Doves, Quails and Cottontails

For me, 2011 was a milestone year — one of those years that will henceforth anchor the timeline of my life. While there were a few positive highlights to the past twelve months, for the most part, it was an exceedingly trying time in my life, and I’m very glad to be done with it. With a huge sigh of relief, I’m now ready to turn my attention to the year ahead.

I gave up making New Year’s resolutions a long time ago, opting instead for setting yearly goals and creating the requisite action plans and schedules for the attainment of those goals. But this year, I’m not going to do even that. I’ve decided to go goal-free for 2012.

I first encountered the idea of living without definable, measurable goals from Zen Habits, a thought-provoking blog written by Leo Babauta. This outstanding blog is about “finding simplicity in the daily chaos of our lives,” and it features articles on finding happiness by living in the moment, simply and passionately, while still managing to “get great things done.” If you’re not familiar with this online treasure, I highly recommend you check it out. (But wait until you finish here, because once you click over to Leo’s place, you probably won’t be back for a while.)

I have to admit when I first read Leo’s post “the best goal is no goal,” I was a bit taken aback. Live without goals? What sacrilege! Goals are the very cornerstone of every self-help success book I’ve ever read (and trust me, I’ve read plenty). The idea of not structuring my life around the quest to accomplish one or more long-term life-altering goals felt like total blasphemy. But the more I thought about it, the more the concept seemed to have merit.

Goals and their concomitant schedules and actions plans tend to foster an unrelenting busy-ness whereby each day is judged by how “productive” you’ve been rather than by how fulfilled you feel at the end of the day. As if the mere fact of productivity is somehow the touchstone of a life lived well. Chasing a goal tends to turn everyday into a never-ending stream of chores — haftas instead of wannas — and I personally am tired of living my life that way. Life can be hard enough as it is.

But doesn’t living without goals lead to wandering aimlessly through life? Maybe so, but so what? There’s nothing inherently wrong with aimless wandering. It can take you to some surprising and delightful places. Besides, if you follow your heart instead of some preset plan, giving yourself permission to spend your discretionary time on whatever gives you joy, I suspect you’ll eventually begin to focus on those things you’re passionate about. And once you discover where your true passion lies, a fancy goal becomes irrelevant. If it’s important enough to you, you’ll find a way to get it done.

So tell me, does intentionally deciding to live goal-free make me some kind of self-help heretic? What’s your opinion?

Peace and blessings for a joyful 2012,

Harry, my beloved Maine Coon, died in my arms Friday morning after a 7-week battle with anorexia. He had lost nearly 40% of his body weight and ultimately succumbed to liver failure. He was only four and a half. I am devastated. He was the light of my life, my soul mate, the one who was supposed to grow old with me. I feel so cheated.

It all started with something seemingly minor — a hairball. But that led to dehydration, followed by a case of constipation. An overnight at the vet solved those problems, but when he came home, he wouldn’t eat.

The next six weeks were a rollercoaster. I force fed him three and four times a day until he’d start showing some interest in food. Then I’d back off a bit. But soon he’d stop eating again, and I’d have to restart the cycle. Although he hated being force fed, his spirits were good and he was still quite “present” and involved in life. But his weight kept dropping — from his normal weight of thirteen pounds to less than eight. All in only six weeks.

Then he started vomiting and couldn’t keep anything down. A week later, on Thursday night, he crashed, had three grand mal seizures, and died in my arms just before dawn.

The last five days have been rough. Layered over the grief is the overwhelming sense that it was somehow my fault — that I did something wrong. I keep thinking I should have continued to force feed him even after he started eating. Or I should have given him more of the high-calorie supplement. If I had just been able to keep his weight up, maybe we could have beaten it. The what ifs and I should haves and why didn’t Is have been tearing me up.

Finally, with the love and compassion of a dear friend, I’ve been able to forgive myself and stop beating myself up over this. (Audrey, thank you!) Audrey helped me realize that I did the best I could with the information I had at the time. If I had understood from the start the critical need to keep his weight up, I would have done things differently. But I didn’t, and now I can’t. Things are as they are, and continuing to anguish over the part I played in the piece doesn’t help either me or Harry.

I firmly believe guilt is one of the most destructive emotions there is. Whether justified or not, self-imposed or inflicted on us by someone else, guilt can poison everything in life that’s good. But I suspect that taking the phrase “I should have” out of my vocabulary will go a long way toward draining some of the guilt out of this situation. It doesn’t really make losing Harry any less painful, but it does make losing him less about me and more about him. Which is as it should be.

By giving up the guilt, I can focus less on my regrets and more on what his short life meant to me and how much I’m going to miss him. It seems to me, wallowing in grief is a whole lot healthier than wallowing in guilt.

Peace and blessings,

When I was younger, music was an important part of my life. I sang in the school chorus and the church choir and was even selected for a few elite by-audition-only vocal groups. But over the years, for whatever reason, my involvement in music gradually faded. In fact, I’d gotten to the point that, except in the car, I never even listened to the radio.

Then about six years ago, I stumbled across the “open mic” circuit in southern New Hampshire and northern Massachusetts. I got involved and started performing again, primarily singing a cappella. (I do play guitar, but not very well. The only “instrument” I have any natural ability with is my voice.)

It felt good to have music back in my life, so once I got settled here in Tucson, I went looking for an open mic group I could attend. To my delight, I discovered a group at the Picture Rocks Community Center, a mere two miles from my house. The community center website said the group met on Thursdays, but knowing how easily a website can go stale, I called to verify. Sure enough. Hummin’ and Strummin’ (as it’s called) is held every Thursday night, with 50 to 60 people attending.

Fifty people? Every week? Could this possibly be true?

The open mics I attended in New Hampshire were typically held no more than once a month and were usually quite small. Fifteen to twenty people was considered a decent turnout. But music is an essential part of the culture down here, and gatherings like Hummin’ and Strummin’ are quite common. It’s not unusual for musicians to attend two and sometimes three different open mics a week.

I started going on Thursday nights and quickly discovered the dominant musical genre was country and western. Now, don’t get me wrong. I really enjoy C&W — in fact, my car radio is always tuned to the local country station — but it’s not something I sing a lot, and I was pretty sure the new-age, crunchy-granola music I sang up north wouldn’t be very well received. Plus, the overall dynamic of the group is more jam session than performance art. Singing a cappella wasn’t gonna hack it.

My first time at the microphone was a disaster. The musicians backing me up didn’t know the song, and I didn’t know what key I was in. (Key? Who needs a key? When you sing a cappella, key doesn’t really matter.) But I learned to adapt. I dug out some music I was comfortable singing that I thought the group would enjoy, and started working out the key and writing down the chord progressions ahead of time.

And it’s all working. People seem to enjoy what I do, the guys who back me up have gotten comfortable with my style, and I’ve learned what type of music they’re comfortable playing. I get a kick out of bringing in a song I know they’ve never heard before and having them nail it the first time.

Hummin’ and Strummin’ has become an integral part of my life. I rarely miss a week, and I devote a fair amount of time to finding and preparing songs to sing. But beyond bringing music back into my life, it’s become the nucleus of my social network. Of all the friends I’ve made here in Tucson, I can trace the vast majority of them back to my involvement in Hummin’ and Strummin’.

Moving across country, by myself, to a place where I didn’t know anyone, was scary, and although I usually meet people pretty easily, I was nervous walking into the community center that first night. But music is magic, and at this point, I’ve come to understand that Hummin’ and Strummin’ is more than just an open mic musical venue. It’s an extended family. A family I’m honored to be a part of.

Peace and blessings,

I’m always somewhat perplexed by the advice to “take baby steps.”

Typically that phrase means to proceed slowly, with caution. But have you ever really watched a baby stepping? There is nothing slow or cautious about it. Babies throw themselves forward with total abandon, confident their momentum will get them where they want to go.

Which, when you think about it, frequently makes a whole lot more sense.

Peace and blessings,

Just when it looked like monsoon might be over for the year, it came roaring back this past weekend with back-to-back storm systems.

The first night, I was right in the thick of it — wind, lightning, heavy rain. But the second night, the storm cells passed me by, leaving me untouched as they ricocheted their way up the valley like slow-moving pin balls.

All I got was some unbelievably spectacular lightning. Sitting on the back porch, with the northern sky spread out in front of me, was like being at the world’s largest drive-in.

But despite its stunning reappearance, monsoon is definitely winding down. The recent storms dropped the temperature into ranges I haven’t seen since mid-May. These past couple of days I’ve actually been able to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows — at least for part of the day.

Monsoon this year has been brutal. Even the kids have been grumpy. We’ve had record-breaking temperatures, and on more than one occasion, the thermometer on the south porch pegged out at 120º — in the shade. That’s as high as it goes.

But fall really is on its way. Today I realized the white wing doves are gone. That seems early. Last year, I didn’t notice they had left until well into October.

But then, there’s been a lot of strangeness in the yard this summer.

Last year, I had baby quail as early as the first week in May. This year it was almost July before I saw any youngsters. Not only did breeding seem to start later, the families were much smaller — typically only two or three or, at most, four chicks — and there were a lot more unpaired adults than I remember from last year. Breeding also seemed down for a lot of the birds, not just the quail. And I saw virtually no baby rabbits.

Apparently, wildlife breeding patterns here in the desert are dependent on the winter rains, and last winter we basically had no rain at all. On the other hand, the growth of the plant life this summer has been amazing.

The saguaros, which usually bloom only at their crowns and at the ends of their arms, had buds extending two and three feet down their sides. Several of the giants are also sprouting new arms, with one actually getting five new ones.

An agave I transplanted last fall is not only thriving, it’s beginning to produce babies. The prickly pear cactus are all covered with deep red fruit. And over the summer, one of my barrel cactus grew six new heads, which I’ve learned are called pups.

It’s a complete mystery to me why there should be such an abundance of plant growth but a dearth of baby wildlife. Same yard. Same weather conditions. Same overall environment. Very different results.

And why should this summer and monsoon be so different from last year?

Since I’d already lived through one Tucson summer, I thought all summers would be the same. I just assumed my first year here was the norm. But duh! (Insert forehead slap!) I guess you can’t extrapolate from a single data point.

Not only do things change from one year to the next, but the seasons don’t stand alone. They are all bound together in one continuous cycle of life — each season dependent on the season that came before.

And therein lies another aspect of the desert’s enchantment. The connectedness of it all.

Peace and blessings,

Yep. It’s me. I’m back. I know it’s been a while — 4½ months, actually — but I’ve been really busy making the universe laugh. You know. As in, “tell it your plans.”

When I moved here nearly two years ago, my plan was to eventually buy this piece of land, but things were kind of complicated. Then four months ago, after one life complication too many, I found myself no longer in a position to purchase the property.

Being an eternal optimist, I tend to believe things happen for a reason. I might not understand what that reason is, but there’s always a reason. So I knew things would eventually work out. Sure enough, after two months of angst-ridden waiting, the desert worked its magic and the universe gave me a gift. I won’t be buying this place, but I don’t have to leave it either. At least not right now.

It can be so discouraging. You set a goal and come up with a plan to make it happen. If the first plan doesn’t work out, no big deal. You just figure out a second plan. And if that plan goes belly up, you come up with yet another. Because, after all, the goal is what matters, right?

But at some point, when plan after plan fails, you can’t help thinking that life just isn’t supposed to be this hard. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you work, if the goal’s not coming together, sooner or later you have to stop and consider: Maybe it’s the wrong goal.

At this point, I’ve come to understand I’m not meant to own this land. Live on it, love it, nurture it, yes — at least for a while. But this place is only a rest stop along the journey that is my life, not the ultimate destination.

I don’t have any idea where the next mile marker will be, but I do know that if I start obsessing over what’s next, I’ll miss the enchantment of this time and place. I worked hard to get this far, and I owe it to myself to cherish every magical moment I’ve got before moving on.

Peace and blessings,

Spring is definitely on its way. I just got a notice from my vet that they’ve scheduled their next round of rattlesnake avoidance classes.

I haven’t seen my resident diamondback since late fall. I assume he (or she) has been off hibernating somewhere. But with the temperatures solidly into the 70s and 80s every day now, I figure he’ll be making an appearance soon. That being the case, I enrolled Barney in a class. He’s pretty desert savvy, but he’s also a very curious dog, and he needs to be educated about the dangers lurking in the yard.

People, both here and in New England, are surprised I’m not bothered by having a rattlesnake living on my property. But rattlers are really rather shy, wanting mostly just to be left alone. Unless they’re startled, they rarely strike without warning, and as long as you watch where you walk and don’t accidentally step on one, they simply aren’t a problem.

Some of the pest control companies around here claim they can rid your property of snakes, but quite frankly, that seems like an exercise in futility. The Sonoran Desert is home to more species of rattlesnakes than any other region in the world, and removing one rattler only frees up the neighborhood for another to move in.

Besides, what right do I have to disrupt the local ecosystem? Like everything else here in the desert, rattlesnakes serve a useful purpose. They keep the rodent population in check and are themselves an integral part of the food chain.

The way I see it, every living thing here in the desert has a home — the wildlife all have their nests and I’ve got mine. I have the right to protect my nest, but just because I’m the dominant species here doesn’t give me the inalienable right to disturb or destroy the homes of other critters with whom I share the land. If my nest is threatened, fine. But beyond that I take the attitude: You stay out of mine, and I’ll stay out of yours.

I moved here to the desert because I wanted to connect with and live in the world, not mold it to my liking without regard to the consequences. I do my best to walk gently on the land, and try to simply observe but never interfere.

Sort of like the Star Trek Prime Directive.

Peace and blessings,

For many years, I dreamed of living on a body of water large enough to have a personality. I pretty much relinquished that dream when I decided to move to the Sonoran Desert, but last night, as I stood on the front porch and watched the sunset paint itself across the sky, I realized that while I might not have that body of water, what I do have is a pretty spectacular panoramic view. And that view definitely has a personality.

Throughout the day, I’m drawn to the front porch where I lean on the railing and gaze out at the Roskruge Mountains across the Avra Valley and at the Baboquivari Mountains off in the distance to the south.

In the morning, if the humidity is high enough, the mountains poke up out of the low-lying mist like prairie dogs popping out of their holes. And if the morning haze is especially heavy, Baboquivari Peak — 20 miles from the Mexican border — disappears altogether.

If the humidity is low and the air is clear, the rising sun sparkles off the telescopes strung along the ridge at Kitt Peak National Observatory. And when the moon is just past full, it hangs briefly in the western sky before dropping behind the twin peaks of Dos Titos standing guard at the entrance to the Tohono O’dham nation.

In the afternoon, I watch the hawks circle overhead, scanning the desert floor for their next meal. Far above them, the upper air currents tease the contrails drawn by high-flying jets into long feathery bands. These might mix with wispy cirrus clouds known as mare’s tails, and occasionally, a flotilla of puffy fair-weather cumulus clouds floats by against the cerulean background of the open sky.

As the day winds down, the western sky begins its nightly show. The lowering light plays off the Tucson Mountains to the east, revealing complex textures of ridges and ravines not usually visible in the flat light of midday. On its way to the horizon, the sun plays peek-a-boo from behind the clouds, sending rays of sunlight streaming out in a brilliant halo. Photographers call it “God light.”

Finally, as the sun makes its final plunge into the west, the light runs out in one last blaze of glory, setting fire to the underside of each bank of clouds and splashing the sky with its amazing Technicolor palette of pinks and blues and reds and oranges. The universe’s version of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Yes, my view definitely has a personality. It’s alive. Fluid. Never static. Never the same. And as I stand at the porch railing and drink it all in, I understand my dream was never about water or a lake or even a view. It was about living with nature. Feeling the world around me and being a part of it. Living in it and observing it and feeling connected to it.

And in that I have succeeded.

Peace and blessings,

The other night while I was out on the front porch looking at the moon, I noticed Orion rising in the east over the Tucson Mountains. Orion, the hunter. A sure sign winter is on its way.

Even here in the desert, signs of the approaching winter abound. The heat and humidity of monsoon are but a faded memory, and for the last week, I’ve had to put the heat on for an hour or so in the morning. Harry’s getting a winter coat, albeit not as thick as in the past. The turkey vultures have all migrated south, and my resident rattlesnake hasn’t shown himself in weeks.

The wheel of the year has definitely turned.

Up north, with the exception of skiers and skaters and other winter sports enthusiasts, this is the time of year when most people curtail their outside activities and prepare to spend the next four or five months buttoned up inside their homes. Lawnmowers are moved to the back of the garage, and snow blowers take their place just inside the door. Garden hoes are traded for ice choppers, and storm windows replace the screens. As the temperatures drop, people add extra layers of clothes and begin that age-old game of northern one-upmanship: “I can keep my heat lower than you can.”

Here in the Southwest, this is actually the time when people come out of their houses — out of their air-conditioned caves — and begin to spend more time outdoors. The garden centers run fall planting sales. Cyclists and runners resume their daily jaunts single-file along the side of the road. The nights can be chilly, but the days are glorious with temperatures in the 60s and 70s. Perfect conditions for cleaning up monsoon storm debris, pruning back trees and shrubs, and weeding out potential pack rat nests.

But make no mistake, winter comes to the desert, too. While it might be warmer here, one thing is universal. The darkness.

For the most part, Arizona doesn’t observe Daylight Savings Time,* so we don’t have that painfully abrupt crash back into darkness the rest of the country experiences when they “fall back” to standard time. We tend to ease into the darkness gradually, as nature intended, and because we’re further south, we get about 40 minutes more of light a day. But the nights are still longer than the days, and this is definitely the dark half of the year.

Seasons are defined by the waxing and waning of the light, not by temperature, and as the light fades, the world drifts off to sleep. Critters hibernate. Plants shut down. Birds migrate. All living things settle in for “a long winter’s nap.” Depending on your perspective, it’s either a time of rest and renewal or a time of claustrophobic gloom.

For me, it’s yet another way to experience the world around me. Here in the desert, I can sit on the front porch and watch Orion hunt his way across the sky without being snowed on or freezing my butt off. Life is good.

Peace and blessings,

* The portion of the Navajo Nation that’s located in northeastern Arizona does observe Daylight Savings Time, staying in sync with the rest of the reservation in Utah and New Mexico.

This past week has once again confirmed the amazing power of the spoken word.

As many of you know, I had my beloved Fuji put down this past June first. She would have been 16 in August and was failing rapidly. Her hips were shot, her eyesight was going, and she was having trouble handling the heat. She was ready. I was ready. It was time.

I had decided not to get another dog. I’ve owned dogs for over 40 years, but at this stage of my life, I just didn’t want to deal with the work involved. I was done.

Or so I thought.

While I’ve enjoyed my one-on-one time with Harry (who is as dog-like as a cat can be), I’ve missed the devotion and companionship of a canine housemate. I found myself struggling with my decision to remain dog-less.

I began to fantasize that a stray dog would wander into my backyard and adopt me — a dog that wouldn’t need to be housebroken or trained. A dog that was already desert savvy enough not to need fencing or handwalking. I even mentioned this fantasy to a few of my friends. Spoke it right out loud.

Last Friday, a small black dog showed up on the far side of the gully. He was headed for the watering hole, but ran off when he saw me. He came back on Sunday, and this time, instead of running away, he lay down in the yard and just watched me. When I offered him food, hunger trumped fear and he cautiously approached.

At that point, I realized he was a pug, of all things. Not the type of dog one expects to find roaming around alone in the desert.

It’s obvious he’s been on his own for quite a while. He’s severely underweight, his hip bones stick out and you can count every rib. He’s also got some ugly bite wounds on his head and shoulders that the vet says are probably from an attack by a domestic dog. (Apparently coyotes go for the underbelly, not the head.) Other than that, he appears to be in good health.

The vet thinks he’s about two years old. I’ve decided his name is Barney.

He’s neutered, solidly housebroken, and knows all the basic obedience commands. Clearly he is someone’s lost or abandoned pet. But he has no microchip, so I have no idea how to go about looking for his owners.

Not that I’m particularly inclined to. When the universe responds to a spoken request, it’s rude to refuse the gift. Although, if he gets into the garbage one more time, I just might ask for directions to the gift exchange department.

Peace and blessings,