New possibilities

It has been a long wait. My husband is in the U.S. Coast Guard and has been waiting for orders to his next duty station for what seems like an eternity.

We still don't have them. But we will, soon.

Most likely we will know where we are heading next sometime around mid-November and when we need to be there (It could be anywhere between mid-December to July). Recieving that news was a sharp contrast to the vague-hazy-almost-news we have had for the past few months (By which I mean two years).

After hearing something will be happening soon, my anxiety revved into high gear, as if it were preparing for a drag race, and my stomach dropped on the floor.

It just got real. We are moving, somewhere, and sometime soon.

I love new things, and cannot wait to explore a new part of the U.S. However, during the move I have to battle my panic attacks, skittish digestive track and a grumpy cat who prefers howls in protest anytime I take her somewhere new.

I can't wait to do this with kids.... (Note the heavy sarcasm.)

Either way, it's an adventure. Whether it is good or bad — unless it is boring — there is always an exciting story that comes from it.

And whether we land in South Florida, Texas (fingers crossed), the Great Lakes, or Alaska, I know it will be home as long as my best friend is by my side.
 (I meant my husband. The cat doesn't like to go hiking as much. Although, I am glad she will be there too. Except for the mornings, when she wakes me up with a loud meow and pokes me in the eye with her paw.)

Paying attention - not my strongest trait

I enjoy birding because it teaches me to be more aware of my surroundings — And how to use my words to point out something instead of flailing at it.

Birds dislike flailing. Apparently some humans dislike it, too, or so I have been told.

I was perusing through some old photos I took in Texas before I moved to California and found a surprise in what I thought was a group of gulls.

What I originally assumed to be a flock of gulls.  ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Two Caspian Terns hiding amongst the gulls. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

 Now that I see them I wonder how I could have possibly missed them to begin with. But, I believe that's the lesson. Sometimes we are only seeing what we expect, and not what is actually there.

Reflections of a zoo keeper

One time, I had the unfortunate luck of passing by the capuchin exhibit when an egret, sitting in the tree canopy, expelled a pellet and it landed on a little girl visiting with her sister and grandmother. (A pellet is the undigestible parts of a bird's diet that collects in its stomach to be regurgitated later.) The poor girl was covered in pieces of crawfish shell and muck.

As she looked up at me, with shock on her face as pellet parts dripped from her hair, I bit my tongue to choke down a laugh. The juxtaposition of her getting splattered with something so unpleasant, yet resembling those movie moments when someone, who just got hit with a cream pie, stands in shock trying to compute the situation, was too funny to ignore.

Then, while I was giving them directions to the nearest restroom, a dead fledgling fell, or was tossed out of the tree, onto the other small child.
I bit my tongue to hold in my reaction. The pain of holding back laughter caused me to tear up. Perhaps to the lay person I could have looked choked up with remorse, but in fact it was my macabre sense of humor that was trying to escape.

To compound the problem, the giggle-loop was in effect, where the sheer thought of laughing at an inappropriate moment is itself funny, which adds to the hilarity of the situation.

Each funny thought collectively builds momentum leading to a tipping point where the laughter can no longer be held in.  When the laugh is finally released, it has the force of a maniac, making you seem incredibly insane, which only adds to perceived humor of the situation.

It is a dangerous thing. People have almost died of asphyxiation from the wake of the giggle-loop's laugh exhalation.

My mind reeled for something to say and  'I'm sorry,' was the only thing I could utter. Nonetheless, it seemed so ill fitting at the time, especially with my lack of earnest.

I am sure I seemed downright insane or suffering from some unknown pain during that conversation.

Bird poop is the worst

As I learn to become a better birder, there are many common birds that fellow birders are often surprised I am seeing for the first time.

Such as this Cedar Waxwing, which can be seen in almost every single state of the Continental U.S.
©Teresa Shumaker. 

They are called waxwings for the red waxy substance on their wing. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

I blame bird poop.

Growing up, I was fascinated by all animals. Anything that moved, I wanted to learn more about it.

Then I worked as a zoo keeper. And I had to clean up after six macaws.

Macaws, at least in captivity, are the equivalent of demon spawn. They are mean, wretched creatures that I am pretty sure plot all night for nefarious ways to make their keeper's next day as horrible as possible.

And one way they accomplish those goals is with their quick-drying-concrete poop. (Not to mention their high pitched calls, which they enjoy making as close to your ear as possible. Once, two staged an attack, one jumped down and bit me on the shin, while the other made its way for my hand when I wasn't looking. I almost lost my thumb and still have the scar on my shin.)

Then, thousands of cattle egrets made the zoo their rookery. For several months each spring, the grounds would be pooped on by this swarm of water waders. Once grey asphalt was turned white, and in the thickly covered areas we had to wear face masks to survive the cleaning of their unsightly excrement.

So I quickly developed a dislike for birds in my early 20s and thus stopped being fascinated by all things birds.

I shifted my focus onto mammals and reptiles and didn't look back for years.

To this day, if you ask me which I would rather do: Clean a bird cage, a toilet, or a diaper bin, I would have to weigh my options for a long time. Replace bird cage with grizzly bear exhibit, or spider monkeys, or even bats, and I will quickly jump on those options before I go anywhere near something that was defiled by a human.

Humans gross me out in ways that many animals couldn't even dream. But birds draw a very near second place.

Thankfully, after almost a decade's reprieve from having to scrub macaw egesta, I have come full circle and returned to admiring birds of all walks. I just prefer to see them in the wild, and not get pooped on.

Aside from their foul excrement, birds are alright. I guess the same can be said about humans, literally and metaphorically. One just needs a reprieve from shoveling their excrement to truly appreciate them.

Cold weather wimp

Being from South Texas, I have an aversion to cold weather. I groan and pout and glare from under my leaning tower of blankets.

Give me 110 degrees with 90 percent humidity and I am perfectly content, as others drop from heatstroke.

However, if the thermostat goes below 75, my extremities quit producing heat, my hands and feet turn to ice. Tempt fate by going below 50 and I am rocking myself in a ball trying to fight off hypothermia.

(Matt is convinced I am actually a reptile.)

Cold hands and feet are not a human only problem. ©Teresa Shumaker.

When I moved to the Mendocino Coast I had quite a climate shock.  The temperature rarely moves more that 20 degrees between night and day, and between seasons. Most days it hovers around 55 degrees, even in the dog days of summer.

What does change is the temp in my apartment. During the summer, the sun will bake my apartment to a nice, toasty 75 to 85 degrees. In the winter, it can drop to 45 degrees, and my cat, Sylvia, will collect frost on her coat. (Ok, maybe not the frost part. But, she does fluff up and hug the heater, showing she too has the thin blood of a South Texan in her veins.)

When I woke up this morning, I began my fall ritual of fighting the severe dislike of being blasted with cold air once the warm blankets are removed. Sylvia leaned her fluff-ball figure into my throat for warmth. Everything about the cold, crisp air is evil early in the morning.

After piling on a ton of warm clothes and shuffling around my apartment looking like an Eskimo, I finally gave in and turned on the heater for the first time this season.

When it came to life, it kindly told me it was only 56 degrees in the house. Well, I felt pretty dumb for my self-proclaimed martyrdom in my Artic apartment. I was sure it was 36, nearing freezing.

Being half numb from the cooler temps, it all feels the same to me.
What can I say? I'm a cold weather wimp.

How Sylvia weathers the winter here on the coast. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

National Parks

I was sitting in the dentist office today, planning a trip to Point Reyes National Seashore in my head, when I realized... due to the government shutdown the park is closed.

Rats.

Then I remembered how many people I have heard complain about how unfair it is that the park isn't open for them to visit. Sure, it's a bummer. But I am more sad that the people who work there are furloughed, not knowing when they will get a paycheck again. I think of all the employees I met when I visited Yosemite National Park this summer, they too are dealing with this uncertainty.
In the recent rough economy, many people don't have reserves to weather this storm, and others just didn't plan for it.

Across our nation, there are families with jobs that are worried about how they will pay to keep a roof over their children's heads and food in their bellies.

I am worried for all those people; I am worried for our nation.

But I have faith that we will pull through. We are the children, although many generations removed, of those who left governments they didn't agree with — from many nationalities — and set out on this wild continent to make a new home.

We Americans are not perfect, we have made mistakes, done bad things and good. But, when it comes down to it, when you strip away our creature comforts and back us in a corner, we have a unique blend of true-grit-scrappy-ness, and we will make it through even these dark times.

Here are some photos I took this summer at Yosemite.

When I look at them, I can't help but think about how uncertain it must have been for the pioneers who had to travel this land, not knowing what they will find, not having any security of a grocery store to shop at, a doctor to call when sick, or even a secure place to sleep at night. Nothing was guaranteed.

It steadies my heart to remember that and gives me a firm foundation to place hope on.

Half Dome. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Vernal and Nevada Falls. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Mirror Lake. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Each day I fight, most days I win

I self diagnosed myself with anxiety when I was a teenager. 
I haven't gone to a doctor for an official diagnosis, mainly because I don't want the affirmation of a professional... or a prescription drug.

Instead, I set out on a life-long mission to learn how to live with, moderate, and ultimately overcome my anxiety.

Overtime, I learned to embrace anxiety as a constant.  

Drawing inspiration from the poignant phrase, "Do one thing every day that scares you," in the song "Everybody is free (to wear sunscreen)," I decided the key to winning the battle with anxiety is to embrace it. 

To reap the benefits of exercise, one has to get up, workout, suffer through the pain and sweat. The paths to fitness and less anxiety are similar. To improve, I spend part of the day scaring the bejeezus out of myself, fighting the desire to flee, and rediscovering that the thing causing my anxiety wasn't so bad after all. 
The benefits are my world grows, everything seems possible, and the remaining part of my day is anxiety free. 

However, some scary things are harder to battle than others, and some days even the simple task of stepping out the front door is a challenge. 

Imagine a bubble around yourself. When you are within the bubble there is no anxiety, but once you step outside your insides become as trembly as a chihuahua on ice. The trembles can make you hot, or cold, or both at the same time. Your palms sweat, the mind races, and your stomach ties into knots threatening to eject everything you ate, possibly taking your stomach lining with it. 

Some days you can travel far before you find the boundaries of the bubble, then there are times when it is waiting to smack you in the face as you wake up. 

It's variable, and I don't always win. But, when I do, the victory is sweet. 

Yesterday, I won. 

I went scuba diving in the Pacific Ocean with a friend. I have been diving for almost ten years, but this was my second time in the ocean. 

The ocean and I have been on a slow acquaintance period for the past two years I have lived on the coast. I spend days staring at it, sometimes go on it on a boat, but rarely jump into its midst. 

My caution isn't from a fear of water or the ocean — actually, I am a water bug and love the ocean. The excess caution is my manifestation from knowing how unforgiving and dangerous those waters can be. I like to take it slow with scary, dangerous things. 

During the paddle out to our dive location, an epic battle raged in my head between the scaredy-cat and the adventurer in me. 

My mind regretfully reviewed all the things that frightened me from past dives — getting sea sick once, getting hypothermia (mild case, don't worry).  Plus, with the added possibility of large great white sharks (very low possibility, in reality), the extra elements of 58 degree water, and getting tangled in kelp  (I am not a fan of unidentified objects touching me) my vitals were going through the roof.

The scaredy-cat, unfortunately, is chattier of the two and rattled off phrases like:
"Nobody will hate you if you go in," "You should just cancel the trip, you put yourself at risk going out this nervous," "The water is too cold," "Quit kidding yourself, you're really not cut out for this,"
 "Go back home, where it is safe and warm."

The voice grew louder, and my heart rate increased. If it wasn't for strong will and deep breaths I would have high-tailed it home. Instead, I took some advice from a wise cartoon fish and 'kept swimming.' Once on the bottom, my fretting faded away and I was rewarded with sea stars, sea cucumbers, and my favorite thing in life: Adventure. 

Sea stars. ©Teresa Shumaker.

20-legged sea star. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Sea cucumber. ©Teresa Shumaker.