Keep Practicing!

I have a newfound appreciation for the art of practice.

My very earliest recollections of practice were when I was eleven and a violin was placed in my hands. Initially the practice was just to be able to find a note. Get a sound.

But then, it became about finding a string of notes, a lyric, a rhythm and at some point it became about playing. Oh! The double entendre. Playing. Not so much for me at the time. I was working! I wanted to be really good, I wanted to have my teacher and my friends notice this. But of course, it takes facility. All this practicing wasn't building to one point, it was the point. Somehow either the adults around me never said it, or I just didn't get it.

Practice is exploring.

Practice is learning.

Practice is the path.

It can be that we practice what we love. If we let go, we can fall in love with what we practice. 

Since seeing the movie Whiplash, my son, a fairly talented trumpet player, has taken to loads more practice sessions. He sees the connection. Practice is a path leading to the level where he'll have more freedom. 

Me? I love to write. I have since high school, (which was a while ago). I began, then, filling spiral bound notebooks with words. And poems, and ideas and rants and schemes and dreams. I wrote and write because I love words. I love connections. I love the connections that words allow. Words in my head and words on a page. Strings of words that at some point become a real idea. Many mornings as I get those pages filled, I'm simply exploring -- practicing moving my hand and my mind together.

I've tried to keep this in my thought as I've approached other arts. So, some twenty months ago the words art journal came across my path and I added some art to a journal and then more and then, I, who know nothing about art, was making some art. Gratefully, I could hear my own words -- the ones I'd said to my kiddos when they were little and playing with art:

Art is an exploration.

Today Pam Garrison shared a bit about how important the rhythm of practice really is. Her work is wonderful. Always an inspiration, and because she writes about it in her fabulous blog -- we get a peek into how she thinks and all the joy she spills all over the place. While you go there, just look at all the practice. (It doesn't look to me like she wants her teacher to notice what she got right.)

All of this reminds me of the Ira Glass quote floating around right now. 

Then I remembered, I'd found something similar on the interwebs a while ago and pinned it somewhere. It's important. Oh, and it turns out Pam Garrison put dip pen to paper to share it. 

Here's my take: Practice doesn't make perfect. Practice makes possible.

Oh, and thanks Pam.

A perfect day.

I wait for this day every year. It doesn't always get here. This is a downside to living in beautiful Southern California. Rainy days? Not so many.

But today is just lovely. It's not too cold. The rain is constant and just a drizzle. Things are in a beautifully chaotic state with Christmas being packed away for another year.

The Narcissus is blooming.

And my big dog? Well, he can't decide if he wants to be in or out, so we pass in the kitchen, often.

The pup and I were up very early to pick up papers from the vet so she could go to obedience school. Then school. Coffee in the rain with my friend and her doggy. I just said coffee in the rain. Ya really can't say that very often here in our town. But we sat outside at the Starbuck's with our poochies until the drizzle turned to drops and got a bit soaked walking the dogs back to our cars.




The first part of the day had Lucy and me just a bit exhausted. I made a fire out of our wonderful cedar firewood. Crack! Pop! Good night right there on the living room floor. I snoozed a bit and was joined by both Lucy and my girlie. At this point, I'm heading back to Christmas while the two of them nap.  I'm in and out with boxes (and my big old German Shepherd) and just enjoying every minute.

Crackling fire. Raindrops. Naps. Reorganizing.

This is my idea of a perfect day.

A nice cup of tea is in order, don't you think?

Hair raising puppy raising.

Say hello to Lucy*, our almost 5 month old pup. She's a sweet, sweet gal and this week she taught me a little more about attentiveness.

Last Wednesday she was spayed and spent the night at the vet. When we went to pick her up we met with a new vet at the clinic who advised us to keep her quiet for the next two weeks. My response was visceral. As a thought bubble it read: Whaaaat? Are you kidding me? Do you know any terrier mix pups who are QUIET? She plays Attack the German Shepherd several times a day at home. 

The words from my mouth were a bit more exploratory and gracious: And how would you go about that? Shall we keep her in her crate? She's really good at running and playing most of the time. 

He went on to explain that she'd had major abdominal surgery and that healing comes through rest. Ah, that. I totally get it. I just haven't mastered the art of communicating that meaningfully to my pup. (Or any other pup I've owned.)

He provided a mild sedative. We brought her home and settled in for some attentive days. She was clearly in pain (even with pain meds) and didn't really wish to be more than a couple of inches from me or my Dear for most of her first day. In fact after trying to relieve pain by walking around, she finally settled in by falling asleep on her daddy's chest. Dads are awfully good for getting dogs and kids through a lot of what they go through. She's smart enough to have seen my girlie bury her head in her dad's big love. She followed along perfectly.

We had a shaky day or two, stopping her from attacking or responding to play advances from our 92 pound Max and attending to her whines in the night. We seemed to be managing. (Here's where it turns to a cautionary tale.)

This morning she was feeling much better, ready to romp in fact, so, after breakfast and her pain pill, we were working at laying low by hanging out in the kitchen. Quietly. Doors closed. Lights low. KUSC on the radio. Coffee brewing. Art beginning. When all of a sudden I heard a click. Something had fallen to the floor. I turned to see I'd absent-mindedly left the door open to the laundry room. (It was 5:45 am pre-java.) Lucy had found and dragged a liquid ant trap into the kitchen. Using my not-quiet-and-calm voice, I got my Dear to work calling poison control while I cleaned out her mouth, cleaned up the ribbon of dripping syrup and dead ants from the laundry room and kitchen and continued, panicking mildly. (After all that managing to keep the girl quiet, not jumping, stretching or licking -- I'd left the stupid door open.)

We started with a national Poison control number - they we fairly reassuring that the contents of the ant traps aren't a big danger to dogs. Then we contacted our local emergency vet who directed us to call ASPCA Poison Control - a much better place to call for pups than human poison control. After a thorough line of questions, we found she'll likely be fine. It turns out, these ant traps are made with some kind of sugar syrup and borax. Not so good for ants - deadly in fact, but less troublesome for pups. They provided a clear protocol and suggested keeping an eye on her. So far, so good. We also followed up with her vet when they opened and they concurred with the plan.

I think I learned a lesson - close the door. Or, maybe it's keep everything up off the floor when you have a puppy. Perhaps, just keep a watchful eye on the little ones. I suppose that makes the most sense. 

A last thought may be though, these wild creatures we love to share our lives with will keep us on our toes, upping our game at being attentive to the world around us. 

That's a good thing. 

I can do that. 

I can also keep the number for ASPCA Poison Control close at hand.

You can find it here. They're self funded and charge to do thorough casework. It's worth every penny.  

* Lucy is an American Sockhunter Terrier. Many ask if she's a mix, a mini-Golden Lab even part Chihuahua. But no, she demonstrates all the classic characteristics of the Sockhunter breed, finding, retrieving and perforating as many as 20 socks in a day.