I think fall is my favorite season. There is much to be said for the newness of spring, the potential and rebirth, for the warm, luxurious days of summer, loaded with possibility, and even winter, with it’s cold, icy grip has a beauty all its own.

The glory of fall causes me to pause, catch my breath, and thank the Heavens for their majesty. Warm days with golden sunlight tease us into thinking that it might never end.

One of the last plants to flower in my garden, after the abundance of blossoms in summer, is a common and to some people, weedy sedum called Autumn Joy. During the summer, when the garden is showy and bright, Autumn Joy is plain and green. As bees bustle from daisies to Echinacea to poppies to columbine, the sedum stands alone without a flower in sight.

 At the end of the season, as the daisy heads are covered with seed, the Echinacea has lost its luster and the poppies have died back, Autumn Joy takes the stage. Autumn Joy sedum bursts forth with beautiful heads of red, pink or orange flowers. It is often the last blossom standing in the garden. The bees cover the flowers, in a last minute attempt to gather nectar for the cold winter ahead. The red blossoms stand out, in a sea of brown and fading summer blooms.

When I see Autumn Joy in my garden, my heart lifts just a little, and I am reminded that even as fall bursts forth, life is not over. There is still blossoming to be done, not just by Autumn Joy, but also by me, and by everyone else.

Fall is not a time to prepare for the end, but a time to break into late blossom. It is never too late to blossom into the life you truly desire. Just like Autumn Joy, each one of us can grow and blossom in due time.

We live our lives, counting the passing years and mourning the days gone by. In youth, as in spring, we are filled with ambition and potential. We hardly note the passing of time as we leap forward into the possibilities of our lives ahead.

Productivity in later years, much like summer, is promising and enriching. Our lives take on a rich texture as we fill them with the things we think matter. We have families, we buy things, we glory in the abundance of the summer of life.

And finally autumn brings a time to slow down a bit, enjoy the fruits of our labor and reflect on the beauty of life around us.

But this time is not just for sitting back and basking in all that has happened. Some people are filled with dread, as they look toward the bleakness of winter, but there is still plenty of time to blossom into a new place, in the autumn.

Autumn Joy, the beauty of the late bloomer. We can all bloom where we are, whatever the circumstances. It is never too late to find a new calling, begin a new chapter, or emerge from the summer into the joy of autumn.

Wherever you are today, take a moment to enjoy the beauty of this place we call home. Notice the cool breeze, the glow of the afternoon light, and the shimmering golden leaves. Then, take a moment to notice the places in your own life where you can blossom. Let Autumn Joy serve as a reminder that it is never too late to bloom.

Namaste friends

This story originally appeared in the Uinta County Herald in April, 2012. It is reprinted here by popular demand. I hope you enjoy it.

The thing about humanity is this: we tend to learn from the mistakes of those who have gone before us, and we alter our behavior accordingly. To that end, I offer the following cautionary tale, regarding the dangers of the seemingly innocuous carrot. Learn from my example, and live a long and healthy life.

If you happen to order vegetables from Bountiful Baskets, and if you happen to purchase the 25-pound bag of carrots, pay special attention. If you are like most people, and you buy regular carrots from the grocery, you can still learn, so don’t stop reading yet.

If you begin to eat a carrot, and one of your children tells you a joke, DO NOT LAUGH.

This is imperative, and the first rule of surviving the dangers of carrots. If you never laugh, you can still learn a thing or two, so please, continue reading.

If you do begin to laugh, and you inhale a huge chunk of carrot into your windpipe, it could be dangerous. You might end up at the hospital on the last Saturday of spring break, and find that the surgeon who could remove the carrot from your windpipe is still at Disney World.

If the surgeon is not available, you might find yourself on a Life Flight to Utah, to have a carrot removed from your windpipe. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but apparently, if you ask to go home, or you drive yourself to Utah, and you need to be intubated, you could potentially not make it to the hospital in a timely manner. Apparently, they can intubate a person choking on a carrot, if the need arises, on Life Flight.

When you finally make it to a large hospital, the admitting doctor might tell you to try to choke it up, which you could have been trying to do for the preceding three hours. You might sarcastically say that you hadn’t yet thought to choke it up, and thank him for the great, albeit expensive advice.

You then ask to be hung from the ceiling and beaten, which reasonably sounds like a way to dislodge a stuck piece of food from the windpipe, especially if you have been choking and pounding on your own chest for several hours. If you suggest that, the doctor might laugh. You can also ask to be punched hard in the stomach, but you probably won’t find a hospital volunteer willing to perform the procedure. At least, I didn’t. You could ask your worried spouse to pound on your back, while you hang down over the bed, but be warned that it could cause the carrot to move deeper, which is extremely painful. 

Eventually, a bronchial specialist could explain that the carrot is wedged in your lungs, and needs to be removed endoscopically, or you risk infection, pneumonia or death. 

So, you choose to have a bronchiotomy, during which you are fitted with a dental guard, which strangely resembles something worn by Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs. And although you have been cracking jokes and choking for nearly four hours, it is virtually impossible to speak past the dental guard, and it might feel like a medical conspiracy intended to silence you. It is just a safety precaution to prevent you from biting down on the expensive medical equipment. 

And then, the nurse might prep you with some noxious gas that renders you quite sleepy, and unable to keep up the witty repartee of the last hours, but still cognizant of the doctors talking in the room, as they send a scope into your lungs, in search of the erstwhile carrot. 

And suddenly, you will awaken, and they will show you a large chunk of carrot pulled from your right brachial tube. And they will explain that if they had not removed it, you may have died, or become severely infected. 

And that is why you should always slice your carrots into thin strips before eating, and you should never let your children tell you jokes, especially while eating carrots. Believe me, it happened to me, it could happen to you. And that is why I have banned all laughing from our house.

Namaste, friends.

I had the pleasure of driving halfway across the country with four of my eight children recently, and I literally had a blast.

Actually, nothing blew up. It wasn’t literal at all. But that phrase was over used and misused by most of the occupants of the vehicle. Until we arrived at my older daughter’s home in Seattle, at which point, she set her siblings straight on their improper use of the word literal.

As with many popular phrases, I have been able to block out my children’s misapplication of the word “literally.” For me, it joins other popular and misused slang words such as “like” as in; “I was like, and he was like and it was like…” and “you know”. My daughter finally stopped saying, “you know” when I continually responded with, “Actually, I do know.”

So the phrase literally has been abused in our household. It has literally been misused every day.

That is, until we arrived in Seattle. Older daughter number two began sharing a story of riding an elephant while on a mission trip in Thailand, “I was so scared, I literally had a heart attack.”

Older daughter number one, “I literally doubt you know how to correctly use that word.”

Number two, “No. I was literally scared to death.”

Number one, “No. You weren’t literally scared to death, because you are still alive. You literally do not know how to use that word correctly.”

And so it went on, the two of them literally arguing for the better part of a day, over the proper application of the word ‘literally.’

The teenaged daughters got in on the act, inadvertently, by using their everyday speech.

“This water is so cold, we could literally do the ice bucket challenge.”

“I literally almost drowned.”

They were corrected by their older sister at every turn, yet remained undaunted in their speech.

Curiosity finally got the better of me and I looked up the exact definition of literally.  I literally Googled it.

One of the definitions says, “True to fact; not exaggerated; actual or factual.”

I think my kids have never been literal in their lives. Their speech is peppered with exaggeration, falsity and imagination. I could be grateful for their rich story telling capacity, but usually I find myself frustrated, not knowing whether they are telling me the truth, or exaggerating for the sake of the story.

I hate to admit it, but I have been called, by more than one of my very own children, gullible. That’s not to say I believe every story they conjure, but I do give people the benefit of the doubt, even when it is my own kids.

For many years, I naively believed that my own children would never lie to me. That is, until I caught a teenaged daughter in a bold-faced lie. I was shocked that she would ever lie, especially to me. That was eight kids ago, and although I like to believe I am no longer so naïve, my children literally prove me wrong. The master of story telling is my youngest daughter. She is the seventh of eight children. One might think that by now, I don’t believe a word that comes out of any of their mouths, but I still believe in the basic goodness of humanity. And kids are literally human.

But Lexi has a way with words. She can weave a tale, as cunning as an Indian snake charmer. More often than not, I find myself listening intently, reeled in by the story, until she laughs and says, “I was only kidding, mom.” Drat. Fooled again. The first time it happened, she was a mere kindergartner, with a story about riding horses and catching fish during recess. I looked at her, wide-eyed and amazed that the school would offer such a great thing as pony rides and fishing during recess. It’s the first time I remember hearing that lyrical laugh, followed by the words, “Mom, I was just kidding.”

Samantha has literally posted a sticky note over my writing chair, which says, “Gullible Zone.”

Talk about disrespectful. I think my kids literally laugh at me. I know I hear inexplicable laughter coming from them at odd moments, but I like to think they are laughing with me, not at me.

Needless to say, once we left Seattle and hit the road to Evanston, the word literally reappeared in the vernacular.

“Chik-fil-et literally has the best chicken in the world. Can we have lunch? I’m literally starving.”

I sighed, rolled my eyes to the heavens, and literally said a prayer of thanks that we were nearly home.

And no. I don’t believe any of my children literally starved.

Namaste, friends

The pig experience came to an exhilarating close last week, when my three youngest children finally showed and sold their pigs.

Back in the spring, we decided to raise pigs for 4-H. You may remember my recounting Spider Pig’s journey to the farm, in the back of my Subaru. It turns out, pigs don’t travel well in cars.

After a long summer of feeding, weighing, and worming pigs, fair week finally arrived.

I thought I knew a lot about pigs, up to that point, but fair week taught me how much I still don’t know.

It started with getting the pigs back to the fair grounds. When they were cute little 97-pound piglets, they could be easily hefted into the trailer, for transport to the farm.

By last week, the pigs were each pushing the 300 pound weight limit. Loading them onto the trailer was no easy task. When a 300-pound pig charges at a 97-pound girl, if she’s learned anything at all over the summer, she jumps out of the way.

My good-natured friend cheerfully herded the pigs toward the trailer, and the kids began closing in on the pigs, trying to coax them into the trailer. As one pig reluctantly climbed the ramp, another pig in the trailer saw his chance to escape. He bolted between legs, knocked down children and fled to the safety of the mud lake at the far edge of the pen. The pigs learned early on that no children would venture into the muddy morass. It was a refuge of cool water for the pigs whenever we came to weigh the pigs. Finally, after more pigs had escaped than were on the trailer, someone grabbed a few scraps of bread. The food tempted the pigs  back onto the trailer.

Once the pigs were at the fairgrounds, they had to be bathed and shaved. Once again, I found myself asking, “Who knew?”

 Someone seriously suggested we bathe the pigs in buttermilk, to soften their skin.

Pigs enjoy being bathed and shaved less than they enjoy being herded onto a trailer. After a lot of screaming, by children and pigs, the animals were clean and ready to be judged. By the time it was over, everyone was exhausted. And this was only day one.

Judgment day came on Tuesday. As I pulled into the parking lot, Gunnar bolted out to the Jeep.

“Mom! Come quick! Sissy is crying,” and with that, he ran off, expecting me to follow.

Upon entering the swine barn, I encountered a sobbing teenaged daughter, who had apparently tripped over her pig, Bill, and had chipped her tooth on the stock fence.

I wrapped my arms around Samantha and tried to soothe her crying. She was on deck to show her pig, and her agitation was clearly upsetting Bill.

I stroked her hair, “Calm down. Take a deep breath. You’re upsetting the pig.”

I chuckled as I heard myself say that. Upset the pig? It reminded me of an old saying, “Never try to teach a pig to sing. You waste your time and you upset the pig.” Although we were not trying to teach Bill to sing, he was growing more and more agitated with the chaos around him.

 Samantha showed me her tooth, broken neatly in half at a sharp angle. I stifled a surprised gasp. It was awful. I could see why she was crying so hard.

When the judges called her name, she took a deep breath, swallowed the remainder of her tears, and marched Bill down the walkway to the show ring.

I felt a lump rise in my throat as I watched my daughter put on a brave smile and lead her pig around the ring. What a great kid.

At the end of the day, Samantha and Bill placed third overall, out of a couple hundred pigs, and Samantha learned a valuable lesson about pulling your stuff together in the middle of a crisis and doing your best.

By the time Friday rolled around, the kids and the pigs were all sick of the fairgrounds. The air was electric with anticipation when the stock show began.

Chickens. Rabbits. Lambs. Steer. Pigs. Finally, the Demander kids headed into the sale ring, near the end of the auction. Having never participated before, we still had a few lessons to learn.

Apparently, the kids are supposed to present a gift to the buyers of their livestock. Who knew? Let me just say, to Wendell Fraughton, Don Pedro, and Alta Construction, “Your gifts are on their way. And thank-you.”

Without a lot of further ado, the pigs were sold. The kids were happy until Saturday, when they went to clean up the remnants of the project.

There, alone, stood Bill.

Samantha ran to her pig, wondering if he had been forgotten.

We headed to the fair office, and were reassured that Bill’s buyer would certainly be back, likely soon, to retrieve his pig.

As we headed out to the barn, Don Pedro pulled in to claim his pig.

Hating good-byes, Samantha left so she wouldn’t have to see Bill, loaded into one more trailer, for one more trip away from the fair grounds.

We laughed. We cried. We raised some pigs. When it was all said and done, there were some lessons that I’d like to pass on for all of you:

Never, ever, ever give a pig a ride in your car.

Pigs, like the rest of us, enjoy a kind word and a good snack.

Nothing beats a good back scratch.

You can always do your best, even when things around you are falling apart.

Namaste, friends.

One of the fun things about my job as a reporter is the opportunity I get to meet a lot of different people. I have fun talking to people, learning their stories and sharing some of them here, with you.

Not every story I hear gets into the paper, and not every person I meet wants their story told. I usually try to discern what category person I am talking too before I get the notebook out.

Recently, I had the pleasure of interviewing Jo Dee Messina over the phone. If, like me, you have no idea who that is, you can do a quick Google search and learn, as I did, that she is a pretty popular country music star. Hmm. Who knew?

After working through her people, we finally arranged a suitable time for the interview. When she called the Herald, she was funny and kind, two of my favorite traits. But she did ask if I was using a made-up name. “Is that your REAL name?” We chatted about kids, life and eventually, her latest album. Before she hung up she said, “Come see me after the show.”

I imagine she says that to all the reporters.

On Saturday, I attended the Uinta County Fair concert, which featured music by “Due West” and Charlie Jenkins. After they played, my friend suggested we go meet the bands.

Wait one second. Meeting bands is not something I do. I might appear bold and brash on the outside, but inside I’m pretty shy. And I don’t just walk up to people for no good reason.

She insisted I do my job as a reporter and march down onto the fairgrounds and interview those young fellows. Hiding behind my camera and under a hat, I followed her, half expecting the local sheriff’s posse to stop us dead in our tracks.

We made it all the way to the barricade, when the friendly deputies did stop us in our tracks. And, they had the audacity to laugh when I said I wanted to interview the bands.

After their laughter died down and they wiped the tears out of their eyes, one deputy said he would find out if the band wanted to be interviewed.

A long time later, I assume after he assured them that I was “legit”, he came back and said they would do it. The only problem? I had neither a notebook nor a pen. No problem. My erstwhile friend cheerfully agreed to take notes on her phone, while I did the interview.

Once the talent came over, the guys were quite nice, and the interview went well. Except when I asked them the best use for duct tape. They looked at me quizzically. Duct tape? I explained 15-questions, the Friday feature that runs in the Herald and they quickly came up with a number of good uses for duct tape, including fixing broken refrigerator shelves, guitar cases and glasses.

By then, the main act, my new best friend, Jo Dee Messina was on the stage. She played for an enthusiastic hour, bounding across the stage like a woman half my age. I’ve only got a couple of years on her, but she sure had a lot of energy. I got tired just sitting and watching her.

Once the last number had been played, my friend looked at me. “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?”

She wanted me to go through the torture of going back to the arena, and interviewing a star. A real star. With talent and everything.

“I think she’s probably tired,” I mumbled.

“Are you kidding me? Get down there and interview the main act. Isn’t that your job?”

Oh yeah. My job. With a deep sigh of resignation, I followed her back down the bleachers.

By now, it was mostly dark, and the people around us were mostly drunk. We walked over to the barricade, me half expecting to be arrested on the spot. To our surprise, there were no officers in site. Anywhere.

We looked around, and I wondered what to do next, when my friend began climbing the gate.

Let me set the stage. It’s dark. Two women, of questionable age and intent, are climbing a barricade. One is wearing heels. One is wearing a skirt. A short skirt. Both women reach the top of the gate, only to fall inelegantly to the other side. She lost her wallet, and I lost my dignity. What little I had left.

Fortunately, in the dark, no one saw our stealthy moves. We stood up, brushed ourselves off, and looked around.

I was expecting to be handcuffed by security at any moment. We straightened up, dusted off, and headed toward the talent. As we rounded the giant black bus, a drunken woman was being escorted rather loudly from the area. I nearly panicked and ran away, but my friend grabbed me firmly by the arm.

I think she sensed my cowardice.

We walked boldly around the bus, and there stood Jo Dee Messina.

She wasn’t surrounded by crowds, or security, or guards; she was standing there talking to someone. We politely waited our turn, and when she looked at me quizzically I stuck my hand out and said, “I’m Deborah Demander.”

She laughed. “Oh yeah. I remember talking to you. You had the made up name.”

And just like that, she broke the ice. The conversation focused on all the peculiarities she noticed in Evanston, and I asked about the duct tape. She immediately had an answer. Fixing diapers. Actually, that works. I’ve done it myself.

It was quite an adventure. We stood there talking for several minutes, and then she got on the bus with her sleeping babies and drove off into the dark.

And I was left standing on the wrong side of a barricade, in a skirt, in the dark, wondering how the heck to get over without being seen again.

And that is how I met Jo Dee Messina.

Namaste friends.

I often wonder if my kids ever listen to what I say. My lengthy lectures are usually met with rolled eyes. My angry outbursts bring glares of disapproval. When I try to share life lessons, I find my kids dozing in the back seat, lolled to a peaceful nap by the droning of my voice.

Occasionally, however, I am surprised by the wisdom of my children. In a fit of sorrow, as I cried inconsolably, my daughter patted my back and said, “Don’t worry mom, everything always works out.”

Although I continued crying, I was touched to hear my own words coming back to haunt me. Funny, they seem so much more conciliatory when I’m saying them, rather than receiving them.

My son recently began moving his Lego’s to our garage attic. He had previously used a small empty room in our basement for his Lego City, but found the confines of the room to be too containing. Often I would find myself tripping in the dark over helicopters, fire trucks and villains forgotten in the hallway.

During a momentary epiphany, I realized that we have an entire attic over our garage, mostly unused. There are a few boxes of Christmas decorations and some camping gear, but the bulk of space sits unused.

The older girls decided to make a craft room out of part of the attic, and hauled up tables, stickers, and craft supplies of all sorts. I think they finally realized that I am no help when it comes to things of a crafty nature, so they decided to find a place where I wouldn’t constantly hover over them, asking irrelevant “mom” questions.

Gunnar decided to recreate his Lego City in the attic, and to help him out, I swept all the Lego’s into a box. Much to Gunnar’s dismay, not all of his creations survived the sweeping.

I admit to being a little overly zealous in my endeavor. I am thrilled to get the Lego’s out of the hallway. I may have swept them just a little more vigorously than necessary. Some of the Lego creations may have come apart as I tossed them carelessly into the box. I’m not sure that had anything to do with it, but I am admitting to my part in the destruction of Lego City.

When Gunnar discovered his millions of Lego’s thrown haplessly into a plastic storage bin, he was less than enthusiastic about my help. He stormed out to the garage, insisting that he could get the work done himself.

About an hour later, he came into the kitchen, looking somewhat abashed.

He told me he was pretty mad when he found all his stuff broken. And he tried to devise a pulley system to pull the enormous box of toys up the attic stairs. As he hoisted the box overhead, he watched in alarm as it began to slant. Then, the box crashed to the ground, thousands of Lego’s covering the garage floor.

Gunnar said, “I was so mad when all my stuff broke. Then I thought that everything happens for a reason. So I figured I could make a bigger and better Lego City in the garage.”

With that, he happily bounded back out to the garage to begin the daunting task of sweeping up thousands of Lego’s.

I stood in wonder at the brief conversation. My eleven-year old son just repeated and applied something I preach to my kids every day. And he applied it much more quickly and cheerfully than I ever have.

Everything does happen for a reason. Whether it’s Lego’s crashing to the ground, a car breaking down, or your sweetheart breaking your heart. It is a waste of time to ask ‘why’ something happens. Instead, like Gunnar, ask yourself what you are going to create out of the situation.

You can’t control everything that happens in life. What you can control is your own response to situations. Your response is your responsibility. What can you make of the things that life throws your way?

Try looking for opportunity in the situations facing you. You might just find yourself with the biggest and best Lego City ever created.

Namaste, friends.

I typically stay out of the morass of political discourse. While I do vote in every election, and have served and will continue to serve as an election judge, I believe politics makes for dull conversation and even duller reading.

Politicians on either side of the aisle tend to use the power of sesquipedalian speeches and lofty ideals to obfuscate their agenda from the eyes of wary citizens. In other words, they use those big, fancy words and vague references to party platforms to hide their true intentions. Certainly not all people running for office are politicians, but all politicians eventually run for office.

The problem with hiding behind obscure words and ideologies is that they tend to alienate the average Joe, such as myself. I don’t really care about party platforms and big words. What I do care about is how things will affect my life, and the lives of my kids. Beyond that, party politics mean little to me.

Recently, a campaigning politician referred to environmentalist extremists, who value rocks and sage chickens just as much humans. His comment to those folks, to us folks, was that sage chicken is tasty.

Well, yes it is. Unfortunately, politicians and many other people look down on so called environmentalists without understanding what caring about the environment actually means. It doesn’t necessarily mean that one values one thing over another. Instead, I see value in all things. Caring about the environment doesn’t necessarily make one an extremist, either.

In a philosophical sense, rocks, sage and people serve different but equally important functions in the vast macrocosm of our lives. Of course, humans have opposable thumbs and are therefore superior. When it comes to doing things that you can only do with thumbs, then yes, I suppose it is true. But what about all the other things, that thumbs don’t help with? In those cases, then perhaps we aren’t so superior after all.

Unfortunately, we lose sight of the importance of things when we become too focused on ourselves, and that, I believe is the greatest shortcoming of politicians.

They focus on themselves, their message, and their agenda. They lose sight of the common folk, who are trying to survive.

We just want to enjoy life, pay our bills and live a decent life. At the end, we want to look back, with some satisfaction, that we left the world a better place for those who come after us. And sometimes, we might like to hike in the sagebrush, enjoying the wonder of the world around us. While sage grouse and stones might not serve an obvious purpose, our hike might be less interesting without their grounding presence.

Of course, the only folk the politicians pay heed to are the ones who vote. And more specifically, the ones who vote, and who also have money. To narrow it down further, they really care about the people who fund those expensive campaigns, allowing them to travel hither and yon, spouting big words and fancy obscure ideologies.

The little people, the ones affected by their decisions, rarely fund those campaigns. The little people are working, taking care of families, and wondering how they will survive next week, next month and next year.

The little people don’t typically cast aspersions at environmentalists, at the tea party, or at activists of any sort. We little people are too busy trying to survive and thrive. Not only do we not have time, but we don’t have interest in extremes at either end of the spectrum. What the people care about is what affects them every day.

We care about the price of gas, and how we can make a tank stretch until next payday. We care about buying milk, diapers and whether we can afford day care next week.

Politicians typically get lost in rhetoric. They forget all about serving people and making the world a better place, if they ever think about it at all.

There are public servants, who work to ensure that our town is safe and well run. They care about the quality of life for the people they serve. Those public servants are not politicians, just average people like the rest of us, just trying to get by.

With campaign season in full swing, we will soon be inundated with loquacious politicians, trying to schmooze us. They pretend to be just like us, to understand the plight of the common folk. They try to disguise their rhetoric, to simplify and dumb it down.

What we can’t lose sight of is that they are no better, nor really any worse than any of us. Misguided? Yes, probably so. But we are all fighting a hard battle, in one way or another. During campaign season, my advice to politicians, and the victims of politicians, is to be kind. Everyone is fighting a hard battle.

Namaste, friends.

I used to love Bugs Bunny. One of my favorites was Marvin the Martian. He had an Acme Ray Gun, with which he would vaporize Daffy Duck. A classic line from Marvin the Martian, “Resistance is futile, earthling.”

During Tuesday’s snowstorm, I thought of those words often. I dressed for spring on Tuesday, in sandals and a skirt. Wrong outfit, wrong day.

Of course, I was too busy to run home and change as the day grew colder and the drizzle turned to snow. I decided to accept the weather and be thankful for the moisture. Resistance to the weather, or to just about anything else, is futile.

It never ceases to amaze me, how people will complain about things that cannot be changed, such as the weather.

Complaining never changed anything for the better. In fact, it never changed anything at all. It is futile to resist those things we can’t change. I would include the weather in that category, as well as the past, other people, and dogs.

You can’t change anything by complaining, and resisting what you can’t change is a waste of time and energy.

I had a friend who used to say, “You can’t teach a pig to sing. You only waste your time and upset the pig.” Complaining about the weather, fretting over the past, or trying to change someone else’s behavior is a lot like trying to teach a pig to sing. You don’t achieve your goal, and you usually irritate somebody.

Why resist things? Life is too short to be frustrated and angry over things that can’t be changed. When I hear people griping about the weather, I wonder what they think it could possibly accomplish. Yes, it is snowing. Yes, it is cold. Yes, we all wish summer would hurry up and get here. Will complaining about the cold make the weather any warmer? Will Mother Nature suddenly say, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize all of you Evanston residents were expecting sunshine and blue skies. Let me fix that.”

No. She will not bend to our will.

Rather than resist what is, I have found it is much easier to accept circumstances and make the best of them. Surrender to what is, rather than resist with futility.

Surrendering has such a negative connotation. It brings to mind weakness, giving up and giving in. In fact, I would argue that the opposite is true. It takes determination and strength to accept the things we cannot change. It takes character to submit our will to something greater. It takes humility and grace to be thankful for the snow, when you really wish to see the sun.

Most of our suffering has its roots in resistance. We suffer as we agonize over mistakes, misspoken words, and things we have done wrong. You can’t change the past. It has already happened. You can accept the past and move on, working to correct the mistakes of yesterday.

We suffer as we worry about what will happen tomorrow. We have no control over tomorrow. Of course, you can make plans, but as the good book says, we are not guaranteed tomorrow. It is foolish to say, “Tomorrow I will do this, and tomorrow I will do that.” We don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Worrying about it, resisting internally, will not change a moment. 

The last day of school: those words are pregnant with possibility and opportunity. An entire summer waits to unfold in endless sunny days. I remember the last day of fifth grade vividly. I learned two huge lessons that summer, and though I don’t always apply them, they remain a part of who I am.

In fifth grade, I was the marble champion of the school. I started out with a small Ziploc baggie of tiger-eye marbles purchased from K-Mart. By the end of the year, I had a fine velvet marble bag. Actually, it was a re-purposed Crown Royal bag, but at that tender, naïve age, I didn’t know the difference. My marble bag brimmed with clearies, steelies, tubbies and solids. Those were the names of the marbles I had won from everyone at school. I was the reigning queen of marbles at Sunset Elementary. On the last day of school, I brought my prized possession for one last day of marble conquest. Unfortunately, in the excitement of summer vacation, I left my marbles in my desk.

I went back to the school a week later and sought out the janitor, who insisted he had never seen my beloved purple bag. I cried for days. I knew exactly where I had left it. I figured someone had taken that awesome bag of marbles and would taunt me with it in middle school, insisting that he or she was the actual marble champion. Or that janitor; maybe he had given it to a thankless grandchild, who could never appreciate the hard work that went into winning all those awesome marbles. I lost sleep thinking about my favorite tubby, a clear, light purple beauty, scarred with the nicks of battles won. I remembered every marble in that bag, and mourned the loss of every one.

But the thing is, when I got to sixth grade, no one cared anymore about marbles. I had figured there would be a big marble showdown on the first day of school, as kids from different elementary schools competed to prove their worth. Wrong. There were no marbles in middle school. I was a little relieved that I didn’t bring that purple bag to sixth grade and seal my identity as a nerd.

The second lesson I learned that year also kept me awake nights. At the end of fifth grade, the math unit we worked on dealt with telling time. I could not quite get the hang of telling time, and I struggled with it throughout the month of May.

At the end of the year, I still couldn’t quite tell time, I am now embarrassed to say. All summer long, I worried that there would be a big test on the first day of sixth grade. I imagined all the sixth graders in the lunchroom, poring over the time-telling test.

I imagined all summer long, that those of us who failed the test would be sent back to Mr. Arnold at the fifth grade building. I dreaded returning to Mr. Arnold’s class. Not only because of the time telling thing, but Mr. Arnold and I did not end the year on a happy note. I made fun of his bald head, while swinging on the swings, and he sent me to the principal’s office. Apparently, not all bald people share my sense of humor about the advertising revenue possible on such a large, smooth surface.

Anyway, much to my relief, there was no test on the first day of middle school. No one even cared whether I could tell time. It took me about a week to realize that I wasn’t being sent back to Mr. Arnold’s class. After that first week of school, I finally relaxed enough to enjoy being in middle school.

The lessons I learned are these: First, don’t waste your summer vacation — or any day of your life, or even a moment of time — worrying about stupid stuff. Most of the stuff we worry about never happens. I lay awake all those summer nights, worrying about a test that never came. That pattern has continued throughout most of my life, but as I get older, I realize what a waste of time all that worry is. So relax. Don’t worry. Everything will work out.

The second lesson I learned: Don’t take yourself or your accomplishments too seriously. Oh. You’re the reigning marble champion of fifth grade? Wow. Everyone in middle school will be really impressed with that. Actually, we are all just people doing the best we can, getting through life. Whether you are the president of this, or the champion of that, it doesn’t matter. Everyone is due equal respect. We all have successes and failures.

Don’t try to make yourself better than other people, and don’t try to make everyone better than you. Everyone you meet has his or her own hard battle to fight. The best thing you can do is to be kind.

My advice to everyone about to enjoy summer vacation: Don’t worry, everything will work out in the end, and be kind. Everyone is fighting a hard battle.

Namaste, friends.