Day 242: Two Sides to Every Window

My favorite part of living upstairs is the light. For the first four years of our marriage, Nathan and I lived in dwellings that were darker and damper your average hobbit hole … minus the whole "round door" perk. Also, we did not eat second breakfast (except on Saturdays) and we don't have hairy feet (except for Nathan).

We bought our house for the windows - those blessed apertures that let in sun and sound and fresh air - and after over a year of ownership, we finally get to enjoy them.

In case you didn't notice, I love my windows.

That is … all except one.

My picture window.

My picture window is the oldest and most venerable window in the house. It is the only one without screens, and it doesn't have a slidy part that you can open and close. It has an ancient, fringed blind and horrid, lacy curtains. The caulking around it cracks and mildews, and the sill already needs to be re-painted. But that's not why I hate it.

My picture window is a serial killer.

It lures birds to fly towards its gleaming brightness … and kills them dead.

Its latest victim was a beautiful hummingbird that expired on my front deck just this weekend. Granted, that's not the grossest thing I've found on the front deck. (First prize in that category was a pair of man's boxers. I think (hope) that the construction workers were using them as a rag). But it was certainly the saddest. Its tiny body was a shimmery grey-green, its flightless wings stretched stiffly towards the sky, and the ants were already beginning to eat out its eyeballs. It was fast becoming part of the earth.

I wouldn't even have noticed it if Sam hadn't tried to eat it.

Which brings me to my next thought.

Dogs are disgusting.

While I was painting (I was very bored, and one can only recite Shakespeare to oneself or have imaginary French conversations for so long), I composed this beautiful little poem about his nasty little habit:

In Which a Great, Baskervillian Hound Eats Cat Poo

Crunch, munch, my favorite lunch

While my owners are a-sleeping -

When I hear snores, I'm through the door,

And down the stairs I'm creeping.

Sniff, snuff, I'm in luck -

A fresh deposit's just been laid!

More than scrumptious squirrels or David's hurls,

This is what I crave.

                                  

Dig, dog, some choco-logs!

I tuck them all away.

Back up I go; they'll never know …

Except for … my soggy beard of grey.

*Note: Sam does not actually eat squirrels. He does, however, consume David's vomit (if he finds it before we do).

This morning, I constructed what I considered to be an insurmountable barrier between him and the poo. The litter box is under the stairs, hidden behind a 4x4 pressed-wood board with a cat-sized hole cut into the bottom. It is attached to the wall by a pair of swivel clips. This morning, I turned Sam's crate so it was perpendicular to the wall, pressed up against one side of the board. The cats and I could squeeze by to get into the other part of the basement, but Sam couldn't. I also braced the other side of the board with five or six concrete pavers. Quite confident of my plan, I promptly forgot about it. Even when Sam disappeared for a while, then re-appeared at the top of the basement steps, I suspected nothing.

But then he swooped in for a cuddle. His breath reeked of feces.

And when I looked closely … there was litter between his teeth.

Blech.

I cleaned his out his mouth with an old rag and went downstairs to try to construct another insuperable barrier.

Honestly … there are some days why I wonder why people keep dogs as pets. And then I remember who I am and what I've done … (laughs hysterically).

But seriously, dogs are built-in forever-friends. They think you're fantastic (as long as you feed them), are delighted by the smallest kindnesses (a quick belly rub or a wee bit of bacon every now and then), and they want to do whatever you want to do whenever you want to do it.

Recently, I have been making an effort to be more active. And although exercise isn't really his forte, Sam has been my constant companion in this endeavor. We've trekked quite a few kilometers together in the last month or so. He makes me feel good because, slow as I am, he's even slower. And as hard as I pant, he pants even harder. Although we only run in the cool hours of the early morning, I know he's approaching his limit, and when I start running longer distances, I'll have to leave him at home.

It's at times like this that I miss Kia's indefatigable energy.

But there are two sides to every pane.

Windows bring death … and light.

Dogs eat all sorts of disgusting things … and are your faithful friends.

Circumstances are never all good … or all bad.

Unless you're a hummingbird, that is.

And if you are: Stay AWAY from the windows.

On that note ... happy Back-to-School tomorrow for everyone who's going!

Postscript: Since beginning this post, our serial-killer window has claimed another victim. Has anyone else had this problem? How can you fix it?

RIP

Day 241: Autumn Musings

Long has autumn been my siren song.

I love the low rays of morning sun, the brisk afternoon breeze that lights the first trees on fire, and the nighttime chill that shrivels plants, fogs windows, and encases quite ordinary puddles in paper-thin panes of frosted glass. These separate elements join together in a rousing, desperate, half-whispered song that makes autumn my favorite time of year. If the summer sun lulls me to sleep, then the fall wind wakes me up. It makes me want to dream higher, dig deeper, and go farther than I have ever done before.

All this is well and good when you're an unattached teen with apple-pie-in-the-sky dreams, few responsibilities, and no idea what twists and turns the road of life is going to throw your way. But when you're underemployed at an unfulfilling job, rooted in place by a house and a husband and a car payment (or two), the autumn sirens sing in vain. Instead of inspiring passion and zest for life, their song woos and wounds and wrecks the hapless sailor on the rocks.

Long has my blog been silent.

I tried to write several times during this short and busy summer, but the sentences that slithered onto the screen were as bitter as a rotten grapefruit. I was angry and discouraged. I regretted the choices I'd made about my education, and I was all too willing to place the blame for my circumstances on God and on the people around me.

On that first July day that smelled like fall, the crisp air froze my heart instead of freeing it, and the fragile thread of trust that kept my hope intact was overwhelmed by sadness.

The worst day was in August.

EI called me on my half-hour lunch break, and I spent the first 25 minutes fighting with them over money I wasn't even asking for, and the last 5 minutes crying alone on a hill in front of Royal Road Elementary School while the trees whispered my secrets to the wind and my co-workers wondered why my face and eyes were red when I came back in to work.

On my afternoon break, I planned to craft an angry, bitter post about how unfair my life was.

But I was interrupted … by a phone call that offered me not just one job, but several … and I got to pick the one that was perfect for me. It is hard to describe the relief that washes over you when your fear-burden finally breaks open and there is nothing but sunshine inside.

Friday was my last day of painting. I left with two schools full of friends, half-a-dozen enthusiastic references from co-workers and supervisors, and the promise of a summer job next year. I drove home under squashy, marshmallow clouds that scudded across the sky, driven by a brisk autumn breeze. 

Sometimes I forget that God is in the business of growing up our souls for heaven, not building castles for our bodies here on earth. While my body spent the summer doing manual labour, and my mind spent the summer resting, my soul spent the summer being molded by the potter who makes all things well.

This autumn, the sirens call in vain. I mean to be contented with … "the mixed novelty and familiarity of snowdrops this January, sunrise this morning, plum pudding this Christmas." – C.S. Lewis

Me thinks it's time to buy some hot chocolate, bake some gluten-free cookies, and go apple-picking with a certain handsome man and an incredibly cuddlesome Newfoundland dog.

PS. Handsome man is also cuddlesome, but reader, we are never gonna go down that road!

Happy Fall!