Moving Forward

"The mind replays what the heart can't delete.”

Yasmin Mogahed

There's something about the cold that brings about its own introspection, at least for my age group.  On one such morning, this winter, it was in the low 20s as I hit the sidewalk for some cardio to get the blood circulating, carrying with me some peanuts to toss to the squirrels as I ran.  I don't use this time or the hours later in the week that I'll spend with the punching bag or on the exercise mat as a time to worry about things, such as why anyone thought that doing a plank was a good idea, or how I ended up with so many dust bunnies under the recliner.

There are times when, in order to dwell in the present, focused and aware, you just have to let everything else go and embrace your truth.  Your truth may be clarity, it may be fear, sometimes it's a little of both, but I'd rather have a healthy fear of the unknown than a fear of myself.

I wouldn't be out long; I needed to get showered and then to the church that day, and as I moved, I paid close attention to everything around me, tilting my head to the sound of a garage door going up behind me.  I listen like this when I'm lying in bed alone when my husband is on the road.  There is the gentle huff from the closet of a black lab rescue dog, who sleeps on a soft dog bed there among the clothing that hangs over her head like boughs of a tree. There is the soft chime of a clock, a footstep down the driveway next to our bedroom, the familiar sound of our retired neighbor making one last patrol of his property before bed, a Navy tech always on watch, even if it's been 40 years since he's been on board a ship

I'm reassured by the stir and murmur of his moving, knowing he watches out for me like a daughter when Partner is gone, making sure I am safe.  We were lucky to have such neighbors.  My husband often plows their driveway, and they make sure I'm in safely at night, the light from the bedroom which is across from their kitchen, letting them know I'm in, and not floundering out in minus 20 degrees weather after busting a move down the stairs taking the dog out to the backyard.  It's just one of the many things I think of on such nights, things I am grateful for as I hear the gentle sound of his gate closing as he rejoins his wife. Although my mind is still moving too quickly for sleep to come, I find rest with those attentive perceptions of the slight sounds around me.

But I also listen like this when I run, paying attention not to just possible traffic but possible dangers lying about in the shadow.  I know of people who never consider fear as they move around a quiet neighborhood, trusting others to keep them safe, trusting in a good fortune that has not as yet failed them.  Life seems an indestructible thing for some people, continuing in light and in dark, awake and asleep, tirelessly watchful of us, not realizing that in reality, it hovers just as affectionately around our impending death.

Call me cynical, but I've made it past 60, only having been shot at once (OK, several times if you count bullet holes in an aircraft) by watching the darkness and listening to its conspiracy of breath.

I spotted her just as I rounded the corner to home, a dark red colored parka standing like a flame on the frozen ground. From a distance, she looked neatly dressed, a young twenty-something professional woman pulling a small roller board suitcase. Her posture was stiff and angular almost as if she were a carved figure and not a human being. I didn't recognize her, but the large house on the corner had been made into apartments where young people who are new to the area often briefly live when they are first out on their own.  I figured she was waiting for a taxi or Uber to the airport perhaps.  Most of our neighbors don't pay the extortion that is O'Hare airport pricing and it's common to see such a vehicle at the curb in the early morning hours.

But what drew my attention, was even as I was not going to directly pass her, she moved as if to make herself invisible, pulling back into shadow, not making eye contact. Even though she was in the shadows her quiet anxiety took on the glare and glow of light.  Though her stance was one of watchful age, her face had that youthful look to it that was someone barely in their 20s.  I noted a pale and extremely thin face, pants that were more worn than you would wear to travel and thought "she's homeless".  Coming from a two-generation LEO family that knows a lot about self-reliance, that can't help but pull on my heartstrings.

My husband had spotted her one night when he was out with the dog, and I was almost certain this was the same young woman.  He'd mentioned the unique coat and the roller bag and how she tried to avoid the gaze of anyone out for an evening stroll.  On that night, he had called our local police, hoping that someone could come by and take her to one of the shelters, but when we saw the cruiser amble past, they were met with only shadows.

As I ran, I pulled my jacket closer around me.  It was still winter, a freezing mist laying along the slopes of the bungalows.  What little light the heavens were emitting fell down upon it, as if an abyss, swallowed up by the darkness. From above, the morning sound of a songbird, weightless and transient herself, one which hawk might prey on or owl, still at this moment, singing as if it is immortal, and indeed at this moment, may very well be.

I thought of approaching the young woman and offering help, at least some money for the cheap local hotel where she could sleep in warmth for once.  She literally froze where she stood and we looked at each other from opposite sides of the streets like mismatched bookends. I'm familiar with the usual homeless that panhandle on my drive home, many of them cheerfully engaged, even if they were perhaps fighting their own personal demons. This young woman looked, frankly, LOST, as if fate had someone plucked her out of the paradox of her surroundings to be a paradox of her past, as she wandered the same streets over and over looking as if the answer was somewhere close at hand

I paused, smiled, and moved towards her, and the look in her eyes shifted as she drew away from me.  It was the look of a feral animal and a dangerous one. If I approached she was going to run or fight, and one thing my LEO Mom taught me was to walk away from the fight when you can.

I have worked as a volunteer in enough shelters to recognize the look, one of mental illness and pain.  I can only guess how she views me, if she even SEES me, her reality perhaps being no more than bright outlines, painful colors, and voices that make her hide under a blood-colored coat as they rang in her head with a great din of cymbals. There was no difference in her mind between the voice of anger and the voice of assistance. All I could do for her this early morning was leave her territory, hoping she could see in my eyes that I was no threat.

I saw her a couple of other times as I drove home from the town square, always in the vicinity of a home we knew was vacant, as the locals didn't always think to have someone pick up the flyers and advertisements that make their way to the porch while they took their kids on vacation. I'm guessing she was sheltering in the backyard, or perhaps a garage left accidentally unlocked. She always had that roller bag, but anytime she saw another human on the street, she would turn and go the other way, instinct and anguish guiding her step, not wishing to be saved.

She then disappeared from the local neighborhoods. Ours is a very small village, surrounded on two sides by dense forest, and a river on the other, tending to isolate the locals.  Someone like that will stand out when perhaps they don't wish to.  Today, months later, on the way to church which is a fair drive away, under an overcast sky, we saw the red coat and the bag that trails her like a forlorn puppy as she crossed a busy street ahead, disappearing into a crowd of people going out for breakfast in that upscale community's main street.  None of them noticed her, her thinness, the tremor of a hand, there in the fog of their morning conceit, and she disappeared into the masses, like an invisible line of wind running through a wheat field.

Later, we quietly sat in our pew, in quiet prayer before the organist began, the sun finally broke through the stained glass, its light merging with the brilliance of the alter, becoming one bright immensity, there among the formerly lost.

Before I raised my head, I said a prayer for that young woman.  I can't take away her pain, for events in the past that hurt or harm often stand out in our minds as they are no longer surrounded by a clutter of insignificant details that then disappear over time. No, I can only pray that in spirit, she can remember back to the time before her aimless wanderings, back to the days when she was a young child. For the very young, don't have those standout painful moments, even a bruise or a bump is immediately forgotten after a kiss from Mom to make it better. No, the very young have the freedom to live forward of their coming days in all the serene continuity of hope which knows no respites and no scrutiny.

In that, I would hope she could, if only as a brief dream. move forward as a child would, without fear.
 - Brigid

Human Training

Sunny doesn't start training with a trainer until next week, to give her some time to acclimate If you have never acclimated a rescue puppy that's 65 pounds, take a small Rhino, 45 towels, and a few squeaky toys and unleash in your small house.  Yard playtime time is essential.  That is where the puppy will race around with all the speed of a tree sloth, sniffing everything as slowly as possible, only to resume the last 3 laps of the Nascar race once re-entering your home.

But she knows her name now, will sit on command, and takes treats gently from my hand when she is praised for doing well.

I won't change a thing. 

FREEDOM RIDE!

We have a new addition to the house.  Meet Sunny (Former AKC "Honey Bee" who joins rescue Lorelei who turns 12 this May.  The name was changed as I just had visions of shouting out the back door at 6 am to the dogs and Partner in Grime

"HONEY get that OUT Of your mouth".

"HONEY, drop it drop it drop it drop it"

or

"HONEY - don't EAT the rabbit poop!"

She's 10 months old, and was released from a breeder in another state.  Her front legs are bowed slightly,  she probably grew faster than expected in a small enclosure, but outside of walking a bit like Festus, she is active,  healthy and playful and came well nourished and up to date on all her shots and heartworm.

But she is VERY happy to have a family!  Thanks to her foster family who helped with that first week transition and to the Lab Rescue who sprung her.  

I think Barkley would be pleased.

I know you said it was a long drive home but are we there yet?

Seriously, we're not there YET?

Smith and Wesson 637 - Snubby but Powerful

I'm a big fan of the Smith and Wesson 66, otherwise known as the Combat Magnum.  It is an outstanding pistol in every aspect.  They are hard to find, no longer being made, so one in premium condition is going to be sought after, for many reasons.

But then again, there are other guns which may have their own uses, so I'm always open to trying something new. I'm not an expert on either firearms or this particular piece, but I wanted to share the days photos of a beautiful little well maintained firearm (exact age unknown, it's not old but it's not brand new) that was fun to get to experience (with a box of .38 special .+P loads).

This 637 belongs to a friend from International Sneaky Service who shared a couple of his favorites one day, including this Airweight double action revolver.   Compared to the steel frame stub nosed firearms  I've handled, the weight difference of the steel and aluminum framed 637 was noticeable. Another difference? The barrel.  I've owned a snubby or two but this snubby made those other barrels look like runway models.  They say that there is a gun for every purpose and a purpose for every gun.  Well this one's purpose is clear, it's concealed carry.

One person at the range said they thought the 637's were bulky compared to other J Frames. I do believe they're all the same size and I didn't find it bulky for a snubby at all.

Size-wise, it is LOT smaller than the Sig 220 or  239, so much easier to conceal, small enough for a jacket pocket for someone that is not Hobbit sized.  It's also not a gun that is so ugly you are tempted to shoot it through a brown paper bag.  It's a pretty little piece with a nice finish and rounded form.  I've not shot a "brand new out of the box" one, so I can't speak for the durability of the newest finishes, but this one was nice and appeared to have worn well.  Besides, in firearms, I just like the look of a snubby, maybe it was the whole revolver thing, those old movies where Humphrey Bogart would brandish a certain firearm and change the course of things. OK, he didn't have a 637 but I believe I saw a 1903/1908 Colt pocket hammerless and the Colt police special revolver in Key Largo.

Like the Single Action Army Colt or the M1911A1, it just has some mystique to it.

Features:
The newer 637's have an internal lock. I didn't mess with it, so no news on how it works. The newer ones do have the flatnose hammer though.

This firearm was purchased used.  With a very long, heavy trigger pull, I doubt it's had a trigger job.  Now granted, S & W's trigger weight is said to be set high to ensure successful ignition of any round put in the chamber, and it's been argued that reducing the weight TOO much could impact that reliability

.
For me anyway, the trigger job is more about smoothness, than weight   A smooth action certainly helps me stay on target.

DIY gunsmiths (usually more successful than DIY Surgeons or DIY tattoo artists) have purchased spring kits to do their own trigger jobs and there's lots of info on the web on such things for those of you so inclined.

But for the average person, new to shooting,  I'd suggest talking to a professional gunsmith who puts great value on carry firearms. You may be putting your life on the line in your "remodeled" firearm's ability to strike on target and stop an aggressive criminal..  You only want changes to your firearm that will increase those odds (so no duct-taping a penlight to the top of your gun because your spouse won't let you get a laser sight).

Trigger - Fortunately I'm not one of those women who have ever come home, looked at my partner and said, "Babe, do you think I need a trigger job?"  But I have had a trigger/action job on guns I've carried concealed, and aware there are pros and cons to it, especially as it relates to making the trigger too light. Don't forget - hair triggers are a jury's best friend.  I like the fact that the trigger pull is a bit heavy; it doesn't make for pinpoint accuracy, but it does provide for an extra safety margin for a gun that may be carried outside of a conventional holster.

Grips - Grips aren't just for feel and looks, but can impact concealability and even recoil to some degree. I'm not familiar with other types for this particular S&W, but I'm sure readers may have some suggestions.  This one had Crimson Trace laser grips and all I can say is SHINY!  You may not use them at normal range distances, but when you're morning breath close (retention firing practice) they are great for maximizing accuracy. In retention shooting, this is key. Not only for the possibility of the bad guy going for your gun but being prepared and trained to shoot in close quarters when the threat is right on top of you.

Some folks will say "Why put laser grips/sights on something that you're going to shoot at very close range".  I've said it in about every self-defense post I've done, you are NOT going to be attacked by a six-foot paper bad guy or paper zombie squirrel, standing directly in front of you, completely stationary until you put a hole in them.. When you are considering carrying a firearm for defense and becoming proficient with it, you must take into account that you may very well have to fire it from the most awkward, unnatural position possible (and I'm not talking about an armed robbery during your yoga class).

Laser grips WILL give you an advantage when defending yourself from a non -traditional firing position and have the everyday advantage of consistent and accurate output (think confidence and accuracy) That being said, I use iron sites, not putting my life on the line for anything battery powered because I've not practiced my basic skill sets. Plus, in my opinion, they also make it pretty clear where you are and which one of the possibly multiple bad guys you're aiming at. Employ the switch accordingly, taking into account your own skill level, training, and background.  Also take into account auditory and sensory exclusion that occurs in high-stress situations, where you may not be even able to remember if you have a front sight.

But still, I'm thinking LG-405 crimson trace grips that have the "recoil-absorbing" cushion on the grip  help with the recoil without adding any width to the firearm.  If I were to buy one for myself, I'd definitely consider one of their products.

Out at the Range -

The first word out of your mouth after you pull the trigger will NOT be "Uff  Da!"  It will be a bit more "salty".  Like ghost peppers,  this is not for a beginner, especially a first-time shooter.  Bleeding is possible. Recoil is somewhere between "dental drill unpleasant" and "Democratic Filibuster with chainsaws".  This is a piece that must be gripped properly and once gripped you have to pay attention to your grip.   You know, those outdoor shows where the host is holding shut a pair of crocodile jaws and you think "boy I hope he doesn't loosen his grip".  Yes, that kind of paying attention to your grip.

If you give the 637 to someone a little new or shy to firearms to shoot the first time, they're not likely to shoot anything else ever again.  Let them get a front site-shaped gouge in their forehead, and you will not only have killed any future desire to explore wingshooting, you'll likely not regain their trust for a long time (and sleeping on the couch might be in your future, depending on the situation).

Add a short barrel with short-sight radius to the 637's lighter weight and powerful ammo and the result is a weapon that is difficult to shoot well for many people, least of all, a beginner.  Painfully difficult.  Even with experience, this is not a firearm that makes me sit and think "Gee!  I can't wait to get to the range and put 100 rounds through this!"   I'd just as soon munch on a bunch of ghost peppers while getting a Brazilian Bikini Wax than do 50 rounds or more at one time.

For a first-time shooter, wanting something in a compact variety in the S&W line, friends have  recommended the model 36, 40, or 60, or even a more midsized 10, 13, 64, or 65. 

Whatever you choose, practice. Shooting a few rounds through it regularly will keep you proficient for when you might have to use it, for an up close situation that needs your immediate attention.

Accuracy - at distance, shot placement is good if being attacked by a large dirigible,  not so good otherwise.  With practice you should be able to shoot a "not great" but "decent" group, at a distance of 20 feet or less. For this firearm, with the very long and heavy pull, a trigger job may help with the accuracy in DA, but in Single Action it was decent enough close in to get the point across.  I also noticed that, like most snubby's I've owned or tried, I am probably going to have to aim just a tiny bit low to get the shot placement where I want.

You pull the trigger, it shoots.  It doesn't get any simpler than that. This little firearm ejected without a hitch, and probably would do so all day if you were up to it (ghost peppers please!)

Cleaning - A basic leaning is pretty easy, start with the Hoppes #9  and a little bronze brush to scrub in and around those hard-to-get places like the breech face and around the forcing cone. On the cylinder face some folks will soak a piece of the finest Scotchbrite they can find and gently scrub it followed by a little more Breakfree CLP.  Then just wipe down the outside of the revolver with a soft clean cloth and a bit more CLP.

Some shooters will remove the cylinder for a good clean after putting a lot of rounds through it though but I have no experience or advice on that.

If  I were to pick one up for myself,  It would be an older one.  It's just my opinion but I like the older S&W's over the newer ones. The older ones I've been privileged to get to try were steady, reliable, guns I wished I'd owned. Getting one can be a good investment of your dollars and a good investment in self-defense.  But such choices are very personal, and what I would like., someone else may not.

If you DO find one, either old or new, carry a speedloader and practice with it. If you are going to be reloading under any kind of stress, be it a bad guy, or a weekend match with your partner watching you, you must practice with it. You are not looking for lightning speed, but practical, quick, measured movement that is accurate and instinctive.

Practice with it, and maintain it well. Squeeze some tennis balls to strengthen your hand and learn to curse in a variety of languages.  But in return, you will get a quite "easy to pick up and conceal" piece that if loaded and well maintained, WILL go bang every time you pull the trigger.  Properly equipped,  with one of those new .38 defensive loads meant to make the most of a snub barrel, mixed into enough practice sessions so you know how it feels and where it hits, it would be hard to beat for an up close and personal self-defense piece. - Brigid

The Zen of Risk

Some years ago, I delivered a corporate jet to Hawaii to the new owner and had a chance to stay for a night or two due to a tropical storm waiting off the coast. After I left the airport, I caught a ride on the Holiday Inn shuttle with a group of Japanese tourists, a tall redhead in a sea of petite dark-haired people, chattering in a language of excited song. I remember reading somewhere that the Japanese view Westerners as stone but regarded the Asian countenance as water. When I observed myself pushing my way through their group, I vowed to become more like water for this day. I would infuse my motions with the smooth physical flow of a stream. I would place myself in the current and simply float, drifting where the day took me. A sturdy Western stick merging into a vast tropical ocean. The voyage was on.

I couldn't wait to wash off the kerosene smell from my body while boogie-boarding the beginner-sized breakers I'd seen on the final approach. I could see the great ranks of creamy waves curling towards me from the inviting blue water. My pulse quickened.

As my bus companions dipped their toes in the shallows, I noticed a young woman staring out into the water. I watched her, as she watched the water with intensity. She wasn't a tourist but a Native, and she was reading the lineup and break of the waves. This was someone who knew the area, so I shyly asked her how it was. She replied, "You'll be all right if you stay where that flat water is - see over there, but if you get out much further than that, "and she looked out at the vista of water, further out. "the rip current will carry you out there," she said pointing past a cluster of rocks that stood sentry at the far edge of the swimming area, in which cavorted the families I'd driven over with. She looked somberly and continued, "Then the current will grab you, and you'll be pulled out and brought back in over here," pointing to the cluster of hard stones, "where you'll meet up with Mr. Rock, likely headfirst. So any of us here would tell you to stay away from the water that's white Ma'am".

I wondered if I would have tried it if I hadn't spoken to her. Would I have just jumped in, swimming past all those friendly-looking breakers? It looks like a postcard, something I'd send back to my friends. And I began to think how easy it is to die. To just disappear, with little warning or fanfare, off the face of the planet. Indeed, I thought about that when I was 6 hours over the ocean in an airplane, beyond gliding distance from anything, but now I was on the ground, safe, enjoying myself. I left the airport all safe and happy, and there I was, utterly clueless, asking for directions from a local to the bottom of the ocean. I thought, forget all those stupid Survivor shows. Paradise is some serious business. Or, as the Tao Te Ching puts it, Heaven and Earth are inhumane; they view the myriad creatures as straw dogs.

I read a survival book; I think it was "Deep Survival," It tells the story of a rock over here, a popular photo site, where the waves crash against it majestically. Tourists stop here as it's a remarkable photo opportunity, the breakers breaking past them and showering them with sea drops. A man will pause to adjust the settings on his digital camera and look up to find his lover gone, never to be seen again.

One of those things that kills us in the wilderness, in nature, is we don't understand the forces we engage. The environment we have grown up in the US to expect is one of peace and sustenance. For the lucky ones, food appears often and in abundance. There's medical care for those fortunate to have a job that provides it, and there's plenty of light and oxygen. It is like we are in a big safe pen, a domestic den of civilization. Then we go into nature, the playing field is leveled, and we are tested in ways that life or TV do not prepare us for.

Most of us sleep through the test and come in and out of the experience, never really knowing what we did or didn't do to survive. Yet someone believes that we are hardy, knowledgeable adventurers. As pilots say, "Been there—done that." It's smoke and mirrors.

Author Jon Krakauer wrote about mountaineer guide Scott Fisher, the one who encouraged him to climb Mt. Everest. "We got the 'big E' figured out," he told him" "We've got it totally wired." Fisher died up there. The psychology of oblivion is not a new science.. Making someone into a believer and coming to terms with the unfamiliar forces of nature is complicated. We live in North America, where, for the most part, and thanks to many - soldiers, law enforcement officers, and firefighters, we are for the most part, safe. Few of us believe in our own mortality until we're faced with it; even then, after the threat passes, we forget. So, we have no way to prepare for what seems to remove a possibility. As Christopher Burney, who was a prisoner of war at Buchenwald, said, "Death is a word which presents no real target to the mind eyes."

The surest way we can become believers in mortality, short of dying, is to sit and contemplate those things. And so that day, instead of body surfing in the white waves, I sat—very still and quiet, like stone. 

On Strategy

“The enemy of a good plan is the dream of a perfect plan.”- 

Prussian General Karl von Clausewitz

"Strategy without tactics is the slowest route to victory. Tactics without

 strategy is the noise before defeat". - Sun Tzu

“Pursue one great decisive aim with

 force and determination.” - Carl von Clausewitz

"The opportunity to secure ourselves against 

defeat lies in our own hands." - Sun Tzu 

"However beautiful the strategy, you should

 occasionally look at the results."— Sir Winston Churchill

"Never interrupt your enemy when he is 

making a mistake."— Napoléon Bonaparte

St. Patrick Day Canon Fodder

Despite the name (I was named by nuns prior to adoption), I don't have a drop of Irish blood -mostly Scot (including English, Flemish, Dutch, and Norwegian) from my bio mother and Ashkenazi Jew from my bio father is it for my DNA.  

Today then, just some pictures from a trip to Ireland, one place I'd love to go back and visit again. 

\

SHEEP !!

Saving Daylight

Daylight saving time is still messing with my internal clock.  Forty years ago, I could put in a 14-hour duty day flying, walk off the airplane at 11 p.m., and be back in the cockpit at 7 a.m. (the time spent getting to and from the hotel did not count as your legal "rest" back in the day).  I'd do that over and over, getting the occasional whopping 10 hours of rest in there to be legal, and still be bright and chipper.

Now, the only chipper I can conjure up is the wood variety I'd like to lob the alarm clock into just to hear it ground into bits.

Getting up early was even easier as a child. In Summer, we'd fling ourselves out of bed at the first rustle of a cereal box, eager to see who could get the prize out first.  Actually, the day the box arrived home, I would carefully slit open the bag, extrapolate the prize, examine it carefully, then carefully suture the bag and leave it for my brother, who then spent the rest of the prize-less day attempting to blow me up with water filled missiles (which said something about both our later career choices).

As soon as we were fed, out the door we went for a day of play, running so fast that we'd not feel the hot cement on our bare feet, cooling off only with the garden hose. It was probably just as well we didn't as yet realize that 20 years later, we'd be running after something so hard we never felt it burn us.

Now, I'm spoiled, starting my day early for the most part because I want to. I've come to enjoy that quiet time before the city fully awakes when the sun rises over the waves that splash upon the shore of Lake Michigan with the lightness of youth, then vanish with grace and little resistance on the shore. It's those moments upon the shore, early in the day, that remind me of the ocean of my childhood, when I realized how much the water could bring and had yet to realize all it could take away. Some days, I'll have a couple of hours to myself before work, time to wander and dream, write, or bake a loaf of bread. On other days, I hit the ground running like a dog hot on the trail of a squirrel, eager for the chase. Each kind of day makes me appreciate the other.

There is a marked difference between getting up early because you want to and because you HAVE to. 

Getting up at 3:00 a.m. to ride a boat across the Columbia River Bar (which makes the Toutatis (Parc Astérix) roller coaster look like a stroll) to fish for salmon? No problem. Up at 4 to set up in a tree blind so you are in place as the first rays of sun shine their dapple promise of light on a 12-point buck.  Love to!

But it's another thing when that alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m. because I have an early morning Zoom call with the Transportation Secretary of Angria or something.  There is no sun, or even the promise of sun, just an intense dark blue, almost black, that is not a color but an entire absence of color.  The room is cold, and I'd open the window, but not only would that make it colder but it would make my room smell like dead autumn leaves after it rains.  

There had better be coffee. If it is decaffeinated, remember I have crime scene tape.

But if you are like me you do it, because it's what you do, it's what you are, someone that says they'll do something and will, someone that doesn't believe in others being responsible for your bills. You are someone who had any inclination of entitlement wiped off their face by parents who remembered what it was to go to bed hungry growing up. It's trusting in the Lord in all things and caring for others while still remembering Galatians 6:5. For each one should carry their own load. 

I remember a day in the field, in unseasonably warm temperatures, that stretched into days, only time for a fresh biohazard suit with a handful of what I still think were hamster pellets and a swallow of liquid before going out again. I remember shouting directions and orders, trying to keep my team safe, where at the end, I could only speak in a scratched whisper, like a violin of which all the strings save one were broken in a final crescendo that ended like a blow.

I remember stopping at the store late on the way home, for a bottle of wine that might help me obliterate the images in my head, when the clerk said something about "I hate working nights."  I just smiled, thinking that at least she didn't have to put her clothes aside at the end of the shift to be burned, as I went home to try and forget.  

After days like that, getting up early, clearheaded and at peace, eating a warm scone in my office while I write some reports is a piece of cake.  

Retire, everyone says - you can sleep in, you can be a "trophy wife" (at my age, I think I'm a "participation trophy" wife).  I don't think so, I found out many years ago, when dating someone who was wildly successful, that I was just something pretty to be worn on his arm, like that watch that cost as much as my car, only to find that when the day was done, and the business contract signed, I could be removed just as easily at the end of the night.  No thanks.  I'm happy with a husband who works as hard as I do, who will get up at o' dark hundred to make the coffee if need be, just as I am known to be up early to make him sandwiches and pack some homemade cookies from my secret stash for an unexpected road trip.  Because, after enough late days and early mornings in a lifetime, you realize what truly is important. It's not living long enough to forget; it's living long enough to remember fully.

When the alarm goes off tomorrow, and I wake to dark skies, I'll smile with the thought of the grace of another new day crashing upon the shore, if perhaps in just a while longer.  I may be God's child and someone's employee, but at heart, I'm a vagabond without a master, and for all I cannot control in this world, that snooze button is mine. 

 - Brigid

We Were Wolves Once

 

We were wolves once.

Wild and wary.

Stealth and cunning.

 

Then we noticed you had couches.

Quote for the Day

 Bow Ties are Cool.

   - The Eleventh  Doctor

A Leap Into Freedom

Getting ahead of ourselves.  Jumping the gun. Looking before you leap.  All terms any of us, young or old, have heard many times. I look outside to an unseasonably warm day, our winter one of record-breaking cold, and warmth.  The small birds and animals are behaving as if it's Spring.  They don't realize that Winter is far from over, simply obeying the call of inborn impulse; not clinging to old life and habits, not knowing the fear of finality which lurks in the hearts of we mortals that forestalls so many heroisms and so many tears.

It's easy to do, to rush forward without thinking, and often, without listening.  The news has had a lot of reports on near misses at airports, It has always happened, we just didn't have such a level of media and internet platforms. I remember one night at San Francisco International. Unless the winds were howling out of the west with a storm, planes landed to the west, and took off to the east.  Two would land on the parallel 28 runways, two would then take off on the 10 runways.  Then one night, as we waited in line to depart east, the air traffic controller started shouting, "Aircraft on the roll on 10, Abort, Acme Airways, go around!!!  Apparently, someone decided to takeoff without clearance while someone was on final the other direction.

The plane taking off continued to do so in silence while the other aircraft safely, and at safe altitude, just went around to join the conga line for landing again.  But what made that memory stick was the voice we heard, as the controller did the verbal mamba, a pilot in line, with a heavy sigh, simply saying over tower frequency "It's Mexicana. . ." That sort of explained everything.

I think the controller went home early that night.

But some decisions to forge on, deceived by the emotional estimate of our need, don't result in near catastrophe, except to the waistline or the heart. Hopefully others don't notice and give voice to them, as we ourselves wrap them up in absolute silence, the only safeguard we still have for further hurt.

I spent a lot of time outdoors growing up out west, mostly hiking, including some high-altitude technical hikes.  I learned to watch for signs of changing weather, of animal tracks that indicated predators in the area.  I had been well versed by my Deputy Sheriff mom in the pitfalls of ego and overconfidence in the wild and how easy it was to lose track as the voices of nature called through the noise of a great forest, drowning out your own common sense.

But like any young person, did I listen to my mom? No.  While hiking with friends, I went "off trail" just to take a few photos of the redwoods.  I didn't go far, I thought, and wasn't gone long, but why had the light changed? Then I realized, crap, I didn't have a clue where I was and it would be dark in a couple of hours. Rather than continue onward and make matters worse, I just stopped, prepared to set up camp overnight if need be.  I felt pretty stupid and very small there below the drooping boughs of green that looked down with the somber resignation of giants that had lost faith in their own strength.

Then I shouted.

From the hills the echo of my voice came back like a long drawn and mournful sigh, as if the land had sent it in answer to the voice of its creator.  At first there was no other answer, only the voice of the wind as it murmured in somber similarity behind the growing veil of twilight, only to die against the soft whisper of my own ragged breathing. 

Then I heard it, the sounds of others, a shout, a wave, through good timing, and patience I wasn't going to be on the news later with the headline "Lost Idiot Redhead, located after a week in the woods. 'I was so hungry I almost ate the Butter Rum Life Savers', she said". 

There were other outdoor mishaps, the time I opened up the bottle of Tinks, deer in estrous scent and took a big whiff to see what it smelled like. I do believe most of my nose hair incinerated, my retinas briefly detached and there was a compression somewhere between C-11 and C-12 as I attempted not to throw up.  That doesn't even rate with (1) what not to do on a flight test of the stall system of a T-39, (2) airline crew meals. and (3) those times we all know of where we believed that the heart's longing reflected in another's eyes was more than wishful thinking.

But with every, "Oh, that wasn't a great idea" there were those blissful moments almost not taken.  That flight on a Saturday morning as the sun came up, head clear, departing a small strip in quest of altitude, the only movement seen, even the small bird sitting on the airport fence stopped in breathless immobility, that would have suggested sleep had it not been for the melodious call he exchanged with my little Piper Cub. There my soul woke up, as I banked hard over a herd of cows -cognizant of the perils of CFIB (controlled flight into bovine).  I would have missed this had I stayed up late with a bottle of wine and cable on Friday night, waking with more hangover than dreams. I would have missed this morning aloft, the skies brightness chasing away the dark clouds, both equally full of the wisdom of lost souls.

The world runs year to year with fortune or failure, joy, or pain, upon the same varying but unchanged surface of glancing currents and rippling eddies. We can stay on the shore, afraid to dip a toe in the water, or we can dive in, but hopefully, checking the waters first. For there are words of my mom I do remember "Be wary of the river that looks so cool and inviting, for that is the one in which you will drown."

The key thing I take away in looking back was this. Despite the things that wouldn't "buff out", the things I wish I could take back, the long broken goodbyes, I'm glad I didn't treat life like a flat-edged weapon, afraid of making a move. That is no life; asleep to all passions, hopes, and fears, simply waiting for taxes and death, memories of what could have been left to auctioneers. To do so is to be a slave to regret.  Slavery is a horrible thing, a life of having no hope and knowing of no change, no other sky, no other bed.  No water or future but that which is given or withhold; no voice but a cry into the darkness.

Am I still going to make wrong choices? Likely; that is both the joy and the curse of freedom. But the big ones I got right.

Now, with the knowledge of the hurt of words spoken in haste, of roads traveled I should have left alone, I look forward to every day, seeking the light, fearing the storm, unconscious of either, simply taking it one day at a time. I pause as the first Robin of spring shows up outside and erupts into song, believing that in this moment, he's eternal, and for an instant, may very well be.

- Brigid