I Once Was Blind, But Now I See..

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One of my favorite hymns is “Amazing Grace”.  I love the lyrics.  There is the simplicity in the message that grace is at the root of all that I have been given, but also profoundness in that grace is “sweet” like a sound, can bring me fear, but also calm my fears, and grace can “lead me home.”  And one of my favorite lines in the song is in the first stanza “…was blind, but now I see.”

I can’t imagine being blind, but whenever I sing this line or listen to it sung, I always think about the wonder and amazement someone would have to feelfrom going from darkness to light.  What are the emotions that would tumble over themselves as the world went from this

https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT3ybVc8gQEySR7Q5iW787a90uzLSjJ5e0ThfsxnHy0KXl63Uy9uQ
to this:
http://www.zimfamilycockers.com/CarnivalSpirit-Sunrise2.jpg
I think that I would feel like I was a different person, living in a different world.


I while I haven’t literally had my eyesight restored, I feel like I am now a seeing person, where I was once stumbling around blind.


I am not in the depths of depression.


Over the last four months, I have been pulling, clawing, scrabbling, hauling myself out of a pit so deep, black was all I could see.  And for the last two of the four months, life has been different — brighter, lighter, freer — dare I say, more fun?

This disease with which I live is a monster, a lying, cold-hearted, selfish disease that has demanded all my energy and attention for many years of my life.  I’m not sure when I first knew that I suffered from depression, but I don’t ever remember not being plagued by some of the symptoms of depression, even as a little girl in elementary school.  My ability to manage it and live “depression-free” has varied through the years.  And my ego has played a role in self-delusion that “I have it under control.”

The last thing that I had under control during the past three years was my depression.  It was firmly in control–but nobody had yet admitted it.  So, like a puppet regime, I went through the days like I was in charge, maybe fooling no one but myself.  Maybe fooling everyone.  Only those close to me can answer if they were more aware of my condition than I was.

And that is one of the scary, lying, dangerous games that depression plays with you — it’s those mind games she pulls on her victims all the time.  One minute you KNOW you are on top of your game; the next minute, you’re questioning if you’re competent enough to place your own order at McDonald’s.

But this blog isn’t about reliving the deep valleys that were landscape of my illness, but to recognize and celebrate the joy that I CAN and DO feel now.  The happy moments that I CAN and DO appreciate daily.  The accomplishments that I CAN and DO take pride in and feel worthy of.

My God has a salvation plan for me that extends beyond this life.  I believe this.  My God has also given me a wonderful gift during this life, however, to feel the awesomeness (I just can’t think of a better word) of feeling blind, but finding sight.

 
 

I Want to Be A………..

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My co-worker and I were talking today about what it must be like to have a job that you just love—a job that you couldn’t wait to wake up to each day, a job that made you look forward to Mondays when you could get back to it. Both of us really like our current jobs, feel lucky to be employed at our present company and really enjoy working with our co-workers and team members, but neither of us would say that we are fulfilling our life’s purpose. At least, I wouldn’t say that.

Admittedly, I haven’t met many people that are employed in either (1) the job of their dreams or (2) in the job that they absolutely love, whether it was what they always wanted to do or not. Most people that I know ended up in their job almost by accident or by default.  They graduated from school, went looking for a job, found one (that they probably thought would be temporary until they figured out what they wanted “to do with their live”), developed skills in that industry, and then stuck to jobs in that industry.  My mom never planned on being a social worker, but when she was looking for a job, a friend helped her get one in the county department of social services, probably she thought until she could find something else, but ended up retiring from the State after 25+ years in the social work business.

When I was little, I wanted to be a famous actress and singer. I knew that I would be loved and adored. I even remember riding in the car with my mom and my sister one night, home from school, wondering how my mom felt about “just being a normal person” and not being a celebrity. At the time, I couldn’t understand how she bore the weight of disappointment that her anonymity must bring (seriously).

Now, of course, I realize the naivety of that dream. Mainly, I was naive to think that I could be a famous actress and singer when I don’t have any talent, especially in the vocal department. But, in all fairness, Barbie never worked for a major home improvement retailer when I dressed her up and made up stories about her, either. There was no Barbie cubicle, complete with overstuffed in-box, whiteboard and coffee ring stains.  There were, however, Barbie stages, Barbie microphones, and lots of Barbie gowns.  The dreams of the young as molded by Mattel….

I think asking young adults to decide what they want to do with their lives at the age of 19 or 20 is ridiculous.  How do they know what they want to do with the next 30 or more years when most young adults haven’t even had to do their own laundry?  And we want them to pick a career?  I think that you shouldn’t have to pick your career until you are around 40.  By then, you’ve (more than likely) grown out of the party non-stop phase, so getting to work at 8 am no longer seems like an impossible feat.  You have learned about yourself during your 30s, coming to understand your skills, likes, dislikes, etc.  Around the age of 40 is when you can wisely make a decision about what to do.  Until this point, everything should all be considered “paying research” to help get to that decision.

If I could choose my career now, I would be one of 4 things:

  1. A soap opera actress (emote a lot and hold a puzzled/mad look for 3 seconds until the camera pans away)
  2. A counselor (though Matt swears that I would get fired the first time that someone didn’t take my advice and I told them how stupid they were being, i.e. “I told you what to do, and if you’re not going to listen, then I’m wasting my time.”  I think he’s being a tad harsh.)
  3. A song lyricist, writing Christian rock songs
  4. A book reviewer (though, being an “instant gratification” kinda girl, I always read the last couple of pages first, so I never have any surprise)

Apparently, I have a little creative streak that I would like to get out.  Luckily, I do have outlets, albeit non-paying ones.  No one sings louder with Third Day in their car then I do.  I seem to be a pretty good listener because I often have people drop by my cube for advice or just to talk.  I am constantly critiquing emails.  There are some days when I act up a storm, i.e. “I believe that is a really great, original idea” or “It’s no one’s fault.”  Gotta sell it when you tell it.

I guess that somehow I have ended up expressing myself, in the smallest ways, doing things that I love.  God is good that way.  But if a television studio ever opens in Statesville, looking for soap opera actresses, I’m all over it.

Beauty Is In the Eye

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Insomnia has been my nighttime companion for several years. Normally, a sleeping pill and 30 minutes reading will cure it, but recently, even these reliable helpers have been unable to ease me into sleep. I toss and I turn, then I finally turn on the TV. Nothing great is on during the middle of the night, because, let’s face it, if it were great, it would be on during prime time viewing hours. But I do catch some interesting shows, at times. Like the time I saw on the viewing guide that The DaVinci Code was on, but when I turned to that channel, it was two naked women (ummmm) enjoying each other. Having watched the movie with Tom Hanks once before, I knew that I didn’t remember that scene, so I double-checked the guide. I was watching The DaVinci Co-Ed not Code. See, interesting, but not great TV. And I’ve learned to read carefully.

Last night I was flipping late into the night and I came across a show about little girls and beauty pageants. I assume that they were little girls, but it was hard to tell under all the make-up. They could have been 3 or 33….the anklets with the patent leather Mary Janes were what made me first suspect that they couldn’t buy their fake eyelashes by themselves. I was immediately hooked–I think it is called “fascination with the abomination”.

Let’s be clear–none of the little girls that I saw were abominable. They were actually all quite cute, but they in no way resembled little girls. The big hair and the make-up and (I kid you not) spray-on tans masked the things that I think make little girls beautiful–pony tails, missing front teeth, chocolate milk moustaches and skinned knees.

More than being a little disturbed by miniature versions of Joan Collins, circa Dynasty, I worry about the emphasis we place on physical beauty. Anyone who has access to a computer, a TV, a Smartphone, or just waits in line at the grocery store is inundated constantly with images of what is considered beautiful. Tall, painfully skinny, sun-kissed, clear-skinned, big breasted, no hips, women. We are bombarded with ads for products to help us lose weight, firm and tone, get rid of cellulite, pouf up our hair, fill in wrinkles and whiten our teeth. There are TV shows dedicated to turning the ugly goose into a swan, such as Dr. 90210, Extreme Makeover, What Not to Wear. We see images of unattainable looks (let’s face it, not even the model attained those looks in real life, it’s all due to air brushing and Photo Shop) and then get hit with the double whammy of all the things we need to make us acceptable. Could your self-esteem sink any lower?

I am having some self-esteem issues right now. Most of them, I think, stem from the fact that I am not dealing well with aging. Getting older never seemed to bother me until the last year or so and maybe I’m now having a problem because I’m staring down a birthday that ends with a zero. In our world, young is beautiful….hence, my self-esteem issues.

And the thought that has been running through my head a lot over the last few months has been “What’s great about getting older?” I am developing new issues, like cholesterol problems and the inability to eat onions (oh, the heartburn). My joints sometimes hurt; I can’t stay awake during a movie, I NEED coffee in the morning. Tell me–what’s so great?

The answer hit me out of the blue while I was talking to one of my younger co-workers the other day. What’s great about getting older can’t be seen on the outside–it all resides on the inside. My life lessons, my bruises, my failures and successes, my experiences that translate into the wisdom that only comes with age. I had book smarts as a child, but only as an older adult have I found a modicum of wisdom.

I know my limitations, I know my abilities, and I know when to ask for help (and not to be ashamed). I know my priorities and I know what really matters in the long run. I know how to say “Thank you” and how to say “I’m sorry”. I know when to say that I messed up. I know when to take a stand and when to lose a battle in order to win the war. I know about diplomacy and office politics, I know about telling my husband that I love him every day. I know that I am not perfect and that I will fail, but I know that doesn’t mean I am a failure.

Thus, when I’m worrying over my weight, or my not-nearly-so-perky boobs, I remind myself that on the inside things are pretty good. I may not be happy with my looks, but on the whole, I am content with my decisions and my actions. I am beautiful because I acted as beautifully as I could, or as my mama always said, “Pretty is as pretty does.” She was so right. So, instead of What Not to Wear the real show should be called How Not to Act, because in the end, who remembers what you were wearing? But everyone remembers how you acted.

The Value of a Good Cry

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We don’t watch a lot of TV in our house.  For one thing, there always seems to be other things that need to be tackled.  For another, we’re in the middle of remodeling our house, and we are currently living in only 1/2 the house.  That means the bed is in the living room, and when one person wants to watch TV is about the same time that the other person wants to rest or read.  I would watch more TV, but Matt doesn’t like all the noise, so the invention of the DVR was ideal for me.  It makes it easy for me to record my shows and watch them when Matt is outside or at work or just generally not in the house.
One of my favorite shows is Grey’s Anatomy.  I like the dialogue and the characters.  And I’m almost always guaranteed a good cry.

Normally, I’m a very even-tempered person.  Matt has accused me of being too even-tempered.  He said once that if he came into the house and announced that he won the lottery or that he ran the car through the garage door, my reaction would be the same:  “That’s nice, honey.”  I don’t think that I’m that even-tempered (I would get excited about the lottery), but I would be the first to admit that most things roll off of me very easily.

I am a true believer in the saying “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”.  I have toughed it out through issues and crises and emotional upheavals that I wouldn’t have expected myself to make it through.  Some of my hardest battles have been in my fight against clinical depression.  I have felt like King David in Psalms, wondering

How long, O LORD will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and every day have sorrow in my heart?
Psalm 13:1-2

With help of family, friends and professionals, however, I have been able to see my way out of each of my episodes of depression (Thank You, God).  I can recognize the warning signs of an episode and seek out proactive help before it gets any worse.  God has been good (and obviously never forgot me).

One of the interesting side effects of my therapy for depression is that now I rarely cry (I think that it is the medication).  I get sad, sometimes have the blues, but crying is an uncommon event.  Matt can probably count on both hands how many times he has seen me cry since we have known each other.

While I am glad that I don’t cry all the time, or at the drop of a hat, I had feared that I had become so cynical or hard that I was unable to cry.  That is why I so appreciate the cry I get each week watching Grey’s Anatomy.  It reminds me that I have the capability to be empathetic, sympathetic, and vulnerable.  I am reminded that (even though scripted and sometimes hokie) there are people out there struggling with their own sets of problems, and somehow surviving through what may seem unendurable.  Somehow, those five or so minutes a week that I silently cry is cathartic.  I usually feel better during the closing credits than I did when I sat down.

Am I weird?  Maybe.  Could I find a better way to let go of some pent up emotion?  Probably.  But for right now, I am grateful for some small things, including that God has helped me fight my war with depression, and yet I still have the ability to have a good cry on a regular basis.  I feel like I got my cake and I’m eating it, too.

A New Year

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We’re halfway into a new year and I have spent a long time thinking about the year that has just passed. What makes a year a “good year” or a “bad year”? Wines have good years, i.e. “Oh, the ’92 pinot was outstanding”, but I think there might actually be criteria used to in bestowing that label. How do you decide if it was a year that you are glad to see end? Can a year be full of fun trips, time spent with family and friends, quality interaction with your spouse, etc. and still be a bad year because of one large devastating event?

I spent the last five months of 2009 just wishing to get to the end of the year. After my dad passed away in August, the year became a “bad” year, perhaps one of, if not the, worst of my life. But up to the point, eight months had passed with what I would have judged to be great events: I sold my house, Matt and I finally were able to live together, we started remodeling our house, we took a great vacation to Playa del Carma in February, and neither of us lost our jobs in the middle of the economic downturn. We were blessed and felt blessed.

One phone call changed that stable feeling for me. One call that informed me that my dad was gone. And with that, eight months (actually 39 years and 3 months) of being Cristy disappeared. What was left was Cristy, but one that was different than before, and 2009 changed thenceforth.

So, I looked forward to 2010 with great anticipation, expecting to feel somehow fresh and new on January 1, maybe not as heavy. The truth was that I didn’t feel much different than I did on the day before, or that I did two weeks before. I have decided that 2009 was a life-altering year. There were good things that happened to me and mine in 2009–Matt and I made our marriage “official” by finally being able to live together (and living together is certainly life-altering!) and I moved to a new town to do so. I also lost a parent in 2009, and nothing can prepare you for the change that takes place from that event. I will never be the same person I was because he is gone — I do not have a earthly father anymore and as such, I am altered irrevocably.

Was it a bad year? No, it wasn’t a bad year, but it will forever be linked in my mind with my dad’s death. As such, it will always be remembered as a bad year because I was forced to face the reality of losing someone I love. I am surviving, though, so I will continue to have hope and faith for the new year.

Being Cristy

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I’ve become hooked on a new TV show called “Being Erica”. The premise is simple, but brilliant: a woman who feels like a failure and who has many past regrets decides to seek help from a therapist. His brand of therapy is unique–he sends Erica back in time to relive and “fix” those moments she regrets: the time she lost her virginity, getting drunk at the Fall Dance and embarrassing herself, letting a professor totally humiliate her in her Creative Writing class, etc. By going back in time, she is able to avoid those things that cause her regret in her life now.

I would love to go back in time and have the opportunity to relive and “un-do” my regrets. Some are a moment in time, some are regrets that span years. As part of the short list, I would spend more time on my social life and less time on studying when I was in college. I would take back a very hurtful thing that I said to my mom when I was 14. I would never drink too much vodka one night in 2004.

Since the TV show is fiction (we are talking about time travel), doing the opposite of what she once did is usually not the solution. For example, even though Erica goes back in time and doesn’t drink any at the Fall Dance, she still finds herself the unwanted center of attention. The real solution is learning that she cares more about what she thinks about herself than what others think about her.

My guess is that it would be the same for me. I would go back and hold my tongue when I was 14, but unless I comprehend the lesson, I could still have said something equally as nasty when I was 16. The point is really not about erasing our bad decisions but learning from the consequences. I’m probably a better person now because I said something mean, understand how hurtful it was, and consciously avoid repeating my mistake.

When I interview candidates for a job openings, I always ask one question: “Tell me about a decision that you made that didn’t turn out the way that you wanted or anticipated and how you handled the results.” I call it my trick question–I’m really not interested in what the mistake was, how big or small it was, or how responsible the person was for the mistake–I’m always listening for the candidate to end their response by saying something like “But what I learned from that was….” or “Since then, I always make sure that….” Any kind of statement that shows me that when they misstep, they learn from it, try to avoid repeating it, or picked themselves up and went on.

Regrets are not horrible things to have, as long as they don’t rule your life. While I would rather have learned my lessons without hurting others or myself, I don’t think that life works that way, so all those regretful moments got me to this place. They shaped and honed me, refined me like silver, as it says in the Bible. And one regret that I don’t have is regret with the person that I am trying to be now. OK, so the fictional ability of “un-doing” our regrets sounds attractive, but in the end, I’ll keep mine and be thankful that I don’t have any more than I do.

When It’s Gone

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I just learned that Santa Claus isn’t real. Ok, that’s really a metaphor, but I have had a fundamental shift in my beliefs, so I’m comparing it to learning that Santa doesn’t exist. For the first time in my 30s, I read Gone With the Wind, and I realized that it’s not my favorite book any more and I don’t like Scarlett O’Hara.

For anyone who hasn’t known me since I was a pre-teen, this probably doesn’t sound like foundation shifting news, but if you have known me since I was 13 or so, this is big news. For the last 25 years, when asked what my favorite book is, I have easily, without hesitating, answered Gone With the Wind. Now, I’m questioning why and how I could have obsessed over this book.

I fell in love with this book after falling in love with the movie. It was my version of Twilight or Harry Potter. I soaked up the words and the stories, fell for the characters and the sweeping dramas. I pestered every teacher (History, English, Social Studies) to let us watch the movie, hoping to infuse my fellow students with my love. I collected anything that I could afford that was about the 40+ year book and movie — movie posters and postcards, autobiographies about Margaret Mitchell, Vivien Leigh, documentaries on making the movie, collector’s plates, dolls. If I had had money, I would have had the most extensive GWTW collection possible. My mom named our cat “Scarlett” in honor of my obsession.

My first day as a freshman in college, I was hanging one of my GWTW posters in my dorm room, when my new roommate said that the girl two doors down also had a GWTW poster on her wall. Expecting a “wanna-be” fan, I stopped by to see for myself the inhabitant who also liked my Scarlett. I then met the girl that would be my roommate for the next 3 years, but only after we circled each other like lionesses, throwing out GWTW questions, sniffing each other for weakness and blood. Only when Betsy and I were both satisfied that we were equally devoted (and knowledgeable) about GWTW did we realize that we each had found a friend for life.

So, this is why it is so hard to accept that, after deciding that it was time to reread the book, I don’t like Scarlett, and that I am offended by some parts of the book. Scarlett isn’t heroic, she’s selfish, two-dimensional, unimaginative and hard. The love of money, the absolute hunger for money, gives her the justification to turn her back on her God, her family, and her morals.

She is a survivor, however, and I can understand how her story would be so compelling when it was published during the middle of the Great Depression. The story is, in essence, one of surviving after the world in which you know is completely turned upside down. I have thought several times while reading it recently that this story has become relevant again during our current ecomonic and financial breakdown, war, massive lay offs, etc. Thousands are people are dealing with the same issues that these characters dealt with — how do you live you life when your life doesn’t resemble anything that you’re used to?

I don’t want to deal like Scarlett did. I don’t want to become hard or focused only on money, with no thought to how my actions impact others, or with only “me” in the middle of my actions. Here is my lesson — not how to survive, but how not to survive.

I’m looking for a new favorite book. Betsy, if you read this, I don’t know if you are saddened, indifferent or surprised that it took me so long to come to this realization. But, I’ll always be glad that Scarlett introduced me to you.

Sundays

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In 1771, British essayist Joseph Addison wrote “Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week.” I have to respectfully disagree with J-Add. At this point in my life, Sunday is not one of my favorite days. I am afraid that I spend too much time fretting about Monday, the week to come, and the weekend past to “clear the rust” from the past week. Logically, I can admit that it is a waste to chew over the last 6 days while also worrying about the next 6, but I can’t seem to help myself. It’s an illness.
I haven’t always felt this way about Sundays. When I was younger, Sundays were great days. They followed a certain pattern, changed only by the weather, holidays or birthdays. My mom, sister and I went to church each Sunday morning, after which we headed to my grandparents house. The memories made at my grandparents’ home are some of the strongest ones of my childhood.
Sundays at Mamaw’s and Papaw’s meant many things: good food, playing with my cousins, listening to my aunt’s talk about how much we were all growing, visiting with my grandparents’ brothers and sisters, and hearing stories about the “good ‘ole days.” Mamaw was such a good cook — beans and biscuits, cabbage and corn, pintos and potatoes and all other kinds of good food. The table would be full of bowls of food, and yet it seemed that she just threw it all together, kinda nonchalantly.
Even though I saw most of my aunts every Sunday, my sister and I and my cousins went through a weekly “interrogation” — school, boyfriends / girlfriends, extracurricular activities. The older we got, the more intrusive some of the questions could become (i.e. “Are you kissing any boys? With tongue?”) And my aunts (and my mom with my cousins) were especially interested in how we girls were growing / developing, i.e. were we getting boobs? I don’t know if this interest was born of the fact that most of them were not well-endowed or what, but I’ve told people before that the first time that anyone ever “felt me up” was in my Mamaw’s kitchen when one of my aunts was checking to see how big my boobs were getting. To us, this behavior was normal (and I don’t think any of us have been scarred by it).
But the best part of Sundays was playing with my cousins. If it was warm outside, we would play in the yard, playing Red Rover, or climbing trees, or running as fast as we could. When my cousins, Wendi and JJ, and I became cheerleaders, we spent a lot of time cheering in the front yard. Sometimes we would just swing on the porch, telling each other secrets and stories.

If it were cold (which it often was in the mountains), we would sit in the living room, looking at old photo albums. Sometimes we would go into one of the back bedrooms and whisper and talk. Sometimes we would even cheer in the living room. Papaw would sit in his chair, reading his Bible or doing his crossword puzzle, and never say a word about how loud we were.

Sundays when I was a kid were days to create memories. I can remember like it was yesterday the sound of Mamaw and Papaw’s front door opening and closing. I can remember the sound of Papaw’s voice as he said the blessing before each Sunday lunch. I can remember the smell and the sounds and the events. And in this remembrance of the Sundays past I have finally been able to clear away my rust.

A New Year, a New Me

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Two thousand and nine is here. I have to admit that New Year’s Eve is a holiday that I have never understood. Why do people get so excited about one night — ringing out the old, ringing in the new? What’s so wrong with the old? Old is comfortable. It is known. It isn’t scary. New can be frightening. It can be overwhelming and disorienting. Why would we want to celebrate such a chaotic event as the changing of the year?

I guess it’s safe to say that I’m not a risk taker. I have no desire to jump out of a plane, drive 200 mph, or eat medium-rare hamburgers. I like my drama either on TV or between the covers of my book, not in my life.

I am boring. Dependable, stable, comfortable, but boring. I am that “back-up” girl that some people had in high school, that girl you could invite to the dance if you couldn’t get your real crush to go. You knew she wouldn’t embarrass you, that you could talk to her, but there were no sparks, no va–va–va voom. I’m that girl — spark less.

Maybe that’s what makes New Year’s Eve so appealing to most people. It’s an opportunity to redefine oneself. It explains all the resolutions — “here is the line in the sand where I stop being “x” on this side and start being “y” on this side.”

Thus, I banished my boring self as of 12 am EST this past Wednesday night / Thursday morning. I resolved to take more risks (emotionally, physically, fiscally), inviting more excitement and drama into my life. I will try para sailing with Matt in February when we go to Mexico. I will try rock climbing at the Whitewater Center. I will order salad with the dressing on it instead of on the side. I will be someone 2 degrees to the right of who I have been.

The chance to change, I think, is worth celebrating. That I can understand. Happy New Year!

Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

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Science has helped to solve one of the great mysteries of my life. Finally! I see the value in science. Antibiotics? MRIs? Wireless communications? The atom bomb? These are OK, but I just had the ultimate encounter with science. I got my results from the doggie DNA company — I know the breeds that are in Nick, my dog!!
Matt and I have the sweetest, gentlest, funniest, fastest, whiniest, humpiest dog ever. He is our boy, and we love him dearly. I rescued him 5 years ago. My sister and I walked into a PetSmart to look (and only look) at the puppies. There were all these precious little puppies, most of them mutts, all of them begging for attention. I spotted Nick, however, and it was love at first site (on my part). I picked him up and didn’t put him down again until we got home with him. He instantly became a large part of my life.
But I’ve always wondered “What is he?” Mutts are the best dogs, but you don’t know what you’re getting. With pure-breeds, you know that there are certain character traits that you can expect, but what do you do with a Heinz 57 dog? Does he have Labrador or German shepherd in him? I’ve had people stop me and say that he looked like a Rhodesian Ridgeback (had to look that one up). He’s thin and fast, so maybe he has some greyhound in him?
So, when I saw on TV that doggie DNA kits had been invented to help pet owners like me to identify the breeds in their mutts, I was all over it! Matt thought that I was crazy. Would knowing what he is change how I felt? (Like finding out that he had poodle in him was a deal breaker?) No, but curiosity was killing me! I had to wait to save some money (curiosity isn’t cheap), but I was able to buy my kit in early November.
The kit arrived, I swabbed Nick’s mouth, sent the kit back, and began to wait. And wait. And wait. And today, my patience was rewarded with Nick’s breed certificate.
I don’t think it unusual to want to know what Nick’s “made of”. Don’t we all want to know what we’re made of? Isn’t that why some people jump out of airplanes or try to climb Mount Everest? I know that for we humans finding out what we’re made of is more about our inner characteristics and qualities. Will we be brave in a scary situation? Will we make the right choice when faced with an ethical dilemma? We spend a lifetime figuring out these things about ourselves. We learn as situations test us, as we face happy times and tragedies, as people move in and out of our lives. It would be so much easier if we could take a DNA test and know that we are genetically programmed to be kind or to be cranky, like a Labrador is prone to chew. But alas, no test exists to figure out what we’re “made of”, so we continue to learn about ourselves as we go.
My feelings for Nick haven’t changed at all since I know his breeds. It does help explain why his nose stays irritated and explains where he got his muzzle, but Matt was right after all — he’s really made of sweetness and unconditional love and I knew that all along.
P.S. Collie, Australian Shepherd, Shetland Sheepdog