Young Dad;
Seriously clad; 
Riding a bike with a baby.
Baby asleep;
State of art seat;
Lulled by the sunshine and motion.
Responsible fun;
Naptime done;
Goals accomplished through memory making.
(Happy Father’s Day, 2011, Cherry Odelberg)
“I don’t like to sleep alone, sad to think some folks do,” So crooned, the 
singer. But today I write on behalf of sleeping alone. The best thing about sleeping alone is uninterrupted snoring. When sleeping alone, I can snore all I want. No poke and prods, no shaking and waking; just sound, uninterrupted sleep.
Since snoring has such a bad reputation with roommates, campers, and close knit families, let me explain why this is important to me. For the majority of the years of my life, I have been a light sleeper. My mother even said so. I did not even allow her to play the piano or vacuum while I napped as an infant. As I made my way through childhood, every bump in the night, every creak and groan of the house was likely to wake me. I was constantly vigilant, even in sleep. Never did I relax. This trait came in handy when raising my own children. When they needed me, I was there in a whisper. When my daughter came along, I cultivated a skill of not only waking at a moment’s notice, but also falling back to sleep quickly. I was many years into adulthood before I learned to sleep deep and long. By that time, tissues, nose and throat membranes had aged, swollen, become vibrant. Also by that time, through advertisement of remedies, snoring had moved from a natural result of sleep to an unwanted social fax pas to be remedied and cured. I am sure I possess faults that need to be addressed and corrected; but sleeping deep, care-less, and waking refreshed is not one of them.
Yes, the best thing about sleeping alone is uninterrupted snoring. The worst thing about sleeping alone will probably not receive voice from me in public pages.
A dearly loved one was in a coma, and had lain that way for months, 
unresponsive to medical intervention and ministrations of close family members. After much consultation, the doctors said it appeared the immediate family had a choice to make: Leave the beloved on all invasive support systems, in which case death was inevitable, but might take an indefinite amount of time, maybe years. Or, detach life support systems and stand by and comfort as the loved one passed through the valley of the shadow. Both doctors called in for consultation freely attested they had seen occasional patients rally and live full lives after removal of life support. The next of kin saw a ray of hope in this possibility of miraculous recovery.
The next of kin nodded tearfully and said, “I see the plug has to be pulled. I will stand by and comfort if this is the end, or I will stand firm and cheer while the beloved gains strength if this is a rally.”
Then began other family members to bicker and to say, “What do you think you are doing? This never works. Put the plug back in, the doctors do not know what they are talking about.”
The compassionate doctors, finding that another family member continued to slip in during the night and tamper with the equipment; and seeing that the next of kin did not have the strength to withstand the clamor of the ignorant; consulted once more with the immediate family.
“We are agreed,” the physicians said, “that the best and least invasive course of action is to pull the plug and to nurture the patient toward strength if that becomes possible. We are also agreed that to simply leave the patient on complete support is sure death. We recommend, that you move the patient from ICU to a convalescent center. There is one other medical option, quite aggressive and the odds are 50-50. It involves major surgery.”
What think you that the next of kin will decide? And if the next of kin opts for 50-50 surgery in the hope of saving the beloved and the beloved dies, what then will the other family members say? Will they not blame the next of kin for killing the beloved? And will not the next of kin be assaulted from time to time with deep depression and doubt?
And can the acceptance of blame or all the guilt in the world bring back the dead?
Hear me now; the beloved is my marriage. I am the next of kin who took responsibility to sign for major surgery. My marriage is dead. All the blame and guilt and acceptance of responsibility in the world cannot bring it back. Will I forgive and grieve and move forward into full health, or will I hold on to my shame and insist there is no solace, forever?
Autumn is here. Leaves are beginning to change color and fall. It’s that kind 
of weather again. Time for baking cookies, for lighting the fireplace. Time to curl up with a mug of apple cider or hot chocolate and a good book. Do you read good books to your children? Do your children like to read chapter books for themselves? Now is the time to order The Pancake Cat for your cozy times. The Pancake Cat is available online, or by special order from your favorite local bookstore. In honor of the changing of the season, here is my favorite chapter for free. You can also read chapter one at Xlibris.
Chapter 18
Showdown
Jim Deckert’s dog was loose. How he got out was a mystery. The Deckerts had installed a five foot chain link fence two years ago when they moved in. Chain link was a little unusual in a neighborhood where everyone seemed to prefer the appearance of six foot wood slats. The best thing about chain link was that Andrea could see right through the Deckert’s yard into Mrs. Garcia’s yard. This morning there was no need to see into other yards. Frank, the dog, was free. Did some sixth sense whisper to him that cranky Mr. Hinkman was in Houston visiting his daughter? Never mind how he had won his independence; Frank was now trotting up the alley, making detours into every yard with an open driveway gate. Andrea and Philip were eating oatmeal, so it wasn’t Saturday. Gracie was on the patio happily consuming a pancake, leftover from a few days before.
“Frank’s playing in the alley,” chortled Philip.
“Maybe he doesn’t have school today,” said Daddy as he came into the room and grabbed the car keys. A burst of laughter came from the table.
“Hurry Andrea or you’ll be late for school,” called Mom from the other room.
“Frank doesn’t have school today,” choked Andrea.
“Well, middle school isn’t always in session on the same days as your school. Maybe Frank’s school is having a teacher work day,” reasoned Dad.
Andrea and Philip laughed helplessly.
“Middle school is in session today, Daddy,” said Andrea, “Tex left 30 minutes ago.”
“Tex? Is that the name of the Furwakawa boy? Where did he get a name like Tex? Frank sounds like a nice name for a neighbor boy.”
“Frank is a dog,” said Philip. “Here he comes.”
Frank trotted in the gate and up the cement drive without breaking pace. He trotted straight toward Gracie. Gracie was so intent on the last half of pancake he did not notice Frank’s approach until it was too late.
Frank barked. Gracie startled and ran. Frank chased him across the yard and up the nearest tree. Losing interest, the dog returned to polish off the pancake. Apparently Gracie never forgot who it was that cost him the pancake. He stayed hidden the remainder of the day, biding his time. Next day, and the next, Frank was safely behind locked gates. On the third day Gracie made his move. He circled Frank’s yard. He came close to the fence. Staying about six inches from the chain link, he meowed. Frank bounded to the fence barking. Gracie ran the length of the yard with Frank in pursuit on the other side of the fence. He turned at the corner and ran back. Finding Frank could not get to him, he added a grand finale.
Leaping high up on the fence, he clung there, spread eagle, three inches out of Frank’s reach. Gracie hissed and meowed, taunting Frank. Frank barked and yelped and circled the yard in a frenzy. Finally Jim Deckert came out and called his dog inside. Gracie hung a few moments longer, then dropped gracefully to the ground and sauntered off, satisfied.
I have decided to throw myself on God’s Mercy and Grace, rather than to stand stubbornly in my own rags of self-righteousness, weathering the storm on my own strength by declaring that I will keep my word. What strength do I have? None. What strength does God have? The Universe!
This is one more application of the 12 Steps to Recovery provided by Alcoholics Anonymous. The steps I am thinking of today go something like this: I admit that I am powerless and my life unmanageable. I believe that a Higher Power can restore me to sanity. I am seeking to increase contact with that Higher Power through meditation and meditative walks.
If this sounds interesting to you, check out these links: http://hazelden.org/
http://www.recovery-man.com/coda/codependency.htm and be sure and read some of the books on my favorite books page!
How did you wake up this morning? Elated? Deflated?
Most of us are mature and experienced enough to exercise caution when it comes to the holidays. We know the pitfalls – be they social and familial or social and ingestible – and we prep our minds, if not our bodies, for them. We know not to expect too much. We don’t want to be disappointed in the holidays; we just want to survive the holidays. It really came as no surprise to me that it took an extra two hours of dozing and subconscious working through of issues – both psychological and nutritional—Followed by the writing of five pages in my journal, to be ready to meet this day after Christmas. The big revelation, however, is that there exists a holiday backlash – be your holidays good or bad! It takes just as much emotional energy to process the good that exceeds our expectations, as it does to process disappointments. I am an old and cracked vessel and must be careful not to burst in the ferment of JOY and WONDER. I have had a good life, of late, and it is almost more than I can bear. Happy Day After Christmas to you!
A Heart Felt Merry Christmas from Me to You!
If you want this to be a sound card, press the play button. (never mind, I did not upgrade nor find an alternative way to send the music)
Three of my most favorite people in the world.
And, a Chapter of my newest book in print, The Pancake Cat https://www2.xlibris.com/bookstore/search.aspx?q=The+Pancake+Cat&x=32&y=8
I believe that it is healthy for a person to follow his or her dreams. I am not talking here of nonsensical, unrealistic, idle daydreams. I am referring to God given desires of the heart which are inherent in the temperament one is born with. I am talking about dreams that are the substance of what I am meant to be. The deep, sometimes secret, desires that will not be squashed, will not be denied, no matter how hard I try to distract myself with other busyness and obligation.
In addition to embracing the emotional and spiritual health that comes from pursuing the person I am meant to be, via following my dreams and passions; I continue to ask the God of the universe to grant me good vision-the perception to know the good thing when I see it. It is not always easy to see the dream when you are living it. The cliché, “Can’t see the forest for the trees,” expresses it simply.
The Innovative Minister of Music
There was a time, at the tender age of 29; that I thought my life was over, washed up, truncated, and I would never get to see my dreams fulfilled no matter how long I lived. That dream, which had been instilled in me as a child, was that I was destined for full time ministry. At 29 I was recently divorced, but all the passions to serve and minister were still intact. I already knew that maverick leadership and ministry carries tough challenges. It is difficult to minister effectively without a Paraclete, a sidekick or right hand man. Imagine Batman without Robin, Roy Rogers without Dale Evans-or even Simon without Garfunkel. Nevertheless, I determined to move forward. Being alone and divorced seemed insurmountable and I spent a number of days grieving that I would never be able to fulfill my calling. Some 18 months later the realization began to dawn that I was ministering full-time; just not in the traditional way I had always envisioned it.
I was teaching piano lessons to 20 young people each week, enriching those little lives and building into their futures. I was working 20 hours per week as a radio announcer for a nonprofit station, ministering to listeners in the most lonely hours of the evening and weekend. And, I was raising a uniquely gifted son who would go on to influence a broader audience (with more confidence) than I ever had.
All the World’s a Stage
Playing piano and radio announcing make an easy morph (metamorphosis) to a passion for performance. I could not ignore the siren call of the stage, the studio, the microphone, though I was fearful and timid. Today I can say, “I have found my stage.” Of all places: in the classroom. Yes, there is a designated body of information I must teach; narrow parameters to what I can do with my creativity. But, my classroom is my stage. I have 27 minutes in which to wow my audience; to leave them laughing or pondering a new concept. I have 27 minutes to minister to 27 wiggly (or apathetic) bodies and provide them an opportunity to become better, to broaden their body of knowledge and experience, to taste performance. I am who I am meant to be. I am living my dream. I am doing all I can do to empower them to live theirs-to be all they can be.
This morning I mentioned that I am tired of arranging my new home- in the same way one grows tired of eating out and craves a home cooked meal – even though eating out is also a favorite thing of mine. About 8:00 A. M I determined to forget any housework or picture hanging that might be on my “to do” list, and devote my time today to inspiration and self care. I washed my face, put in my contacts, put on my walking shoes and headed away from civilization and toward the red canyons that fan out from the ridges to the south and west of my home. When I walk I am multitasking because I exercise not only my legs and lungs, but my mind, spirit and emotions as well. An hour and a half later I returned and headed to the computer to update my status on Face Book. No sooner had I logged on than my cell phone rang. It was college student #1 calling to have a Saturday chat before the students for whom she is responsible wake (It was 10:30 A.M.). I quickly logged off. Unlike my children, I cannot hold three internet conversations and one cell phone conversation at the same time. Besides, cell phones just are not the same as the traditional old desktop phone. I haven’t yet got the hang of supporting the thing between shoulder and chin while continuing to type as I used to be so adept at doing in my twenties and thirties. I ran upstairs to get better reception and found I no longer had to yell. I was even able to untie and remove my walking shoes with one hand while I continued to talk and listen. Once my shoes were properly put away I removed my sewing machine from the box and got it all set up, then plugged in the iron and commenced pressing white pillow cases and other flat objects. Half way through touching up my professional sweaters and knit shirts I remembered that my phone has a conference call feature so by merely pushing a button I could talk hands free. Now I began to feel just like old times when I would save my ironing to do while talking to a best friend.
When Andrea bid me adieu, I finished my ironing and, seeing the sewing machine was ready to go and the iron hot, decided to alter a pair of office pants that had been hanging in the closet for a number of months. My search for a piece of fabric to use as a (ahem) waist expander took me to the garage. I wasn’t sure which of the six blue Rubbermaid tubs contained the fabric, but I had to move the 4 boxes of books to get to the tubs anyway, so while I was at it I rearranged the boxes in the garage so that Andrea’s things are all in one stack and my music crates are easy to access and Philip’s things are more condensed. In the process I found a little crate that will hold my spray bottles nicely. I brought it in and washed it off –and also ran a sink full of water to soak a few dishes in prep for doing them later. The first tub I looked in was full of wrapping paper items which really should be stored in the house. I hefted it into the kitchen and went for a damp cloth to wash it- and the other dusty tubs in the garage. Then I saw the tub of small child toys and brought it inside to keep in readiness for grandchild visits, but this necessitated rearranging the under stair storage and running upstairs for a hanging expandable closet shelf. While I was up there I turned off the iron. I finally ate lunch after re-heating it three times in the microwave. Thinking of the grandkids again I realized I would not be able to invite them over until I got the morass of phone and Ethernet wire up from the floor, so I ran that wire up the wall and across the ceiling. The afternoon was progressing and I remembered there were pictures to hang while it was still daylight and no neighbors were sleeping on the other side of thin walls. I had to organize the junk and utility drawer in order to put the hammer, nails, and stapler away when I finished picture hanging. Since the scissors were right there, I removed all the tags from the 12 sofa pillows I bought the other day. Then I remembered that I needed to look though the music crates to find saxophone music for the newest school band member. When I took four of the pillows upstairs it prompted me to rearrange a few things in my room to accommodate them…Dear reader, I took my morning shower at 5:00 P.M. and closed my garage door at 7:30 P.M. It is now after nine and I think I’d better go finish my dishes- they have had a good long soak.
I don’t know if it was something I ate last night. I did have an extra serving of Selah’s birthday cake and some ice cream. I did have a few licks – a taste check and finger cleaning of the seven layer bean dip I made for the potluck today. But, in the pre-waking minutes before six A.M., I had a dream about a lion. I don’t know if it was a precursor of things to come; a sort of warning, or a manifestation of inner thoughts and fears. I was not particularly fearful of the lion.
In my dream I was walking back to my house, my childhood home, where I am now living temporarily. I did take a walk in the dusk and twilight last night, without fear or startle. I dreamed I was headed South on 12th Street from Horizon Drive hiking on the embankment that inclines toward what is now Horizon Towers. It was in the late afternoon. The embankment was rough and rocky as in the old days. Sandstone boulders leaned one upon the other like a railroad grade or new road base. Various piñon trees and scruffy brush told me this was natural terrain, not man made. I had to pick my way and scramble from boulder to boulder, much like I did in Seattle last month when the tide was in and I wanted to get from point A to point B along what had been a nice sandy beach the evening before. Suddenly, as I neared the ridge, there appeared a lion. An African style lion with full mane. He was about 25 feet away and though I tried to scream, “Mountain Lion!” no sound came out and I knew I was too far away from the houses to be heard anyway. It was not a mountain lion. I knew this in my dream, yet I persist in giving it the title, Mountain Lion. My mind and body were consumed by the immediate question, “What should I do?” Fleeing was out of the question. One jump of mine to the next boulder would accomplish nothing compared to the leap of this cat. Nor could I, in my summer shorts and sleeveless top, pump myself up to look bigger and more in command. The king was studying me. I picked up a fist sized rock, aimed, and threw. “Maybe I can distract him,” I thought, pitching another rock wide. With each pitch I moved in the direction of my goal: home and society. He turned his back to me, disinterested, and in his place stood a female lion. I felt wary of the female, particularly as I continued to walk forward and pass a half grown lion. Was this a cub? Would both parents come after me to protect the off-spring? I do not know. I woke then and I am sure, if anyone was passing my open window, they heard me talking in my sleep, trying with numbed lips to articulate the warning, “Mountain Lion.”
