Vitamin Many

There are too many great things to pick these past few days.

- The beauty of the 18-month old twins in my home for an afternooon.
- The wild abandon of three small boys having sword fights.
- The hospitality of a friend.
- The generosity of my husband.
- A chance to go OUT on a DATE for FREE tonight.
- Christmas surprises.

Vitamin Romp

The day is cold. The dog, less a companion than a symbol of a poorly-articulated ideal, paws at the snow. He has grown up here - spend the joyful days of puppyhood with this family. He knows not that he deserves more. He simply harbors within his wordless heart a persistent longing. He is tired of the small dog run he has been confined to for most of his stay at this home. He finds little joy in the nightly trek to the family house, the warmth of the rooms a fleeting treat before the relegation to the cell-like kennel in which he spends his nights. The children laugh and play around him - on rare occasions, with him - but it is not enough. He is young, active, aching to run. And they are just too busy.

The dog waits. Company arrives for the holidays. And then, while the rest of the crowd enjoys a movie, a lone figure emerges from the back door.

It is one of the guests. He is tall, quiet, and almost without exception given to expressions of distaste around domestic pets - but the dog knows nothing of this. He sees only the purpose in the man's gait - the direction that will certainly lead him to the door of his dog run. He sees the ball in his hand and the smile on his face.

And then the dog hears his name.

His excitement, previously contained to cautious tail-wagging and his usual pacing along the edge of his enclosure, becomes a frenzied expression of glee. By the time the man open's his door, the dog's pent-up hope translates itself into leaps, snorts, long, tearing runs across the yard, and whirling fits of of pure joy. To the man, the conduct is assuredly annoying. But he doesn't let on, and the two figures play roughly for what must be near an hour. The dog is unabashedly exuberent. Nothing compares to the joy of a having playing companion - a companion who calls his name kindly and does not rush him from one cage to the next without words. He makes himself obnoxious in his exhileration, but even if he were to realize it, he could probably do nothing about it. He is entirely given to this beautiful moment.

Too soon, it ends. The kind man returns indoors, smiling - the dog returns to his cage. But long into the evening, after the sun has set and before one of the children moves him to his kennel in the house, the dog stares lovingly at the back door. He is loved, after all. He is cherished. His longing for that other great necessity of life, love, subsides for a time, and he is once again able to accept the other necessities - food, shelter, water - with greater appreciation. He lives on - a solitary figure in a lonely back yard - but he lives on with a renewed hope in the goodness of his own existence. Against all odds, after all, he has been noticed. Who knows? Other miracles could be just around the corner tomorrow!

Vitamin Clutter

Today, a brown Duplo block went through the dishwasher along with my silverware. It was hiding - you can't blame me. And besides, the kids do most of the dishes around here. Maybe they slipped it in.

But ... but you can blame me for the pile of children's clothes in the hall. They're extras - I'm debating the merits of another trip to Goodwill versus saving them for someone I know.

You can also blame me for the stack of books on my desk, the sandwich bag of half-eaten health bars near my keyboard, and the positive attack of random items that litters the rest of my home: Socks on the futon, library books on the floor. A pair of slippers lurking near the fireplace, and an unlovely stack of long-since-dry dishes awaiting attention on the counter.

My home, in a word, screams out Clutter. And the truth is, I'd like to scream with it. No matter how many trips to Goodwill I make - no matter how often I purge, file, organize, or size down, the mass of things that remain is still daunting. I'm a lover of the simple, streamlined existence - and yet, here I am, staring at stacks of receipts and piles of old books that could all be reasonably classified as garbage. What happene to my lofty ideals?

You want the truth? Nothing happened. I'm still a lover of simplicity, of grace. But I'm living in a bountiful reality. One filled with children's laugher, children's loves, and the abundance that stems from a plethora of generous friends. This clutter that I see - most if it has been gifted to us by others. The pajamas I now wear - they're hand-me-downs from a friend. The pile of clothes in the hallway - most were given to us as well. The books, the dishes, even most of the mismatched furniture that we own - it all originated in the kindness of our many friends. And don't get me started on family: All this beautiful mess grew to its present state through the loving gestures of so many. How could I resent it at all? For in every thing out of place, every 'extra' item I find, there's the tangible presence of blessing. Not only have we been gifted with more than we need, we're in a country, a life, a time filled with plenty as well.

And it's a beautiful thing to be so gifted. Nothing to scoff at, after all. I think of the many, here and in other countries, who would stare open-mouthed at my callous treatment of this bounty. I take so much for granted. I take so much ... let that be granted. But, with this season of gratitude now upon me, I hope to be giving so much, as well. And I can begin by acknowledging the lavish blessing of the life into which I've been born. It really is cluttered. But were I elsewhere, were I even viewing my life through any outsider's objective gaze, I'd realize at once that there's a beauty in this clutter I don't often see. It speaks of wealth I do not deserve. It speaks of plenty. And if I listen closely, I believe it will also speak of my need for an equally rich existence in spirit. Let me not take any blessing for granted. Let me understand when I have accrued more than I need and be willing to share my blessings with others. Let me not hoarde or ignore, but let me enjoy, give thanks, and keep order among the numerous gifts I've been given.

And in so doing, let me find grace and humility to thank the Giver of all these good gifts. My clutter may not be my ideal, but it can serve as a constant reminder to look upward with gratitude for this unique opporunity to care for so many beautiful gifts. May I do that far more often than I do now ...

... and may I also find it within myself to clean that hallway ...

... tomorrow.

Vitamin Dissolve

How much time do I spend in making resolutions? In my opinion, far too much. Obviously, it's not just New Year's that captures my attention. It's new birthdays, new eras in friendships or family, new posessions, new schedules, new responsibilities ... the list goes on. Each of these things inspires me to aim for my best - to set standards I will consistently aim to meet. And, while the bettering of myself is inherently a good cause to pursue, I have come to see that all the bettering - all the resolving - in the world will not stop me from failing. As often as I rightly and consistently set out to keep any resolutions, I will fail and forget them as well.

This is not meant to be negative. It is simply a fact of existence. "All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God," after all. It's not just me; it's the whole world. But I tend to take these failings so persronally -as if I really am the only one in the universe to miserably disappoint myself so often.

So tonight, as an exercise in freedom and grace, I'm choosing, just for a change, to un-resolve certain things. To dissolve them, if you will. And I'm going to start with a big one.

Dissolved: The belief that I have the power to keep all my resolutions without failing.

Dissolved: The notion that others do, too.

Dissolved: The concept that I alone fail so often at the things I hope to do best.

Dissolved: The feeling of personal responsibility for my inherently fallen existence.

Dissolved: The subsequent urge to pin on myself unnecessary shame and revulsion that leaves me unable to accept genuine Love when it's offered.

Dissolved: The belief that genuine Love must be offered with motives beyond the simple desire to be near me.

Dissolved: The wearing of these previous beliefs like a lead necklace, dragging me down with each step.

Dissolved: The need to rehash them in varying forms throughout every day.

Dissolved: The lack of freedom such rehashing brings.

Dissolved: Any desire to be other than that which God has created me to be. And, in conjuction with this, the belief that God wills me to be just like person A, B, or C in order to truly please Him.

Dissolved: The feeling that any mercy given to me must be given out of obligation or duress, not from pure and abiding affection.

Dissolved: The need to 'earn' the affection I have somehow, miraculously stumbled upon.

Dissolved: The need to make others earn my affection in the same way I once thought I had to earn God's.

Dissolved: The desire to moderate my enjoyment of good things, believing they don't come along very often and must be treasured and doled out accordingly.

Dissolved: The propensity to hope in muted tones, expecting disapopintment and preparing myself for the worst.

Dissolved: The need to give myself acts of subconscious penance, hoping to atone on my own for my sorry state.

Dissolved: The lack of relinquishing the atoning, forgiving, and remaking of my own self to the One who atoned for, forgave, and made me in the first place.

And finally ...

Dissolved: My right to experience life, joy, and freedom to anything but their fullest and most pure extent.

----

With all this dissolving going on, I must spend a little time on the concept. As I dissolve each of these habits or beliefs, I see them disappear, floating out in smaller and smaller bits into the great absorbing Presence of One willing to dissolve ever more burdens and pain. I am relieved to see that when the process is complete, no evidence remains of these burdens. Instead, I see a pure and endless solution before me - the greatest Solution ever, one capable of handling all the things needing to be dissolved in the whole world.

This gives me immense satisfaction. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, I can continue to dissolve each and every negative vestige of unspoken, subtle deceptions. I can rid myself of those things that cloy and cling, leaving me feeling weighted down with ornaments far more harmful than worthy of another moment's attention. I can be free, unfettered, at peace. And if I wake in the night, feeling strangled by unspoken weight yet again ... I can simply relive this process. My Maker is waiting. He's ready. Just as He has been aching to take my resolutions nad make them lived out in Him, so He is anxious to receive each of these items to dissolve, holding them for a moment and then setting them free, to His glory and my joy, forever.

And no matter how great any resolution might be, it cannot compare with the lasting power of the eternal freedom I can experience right now - with the simple act of Dissolving.

Vitamin Peace

Morning,
And the feathers of this new day's bird
Are as yet unruffled.

The house sleeps quietly.
The heater drones on.
The hum the computer
accompanies the tune
of my own private thoughts.

The cat in my lap
stands and stretches.
Across the hall, the children awake.

This room is serene, but
there's a chill that seeps in
through a gap in the kitchen front door.

I stand.
I stretch also.

Perhaps the quilt of these moments
will blanket my day
with patchwork pieces
of grace.

Vitamin Privilege

Last night, I went to the mall with a friend. It was late, and we ended up closing down several stores before sitting on a bench just inside the main entrance ... and praying. During prayer my friend mentioned how blessed we are to be able to pray in public like that, without fear.

She was right.

I also find it amazing that I can wake up, feed my children a full and substantial breakfast, put dishes into my dishwasher to be cleaned, dress everyone in beautiful and well-made clothing, read them a selection of books from our overflowing children's library, drive downtown to visit a pristine park on base, and have lunch with my husband - all without incident or fear.

While we had lunch at said park, a gaggle of emergency vehicles convened on the fast-food restuarant across the street. And again, I thought of our blessed existence. Someone flipping burgers can pull a little lever when he or she senses danger, and immediately, the burger-fliping joint will be evacuated while four emergency vehicles rush to the rescue. Truly, we have it far better than we realize in this vast, free country of ours. I hope I never take these blessings for granted.

Vitamin Stream

The canyon begins as a barely-perceptible rift in the New Mexico landscape. It is wide, and gentle. We walk up the sandy flatlands that span its base without really thinking 'canyon,' and proceed in this manner for at least a mile. We are engrossed in conversation, my husband and I. We are preoccupied.

But slowly, the canyon walls start to narrow. On either side, the hills turn themselves inwards, forming the funnel-like shape through which we must pass. The air around us begins to cool. A stream appears at our feet: First a trickle, and then a small gush, it sends the first signal that up ahead, all is not quite as seems. Water lurks somewhere above. A spring, perhaps. A hidden pool. We quicken our pace and move on.

The terrain becomes slightly less friendly. The incline slowly increases. Rocks appear, humping up from beneath the coarse sand like beasts of dubious origin, raised to do battle against unwelcome intruders. Cactii and desert thorns block our path. We cross and re-cross the stream, sometimes slipping in the mud, sometimes losing our balance on rocks worn smooth by the silent rush of the stream.

Further on, we reach a rock wall. It is a simple climb, but I feel as though it has been placed there for a reason. A huge, segmented boulder welcomes me at its top - looking like a petrified dragon, a relic of battles gone by. But this dragon has seen better days. While it creates an imposing facade, it literally leans back onto the rock wall behind it, creating a grotto from whose shadows emergethe first peaceful waters we've seen on this hike.

There is a sound of falling, of tumult, and I venture a few steps further in. Beneath the fallen dragon, hidden in the perpetual twilight of its hulking form, a cascade of springwater awaits me. It is a spring, my husband informs me. Further ahead, it bubbles silently out of the ground. But here, for the first time, it falls with the riotous splash of a current enlivened by gravity. Here in the dark, in the cave-like embrace of the earth.

I am touched.

Of all the locations this stream could have given voice to its existence, it sings that first song right here. Here, where quiet would normally reign. Here, where sunlight cannot bend to shine. I think of that verse from an old Book, "He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” (John 7:38) I look and listen with the eyes and ears of my heart, and I hear voices calling out to me from this scene - reminding me that wherever my life-path might take me, I am called to sing out my own song with the insistence of this simple stream. Indeed, I am more than called to this task: I am promised that I will so do. It becomes my joy and my destiny, the hope and the faith upon which I hang all my deepest desires.

I smile. We walk on. Another stream crossing, a brief look ahead to where the canyon narrows and steepens still further. And then a gentle retreat as we find a new path back toward home. From below, as we walk a high trail near the streambed, the water glints through the trees like thousands of all-knowing eyes. And yet this does not make me shudder. These eyes, the sight of the great Knower that watches my every move and inhabits the very streams I hope to put forth, hold no terror for me. They are gentle, full of promise and of love. They are worthy enough to believe in. And they speak of my freedom.

We walk lower, and reach the point at which the spring's waters fade back into the sand. I feel no sadness in this - instead, I feel peace. This stream, a beloved reminder of who I am and Who gives me life in the first place, will surface again. In some humble, secreted spot, in a place ready and willing to accept it, it will rise. And until I see it again, I take comfort in knowing its memory lives in my heart -a spring of its own, rising up to quench the desert lands through which it now flows.

Vitamin Sanctuary

There is a sanctuary,

to which I turn

when other temples fail me.

Its walls, drab white.

Its furnishings,

the standard bathrom type.

But within this silent space

I find a small light

high and unwavering

that calls to me,

always calls to me,

calls me again and again.

I answer,

and look up.

I am often on my knees,

sometimes sitting against the far wall,

seeing things so far removed from this place

that the only familiarity is the sound

of my own breath -

A reminder that my life goes on.

Vitamin Variance

This morning at the zoo, the light shone down into the sea lion tank and made patterns. Shifting, slidy patterns they were - half light, half shadow, and made all the more interesting by the liquid upon which they were projected. The sea lions had just began enjoying their morning quota of fish, and the water pulsed around in that tank like a miniature ocean at storm-time. The strange shapes formed by the light and shade on the water moved up and down the walls of the tank, mesmerizing me while my children looked on at the aquatic feeding frenzy before us. How beautiful, I thought. How apt.

Later, as we strolled through the zoo's sunny walkways, I noted the pleasing difference between two acceptable temperatures: On one hand, the sunshine warmed my back and inspired me to long for a good book and a nap. But then, moments later, we'd walk through a patch of shade - and the coolness of the fall air would invigorate me again. As we walked, I happened to look up and catch the pink gaze of one of the last flames of color to be found: A beautiful, two-flowered holyhock, raising its last autumn blossoms like a banner of freedom, of hope. The sun had caught its petals and lit them from behind, illuminating them in such a way as to make them impossible to overlook.

It went like that the whole morning. Trees, turning from summer to fall, afforded me glimpses into the whole gamut of natural color. Several zoo cages stood empty, reminding me to appreciate those whose occupants still remained. The howler monkeys stayed a strict silence while we watched them the first time, but set up their scheduled chorus just as we were prepared to leave for the day. Everywhere I turned, the subtle shifts of situation and time caught my attention, and then held it.

I thought about my morning at home - so miserable in ways too personal to write about, and yet holding itself out in stark contrast to the unsullied peace I typically enjoy. How could I, so blessed and fulfilled, find it in my heart to be put out at the occasional unlovely experience?

I pictured that holyhock in my memory again. It captured the sunlight so beautifully - but I'm sure it stays in full bloom in the shadows as well. As I walked with my children back towards our car, I began to appreciate the variations in my life for what they are: A rainbow of canvasses upon which to paint the same picture, again and again, and see how its background affects it. One canvas might be pale blue: Perhaps this brings out the blue in my picture as well. Another, like the light hitting the holyhock, might illuminate my picture in such a way as to make it striking, alive. Or perhaps the canvas given to me on a particular day holds a background filled with pictures just like mine. If so, my picture must still remain the same - and perhaps, in the painting of it, I can find solidarity with the canvas I've been given.

Whatever the case, I realize that my own identity - the Image in which I've been cast - finds its beauty and meaning not in its simple existence, but in the way I respond to my surroundings. Just like that sea lion tank came alive through the interaction of water and light on its surface, my own character can be enlivened as well. Light, shadow, darkness, tears - each of these things in their turn bring a new element - perhaps an element I myself have not yet seen - to my being. And in the shifting of these backgrounds, the variation of my life circumstances, I begin to know my own self a bit better. To see the Image I represent a bit more fully in my crudely-drawn lines and poorly-sketched details of my heart.

Yes, now I begin to se it. Not only are these variations a beautiful thing on their own, they also bring their beauty to me. Taken graciously, gratefully, as gifts from a Giver whose artistic ability far exceeds my own, the varying circumstances of my life provide just what I need to achieve true beauty. And perhaps, in all this growing and deepening, parts of my picture my actually turn their viewers back to the Artist who inspired them - and that would be the most beautiful gift of them all.

Vitamin Inside-Out

For so long,
I lived
Inside a world made to please me.

I slept, ate, felt, and connected
On levels innately satisfying to my soul.

Now, today,
I live out a different existence entirely.

I soothe, feed, respond, and form connections
In ways that further my surrender.

To what, you ask, have I surrendered?
To serving.
To loving.
To acting on my belief that humility is better than honr,

To the still, small,
voice in the night

asking
for a cup
of cold water.

Vitamin Thanks-giving

Last year, around Thanksgiving time, the kids and I began a "thankful chain." Each link in the chain began with I'm thankful for: - and we all took turns completing the sentence. The activity was a big hit, but I haven't repeated it this year. Instead, I find myself thinking of of other, more 'productive' ways, to express our deepest thanks. Inevitably, my mind runs along lines of 'giving back' or 'paying it forward' - ideas which are fine in and of themselves, but as a substitute for the simple act of thanksgiving, not wise.

You see, I'm beginning to realize that the simple act of giving thanks is a beautiful end unto itself. Consider the response of a generous friend when I wrote her a thank you card for her gift of hand-me-down clothes for my daughter: "I never get tired of hearing you say thank you!" No, she wasn't being self-centered. That response is a natural one - one most likely shared by our God.

"Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise—the fruit of lips that confess his name. " (Hebrews 13:15)

I believe God gets a wonderful high from hearing me simply give Him thanks and praise. Rather than consistently looking for ways to edge around this spiritual practice, I think I'd do well to look upon thanksgiving as something so desirable to God that He sees it as a beautiful gift which needs no embellisment to be complete. It's called thanksgiving, after all: Since when did the idea of giving thanks alone become 'not enough' to please the One who asked it of us in the first place?

"But You are holy, enthroned in the praises of Israel." (Psalm 22:3)

If my thanks can create for my God a richer throne, a higher glory, than my withholding of the same, by all means, I'm prepared to give it! This year, I want to picture the vocalization of my thanks as a precious gift worth more to God than all the hollow activities I could claim were my thanks instead.

George Barna, in his slim volume Revolution, notes that "Only one out of four churched believers says that when they worship God, they expect Him to be the primary beneficiary of their worship." (32) But shouldn't God enjoy our heartfelt worship as much or more than we ourselves? I believe we enter into true worship through the avenues of 'thanksgiving ... [and] praise" (Psalm 100:4) ... so offering these up with the knowledge that they please Him for more than meaningless words or actions can be the beginning of a sweet time of blessing - not solely for myself, but also (and perhaps more so) for my God. What a novel concept! My simple "Thank You," my praise to the One who gave me the reason to say "Thanks" in the first place, is fulfilling and true enough on its own! Kind of like a glass of water: It needs no additves to be fulfilling. In fact, it's often what the body craves most of all.

I'd like to fill my life, and the lives of my children, with more of this kind of fulfillment. I have a hunch that when we're saturated in true thanksgiving, the actions that come afterward (and yes, I believe there will be actions - read Hebrews 13:16) will be richer and more meaningful than before - because they will be borne out of a right sense of gratitude to our Maker.

I can't wait to gift my God with true thanks. And what better season than this to dive in? Let the thanks-gifting begin!

Vitamin Sky

No, I wasn't standing on my head. But I was performing stretches that showcased my butt, high in the air, while the kids played in the Foothills this morning. It felt good! Really! My hamstrings are thanking me still!

But as I so gracefully improved my flexibility, I happened to notice the view from this new perspective. The sky ... from upside-down ... looked enormous. A yawning field of blue interrupted only by the various browns of the autumn-y earth at its feet. And, perhaps aided a bit by my uncomfortable position, it took my breath away.

In one small moment I thought of how God must see us. How we could see the world if we so chose. Not so much in relation to itself: As in, "My that's the tallest skyscraper I've ever seen!" (next to only the things that I see in this world.) Or, as in: "That mountain is absolutely inspiring!"(forgetting the vastness of the universe still unexplored. But as the world, in reality, exists - a very tiny orb of water and mud, suspended in a universe we no more understand than appreciate. That's what my view of the sky made me think. It just seemed so overpowering when I viewed it from a new perspective ... and I think that's a good thing to remember.

Although I am important, here on Earth ... I am, in fact, small. The humility that comes with that knowledge, as well as the appreciation for the Power that keeps us together, is a refreshing breeze indeed. Rather that making me feel small and unloved, I feel small and highly prized. The Power that was great enough to hang my measly planet in space in the first place obviously cares enough about its inhabitants to keep us from whirling away. In fact, sometimes I'm actually grateful that I'm such a small part the cosmic scene. It gives me the freedom, like my small children, to know that no matter how badly I fall , someone wiser is fully aware of my plight - and understands it far better than I. He sees around corners I cannot imagine, and paints sunrises on planets so distant I'll never explore them. He has fashioned my particular world, it's true - but the part that makes Him truly amazing is that He's got not just this world, not just all the worlds ... but the vast and perfectly-organized expanses of space in between ... all wrapped up in His hands.

And that, my friends, provides the kind of awe and comfort that no amount of earth-glorification ever could.

Vitamin Stinky-Cheese-Dip-and-a-Bathtub

It's ten o'clock at night, and the food I just consumed was entirely unnecessary. I wasn't starving - I just knew that if I didn't eat something right now, I'd resort to my default for the past few days - Halloween Loot. So really, you could look on what I just did as a heroic act of desperation, a sacrifice in order to preserve the candy for the children.

Well, whatever. The truth is brutal and stinky: I ate, by the spoonful, one of my favorite foods in the world. Spinach-Artichoke Dip, made my Costco, straight from the tub.

It's not like there aren't plenty of other things to eat, by the spoonful, from the tub. Ice cream, for instance - which we also have on hand. Or peanut butter, in a pinch. These things leave a pleasant aura in their wake, and probably produce sweeter dreams - for both the consumer and the consumer's sleeping partner. But Spinach-Artichoke Dip? Made with Garlic? (Note that hte capital 'G' is denotes the ingredient's preiminence in the amount-used-per-ounce equation.) Well, let's just say that after the deed, the news of my past preceeded me.

"What's that smell?" Chris asked, a full two feet from my person.

I turned my head away before answering. "I said you wouldn't like what I just ate."

He groaned. "I hate that stuff!"

I spoke carefully, using the side of my mouth located the farthest from my husband's nose. "Well, I can't help it: I think it's fabulous!" With that I left the kitchen, pungently awaare of my undersirable conditon. Even the cat didn't follow me: My folly was truly complete.

But really ... maybe folly isn't quite the right word to use. I knew what I was doing when I went for that plastic tub full of goodness. I knew and I willinginlgy engaged. There are times in a woman's life when caution can rightly be thrown to the wind (heaven help us if caution has a garlicky hint, and the wind shifts directions mid-toss) and a few simple pleasures indulged. Tonight has been one of those nights.

I sat in my bathtub for the better part of an hour.

I cried on the phone with my sister.

The water grew cold - I pruned up to look like a futuristic version of my eighty-year-old self. And still, I kept right on sitting.

Sure, I knew it was silly - a grown woman sitting naked in a tub of tepid water, emoting over the miles to another grown woman while her pores slowly absorb a good third of the liquid in which she's been soaking. Sure, it would have been wiser to throw on a towel and sit, like a rational person, on the couch. But 'rational' doens't always equal 'right. Sometimes an absurdly long bath or a sponful of stinky dip is just what the doctor ordered. Adult responsibility is noble and all, but it can only carry me so far before we both need a bit of a break.

And you know what? I think that's swell. The Grind is good, while it lasts. But unless it is tempered with moments like these, it quickly turns into a curse - one long, protracted groan of boredom that drives away all the benefits of persevering in less-than-ideal conditions.

So maybe my tastes are eclectic. Maybe I could have munched on some spearmint instead of the equivalent of twelve cloves of garlic. But I don't do this that often, and it could have been so much worse - just ask my husband what garlic and bananas do to my essence! Besides - the night is still young, and my responsible self still hasn't kicked in. I could always chase this down with a few spoonfulls of ice cream, while sitting on the roof, in my jammies. That would improve things quite nicely! In think I hear it calling my name ... and it says I should share with my husband. Oh, wait! I've been instructed to share with you, too.

Care to join me??

Vitamin Wild

My cat, Lucy, is truly not bright. There are no euphamisms for what, to me, seems a complete lack in common feline sense. For instance:

1. She meekly allows herself to be handled in the most ungraceful of ways by my three clumsy children.

2. She eats scraps from the table that even a dog might avoid.

3. Her reflexes are so slow that simply avoiding getting herself stepped on is a near impossibility.

But there is one crowning folly - one that, until yesterday, has seemed the greatest of them all. Lucy, in all her adolescent glory, simply cannot get the idea into her head that she does not belong outside. Due, in large part, to her not-brightness (and due, in another large part, to our desire to avoid 'kitty funeral' at our house), we have chosen to give her the honorary title of Indoor Cat.

She, however, does not view see this as an honor. On multiple occasions, various Lucy body parts have been slammed, jammed, and pinched in our quickly-closing front door. Once safely trapped inside, she yowls like a drunk yodeler until we return - and then only stops long enough to attempt a death-wish dart through our legs to her imagined freedom.

It's pathetic. It's dangerous. And it's gotten downright annoying. I had felt for some time that her persistence would pay off, and been dreading the day when we'd have to tell the kids, "We found Lucy's collar last night ... but not Lucy."

Well, yesterday, that day finally came. All night, the house remained eerily quiet. Twice, I heard something bumping at the window and rushed to see what it was. But when I opened the door, no Lucy-cat stood at my threshold. I knew finding her in the dark would be useless, and so I went to bed with a prayer and a hope that she would survive the long night.

The next morning, I heard her. I'd just padded out to begin breakfast as usual when a familiar miaow reached my ears. And there she was, standing on two legs and peering through the frosted glass at our front door. She looked ... not pathetic ... but saucy! That cat! She strutted in, obviously glad to see me, but not falling all over herself with relief, either.

I had to laugh: That Lucy! Even she, the most intellectually challenged of cats, still knew where she belonged! The night had called to her, begged her to step out, and her instincts wouldn't let her rest until she'd complied! I rewarded her safe return with a few tidbits of cheese (which she gladly accepted), but I could tell by her strut that no edible bribery would prevent her from seeking another escape. Wildness has been bred into her, after all. She's not just a cat - she's a lion in miniature. And the sooner I understand (perhaps even tolerate) this fact, the less I'll obsess about my feline's safety. Is she equipped for the night, the outdoors, and the danger? Absolutely not. But is she wired for it, al the same? She'd bet her life on it - in fact, she's probably scheming about how to risk it again even now.

I think I could learn a little from my wayward kitty, don't you? Why avoid those things that attract me so insistently? Why fear them? Perhaps I may not be the best suited to deal with the difficulties they bring, but I may be the best suited to appreciate them. And so, though the danger of their pursuit may cost me my life (or at least a part of a limb), perhaps the bigger danger lies in losing my heart if I don't at least try. Certain things pull me - certain things call.

And even if it might seem unquenchably foolish to attempt them ... like Lucy, I believe I am created for more than just safety. And so, the next time the night's dark, I'll watch my cat's eyes ... and maybe together we'll venture out into the exhilerating unknown. Will we come back in the morning? Who knows! As Lucy could tell you, and I soon hope to learn, that's the best part of the adventure!