I love the opportunity to reinvent myself, for lack of a better word.  Adjusting to post-military life has been difficult, but exhilerating at the same time! 

Oddly enough, I have the hardest time giving...time. Not because I don't want to help people, but rather because I don't know who to give to first! There are so many opportunities to help others. How does one decide which one is more deserving than others? This is my dilemma.

Like so many other people, I have an incredibly difficult time asking for help.  I have a very strong independent streak (which my dad terms as being "muleheaded") that probably makes my life harder than it needs to be.  I'm learning to let go and ask for help when it is really needed. 

My last thing is a work in progress; I've been a classical pianist as well as a vocalist since I was a very small child.  I've decided to expand and have begun learning the guitar...it's slightly more portable than my piano!

I have two dogs.

One is a prime example of the "Heinze 57" breed.  My mutt Chickie is smart (too smart for her own good) and has the most incredible self-control I've ever seen in a dog. She is very expressive, almost comedically so, and is loving and protective. The other is a purebred beagle, and that poor baby is...something else. 

Jack eats everything that he can see...my (clean) tablecloth (that I got when I was in Greece), gerbil food, and most recently, broccoli, just to name a few examples.  His head is too heavy for the rest of his body, which makes walking down the stairs in front of him a new form of Russian Roulette.  The happier he is, the more miserable he sounds.  And, what kind of hunting dog is afraid of caterpillars...and cats...and squirrels...and laundry baskets?  But, he is a loveable mess, and he's mine! 

Jack and Chickie have a very special relationship.  They chew on each other's ears, smack each other around with their tails, and play steal-the-bone (even when they each have one...), but at the end of the day, you will find the two of them curled up next to each other. 

Where did I find these canine wonders?  It just so happens that I found Chickie at the animal shelter, having been previously abused.  The day we met, she was huddled in the back of a tiny cage surrounded by people.  She was crying and scared.  After the crowd left, I walked over to see what all of the fuss was about.  She pushed herself as close to me as she possibly could get and whimpered.  We've been together ever since!  Jack was destined for the shelter because he needed too much love and attention.  Rescuing them was one of the best things I've ever done.  They bring so much laughter and love into our (my family's and mine) lives every day. 

Although, it might be helpful if I could find something (like a radar gun) that would reveal to me the mystery that is the mind of Jack.  At the very least, it might protect my table cloths!

After a brief and reflective moment, I decided that I would like to celebrate puddles.  Just puddles.  Owing to the fact that it is raining the proverbial cats and dogs today, there is an overabundance of wonderful puddles outside that are begging to be splashed in.  (Although, I do need to get some of those bright yellow rubber ducky boots so I can keep my socks dry...I don't do wet socks.)  Childhood awaits me...and you, too!

I perched on top of the chimney, crossing my ankles and sitting up as primly as one could on a chimney while wearing a dress. Reaching into my cavernous carpet bag, I rummaged for my powder case and mirror, for even when a lady is covered from head to foot in soot she should always ensure that her nose is properly powdered. I turned to gaze over the rooftops. The sky was a mural of contrasts that night, ranging from the fiery reds and oranges around the vividly setting sun to the velvety midnight blue where its fingers of warm light could not reach. A star winked at me…then another…then another. A warm breeze caressed my sunburned cheeks, tickled my skin, and played with the ends of my hair. Spindly ladders of chimney smoke reached into the heavens, inviting me to climb them to see where they would lead. To Never Land, perhaps? Or to Narnia?
A woman’s voice broke into my consciousness, calling me back to my backyard and reminding me that it was time for dinner. I secured the strap of my mother’s cast-off purse over my shoulder, opened my pale blue ruffled umbrella, and took a dignified step off the edge of my picnic table, lifting the umbrella to catch the wind currents…and promptly fell flat on my face. Ever undaunted, I picked myself up, and as gracefully as one could with her hat tipped over one eye, walked to my door. One day, I knew I’d get it right. Maybe I needed to tilt my chin a bit more. After all, I was Mary Poppins, which meant that I was, unquestionably, “practically perfect in every way.”
My father and mother firmly believed in the power of the imagination. I was allowed to only watch one movie a week, and television was banned. Instead, they gave me books…good books. Classics like “A Tale of Two Cities” transported me to the dungeons of the Bastille during the French Revolution. I became Nancy Drew in her ever-lengthening quest to rid the world of shady characters and villains…all the while fending off boys and sporting beautiful dresses and latest sports convertible. I, as the beautiful Rebecca cried out to Ivanhoe for rescue when the evil Knight Templar tied me to the stake to be burned for witchcraft. I was the first girl to become a Musketeer, and fought the Mexican army alongside Davy Crockett at the Alamo. I was Anne of Green Gables, unrepentant after breaking my slate over Gilbert’s head for calling me “Carrots”. I was Lucy, weeping at the Stone Table over the death of Aslan and rejoicing as he breathed life back into Mr. Tumnus in the castle of the White Witch. Books, not a magical wardrobe, were my door to other worlds; worlds of wonder and excitement and mystery.
My sisters and I became the inseparable trio of Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty…and had many escapades whilst evading the “Quicked Ween”, ravenous crocodiles and hazards of all shapes and size. We were the scourge of the Wild West in our cowboy hats and riding the hobby horses that our mother made for us one Christmas. We were Robin Hood and his Merry Men (and Merry Girls); much to my mother’s distress when we demonstrated that tights were most definitely not practical woodsmen’s attire. We were scolded amidst gales of laughter for “borrowing” her eyeliner to turn ourselves into scurvy sea dogs that were the terror of the seas and had untold treasures…represented by vast quantities of acorns. We slew the Giant Goliath, journeyed with the enigmatic Captain Nemo one hundred and twenty thousand leagues under the sea. We joined forces with Harriet Tubman in operating the Underground Railroad and with Clara Barton, Angel of the Battlefield, to give aid to wounded Civil War soldiers. We were the angels singing to the shepherds about the news of the birth of the Christ Child. We defiantly shook our fists in the face of King George as we cast chests of tea over the side at the Boston Tea Party, just like the immortal Sons and Daughters of Liberty. “Let’s make believe that we…” were mystical words…a spell…an incantation that we could cast over ourselves to escape the confines of our backyard (or our house on a rainy day) and see…and more often than not…save the world from tyranny, hunger, pain, and pesky villains of all description…all before dinner. Pablo Picasso said, “Everything you can imagine is real.” And, it was to us. It was our reality.
I submit to you that the imagination is the single link that we have to our childhood as adults. It is a precious gift, but it must be used often and cultivated, or it withers and dies like a flower in a desert. We so often forget the wonder of using our imaginations in the ever-present day-to-day rush. Its cry for use is drowned in the mundane tasks set before us, stifled by our own unwillingness to slow ourselves down long enough to ponder the beauty and mystery of that star on the horizon. We’ve forgotten what it feels like to soar above the clouds with Peter Pan, and what it feels like to save the world with a plastic sword and a green felt bonnet with a dashing feather sweeping from the brim and curling around our ear.

As for myself, I plan to spend a good amount of time up a gnarled old tree, barefoot, waiting with my bow to shoot a deer to feed my family who’s starving because Prince John has taxed the Saxons so harshly. Or, maybe I’ll be luring the rascally Captain Hook to the lair of the crocodile with Peter Pan. Or, maybe I’ll be once again trying to perfect my landing while using my umbrella to aid in my descent from the roof of my garden shed. After all, I’m Mary Poppins, and I’m “practically perfect in every way.”

This morning, my stepson-to-be brought me a surprise.  He had saved a fluffy red feather from a project at school to bring home to show me.  He thought it was pretty...and then told me that he would share it.  I could have it at work, and he could have it at home. 

There's a fluffy red feather on my desk right now...a tangible kiss from my sweet little boy.

Last night, a very violent windstorm came through my area.  Due to the fact that the ground was soggy from all of the rain and the fact that I have several monster trees around my house, I had a few (okay...more than a few) panicked moments throughout the night.  However, when I woke up this morning, I still had a holeless roof, my vehicles were intact, and my trees were still standing.  Of course, because my beagle refused to go outside to go potty last night, there was an "accident" in the back room.  Oh, well...minor details. 

I do some of my best thinking while I am driving. There's something about the humming of my tires against the road... I use that time to think about what has happened to that particular point in my day and to prepare myself for what is to come.

I have many questions, but one in particular begs to be prioritized. As a doggie momma, I have the *delightful* job of removing ticks from my babies. And occasionally myself, if I've been out playing in the woods or fields where I grew up. When I get to heaven, one of the first things I'm going to ask God is why He created ticks. I know He had a reason for it...I just want to know what it was. Nothing gives me the heebie-jeebies faster than running my hands through my dog's fuzziness and finding a swollen tick. Unless it is the sound of scraping fingernails over a chalkboard.

This question made me giggle as I was thinking about my answer. You see, I have a gravity problem. I've challenged gravity on several occasions, but it wins every time.  Gravity works. Very well, in fact, to the great detriment of my various limbs.   I didn't use to have this problem, and then I fell of the stage at my piano recital when I was thirteen.  (So embarrassing...)  And, it's just gotten worse as I've gotten older.  I thought at first that the problem might be the small size of my feet. Maybe they were not large enough to form a reliable "platform."  So, I wore bigger shoes, which did nothing but increase my trip hazard factor.  My mother said it was because I was not graceful enough, so I took ballet.  Again...no luck there, although my flexibility increased.  Now, I really think that the problem might be because my mind is focused on whatever it is that I'm doing at the moment.  For example, if I am troubleshooting a network, my mind is on the network rather than my feet.  If I could figure out a way to balance my brain between whatever puzzle I'm solving and walking, I think I'd be set.  For now, maybe investing in a set of roller blade pads would be beneficial.  At least I'd have less bruises.

I am thankful for my grandmother, who reminds me every day that "old" really is more of a state of mind than body. She is 81, and last spring she rode her bicycle cross-country...over 3,600 miles in about a month. She also has a kyak that she uses 6 months out of a typical year. However, she has recently decided that maybe she shouldn't go ice skating on the river anymore...she fell and broke her wrist last weekend. However, if she goes to the Galapagos Islands again, she is still planning on swinging on a jungle vine again...just like she did 2 years ago.  I want to be just like her when I grow up...

One of my professors told me that everybody has one constant mortal fear.  It is the cause of our demise in our dreams.  Some dream of drowning, others burning.  As a gravitationally-challenged person, I'm afraid of heights...because I could fall to my death.  This is a very real threat because I fall a lot.  Off of stages at recitals, down the stairs, up the stairs, over a blade of grass...and, you get the point.  I'm trying to deal with this by choosing activities that force me to face my fears; for example, I ride roller coasters to try to accustom myself to the falling-from-high-places sensation.  Maybe someday I will actually enjoy them...and won't hyperventilate on the trip to the top.

I feel the most free when I'm playing my piano. There is something about music that transcends time.  It lifts me up...soothes my soul...and allows me to connect with others in a deeply personal way.

When I am "rumpled in spirit" (a la Anne of Green Gables), nothing is more calming that the sight, sound, and smell of the ocean.  As a sailor, my escape spot was one of the small boat sponsons where I could get "outside" of the stress of the ship, and simply drink in the beauty of being at sea.  There is nothing quite like the night sky when one is in the middle of the ocean, with miles of emptiness on either side.

I am reminded of the achingly-beautiful movie "Bicentennial Man" (starring the incomparable Robin Williams) by this question. I honestly don't think I would choose to live forever. Granted, this response is tailored to the assumption that the ones I love were not immortal as well; however, I believe that I would rather live out my days surrounded by my family and friends then to live forever and be left behind.

I loved the song "My Favorite Things" from "The Sound of Music." When I was a little girl, my family was often compared to the Von Trapp family...make your eight kids stand in a row and sing for church and I guess that'll happen...  Because I was the oldest, I would pretend to be Leisel and remember begging for a "white dress" with a "blue satin sash" on one of my birthdays.  To this day, the opening notes of that song put a smile on my face and lead to the uncontrollable urge to sing along wherever I am.

My intuition sounds a lot like my voice, but she is usually accompanied by clanging alarm bells, which my normal voice does not have. 

I have been staring at my hole-puncher and stapler trying to make them beautiful this morning.  However, as hyperactive as my imagination is, I have failed in this endeavor.  In rather stark contrast, I have been very successful with blank sheets of paper, empty computer screens, and white walls.  These are very easy to imagine beautiful.