Feeling a Bit Off-Balance? Consider a Re-Set

Last month, I shared some lessons about balance I’d learned from Aubrey, the Stretch and Flex instructor at my gym. (See post.) I listed three words Aubrey uses often when instructing us on how to achieve balance: grounded, stabilized, focused. Another word that comes up when the class is working on balance is re-set. 

A strange thing about physical balancing is that you can be holding a pose, feeling strong and grounded. Then a mysterious “breeze” causes you to wobble like a Weeble, and that strong pose collapses like an under-baked soufflé. When this happens, Aubrey instructs us to re-set: re-establish our foundation, consider what wasn’t working for us, and consider what might work better. In class, Aubrey says “… if that doesn’t serve you well, try this” and then offers optional moves or techniques.

In life, as in yoga, those mysterious breezes can come out of nowhere, causing us to lose our emotional or spiritual balance. Those times require us to re-set and choose new options which will “serve us well” in our new circumstances. Deciding on those options requires us to define and perhaps re-evaluate our goals. 

A couple of years ago, I became determined to master the crow position in yoga. I’d tried that tricky pose once before and received three stitches in my brow bone for my efforts. I gave up that goal for a while but just couldn’t completely let it go. Surely, if I tried a little harder, applied a few laws of physics, and positioned a pillow between the hard floor and my face, I could succeed. I struggled with that pose for weeks and was getting very close to achieving it, when I woke up one morning with a huge, red lump on my elbow. Dr. Google informed me it was an inflamed bursa, caused by the repetitive, excessive pressure I’d been applying to my elbow.

 

This is the crow--the pose I never mastered.

 

     Before considering options on how to proceed, I had to ask myself why performing this particular move was important to me. Why was I doing yoga in the first place? To maintain bone and muscle strength to get me through my senior years or to perform “party tricks”? (Now you’re probably wondering what kind of parties I attend.) Ultimately, I could see no time in the foreseeable future doing the crow would serve me well. I had to re-set and consider the options—other yoga positions or exercises—that would benefit me in the coming years. 

Further pondering has inspired me to look at other areas of my life and question if what I am doing is serving me well and if I need a re-set. One of the first areas that came to me was my  Bible reading practice. I’m not trying to come across as saintly here, as I struggle with consistency in this area. In the past I have found it helpful to join with my church in a yearly Bible reading exercise. This generally works well for me as it gives me a sense of accountability (although no one other than me is keeping track of my readings). These group endeavors have taken me through a complete reading of the Bible twice, both of which were helpful and enlightening. 

Because those group readings served me well in the past, this year when our church proposed another Bible read-through, I decided to go for a third time. After all, the Bible is one of those books (or collection of books) that can reveal new insights with each reading. I obtained the guide and schedule print-out and began checking off boxes.  

I made it through Genesis, which is always interesting no matter how many times I read it, and Job, which always leaves me with many questions to ponder. But about halfway through Leviticus and the five-hundredth instruction on how to properly sacrifice a bull, my interest began to wane—to the point that last week I confessed to two friends this latest Bible-reading regimen didn’t seem to be serving me well. I was considering a re-set but feeling a bit guilty about giving up.

Then, last Sunday, to my delight and relief, our pastor ameliorated my guilt. He recognized this latest exercise might be proving a bit too ambitious or taxing for some of us non-Bible-scholar types and granted us the grace to amend or re-set our 2026 Bible reading agenda. Hallelujah! I’m now prayerfully and happily considering my options, of which there are so many good ones.

The idea of asking whether a particular habit or practice is serving me well, might sound selfish. But if something enables me to be a better person physically, emotionally, or spiritually, does that not positively affect those around me? If I’m stronger and healthier as a result of exercise, will that not lessen the future healthcare I’ll require? If I’m kinder and more loving as a result of Bible study, will others not benefit from that? In all of these situations, I sincerely hope so!

Have unexpected breezes rendered your life a bit “wobbly” lately? Maybe practices that served you well in the past are no longer effective. Or maybe some of your goals have changed and require new activities or new outlooks. Re-evaluate, consider new options, and experiment. Maybe just a small re-set and some new choices that serve you well can restore your balance.

My WOTY for 2026: Balance

A few years ago, I abandoned the futile task of making New Year’s resolutions, those good intentions doomed to be broken before the final period was placed at the end of the list. Instead, I began selecting a word that would serve as my guiding principle for the year—an attitude to strive for rather than specific actions to perform. I’ve had some good words through the years—goodness, community, hope—and have found most of them helpful. On occasions, just bringing the word to mind gave me inspiration or direction.

 

 As I was struggling to choose my Word of the Year (WOTY) for 2026, Aubrey, the instructor in the Stretch and Flex class at my gym, gave each of her students a balance stone, accompanied by a sweet and inspiring note. Voila! Just like that, I had my word for this new year—balance.

 

 

      My balance stone--a reminder

With my WOTY settled on, I thought a good idea would be to define it, get a clear grasp of what exactly balance is. Turns out, this was a difficult task. Dictionary.com alone gives twenty-nine definitions, depending on how the word is used. But the definition I finally settled on for my purposes is a condition in which different elements are equal or in the correct proportions.

I like the “correct proportions” part of this definition. It seems more applicable to balancing life as we live it. I don’t look at balance as having each day perfectly arranged and proceeding in “equal” portions. Not only is that impossible, it sounds positively boring—like a “lifetime of nothing special.” (Remember that great line from Steel Magnolias?) Sometimes achieving balance has to be looked at over the long run, with improvement—not perfection—being the goal.  

Aubrey’s note listed requirements for achieving and maintaining balance, which, with her kind permission, I’m sharing. “Balance . . . requires us to be grounded, to activate our stabilizing muscles, and to focus on intentional breathing.” While this applies to physical balance, these requirements can also be key in achieving balance in many areas of life:

• Be grounded —Establish a strong foundation; it’s difficult to balance on a shifting one.
• Use stabilizing muscles—Stabilizing muscles, whether physical or mental, enable us to withstand opposing forces.
•  Remain focused on intentions—We tend to go in the direction of our focus. If balance is our goal, we need to stay focused on it.

Over the course of this year, I’m going to occasionally blog about areas of life (especially my own!) I think can be improved by striving for balance. I’d love to get your input on this endeavor as we go along. For starters, how do you define balance? Do you consider it a worthy pursuit? What are some ways or areas in which you’ve achieved it? Please leave your comments or suggestions on Facebook. And, oh, yeah …

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

A True Christmas Tree Tale

On November 3 this year, my cousin Jerry Ray Lindamood passed away. As often happens with the loss of special people in our lives—especially people who were a big part of our childhood—many fond memories have been flooding my thoughts in the days since then. 

I grew up in a Houston suburb, but my childhood included frequent trips to my grandparents’ house in Malakoff, a small east Texas town. My sister, brother, and I looked forward to those trips because something adventurous was always taking place there. Jerry Ray lived down the black-topped road from my grandparents, and he was often the source of those adventures. Among them: an exploration in the junk pile behind my grandparents’ house which resulted in his getting stitches in his finger; rides on the back of his shiny red motorcycle and being chased by dogs; a tree house built by him and his friends with a pulley to haul up supplies. When my sister and I tried to haul up a younger cousin, the rope broke. As you’ve probably surmised, risk often accompanied these adventures. But is it even an adventure if risk isn’t involved? (Btw, the cousin was and is fine.)

As I was decorating my house for Christmas this year, another Jerry Ray adventure came to me. It occurred in the late 1950s, so many of the details are fuzzy. But I do remember throngs of relatives had gathered at my grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving. When the huge meal was over, a passel of cousins, ranging in ages from about seven to twelve, assembled on the front porch, eager for something to do. 

Acres of pasture and woods surrounded my grandparents’ house, and those woods always supplied their Christmas trees. Mind you, these were not the perfectly shaped firs or spruces scientifically propagated on Christmas tree farms. These were rangy cedars with branches twisting in every direction. That Thanksgiving Day, Jerry Ray decided we would all traipse across the pasture to the woods and harvest one of those unruly trees for the upcoming Christmas. Armed with an axe, he sat out, cousins in tow.

Among my fuzzy memories, one remains very clear: Chopping down a Christmas tree in the woods is hard work. First, it takes a lot of walking to get to the woods and then more walking to locate a suitable tree. It can’t be too tall or too small or too full or too scrawny. Also, evidently felling a tree is laborious work. I say “evidently” because that job was left to the head lumberjack, Jerry Ray, who hacked at the trunk with determination while the rest of us observed. The hardest part, which involved everyone, was lugging that tree to the house. Anyone who has ever chopped down a tree knows it grows exponentially in size and weight once it hits the the ground. Each cousin grabbed a limb or branch, and we hauled that tree for what seemed like miles. 

After much sweat and toil and more than a few scrapes, splinters, and blisters, we dragged that tree into my grandparents’ front yard. We stood there proudly awaiting the praise and gratitude such an accomplishment deserved. I was already picturing that tree in my grandparents’ living room, decked out in multi-colored bulbs and an assortment of shiny balls and dripping with strands of lead foil icicles. (Yes, those were a thing in the days before the danger of lead was known.)

The grown-ups assembled on the porch, staring at the tree. I think they were surprised we’d managed to chop down a tree of that size and wrangle it all the way to the house. But instead of praise, we got, “That tree will be dried up by Christmas.” 

Crestfallen, we’d never contemplated that possibility even though Christmas was over a month away. But led by Jerry Ray, we weren’t defeated. He insisted—and we all agreed—if the tree were placed in a bucket of water in the garage, it stood a good chance of still being green at Christmas. 

To my delight, when our family returned to Malakoff for Christmas, a sprawling cedar, adorned with lights, ornaments, and deadly icicles, touched the ceiling of my grandparents’ living room. An array of gifts encircled it on the floor. When questioned, our grandparents assured my sister, brother, and me it was the same tree the cousins had harvested. 

For years, I believed that explanation. But recently it popped into my cynical, grown-up mind maybe it wasn’t the same tree. Knowing how hard their grandchildren had worked, had my grandparents obtained another tree and told a white lie to spare our feelings? I’ll never know for sure. But it’s Christmas time, and I choose to believe it was the same tree.

Thank you, Jerry Ray, for the beautiful memories. Although we didn’t get to see each other often in the latter years, I feel your absence deeply. But, as with that Christmas tree, I choose to believe. I picture you in your heavenly home, happily providing great adventures.

 

Christmas morning at my grandparents' house ca. 1958, '59. 

I felt very safe, seeing that my brother was well-armed. 

                                          

Wishing everyone memory-making adventures this 

Holiday Season!

Wishing You a Slippery Slope Kind of Christmas

When I saw a cute little amigurumi mouse on Facebook, it immediately brought to mind one of my favorite children's books series If You Give a Mouse... by Laura Numeroff. 

These charming stories perfectly illustrate the "slippery slope" theory--you know, how one seemingly harmless act can quickly get out of hand. I'm afraid, this is exactly what is happening to my crocheting. So taking inspiration from the series, I composed my own little slippery slope story.

 

If you give a mouse a crochet hook,

  

he’s going to want some yarn.

When you give him red yard,

 he’ll also ask for green ...

 to make himself a Christmas outfit.

If it doesn’t snow, he’ll want some white yarn

to make a snowman. 

Then he’ll ask for sparkly white yarn, 

 because all magical unicorns are sparkly,

And, of course, he’ll need brown 

to make a wise old owl.

Then he’ll need white again

to make a cat, who’s grumpy because
she has no place to relax.

So he’ll need a tiny bit of tan

 to make a box.
(But the cat will still be grumpy.)

Then he’ll want some gray yarn

  to make a little mouse...
and some more red for a stocking
for his new companion to snuggle in.

He’ll need LOTS of lime green yarn

to make a grinch—a nice one who’d never even
think of stealing Christmas, and

finally,

he’ll ask for assorted colors of yarn

to decorate his Christmas tree,
where all his new friends can gather  
 

when he throws his Christmas Party!

WISHING YOU A "SLIPPERY SLOPE" CHRISTMAS WHERE 

THE MERRIMENT GETS TOTALLY OUT OF HAND!

'tis the Season

At ten till nine on the first morning of November, I was making my daily sojourn to the gym on one of the busiest streets in Edmond. It was a routine drive I’ve made for a number of years. I was driving the speed limit, minding my business when—BAM! A deer’s belly appeared in my windshield and just as quickly disappeared, leaving my windshield smashed to smithereens. 

I pulled my car to the curb, not all that shook up, as there had been no time to become alarmed. The event was over. The deer had vanished into a small thicket of trees beside the road, and I was unharmed. My greatest concern was that another motorist would plow into the back of my parked car because the emergency blinker no longer worked. Thankfully, a thoughtful driver soon stopped and stayed behind me with his truck’s blinker on until a policeman arrived. The driver also did a quick search into the trees, but the deer was nowhere to be found.

 

This is the only view I got of the deer. And it was there and gone in a flash!

As it turned out, my little Prius was no match for a deer. The windshield  was busted, the roof  above it dented, the side posts bent. There was also minor damage to a front light and the back of the roof. The motor was still in good condition, but the interior electrical system was kaput. The car I’d planned on driving for at least three more years was totaled. 

A Prius is no match for a deer.

 

 Back home, I sent a photo of my poor Prius to friend Nancy, who forwarded it to her son. His response was that the month of November has the highest number of car/deer incidents… because of the rut season. 

A quick google search informed me that rut season, which runs from approximately late October to mid-December, is when male deer go crazy. In their desperation to find a female and ensure the continuation of their species, they completely lose control of their mental faculties, doing things like jumping in front of cars on busy suburban streets. (I’m exercising extreme control here in not commenting on the males of another species.) To this deer’s credit, he’d--I’m sure it was a “he”-- timed his encounter with my car at the precisely correct time of year.

All is well now. The insurance check came, and with minimum amount of hassle, I’m driving  a new Honda CR-V, which I’m very much enjoying. The incident even inspired a little creativity in me. Borrowing the tune from a Christmas song I used to enjoy but now find slightly irritating, I’ve written a little rut season song. As far as I know, this has never been done before. I think it makes a nice segue from one season to another. Feel free to sing along.

(To be sung to the tune of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." Also, I'm assuming the deer was a whitetail because that's what is most prevalent in these parts.)

Grandma’s Prius got run over by a whitetail, 

headed to the gym November first.

The whitetail disappeared into the woodland,

but if the car is any sign, that impact hurt!

(This is the slow part.)

Now the Prius is in the junkyard,

pulled there by a towing truck.

No one got a good look at the whitetail,

but we’re sure it had to be a love-starved buck.

HAVE A SAFE RUT SEASON!

Need a Spiritual Boost? Hallelujah!

Have you ever had one of those Sunday mornings when going to church wasn’t at the top of your  Things-I-Want-To-Do list? I’ll admit to many of those throughout my lifetime. On some of them I gave in to that negative feeling and stayed home, doing my own mini- church—reading a devotional, listening to hymns and praise songs. Other times I completely indulged my secular side and carried on as if Sunday were any other day of the week. While I wasn’t struck by lightening or any other form of divine reckoning, I didn’t get the spiritual boost I needed to help me through the week. 

Yesterday was almost one of those Sunday mornings for me. The week had been busy. A couple of deadlines were looming. And, frankly,  I just wasn’t in the mood. But having no truly good reason or excuse to stay home, I decided to go—reluctantly and not with the greatest of attitudes.

As often happens when I make the right decision in spite of myself, God showed up in an unusual way. I’d recently finished my latest audiobook, so my default listen on my drive to church was K-LOVE (a religious music station). Not surprisingly, a song with a lot of hallelujah’s came on, reminding me of another book I’d just read—Eugene Peterson’s This Hallelujah Banquet. 

In the last chapter of his book, Peterson expounds on two words—hallelujah and amen. He explains that hallelujah is a Hebrew word meaning “praise God.” I kind of knew that, but Peterson’s further explanation was refreshingly new. “The word has lilt and exuberance to it. Its meaning is expressed in its sounds….There are happiness and delight in it. Praise is supported by the liquid, undulating sounds of the syllables.” These statements struck a resounding chord with a word nerd like me. I’d decided to make an effort to repeat hallelujah more often—especially at those “meh” times in my life.

Peterson goes on to explain the life-affirming meaning of amen. It means “yes!” It is “the basic, overwhelming, eternally fixed word of God to you . . .Yes, I love you. Yes, I accept you. Yes, I want you. And . . .  our best word back to God is yes. Amen.”

So the song on the radio made me think of hallelujah and hallelujah made me think of amen and by the time I arrived at church I was in a much more worshipful state. And God just kept on working. The opening hymn, “All Creatures of Our God and King,” contained no fewer than eighteen hallelujahs (if you sing all four stanzas). And then the congregation sang “Revive Us Again.” I’ve sung this jubilant old hymn many times, but this was the first time I truly noticed the second line of the chorus: “Hallelujah! Amen!”

There they were! Those two words that had so recently come to hold more meaning for me were being sung right together. And that’s not all. (This is beginning to sound like an infomercial.) The choir sang the offertory that ended with a resounding hallelujah. And then the congregation stood and sang “The Doxology” which, as you know, ends with yet another emphatic and sustained Ah-men. (I'll bet you’re singing this to yourself—if not out loud—right now.)

You’re probably saying, “Of course, there were a lot of hallelujahs and amens. It’s not that surprising. You were in church.” 

You’d be right. But the amazing thing wasn’t the repetition of the words. It was that I now heard them with new ears and new appreciation. And whereas I’d been a bit of a grouch earlier, I was now prepared to listen to the sermon and God’s message with a happier and more receptive heart. The words had turned my “meh” Sunday into a day of meaningful worship.

This week, I’m going to practice saying those two words a lot to see if they have such a positive effect on the rest of the days. I’m trusting they will. Hallelujah! Amen!

In the Wind

As fellow writer Lisbeth says, "we have just so much ‘schtick’" when it comes to making presentations. So whenever I’m asked to speak, I try adjust my schtick to be to relevant and (hopefully) entertaining to the particular group I’m addressing. Recently, when my friend Rhonda asked me to speak to her ladies organization, I spent several hours honing my usual material into a customized presentation for them. I also spent a good deal of time practicing my delivery.

Since this presentation wasn’t going to involve Powerpoint, I decided to go old school and use paper notes. (Does anyone do that anymore?) But I figured paper would be less cumbersome than hauling my laptop and worrying about technology glitches—which have been known to occur. I know younger folks—that means anyone younger than I—rely on their phones these days, but for me that also presents its own set of problems. So paper it was.

The morning of the meeting, I gathered my books and promo material into a basket, adding my notes as the last item. As I loaded all my paraphernalia into my car, I double checked that the notes were there, and I distinctly remember thinking, “You’d be in a world of hurt without these.” A foreboding?

I arrived at my destination in plenty of time, confident I’d done all I could—including praying— to ensure my presentation would go smoothly. It was a windy day in Oklahoma—no surprise there—and I pushed my hair out of my eyes as I retrieved the basket from my car. I walked toward the building, greeting a few people on my way. Rhonda met me at the door and directed me to the meeting room.

I began setting up my display: books? check; bookmarks? check; business cards? check; newsletter sign-up list? check; notes? …. notes? NOTES???!!!

I frantically searched the basket. I flipped through the calendar I’d brought as well as several books. I inspected my money bag. Not yet going into full-blown panic, I returned to my car, certain the notes must’ve fallen out there. Nope. 

Now I was panicking. 

The phrase “in the wind” is traditionally used to indicate "about or

likely to happen" as in "a company takeover is in the wind." But I became familiar with a different meaning   two years ago when I read Rembrandt Is In the Wind (which I highly recommend) by Russ Ramsey. I’ve heard the phrase a few times since, most recently in a mafia movie: “I’m afraid Benny is in the wind.” It’s a great metaphor for gone, disappeared, vanished, scattered to a far corner of the earth never to be seen again. In the case of the mafia movie, it was code for Benny is resting at the bottom of a landfill. 

In the midst of my panic, that phrase came to me. The only logical conclusion was that on my way into the building, my notes had blown out of my basket. In my case, “in the wind” meant spread across five Oklahoma counties. 

I had a few minutes before my talk. I breathed deeply, waited for my blood pressure to lower, collected my thoughts, and once again prayed. In the back of the calendar I’d brought, I quickly jotted down what I remembered from my notes.

In the end, all went well. Fortunately, I remembered most of my talk since I’d practiced it so many times. I confessed my situation to the women gathered, a gracious and understanding group. As I spoke, I grew relaxed and felt I was talking with friends. 

When I was leaving, I laughed with Rhonda about the incident, and she shared with me something she’d recently learned in a Beth Moore Bible study. Moore had advised women that whenever they found themselves in a panicky situation to ask the question, “What’s the worst that will probably happen here?” 

I thought about that question and came up with my personal answer: Nothing that, with God’s help, I can’t handle—even when my best laid plans end up "in the wind."