Retrospection

Retrospection:  noun
     The action of looking back on, or reviewing past events or          situations, especially those in one’s own life.

In retrospect, if my then-husband and I hadn’t gone up to Vancouver, Canada to get acting work during the Summer of 1994, we may never have gotten a divorce.

In retrospect, if we hadn’t gone up to Vancouver, where I was sitting around doing nothing while my dual-citizen then-husband worked non-stop, I never would’ve gotten the opportunity to audition for the rinky-dink 3-piece country band, by claiming that I had fronted bands back in Los Angeles (a fact I greatly exaggerated).  I never would’ve accepted gigs that paid only $50 for 4-hours a night singing at smoky dive-bars, VFW Halls, and Senior Citizen Homes.  Even though I was under-qualified, had never sung Country, and had to painstakingly learn 30 tunes, I’d been making a minimum of $200.00 per hour as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator back in L.A. 

The Rinky-Dink Country Band

 If we hadn’t gone to Vancouver, and if the then-husband hadn’t gotten all of that acting work, while I never got cast in anything, and if I hadn’t shown him my ugliest jealous behavior, he never would’ve said to me (in an effort to be kind):  “Don’t worry that you’re not going to make it as an ingenue.  Look at that woman who just got a role in 'The Titanic’ movie!  She’s been struggling all these years, and finally got a break, and she’s in her 80’s.  It can still happen for you when you’re older!”  {Gee, thanks}

In retrospect, if he hadn’t made that comment, the comment that became a tipping point, contributing to my wallowing in a deep depression bordering on suicide and spending long hours alone journaling in coffee shops while he was off working as an actor, I never would’ve discovered the creative expression of writing songs.  If I hadn’t been singing with the rinky-dink 3-person country band (guitar, bass, me on vocals and a drum-machine), I never would’ve been hanging out on a break at 1:00 a.m. in a seedy bar outside of Vancouver in the middle of Nowhere, Canada, reading an article by Pam Tillis in which she talked about “writing from title.”  I never would’ve had the impetuous thought on the long drive back to our apartment, that instead of driving off the cliff, maybe I could write a torturous country song instead.  I was convinced I could do it, because all of the 30 songs I’d recently learned seemed so simplistic that anyone could write them. 

If we hadn’t gone to Vancouver that Summer, If I hadn’t started spending all of my lonely hours writing heart-wrenching country songs, (albeit, they were very bad songs, and the then-husband didn’t hesitate to tell me just how bad they were every chance he got) I never would’ve gone back to L.A. with the hair-brained idea that I could become the next Country Star.  I never would’ve checked out the book from the library:  “Get Hot or Go Home” about the making of the Nashville Star, Trisha Yearwood.  I never would’ve had the thought, “it would be so cool to go to Nashville, but I can’t because I’m married.”  

In retrospect, if I hadn’t checked out that book from the library, and if I hadn’t forgotten to take it and several other books back on time, my then-husband never would’ve flown into a tirade, accusing me of being a “chaotic mess.”  He never would’ve screamed, “I’m sick of you, I want a divorce!”  {yep, those overdue library books were the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back}

I never would’ve noticed that article in The (L.A.) Scene about an upcoming class all about “Getting into The Country Music Business.”  I never would’ve met my next mentor and teacher, Phil Swann, who wrote for Steve Bloch, owner/publisher of Southern Cow Music, and I never would’ve met my future “spousal equivalent,” Steve Bloch himself.  

I never would’ve imagined that three years later, single at 40 years of age, I’d pack up only what I could fit into my car, and I’d move to Nashville, Tennessee.  Especially since just months before this I was looking to buy a home in Southern California and I told my mentor (mentioned above) that I wouldn’t consider moving as far as Northridge, California, because I would be too far away from Hollywood--a statement he has not let me live down even after 17 years.

In retrospect, I never dreamed that after one year of living in Nashville, I would decide to stay longer and that the time would fly into 17 years, and it’s now the same length of time I lived in Los Angeles.   

I’ve often asked myself over the years:  “What am I doing in Nashville??  How did I wind up here?”  And whenever I dredge up the past to look at the trajectory of my life, I marvel at the perfect order of events.  I’m grateful that my far-from-perfect marriage ended 20 years ago.  Only in retrospect does the unfolding become so clear.  

We pass through the present with our eyes blindfolded. We are permitted merely to sense and guess at what we are actually experiencing. Only later when the cloth is untied can we glance at the past and find out what we have experienced and what meaning it has.” 
― Milan Kundera, Laughable Loves 

Raining Cats and Dogs

     It's 45 degrees out and I'm sitting in the front yard, enjoying a little sunshine before the freezing weather returns later today, taking a much needed emotional break from tending to Spike, our 12-year-old great dane mix who is in the house suffering right now.   I'm journaling and watching the two remaining semi-feral kitties play.  (Sadly, Lillian, the third kitten, a precious little girl, got hit by a car a few weeks ago, leading me to start allowing these cats to sneak into our bedroom window and sleep in our room on the freezing cold nights).  This has turned into a routine.  The kitties hang out in our room, going in and out of a slightly-ajar window to eat and go potty outside.  They haven't had access to any other part of our house, but they're now sharing the front yard with our dogs; only the dogs don't even realize it, because they've never been introduced!  

     It's so odd sitting here watching the cats play, considering this is what I've enjoyed doing for the past 12 years with my  three dogs.  The kitties make sure the coast is clear--that I'm the only one in the yard--then they slip through the picket fence and their fun begins:   they chase each other, wrestle, hide in the bushes and dart out again, take pottie breaks, chase each other some more, and look over at me to make sure that I'm paying attention--just like a couple of toddlers, only these two cats are teenagers by now, I guess.  I can't help feeling guilty for laughing out loud. 

     12-year-old Spike has been struggling to stand up on her own for two weeks, apparently as a result of a degenerative disc disease which has decided to rapidly take over.  Spike is a gentle, stoic dog, now reduced to being hoisted up by her haunches with a large sheet wrapped around her hips just to get up long enough to go to the bathroom.  The vet thinks that with treatment, ie laser therapy, acupuncture, chiropractic and meds, Spike may get better (or not), but it will take about two weeks of intense treatment to find out.  Lily, our 11-year-old great pyrenees suddenly hurt her back leg on our walk today, and keeled over onto her side where she lay without moving for a good five minutes while Steve ran home to get the truck. Fortunately, she stood up again and limped home on her own.  I guess we'll know in a day or two if she is okay.  10-year-old Shortie has begun to limp as well.  

     So, I'm facing the not-so-far-off end of my dogs' lives, while experiencing the joy of watching the kittens' youthful enthusiasm.  I remember when my dogs were young and rambunctious, hiking with me at Edwin Warner, chasing squirrels, and leaping up on the bed with ease.  Back in the house, as I type this, tears running down my cheeks,  Shortie hears me sniffle, looks up and limps over to me,  concerned.  She hates it when I cry. 

My Mad Cat Capers

I am not a cat-person.  I don't understand them, I'm allergic to them, and ever since the time my mom decided to start her short-lived career as a persian cat breeder, and she locked up about 20 cats in cages in her garage, I have been turned off to cats.  The litter box is a disgusting invention, and the smell of it permeating a home is way worse than any dog smell, in my opinion.

Mama and her 3 kittens

But when I noticed a black and white cat hanging out in my backyard with her three kittens on Memorial Day, I couldn't help but want to see the babies.  I'd been told by my 93-year-old next door neighbor, Eloise, who had just moved into a retirement home, that she felt bad about leaving a cat behind.  It wasn't her cat, she said.  She'd just been feeding it scraps whenever the kitty would show up on her back porch.  So, I knew this mama cat resting with her babies in the bushes had to be the same cat, and now that Eloise had moved, the mama-cat had transplanted her kittens over to my yard.   I immediately knew I had to help.  I may not like cats, but I love babies of any kind.

Knowing nothing about cat behavior, I  learned quickly that the mama was feral, or a stray that hadn't been touched by a human in a long while.  She hissed any time I got closer than about 4 feet.  Still, she was hungry, so I'd put down a can of cat food and walk away.


In the mornings, I started watching the cats from my bedroom window.  I'd call out "mama" and "meow" to let the mom know I was there.  (I read an article that told me it was a good idea to "meow."  I figured it was worth a shot).  It turned out that mama was more frightened of me than the kittens were.  After just a few days, the first brave soul came out of the bushes to eat wet cat food from my hand.  I couldn't believe his mustache!  I named him Charlie. I didn't know if "Charlie" was a boy or a girl, but the name could work for either sex.  When I snapped my first photo, I could see that Charlie still had blue-ish eyes which meant the kittens were around 7-8 weeks old.

Charlie Chaplin, at 8 weeks old

From the moment I had two of the kittens eating out of my hand, I became obsessed with them, but I had no intention of bringing them into our home.  With three large dogs, we have our house full.  I didn't want to have to train the dogs not to kill the cats, and then there's that litter-box repulsion.  So, I started spending about a half-hour each morning and evening in the backyard with the cats (before walking the dogs out our front door).  I thought maybe I could train the kittens to get used to human contact, so that possibly I could find someone to adopt them.  It got to where I could pet two of the kittens while they ate, and I was almost able to pick them up (before they'd jump out of my hands).  The third kitten usually hung back with her mother; she was much smaller than the other two, and much more skiddish.

After three weeks of positive interaction with the kittens, just as one of the kittens was beginning to play with me, I came home that evening and all 4 cats were gone.  I was heartsick (but also a little relieved because I knew I couldn't keep them!).  My friend told me it was for the best.  If I wasn't going to bring them into my house and tame them, it was best for them to learn their feral ways from their mother so that they could survive in the wild.  Nonetheless, I was worried sick about them, and concerned that the mom could get pregnant again while she was out roaming the 'hood.  I spent a week searching and asking neighbors if they'd seen the kitties, and then I looked out my window one morning and they were back!  They all ran up the stairs to my back porch crying for food, and I wondered where in the hell had they gone, and why??  

Rudolph Valentino,  starting to play

It became clear after it happened several times that the mom was taking her kittens away from me so that they wouldn't have human interaction.  After another couple weeks of on-again, off-again appearances, I found out where the cats were living on the off days.  I spotted them four houses down, hiding under a car about 11:00 p.m. one night.  The next morning, I asked those neighbors if they had seen the cats and if they were feeding them.  They told me yes, they had been feeding the mother cat, that she'd given birth in their yard, then she had taken her kittens away but had recently brought them back!  I was stunned.  Mama Cat had another family!  I felt cheated on.  Those neighbors said they'd been feeding the mother cat occasionally for years, and that they'd watched several litters come and go.  

Meanwhile, I had been reading up on feral cats, and how quickly they can multiply.  I had already contacted "Nashville Community Pets," a feral cat organization who could help me get the cats fixed.  I borrowed traps, I was ready to catch the cats, but they had moved down the street!  I asked the neighbor if she was willing to trap and neuter the cats.  She said she didn't know how and was afraid to try.  So, I convinced her to stop feeding the cats, so they'd come back down to my house for food.  I'd trap them, and take get them to get fixed.  Once they were fixed, they could move back down to her house, but at least they wouldn't procreate and have more generations living on the streets.

My plan in place, I watched day and night for the cats to return.  With my flashlight, and my cans of cat food, I'd walk four houses down at midnight and meow, and one-by-one the kittens would meow back, then they'd creep out from under a car, run along some bushes to the edge of the neighbor's property where I laid in wait with the food.  This went on for several nights.  I even recruited my sister to help me when she visited in July.  They'd come crying to me for the food, but they wouldn't come back to my house.  

I was discouraged, and the feral cat organization wanted their traps back.  Then, after 10 weeks, when I was on the brink of giving up, I set the traps in my backyard, hoping I'd get lucky.  The kittens decided to come back at just the right time, and they walked right into the traps.  Then the mama came back and she walked right into a trap too.  I also caught a possum, but I let him go.  Unbelievably simple.  All four cats were fixed one month ago today.  The mama was indeed pregnant again, so she was fixed just in time.   

After they recovered in cages in my basement, I released them all, and the mother quickly ran away.  The kittens apparently decided to stay.  Or else the mom abandoned them.  I don't know.  But now I have three semi-feral, five to six-month old kittens living in my back yard, sleeping in my carport, eating square meals, playing with me and coming when I "meow."  I still can't pick them up, but they are warming up to me!  Rudy caught his first mouse.  Lillian finally let me pet her (for a moment) this morning.  And Charlie will meow like a Banshee when he's hungry.  Mama has shown up  a couple of times for a free meal, but she hisses and bats at her kittens and won't let any of us near her.  

I still don't understand cats, but spending time with them is opening my heart and mind--I just might be a cat-person, after all.

Rudolph Valentino (Rudy), at 5 months

Lillian Gish, at 5 monhs

    

Charlie, at 5 months

The Proof is NOT in the Pudding

The proof is NOT in the pudding.  It's in the putting.  As in putting one foot in front of the other, putting your best foot forward and putting your body into motion.  


At my senior water aerobics class yesterday morning, Jackie, a stately, slim, and glowing woman old enough to be my mother told me:  "You just have to make yourself do it if you want to live long."  She went on to say, "I'm in better shape now than I was when I was 41."  She told me how she had slipped a disc in her back at 41, and that it felt like forever before she could lift anything again.  She's pleased that she can now easily lift a shrub in her garden.


We were talking about the fact that I was sore from my workout the day before.  My "workout" being that I single-handedly moved an enormous couch out of our tiny den, (while Steve was at work and knew nothing about my impulsive decision to rearrange the furniture and dispose of said couch) by pushing, pulling, and eventually lifting it up on end and stuffing it through the door.  I felt so strong and powerful!  It was like lifting weights and I totally forgot any limitation my right leg might have had.  While I was moving the furniture around, I thought about how much I enjoyed renovating homes, and that it might be just about time to tackle another home renovation, if we could find a cheap fixer-upper.  Coincidentally, (or maybe there are no coincidences) I got a call from a real estate investor right after class who told me about a CHEAP fixer-upper that Steve and I might be interested in buying.  (Wow!  I'm thinking, just look at what moving a couch can do...)  For good measure I got on my exercise bike and rode it hard for 20 minutes.


I don't know the origin of the phrase, "The proof is in the pudding," but I think the only proof I'd get from pudding is weight gain.

Out With the Old!

My Year of Treading Lightly

This morning, as we lay in bed, Steve reminded me of this old chinese story: 

Good Luck Bad Luck!

There was a farmer who used an old horse to till his fields. One day, the horse escaped into the hills and when the farmer's neighbors sympathized with the old man over his bad luck, the farmer replied, "Was it bad luck?  Maybe."  

A week later, the horse returned with a herd of wild horses from the hills and this time the neighbors congratulated the farmer on his good luck.  The farmer's reply was, "Good luck? Maybe."  

Then, when the farmer's son was attempting to tame one of the wild horses, he fell off the horse and broke his leg. Everyone thought this was very bad luck. The farmers only reaction was, "Bad luck? Maybe."

Some weeks later, the army marched into the village and drafted every able-bodied youth they found there. When the army saw the farmer's son with his broken leg, they let him off. "Good luck?  Maybe."  
It's been one helluva year.  Breaking my right femur on March 6th was certainly some damn bad luck.  It's shaped my entire year, and been a real challenge emotionally and physically.  But there's been some good luck mixed in.  Like the unexpected surprise when Vanderbilt Hospital waived a large portion of my bill last month, after I fretted over it for several.  And although I lost some home buyer-clients in the months while laid up with my broken leg, I just sold a beautiful home that Arita, one of my best friends, gave me the privilege to list, and I'll have some Christmas money.  

I was looking forward to celebrating the home sale yesterday (Thursday) by taking the day off to just lay around and relax.  But then again, did I really deserve it?  After all,  Steve and I just got back Sunday from a nine day trip to Hilton Head, Savannah, and Charleston, where I worked (a little) with Steve critiquing the songs of country songwriters in Georgia.  Some more great luck:  Steve's cousin donated a week's stay in a beautiful condo  and we earned money while we were there!

So, Wednesday evening, while leaving a songwriting workshop, I stepped off the porch of the host's house, landed on an uneven place, and fell all the way to the sidewalk, twisting my ankle and scraping and bending my right knee in half.  The four other songwriters I was leaving with scrambled to pick me up, carried me back inside where I sat awhile with ice on my knee and ankle.  As planned, I spent the whole day Thursday laying around and relaxing.  Today, as bruises and pain have settled in and I can barely walk (again!), I'm relaxing some more!  

I'm just wondering:  Did I really have to fall and re-injure my leg to justify laying around and relaxing?

Bad luck?  Maybe.

Lost AND Found

Last week, I got the opportunity to work as a "Screener"; screening talent here in Nashville at an open call for the reality t.v. show, "The Glee Project."  I was hired by my long-time friend, and one-time boyfriend (from 35 years ago), Robert Ulrich, who is a very successful casting director in Los Angeles, as well as one of the judges on "The Glee Project."  Robert recently won his first emmy for outstanding casting director of the hit show, "Glee!"


When Robert called me about the gig, he also asked me to recommend some other candidates in Nashville who might be experienced enough to be a "Screener" or "Camera Operator", so I made some calls, and rounded up several of my talented friends who also got to be involved.  So, in effect, I was a location Casting Director!

The Nashville Casting Crew, with Robert

Robert Ulrich and I both grew up in the Central Valley, California--He in Modesto, me in Ceres.  I was 17 years old when I got involved with the Modesto Youth Theatre after seeing Robert, my sister Beverly, and my friend Brian in an amazing production of the musical, "On The Town."  The Modesto Youth Theatre was an excellent training ground for many talented kids, and for so many of us, it was a huge life-shaping experience.  It was the Modesto Youth Theatre that solidified my desire to become a professional dancer and actress.


So, it was Old Home Week in Nashville.  Brian, (who came out to Nashville to help me with my broken femur in April and is still here) and Margaret Rose, (also from Youth Theatre days) who drove up from Orlando, and I, all met with Robert over dinner last Tuesday night and spent hours talking shop about "The Glee Project."


On Wednesday, November 9th, we gathered bright and early at the convention center, where young people were lined up around the block, ready to try out for their big break in show business.  It was such a thrill to be auditioning talented, up- and-coming singer/dancer/actors and to be surrounded by video cameras, because they were shooting a documentary of the entire process.   I felt right at home in the environment.  I was invigorated and joyous.  The gig only lasted two days, for 12 hours each day.  Long hours that flew by.  We closed out our reunion with Robert at a final dinner where we again talked for hours about the auditions.


The day after the job was over, I noticed I waffled between elation and depression.  I was elated to be a part of the entertainment world again, and depressed that I was no longer living that life.  Watching those young singers pour their hearts out made me realize how much I loved performing, and how I'd lost sight of that fact.  Somehow 13 years have gone by since I moved to Nashville, and 5 years have passed since I last performed here in local theatre.  I've been buried in my "real job."  I realize this was a choice.  I had given L.A. 17 years of my soul, and  left there with the decision that if I couldn't be a "player" then I didn't want to be there anymore.  As far as the last five years, I don't know where they went!  Now, I long to be back in the limelight.  I'm sure I  could play a parent on "Glee," or a teacher, or a janitor?!  Or perhaps a cameo as one of the former stars of the 20-Minute Work-Out, complete with my post-broken-femur limp.   "Hey, Mr. Ulrich, Here I Am!  I'm the Greatest Star, I am by Far, But No One Knows It!" 

All in a Day's Walk

Although my right femur is no longer broken and I'm walking as well as one can expect at seven months, I'm still "expressly forbidden" by my spousal equivalent Steve, to walk our three dogs without any help.  He doesn't want me to fall again!  Maneuvering the three dogs on their leashes is no easy task since two of them weigh 90 pounds, and the third one becomes a ferocious little bitch when she sees other female dogs walk by.  But I have no choice when Steve and our live-in friend, Brian, are both unavailable, and the dogs are begging to go to the park! 


So, this morning as soon as Steve left for work and while Brian slept, I braved it (as I've done many times).  I risked being pulled, tripping, falling, and getting tangled up in the leashes because I love my dogs and they love going for walks.  


When we got to the park, I saw my neighbor, Mr. Johnson, an elderly man, walking by himself.  I'd never seen him beyond his front yard, so I asked, "what are you doing out here?"  He surprised me when he said he was stiff and needed some exercise.  (I couldn't help thinking that  he ought to give his dog some exercise!)  


My history with Mr. Johnson goes back several years.  I've watched him acquire puppies since 2003, plant them in his yard on a short chain where he leaves them to rot while they live out their short lives. I plotted a few years ago to steal a sweet pitbull puppy he had named Bouncer, but Bouncer was one of the lucky ones.  He broke free from his chain.  Most of the dogs I've seen in Mr. Johnson's yard simply die young.  I've called Metro Animal Control over the years but it never helped.


As he usually does whenever he sees my dogs, Mr. Johnson said, "oh, those dogs, they is honeys"  "Oh yeah, they's honeys."  I said, "Yes, they are!"  Then he said, "We lost our big dog."  (This didn't really surprise me, since I had recently noticed a new little dog chained up in his front yard.)  "Oh?"  I asked.  "Yeah,...she died,"  he said.  "the heat got her."  I felt my rage rise up through my cheeks as I got sick to my stomach.  I had seen that beautiful, sweet and friendly rottweiler chained up outside in the hot sun all summer.


I asked Mr. Johnson how old the dog was.  He said, "I don't know, she was my daughter's dog."  "Maybe, 10?"  Incredulous, I said, "I think she was only about one, wasn't she?"  Then he said, "Well, we all gonna go sometime."  And I said with a disgusted smirk, "Well, I'd rather it be later than sooner.


Trying to impart a little wisdom upon his ignorant, deaf ears, I said, "It was a hot summer.  That's why I keep my dogs in the house all summer.  It's too hot to leave dogs outside.  Is your daughter going to keep the little dog in the house?"  He shrugged, then said with his shit-eating grin, "I don't know."  I wanted to scream:  "YOU AND YOUR FAMILY NEED TO STOP GETTING DOGS!"  Instead, I held my breath, smiled politely, and somberly walked my dogs home. 


I was still upset as I ran the water for my shower.  When I started to get in, I noticed a huge grasshopper struggling to hop up the side of my tub, trying to escape the water, fighting for survival.  For an instant, I thought of killing the grasshopper.  Instead, I ran and got a couple of paper cups and helped him out of the tub.  I covered one cup with the other until I got him outside and released him on the front porch.  I wondered if the grasshopper felt afraid while he was inside the cup.  I thought of how I had his life in my hands.  Then I thought of Mr. Johnson and his innocent rottweiler, and how that poor helpless dog didn't stand a chance in this world.


I went and lay on the couch with my dog Spike, buried my face in her fur, and cried.

Old News

"I broke my femur," is old news.  


I had my six month check-up on September 9th.  When the orthopedic surgeon came into the exam room, I was missing.  I had gone to the bathroom, and was returning down the hall, when he came out of the room looking for his patient.  When he saw me, it was apparent that he didn't recognize me.  He stared, and then said, "If I didn't have this chart to refer to, I wouldn't know which leg I operated on!  You are walking really well!"  (And I paid $400 for this appointment??)


I told the doctor that I was still having persistent pain when bending my knee and walking down stairs.  I mentioned that he had told me previously that I'd be back to normal at six months-walking normally, doing all of my normal activities, even dancing.  "Did I say that?"  He chuckled.  Then he said with a grin, "You'll never be back to normal."  


What????


I sat there, aghast.  I  think he was making a light hearted joke, but I didn't appreciate it.  He went on to say that I was always going to be aware of my injury.  I told him my hip hurt when I walked.  He said, "well maybe you have some arthritis, I haven't checked your hip."  WHAT???  I said, "don't tell me that!  I haven't had any hip problems prior to this accident, I think it's related to my injury."  He said, "maybe."  MAYBE??


The irony is that I had almost cancelled this appointment.  I knew it was going to be expensive (they take $300 worth of 
x-rays every time I go in), I already owe over $30,000, and I figured I wouldn't learn anything new.  The doctor would just say I was healing well.


What a surprise to learn that I would "never be back to normal."  


Note to self:  a)  Doctors don't know everything.  b)  Who wants to be normal, anyway?

A Poolside Lesson in Humility

This past Tuesday, my friend Carolyn's husband asked me, "So, why did you break your leg?"  

I was taken aback for a moment by the audacity of the question.  Usually, when one suffers a tragedy, or has an accident of some kind, one will wrack their brain trying to figure out why it happened.  "Why me?," has always been a popular question.  But what he wanted to know was, "why did you create the accident?"


I believe in the spiritual philosophy that I create my own reality, but I told him that I'd not been able to come up with a reason that made any sense.  

Still, he got me looking at some questions that I hadn't bothered to think about lately.  In addition to "Why did I break my leg?" Questions like:  What have I learned over the past six months?  What benefit did I get out of the accident?  Why am I still using the broken leg as an excuse to be a victim, to get sympathy, to be liked, to be lazy, to take it easy. Whaaaa?  What was that last part?  To take it easy?  What's wrong with taking it easy, I wonder?  And why am I still using the broken leg to beat myself up?  Why am I not letting go and moving on with a new story about the broken leg, and what new story can I tell?.... 


After living with these questions all day Tuesday, I went to Senior Water Aerobics class on Wednesday with a renewed sense of acceptance.  (Although I hadn't come up with an answer to "why" I broke my leg, I know I wouldn't have joined a "Seniors" class had I not needed gentle water therapy).


After the class, I stayed in the pool to do extra leg exercises.  An elder woman from the class whom I'd often smiled at, but never talked with before, made a casual comment:  "You haven't had enough, huh?"  I answered with, "well, I just need to strengthen my leg."  She asked me if I was recovering from a surgery.  And I said, "yeah, I broke my femur in March."  I saw the sadness in her eyes as she said, "my son did that."  She paused.  Then she said, "he got a blood clot."  I paused.  "Did he make it?" I asked.  "No."


She went on to tell me that her 37 year old son fell in a hole, much the same way that I did, and landed wrong, just like I did.  He had surgery, just like I did, was recovering well, went home, and two weeks later developed a blood clot that traveled to his lung and killed him.  She said she didn't understand why the doctor hadn't prescribed a blood thinner, why her son had only been prescribed aspirin.  (Blood thinners are usually prescribed after femur surgery, because the risk of developing a blood clot is so high).  She said she didn't understand why her son, who was a good Christian, happily married with two children, was taken so soon.  But, she said, she had to accept that "the Lord must've needed him for some reason." 


As I quietly listened, I thought about the fact that I chose not to take the blood thinners that were prescribed to me after surgery.  And I wondered why I escaped a blood clot.  Why was I so blessed?  Why was I given the opportunity to survive, live, grow, change?


Today, I'm still pondering all of the questions and I am filled with humbleness and gratitude.

My Great Big Party!

Monday, I had a great big party.  It lasted for hours!  Clear into Tuesday evening.  I didn't invite anyone.  Who'd wanna come anyway?  I'm talking about a Ginormous pity party.  The kind where you wake up angry, and before you've even had your first cup of day old re-heated coffee, you feel that life couldn't get any worse.  You cry and rage and cuss and nobody wants to be around you.  Steve tried to soothe me with his classic matter of fact self-help line, "a mood has you."  "Duh, no fooling you!" I said, with my most charming witch face.  Brian offered (with the kind of authority that most men seem to have on this subject),  "it must be your menopause!"  


At first, I couldn't figure out what was going on.  Was it all the sugar I'd eaten over the weekend that caused me to plummet?  Nothing else out of the ordinary could've caused this journey into the deep, dark abyss.  Just a casual conversation on Sunday evening with a fellow real estate agent who appears to be doing sooo much better than me financially.  That, combined with my ever-present hospital bills, and the ever-present pain in my right leg--the leg that's supposed to be completely back to normal in six months according to the doctor.  (My six month check up is only three weeks away!!)  


So, I woke up mad, and feeling sorry for myself, and completely oblivious to the underlying cause:  I was comparing my failings to another's success.  It's no fair that I broke my leg and couldn't work for several months.  It's no fair that I'm still not operating at peak productivity, doing as well as Ms. X.  


I recognized this old trait of mine while in the middle of my wallowing.  I remembered my Hollywood acting years when jealousy ate away at me most of the time.  Sometimes I would be so upset after seeing a great film, because I wasn't in it, that I'd be depressed for hours.  At one point, I determined that it was my jealousy and competitiveness that were keeping me from attaining my dreams.  Now I wonder, are these same ugly attributes keeping me from succeeding again?  And as I have this thought, I realize it's just one more negative thought to beat myself up with.....


Comparing what you have to what others have is a good 
way to make yourself miserable.  


Amen.


There will always be someone smarter, stronger, prettier, thinner, wiser, healthier, happier, and more successful than me.  


There is one good thing about comparing myself to others though.  It usually pisses me off enough so that when I've worked through my "mood," my competitive nature kicks in and causes me to come up with creative ways to be better at whatever it is I want to be better at, and I focus on that.


“When you are content to be simply yourself and don't compare or compete, everybody will respect you.”  Lao Tzu


http://hellogiggles.com/9-tricks-to-kick-envy