Nick showed me a picture of a beautiful car on his phone.
“Hesitation is the hallmark of mediocrity,” I said, mostly in jest.
(I looked up where I found this quote and realized I’d paraphrased something Elizabeth Benton had written in her book, Chasing Cupcakes. She’d actually said it was the ‘cornerstone of mediocrity’)
We had been talking about buying a car for months. Currently, we have his pickup truck and my Honda Element (aka ‘dog car’). Both are getting up there in mileage, and both are beloved. He uses the truck daily to take care of our little ‘farm’ and also our two rental properties. It’s finally paid off, so now our hope is that it will go for another 100K miles for ‘free.’
A ferocious storm barreled through our valley this morning at 4:30. I woke to lightning flashing, thunder cracking, and rain pummeling the windows on the west side of the house.
Below the windows on that end of our bedroom, Otis was circling in his crate, banging into its sides in a panic. Fanny leaped up from where she was sleeping at my feet.
I jumped out of bed and let Otis out of the crate (he ran downstairs to his favorite spot on the couch and went back to sleep). As Fanny and I followed him down, I remembered that I’d opened a window above my desk in the cottage last night. It was warmer outside than inside, and I thought Diamond, my foster dog, would enjoy the warmer air and smells of the night. I love that view out the window above my desk to the west to the Alleghany mountains.
Now, my desk, computer, printer, notebooks, planner, and everything on my desk were soaked. I let Diamond out of her crate. She was excited to see me and danced through the puddles on the floor, immediately tracking water all over the rest of the room and up onto the futon where she settled with a bone to watch me frantically try to dry things. The only positive about the whole situation is it forced me to finally ‘mop’ the floor that was coated in a film of dust, dirt, and dog hair.
What a way to start the day.
After I made tea, did my yoga routine that is (for now) fending off the back problems that are coming for me (both parents and both brothers have had back surgery), I settled on the couch with Fanny and Otis, with Gracie farting at my feet. Every morning, I spend at least an hour, often two if I’m up early, like today, reading and journaling.
One of the books I’m reading is a memoir written by a celebrity dancer whose husband (also a celebrity dancer) committed suicide. It was free on Kindle Unlimited, and so far, it mostly felt like reading an article in People magazine (it might have been ghostwritten by a regular at People). I was almost ready to quit the book because I was disappointed in the lack of authenticity, vulnerability, or risk expected in a grief memoir. But then the author shared an exercise she used daily to motivate herself.
Each day, she wrote the phrases, “I am….”, “I have…”, and “I deserve….” And then finished them.
I pulled out my journal and started to answer those same questions. I’d been looking for a way to examine the uncertain feelings I’ve had of late about the world, what I do, my purpose here, really all of our purposes here. But those phrases and my answers left me only asking myself, “So what?”
What ‘I am’ is still a work in progress, and what ‘I have’ is unimportant. The “I deserve…” question made me angry. I’m tired of everyone, everywhere, thinking they deserve more than they receive. In some cases, maybe it’s true, but in too many, mine included, it’s blatant entitlement.
What do we deserve? Food, water, medical care, safety? Maybe. But people choose food that makes them ill and don’t want to pay for medical care, even when they can afford it.
What about love? Respect? Truth? But do we deserve these if we don’t give them in turn?
What do we deserve?
I’ve thought about that all morning. I think we all deserve the basic freedoms of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But do we still deserve those if our use of them hurts others or deprives them of those same basic rights?
Deep questions for a rainy, turbulent morning with more storms coming.
I looked at my precious, adored, spoiled dogs snuggled all around me. Do they deserve the care we give them? Most of the people in my world would resoundingly say, “Yes!” and agree that we made dogs dependent on us, so they deserve to be cared for.
Like every other essay I’ve started this week, I’m unsure where to take this one. Maybe because I don’t have the answers. My present uncertainty in so many areas is rooted in the fact that all that I believed about people, the way people should care for each other, that respect I think all human (and canine) life deserves, has been called into question in this country, and all over the world.
Why do we hurt each other?
I have always believed in our better nature. That, at their base, most people are good. I will cling to that belief, even as the news makes me not so certain anymore. We have to take care of more than ourselves. What’s the point of any of this if we don’t?
What do people deserve?
Maybe they don’t deserve our love, and maybe granting our respect is asking too much. Unalienable rights aside, though, I believe they deserve our kindness, our time, our thoughtful consideration of who they are, and the acknowledgment of the unknown battles they are certainly fighting.
Maybe instead of pondering our answers to “I am,” “I have,” and “I deserve,” we should finish the phrase, “I will…”
I will look for ways to spread light instead of darkness.
If you’re curious about what else I’m up to, check out my website, CaraWrites.com.
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My latest novel, Blind Turn is a mother-daughter story of forgiveness in the aftermath of a fatal texting and driving accident. It won the Womens Fiction category of the American Writing Awards. Learn more about it and find out how to get your copy here.
The cows are crying. (not a sentence I ever imagined writing)
A few times a year, our little street echoes with the bellows and moans and outright wails of distressed cows. This means that one of our farmer neighbors has separated the mamas and babies, presumably so that the babies can go to be auctioned.
The sounds of the cows are heartbreaking. I doubt they know that their babies are likely destined for a slaughterhouse, but change on any level is hard.
I struggle when the days are gray and cold and I can’t be outside enough. This year, my winter was better for a number of reasons, but the one thing that got me through was getting outside every single day, even when the weather was crappy.
For Christmas, I got the book The Open Air Life by Linda Akeson McGurk. It’s a beautiful gifty book that probably could have been a long article, but it did inspire me to get outside by reminding me that there’s no excuse, you just need the right gear/attire.
So I layered and bundled up and started walking, and eventually running up the dirt roads near our house. The roads wobble up and down and side to side, along cow pastures, farms, and a few homes. I’ve gotten to know them well and I’m on a first name basis with a few of the cows (number 10 and number 545 are my favorites).
In all my years of living in the country, driving skinny back roads through the woods and past expansive cornfields, dodging deer and the occasional ground hog, I’d never actually hit an animal.
Until this past Wednesday.
In fact, miraculously (and not to jinx them) no one in my family had ever hit a deer. So maybe we were due.
I’m reading a book called A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Don Miller. I’m not sure how it landed on my bookshelf, but I’m making a concerted effort to read the books I have, so I recently picked it up.
When I read that line in Shonda Rhimes’ book Year of Yes, I thought, Exactly.
All day long I take mental notes of everything I see. I can’t not do this, even when I want to shut my brain off. Even when I notice stupid details that will likely never make it into my writing, like how cigarette butts pile up in intersections where people empty their ashtrays while their cars idle or how the smell of the dollar store clings to you even after you’ve been out of the store for hours.
And I wonder about everything…The Wal-Mart employee with the raccoon eyes, snapping her gum as she stands frozen, starring at a shelf, a product in her hand. Is she putting away returned items? Is she doing a price check? Has her brain frozen in place? Does she know her eyeliner is running? Does she care? Maybe she’s depressed? Maybe her boyfriend just broke up with her this morning after he used her toothbrush and took the last bagel. Maybe….
The squished toad on the driveway, guts spewed out its flattened mouth. Did the driver notice before they ran it over? Did I run it over? The flattened skin has the same texture as a football.
The pink hue to the light at dusk and how it makes everything softer, the same way snow makes everything look cleaner. How do you capture its essence in words?
Walking the dog, I find myself narrating my actions as if I was in the story itself. “They crested the hill and scanned the woods for the fox that keeps watch over the chicken pen. A hawk circled overhead– was it a sign?”
I can’t seem to stop my brain. I tell it to chill, but it doesn’t listen. Maybe I should sign up for yoga or learn to meditate. Something to stop my busy brain.
Sometimes I’m frustrated when I can’t seem to put into words what I truly feel in my heart. The perfect words that floated through my thoughts as I ran along our country roads this morning, escape me when I finally sit down to type them out. When I read the writing of someone like Shonda Rimes, who so easily, almost embarrassingly, spills her heart on the page, I think, “Yes! That’s it!” I’m grateful for her talent and strive to open my own heart unfiltered as she does.
I find there to be a magic in writing, a power well beyond me. So I’m grateful for this 24/7 invasion. It makes my days richer, even as it means that my mind is preoccupied and sometimes I forget about the clothes on the line or the tea I left steeping on the counter.
Writing makes life more real for me. I’m awed by the potential power it holds. Maybe this next sentence will change a life or lift a spirit, bring back a memory, or at the very least, make someone wonder. Maybe it will shine right through, all the way from my heart to yours.
Hey, thanks for reading. I know you’ve got lots of options, so thanks for sharing a few of your minutes with me.
Honored,
Cara
If you’d like to know more about me, my books, and where you might run into me, check out my website, CaraWrites.com.
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If you’re a dog lover, check out my other blog, Another Good Dog.
On Monday morning, I walked up the hill to the barn in the dark. We’ve definitely crossed the line in terms of why-hasn’t-daylight-savings-time-begun-yet, and it was the first morning I really needed a flashlight. I know my way pretty well, so instead of going back inside for a light, I continued up the hill to the pump and turned on the water so I could fill the water trough. I have one horse who likes to spend his downtime dragging the water trough around the paddock until it dumps over and creates a puddle to splash in. So, most mornings I try to top off the trough so it’s too heavy for him to move.
As I dragged the hose towards the trough, I saw a movement outside the paddock fence. It was something large. In fact, at first glance it looked like two somethings. I could make out two white splotches in the dark.
Before I could truly panic, the white splotches snorted and trotted a few feet away, kicking the fence board in its own panic at the sight of me. It was a horse. Outside the fence. But it wasn’t my horse. I could just make out the shape of a paint horse—brown and white. I’ve always wanted a paint horse, and for just a moment I thought, maybe it’s a magical gift!
I don’t understand the internet. Or my computer. Or my phone for that matter.
“Being a writer invades my life 24/7.”
I can’t seem to stop my brain. I tell it to chill, but it doesn’t listen. Maybe I should sign up for yoga or learn to meditate. Something to stop my busy brain.
My Life in Paragraphs 