The Photography Contest

This past July, I received an email invitation to participate in a photography contest. A native landscape company put it on, and offered gift cards as prizes. First place: $75; second place: $50; third place: $25. Having given this company more of my money than I would care to admit, I was motivated to get even a little bit of it back.

I looked through my photo library. The contest rules required that all entries contain images of native plants and/or animals. I felt good about my odds. I had a good camera with an even better lens, and I had lucked out with a couple of really nice captures. I could submit up to three photos, so I took about ten minutes, picked my best three, and sent them in.

Then I waited.

After the contest deadline passed, another email arrived; this one informing me that one of my images had made the finals, and could I please send a “print size file, 20” on the longest size at 300dpi?”

What the…..?

I immediately forwarded the email to a good friend who spent well over a thousand hours in her first year of  retirement learning professional photography. In, what felt to me like record time, she had become a Certified Professional Photographer. Importantly, she had taken numerous advanced classes on photoshop editing. I was counting on her willingness to shepherd me through this conundrum.

Her response: “Super easy to adjust size. Open up your image editor and select resize. Put in those parameters and you are good to go.”

Nope. Definitely NOT good to go, given that I had absolutely no idea what she was telling me to do. So, taking the lazy, panicked approach, I simply begged her to do it for me. She then requested the ORIGINAL (all caps were hers) file. I had no idea what she meant by that either, so I just sent her the image that was on my computer.

Shortly thereafter, she returned the resized file, along with a lengthy explanation on jpgs, megapixels, compression and pixels per inch. I skimmed over all that just so I could get to the end, where she typed: “I went ahead and changed the sizing to what you were asked to provide.”

Did I mention what a good friend she is???

Our effort earned me third place and a $25 gift card. A week later, I went to pick up my prize and also proudly view my photo displayed in the store. The competitor in me evaluated the two photos that beat mine. After getting home, I decided that it was totally unfair that first place went to a professional photographer who had altered his image with super advanced photo editing skills from programs I do not have. I whined about this to my friend.

Her response? “Umm…no. You want to win contests, you gotta swing in the big leagues. IMHO.”

I had to admit: she was absolutely right. I got out of that contest exactly what I put into it. I’m not a professional photographer. I lucked out with a really nice capture. I thought it would do well, despite spending minimal time cropping/editing it. Ultimately, I needed help sizing it for display in the store.  

With most, if not all things, we get what we give. Sometimes luck plays into it, but mostly, success comes from effort. I know people who would rather blame the rules, or the system, or some other external force, as opposed to realistically evaluating their own effort and simply vowing to try harder. I was that exact person in the photography contest, so I can relate. I’m glad my friend set me straight.

Truth be told, I really have no desire to put much effort into winning a photography contest. However, I do have goals that are a zillion times more important to me. Some days, these goals feel completely unachievable. Other days, just really daunting.

But most days, chasing them is exhilarating. Just like swinging for the fences.

Grateful for Rejection

Almost ten years ago, I attempted to become a judge. My legal career was peaking and the time seemed right. A powerful individual convinced me that I was the winning candidate. I hadn’t been elected to anything since I ran for school board rep at my high school. A group of friends served as my campaign committee. I cobbled together a website for fundraising. I marched in parades and walked miles of city blocks distributing campaign fliers, limping on a really painful hip.

In the end, I came in third out of four candidates in the primary, mercifully ending this effort rather than dragging it out. I also applied to be a judge through the appointment process. I believed I had good experience and credentials. I thought I had great references. In the end, the powers that be thought otherwise.

After two attempts, I quit. I know people who have applied dozens of times. For me, that was not an option. I needed to settle back into the job I had and embrace the opportunities in front me. I also needed to focus on the other aspects of my life that brought me purpose and joy.

As it turns out, that rejection was quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. Had I become a judge, I never would have been able to live where I live now – in my little slice of paradise. And, ten years later, I know I would have hated being a judge.

For me, rejections have been large and small. Like any form of failure, some can be incredibly painful. Rejection has the power to make us afraid to try again.

As I crossed the mid-century mark, I discovered that rejection and failure can be spectacular forms of motivation. A couple months ago, while traveling to our last hunt test of the season, I listened to a retriever training podcast entitled “Go Home With a Ribbon or Go Home With a Lesson.” In that moment, I decided to embrace the potential for failure and a lesson with as much enthusiasm as the desire for success and a ribbon. In doing so, I felt a sense of peace. And when the weekend ended, we came home with TWO ribbons!

Each rejection or failure offers with it an opportunity to learn something. To decide to try again. Or decide to try something else. For all those opportunities, I am grateful.

You Must Do the Thing You Think You Cannot Do

Years ago, I clipped this Eleanor Roosevelt quote out of the newspaper and slid it under the glass top of my desk at work. As someone whose job was to convey confidence and compassion, I often found myself in a courtroom acting out a part in a scene. Once safely back in my office, all of my imposter syndrome rose up and threatened to crush me.

All my life, I have endeavored to match my interior self with the image I project. Some days I could celebrate full accomplishment, other days I felt a severe and painful disconnect. 

As I look at this blog, I see that the last thing I wrote about was accepting love when feeling vulnerable. That was a huge step for me. But before that, I fiercely advocated for a new ACL, when doctors were telling me that a woman of my advanced years did not need one.

I wanted to run agility again without fear of falling. I wanted to work on my property without fear of one leg giving way and causing further injury.

Now, I do both. It turns out, I needed that new ACL to defeat a fear that lurked within - the fear of never again being able to live my life the way I wanted to live my life. 

I can’t remember the exact day that I ran a complete agility course at full speed, while Watson careened around me with his usual inconsistent focus. I can’t remember the exact moment that I realized that I was doing a thing I previously thought I could not do. But at some point, the moment arrived when I noticed how I felt.

Fearless. 

Several months ago, a giant tree blew down, blocking my driveway. The storm also knocked out the power. After initially celebrating the purchase of my battery powered chainsaw, I soon succumbed to being overwhelmed by the task at hand. There was no way I was going to be able to cut up this tree sufficiently to clear the driveway. The neighbors were away. I was trapped.

I needed to settle my mind. I needed to focus. I needed to prioritize. They were things, in the moment. I thought I could not do.

And then, I did them all.

As I accrue more and more of these instances when I do a thing I thought I could not do, I notice that the disconnect between my inner and outer selves is steadily shrinking.

I have a friend who runs ultra marathons. I have another friend who, on some days, struggles to get out of bed in the morning. A few days ago, NBC anchor Willie Geist mentioned this very Eleanor Roosevelt quote, as he reflected on his remarkable success running his first marathon and raising almost half a million dollars for Parkinson’s research. It hadn’t occurred to me that Willie Geist would be the type of person who thought there was something he couldn’t do.

We each have that thing or things we think we cannot do. Large or small, as long as we keep trying, we keep living.

Accepting Love

Strong.

Brave.

Independent.

These are descriptors that I have embraced as the very essence of who I am. Over the course of my lifetime, I have clung fiercely to my ability to be self-sufficient.

Several months ago, that self-sufficiency was in jeopardy. I faced an uncertain outcome when I made the decision to undergo ACL reconstruction. That, in and of itself, was, apparently, an unusual and “aggressive” (one surgeon’s assessment) choice. Apparently, this procedure is not common for people over the age of 40, for reasons that are still very unclear to me. But primarily, it may be that people over 40 don’t require the use of an ACL, or are simply poorer candidates for recovery.

The recovery and rehab looked daunting. One protocol had me in a hinged brace for six weeks. Most protocols stated no driving for 4-6 weeks. If a meniscus repair was needed, there was to be no weight bearing beyond toe touching for at least 6 weeks.
Despite these potentially dire results, I still opted in. I’m playing a long game and this was a relatively easy choice.

However, after making that decision, I faced something that, for me, might have been the most difficult part of the whole process.

I needed to ask for help.

Why is asking for help so hard? I have tons of courage when it comes to just about everything else in my life, but, for some reason, I resist the action of reaching out for assistance.

It’s possible that growing up with a mother who was unable to provide a strong and stable bond convinced me that the only person I could really rely upon was myself. Unlike the stereotypical single person, I love to cook for myself, I keep a reasonably clean house, and I’m fully capable of doing things that make me happy, with or without others.

But all this self-sufficiency has come with a price. In my closest relationships, I have erected barriers by predetermining what others can or cannot do for me.

That’s pretty unfair to all involved.

So, when faced with a potential prolonged period of helplessness, I needed to break out of some very ingrained habits.

I first discovered that, as a self-sufficient person, I manifest self-centered behavior, especially when I make things about me that are not in the least bit about me. It’s an extremely crippling mindset.

So, I realized that when I asked for help, I was going to have to do it without any preconceived notions of who would be willing and able to help me. Most importantly, I needed to not make it about how much I believed someone cared about me. Because in the end, whether or not someone else is willing or able to help me has absolutely NOTHING to do with how much that person cares about me, and has EVERYTHING to do with what is going on in that other person’s life. Full stop.

Changing this mindset was far more difficult than I expected. But I knew that it was imperative if I was to get through this event. When I ultimately asked for help, I set aside any expectation in the outcome. After all, that part was simply not within my control.

The response was swift and gratifying. One friend expressed her desire to make me “feel loved.” When that sentiment overwhelmed me emotionally, I made yet another self discovery: all my self-sufficiency had severely stymied my ability to accept love.

After all, helping is a form of love. Most of us want to be helpful, and we feel great when we are able to help others. But sometimes being on the receiving end of help can make us feel weak or vulnerable. Or maybe, deep down, we don't think we are worthy of being helped....or being loved.

As it turns out, there is strength in vulnerability. Just as there is strength in accepting love.

And so, I am learning to accept love. After years of embracing the mantra: “I can do this,” I have shifted to a new one:

“I am worthy.”

The Preciousness of Time

Sunrise is my favorite time of day.

In midwinter, the sweet spot is somewhere between 7:40 and 8:00 a.m.

Saturday, the sunrise was obscured by clouds and softly falling snow. It was peaceful, literally the calm before the storm. The forecast called for falling temps and wind gusts up to 50 miles per hour.

I savored that quiet walk even more than usual.

For me, time has always been my most precious commodity. 26 years ago, when I signed documents to be a full-time government attorney, I studied the pension information. I knew I wanted to retire as soon as I was eligible to collect a pension. Turns out, by retiring at 55, I give up 50% of what I could receive if I wait 7 more years and retire at 62.

I have never had enough time to live the life I want to live, because the bulk of any given day is spent doing a job for which I earn money to spend on the things that make me happy. While being a lawyer has suited me temperamentally, the toll it has taken on me mentally, emotionally and physically is significant.

Several years ago, I bought myself a little piece of paradise. During the winter, I leave in the dark and return in the dark. My wildlife friends sleep deep in whatever warmth they are able to create for themselves, only appearing after I am gone.

I miss out on the sunrises. I miss out on days that are uncomplicated. I miss out on a feeling that I have an abundance of time.

I am happily giving up 50% of my pension for seven years of time.

Last week I met with my financial planner. He expressed concern, particularly with my upcoming knee surgery. He worries that I will run out of money when I am 85. He is in his sixties and still working because he is saving for assisted living.

Assisted living is not a future I can contemplate. I told him I would throw myself down a flight of stairs before going into assisted living.

A dear friend, who is 66, is currently residing in assisted living. He collapsed at the gym as a result of a cardiac arrest incident. Four months later he is fighting to regain the skills needed to live a normal life. While he has made great progress, the latest report is that when he is alone, he becomes very agitated due to his situation.

My heart breaks for him. It is exactly how I would feel.

Death and disability can appear at any time. Once you cross the mid-century mark, these events seem to happen with greater frequency. The unexpected ones can be devastating.

When I met with several medical professionals to discuss the options for my torn ACL, one did not seem to understand or care about the big and little details that make up what I love about my life. I guess he is not paid to do that. But the other surgeon, who had cleaned out my other knee, wanted to see the agility video that showed how I sustained my injury. She then listened patiently as I explained, tears rolling down my cheeks, that this next chapter, the one I have spent the bulk of my adult life preparing for, is a chapter that demands two working knees. I love the "chores" that come with maintaining a rural piece of property. I love yard work. I love snowshoeing. I love dog training. Right now, I am in self-imposed bubble-wrap and I hate it.

The rehab is going to be long and brutal. A realistic goal is a return to competition agility a year from now. If I stay on track, Watson and I can resume field work in the spring. I just need to be really careful.

Which is why I need to start the process as soon as possible. The future is never guaranteed. All I have is right now.

Each sunrise represents a new day to get it right. This is my opportunity to get it right and get it right now.

Grateful for Grief

I seem to cry a lot lately.

Oftentimes it’s a mere trickle of tears as I look at a Facebook memory of someone who is no longer here.

But sometimes it evolves into convulsive sobs. Thankfully, it hasn’t happened in public, unless you count in the car as public. I recall being stopped at an intersection and the song “Cruel Summer” came on my playlist.

“It’s a cruel, cruel summer…..leaving me here on my own, it’s a cruel, cruel summer…..now you’re gone.”

I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to stop. It was a cruel summer indeed. Two unexpected and shocking losses in the span of three months.

First, Jet. Two weeks from the day I took him to the vet for what I thought was a muscle sprain, the home euthanasia vet was putting him down. He was full of cancer.

Stunned, I withdrew into my grief. I couldn’t talk about it, not even with my dear friend Anne, who was only one of a few people with whom I had shared his situation in real time. A few days after he was gone, she left me a voicemail and, in her Anne way, said, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I need to hear from you.”

Only a few weeks prior, I had been the one comforting her, as she grieved the loss of her nephew-in-law. It was the only time I had ever known her to cry. She was one of the strongest people I knew, and I cherished her steady presence and joyful outlook on life. When I was finally able to talk, she was there for me.

Less than two months later, she too was, suddenly and shockingly, gone.

I know empirically that grief and loss are not unique to me and my life. When Jet was struggling, I texted a friend whose dog had undergone a splenectomy, to try to understand if maybe this was what was going on with Jet. During our text exchange he shared with me that his wife was discontinuing cancer treatment and entering hospice. I was immediately and overwhelmingly ashamed to have bothered him with my dog questions.

“Family is family,” he replied. His capacity for kindness, even while deep in his own tragedy, reduced me to tears.

True enough. Also true is that nobody escapes grief and loss. It may be the one thing that every single one of us has in common.

Understanding this, the Stoics take absorbing grief and loss to an even higher level:

Amor Fati: love of fate.

LOVE of fate? I have been pretty good over the last couple of years at accepting what comes my way. After all, that’s what the Serenity Prayer tells us to do. But LOVE what comes my way? No matter how much pain I feel? That seems a bit out of my range.

It also seems counterculture to love tragedy and pain.

But there are different ways to try to practice this concept. Marcus Aurelius wrote about how adversity can be treated like a prescription:

“In the case of the doctor, prescribed means something ordered to help aid someone’s healing. But in the case of nature, it means that what happens to each of us is ordered to help aid our destiny.”

Using the prescription analogy helps. I am grateful for the PT exercises, painful as they are, because they are designed specifically to help strengthen my injured knee and speed up its recovery.

So, how can I be grateful for the pain of 2019? How were these events prescribed especially for me?

I have concluded that these losses have pushed me to share my grief with others, while actively leaning into theirs. It has not been easy, as I think my default tendency has previously been to want to isolate. But now I work to be vulnerable with people, instead of hiding behind a wall of denial and faux self confidence. This makes my relationships better, stronger, and more authentic. After spending the first fifty years of my life hardly able to cry at all, I now can cry....even in front of people.

It actually feels good. Cathartic. I think Anne would approve.

Sympatheia

It is 5:20 a.m. on the first day of spring.

5:20 a.m. has become one of my favorite times of the day. Even in the dead of winter.

It arrives after I have layered up, causing the dogs to lose their minds with joy over what is about to happen next. One of them cannot stop barking. I wonder if the neighbors can hear.

We make our way outside. I open the gate on their dog run and release them into the darkness.

On this particular morning, the full “Worm” moon is positively brilliant, rendering my headlamp almost unnecessary. It will be the last full moon of winter.

The barking has stopped as pent up energy is now expended by running, exploring, and sniffing. I mosey along behind. For me, it is a tranquil time of meditation.

Some meditate by sitting in a chair, focusing on an object, or reciting a mantra.

I have discovered that my preferred method is strolling outside for 10 minutes, embraced by the predawn stillness.

Through my study of stoicism I have learned about sympatheia. Marcus Aurelius wrote: “Meditate often on the interconnectedness and mutual interdependence of all things in the universe.”

Staring up at the sky gets me there every single morning.