Peace, Be Still

I have been a torrent of emotions lately. I've been doing too much and sleeping too little - working full-time at Springdale (wishing to quit), training on the weekends at the animal shelter, taking two classes at MHCC (wishing to go full-time), and trying to maintain my monthly volunteer commitment at the zoo (wishing to do much more). I'm neglecting my family, my friends, my husband, and my physical well-being, and the neglect walks hand-in-hand with its partner, guilt. I've been sick for over two weeks, and Steve for over three. Beeker has been ripping his fur out due to a skin condition, and the medicine I have to force down his throat makes him vomit. Steve's parents are both struggling with medical and aging issues, and his whole family is feeling the pressure and the strain. I could go on ... complaints and concerns and anger and angst rushing off my fingertips onto the keyboard like a bubbling, boiling, unceasing lava ...

... but I do try to keep myself in check. "Perspective," I religiously write on my mental list of things-to-do each day: "check".

But as religion can be bereft, so are my attempts at downplaying my current inner turmoil. My brain doesn't seem to communicate well with my gut or my heart, as those organs don't seem to keep checklists.

I had the day off today. Other than homework, I had no true commitments. And because I could slow down and turn off the voice of the crazy woman, there was time for a chorus to work its way gently into my usually restless mind:

"Peace, be still ... Peace, be still.
Peace, be still ... And the wind and the waves,
Peace, be still ... Peace, be still.
Peace, be still ... And the ocean obeys."

I first heard Twila Paris sing when I was living in Eugene, restless and conflicted with remaining in school. I saw her name on the marquee of a performing arts center I walked by each day, and knowing only that she was a Christian artist, I decided to go to her concert. Shortly thereafter, I made the decision to leave school. I can't say that those two events were connected ... but I find it remarkable that, all these years later, when what I want more than anything is to finally return to school, what I hear is Twila's voice is lilting gently through my conscience: "Peace, be still".

And will Ronda obey?

The Power of Poo

I have cleaned up lots of dog poo these last two weekends working at the animal shelter. I think my ability to clean it up without vomiting, gagging, or even making embarrassing faces has gone better than I expected. But the poo - oh lord, the poo - is so much worse than I expected.

Dogs at the shelter - because of health problems, poor nutrition, a change in diet, or simply due to stress - have a lot of soft stool. If it's not so liquid they can paint with it, it's just. so. sticky. Angels sing from heaven when a solid stool is formed.

This poo - the bad poo - is powerful stuff. Not just in stickiness, or in odoriferousness. This poo is so powerful it has practically cemented my resolve to only being a cat owner, where litter is life-changing. And if there was ever a doubt as to how I felt about potentially changing diapers for years, this poo could be the deciding factor.

No dogs. No kids. Except for perhaps a goat kid, who would poo neat little pellets. And maintain my lawn.

Snooze Alarm

I'm listening to my precious husband on the phone with his mom. Crawford followed him upstairs and whined a few times at the closed door - he has a difficult time sharing Steve with whomever is on the other end of any call. Beeker is curled up like a ball next to me on the couch and is snoring softly. The silence from the laundry room tells me it's time to fold my clothes.

Sunday night. The sounds of this evening are cozy and comforting.

The alarm of Monday morning will come too soon.

Stupid Student

I'm starting up with courses at Mt. Hood Community College again this term. Instead of immediately pursuing a degree in Biology (with the career of "zoo keeper" in mind), I am focusing on sharpening my current office administration skills and bettering my resume with certifications and proficiencies.

The ideal plan would be to obtain these and an Associates Degree while employed by MTC, taking advantage of their Education Reimbursement plan (where classes need to be relevant to my current position, or applicable to any future positions within the organization). I should then have the necessary qualifications for an office job at the zoo, to get my foot in the door that way .. or to get an office job at a Portland-area college, where I could pursue a Bachelor's Degree in biology or zoology, and take advantage of employee tuition benefits there.

An even more ideal plan would have been to start this plan 10 years ago.

Because I am working full-time (and truly need to at this point), I anticipate only being able to take one class a term. Also, because I have a marriage I'd like to continue to nurture, a home to maintain, relationships I don't wish to relinquish, a figure that needs to be reclaimed, other life goals that need to be chased down .. all of those things will suffer if I take too many classes at once.

But then I start laying out this plan, term by term, and I want to give up before I've even begun. A full-time student can obtain the most basic Office Assistant Certificate in 3 quarters. It will take me ....... four years. To obtain all certifications, I'm looking at the year 2020, easily.

This is step 1 of my career plan???

It is safe to say I am currently feeling full of regrets for the choices I've made the last 18 years.

Cattails

I've always loved cattails. I just got such a kick out of them when I was a kid. Now, I still love them - perhaps more for reasons of nostalgia than anything else. But they make me smile. They're quirky. Rustic but elegant. Their striking verticality juxtaposed against the soothing, flat water's edge.

One of my favorite things about the new home we've moved into is that it is situated across the street from a small pond, which is surrounded by wonderful cattails. In fact, this is one of the major reasons we even bought the home - for the pond, the bullfrogs, the ducks (and yes, I know bullfrogs can eat baby ducks, but I'm going to pretend I don't know that), the heron, the cattails and the red-winged blackbirds that cling to them. And a second floor office with a balcony I can step out on to enjoy all of it.

As I'm writing this, however, and staring at the picture inserted of these wonderful cattails, the more I'm realizing .. they look like corn dogs. How have I never noticed this before? Is this really why I love cattails? Because they remind me of corn dogs, which are wrongly delicious? Man. If I subconsciously love cattails because of my obsession with food rather than some poetic appreciation of nature, I'm very disappointed in myself.

Which brings me to the reason for this post: I am. Very. Disappointed. It has never before occurred to me - until I looked out my window a little while ago - that you can blow cattail fluff the same way you do dandelion fluff. WHY HAVE I NEVER BLOWN CATTAIL FLUFF??? I just saw a family of 3 (plus a happy, jumping dog) having a cattail fluff fight, and it seemed like the perfect, quintessential fall thing to do. As perfect as kicking leaves as you walk through them, drinking spiced apple cider, and wearing turtlenecks. All of which I've already done this fall, so I need to go outside and add to my repertoire.

* * * * * * *
(virtual cattail fluff, my gift to those of you without the real thing)

Time Capsule

I thought I had given up on blogging. (Facebook, I shake my fist at you, you ruiner of more than two thoughts strung together!) But I've wandered back here, briefly reading a few of my entries from years past .. and I'm amazed at how little I remember from the events I previously blogged about. (Seriously? I ran past a flattened salamander on my first race? I totally don't remember that.)

I'm enjoying having my memory jogged. And I'm starting to realize that creating this time capsule of sorts might be something I will thank myself for later in life. Because even if I don't exactly remember all those details, it is enjoyable knowing I experienced them so completely at the time.

I lost a co-worker a couple of weeks ago. Donna Patrick, Springdale's Center Director, passed away from cancer. She was 48. She lived life fully, and she died far too young. In addition to the multitude of friends, family and co-workers who adored her, she has left behind a legacy at Job Corps that is remarkable.

I dream sometimes about what my legacy could be. To be perfectly honest, I make myself sick about it - lamenting time wasted, fretting about time running out. I don't have children, so wholeheartedly investing myself in them as my legacy isn't an option, as I suspect it is for most people. And yet .. nothing has called to me. Am I merely supposed to choose, somehow, from all the worthwhile causes and people in the world? Make a list, close my eyes, point my finger at the paper and commit to where it lands?

While the options seem too limitless at times, NOT leaving a legacy doesn't seem to be one. What's the point of living if you don't do it in such a way that it leaves pleasant ripples after you're gone?

I'm under no false impression that my writing is anything that will be passed on for generations. In fact, I'm finding this current post to be more "mud bog" than "reflective lake" or "cool, refreshing stream". But it might help me reflect on my life when my time comes. It might be the mirror that shows me how much more I need to do to consider that life one well lived. It might just be a silly blog, but it might lead me to my destiny.

1:38:39, One Black Toenail and One Giant Blister

I participated in the 32nd Troutdale Trot and Walk this morning. I mostly walked it, had a goal of finishing in 2 hours (I had previously walked it on my treadmill in about 2.5 hours), and ended up crossing the finishing line near the front of the pack in 1 hour, 38 minutes and 39 seconds.

First race.

First number thingy for my scrapbook.
First sports injury (GIANT blister and a black toenail) ...

... unless you count the time at the Youth Group softball game when Tim Sivacek barreled into me at 2nd base, bending my thumb backward and giving me a slight strain. Tim, if you're reading this, I still maintain that that was completely unnecessary! Anyway, I don't count that, because Youth Group softball is supposed to be for fun and walking/running 6.7 miles clearly isn't.

I started at the back of the pack and thought this was going to be a healthy but leisurely stroll through downtown Troutdale and along the scenic Historic Columbia River Highway. You know, where I'd have time to hear birds singing and admire spring flowers. (Oooh! I did see a baby salamander, but he looked pretty flat so I think someone in the crowd accidentally stomped on him. And lots of slugs, since it had been raining. Slippery!) I sure was shocked when they fired the gun and everyone's hips started swinging around in that way that only speedwalking elicits. I felt instantly doomed. Since we would be passing my street around the 2 mile mark, I thought maybe I'd just take a little (race-ending) pitstop at home.

On the first big hill, I discovered I had a competitive spirit. I started burning past people who were hotshots at first, and then started playing little games like "I have to pass the next group of people in less than 100 steps". I passed more and more groups until I had the front-runners in view. I got tired of walking and would jog for a while, then walk again. This helped to cure the boredom of no music and no walking buddy (Steve, you selfish jerk, heal already!), and the shin splits I always get when I walk quickly but don't get when I jog slowly. Not that there's a real discernible difference between those two to the casual observer ..

It wasn't my goal to win, but to complete as quickly as possible. I held back on the jogging when I realized some ladies were calling me a cheater. Good grief, gals! So while I'm absolutely confident I could have jogged more and come in first (What?? Crazy talk!!), out of respect for the walkers, I held back.

What a crazy sensation. Walking, but itching to jog. Discovering a competitive spirit that could serve me well in future races. Even the fact that I'm considering future races .. who am I???

At the very end, I caught up to a hefty gal who was kicking butt. I told her she was amazing, because she was. I'd had my eye on her for a while and had finally caught up to her. She told me she was trying to beat last year's time, and was on track to do so by a good 20 minutes, and that she was walking it 75 pounds lighter this year. As if that wasn't enough, she's training to participate in the Hood To Coast relay this year. What an inspiration! (I didn't let her beat me, though.)

Next year, I'll trot. In the meantime, I'll look for other opportunities. And a new pair of sneakers, and some pretty nail polish to cover my disgusting toenail.