Old Lessons Re-learned from a Puppy

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Some old lessons are repeated throughout our lives. I marvel that I continue learning the old ones over and over and again. Almost never new lessons—merely new variations on the same old truths. I suppose it makes sense that after one reaches a certain age this is the case. You have learned the essential rules by which life works. You just keep hoping to get a different result and maybe skirt the rules every so often.

One rule I see popping up repeatedly in my life is often stated in this homely way: “There is no such thing as a free lunch.” Great wisdom is often wrapped in such simple old aphorisms, isn’t it? Everything that we desire has a price and life is about making our way through thousands of choices each day. A great percentage of those choices come down to what price we are willing to pay for the comfort, joy, or whatever that we desire.

No question those choices and trade-offs apply to individuals, groups, even nations. On a daily basis, we decide, as individuals or groups, what we want and the price we are willing to pay. We get one thing and give up another. Sometimes it seems like a lose-lose proposition, but we make the choices anyway and blindly hope it will all work out for the best. Worst of all, we frequently ignore the old lesson and embrace a choice without considering the consequences. We simply grab what we want, then recoil in astonishment when the bill comes due. Sometimes we even rail and rant that the price isn’t fair. Most often the price is a shock simply because we made our choice without investigating the cost. We expected “a free lunch”.

Adding a puppy to our house is a small and, in the big picture, inconsequential example of this old truism. We wanted, no, “craved” the love, companionship, joy, and just plain fun of having a dog again. We especially wanted to get a puppy, since The Husband and I have never raised a puppy together. The two dogs that we acquired after we joined our lives were rescues. They couldn’t have been better companions and lived long healthy lives making immeasurable contributions to our home. When the time came to get another dog, we assessed the cost of taking on a puppy and made our choice. A puppy it would be.

With a choice such as this one, there is no delayed first payment. No, “Pay the first installment next year, interest free for six months.” No, the bills begin arriving the day the puppy arrives and these aren’t bills that you can stall on. Payment is simply extracted. No questions asked, no excuses accepted, no exceptions made.

My aching back is one of the prices I am paying and certainly the one that has the most impact. All the bending that is involved in having a 10 week old puppy, is putting a major kink in my bad-to-begin-with back. Today, I am “limping” along on Tylenol and Stop Pain—my pain killers of choice.

On the other hand, love is a remarkable balm that soothes all wounds. Not for a moment would I trade the joy of this fur-ball of mystery and energy for less back pain. I just accomplish even less than usual these days. Certainly, “There is no free lunch” in this case, but I am mighty glad we made the choice. Our lives are richer, and I suspect that there are many familiar life-lessons we will re-learn thanks to a certain Shetland Sheepdog who now owns our hearts.

Lost Weekend

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Saturday morning, The Husband and I headed out to the Equine Affaire at Golden Hills Equestrian Center ready for fun and edification galore. Having heard the forecast, I dressed for warm weather and armed myself with plenty of water. Still, I think I had been lulled for so many months by cool (too often for my wimpy taste) cold weather. I wasn’t mentally prepared for the morning in Tehachapi. By the time we headed home a little after noon, the temperature had hit 93 degrees.

Not bad, you say, and I couldn’t agree more. But that’s not the way my wacky body saw it at all. In less than an hour—probably closer to half an hour, I had some type of sunstroke and was almost flattened. This problem has grown worse over the years and it has officially become a serious limitation that sometimes bugs the heck out of me. At the time, I didn’t feel overly hot (but then, I almost never do). Something just goes wacky in my system and everything pretty much shuts down. Thanks to a good Samaritan who put an ice pack on the back of my neck, I never passed out and this time my stomach didn’t try to turn inside out. But, the little episode wiped out two days, and I am still not quite certain whose body I am using. I do know this much: this loaner is no bargain.

I never fancied myself as the pale little lady, covered with the wide-brimmed hat, sitting far back, deep in the shade, cooling herself with one of those folding fans, and sipping a cool drink while others frolic in the glorious rays of the summer sun. Egads! That’s a picture that I’d rather not see.

Oh, well. Life is good. Even if I—a long time sun-lover—may end up unable to enjoy the entire middle of the day any time the temperature is going to rise above 85 degrees. I enjoy photo-processing (I did get some important-to-me work done on a few pieces during my recovery period). There are far worse things that could happen. Besides, limitations fuel creativity.

By yesterday evening, I was feeling somewhat human and The Husband and I went for a leisurely walk down at Cub Lake. After a while we sat on the side of the lake and played. I began tossing pebbles in the water to see what would happen if I took pictures of the resulting ripples. One thing led to another until we began experimenting with mini-geysers. Before we exhausted all the possibilities of our exploration, a new acquaintance walked by and we had a nice chat with her. I am already looking forward to more experiments and more easy walks at Cub Lake. What a wonderful refuge it is—and practically in my backyard.

Life is a series of adjustments, isn’t it?

Demons and Resistance

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How appropriate that after my whining and moaning a couple of days ago, I finally got around to watching Zack Arias’ video that he posted as guest blogger at Scott Kelby's Photoshop Insider. The introduction is silly. That’s fine and fun, at first, but it goes on a bit too long—to the point that I almost gave up. I’m glad I stuck with it. There is so much in the video that resonates with me.

For one thing, I typically struggle with deep and protracted funks in winter. To compound matters, this winter has been a long one for me. I don’t mean just in terms of this funk, but simply far more winter weather than I am accustomed to. Day after day of cold weather (cold to thin-blooded me, at least); too many days with gray, leaden skies; and, dull landscapes untouched by sunlight. We won’t even go into the infernal, inescapable wind. (Note to self: Learn, someday, about this irrational aversion to the wind. Why does it stir in me some mysterious sense of dread, some feeling of disconnected-ness? Why do I identify so much with the trees and the bushes that may manage to remain standing, but look so battered, as they bend and writhe from the incessant flogging? Okay, so I exaggerate for the drama, but we have a great deal more wind here than what I have ever experienced, and it’s not my favorite feature of nature.)

This year’s funk is compounded by the fact that I am still adjusting to not being who I was such a short time ago. I am no longer the passionate teacher who guided and nurtured actors while they engaged the gods of creativity. I no longer enjoy the deep satisfaction that comes from watching actors blossom as they smash through old blocks and soar into new territory. That’s not to say that I didn’t fight my own demons of creativity, as I worked hard to be a more effective teacher. But, I had grown accustomed to those demons. I had wrestled with them for thirty years by the time I retired. We had a decent relationship. They persisted in torturing me, and I never stopped punching back. I even came to know and respect the demons as my allies. They kept me sharp, and never let me even flirt with complacency. Still, every day when I opened my eyes, I knew exactly who I was, and why I was still here.

Now, I have a new collection of demons. I’m not the teacher. I am the student. Certainly, some of these little devils are from the same family as the aforementioned pack, and it’s not as if these fiends are strangers to me. Before I taught full time in Los Angeles, I had faced these critters as an actor. I am familiar with the battle plan. Furthermore, I am an old hand at identity crises. Going from being a strong, healthy, hyper-independent female to one severely limited and needing far more help than I was comfortable asking for—that was an identity crisis. But, that brings me back to another element of Zach’s video that hits a nerve. (Are you following? I know that I am zigging and zagging a lot here.) Way back then as a struggling actor—even after I took that tumble that changed my life, I was younger and stronger and life stretched ahead of me with no discernible end. I wallowed in the false comfort and certainty of unending opportunity to “get it right”. I had not yet begun to face my mortality. Now, there is a demon that will get your attention. This funk is a mean one, and it is attended by a horde of nasty and persistent questions.

Before I wrap up this will-it-ever-end post, I want to clarify that while I am writing about these questions from the perspective of someone engaging in the creative process, I firmly believe that many of these are life questions, human being questions, not just artist issues. I have no doubt that I would be agonizing over similar matters, regardless of how I spent my time. Many of my questions are given urgency for me because I am also going through the all too common dual identity crises of retiring and aging. I have compounded the questions by reengaging in the creative process from an old perspective, but one with which I had, over the years, lost some familiarity. Along with the spring in my step, I’m just plain missing a step or two when it comes to this still new to me dance.

While I am in this questioning phase, I have benefitted greatly by being part of a generous community, and I'm grateful for that. Paul Lester, for example, posted some wise and extremely helpful words on doing the work that attracted several more insightful comments. Gordon may get credit for reigniting this issue with a recent post. Paul was also thoughtful enough to leave some invaluable reminders in comments on my last post. He reminded me of an important lesson that I sometimes “forget to remember”. This battle against Resistance has reliable rules of engagement. As much as we aspire to finally wrestling the gods of creativity into submission, we will never succeed. For me that means that each time we confront the creative process, we find ourselves—consciously or unconsciously—grappling with ourselves and the questions inside us. Too often, the answers don't come easily. More significantly, the answers aren’t always ones that we like. I believe it was Jay Maisel who was asked by a young photographer how he could make his photos more interesting, and Jay responded, “Become a more interesting person.” Ouch. That one gets my attention.

Because we reveal ourselves in every act of creation—there is no place to hide—this is part of the risk, the struggle to create is about so much more than striving to meet technical standards. It’s about facing who we are, what we value, what we are doing, or have so far done with our lives, what we have seen and learned, what we have to say, and for some of us what we have to say, after being around this long. As the years go by, facing those questions shakes your branches and tests your roots with just a bit more fury.

Hmmm. It’s the wind thing again, isn’t it? I seem to have stumbled upon at least part of the answer to one of my questions.

Passages

Recently, I have been musing about the changing nature of the events and celebrations that tend to dominate our personal calendars. I am not talking about the yearly calendar events—the holiday gatherings and traditions, but the special events that mark the transitions in a life. Moreover, I am talking specifically about the events during which we are not the “the star of the show”—the birthday girl or boy, the bride or groom—but the gatherings we attend to honor or celebrate the passages in the lives of others. When we are very young, our social schedule includes mostly birthday celebrations and it’s all about cake, ice cream, and maybe a clown. Then, especially if we live near extended family, we are likely to move on to a series of rather staid graduation ceremonies with all those lofty expectations. And, of course, we all come to the tumultuous, sometimes giddy (and almost always expensive) wedding stage. (I have known a number of young actors here in Los Angeles who can never pay down their credit card, because there is always another wedding “back home”.) Naturally, the wedding phase leads to the baby shower phase for the females and—depending upon the closeness of the friends—christenings, another round of birthday parties, graduations, and weddings.

I will give away my age by revealing that I am in the memorial phase of my life. You know. The phase where we switch from shouting, “hello!” to whispering, “good-bye”. Last night, set me reflecting on the diversity of tone in the far too numerous memorials I have attended in the last few years. Perhaps because I live in a community that is home to a plethora of creative people, most of whom are quite comfortable taking center stage and putting their individual stamp on almost any occasion, no two memorials are the same. Each is intensely personal, reflecting the personality of the deceased as well as those who have crafted the memorial and, to some degree, those in attendance. Each holds a special place in my heart and mind and I am grateful to those who made those events possible.

Last night’s memorial was a fitting testament to a life well-lived. The event honored an accomplished musician. Thus, not surprisingly, the “hall” was filled with musical talent. The talent was generously shared, and through the healing power of music the tears got all jumbled with joy and love. The evening was a perfect final note to what had been a lovely song.

The catharsis of saying goodbye and celebrating someone’s life seems, to me, a crucial stage in what turns out to be a never quite ending grieving process. (I can’t say I buy the theory “that time heals all wounds”. For me, time allows for the formation of calluses and scabs over the bruises and wounds. Nevertheless, it takes only an unexpected reminder of the loss to rip off the callous or scab and all that pain comes flooding back. This may very well be a flaw in my own character rather than a truism. Still, it is my experience.) But, beyond the catharsis, the memorials have been instructive. They remind me that our time here is brief. Then, when we are gone, there will be others left behind, who will remember us—with our without affection. So, perhaps we should occasionally give some thought to how we will be remembered. The stories that I hear consistently shared at these life-celebrations are a sober reminder of what counts. Without fail, the moments most often recalled with affection and gratitude are little moments. Moments of small kindnesses or personal humor in awkward situations. It’s so tempting to spend our time wondering how our contributions to “the world” will be perceived, while those in our immediate lives are starved for those special little moments they will always remember. Is it too gruesome to confess that I have decided to work a bit more on my memorial?