Uncategorized – Page 35 – Cairn by Cairn

Hunting Bliss

Much has been written about women and the thrill of the hunt. The hunter/gather gene has been passed down through the eons from mother to daughter and each new generation has claimed her favorite hunting grounds. In days of yore, the hunting grounds were lush pastures and green vales, but for most modern day women the thrill of the hunt takes them to Niemann, Sax, and even Walmart. Those places hold no appeal for me as they’re much like hunting in a petting zoo. All the goods are laid out in front of you and you have your choice of the same style in multitudes of color. I prefer the more difficult quarry to be had in resale shops, second hand stores, and thrift stores. I proudly proclaim that my bounty comes from Goodwill.

This past Saturday, I gathered my weapons (i.e. credit cards) and headed out for the hunt. First stop was the little resale shop by Fantastic Sam’s. The store is a clean freak’s nightmare as it is packed to the raffles with all kinds of treasures from purses, to games, to high quality clothes. I scored some wonderful candle holders that normally retail for $10 to $15 bucks for less than a dollar a piece and some adorable costume jewelry to dress up my work outfits.

Next stop was Wings, a local resale shop whose profits go to help homeless women and children. I love shopping at Wings because I always find a few nice pieces to compliment those I have at home. This time they were selling brand new Liz Claiborne pants for $3 bucks a pair. Needless to say I bought several pairs as well as a gorgeous red jacket that looks wonderful with the new lace blouse I got at Dress Barn (also on sale).

I have to admit I’m a book worm and all too often I’m guilty of paying $7 for the newest paperback because I’m desperate for something to read. Lucky for me there’s an awesome little bookstore called Top Shelf books in Palatine that sells an eclectic mix of books for great prices. Wandering through the store I never know if I’m going to find the latest thriller, a great cookbook, or a good biography to read. Today was no exception and I walked out with a bag full of books that will keep me busy for a good long time.

The Goodwill of my childhood was a dirty, grungy place that we occasionally frequented, but rarely as the clothes were not first quality and the customers were even more questionable. Fortunately for me, the Goodwill of today is more designer boutique than back alley thrift store. Our local Goodwill’s pride themselves on having top quality clothing and even brag about the deals their customers score like the time a woman bought a pair of manolo blahnik for $5 bucks. Alas, I didn’t find any steals like that on my foray to Goodwill, but I did find some nice blazers and a few blouses. My daughter also bought her entire back to school wardrobe at Goodwill. I don’t force her to shop second hand, but she likes it because it makes her money go farther.

My day of retail therapy was done and like most women I had a few regrets about spending more than I had planned, but my regrets added up to $20 and not the hundreds of dollars that some women regret spending. I was also left with a deep feeling of blissful satisfaction at having saved money, helped save the environment by limiting my purchases of new stuff, and helped other people by frequenting stores that give back to those less fortunate. All in all, how much more blissful can it get?

Raining Bliss

There’s something magickal about the rain because even though the physics of rain are always the same–condensation being released from the clouds–rain has many different moods. There is the soft, warm rain of a summer evening that’s like a lover’s caress; there’s the angry, howling rain of thunderstorms, there’s the cold rain that chills your very bones, and then there’s the soft sprinkle that teases you with a few drops here and there. My mother nicknamed me Rainey when I was little as a derivative of Lorraine and the name fits as I’ve always loved a good rain.

Snuggling up under a blanket and watching the rain pour down has to be one of the most sublimely comforting experiences in the world. It was raining this morning and I snuggled down into the blankets and listened for a while before the alarm went off. The rhythmic pounding of the rain on the windows sent my mind wandering as I thought about other rainstorms and about the power the weather still has over us in this modern era.

Living on Okinawa, we were subject to the whims of the weather gods and at least three times a year, a typhoon would hit the island and we’d have to batten down the hatches and stay indoors for a few days. I loved typhoons as there was such a sense of wonderment in watching the clouds twist and turn and listening to the rain and the wind. I always felt safe nestled in my little concrete house built to withstand ‘phoons. We’d snuggle up on the couch, watch old movies, and listen to the rain and the wind howl around us. When the eye of the storm passed over us, we’d go outside and stand in the deathly still looking up at the clouds and waiting for the storm to start again. The eye of the storm is one of the most magickal places on earth as you’re surrounded on all sides by the wild force of nature, yet the one place you’re standing is still. I’ve been outside when the typhoon started up again and all of a sudden the winds whipped from zero degrees to 140 miles per hour and the sheer force of the storm is awe inspiring to feel.

Typhoons aren’t the forte of the Midwest, but the flat praries have their own wild weather. We live in an area that is prone to tornadoes and the weather right before a tornado can have its own deathly magick. Several years ago we were living in central Illinois and a hellacious thunderstorm kicked up its heels. I stood outside on the porch and watched the water and wind whip around in a symphony of destruction. My husband tried to pull me in the house, but I was mesmerized by the fireworks of nature. Funnel clouds formed and danced close to the earth before retracting into the clouds. The storm was one of the most destructive of the year, but all I could think about was the wild beauty swirling around me.

Another memorable trip to Asia inspired the plea for bliss that I wrote about in my very first blog entry. Although I’m sure my traveling companions didn’t think the day was so magickal, in fact most of them wanted to leave a lot earlier than we did, I thought a day spent touring ancient China in the rain was very magical. There was something wonderous about seeing pagodas and other ancient structures through the haze of rain and the rain inspired us to seek shelter in a tea house along with other folks seeking shelter and there was something cozy about sitting in the dilapated structure watching the rain fall down around us.

Gene Kelly wasn’t the only one who liked dancing in the rain. There’s something liberating and creative about dancing through the puddles in a warm summer rain. The air feels magickly charged (probably all the negative ions) and with every rain drop, the energy flows through you and you feel alive with all the possibilities the world has to offer.

The world feels so clean and new after a good rain as if it alive with all the possiblities that life has to offer. There is nothing quite so blissful as life after a good rain.

Fish Bliss

Growing up in the Midwest, there was no way I could escape being a meat and potatoes kinda girl. The meat of choice was beef and the only time we had fish was when we went to Missouri and indulged in fried catfish. We didn’t eat out that often and and when we did it was family restaurants that served the same kind of food we ate at home. The one memorable fish experience I had growing up was after my first semester at college when my dad took me out for lobster saying that everyone had to have lobster at least once in their life.

When I was 23 and working for the Air Force Audit Agency and word came from headquarters that my transfer to Okinawa, Japan had been approved, my coworkers took me out for sushi to celebrate. It was the first time I’d ever heard of sushi and when I discovered it was mostly raw fish, I grimaced and tried it, but quickly retreated into the safer realm of tempura.

I discovered lots of amazing foods during my three years in Japan, but still never fell in love with sushi. Teppan yaki thrilled me for both its flavor and the showmanship of the chefs who made cooking over a hot grill an art form with their running commentary, thrown eggs, and artfully sliced veggies. I’d never been a big fan of squash until I discovered tempura and I was amazed at how wonderful the humble vegetable could taste when battered and fried. Then there was Mongolian. I still remember the first time I had Mongolian at the officer’s club on Guam. There was something about picking your own veggies and meats for stir fry and then watching them cooked on the big grill that made them taste amazing. Our favorite Mongolian place on Okinawa was this wonderful restaurant called Genghis Khan that had a waterfall in the window. However, the lure of sushi still escaped me. I went out with coworkers a few times and stuck with the shrimp sushi, which was cooked so I considered it safe.

Sushi and I didn’t cross paths again until last year when a team came from Japan to review the status of my project and they took us out for sushi. Apparently they’d been warned ahead of time that I wasn’t very adventuresome when it came to food so one of my Japanese co-workers ordered me a steak so that I would have something to eat. It was a little embarrassing to be the only one at the table not eating sushi, but the embarrassment still wasn’t enough to convince me to try sushi again.

It was a comment by my boss and a trip to Miami that convinced me that maybe there was something to this raw fish thing. My boss made the comment that I played it safe when it came to food and that ticked me off just enough to make me want to prove to him that I wasn’t a culinary clod. Seafood abounds in Miami and it was there I discovered cerviche. Cerviche is raw fish that has been “cooked” in lemon juice. It has the most amazingly delicate flavor and I realized that if cerviche was this good, maybe I should give sushi another try.

I dabbled in sushi for about six months, periodically testing the waters to see if I really liked it or I just liked the idea of having a sophisticated palate. It was during a trip to Chattanooga a few weeks ago that I realized I really did like some aspects of sushi. A really good friend of mine from our Memphis facility had gone out for sushi the day before with some coworkers from Miami and was raving about how good it was and how she wanted to go out for sushi again. We packed up the van and headed to another sushi restaurant to indulge. There was something about her enthusiasm that made me want to really explore sushi. It also helped that our Latin American friends were very knowledgeable about sushi and were able to order things they thought we’d liked. We ended up eating our way through two sushi boats and then some and I came away with a deeper appreciation for sushi. I also learned that sushi doesn’t necessarily mean raw fish. Sushi actually refers to vinegar rice topped with other ingredients and since that trip I’ve been exploring various types of sushi.

Since I came home from Chattanooga, I’ve been craving sushi and heading out to Sushi Station at least once a week for lunch. The cool thing about Sushi Station is that they are a rotating Sushi bar that lets you see what the various rolls look like before you purchase them. My favorite is Philadelphia rolls (cream cheese, salmon, and avocado) and I’m not sure what it is about that combination that makes them so yummy, but I seem to crave Philadelphia rolls.

One thing I’ve noticed since I’ve been eating more sushi is that I seem to have more energy and am feeling better. That makes sense since even Philadelphia rolls are fairly low in calories and both salmon and avocado are good for you. I also think fondly of my friend from Memphis every time I eat sushi and maybe that’s part of the reason I enjoy it so much.

Roasting Bliss

Summer brings to mind long ago summers where my family would spend a week traveling through the countryside and camping out in state or national forests or local campgrounds. We’d usually spend three or four nights camping and then spend one night in a motel to clean up and reconnect with civilization.

There is something magickal about sitting around a campfire out in the woods watching the stars and the fireflies. Campfires seem to invite sharing stories and wisdom and we did a little of both around our fires. Camping also seems to create communities of strangers as kids and parents let down their guard and get to know the folks at the next campsite. I remember shared meals where we’d each cook our own meals and then sit together to commune about where we’d been and where we were going.

There always seemed to be marshmallows at those campfires and in the days before fancy storebought roasting forks, the kids would be sent out into the woods to find sticks that were perfect for roasting marshmallows. The perfect stick was thick at the bottom and thin, but not too thin, at the top. A stick that was too thin at the top would dump your marshmallow into the fire and one that was too thick would leave you with a marshmallow that tasted like wood.

Then there was the great debate about brown or black. Some folks kept their marshmallows far from the flame and turned them slowly so their marshmallows turned a beautiful amber. Then there were those of us who plunged our marsmallows deep into the center of the fire and ended up with a charred black nugget that had a sweet crispy coating and a creamy melted center. I’ve always been a burnt marshmallow type of gal and I’m not sure exactly what that says about my character. I choose to think that it means I’m brave and courageous and jump into the thick of the fire and then enjoy a sweet reward.

Campfires aren’t the only way to roast marshmallows and I remember when I was about ten sneaking out of bed to get a treat and finding my dad holding a fork over the flame of our gas stove roasting a hotdog. A little light bulb went on over my head and I realized that the flame of our gas stove would be a perfect place to burn (I mean roast) marshmallows. My dad indulged me and let me roast my marshmallows over the stove, but made me promise to never do it when he wasn’t around and to never tell mom. It’s funny, but the small flame on the stove invited the same types of conversations that roasting marshmallows around a bonfire did and my dad and I talked about work, about school, and about life.

At forty plus, I’m not quite ready to break out the sleeping bag and head out to the hills to camp, but I do miss the confidences and magick of campfires. Fortunately, I do have a gas stove, a bag of marshmallows, and some forks and believe it or not, it still conjures the same magick of those long ago campfires and makes me realize that sometimes the simplest things like burning food over a fire really are the best.

Nose to the Bliss

I’m not a clean freak by any stretch of the imagination, but I love the smell of cleaning supplies and the deeply blissful feeling that comes from walking into a clean and organized house. Unfortunately, since I’m not super wealthy, the only way I get to experience the bliss of a clean house is by putting my nose to the grindstone and cleaning it myself.

Along the way, I’ve learned that playing good jazz or blues while cleaning helps make the experience a little more pleasurable. Washing dishes while smooth jazz washes over your soul is an experience that can’t be beat. I love the feeling of the soapy water on my hands as I scrub my dishes and listen to the beat. It isn’t quite as wondrous as the feeling that comes from a good massage, but it’s close.

Clearing physical clutter also helps me clear the clutter from my brain. I’ve found that as I sort through and discard the physical things that no longer belong in my world, I create a space that lets me get rid of the mental clutter that’s holding me back. A clean house gives me space to think and to breathe and to make good decisions.

Clean sheets is another one of those not-so-guilty pleasures that I love to indulge in. There is nothing quite like slipping between crisp, cool, sheets. It makes me sleep better and when I awaken in the morning, I love to stretch out and feel the crispness.

Creativity and clutter used to be inexplicably connected in my mind and I didn’t think it would be possible to be creative unless I was mired in clutter. I’ve since learned that clutter actually detracts from my creativity and makes me feel anxious and disconnected from my creativity. It is much easier to write when I’m sitting in front of my computer surrounded by calm. Then my creativity has space to come alive.

I will never be a white gloved maven of cleanliness, but I’ve learned over the years that there is a joy and pleasure in cleaning your space to create a haven for yourself and your thoughts.

Loving Bliss

My life is blessed and I mean that with utter sincerity. As I sit here and listen to the album Quietude by Cliff deMarks’, I’m reflecting upon all the blessings in my life and how fortunate I am to be living the life I am and sharing it with the man I love.

Twenty-one years ago, I met my best friend, my soul mate, the person I would choose to share my life and my love with. I fell in love the first moment I saw him with his beautiful blue eyes and I was truly a goner when I got a love letter from him. Hubby is a left hander so he doesn’t often write things by hand as he has to hold the pen at a weird angle that hurts his hand, but soon after we met, he took the time to write me a four page love letter that I cherish to this day. In it he laid out his hopes and dreams for our future. Things haven’t quite worked out the way we’d both hoped, but they worked out the way they are supposed to.

As we struggled to find ourselves and where we were meant to be in the early years of our marriage, we moved a lot and by a lot I mean we’ve lived in ten houses in our time together and all but twice we moved ourselves. We’d pack all our boxes, pick up the furniture, and drive the U-haul to the next stop on our life together. I always knew he had my back and I hope he always knew I had his. Wine and roses are blissful, but they don’t always last. Knowing someone has your back and will be there to lift and tote beside you, that matters and that lasts.

Hubby isn’t one for flowery speeches or roses, but he’s always there for me and he always supports my hopes and dreams, sometimes at the expense of my own. It seems that I’m always getting on a plane and flying off somewhere, but I know he’s got my back and things will be fine at home. He sometimes says that I take him for granted and I probably do, but there is a feeling of true bliss to know someone has your back and that he will always be there for you.

Writing – as those of you who read my blog know – is one of my passions. Unfortunately I love the creative side of writing and am not so strong on the mechanics, but Hubby always has my back and makes sure that the commas get put in all the right places and that all the words are spelled right. He makes me look good and for that I am forever grateful.

I used to think that marriage was about lust, about roses, and about pretty words, but in the twenty one years I’ve been with my husband, I’ve learned that marriage is about sacrifice, it’s about hard work, and it’s about having someone’s back.

Luke’s Bliss

So what exactly is bliss? Even though it’s what I sincerely wished for, I’m not exactly sure what it is and how it applies to me. Is it a continuous state? Is it a journey? What exactly is it? The textbook definition of bliss, according to Dictionary.com, is “supreme happiness; utter joy or contentment. Hmm that definitely sounds like something I want, but how will I know when I’ve gotten it? What exactly does it look like?

I finally realized that bliss stares me in the face every day when I walk in the door. It’s the look of utter adoration, happiness, and joy that I see on my dog Luke’s face when I get home. It doesn’t matter how many things I’ve screwed up or who else in the world is mad at me, Luke is always absolutely, positively happy to see me and he has been from the day we met.

We bought our first house two years ago and the primary reason that I wanted a house was so that I could have a dog. I’ve always loved dogs and have never thought life is complete without one. We had two awesome dogs in the past, but after our last dog died, we didn’t get another one because we were moving into a rental house in the Chicago suburbs and we knew we wouldn’t be able to have a dog. I didn’t realize how much I missed a dog’s furry and unconditional love until we didn’t have one.

Owning a house had never been on my list of priorities as to me it was just one more thing to tie me down, but then I realized that life had changed and if I wanted the dog, I had to have the house. From that moment on, I worked diligently to clean up our credit and save money so that we could get a house…and a dog. I poured over PetFinder.com to find the perfect pet. I tried to entice my husband and kids to look with me, but they were smarter than I was and knew that I was only going to break my heart if if found the perfect dog, but couldn’t bring him/her home because we didn’t yet have a home of our own.

When we finally closed on our first house, my very first order of business was to get a dog, so despite the boxes that still filled the house and the POD in the driveway, the weekend after we moved in, I was at Orphans of the Storm, an awesome no-kill shelter in Deerfield, IL searching for the perfect dog. I’d searched online and found a few that I liked, but when I met them in person there wasn’t that click that told me I had met the perfect dog. Then I saw Luke and took him into the play yard. It was love at first site. While the other dogs had been more interested in being out of their kennel and playing in the snow than in interacting with me, Luke was different. He ran and played and reveled in his freedom, but every few minutes he’d race back to me and look up at me with those big brown eyes as if to say, “You’re still here, won’t you be my mamma?”

Talking to the folks at the kennel, I learned that Luke had had a hard life. At three years old, he’d spent most of his life in the shelter and had been adopted out twice only to be returned. I’m not sure exactly why someone would have returned this adorably precious dog, but I was more than willing to take a chance on a dog who despite having spent most of his life searching for his pack, still greeted me with such love and enthusiasm.

I’d promised hubby that I wouldn’t bring a dog home without getting his opinion, so it was with a heavy heart that I had to say goodbye to Luke that day and leave him in the kennel. I’m sure he thought I was just another of the long string of people who’d come to visit and left him there. The next day, I hustled John out of bed and up to the kennel and the look on Luke’s face when he saw that I’d come back was one of joy. We took him out to run in the kennel and now he ran and played and ran back to both of us as if he knew we were meant to be his parents. John was as smitten as I was and we signed the adoption paperwork and Luke became a member of our pack.

We’ll never know for sure exactly why the two families who adopted Luke returned him to the shelter and although my heart breaks at the thought of my precious Luke spending three years waiting for me to bring him home, I’m forever grateful to the folks who chose not to make him a member of their pack, because it means he’s part of mine. I feel sorry for the people who will never know exactly how much love can be packed into a 60 pound dog who launches himself into my arms like a furry cannonball every time I return home and overwhelms me with the knowledge of exactly how much I matter to him. That knowledge alone is a very blissful thought.