small reminders

It is the time alone that is the hardest, when it is so real that Sidney is gone. It is impossible to face this fact without wanting to escape it. I want to avoid the pain, but in this deep grief there are sacred moments to be found, and this is where God dwells.

It is so very quiet here now. Where once there was the light tinkling of dog tags trailing my steps throughout the house, there is silence. The small cough, sputter and growl that Sidney would make to get your attention when he needed to go out or just wanted something from you, the sigh as he would lay down on the carpet, the ubiquitous yawns and short sharp sniffs that were like a hmph!-all were a soothing background to my daily existence. It's hard to explain, but he had a presence, a kind-hearted counterpoint to my insufficiency. The empty space is profound.

For the first time since he has been gone, I washed the blanket that he slept on in his basket. It still has tiny black knotted balls of hair matted into the white woven material, even after washing. Many a time in the past, after I would place the freshly washed and dried blanket in the basket, he was right there waiting to dive in and stretch out, rolling in its warmth. I felt as if I was washing away another memory. I didn't want to lose his scent. I loved his smell.

I took apart the crate that he slept in at night. I've been staring at an empty crate for the last week and a half, but I've left it up purposely. It seemed callous to just pack it up right away, or maybe it was just that I was hoping he would return, that he was just on an overnight visit at the vet. One morning, from habit, I'd even opened both doors to the crates, as his crate sits right next to our other dog's. I wished with all my heart he would've come bounding out. He would always stop and say hello after I let him out, and snuggle up against me for a belly rub or hug. I loved his morning greeting.

I have a small porcelain figurine set of Betty Boop, her piano, and her dog Pudgy that my husband bought for me for Valentine's day when we were first married. The original set came with one dog, but I have two dogs. When my husband was buying the set, the salesperson gave him a Pudgy figurine that had a slightly chipped ear leftover from another set. One dog looks like he is happily amused, the other is calmly sitting. If you put them on top of the porcelain piano when you wind up the music box inside, they move around as the music plays. Sidney loved when I played the piano. Whenever I sat down to play, he would sing. He sang with all his heart, and though it didn't sound pretty, it was my favorite song. I loved listening to him sing.

I've begun to compile a small photo album. My husband's sister bought a picture frame for me, and I put the most recent picture I have of him in it and hung his collar with his tags on it. I have many pictures from when both dogs were puppies, but very few that are recent. There was one evening, though, just a few months ago, when Sidney was asleep in my arms after dinner, and my husband took several pictures. He is the picture of bliss, his closed eyes smiling, paws tucked in my hand, head laying on my chest, the long hair from his ears slightly draped over my shoulder. I loved holding him in my arms.

The washed blanket, the empty crate, the figurine, the empty space, they all have such a finality to them. They are small reminders of a wonderful companion who is no longer with me. I've found I'm compelled to remember by writing, as if there is something more to this compiling of memories for me. My husband has suggested writing a book, and maybe there's something to that. If I write, then I feel, I love, I remember, I acknowledge, and I heal. These small reminders tell me to always take time to love, for you never know how much time you have.

Sidney

As I sit on the couch tonight, my constant companion for the last fifteen years lies sleeping across my chest. It will be the last Thursday night I spend with him, as the word from the doctor after a day and a half of tests reveal his kidneys are shutting down. Over the last month he has eaten less and less, in the last week barely a bowl of food. I wish that he had another life to call upon, and I feel a strange sensation in my chest. It is a literal heartache, so different from the joy I have felt for so many years as he has rested in this same position, his head tucked into my neck.

I will remember the fifteen years of joy, and names I affectionately called him-mister, buddy, best boy dog in the world. And so many more. A dog who wanted a lap more than food, who loved home-made pizza crusts, lounging in the sun and knowing how to enjoy the moment every day, and who followed me around as if I was interesting. I will remember the life of a little ray of sunshine named Sidney, who has shared my food and drink and life and has been, quite honestly, like a child to me.

Fifteen years ago, driving through Hemet, California, I came upon a sign in front of a house advertising dachshund puppies for sale. The breeder wanted to keep Sidney for herself, but after a little extra negotiation in the form of cash, we drove home with a little black, white and tan bundle, a new companion for our 4 month-old dachshund Kelsey. Kelsey was happy to play the alpha dog to Sidney, and soon he was following her around the yard. On very hot days we kept them inside if we were gone during the day, coming home one day to chewed baseboard, cushions, and an electrical cord that was thankfully unplugged.

As a puppy Sidney was pretty independent, not much for snuggling. But then one day he started limping, and soon not eating. Then the limp switched to the other leg, and he began to lose more weight. The regular vets tried their best but were of no help, though fortunately they realized it soon enough to recommend a specialist. As soon as the specialist saw Sidney walking, he knew what it was. It was a type of immune system disorder, similar to lupus in humans, and his system was attacking his joints, causing them to become filled with white blood cells and painful to walk on. By the time he was diagnosed, he had lost almost a third of his body weight. When I brought him home after an overnight visit at the specialist, I cried as I watched him barely able to walk and fall over. For six months he was on Imuran and Prednizone, and gradually gained back all the weight and a little more, his appetite increased by the medication. After that time, he was always there by me, like my own shadow.

And so Sidney has always been. He's caught rats nearly his own size when we rented a house that backed up to a field, and proudly presented them at the door. He's savored vanilla ice cream after devouring our left-over homemade pizza crusts. He's howled like a rock star when I played the piano, and danced to initiate a chase from Kelsey, his rear end in her face. When we visited my parents house, and my husband and I ran an errand while leaving the dogs in their care, he cried inconsolably, sitting out in the garage on the golf cart, until I returned. Now it will be my turn, for I will be inconsolable when he is gone.

He has burrowed into my lap, and also deeply into my heart. We had many little daily rituals that I will miss profoundly. There is the ritual of him snuggled in my lap, nearly every morning as I sat at the table after breakfast and read the day's newspaper. The ritual of his sharp bark if he was outside and wanted in and I was not immediately there. The morning greeting, the evening greeting, and many greetings of "hey mister" or "hey buddy" in between. I can see his face, peaked with interest, always watching me, ready to go wherever I went. Most of all, I will miss him just being here, present with me. I will miss being able to walk by wherever he was and fuss over him, as if I hadn't done it already several times that day. He was a magnet I couldn't resist, and he reveled in the attention, and my heart would swell.

But now he needs me to let him go. He is tired, his body is shutting down, and his precarious health has rapidly declined. I feel a panic of separation I don't know what to do with, and waves of emotion have begun to roll over me. The cycle of his life is turning to loss for me, but release for him, and I know his time has come. I hate this and I weep bitterly, but there is no avoiding this blow. I will be with Sidney as he leaves, and I will say goodbye, for now.

There is a story in the bible about the relationship of a beloved pet and his owner, told by a prophet to confront a king of his sin. There was a poor man who had a single lamb, and a rich man who owned many sheep and cattle. The poor man had raised the lamb from birth, and it was like a member of the family, sharing his food, drink, and even sometimes sleeping in his arms. Some biblical translations include the line "it was like a daughter to him." The rich man, unwilling to kill one of his own sheep to prepare a meal for a visiting dinner guest, instead takes the poor man's beloved lamb. At the hearing of this story, the king is outraged, demanding payment four times over from the rich man with no pity, even invoking God's existence as evidence that the rich man deserves to die. At this the prophet tells the king that 'you are that man.' The king had done the same thing by taking the only wife of another man and having the man killed to cover his sin, even though he already had many wives of his own.

The fact that a prophet of God uses such a story to confront a king's wrongdoing is not insignificant. A God who authored all creation, and considers a relationship between human and animal so valuable that he would use it as a point of conviction for a king, is no minor statement. It is a revelation. Save all your high and mighty sermons for someone else, but give me this God who cares for the least, whose love would be this humble.

And so I will remember a dog who was deeply loved, and for whom there was no greater happiness than to love and be loved. Sidney, you will always be in my heart. I will see you again someday.

reboot

A little over a month ago, my Mac G5 computer and my ipod quit working, both within a day of each other. The scenario unfolds as follows. I'm driving home listening to music on my ipod. I drive up into our garage, turn off the car, and turn off my ipod. Immediately there is a scrambled screen. Reboot. Blank white screen. Reboot. Same blank screen. By the end of the night, it is official. I have a non-cooperating piece of technology.

The next afternoon, I go into my studio and turn on my Mac G5. The engine roars, the chime chimes, the Apple logo comes on the screen, and the little wheel beneath the apple begins its repeating circular motion. And then, it freezes. Reboot. Everything proceeds as before, but this time, no wheel. Reboot. Now nothing but a black screen.

And so begin our numerous treks to the Apple store’s genius bar. The first time, they suggest it is probably the logic board. Big money for a five-year old computer. I could buy the same computer online for the cost of replacing the logic board. We take it home and weigh our options. Back we go, deciding to have the repair techs diagnose the problem for a minimal cost to see exactly how much money we are looking at. At the genius bar, another guy tries pushing a particular reset button, and wonder of wonders, the G5 perks right back up. That is, until it quits working, after we bring it home again, as I am working on it that night.

Back in again. This time, we check the G5 in for room and board at the Apple repair shop for several days. I call the techs every few days like a worried parent. Could be this, could be that. Finally, the anticipated phone call. A new logic board and processor are needed. The cost of those exceed the price we are willing to pay for the G5. Hopes for an inexpensive fix deflated, we tell them that we have decided not to repair the computer and will come pick it up. It’ll be a few more days, the tech says. We’re waiting for a replacement part for your thermistor, a small temperature-regulating thingy that was damaged during diagnosis, to come in. OK. More waiting.

Since we’ve been here in Texas, life has broken down in unexpected multiples. Job, health, finances. I feel as if we've been in the repair shop on a regular basis. Our operating system needs updated and our components need replaced and we wonder about where to invest. The process of change is costly and we are often over our heads just keeping up with daily life. And we continue to wait.

After the demise of my ipod and and G5, on which I do all of my music recording, during one of our trips to the Apple store, I say to my husband, “What is it that God is trying to tell me? I know he has a hand in this.” I feel like Tevye, from Fiddler on the Roof, arguing with God. I’m not Jewish, but maybe I should be. And I’m not the only person who thinks this way. One time as we sit waiting at the Apple genius bar, we are talking with one of the techs whom we’ve gotten to know over a period of time of visiting the store. We have brought in my husband’s G4 laptop because the battery doesn't seem to be functioning to its capacity. When I tell him my ipod and G5 have also quit working, he says, “Wow. What’s going on in your house?” And this from a gentile.

In the following days, I'm driving home after an appointment and get another phone call from the Apple store. “We’ve got your computer here, and it’s fixed.” Confused, I tell them that we had talked with the tech a few days ago and decided not to fix it. “Yes, well, we hadn’t taken out the new logic board and processor yet while we were waiting for the thermistor to come in. Since we’ve done so much work on it already, we were wondering if you would be willing to pay for the repairs if we gave you a 25% discount.” Can we negotiate, I ask? Yes. A quick phone call to my husband. Into the store I go. We agree to 50% off the total cost of repairs. Sweet. The same cost as purchasing the same G5 online, at its current value. I happily haul the beast home. I hook it up. I work on it for the afternoon and evening, and then…despair. It crashes again. Reboot. Chime. Black screen.

I call the Apple store the next day. We wait until after the weekend to take the G5 in again. We’re promised that any additional repairs needed will be no extra cost to us. During all this time, the Apple store techs are always the best. In the end, the old logic board, video card, and both processors are replaced with new ones. All possible non-functioning major components replaced.

I am thinking that we finally have resolution of this whole back and forth. I think at this point that I am getting a whole new computer for a small cost. But if there's one thing I've learned in the last two and a half years, it's that I really don't know much at all. A little over two weeks later, we are once again back in the Apple store with a kernel-panicked computer. From behind the genius bar, our gentile tech friend catches our eye, says "you're back in again?," and shakes his head sympathetically while we stand at the concierge table waiting for our turn.

As of this writing, I'm on my husband's laptop. We are going to abandon the rehabilitation of my G5. As it turns out, since my computer is five years "old," the "new" parts they repair it with are really just older parts from a warehouse that stockpiles them for repairs. We'll invest our future working hours in a new computer, literally. Several weeks back, my husband has a dream in which he sees my computer lying on its side, covered with lush greenery. I can't say I know exactly what the dream means, except that maybe in this loss of the old there's something new that will grow. And once again, to me it's a symbol representative of our journey since we've been in Texas.

I’ve decided not to replace my ipod for now, maybe even for good. Perhaps my ipod dying is a gift. Now when I drive I listen to the local radio stations. Talk programs with really interesting subjects. Music I’ve not heard before. Or I just listen to the silence. I realize in many ways that I haven’t really been listening very well, and that maybe I had stopped listening completely, at least in a conscious sense, even though the music was playing. And I ponder these thoughts that come into my head...

Stop listening to everyone else. Listen to your own voice. Listen to God’s voice. Have something worth saying that only you can say in your own unique way. Don’t let the difficulties and disappointments of life shut you down.

two fig trees

Last summer, we bought two small fig trees. We placed them on our shaded front porch, and with my dark green plastic watering can, I watered them as often as I remembered. Often that care-taking duty would lapse a day or two.

Soon brown turkey figs appeared. We ate them when they ripened, drooping on the branches, purplish and sweet. After a few weeks, there were no more figs, and the tree leaves began to turn yellow and drop off.

Inexperienced with fig trees, and wondering if this was okay, my husband did a little research. To flourish, fig trees need full sun and lots of water. So we moved the trees to the middle of backyard. But that summer brought much more rain than sun, and though well-watered, by fall the two trees, with just a few old yellowed leaves left, looked very different.

The rain continued to fall, and as it fell on the trees, so it did in our lives. In September of that year, my husband was diagnosed with cancer. The surgeon completely removed the tumor, and he underwent radiation treatment. Results of blood tests and scans indicated the cancer had not spread anywhere else in his body. A couple of months later, after many tests, I was told that my thyroid would need to be removed. Results of ultrasounds and a biopsy pointed towards cancer, and I scheduled surgery for the beginning of 2008.

With the cold slap of winter, the fig trees were shuffled back and forth from the backyard to inside the garage for protection. Barren in appearance, except for little green buds, I checked them every few days for water and suppleness in the branches. By spring, small, bright green leaves had sprouted, and with expectation I re-potted them in new soil. By summer we had full, deep green leaves and lots of fruit buds on each tree. Slowly the fruit ripened, sweet and plentiful, and from the large batch I made my first fig jam.

Almost a year after my husband's surgery, I went in for my own. I had cancelled the January date due to a bad bout of allergies and no small amount of hesitation. I re-scheduled for August, and agonized whether I really needed the surgery right up to the time of the procedure. My thyroid was removed, as well as several lymph nodes, and a parathyroid gland was repaired. Cancer was found in the removed thyroid and a lymph node, and the first two weeks of September I went through radioactive iodine treatment. In six months I go in and see if the treatment has its intended effect of dissolving any remaining thyroid tissue and cancer with it.

The fruit-bearing season for the fig trees has ended. The leaves have gradually turned yellow and brown on the edges, and I have begun to prune them from the trees. Soon the trees will lose the last of their leaves, and become dormant until the next spring.

When I consider the last year I feel hopeful but still, at times, terrified. I know I haven't yet taken the time to process what we've been through, but I am quieter with the sense that God knows all of this and is present with us. The worst thing to have happen is not cancer, but to lose hope. To have hope is a choice you make, through every season, whether the trees are barren or blooming.

I'm looking forward to spring. To watching for new little green buds on the branches. To deciding if this will be the year we plant our fig trees in the ground, and to the sweet fruit that will come. Maybe I'll make fig jam with honey, or maybe warm fig tarts with rustic, buttery crusts. Whatever I do, I think my favorite part is just collecting that first big bowl of figs, perfectly pear-shaped and glistening.

From two fig trees, and the hope they have come to symbolize.

48 hours to freedom

The ceiling fan is spinning above my head and its four lights are casting sculptured shadow shapes above. I'm lying on my back on a bed, in a separate room of our house, all by myself. This afternoon I took 125 millicuries of radioactive iodine for treatment of thyroid cancer, and so to avoid irradiating anyone or anything, I have to remain secluded for 48 hours. I'm tired of sucking on sour candies, which were prescribed to prevent contamination of the salivary glands, and really tired of the low-iodine diet I've had to be on for two days previous to starting the treatment and the 48 hours during. But I find relief in a large bowl of sweet cantaloupe, strawberries and blueberries, one of the few foods I'm allowed to eat that doesn't make me nauseous.

In the room I have magazines, a pen, a notebook which I bought for ten cents, and a telephone to help me pass the time. I've read every page of one of the magazines, and now, with purple nitrile gloves on to keep me from contaminating what I touch, I've started writing a few lines that come with a melody at the same time. The words and melody have a (surprise!) kind of spinning quality to them, and are pretty much a description of this experience. The chorus is different, though, a defiant stance towards the reason I'm stuck in this room. It's not the best song, but it clears the way and will allow me to finish another song the next night. That first night I have three separate dreams. I'm not sure what they mean, but I write them down the next day.

You wouldn't think that being isolated, nauseated and bored could open a pathway to creativity, but it did. And late into the second night, I finish, for the most part, a very personal song. I call it "Picture Of A Journey." It's about a theme that underpins my life, the loss of my birth father. It might not be a hit, but I'm happy with the words and images that have come forth. In each chorus the perception of truth is affected by the events of life and changes the picture. In the final chorus, there is the realization that truth comes with trust, and that the picture of life is really just a means to the journey.

It was only 48 hours, but like the pill that I took will continue to dissolve any remaining thyroid tissue and cancer, I will continue to write and find my voice, and the barriers to that freedom will continue to dissolve.

It's always surprising what can begin in 48 hours.

8.08.2008

In the prophetic realm, the number "8" symbolizes one of two things-new beginnings, or teacher. In Chinese culture, the number is symbolic of prosperity. The Chinese government selected this date intentionally for the beginning of the Olympic games, but symbols are often representative of things beyond the control of man.

Despite the manipulations of government and politics, and because there is still hope in the world, an event referred to as "games" show what is possible when for a time the clashing of powers is set aside. It is purity of purpose and earnestness we don't see enough of anymore, in a very un-Hollywood and yet spectacular cast of athletes who realize their dreams. And even though big stars emerge among the many, almost without exception they all realize it is bigger than them, and a rare, if brief, unity between people of different cultures is realized.

By using the number "8" a government declares its plan of prosperity and the accompanying political power it brings. Yet above the intentions of men are the even more powerful ideals represented as we watch. Commitment to achieve something greater than yourself, and the generosity of spirit and unity we see in the best moments of the athletes, teaches all of us to strive for the same, and indeed is a call for a time of new beginnings.

Divided we fail, together we stand.

the luxury of opinion

In life, we often have the luxury of our opinions. We spend them freely. But the surplus of certainty can easily disappear in difficult times. The truth is, we don't really know for sure until those opinions are tested. We often just have pieces and bits and from these we form a fragmented construct of imagined reality. We accept some things and reject others, and yet in every person is a piece of the whole puzzle. Each of us has answers we will never really know until we open our hearts to hear another person's story. How many times in your life have you taken the time to sit and listen to the tale of the path that someone else has walked? Until you do, and make a habit of it, then like all of us, you have the luxury of your opinions.

Maybe it's a luxury you can no longer afford.

larry euglon

I've never been to Beaumont, Texas. I lived in Houston for six months when I was seven years old, temporarily transplanted there for my father's heart surgery. Both cities are in South Texas and close enough to the coast to be in the path of hurricanes. I have no ill will against the city or anyone in Beaumont, although I did write a song called "Don't Be A Loner In Beaumont." It's based on an article that I came across while reading the newspaper. It's about a man named Larry Euglon.

I don't know Larry's history other than the information given in the article. His nickname had been "Big Tank," since at one time he had struggled with a weight problem; he had also done construction work. He had been married and divorced, and his daughter, ex-wife, and other family members lived in Beaumont. There was an unknown long-term illness, and he had lost a lot of weight. He was reclusive and mostly avoided interacting with people when he did venture out of his house, walking with his head down, or running from relatives when he met them on the street. It appears he probably spent most of his time alone.

In late September 2005, Hurricane Rita was heading for the coast of Texas. The city of Beaumont had issued a mandatory two-week evacuation for its residents, and the town was largely deserted when the hurricane hit. No one was kidding around since Hurricane Katrina had devastated New Orleans just a few weeks earlier at the end of August. After Rita blew through Beaumont, people eventually began to return and rebuild any damage.

About eighteen months after the hurricane hit Beaumont, there was one house that still laid in disrepair. It hadn't sustained any major structural damage, but it was obvious no one was taking care of it. The branches of broken oak trees surrounded it, the grass was overgrown, and trash was strewn about the yard. The house was to be sold due to unpaid property taxes. A prospective buyer came to look at the property and went inside to inspect the house. The interior of the house was neat and in order, with a layer of dust over everything. In the bedroom there was another discovery. A man's fully clothed body lay on the bed. He had been dead for sometime, the body in a mummified condition. After an investigation, the body was identified. It was Larry Euglon.

There were two voices that stood out to me in the article. The first was Dorothy Euglon, identified in the article as Larry's aunt, who lived less than a mile away on the same street. She said that Larry had separated himself from the family and that "you could have knocked on that door until hell freezes over and he was not going to let you in." In her conversation with the reporter, she asks, "Now what did he die from?" Could it have been fright? Could it have been a heart attack? With 120 mile per hour winds tearing up your house, who knows. Only God knows."

The second voice that stood out was Larry's neighbor of 20 years, Osborne Johnson. "All the neighbors asked where Mr. Larry was," he said. "We decided he had evacuated with other people and didn't have the chance to come back." Later in the article, Osborne said that although no one was at fault for Larry's death, "we are at fault of him not being found." And finally, "I fault myself because living this close to him, I should have called the police or somebody and had a search made for him."

Although it would be expected that people would be too busy rebuilding their homes for several weeks after the hurricane, after nearly two years, you have to ask the question of why no one, not even his family, tried to find out what had happened to Larry Euglon. Yet his neighbor, Osborne Johnson, seems at least willing to ask that of himself and others, and his is the voice of compassion. It's something we all would expect, or at least hope for, that if somehow we had become lost in this world, someone would come look for us. And it's a heartbreaking reminder of how everyone needs that someone. In this turning world, even the sun needs the moon to consider the night.

treadmill

About a year and a half ago, we moved to a small city in Texas. We live by a man-made lake, a reservoir, that the city built and dedicated the same year we moved there. It has a limestone gravel path, and they've planted trees and put benches at different places along the three mile path. There are also several wooden docks. Some are small piers that you can fish off of, and others are just small platforms to stand on. There's a bridge whose steel railings are lined with the ever-present Texas star. The bridge crosses over a small cement dam, and its runoff flows into a small stream and pond east of the lake in a field across the county road.

I started walking around the lake every day during the week. I walked in the humidity and the bugs. I followed hundreds of swallows around the path as they swirled in great groups together, and saw blue herons soar across the lake and coots scurry into the water. There were the mobs of grackles with their unending chatter, and the comical killdeer, all long legs speeding along the ground before taking flight and sounding the distinctive alarm that gives them their name. I also walked by farms on the north side of the lake, saw a sheepdog on his watch, and a donkey with her new foal. I often looked for them when I would pass by.

I kept walking, and on a couple of days I got caught in a drenching rain I thought I could beat before it hit. Texas weather travels fast. During thunderstorms I rode my bike in the garage, and even when I had to put on layers of sweats and knit caps because of the cold I still made the trek around. In January the 40 degree mornings finally drove me into the garage, and in February we had an ice storm. Then it just rained and rained, enough to knock the whole state out its drought-and then some. When the dragonflies and spiders and grass and flowers began to reappear, I left the garage and headed out around the lake again.

About June, in the thick of the humidity and eighty degrees at eight in the morning, I began to reconsider my efforts. Especially when the after effects of the walk outweighed the benefits. Just too much heat, even for a girl who grew up in Arizona.

So I bought a treadmill. A talking treadmill. It talks if you buy an additional card, about the size of a small cracker, with a workout program on it, and insert it into the treadmill. The machine by itself has seven programs, but the extra card has twenty-four individual workouts. And the voice of your own personal trainer, Wanda. During each workout, the personal trainer tells you about changes in speed or incline and gives you words of encouragement. I've found wisdom in Wanda's words.

"Inhale and exhale, nice and deep." Take time to breathe.

"Take water breaks if needed." Take time to refresh yourself.

"You will achieve an all-around better workout if you don't hold on to the console." Let go.

"In order to continually improve, you need to push yourself." Set some goals.

"If the machine is pushing you too hard, or not hard enough, you can manually adjust the workout right on the console." You can change things.

"I'm stopping your treadmill-you did it! We'll see you next time." One day at a time.

So even though the unforgiving Texas climate has gotten the better of me in the last year and a half, I'm finding a way to adapt. In the wisdom of the treadmill.

conversations in my head

Yesterday morning after breakfast with my husband, still sitting at the table with one of my dogs snuggled in my lap, I began to have a conversation in my head. The first of two imagined conversations. In the first I was talking to a friend who had actually called earlier in the week. She and her family want to move from the place they live now because with the cost of living it seems impossible to get ahead financially. Everyone she knows seems to be in the same boat. In my head I imagined asking her if she had considered getting a part-time job to help out. She's a gifted singer, and with the right connections and a little effort I think she could use that gift to make some money.

In the second conversation, I imagined talking to a relative of mine, and what I would say if she complained of not having enough money. Again, she is someone with a gift. This gift being interior design. She could do really well at it, I think, especially if she was willing to take a year or so and get a little education. But she consistently takes jobs that are the kind that are easy to walk into but really don't lead anywhere. And she remains in a place of just not getting ahead financially.

In my head I imagined accusing both of them of wasting their gifts, both of which could help them in their financial situations. And then I realized that these things apply to me as well. Now maybe this is a passive-aggressive attempt at confronting myself, or just God's subtle way of talking to me. But I realized I needed a plan, a bigger picture, or I would just keep walking into the easiest thing. At the same time, it's hard to leave that easy path, to step up to the next level.

But if I don't, it will all remain an imagined conversation in my head.