would hear the inspiration as it rose through her . . when it rose through her. It must. It used to be right where she needed it. She used to be able to count on it to lift her above the messiness of her life’s uncertainties.

But that was when the fabric of her world was newer . . before the wearing of it and the wearing out of it created gaps. And gaps, being rather vacuous, transmitted far more echo than inspiration. And strain though she might for the sound of an answer, only echoey static reached her senses.

And so she sat, and she waited.

And she wondered if perhaps the gaps were not gaps at all, but only lapses in her imagination. Perhaps in letting go to make room for the present, she’d over-compensated and lost touch with some important part of her past. But nothing from back then came to mind. Of course, it’s hard to resurrect what you can’t remember.

Maybe the gaps were a sort of self-inflicted purgatory for lost memories – or lost dreams.  Maybe, if she just concentrated a little harder, she could re-inspire her imagination and fill in the gaps with stronger, more brilliantly colored threads. But why bother? Threads break . . Colors fade . . just like dreams . . and just like memories.

And so she sat, and she waited.

And she wished with all her might that something magically inspired . . something she would recognize as hers alone . . might enter her inner world and shift it ever so slightly . . if only just for a moment . . or, forever.

Then again, maybe she was thinking too much. She did that on occasion.

Maybe if she just sat . . still . . and waited.

And so, there she sat . . still . . waiting for inspiration to strike.

While, in the other corner of her world . . the corner she’d long ago forgotten . . Inspiration anxiously paced the empty halls . . poking its head in and out of the gaps . . waiting for a sign that she was finally starting to awaken.

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.

Hard as it might be to imagine, I have come to believe that life – with all its bumps, bruises, and kicks in the shins – is thoroughly unbiased and eternally fair. It can afford to be. Its vested interest in me is minuscule, even though mine in it is very grand indeed.

Life’s not out to get us any more than it’s out to get the slug in your garden or the tree standing next to my fence. Despite all our grandiose dreams, you and I are simply two very tiny and insignificant pieces of its puzzle. We hardly warrant its notice.

We may or may not like the hands we feel life has dealt us, yet we’ve no one to blame for how we play those hands but ourselves. Most of the time we don’t play them very well, do we? And so we blame our short-comings on everything outside ourselves. Mostly we blame them on life, since it’s the one thing we can count on not to get vindictive with us.

The fact of the matter is that, despite blame being just what it is – it doesn’t phase life in the slightest. Life just smiles, shrugs its broad shoulders, and shakes its all-knowing head.

Humans. What are you going to do about them?

And so, seemingly learning little of what life tries to teach us, we wage our battles ever more madly . . trampling all in our path. We kill our dreams. We destroy our sensitivities. And we demand compensation for our sloppiness in the face of all that’s beautiful around us.

What foolish, foolish beings we are – we people.

And the universe don’t pay us no mind . .

Even more, the universe – that which is over, under, around, and beyond all life – doesn’t care in the least about you or me. Why should it? What’s humanity done for it in the last few thousand years . . aside from leaving our junk behind?

We don’t seem to give a damn about it. And it’s more than willing to return the favor. (Given the option, it would probably be just as willing to thoroughly disown humanity lock, stock and barrel. Yet, since we refuse to leave, it mostly just ignores us . . and hopes for the best.)

After all, the universe knows it will outlast us. That gives it some degree of satisfaction.

And yet it wonders how such an insignificant species as we should grow to be so annoying.

Oh sure, a very few of our number have exhibited a creative genius throughout the millennium. And that’s been fun for the world writ large. (The universe DOES have a playful streak, you know.)

Yet, for the most part, by universal standards, we humans have displayed little more than a seriously unfiltered tendency to blow things up, burn things down, eat our young as well as our old,  and generally ignore our place in the greater scheme of things.

Sad, really. From a universal perspective, I’m sure we were seen to have had such potential when first drawn into being. It kind of makes you wonder how such a fragile and strange looking, yet curious, species as ours could go so far off the course we’ve imagined for ourselves.

Then again, the universe has other, much larger, things to worry about. Black holes. Splits in the space time continuum.

And humanity’s been creating its own story line for so long – without so much as a mention of the universe that formed it. I’m sure even the most generous of universes would eventually lose patience. Some would even turn their backs.

So, I Must Care  . .

And so, I care. I must. For I am part of that human package the universe once opened with such  delight. I am part of all that is and all that ever shall be.

Neither life nor the greater universe can dissociate from me, for at a very personal level we are one and the same. Sure, the universe may shudder at the thought, but it’s true. Disconnected though we may be from one another, we will never be separate.

And so I believe there’s hope for humanity. I believe we still tickle the universal consciousness with our imaginations. I believe that the stories we wrap ourselves in when we’re feeling lonely and cold are the stories the universe has been waiting for us to speak.

I believe that, even if the universe truly doesn’t care for or about the physicality of me – the human being . . Even if life doesn’t care a whit about my dreams or my fears . . That my caring may be enough.

And if it isn’t? I’ll be none the less for it. In fact, I’ll be all the more. And the story that I am will spread out across the face of the cosmos. And God will smile.

And that will be enough – for me. What about you?

Keep growing my friend,
Gail

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.

Do you trust your universe? Or do you keep glancing back over your shoulder to see if it’s gaining on you?

Trust. What an amazingly simple, yet utterly complex and seemingly inaccessible part of our adult lives!

Trust is a security we wrap ourselves in – or would if we knew how to do it. Then again, given all the “BIGGER” dilemmas of our day, that wrapping seems a bit unwrapped . . a bit untrustworthy for many of us, doesn’t it?

Trust is a knowing that reaches deep down into the core of us. Too bad its reach is so often too short for us to grab hold . . and its temperament too untrusting for us to set down roots.

Trust is something we believe we should be able to count on to be ever present, no matter what else changes in our lives. We want to know we can depend on it to always have our backs. And so we lean into it . . we push against it . . Or we would, if we actually thought we could trust.

(Children trust automatically, just like we once did. Children actually have to be taught not to trust . . just as we were once taught not to trust by those who cared for and about us . . those who knew better than we that nothing could be trusted. And so we were taught. And so we teach. It’s for their own good, after all. Or, is it?)

And that’s just it: We don’t trust, do we?

Oh sure, we trust in the things over which we’ve no power to control (i.e., gravity, the sun, the moon, the stars). At least, we trust those things as long as they don’t cross us.

And we trust in the things that don’t matter enough to us to make a difference should they not be trustworthy (i.e., chocolate chip cookies, snow on Christmas, etc.). Then again, they’d best not cross us either.

But what of the parts of our lives that truly DO matter? How much do we really trust in ourselves . . in those with whom we spend our time and our lives . . in the greater universe of life that supports our own existence?

What, do you imagine, might change if we actually opened ourselves . . risked ourselves . . in extending our trust beyond the inner movies that overrun our minds?

What might change if we opened ourselves just enough to taste the sweetness of wonder in and trust for the uncertainties of life . . those people who see the world differently than we do . . the languages, disciplines, and belief systems that lie outside our own personal realities?

Interesting thought, don’t you think?

What if we trusted ourselves!

We don’t, you know. We don’t trust ourselves to do the “right” things, or say the “right” things. We second, third, and fourth guess ourselves all the time. And then we judge our answers and our lack of answers as if we and they were somehow less spectacular than everyone else’s.

We don’t trust what we think – which may actually be a good thing, given some of the bizarre thoughts that float through our minds.

And we certainly don’t trust our bodies to look or perform as we like. Yet time and again, they come through for us far more than we do for them.

When you get right down to it: We expect others to tell us what to think and believe – which is fine when we’re children, but not so fine after we’re grown. But, we keep doing it.

Religion. The News. Politics. We complain about these things. Yet we still let them blindfold us and take us by the hand. And once we’ve let them take our trust, it’s a little hard to complain about our lack of control over our lives.

Of course, if we truly want control, we first have to commit to knowing ourselves. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we find it easier to let others feed us their stories than to create and take responsibility for our own.

But what if?

What if we trusted each other!

Strange as is may seem, most people aren’t out to get us. Most people simply don’t know us or care about us. Just like us, they’re too involved in their own lives and their own stories to bother with us in ours. Then again, they’re just as fouled up as we are. And they don’t trust us either. Not that they wouldn’t, but who has the time to really get to know each other.

But what if?

What if we trusted the universe!

Has the sky fallen on you recently, air turned to stone, or waters refused to quench your thirst? Me either. So why do we so insist on holding ourselves back from fully living and trusting in all that supports our lives? Don’t get me wrong: Natural disasters happen. On the whole, though, the world’s a pretty friendly place – particularly given what it has to work with (US)!

Even more, what of everything that lies beyond what we recognize? That’s what scares us most, isn’t it?  Even when nature’s on the rampage, It seems to me we do far more harm to our larger world than it does to us.

If a black hole knocked on my door, I’d probably open it . . mainly because I’ve never met a black hole that was out to get me. How about you?

What might change?

What do you think? What might change if you trusted just a little more than you do now?

.    .     .     .  It might even be you.

Keep growing my friend,
Gail

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.

Isolation. It was never meant to be that way. It certainly wasn’t planned. Yet, given the painful lack of planning she’d devoted to it, it was coming together quite perfectly. Her isolation was nearly complete.

An introvert by birth, she delighted in the peace and quiet of solitude. Not that she wanted to be alone, exactly. It was just that solitude gave her a sense of control she never seemed able to find in the midst of a crowd – even a very small crowd of two. Everything else was just too peopled . . too busy.

Besides, in solitude she had a voice. Okay, so the voice was hers. But in a conversation of one, she never had to worry about when or how to jump in without clumsily landing in the middle of someone else’s pregnant pause. Her perspectives were always the most brilliant of those being voiced. And as long as she didn’t focus on the fact that hers were the only perspectives being voiced, her inner conversations could seem almost communal.

Then again, extroverts fascinated her to no end – in a bug-juice-on-a-microscopic-slide sort of way. She couldn’t wrap her mind around how they functioned. She marveled at how easily they seemed to interact . . and how much they seemed to enjoy it. Such things were so alien to her.

So she studied them. She watched them. She listened to them for a clue.

She silently begged them to give up their secret. But none did. Being extroverts, they of course had few secrets. Besides, they didn’t understand her inner pleadings any more than she understood all their outgoing enthusiasm and involvements.

Mostly, they paid no attention to her.  After all, she wasn’t exactly part of their world. She was more like a fixture . . a lamp post . . than a part of their world.

Then again, there was a time . .

It didn’t used to be that way. There was a time – many years ago, and not so many years ago – when things were different.

There was a time when she moved almost seamlessly among them – as one of them. Well, maybe not one of them exactly. But peripherally, she could negotiate their world without feeling overwhelmed by it . . usually.

She used to be quite the community member, serving on boards and committees of the organizations that patched and held up the social fabric. She held offices. She had a business. Her views and ideas were sought by decision-makers. Her participation seemed to matter.

Then she moved to a new place, and something everything changed. She pulled in.

She assured herself it was a temporary thing. New places had that effect on her. Always did. Introvert that she was, she’d always been fairly self-contained.

This time, though, the temporary grew wider. Time passed. Years passed.

It wasn’t that people were unfriendly. Actually, quite the opposite. She liked it there. New friendships developed. Yet, day by day, she grew more lonely. She could feel it happening.

Like the time, however, she figured it would pass.

It didn’t.

What had changed? What was it about that place . . or about her life in that place . . or about the stories she told herself in that place, that so separated her life from the rest of life . . in that place?

No Trespassing: Isolation In Progress

Looking back, some things were obvious. Most weren’t, even to her.

It could have been that she moved there never expecting to stay. And if she didn’t expect to stay, she didn’t want to get too close. She didn’t want to get attached. She’d moved often enough before. She knew how hard it was to let go of the people and things to which she had grown most fond.

So she held the town at arm’s length – just in case. And the town didn’t seem to mind.

Few neighbors had ever been invited into her house, or vice versa. Talking was mostly done over the fence, or at the door. It wasn’t planned. Yet, after a while, it just seemed more natural.

She was careful not to open up too much. (People knew her dog better than they knew her. Or course, dogs are a lot easier to know than their people.)

She worked from her house. She worked a lot. No one bothered her. Even when she prayed for a break, no one bothered her. Of course, she didn’t bother them either.

She seriously considered getting a job. Money was tight. She could have appreciated the income. But it had been so long since she’d worked for someone else. Starting over from scratch at this point in her life seemed like so much failure. And no one in that place really knew her. She hadn’t let them.

She thought of volunteering in her off-time. Then again, that would require that she take some off-time. That would require that she make a commitment to that place. How could she commit to a place where she’d never fully unpacked her life? Maybe later. Maybe not.

She considered church. Small town life often revolves around churches. And that town was no different. So she sampled what they had to offer. Mostly she was looking for community – not religion. Then again, religion was kind of what church was all about. And what she believed just didn’t fit.

Bit by bit, her world got smaller. And minute by minute, time passed.

It was never meant to be that way. She’d wanted so much more. She’d had dreams . . hopes.

Alone was never meant to carry such heavy baggage. Yet the baggage seemed to glom on like it belonged to her. And bit by bit, her isolation was nearly complete.

Of course, mostly it was just a story she told herself.

.   .   .   .

Do you tell yourself stories like this one? Does your world revolve around the things that separate you from everyone else, rather than those that connect? Perhaps it’s time for a new story. Perhaps ……… just a thought.

Whatever your stories, they’re welcome here. Keep growing my friend,
Gail

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.

In the grander scheme of all that matters in life, some things amaze and delight. Others mostly annoy or frustrate. Dogs are uniquely constructed to provide both extremes – often at the same time. At least, my dog Blue is.

I love my dog. She’s family. Then again, she’s a dog.

IQ? Dog.

So, why on earth do I find it necessary to attempt to argue and/or reason with her . . or to pay the slightest bit of attention to her “opinion” on the sorts of matters that seem to matter most only to her (i.e., scratching, the sniffing of things and places that are totally unattached to higher brain function . . other dogs‘ back sides, and so on) particularly given the fact that little or no reciprocity seems to come from her corner?

After all, she’s a dog. I’m a human.

Humans rule, right?

Humans do rule, right?

That’s what I used to think too, back in my pre-dog days. But that was then. I’ve since learned it’s all a matter of will and physical strength – hers versus mine.

Let’s just say I don’t often win. Or, if I do, it isn’t a pretty picture. After all, she’s just a sweet  innocent old dog.

In such matters as these, I come off looking like the bully. She, on the other hand, is the perpetual innocent. It’s a charade, of course. But it works well for her. And she knows it. And she  knows how to use it.

Lately, there’s a new game in town. Blue outgrew her collar. How can a 12 year old dog outgrow her collar? Muscles. She primes those babies while I’m sleeping.

Her 22 inch collar – which we haven’t had all that long – has been looking way too tight on her. (Okay, so she’s puffing up her neck to make me think the collar’s too tight. I’m only human. Gullibility and guilt are inborn.)

A few days ago, we got a new collar. I have to admit, as collars go, it’s quite lovely. Soft doe skin on the inside . . tough cowhide on the out. And it’s 24 inches long. Not even Blue can puff up that big!

So last evening, we took a walk . . Me, Blue, the new collar. Other dogs drooled as we passed. Even humans recognized that something had changed. Maybe a shift in the balance of power? Wouldn’t I hope?

As we were heading down the home stretch, we passed a yard in which was blooming a bush I’d never before noticed. It held lovely bright yellow flowers. I was curious to know what it was. Unfortunately for me, the curiosity didn’t strike a crescendo till we’d moved a couple houses farther down the street. That meant turning around. No problem.

Problem.

About that control thing

Blue was heading for home. Turning around . . not in her game plan. Dogs don’t turn around unless a new smell sneaks up from behind. Anything else is retreat. Forward momentum, once begun, is not willingly undone.

Being the human that I am, however, I took control of the matter. I, after all, wanted to check out that flowering bush. My priority obviously trumped hers. So, we turned around.

Correction: I turned around. Blue just stood her ground and looked at me. What part of heading for home didn’t I realize? Had I lost my way? More to the point, had I lost my mind?!

So I did what any human would do in a showdown of this sort. I commanded her to sit. She sat.

Then I commanded her to heel. She sat.

Thinking she hadn’t understood, I once again commanded her to heel – this time with an added tone of force and intention to my voice. She continued to sit. Her upper doggy lip started to curl in a knowing smile. Generations of dogs before and after her were counting on her to sit her ground. And she did, most nobly.

So, since she was sitting and I obviously had her attention, I got down to her level to discuss the matter. Okay, I’m human. I don’t like confrontation. It’s far better to talk out an issue than to rely on brute force.

I talked. I explained. I reasoned . . with a hefty suggestion of doggy cookies thrown into the conversation. I even argued just a bit.

Blue seemed to take it all in without difficulty. (I did mention that she’s a brilliant dog, didn’t I?)

Then once again, I told her to heel. Once again, she didn’t budge.

Okay, enough with the talk. I’m only human. Even I have limits.

“Blue, heel!”

On the word, “heel”, I stepped off with my left foot. And with every bit of upper body strength I possess – Okay, not that much – I reached in and yanked on the leash. As I did, the new collar effortlessly slid off over her head and dangled from the end of the lead.

She knowingly looked right into my eyes. Point made.

Blue stayed right where she was. She’d won. There was no need to flaunt it.

After all, I’m just a human. She, on the other hand, is a dog.

The flowering bush isn’t going anywhere. I can see it another time.

I slipped the new collar back over her head, and we headed for home – just as she’d intended all along.

Strange, isn’t it? Dogs let us assume we rule the world. (Cats don’t even let us assume.) It makes you wonder who the “chosen ones” really are. Then again . .

. . . . .

Do you have a dog? And, do you attempt to reason with your dog? How does that work for you? Share your stories. Maybe you could teach me a new trick. Maybe I could throw Blue off her guard – even if just temporarily. I don’t mind losing. Just not all the time. Help a fellow human. Please.

Keep growing my friend,
Gail

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.

I have been pondering the universe of late, and its influence on the meaning I attach to my life. Actually, I’ve been pondering MY universe . . my place in the universe. (You do that too, right? It’s part of the deal as we get a little older.)

Do I – the one singular human being that bears my consciousness – hold a unique place in the cosmos as I imagine it? And, if so, what is that place? And what if my imaginings are all off? Is my life any less unique . . is its meaning any less to be valued . . if I don’t have a clue about the really BIG bigger-than-me picture?

And, seeing as my vision isn’t nearly so perfect now as it was when I was younger, who’s to say my picture of the BIG picture hasn’t become a bit fuzzy . . a bit askew in its leanings? Does that then make my life’s meaning any more warped than it might have been had my inner eyesight stayed as clear as it seemed when I was a child?

My Picture, My Meaning

My picture is the only one I really know, after all – down to its skivvies and back again. I may have bought into a few others along the way, but who’s to say any of them had my best interest at heart?

No, my universe may not be perfect . . but it’s mine, however big or limited its vision. It’s what I have to work with. If there’s meaning to be found, I figure that’s where I’m bound to find it.

And in the greater scheme of all things universal, I quite readily admit to wondering where the meaning is hiding and where my life fits in and around it. Then again, what if it doesn’t fit? What if I outgrew the big picture? Or, what if I haven’t lived big enough for it to recognize me?

What if in the living of my life, I’ve so scuffed up its corners and smudged its picture of the world, that its piece no longer neatly connects in the bigger inter-locking puzzle of all that is . . all that ever was . . and all that ever shall be?

What if my tiny piece of the cosmological puzzle leaves a huge gap? What then?

What If I Messed Up My Meaning?

In other words: What if all the ridiculous stunts I pulled when I was younger and more stupid adventuresome totally blew out a very important nightlight in some minuscule – but very significant – corner of all things that matter?

What if I never got the message to stop, and I’m still doing it?

And along those lines, why aren’t we better warned as kids to pay attention and consider the consequences of our actions – before acting?!

Why aren’t we told the possible unintended meanings we’re creating and up-ending by our foolishness?

Why aren’t we told to just sit still and mind our own business till the meaning of life is ready for us? I guess that would mean not truly living most of our lives . . but maybe . . Naaah.

Oh, I guess we are told all those things, sort of. That’s what school was all about.  Getting in line. Learning the rules. Consequences. Nothing terribly meaningful.

They, of course, didn’t tell us that the reasons we need to pay attention are bigger than we are . . not that we’d listen anyway. After all, nothing’s bigger in our minds than we are. And consequences are so hard to put your finger on.

Whatever Could We Mean?!

Why is it, do you think, that we don’t start looking for meaning till long after we feel we’ve lost our way – over and over again – on the path to meaning? We’re so easily distracted by other people’s meanings. One step on the wrong path . . Well, you know.

There is a path to meaning, don’t you think? The way I see it, the universe is nothing if not loaded with paths. Paths to Grandma’s house . . Paths to self destruction . . Paths to love and riches . . Paths to war . . to name a few.

There must be at least a whole jungle of paths for meaning. (I do hope it isn’t all overgrown with kudzu and the trash of life’s leavings.)

But what of that path? Is it my unique path? Or are others allowed to wander down it as well? And if so, what does THAT mean?  Is my meaning a community affair . . a pot luck? That hardly seems right.

Then, of course: What IS the meaning of it all?

Does my life have meaning? Is it even supposed to?

Or, is my life’s meaning quite simply nothing more than the meaning I attach to it? That’s the direction I tend to lean. It doesn’t sit well with me that the meaning of my life should be pre-ordained, or prescribed by someone or something else that isn’t living my life. Maybe that’s being a bit selfish, but so be it.

And yet, what does that mean?

I’ll tell you what it means, at least to me: In my universe – my cosmology of one – I am, above all else, a creator of meaning. And in the grander scheme of things, perhaps that’s all I am. Perhaps that’s enough – at least for today.

How about you? What is the meaning of your life? Or, are you too busy creating meaning to worry about such things? If so, good for you!

Keep growing my friend,
Gail

©2010 Celebrate Aging. All Rights Reserved.