Can you keep up with doing a jigsaw puzzle each day (only 50 pieces), without looking at the picture, this month, even if you have a plateful of things to do in December? Can you stand on one foot with eyes closed for all the time it takes to froth your milk for a morning mug of coffee? Can you get your dog to pee before you reach the end of the block? Can you put up a blog post with a story and pictures every single day for twenty years and counting?
Each day opens up an opportunity to challenge yourself in small, inconsequential ways. The roof wont cave, the day wont be less wonderful if you fail. And yet you pose yourself these small goals, taunts really, which perhaps will build your confidence and allow you to grow them into bigger ones that actually amount to something.
Ed and I both like to give ourselves such assignments, though you could say his are not inconsequential, in that he actually finds useful solutions to real life problems, rather than just finding a missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle. But it is the way we are. It is how I move through the day. One small challenge after the next.
This morning I had to catch up with the jigsaw puzzle advent calendar: doing the big puzzle these past two days meant that I put aside doing the daily small puzzles. And now I am indeed caught up and it means absolutely nothing, except that I have the satisfaction of knowing that I did what I set out to do. (Somewhat perversely, today's puzzle was of a birdhouse, with birds feeding away!)
The morning is lovely. I haven't mentioned this because I didn't want to jinx it, but Henry has been getting up at 6:30, which is great: a real progression toward a more decent start to the day. (I am aiming for 7). It's still cold -- the Arctic blast will be with us for a while. It takes me a good ten minutes to fully clothe myself and Henry, but no matter -- it feels great to step out on a quiet morning before the day begins for most.
I think my pooch is very good at mindfulness: he pauses, he takes it in, he finds his center, he moves on.
At least I imagine this is what he is doing.
Breakfast, finally with a table plant that meets the moment.
Snuggles. Big time, on the couch. I know these selfies are getting to be repetitive, but I love them and I love the process. And Henry doesn't mind. He thinks, correctly, that this is just something humans do because they don't know any better.
Ed comes over and we plan our day together. With Henry of course. My pooch loves Ed's visits. Maybe it's because he was here the first night Henry stayed with me. Maybe it's just that Ed moves slowly and smells of good things. But it's a relief. Goose, my daughter's dog, still barks at him. But Henry is all in.
The three of us go to Prairie Morraine dog park.
We do the big loop, which takes an hour and gives all three of us plenty of exercise (it's hilly).
Ed and I sometimes walk at a different pace (I'm faster, but then I stop to take photos). Henry, who has yet a third pace (faster than I could describe) tries to be inclusive. Follow the big man, run to my side, sprint off to make friends with a dog. And sometimes, a solo expedition into the bush to sniff out whatever is interesting out there.
On these dog park walks, I get to see a lot of dog personalities. Mellow, energetic, ferocious -- I've encountered all of them. This particular doggie had it in for Ed. No matter how much Ed tried to stoop down to his level, the dog would not stop growling at him. Nor did he move on. Frozen into a very hypothetical attack. Small dog takes on big man.
I think Henry was amused by the whole exchange. We did have to move to a different path to free this mini-pooch from his fierce battle with his perceived enemy. That's fine -- there are plenty of ways to explore the park.
It's always a shame to get Henry back to civilization. Though it is also true that one hour of energetic sauntering is enough for him. I don't want him to develop hip and joint problems later on.
(Time to go, you snow-loving dog!)
(We did not try for a selfie of the three of us. That would test the patience of both my guys.)
(Sweet Henry, I think that seat is meant for Sparrow, not a big guy like you!)
At the Edge, all three of us have lunch and each lunch is different. You can guess who gets the milky coffee and who gets the chewie. Ed sticks with crackers and cheese.
The pooch naps, we read. That's what I would call an ideal afternoon. Now if only the birds would discover my feeder outside. That's not a small challenge for me, that's a big one!
In the very late afternoon I go to the nearby Penni Klein dog park. One last good run for the day for the pup while Ed rests on the couch.
Henry's in luck -- the dog there is a great match for him: equally energetic and playful, but also good at reading play signals. It's great to watch them, knowing that the enjoyment is shared.
Come on my boy, time to head home...
(Happy to see Ed still there...)
In the early evening, just at dusk, Ed leaves. He always has to put away the chickens at 4:30-ish (winter hours!). I ask him if he minds being tied down with that, especially if the chickens are aging out of the egg laying business. But of course, it's rare that Ed would even consider being away from the farmette in the evening hours, chickens or no chickens. No, he doesn't mind setting his schedule by them. Just as I don't mind setting mine by Henry's needs.
Tomorrow's challenges? Well, we'll see. They say we may get more snow...
with lots of love...
