First house call: I didn’t know he had candy.

Hidden inside the pocket over his heart, a cluster of orange Saf-T-Pops with paper loop handles . . .

The crackle of cellophane. White sleeves rolled, he scrubbed his hands in our sink . . .

Some kind of sweetness came into my room with Doc Pete, a man craggy and calm as Lincoln.

He sat on my bed, black bag on the floor. Tender fingers probed my throat, behind my ears. He checked my forehead as if it sizzled, blew on his hand and winked.

While I was laughing (then coughing), he shook down the mercury in his thermometer. Tucked its cool silver bulb under my tongue.

Once, Doc Pete let me eavesdrop on my own heart, stethoscope bell pressed to my chest.

Dr. Pete left me dosed and Vicks Vapo-rized. He left me soothed. And he left me suckers. To this day, I love orange tootsie roll pops.

Fast forward to last week, me tossing and coughing, wishing for old-fashioned comfort. A little sleep.

I forgot my “Yes” Tank is finite

Saying Yes too often had taken its toll. Too many classes and podcasts, projects and research.

Did family and friends miss me? Yes. Did the dog shred his bed, missing our daily jaunts in the woods? (Tip: Don’t waste duct tape on fleece and fake suede.)

To be fair, there was also an accident; I was rear-ended. I didn’t blame the other driver. But my resentment grew over so many interruptions: shuttling between insurance agents, chiropractor and LMT, car repairs (twice), texts and mailings and follow-up phone calls.

I glossed over annoyance. [Read more…]

Kicked any leaves lately?

Bright fall days feel school-new and ripe with promise. Then comes waning daylight, raking, decay. Entropy in overdrive. More raking. Thoughts of snow.

Among swan-song colors, I feel conflicted: a little sad, yet grateful for small glories. Like “Eternity,” this wise little poem by William Blake.

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy.
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

Am I primed for delight?

Autumn’s rest and recovery cycle nudges me toward close encounters (of the best kind).

• To spread-eagle in mounded leaves
• Interpret cloud shapes
• Count the colors on one leaf

After months of being productive, I am reserving pre-holiday recovery time. [Read more…]

I did not dress for aerobic endeavor.

I did not snap the leash on the dog we should have named Lugnut.

I got into the car. Hungry for sole-to-soul wonder, I visited a local labyrinth.

We all know walking benefits the body as well as the spirit, and mind. “One recent study showed a 20% improvement in memory and attention after people strolled through an arboretum!” writes Shirley S. Wang. “Even viewing pictures of beautiful scenery had a positive, though lesser, effect on their productivity.”*

If you’ve braved a cornfield or hedge maze, you know there’s usually more than one path. The wily maze designer offers you choices.

It’s easy to get turned around, or fooled. Even lost.

The labyrinth designer offers one path that leads you gradually, though never directly, to its center. No dead ends. [Read more…]

Remember Bill Murray as the neurotic in “What About Bob”?

Fear immobilized him. Reduced him to a ball of nerves.

Thwart a Woolly Bear Caterpillar’s autumn walkabout and, terrified, it curls up. Instantly. A sable muff.

Then it commences playing dead—

—no matter how long you hold out that cell phone to film The Big Stretch.

While you wait, Google will tell you a caterpillar’s body houses 4,000 muscles. (Can we take a moment to marvel?)

Playing dead is their defense, a way to feel invisible. Safe.

Think introvert at the company party. Or a women’s retreat. [Read more…]

The Wind-up

They sound like bees in a snit, a low, zizzery, grinding noise.

Wind the knob and eight fish the size of a thumbnail rotate, mouths gaping open, closed. The toymaker has baited the two-inch fishing pole with a magnet the size of a baby tooth.

Wanna play? Connect the swinging, magnetic bait with magnets inside the merry-go-round of motormouths. One flick of the pole lands the fish. Catch and Release.

It takes concentration and patience to pull those fish free. Just ask my 4-year-old grandson.

“I got one!” he cries. And then, as he shakes it into a waiting cup, “There you go, little fishie.”

Catch and Release, revisited

Recently I posted “Catch and Release, a New Angle.”

Since then I have been practicing, along with some of you (as your comments and emails relay), catching self-defeating thoughts, then releasing them.

I make a game of it. How fast can I identify the mouth telling me a lie (usually my own), then let the lie go?

Last week’s game-changer

My husband led me outside. (I grabbed my camera, just in case.)

“Did you mean to do that?” he asked, pointing.

In our backyard cast-off birdcages artfully nestled among perennials. But the blue cage contained a real bird!

Blogger-brain said: Catch this. There’s a lesson here.

I focused the camera. Click. The poor bird flapped against the bars. It must have ducked through the door, causing it to slam behind it.

Click. Zoom in. Click. Scolding chirps came from overhead, maybe the mate.

Why was I chronicling the event when I could be setting a prisoner free?

Chastened—by now the poor bird was throwing itself at the bars—I handed off the camera, then knelt and eased open the door.

The bird cowered in a corner, eyes wild. As if I were the enemy.

Tipping the cage forward, inch by inch, spilled the bird free. Off it sailed—along with its partner, still scolding.

All the other cages were closed. I didn’t remember propping the blue door open. And why would a living creature enter a cage?

Well, catkins and marjoram seeds had dropped through the bars. Bird Bait.

Why didn’t I think of that?

How often has God tipped me free from a trap?—like the expectations of others. Or those I inflict on myself.

Conversely, how often do I inadvertently entrap someone else with my assumptions, or actions? My words, or my expectations?

My friend Roberta, a reader in our online community, put it this way:

“That which I catch affects not only me, but those with whom I interact. It affects my mood, my conversation, my thoughts, my well-being.”

“Being aware of the catch is crucial,” Roberta added. “And the act of releasing is what opens my heart to Christ. And closes the door to the enemy!”

The more we pause during a stressful day to check in with our heart, the sooner we become aware of what hooks us. Or traps us.

 

If we’re willing to release the bait we mistakenly take, how faithfully Grace works the barb from our lip. Our mind. Our soul.

How gently Grace tips us toward freedom.

“There you go, little fishie.”

MAKING IT PERSONAL:

Do you have an experience with Catch and Release you’d be willing to share with the rest of us?

What’s the Catch?

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