Scatterbrained Showers

Finally, my favorite days. I’ve written about them before: the days where it’s warm in the sun and cool in the shade. On and off I take my flannel shirt as I move across the yard beneath spotted shadows of spring-heavy trees. The ground went from washed out to tangled jungle in a mere handful of days, so I’m tending to her with my myriad of second-hand tools that clink and clank with rusted age. Yard work is my favorite work, especially on temperately blissful days like this one. Like the eager plants around me, I could swear every cell in my body is reaching for the sun.

Bodhi and Tee are playing donkey games in the yard while Bunny stands at the fence  grooming the neighbor’s horse with her teeth. Around my legs, Ron Swanson the Rooster and Trixie the dog chase each other endlessly. This unlikely friendship is one that even the grumpiest of curmudgeons can’t help but smile about. I post about them often on my Instagram, if you’re a ‘grammer.



My last post was a dreary one in which I swore the storms were never going to end. It’s difficult to feel optimistic when the ground is continually washed away along with any real hope for stability and growth while the world around is a blur of colors that you can’t see through clearly even though you want to so badly. And indeed there is more rain in the forecast in the coming week.

But as I stand outside among my funny family of seemingly sunshine-drunk animals and leaves that are practically unfolding before my eyes, I’m reminded that all of this is just an infinite series of small moments. One after another they come, an endless film strip that moves so quickly sometimes, it’s hard to tell what you’re looking at until it’s passed—images already fading softly in your memory.

The sun has dropped behind the trees now with only small bits of light shining through the holes between the leaves as a chill crawls along my arms. I untie the flannel shirt from around my waist and head towards the barn where the donkeys bray because sunset means dinner time and they know I’ll be there with their hay. I always will. I suppose those routines are roots in their own way.

As light slips down the barn walls, I take pause with my donkeys, stretching the fleeting moment as long as I can because with them, I am present. I am here. I am rooted so firmly that no amount of scatterbrained showers can wash me away. Day after day, the donkeys remind me of this. They hold down my kite string when the wind turns wild.

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Like pulling eggs delicately from the chicken coop, I think the best we can do sometimes is pick up one moment at a time as they come, examine them, and tuck them carefully into our apron. Some of the eggs might be bad—it happens—but typically, as long as you’re handling them the right way, they’re going to be just fine.

‘Twas a Night on the Ranch…

Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the night,
Not a creature was stirring in the cold air’s bite.
The chickens were snug in their coop with care,
In floofy, puffed feathers blocking raw, winter air.

The donkeys were nestled all snug in their shed,
While layers of clouds stretched out above head.
And King Ranch with his scotch and I with my red,
Snuggled in for a night cap, then we’d be off to bed.

When out on the land, there arose such a clatter,
I nearly spilled my wine to see what was the matter.
On with my coat and my hat and my boots,
I flew like the wind, after the hollers and hoots.

The moon, a dull smudge behind shape-shifting clouds
Lacked lustre and brilliance behind low-hanging shrouds.
When, what to my tipsy, blurred eyes seemed to charge,
But two miniature donks, and a standard quite large.

There were six furry ears, so long and alert,
And three distinct tracks being left in the dirt.
More rapid than eagles, those donkeys did dash,
I shivered and shook, anticipating a crash.

“Now, Bunny! Now, Tee! Now, Tink with your boot!”
Yet still they all galloped, my shouts became moot.
To myself did they run, blowing air that was warm,
I found myself suddenly, in a braying donk swarm.

“What are you donks doing?” I asked with a sigh,
While they snorted and shuffled beneath a cloudy, black sky.
So back to the shelter, I led them and sang,
And smiled quite naturally with my silly-ass gang.

Just then, in a twinkling, from the corner of my eye,
I saw the clouds splitting up, revealing a glittering sky.
As I drew in my breath, and peered far overhead,
Two stars flew by fast, then away they fled.

I grinned and I think perhaps tears stung my eyes.
The clouds had just parted, showing magic in its skies.
I leaned on the wall of the shed with my friends
In awe because (weirdly) my spirit felt cleansed.

Those stars—how they twinkled! Their trails so merry!
How cool that stars fell right above this cold prairie!
Into the shed I walked, the donkeys on my tail,
I decided I’d sit in what was left of a bale.

Tee came in close then Bunny, then Tink.
With all these sweet donks, it was warmer than you think.
Beneath me the hay sank down with a squish.
“Holy crap,” I thought, “I forgot to make a wish!”

I pinched my eyes shut and I thought really hard,
What should I wish for out in this barnyard?
I thought and I thought when an idea I did clutch
A wish that I wished and wanted so much:

“Shooting stars, if you’re out there, please listen to me.
As I sit in this barn with my sweet donkeys, three.
This world needs more love and more peace and more joy,
More than any mass-produced, silly ole’ toy.

Please bestow upon us, vast oneness and love,
Little specs of healing light that can fall from above.
Please bring us together, from all distant lands
And like Whos in Whoville, we’ll sing and hold hands.”

I opened my eyes and the donks snuggled in.
For some time in the hay, I sat with a grin.
They must have known the stars would be shooting
Thus explained their loud braying and hooting.

I finally stood and headed back to the house,
My steps careful and quiet, like a little field mouse.
King Ranch was asleep, as was my Little Foot kid,
So after removing my gear, into my bed, I slid.

Outside it was quiet, the critters cozy and warm,
As I took several breaths to calm my mind from the swarm.
Still I thought of the stars; the brilliance of their sight,
May you all be at peace and feel loved on this night.

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Cold Coffee and Gray Skies: A Morning Meditation on Togetherness

I relaxed my back against the coolness of the wrought-iron chair in which I’d been sitting and leaning forward for the past half-hour while pulling my smudged glasses from my face. On the desk in front of me, I closed the large, three-ring binder that is packed full of printouts of guided meditations that I use in my yoga classes from time to time. I moved it to the floor and picked up my cup of coffee that no longer steamed.

The sun was only barely beginning to rise outside the small window to my left. It was a gray sunrise behind heavily hanging, weather-changing clouds that are bringing a cold-front our way. Bowie, our youngest rooster, crowed twice. I know his crow from the others—it’s softer and shorter. It’s not very confident compared to the others. I suppose he’s still trying to find his voice.

Also on my desk was our county’s newspaper that gets delivered to us weekly by mail, folded into quarters and the side that faced up had two advertisements on it. The first had a headline that read, “Choose to Change Lives” and the second, a headline that read, “Every Abused or Neglected Child Needs a Caring, Consistent Adult to Advocate for His or Her Well-Being.” I sipped my cool coffee.

The night before this, I’d gone out to remove our newest donkey, Tink’s, prosthetic boot and wrapped gauze. His wound is healing, but still needs time to air out at night when he’s less active. Oxygen, indeed, is the greatest healer. After I removed his boot and unwrapped the gauze, I sat down in the dirt next to him and rubbed his wounded leg. I pressed my thumbs firmly around his joints and ran my fingers up and down the muscles between them. When I do this, he softens his eyes and lowers his head: a signal to me that it feels pleasant. Oddly enough, that’s what my guided meditation was about this morning: equanimity between pleasantness, unpleasantness and neutrality. It spoke to the fact that we often cling to pleasantness, condemn unpleasantness, and space-out during neutrality and in that, we miss out. We let moments pass us by. We live based on experience and not based on the present.

Donkeys do this, too, I think. They can often seem to cling to experience to protect themselves.

The wind whipped around the sides of the shed last night as I sat, massaging TInk’s leg. I could see the black clouds unfolding and collapsing as my two remaining adoptable donkeys, Fireball and Fluff, cautiously wandered into the shed, their heads low. These two donkeys are very shy and although I have no concrete information, I get the sense there’s pain in their respective backgrounds. I continued to massage Tink’s swollen leg, humming my favorite James Taylor song (Close Your Eyes) when Fluff took two more steps closer to me. I continued to softly sing and he took one more step to where now, he could reach my face with his nose.

I turned my nose to his and he exhaled twice. So did I.

Behind him, Fireball stood timidly and with his eyes wide. Fluff took two more steps towards me, his neck and head above me now, and rested his chin on the top of my head. Under the pressure, I continued to hum.

Tink lowered his leg and leaned his weight into my side and I started to struggle beneath the weight of both Fluff and Tink but I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want them to snap back into experience. I wanted, so badly, for them to be in this moment with me experiencing trust.

Being at the bottom of a two-donkey pile, I hadn’t noticed that somewhere during this time, Fireball was no longer in my line of sight when suddenly, from behind me, I felt an exhale rush past my ear. I exhaled, too and he didn’t run away. Baby steps.

I placed my cool cup of coffee back down on the desk and looked at the headlines of our county newspaper again. I wondered what other people thought when they saw these headlines about changing lives and advocating for abused of neglected children. I wondered at all why someone would ever abuse or neglect a child. I began to feel very upset, thinking even of my own Little Foot and how I could never, ever imagine hurting him and as I did this, I pushed the newspaper away and looked back out the window.

But in that moment, I condemned and pushed away unpleasantness, just like the meditation said and I got to wondering, how different would our world be if instead of running away from the bad, we all worked together to “Choose to Change Lives”? To, instead of moving based on our experiences, moved in the present? Together?

I’ll admit, I don’t always trust or know what I believe. I simply think too much. But what I do know is that we all belong to one another—human and animal alike. It is our responsibility to care deeply for one another—to not push away the unpleasantness because we’re scared but to instead, pick each other up even when it hurts or the pressure is too high. It’s our responsibility to not turn a blind eye because we don’t like it or to space out because we don’t get it. We need each other. All of us.

All of this easier said than done, of course. But I think it’s worth trying…especially if it means that someone might feel safer or more loved.

The sun was up now, although the light trickling in was cool and gray. The few, remaining leaves in the trees twinkled in the wind and once more, Bowie crowed. I’d be heading out soon to re-wrap Tink’s little hoof and put his boot on and I’d probably brush him and the other two donkeys if they’d let me. I would go to the other paddock and spend time with Bunny and Tee who need to be reminded that I love them unconditionally, too. I’d come in after that and make breakfast for Little Foot and hold him in my lap while he drinks his milk. We’d probably read a book, too. I’d call King Ranch to tell him I love him and that I hope he has a good day at work and then I’d probably call my mom just to see how she’s doing.

We belong to each other. All of us, big and small, rich and poor, strong and weak. We can choose to change lives. We can advocate for one another. We should.

Fluff and fireball

The Last Little Rockstar

The mid-afternoon air hung heavily around us as King Ranch and I stood behind the wooden back house with chipping red paint that sits a ways back on our property

The back house is a dilapidated structure that we were told was the original house on the property. One side of it appears to have been a chicken coop at some point with netted fencing and wooden boxes, although, now it was a tangle of vines, weeds, and spider webs. The main part of the house — one small room with a concrete floor and rotting, wooden walls — had become a storage space for scrap wood, miscellaneous ranch tools, and old Christmas decorations that must have belonged to the little, scratchy woman from whom we purchased the property. On the other side of the house was a garage that was, in comparison to the rest of the house, in pretty good shape. The door had clearly been replaced and within it were extra water troughs and wood pallets. Still a lot of spider webs, though.

We stood behind the house where colorful weeds lined the base of the structure — thick, tangled weeds with flicking bugs and spiked leaves — because our last, little Rockstar rooster had finally been found.

He had been missing for three days. Of all the chickens and roosters at the ranch, the last Rockstar was the most social. He was a bouncy bird with a blueish, green tail that looked like slick oil on concrete. The rest of his body was jet black. He had made our back patio his home — specifically, he would sleep atop the firewood pile all on his own — and every morning between 4 and 5, he’d let us know if was time to wake up.

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King Ranch placed his hand on my lower back and said, “I’m sorry.”

Tears stung the corners of my eyes. In front of us, our once shiny, hip-hoppity Rockstar was now a graying pile of loose, lifeless feathers. His head was buried in a hole near the base of the back house and his body hung limply down into the jagged weeds. He had gotten himself stuck.

I leaned into King Ranch and cried.

I wondered how many birds at this point had died at our ranch and recalled them all:

There was Black chicken who had gotten out of the yard and was hit by a car early last summer when the Unicorn visited. There was another Rockstar rooster who’d been attacked by something while we were out of town whom we found dead in the corner of the coop. There was the Rockstar who was stomped out by the donkeys late last summer when Nikki came to visit. There were the three chicks who tried to hatch who didn’t make it and then the most recent tragic death of Prince, our other chick, who drowned in his water dish after being alive for only one week.

Now, the last of the Rockstars dangled out of the back house after what I knew was a struggle until his end.

I felt awful.

Behind us, Bunny snorted. She nosed her way in between King Ranch and I and King Ranch let out a sound that, I think, was somewhere between a laugh and a frustrated exhale, although I couldn’t tell which.

He said, “Well excuse me,” to Bunny. She raised and lowered her head a few times and pushed against me harder.

I laughed behind my tears and squatted down in front of her.

King Ranch scooped up Little Foot who was nearby flailing a stick and walked back towards our house. As he did this, a low rumble of thunder rolled by in the distance.

I’d have to pull the Rockstar out of there and give him a proper burial. I wasn’t sure how best to go about this because I wanted to preserve his body as best I could and I didn’t know how strongly wedged his body was in there. I imagined, pretty tightly to have been his end.

For now, I cried for him. Bunny stood with me, her head on top of mine, and I cried for him.

I cried because I felt awful that he was gone. I cried because I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye. I cried because life is so freaking fragile. I cried because how stupid must this bird have been to get stuck in a hole and how stupid was I to allow myself to get so attached?

But he wasn’t stupid. No. He was probably chasing a delicious bug that outsmarted him by scrambling into a hole in the house just large enough for the Rockstar’s head.

Damn you, bug. Freaking bug. It was that bug’s fault.

I wanted to hunt that bug. It was probably a big, fat cockroach with long, spiked, antennae because roaches never bring anything but terror and trickery. Why is it that when you turn on a light in the garage and spot one, they scramble right towards your feet? Bastards. In Texas, cockroaches even fly. Yes. They FLY. In FLOCKS. You’re a dead man, roach.

Bunny exhaled heavily. So did I as I stood up. She pulled her top lip back and pressed her upper gum into my shoulder. I think it was a donkey kiss.

Warm drops sprinkled down from the sky as another barrel of thunder tumbled by towards the west. The red, chipping paint on the house started turning a deep, brownish tint in the growing wetness.

Rest in peace, sweet Rockstar. I hope you’ve found your friends in the afterlife and that you’re alerting everyone to the sunrises. You really did do a good job with that.

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Life and Death, Again. I Guess That’s the Way of Things.

It wouldn’t rain. My goodness, had it been trying to, but it just would not rain. The thing about late, Texas spring is that when the sky tries to rain, but can’t, we’re all left wandering through soupy, walking-through-a-warm-wash-cloth air that gets trapped around the middle of the rib-cage when you inhale. For those of us who wear glasses regularly, you can expect that they will fog up much like a car windshield does if rain has gotten into it.

Still, the property, the garden, the chickens, and the donkeys all needed tending to, so I slipped my feet into my work boots, grabbed the cowboy hat that King Ranch and I share, and headed into the yard. Over my shoulder, I had a red, 100 foot extension cord needed to power the tiller for the garden. In my back, right pocket, I had my yellow gardening gloves and in the back, left pocket, my phone. I keep it handy because, as many of us 80’s kids entering our 30’s do these days, I take pictures of my activities and post them on various social media sites to link up with other enthusiasts.

This is an introvert’s dream — social media. It’s connection without obligation. People have a lot of negative things to say about these social platforms and although I agree that we should all be careful in the kind of information we’re sharing as well as be careful with our time, I guess I don’t think we need to feel bad about using it as a way to connect. As long as you’re still getting outside and living life away from screens, I say, utilize the interwebs as you please. Just be smart and don’t become dependent.

Little Foot was in a hiking pack specific for babies and toddlers that I wore like a backpack and it made sweat pool along my spine — it ran down and collected at the waist of my jeans. He likes it though — riding in the hiking pack while I work around the yard. He even naps sometimes.

I’d opened up the well house to retrieve the tiller and a rake in order to start tidying the garden, when from out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few streaks of black move across the cloudy, heavy sky. Leaning the tiller back against the inside wall of the well house, I turned to see somewhere between 8 and 10 large birds circling the back parts of the property. I thought they could have been vultures, but I wasn’t sure. They circled like vultures do.

I stood there for a moment, watching the swirl of birds criss-cross back and forth over something that was clearly on my property, every once and awhile, diving down and then swooping back up. The donkeys were okay; they stood just on the other side of the fence from Little Foot and me curious, I’m sure, to know if we had carrots — which I did, in the front, left pocket of my jeans. I had planned on giving them to the donkeys when I was done with the garden and headed out to the rest of the property to mow.  

Once, about 6 months ago, I was out on the property and I found two vertebrae. I think they must have belonged to a cow or other large animal because they were about as big around as my fist. My only thought is that vultures dropped them there. We have a lot of them around here. Here’s a picture I snapped a while back of what I assume is their relaxing time:

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I closed the door to the well house and adjusted Little Foot’s pack on my back as I headed out into the pasture. The donkeys greeted me enthusiastically and nosed at my hips, probably, because they smelled the carrots in my pocket. I pulled out a few for them and continued walking to where the large birds were circling.

A few of the birds floated higher as two dove down quickly without soaring back up. This made me nervous. Then, one after another, they dove down. Every few seconds, one of the massive birds would dart into the sky, but then gracefully glide back down. I really don’t know how many there were.

My glasses kept fogging up, so I placed them up on the brim of my cowboy hat but of course, this made everything look like an impressionist painting. I had the thought that I really should finally call the optometrist and get a new prescription for contacts.

As I approached the back paddock, from behind me, Bunny let out a loud bray and shortly after, Tee squealed in his loose-timing-belt sounding bray. They were indicating to me that I should be careful. In my blurred vision, I could see the collection of birds swarmed around something, although I had no idea what. I’d seen some rabbits on the property recently and wondered if it could have been one of them.

I wasn’t sure if I should be worried — would vultures (if indeed they were vultures) attack Little Foot and I? As far as I knew, birds were pretty scared of humans. Still, the fact that Bunny and Tee brayed nervously was enough to make me halt and keep distance.

I pulled the glasses off the brim of my hat, cleared the fog from the lenses with the bottom of my shirt, and pressed them onto my face. There were seven of them, and most definitely vultures. They had bald heads and black feathers and were frantic in their consuming of, whatever it was. I found myself becoming angry that this carnage was happening on my land, but was nervous to get closer because still, I wasn’t sure if vultures could be violent to us.

In the front, right pocket of my jeans, I’d had a small spade in case I had any digging to do in the garden. The handle was shoved down into my pocket and the actual scooping part of it was sticking up. I pulled the spade from my pocket and threw it as hard and far as I could at the pack of feasting birds while screaming, “blllaaarrrrghhh!!!” I’ve got a pretty good arm — I did, after all, play 3 years of little league softball from ages 9 to somewhere between 11 and 12.

All but two of the massive birds scattered away without a sound but wing flapping, so I felt safer to take a few more steps forward. Plus, Bunny and Tyrion were three or four steps behind me, so I felt safe within their protective proximity.

It was then that I noticed what the birds had: the smaller of the two birds, although, not smaller by much, reached down with it’s nude beak and grabbed hold of something that it then stretched up and I immediately knew that it was the rubber-band texture of lean muscle. The pinkish, red bit snapped and dangled from the bird’s beak before the thing gobbled it up with only a few gulps. The other bird, pecked a few times and lifted the creature up to flip it.

It was a squirrel. A light brown squirrel.

One by one, the other birds landed cautiously, although they kept an eye on the donkeys, Little Foot, and me between pecks at the squirrel.

Little Foot said, “huh, huuuu” which, to him, means donkey. When King Ranch or I ask Little foot, “what does a donkey say?” — “hu huuu” is his response.

Both donkeys were only a step behind me with their ears straight up. They watched the birds like I did, curiously and cautiously.

I turned back towards the garden and decided I’d come back later for my spade. I didn’t want Little Foot to figure out that he was seeing creature consumption. I also worried that this was one of the squirrels that lived in the pecan tree in our backyard — one of the squirrels that constantly drives our dog, Tucker, crazy in the mornings.

Back in the garden, I tilled and pulled the larger weeds by hand. I also thought about the squirrel and wondered how it must have died. Or maybe the vultures killed it. I don’t know. What I did know was that I was angry. I was angry that a gang of big birds chose to spend their afternoon tearing apart the little guy. Surely, there was some larger carcass elsewhere that they could have fought over — but instead, they fought over a squirrel. A helpless squirrel.

As I pulled a few onions out of the ground, careful not to disturb the ones not quite ready around them, I realized I was crying. But I guess birds need to eat, too, right? Still, I couldn’t help feeling sorrow for that squirrel. What a way to go.

I noticed, then, that my poblano pepper plant had finally popped out some peppers after weeks of only flowering. They were still very small, but a deep, forest green and shiny. Life. It was sprouting life.

This made me so proud. Until I lived here at the ranch, I’d never had a garden. Of course, I’d never had a toddler or donkeys or chickens either. And all in one season, I’ve had tomatoes and peppers and onions and lettuce grow as well as a new chick hatch and become part of the flock.

Life and death. All here. Life and death.

The beginning and the end. And we’re lucky enough to be in the middle somewhere.

It’s a powerful thing: being in the middle. This is where we get to do something. Where we get to be someone. Where we get to stand up for what’s right. That doesn’t mean we have to understand everything, but we can be kind. We can appreciate that which is unfolding in front of us.

There is so much more than us. It’s right there — all of it. A whole world. Life and death and everything in between. How badass that we get the privilege of being in between right now.

Cherish it.

Happiness and all of Her Friends

“Happiness is a choice.”

I’ve seen this quote frequently on social media and the internet in many different forms. Most of them are images which include a picture of a woman standing in lush forestry holding a bouquet of flowers in her hands while the breeze perfectly volumizes her hair. Others are intricate scripted letters on top of Instagram-filtered sea shores or sunset backdrops. It’s as if ‘happiness’ equals peace. ‘Happiness’ makes one beautiful. ‘Happiness’ is what’s right or the best choice.

Since moving up here to the ranch, I’ve had the privilege of being able to slow down. I don’t find myself sitting in hours-long traffic jams. At night, I hear crickets instead of highways. The sky is an explosion of stars and cosmos and for literally hours, we can stare intently into its greatness.

This slowdown has allowed me to take a deeper look at myself. I’ve more clearly started to understand my own anxiety, that I’m a people pleaser, and that I at least try to be an encourager. All along, I’ve repeated the phrase over and over in my head, “Just be happy. Just be happy.” I’ve been drawing strength from this. Confidence. I feel like if “I’m just happy” than I’m doing something right.

Now, I disagree with that idea.

‘Happiness’ is a wonderfully enjoyable emotion that as living creatures, we all experience and share. It is what happens when you hear a joke that strikes your sense of humor. It’s what your dog is feeling when they wag their tail as you pull into the driveway. ‘Happiness’ is what I feel while having an awesome casserole that King Ranch whipped up from the most hodge-podge pantry ingredients like pastas and cheeses and breadcrumbs and feeling full from its nourishment.

‘Happiness’ is Bunny and Tee braying uncontrollably when they hear us coming out into the pasture because they know we probably have treats or at least ear rubs coming their way. I am ‘happy’ when I finish giving them carrots and they proceed to nuzzle me and/or follow me around the yard. ‘Happiness’ is Little Foot realizing that he’s learned how to tell us that the cow says “moo”, and proceeding to repeat it over and over with an increasingly large grin on his face. ‘Happiness’ causes tears in our eyes as King Ranch and I realize just how much Little Foot is comprehending these days.

What happiness isn’t is a choice. I cannot ‘choose’ to be ‘happy’ about our savings account quickly dwindling yet somehow still being too much to qualify our family for financial assistance with health insurance. I cannot ‘choose’ to be ‘happy’ when I read articles about donkeys being illegally sold for meat in Nigeria by the thousands and knowing that right now, there is literally NOTHING I can do to help. I cannot ‘choose’ to be ‘happy’ when mass shootings are reported on the news. What do you tell the families of those killed or injured? “Just CHOOSE to be HAPPY?” I cannot ‘choose’ to be ‘happy’ when a stray dog bolts onto our property, grabs our largest egg-laying hen by the neck, and takes off down the street. I am, however, ‘happy’ that King Ranch ran after them, retrieved the chicken like a knight in shining armor, and then spent days nursing her back to health.

Happiness is nothing more than an emotion. It’s on the same level as sadness, anger, and fear. They’re equals. Happiness, I think, just feels better than the others.

Happiness won’t soothe your hands that are white-knuckled and cramping over the steering wheel when you’re driving in 25 degree weather, shivering in pain, because the heater’s busted, but you can’t risk spending the money to fix it. Happiness won’t make it easier to have to shovel up an already rotting, dead, floppy rooster from your backyard; nor will happiness take away the guilt you’re experiencing while wondering if there was more you could have done to save him.

Indeed, happiness is a blessing. Happiness should be treasured. Happiness should be celebrated. But happiness shouldn’t be degraded and simplified into being a ‘choice’ – no more than anger, sadness, or fear should be ignored, bottled up, or thought of as a personal sign of weakness.

Why don’t we illustrate these other emotions or put them on beautiful internet memes to encourage people to embrace as well? Why are there no pretty women in pictures captioned ‘Get angry’ or ‘I would be sad, too’ or ‘Dear God there’s a spider as big as my hand in the bathtub’?

I am angry that our country’s healthcare system is so broken that it is costing us tons of money that we don’t have just to get our child treated for his illness. I am worried about how we will continue to pay our bills if one of us doesn’t find a job soon. I am sad that I cannot afford a plane ticket to go visit my brother in Colorado whose wife is about to deliver my newest niece. I cannot simply ‘choose to be happy’ about these things. And why would I want to? Why should I? Would that make me stronger? Or better?

Instead, I will celebrate happiness when happiness is justified. I will embrace anger when the need arises. I will proceed cautiously with fear when things are uncertain. I will allow sadness when tragedy occurs.

I will accept all emotions that I am armed with equally because they are a part of me. We are equipped with them for a reason. For confidence. Empathy. Awareness. Protection. Connection to one another.

I will no longer ‘choose to be happy.’ I will ‘choose to be honest.’ And if I’m being honest, right now I am happy that King Ranch is playing firetrucks on the floor with Little Foot while I’m sipping some really good breakfast blend coffee. I am sad that Little Foot’s ears hurt and I can’t make the pain go away more quickly. I am angry about the across-the-world donkey slaughter because who could, in their right mind, harm such lovely creatures? I am worried about our finances and what the coming months will continue to look like.

I am confident in and grateful for all of my emotions and the roles they play in my life. I don’t feel guilty about my fears or angers. I am thankful that I’ve got the tools I need to properly and productively deal with difficult situations.

I am okay with all of that. I am not weak for being a buffet of feelings. Nor does that make me pitiful. Right now, it makes me, me.

At the end of the day, I guess I’m over this idea that we all should “just be happy” and that if we’re not, that it’s some sort of a personal weakness. It’s not. It’s a blessing. It’s a blessing to be beautifully complex. It’s you. It’s us. It’s alive.

Be happy. But also get angry. Respect fear. Allow sadness. Appreciate all of your layers. They’re all lovely. Happily, angrily, fearfully, sadly LOVELY.

Today, I “choose to be me.” Flustered, giddy, exhausted, unsure, grateful, curious ME. And I’m putting this image out there to encourage change. 🙂

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