When my Corgi Gracie wants something, she catches my eye and stares intently until I respond.  This biped-controlling strategy perfected by clever canines is called mind-meld.  Our close relationship enables Gracie to communicate her thoughts without words and me to seemingly think like my dog.

My parents had often admonished the teen-aged me that my behavior reflected the attitudes of my friends. The total trueness of their claim became clear when I began teaching middle school. Whom students chose to pal with, the shows and movies they watched, the celebrities they idolized, the hobbies and pasttimes they immersed themselves in -- good or bad -- were revealed in what they said and did.

​I haven't outgrown this. What I feed my brain through my senses melds into the core of my character. Food for thought as I consider a nutritional plan of deliberate choices:  the Mind-Meld Diet.  

One of my 2016 words is simplicity. Imagine counters and tabletops clear of paper piles and dust-collectors, closets and cabinets housing only things I actually wear and use, daily schedules filled with activities that are truly meaningful. Less stuff, less waste, simple living. So why is it I have a penchant for clutter corners?

Several small areas in my home are crammed with items that might easily appear to be bric-a-brac -- or just junk. 

Some items are junk, absent of their history. ​But these collections of oddities inspire, amuse, reassure, and delight me. They whisper memories of events, remind me of promises and plans, reveal values and priorities. They also suggest simplicity isn't synonymous with empty.

​My structured tendencies often stifle creative urges. Clutter corners invite me to swim in mental messiness and creative chaos without drowning. I wouldn't thrive in full-out disorder and disarray. But corners? Simply clutterful. ​


​#150orless #clutter #simplicity

I began donating blood to face a fear: needles. It was a big deal since it required volunteering to be stabbed. Then it got personal; I knew really sick people. However, it seems my blood may not be wanted as much as advertised.
 
I'd asked about giving platelets, which takes longer per donation but can be done more frequently. I submitted to candidate testing, then waited for a promised results call. No call. I called and left message. No return call. I let it go. Two months later I got a generic call informing me I can give platelets, followed by a barrage of emails encouraging me to share my blood.
 
Today I tried to give whole blood, but the impersonal blood-letter who jabbed two different fingers said my hemoglobin was too low. Try in a few days, she said.
 
Perhaps I'm not meant to be a human pin cushion.

I'm pretty lazy - okay, REALLY lazy - about girly rituals such as styling hair or doing nails. Although I appreciate the looks of artful manis, skillfully arranged tresses, and carefully applied make-up, for me the effort doesn't seem worth it. Polish chips, make-up fades, hair goes limp and frizzes.

Occasionally I give myself a pedicure, usually early in beach season or around the holidays. Pedis trump manis because eyes rarely see toenails close up; dings and smudges aren't readily noticeable. Plus, I can milk a pedicure for nearly six weeks with a daily dab of nail oil. So, pre-Christmas, I painted my toenails bright red. Pre-New Year's, I added a sparkly topcoat. Ten festively decorated digits were about as flashy as I got, but they made me smile.
​
Tonight, at my first yoga class of 2016,  I caught sight of my holiday toes. I'm still smiling.