Does anyone really know what they are doing?

Another long break in this space. Offline of this blog, I did, in fact, keep writing, although not every day.

I continued the Writer’s Challenge for two cycles, and ultimately decided it wasn’t for me. My goal was to put my writing out there for useful, meaningful feedback. But what I really needed was feedback from writers I could trust…not necessarily other writers like me! In the end, the ROI just wasn’t there for the time spent on my end.

In an effort to force myself back into a state of challenge and risk, I did an experiment earlier this year where I painted daily for one month, and wrote a poem for each painting, then published the entire thing on an instagram account.

It was humbling. It was scary. Because I want to be good. Really, really good. People who love me think I am good (as one does, if you love someone). It’s not ego that drive the desire to be excellent, truly. I just don’t want to answer Mary Oliver’s question about my one wild and precious life with waste. If there is a better way or medium for me to examine my thoughts, wrestle with the questions that refuse to scatter when I shoo them away, pour out this fullness of color and concept and love and grief that springs up in me all the time…I want to find it. I want to do it.

But if I’m being completely honest, I don’t know what I’m doing. I really don’t. Sometimes, in any part of my life. What a relief when someone put a name to “imposter syndrome” because man, does that capture my feelings to a T. It is completely irrational, which is what makes it so difficult to battle. I can logically list out my skills and abilities, the mastery of which have led to success in multiple settings and to varying degrees. But the whisper creeps in…did I really know what I was doing, or did I get lucky? Do I have everyone fooled? And when that ends…what then?

If I sit in the morning stillness and think, who am I at this moment, it is likely I will feel a youthful inadequacy that clearly does not match up with my age. My husband had a business partner who, when asked his age, would answer, “chronological or biological?” His physical and mental health (biological) belied his age (chronological). I often feel a complete disconnect between my chronological and biological selves. Sometimes that is a good divide, as I tend to have an optimistic viewpoint that refuses to let chronology determine how life unfolds. Other times, it feeds that feeling of inadequacy. I’ve been a “fake it ’til you make it” lady for the better part of 30 years, but at what point do you call it – “I made it!” – and lay that down?

I have a deep internal faith and relationship that I don’t like to explicitly put out into the general world. It is too real, meaningful, grace-driven, love-based to open up to the great internet masses; for me, it is best shared on a personal basis rather than thrown out for the wolves to attack. But that faith includes an understanding of my value to One who created me, exactly me, as I am. A verse that comes to mind for me in a regular cadence is “…taking every thought captive in obedience to Christ” (2 Cor 10:5). If I feel – know – that I was created, individually and specifically, then thoughts that push back against my value have to be taken captive.

Genuine assessment that results in honest conclusion that you actually don’t know what you are doing is fair, wise, and part of an examined life (because no, not everyone can know how to do everything). There are many, many people doing damage everyday because they refuse to conduct such an assessment (or don’t have the courage, intelligence, or encouragement to do so). But I think of how many of us there are, walking through our days allowing that insidious whisper of “you don’t know what you are doing” to dull the colors of our contributions to our communities in our homes, workplaces, schools, relationships.

However, there’s another part of me that hears that whisper, comes to a standstill, and then says…so? So what if I don’t know what I’m doing? Does anybody know what they are doing? Is the measure of life well spent really based on achieving expertise or success? Or is the miracle and beauty of life BEING and DOING?

When I’m brave, I see clearly that the whisper is a lie – not that I actually do know what I’m doing, but a lie that having it figured out and buttoned up and foolproof means absolutely anything. If I want to write, or paint, or create, I should do it. I should just do it. And how anyone else feels about that is completely irrelevant.

I recently found proof of this when going through several boxes of memories and unearthed a poem I wrote, more than 30 years ago. I don’t remember but can only imagine the level of courage I summoned to write and gift this to my then boyfriend, now husband. In rereading it, I am amazed at prescient it was. There was no way for me to know this, and yet, something in me felt it and put it to paper with hope. So I leave this rambling, inconclusive post with this:

Untitled, 1994

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What is good writing, really?

DAY NINE.

I wrote earlier about participating in a Writing Battle, suggesting that I might post that short story in support of the accountability I am seeking in this exercise. As it turns out, the rules do prohibit that. I characterize myself generally as a rule-follower, for a few reasons. The reason most people don’t know about? A theory, tested and supported over years.

Anarchists (to a greater or lesser degree) by definition defy all rules and thus, society tends to dismiss them or compartmentalize them away from credibility or acceptance. However, when a rule-follower challenges or breaks a rule, people snap to attention. Disrupting the status quo selectively can be a strategic tool for change. Without the identity of breaking-rules-because-I-can, the rule-follower often wields greater power simply by being taken more seriously.

In this instance, I see no compelling reason to break the Writing Battle’s rule, so know that I will post that story when the full Battle is complete and I have permission to do so. However, I’ve been faced with an interesting, additional challenge from the Writing Battle. As participants, we also serve as judges in “story duels.” We are provided two stories, from a different genre than the writing prompt we followed, and are tasked with giving thoughtful feedback to both and selecting a “winner” between the two.

This is hard!

I had no idea how hard this would be.

It doesn’t help that the genre I am “judging” is probably one of my least favorite types of literature or storytelling. I will read anything, and do (I’ve only ever stopped and thrown away, literally trashed, one book in my entire life – it was so badly written as to be virtually unreadable). I exist as a reader with virtually no standards, seeking to enjoy the telling of a story in many forms. Now I find myself forced to choose the better story – or really, the better writing (because the writing uplifts or suppresses the story it seeks to tell).

So, what is good writing? It feels like a specific offshoot of the often-asked question, what is art? Is it something that makes you feel? Is it transporting the reader effectively into another time, world, experience? Must it be impossible to put down, or can it be so powerful as to require breaks in order to process?

I don’t know. If I knew that, I guess I would actually and officially be a writer.

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Little Chef

DAY EIGHT.

I love food.

My husband is not shy about it. He tells people all the time – when we first started dating, he was amazed because if we went to out to eat at a proper restaurant, there was no salad lightly supplemented with anemic grilled chicken across the table. I ordered a full meal and ate every bite. Steak. Giant burgers. Ribs. With whatever potato the restaurant would conjure up for me. He was drawn by the smiling girl who stood out in the crowd. He stayed for the girl who could ice skate and who polished off dinner (and dessert) with joy.

I have absolutely no standards. I love a creative, chef-designed, miniscule-portioned foodie experience. I love McDonald’s. I think the only food I truly rejected was the White Castle cheeseburger experience in Hopkins, Minnesota, in the late 90s. From what I understand, no one really blamed me for that one.

Throughout my years shepherding a family across all corners, I cooked. Every day. I invented ways to transform ordinary foods into car-friendly versions for backseat eating on the way to practice. I shoveled full hot meals into takeaway containers and drove kids and dinner over to Triple Play, where we pulled up four chairs and snuck in family dinners without a hot dog in sight (because we ate plenty of those, too). But I didn’t take very many culinary risks. The sheer caloric need of growing children, then teenagers, prevented me from “trying” nearly as much as I would like – I needed slam dunks!

Then those teenagers drove off to college, one after the other. Suddenly, it was whole new world. If I tried something, and it didn’t land, the fallout was a couple of PB&Js for two low maintenance (and low caloric-need) adults. I have hugely enjoyed this period of cooking. The fact that it has coincided with a decided decline in quality (both food and service) of the average dining-out experience increases its value even more. It’s a thing of joy to contemplate each week’s menu – what repeat favorites to include, what interesting recipes to try.

But I’ll be honest – cold, gray, rainy weather brings me right back to the familiar. Comfort food is a real thing. Any fan of the wonderful film Ratatouille will agree. And, after several stunning days of false spring, during which I had the top back on the Bronco everywhere I went to soak up some of my beloved sun, yesterday’s front dropped us squarely back to winter. So tonight, it’s one of my favorite recipes to bring warmth, comfort, heft, satiation. Italian Sausage Tortellini soup, with crusty baguettes to mop up the leftover broth.

I discovered this recipe many years ago, when we were all bringing soup for teacher appreciation at my kids’ first elementary school. I didn’t grow up with soup unless you count Campbell’s, but I wanted to deliver something homemade, special. Somewhere on the still-limited internet, I came across a recipe that I tailored based on some things I had on hand.

It was a HIT. Especially with male staff, who actually sought me out to tell me that it felt like a real meal. So, I say bless the lovely person who put the basis of that recipe on the worldwide web so many years ago, because I can’t even count the times I’ve made that soup since. It remains my father’s favorite thing I make (and was his requested meal for his 80th birthday in November).

I hope everyone has a homerun, works-every-time, ultimate-comfort-food recipe. Like Remy, the Little Chef in Ratatouille. Just in case someone doesn’t, I recommend giving this one a try.

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See you in a few!

DAY FIVE.

DAY SIX.

DAY SEVEN.

I like to start things off optimistically and with a bang. So, I’ve entered a Writing Battle, in which I will spend three days writing a short story using a genre, setting, and character that I draw. Once I’ve completed it I will post it here – I think? Am I allowed?

Until then…

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Anticipation, Almost Fulfilled

DAY FOUR

The email I’ve been waiting for finally arrived. A very long tracking number assures me that my new passport is winging its way to me, destined to land in the mailbox in two days.

My childhood passport remains one of my treasured possessions. Although it hides away in a box at present, I’ve never had the nonchalance to toss it. A yellow-tinged photo of small, blond me looks seriously at the camera (because you aren’t supposed to smile, they say). In advance of my family’s move to Clermont-Ferrand, France, we children obtained our first passports, which felt important and official. The excitement of the passport was second only to the Walkman and choice of cassette tape my dad purchased for each of us. I won’t call it a bribe, rather a bit of an advanced apology. Moving to France in the 1980s, with little time for language preparation and in the middle of our school years, stretched us all in ways only fellow pre-internet expats can understand (and the re-entry into American culture at an awkward age was … bumpy).

But, the passport. That gold-stamped blue cover started out with crisp, watermarked blue pages promising adventures to come. I credit my amazing parents for the filling up those pages during our tenure in France. Back then, each country still stamped your passport with every border crossing. A quick flip of those pages marks a series of memories that changed my life forever. Our time both living in and traveling across Europe taught me adaptability. Grit. French. Curiosity. Appreciation of the new and deep appreciation for the familiar on the rare occasion we encountered it (a glass of ice with a Pepsi or Coke, for one). I could (and perhaps will) write novels about our experiences living in France. Those memories and life lessons live in invisible ink behind multilingual stamps across those passport pages.

After returning to the States, I took many opportunities to travel abroad. My most recent trip out of the country found me meeting up with my mother in an apartment in Paris, in celebration of a milestone birthday (I should write about my dad, having recently watched the film Taken, sternly warning me about strangers as I navigated alone from the airport to the apartment, despite my being well out of desired age range for human trafficking). After that hallmark trip, life did as it often does and overtook plans, dreams, and TIME.

Last fall, out of the blue, my mom and I decided it was time for another trip abroad. It has been too long, we decided. We’d been to New York a few times together, and she traveled periodically to Europe and Israel with my dad or others. But she and I, together in Europe? Too long.

When I say too long, I mean actually too long. I’ve obviously had several passport renewals since my first. As I started thinking through where I’d stashed my passport since our last move, I realized that the hallmark trip to Paris was 12 years ago. Twelve years! And I had renewed it a few years before that. With that passage of time, my passport was clearly expired. By years.

I needed a moment to grieve the fact that I had been living restricted from the ability to pursue an adventure abroad, albeit unknowingly. How could I have let that happen? It was a reality check for me. I love adventure. My heart yearns toward ocean waves as though I’d been a sailor on the high seas in some other life. Trains lull me into daydreams of what I might find a few miles down the track. In my children’s younger years, when storms would come near and the sky was “going green,” we would jump in the car (which they affectionately called the “Mommy 5” – my Stormchasers fans will understand) to see how close we could get. It’s not that I missed out on travel I should have done. It’s that I missed out on maintaining the option to, whether exercised or not.

With that in mind, although the trip this year is just my mom and me, I asked my husband to renew his passport as well. Is it likely we are headed out of the country together any time soon? No. Do I want that option available? I do. He immediately agreed, understanding my slightly zany reasoning, as he usually does. We spent the last morning of 2024 at the passport office (yes, New Year’s Eve … you take the appointment you can get). Since then, I have been living with anticipation.

The very long tracking number assures me that my new passport is winging its way to me, destined to land in the mailbox in two days. So now, for two days, I live with anticipation, almost fulfilled.

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Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

DAY THREE

A DAY.

Easy drive into town. Auto insurance quotes by (CarPlay) phone and text en route. Free downtown parking (joy!) in a low clearance garage with impossibly tight turns (stressful!). Lunch meeting with a former colleague, talking all things fundraising and non-profits and a rapidly changing world. Brisk cross-town walk under (sunny, cloudless) blue skies to a reserved shared learning space at the beautiful central branch of the public library. Virtual meetings ranging from chart of account changes (left brain) to film festival prep (right brain). Slower retracing of cross-town steps to a historic hotel, FaceTiming with adult child #2 along the way. Digital commiseration about the Luka trade (RIP Mavs) between adult child #2 and adult child #1, currently in management at said historic hotel. Tall jokes (always tall jokes) about adult child #1 by his colleague. Successful (harrowing) navigation back out of the garage and into the (choppy, aggressive) flow of traffic. The dreaded thunk of a sideswiping car (little Mercedes G-something) changing lanes without looking. Winding paths through a side street and parking lot for the inevitable taking of photos (Bronco for the win), exchanging of insurance and contact information, empathy (a student driver). Position re-assumed (headed home) with the top back and carrying hope that the damage is truly as it appears (virtually nothing). Satellite radio (all the way up) and wild wind speeding the miles along. Driveway examination by flashlight of the (virtually non-visible) potential damage in the early twilight. Spicy (garlicky, citrusy) red beans and rice mopped up with sourdough. Delayed response emerging (slight but discernible).

“Alexa, play John Mayer.”

The man knows (mine and Mayer).

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Three A.M.

DAY TWO

When we relocated to our current home full-time earlier this year, having spent the better part of two years living my dream on a barrier island, I set my mind to focus on those things that make this place special. To run toward something feels far better than being pulled away from something else, so I set my feet to running.

It took only a few days to rediscover one of the great joys of living here. The sky. The back of our home faces northwest, an open sky over water which might as well be a painter’s canvas. Endless photos of sunsets crowd my camera roll, each spectacular and somehow completely different than the day before. Inside the house, large windows and oversized sliding doors showcase the sky as one would feature framed art on a gallery wall. Having lived without that wide open view most of my adult life, it still astounds me – demands that I stop, and look, and wonder. We watch the sun move left across our view of the sky toward the winter solstice, retracing its path to the right as summer solstice approaches. So, I ran toward that beautiful early evening experience.

The changing art of the sunset sky has indeed lived up to my recollections and its reputation. What I did not expect, and apparently failed to recognize when we first moved here, was the magic of the stars. I live mere minutes from a Dark Sky area and experience only a little light pollution from a nearby dam. Early into our return, after the last light finally disappeared from the west, we found ourselves lulled into lethargy by a pleasant breeze, resonant background music, and the luxury of time to linger. Quiet conversation about nothing in particular turned minutes into an hour. We happened to look up and out and oh, my. As the sky embraced full darkness under a new moon, the stars emerged to match every trite and cliched description – pinpoints of light in the sky, glittering diamonds, on and on. It turns out these are cliches because they are true.

Not only do these stars populate the night sky when the sun finally sleeps … an entirely separate collection journeys brightly across the sky in the early morning, fading as the rising rays in the east overpower them. To fully experience the magic of the dark sky is to wake early, bringing coffee and a blanket outside to view Orion chasing Taurus the Bull, the dawn keeping us from knowing if he ever caught him. Then again, at night, finding the distinctive Scorpio eluding the arrow of Sagittarius. The brightness of Vega and Sirius, Venus and Jupiter. The smudge of the Pleiades, revealed to be a cluster of many stars by simple binoculars. And then, to realize that all of these stars, their identities created so many years ago, never stop moving. Their circular march is easily observed by morning and evening study…except that as the days and the months change, so do the paths we see. As seasons turn, a whole new group of these celestial markers emerges.

I never fail to watch and wonder how people learned and understood the journey of the stars as a way to pursue their own journeys. To navigate by a system of moving lights from horizon to horizon. It is a stark reminder that maybe, in our modern age, we don’t always know more – we know differently. We have satellites (which criss-cross the sky, flashing the sun’s reflection, at an increasingly common rate) to activate a GPS to tell us where to go. And yet if you put me on landless water, I would be powerless to find my way by the stars the way our ancestors did.

There exist few things on earth that will humble us into an accurate assessment of our power (and they are generally destructive – hurricanes, fires, and such). For me, the stars serve as a beautiful and kind reminder of the vastness of Creation and my very small place in it. This does not diminish me; rather, it frees me to give up a responsibility and control for which I am not designed or equipped.

With the crescent moon already set and the sky free of clouds, the stars shone brightly at 3 o’clock this morning. I awoke too early with thoughts and concerns demanding I address them. A glimpse outside at those very stars quieted my mind. Their timeless presence and sure paths released me back into sleep, as they have for multitudes before me. I will continue to greet them, morning and night, with joy.

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Write Every Day, Day One

Is there any chance I can actually do this?

In real life, most would characterize me as extremely disciplined. Which I generally am, although not by nature. My true self dreams of sitting in filtered sunlight, reading a not-terribly-highbrow book while snacking on chips and a Diet Coke. Preferably with the ocean’s soundtrack and an onshore breeze. This fact seems to surprise those same people.

I am disciplined not by nature but by necessity. The past three decades required it. I look to the first two years after college, working in a professional setting while maintaining a long-distance relationship that ultimately led to marriage. The early days of supporting my husband’s business, which required me to drive directly from my 9 to 5 job to man the front desk until close (meaning that having dinner to eat in the car required preplanning before leaving the house in the morning, because there was no money to drive through somewhere every day). Having two children under two years old as we stretched again in opening a second business, with a household budget equally stretched, making every moment of naptime or Mother’s Day Out fully productive to keep life running. Menu planning down to each meal of each day in order to successfully navigate everyone’s practices/games/lessons/church activities. Making a “cleaning schedule” for Saturday morning, assigning an exact timeframe to each area of the house and, if I completed that area in a shorter amount of time, giving myself the leftover time to read and snack (a common theme for me).

I wanted it all. A husband pursuing his dream business rather than just doing some job for someone else. Children with a variety of options to develop skills and interests that build brain, body, and spiritual growth. Meals that gave everyone the best chance at good health and happiness. A warm, welcoming, clean home as a place of retreat and rest. A separate business to use creative and strategic skills to financially contribute to the family. A place (emotional and physical) for friends in need to come for peace. An anchor for the family ship in any kind of weather.

Discipline doesn’t help achieve these dreams. These dreams demand it. Discipline says, “If you truly want this, I am the way.” I wanted it. Discipline delivered.

I now occupy a very different reality. With adult children very nearly launched, our household of two ebbs and flows more easily through those dreams. The beautiful outcome of years of discipline is a lightening of its load. With that in mind, I turn to the mirror to see what else lives there – what came before those decades we have moved through. Writing was one such dream, occasionally surfacing across the years but never calling out for its due attention. And here I sit, struggling as new openness and availability battles with a lack of discipline around this particular art and expression.

The primary element – excuse? – that always freezes me into inaction is fear. Why should I write publicly? Isn’t that implying that people should be reading what I am writing? Why would anyone want to read what I write? Even asking that question feels wildly uncomfortable, knowing that it could be perceived as fishing for compliments or affirmation (neither of which is the case). Having grappled with this feeling for years and conveniently finding no good time to come to resolution, I find that good time is now. Do I write because I care what other people think, or because there are words that want to get out and I need a place to put them? Certainly the latter. My husband told me he wishes me to write so that there is a record, in my words, out in the world. A record of what, I ask? Nothing in particular, he says. Just your words. The things you think and say. The air doesn’t hold them; writing does.

So I decide it is time to write. Writing in public, as the internet certainly is, ultimately serves as accountability. If I can learn discipline around things no one loves (cleaning bathrooms?), I can build discipline in this. Starting today.

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Lowry, the Legend

Originally written December 28, 2017; reposting for posterity

Since many of you asked for the story on Lowry aka “Legend” – here you go. Christmas evening, 2017, just after dinner, we let the dogs out to potty in the backyard at Ryan’s childhood home in Minnesota. There is no fence, but over the previous few days, they established a route they would run, and then return to the back door (the colder it got, the quicker they returned). Even when Lowry’s hunting instinct allowed him to catch a rabbit, he proudly brought it to us at the back door. So, when Major came back without Lowry, we assumed he’d caught the other rabbit and would be back momentarily, particularly because it was around -4 with a real feel in the -20s at the time. When he didn’t respond to Ryan’s whistle, we knew he’d probably taken off after something and was too far – he’s a beautiful athlete of a dog who can run and run and RUN, like the wind. We headed out in three cars to look throughout the neighborhood, getting out to explore the many wooded areas, creeks, parks, etc, as long as we could stand it (frostburn and frostbite happen FAST in these temps). Several Park Valley neighbors joined us in searching despite it being Christmas and unbelievably cold, and Barb posted on a South Hopkins nextdoor site and there were many, many people working on that end. A wonderful example of community that meant SO much.

For those who have never been in this kind of cold, it’s just not possible to explain it except to say – when Texas people were posting all about freezing to death, we were dealing with temps fully 50 degrees COLDER. The reality is – if a dog like Lowry (thin, no winter coat, no winter experience!) stops moving, they die.

After a couple of hours, we forced the kids to go back to the house and stay, while Ryan, Brett, and I continued to drive a wider and wider area looking, getting out, walking everywhere as long as we could handle it, through snow drifts and ice, then getting in to warm up before going out again. You never know how or when to decide to stop. But eventually, we knew – we weren’t finding him, there are a million places where he could go, and we couldn’t risk ourselves out in the cold any longer.

The next morning, Ryan and I went back in daylight and looked everywhere, again, in a wide radius, and found nothing. We simply could not imagine that he could survive the cold and keep moving for so many hours. It had been as cold as -25 overnight. The grief we felt was literally overwhelming. We had fairly successfully navigated our first Christmas without Ryan’s dad, and the last time our family would be together in Ryan’s childhood home of 42 years. Now we had to put aside our own grief – again – and parent two teenagers through a massive, unexpected loss – again. We decided that what we loved about Lowry was his free spirit, his athleticism, his commitment to the hunt, and his ability to run. He was a legend. So if he was to go, what better way than doing what he loves? (yes, that was the parenting spin – alone in a room, we could hardly breathe imagining what he went through out in the elements). Both kids accepted that, but wished we at least found him and had his tags. None of us wanted to go back to Texas without them.

For that day and half of the next (same weather – no warming trend whatsoever), we tried to keep busy. I was headed out to take the kids to a movie to burn some time (which crawls in times like these) when I received a voicemail from a gentleman saying he had Lowry, wasn’t sure if it was a he or she, and wanted to talk to how we could get him back to us. I immediately called back and discovered his address was more than 2.5 miles away, as the crow flies. We would NEVER have found him. We knew he must have found him curled up, frozen, since he didn’t know male or female and of course wouldn’t want to check beyond looking at the tag. We told the kids they couldn’t come (we weren’t sure what shape he was in) and headed that way. We were torn between fresh grief, peace at having closure, and admiration for his ability to make it that far – legend! (because who knows how many miles he actually covered, back and forth, to make it that far!). On the way, we made cremation arrangements and it just hit us all over again. We pulled up, got ourselves together, and knocked on the door. After some barking by a little dog inside (which made me irrationally angry), Chuck and his wife Bert opened the door and invited us in. I couldn’t talk so Ryan was “doing the deal” when I looked over toward the barking little dog…and saw Lowry’s face, eyes looking at me, from the other side of a baby gate. I grabbed Ryan’s arm and said, “he’s ALIVE!” – to which Ryan did not react – so I said it again, and Ryan just bent over. Poor Chuck – he was bewildered – I told him, “We thought he was dead!” and Chuck said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I never thought to say he was alive!” In retrospect, we’re sure Chuck didn’t realize how very long Lowry had been gone – almost 48 hours when he was found. Again – legend! What dog survives that? Lowry!

Lowry looked even thinner than usual, and was basically in shock. He was shedding hair like crazy while we held him. He flinched if touched when he couldn’t see it first. We were able to go grab the kids and Major before we headed to an animal hospital. All of the workers at Glen Lake Animal Hospital couldn’t believe the story, and just loved on him. The doctor examined him, and he had some nail and paw injury, as well as loads of burrs embedded in his fur. He lost almost 8 lbs in two days (more than 20% of his body weight) and the vet discovered he’d gotten into garbage and eaten paper and some other stuff, which indicates that he really did survive outdoors in the elements all that time.

For the first night, he had some trouble settling down – he always sleeps with eyes squeezed shut, but he fought sleep like a baby does for most of the evening. When he woke this morning, he walked like an old dog with hip problems, taking the stairs one at a time instead of bounding up in 3 leaps as he was doing before. But throughout today, he has eaten, taken the meds the doctor gave us, and we’ve already seen his usual Lowry personality and physicality returning, down to the tail wagging.

As I mentioned, I always liked dogs but until Major and Lowry, I wasn’t really a dog person per se. When you are an adult, especially with tweens and teens, your dogs really become the unconditional love you treasure on days when it feels there isn’t enough love going around. You take care of them day in and day out; they aren’t like children but neither are they like animals. I did not understand how deeply they burrowed into my life until those two days and nights when I thought Lowry was gone forever, and we were facing a new normal – again.

I’m so grateful for the many friends and family who checked in, prayed, and most of all, didn’t belittle or marginalize our feelings. The Hopkins community was so lovely in efforts to find him, alive or not. The Glen Lake Animal Hospital and Dr. Bettendorf were just the best. And we have huge gratitude to Chuck and Bert for helping get Lowry inside – he was skittish by the time they found him, and fortunately they used body language and words that we often use when we put him to bed, so he obeyed and came in their house.

And a last word – if Ryan loves you, and something happens to you, he WILL NOT STOP trying to find you/help you/fix you until I make him stop. He will do anything for the people – and animals – he loves. If nothing else, I’ve learned all over again how lucky Texan, London, and I are to have him.

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You Can, and You Should

Last spring I went to an event put on by a local fly fishing shop, Living Waters. It was called Ladyfish, and it was entirely dedicated to engaging women with the sport of fly fishing. A blend of information, hands-on practice, and storytelling, it was inspirational to say the least. I walked away with pages of notes, with one quote underlined and circled and starred. “Women can, and should, be fly fishing.”

For me, until I met my husband, fly fishing was something people did in high end films. It required an amazing stream, beautifully vintage gear, and perhaps Brad Pitt or someone similar – all captured by expert photography. But not long after I met my husband, I met his father. In the 24 years since that meeting, my view of fly fishing changed dramatically.

MikeFFMy father-in-law, Mike, was the definitive Minnesota outdoorsman (to me, anyway). He did it all. Hunting (deer and birds), camping (most meaningfully to me at Site 13, Mosomo Point, Cut Foot Sioux), and fishing (lake and stream), in equal measure. But it is fly fishing that best characterizes Mike in my mind.

I was fortunate to have a really lovely relationship with my father-in-law. With a husband who coaches and two kids who play sports and performed in the arts, I spend a lot of time in the stands, and more often than not, Mike was right there with me. Over the years, we had ample opportunity to engage in the sort of meandering conversation that forms the basis of comfortable friendship. One of my favorite conversations I’ve had with anyone, ever, took place on the way to the Soudan Mine and Ely, Minnesota, while Ryan and his brother stayed at the campsite to fish and my earbud-wearing kids zoned out to movies in the backseat. We covered a lot of ground over the years, including fly fishing…the streams, the trout, the gear, the rhythm, the connection. It sounded beautiful but unattainable for me. Like something that had to be a part of your DNA…and it wasn’t a part of mine.

It was only a couple of years later that Mike died, without warning, just a handful of years after his own parents. Lulled by the false expectation of many years to come, we were suddenly faced with so many questions, unanswerable in his absence. If you could only fish one stream, what would it be? How do you decide what fly to use and when to change? What is your dream catch? We knew just about all there was to pass on about camping, hunting, and fishing the lake. But fly fishing was more of an art, and a mystery. My husband had been with him many times, but was generally content to go along with the ride of Mike’s personal experience and knowledge. Suddenly, he was on his own. I certainly had nothing to contribute! It was a lonely feeling for us both.

When I saw an ad for the Ladyfish event in Round Rock less than a year later, I was intrigued enough to check the calendar. Even in the midst of baseball, basketball, and track seasons, that Saturday was wide open for me. Just to be sure, I ran it by my husband. His look of shock at my question – “Is it good by you if I go to this all-day fly fishing event for women?” – was quickly followed by an enthusiastic yes.

The event itself was pretty overwhelming, in a good way. Loads of great information, multigenerational speakers, hands on practice, and more. However, my greatest takeaway was that simple phrase – “Women can, and should, be fly fishing.”

As often is the case, life interferes between motivation and action, and mine was no different. But I knew – I knew – that I had to start fly fishing. I realized that the look that settled on my father-in-law’s face when he talked about fly fishing, and the timbre of his voice as he recounted some of his favorite adventures, were not unattainable to me at all. That connection to nature, to the water, to the process – it was accessible to me, too.

So, this fall, I finally settled on a rod to start with (for those who care, I decided to go with the Tenkara Sato, as I thought this streamlined method would help me get started without the added complication of line management). After long conversation and demonstration with the absolutely lovely people at Living Waters, I was ready to go.

AshFFWith a goal of working on the cast and just getting familiar with the feel, Ryan and I grabbed my waders and took off for a local stream. It was late in the season and not the best location for a catch, but perfect for practicing the cast without catching a tree instead. And for a couple of hours, with the autumn sun spilling shadows that slowly crept across the stream, that’s exactly what I did. I’m generally an impatient learner; I want to master things quickly. But the magic I attributed to fly fishing as an outside observer proved real and true for me on the water. After the first five minutes of total discomfort, the outside world receded and I found myself in thoughtful solitude and peace. I didn’t catch a thing, and I could have stood there for hours longer exactly as I was. I was relaxed, and felt no pressure at all. Just a sense of belonging, and appreciation for God’s creation.

The early journey home of the sun in fall finally caught up with me, and I packed my things away and walked along the shore for a bit, watching my husband take a few more casts with a spinner until dusk won the day. We stopped short when we saw a really enormous fish in the water; we couldn’t believe its size. It would have been an amazing catch, and I was glad when it disappeared into the dark. Because I will be back, and I hope it will be waiting.

 

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