Four Chairs and a Chat

I've been experiencing too much of the bad stress lately. You know how there's good and bad stress? Good stress is things like studying for the bar exam and wondering how you'll spend the six-figure income you'd be earning if you pass. Bad stress is the kind you get when your dog tries to retrieve her frisbee from your neighbors' roof using a ladder she stole from their garage and then falls through the roof.  

My backyard, with one chair for me, one for my relaxed self,
one for my stressed self - and one for my dog.
Image: Teece Aronin.

And yes, I know I said dog and not something more believable like kid, but if you know my dog, you know it's more believable that she'd do something like that before my kids would. 

Yesterday I took someone's advice, got up early and sat in the backyard with my morning coffee. I decided that I would strive for an enhanced sense of mindfulness. 

I have four retro-style metal chairs in the backyard and a little metal table. I had wanted chairs like those for years because they remind me of my childhood, but I've barely sat in them twice. Why? Because I've been too busy with the things that stress me out. 

So yesterday I made a cup of coffee, snatched a peach from the fruit bowl and walked with my dog into the back yard. I put the coffee and the peach on the table and sat, eyeing them warily as if they might explode. 

I had planned to leave my phone in the house, but couldn't bring myself to do it. I might get an idea for a column and want to make some notes, I told myself. That was partly true, but the other part was that I couldn't imagine myself just sitting in my chair with nothing to focus on but coffee and a peach - but I had underestimated their power. 

I inhaled the coffee. The aroma and the steam made their way to my nose and immediately helped me unwind. Then I took a sip of the coffee. It was delicious. And when I bit into the peach all I could think of was the Shel Silverstein poem about the farmer who grew a gold and bejeweled garden, but dreamed of "one real peach."

Sitting back in the chair, I wasn't fully relaxed, but felt better than expected. I'd say I was about half relaxed and half stressed-out. I started hearing things. 

"What are those sounds?" my stressed self asked. 

"Those are birds," explained my relaxed self.

"But the sounds they make . . . " said stressed self, a little afraid.

"That's called birdsong," explained relaxed self. "It's okay; it's just the birds calling to each other. It can't hurt you."

"And what is that feeling on my face?" asked stressed self.

"That's the breeze," replied relaxed self. "You loved it as a kid. Remember?" 

"Oh, yes, vaguely," murmured stressed self. 

Then stressed self's eyes darted toward the family dog leaping and playing near the garden.  

"Oh, no - that thing," cried stressed self, pointing. "Look how close it is to the tomatoes!"

"She's a good 20 feet from the tomatoes," cooed relaxed self. "And she's enjoying herself. Here, let's call her over."

The dog came running at the sound of her name.

"Aw, Hope," sighed relaxed self, "I love you so much. Go on," relaxed self said to stressed self, "pet her. See? Just like I am."

So, stressed self petted the dog, and felt calmer. 

By the time I came back in the house, I was a new woman, and an optimistic, energetic tone was set for the rest of the day. I spent good, solid time with my kids, time during which I wasn't distracted by the things that stress me, and later in the day I made a pizza with peppers and herbs I picked from pots on my own front porch. I even baked chocolate chip cookies. They were store-bought and came from a freezer case, but they tasted just as good and looked just as homey on the plate. Just as important, they pleased the kids as much as any mess I might have mixed up in a bowl.

I tried the backyard thing again today and loved it all over again. 

I wonder what tomorrow will bring, the first time I try it on a workday.  And I wonder how I'll compensate once winter comes. 

Maybe I can bring the table and chairs inside and set them next to a picture of themselves from this summer. 

Or maybe not. 

If Silas Could Talk

If Silas could talk, he would speak of our dog and say, "I love her so much! Let's jump her!"

Silas "in repose." The only time his

feet are still is when he's asleep. 

If Silas could talk, he would complain that there aren't enough toys around here. 

If Silas could talk, he would exultantly proclaim that the reason he climbed Mt. Mommy was because she was there - in the kitchen.

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that wrapping his arms around the cat's neck and kicking her with his hind legs - while she's sleeping - is his way of keeping her mentally fit like Cato did for Clouseau. 

If Silas could talk, he would justify chewing up that $100 pair of earbuds by complaining that there aren't enough toys around here. 

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that the reason he claws the new leather club chair is because the other new leather club chair already has the other cat's claw marks on it.

If Silas could talk, he would complain that he had to climb up the tablecloth because his cat tree isn't challenging enough and because he'd already conquered Mt. Mommy.  

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that the kitchen counter is really the only place where his butt feels nice and cool. 

Silas, seen here shimmying up my body like a pole-

climber. 

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that the reason he tore the protective covering out from under the rocking chair, crawled up inside, and forced you to get out of the chair, upend the chair, and then ram your arm in up to the shoulder to haul him out like a freshly birthed calf - five different times - was because he wanted to be closer to you and that was the only way because you always hog the rocking chair. 

Silas asking, "What is this thing? No, really - 

what is this thing?"

If Silas could talk, he would tell you that the reason he chomped holes in all the plants was because he was bored, and there aren't enough toys around here. 

If Silas could talk, he would say that the reason he tears through the house like his tail is on fire, wreaking havoc and blazing a path of destruction, is because he's a kitten, and that's just how it is with kittens.

If I could talk to Silas in a way he'd understand, I'd tell him all is forgiven, that he'd have plenty of toys if he'd stop rolling them down the basement stairs, and that he'll feel much better once he's neutered.

And then I'd tell him I'll feel better then, too - because that's just how it is with humans.