I want to do more for the causes that are important to me but how can a dedicated introvert remain true to their nature and still contribute? I had a light bulb moment some time ago regarding my intentions about this and like so many things I forgot it... so I will put it here to help me remember and to move me to act.

I want to paint portraits of pets and will donate all my earnings to worthy causes.

This is a portrait of my beloved poodle, Buster who I lost a couple of years ago to a malignant tumor. This painting means the world to me and perhaps I can help someone else by painting their pet.

"Time is the coin of your life, it is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you." ~Carl Andburg

"The reason a dog has so many friends is that he wags his tail instead of his tongue." ~Author Unknown

At one time I was much happier as I clung to gratitude to make me so. It came naturally and easily to me. Lately, I seem to have lost that ability. Although, I find that it is the simple events and things in mostly Nature that cause me the most pleasure and satisfaction and revive my curiosity. Happiness, is a word I once knew and perhaps shall be for me no more. In this frame of mind, I finished reading this novel of Mr. Hardy's ... this passage below spoke right to me about finding strength and equanimity and perhaps a measure of peace and grace if not gratitude.

"As the lively and sparkling emotions of her early married life cohered into an equable serenity, the finer movements of her nature found scope in discovering" (teaching) "to the narrow-lived ones around her the secret (as she had once learnt it) of making limited opportunities endurable; which she deemed to consist in the cunning enlargement, by a species of microscopic treatment, of those minute forms of satisfaction that offer themselves to everybody not in positive pain; which, thus handled, have much of the same inspiriting effect upon life as wider interests cursorily embraced.

Her teaching had a reflex action upon herself, insomuch that she thought she could perceive no great personal difference between being respected in the nether parts of Casterbridge and glorified at the uppermost end of the social world. Her position was, indeed, to a marked degree one that, in the common phrase, afforded much to be thankful for. That she was not demonstratively thankful was no fault of hers. Her experience had been of a kind to teach her, rightly or wrongly, that the doubtful honour of a brief transit through a sorry world hardly called for effusiveness.."

~Thomas Hardy, The Mayor of Casterbridge

In the Book of Songs it is said,

Over her brocaded robe

She wore a plain and simple dress,

In that way showing her dislike of the loudness of its color and magnif- icence. Thus the ways of the moral man are unobtrusive and yet they grow more and more in power and evidence; whereas the ways of the vulgar person are ostentatious, but lose more and more in influence until they perish and disappear.

The life of the moral man is plain, and yet not unattractive; it is simple, and yet full of grace; it is easy, and yet methodical. He knows that accomplishment of great things consists in doing little things well. He knows that great effects are produced by small causes. He knows the evidence and reality of what cannot be perceived by the senses. Thus he is enabled to enter into the world of ideas and morals.

Confucianism. Doctrine of the Mean 33

"ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD"

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:- The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,- Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

By Thomas Gray (1716-71).

There once was an indian chief whose son was given a beautiful pony. The people of the tribe marveled at the great good fortune of the chief's son. They said, "Your son is very lucky to have received such a valuable pony." The chief said, "Maybe".

One day, the braves of the tribe were determined to go on a raid and gain many valuables for themselves and their tribe. The people said, "Your son is lucky to have been given a strong pony and is young and will prove himself." The chief said, "Maybe".

While the son was preparing to go on the raid, he fell from his pony and broke his leg. The people lamented the chief's son could not go on the raid. "Your son is most unlucky to have broken his leg at this time." The chief said, "Maybe".

After much preparation, the braves went on the raid. The battle was very fierce and many braves died and many were wounded. The chief's son whose leg was broken was the only brave in the tribe not seriously wounded. The people again marveled at the good luck of the chief's son. "Your son is lucky to have been out of that battle". The chief said, "Maybe."

Isn't it astonishing that today we live in a society of such amazing abundance?

I can walk into most any grocery store and find nourishing foods from the world over. My mother can remember when she, as a child, saw her first banana. That enormous change from one generation to the next. Now there is a whole aisle for bread alone, coffees and teas from around the world, chocolates from everywhere with 90% cacao, 85% cacao, one percent fat milk, skim milk, whole milk, cream, all manner of cheeses, yogurts, cereals... And I, or you, likely did not gather any harvest, tote any pails, roll any dough or slaughter any animals.

In times past the average person did not have access to books of any sort. The Bible and The Pilgrim's Progress were just about it and people who had that were the fortunate ones. Paper, itself was scarce. Simply having book stores and libraries available is astonishing! If they don't have the book you are looking for, they can get it.. out of print, just order it online.

Concert music was a very rare thing and even if you were one of the very lucky few to hear a concert, likely you would never hear it again as there was no way to record such beauty. Today, we have access to music the world over and have the gift of listening to a beloved song as often as we like. Incredibly, my iPod holds something like two days of music!

Today, I am in awe of and grateful for abundance.

"We should not depend on happiness to make us grateful but on gratitude to bring us happiness."

-David Steindl-Rast

Scott Peck, author of The Road Less Traveled, states that not only are some things pre-determined but that some things are OVER-determined. I constantly go over and over my short-comings and have been particularly bothered about my retiring nature for some months now as I feel disappointed in myself and feel that I am a disappointment to others. I often feel overwhelmed by other's expectations of me. Hopefully, it will help me to put it here once and for all and to reframe my limitations as well as my gifts and perhaps not be so hard on myself.

My longtime professional friend (read therapist), Jim, tells me I am a cave-dweller as he is. He tells a story of when he was a child his mother gave him a birthday party inviting several of his friends. He left his party crying as there were too many people at his birthday party. Well, there are often too many people at my party...

I cherish my solitude. I get so exhausted being attentive when I am in company. Listening and thinking of something to say...exhausting. I think so many things came together to make me the way I am. Not least of which it is simply my nature to be solitary. Some people are you know! I am not depressed, I am not shy, I am not weak. I simply prefer my own company.

Jim tells me that I have some energy for company and then it is back to my cave for me. It has been a tremendous help for him to tell me this .. not only does he understand me, but he is like me. If only the rest of the population could understand. Instead they are positively baffled by me and think something is wrong with me. Or that I am mad at them or I am full of myself. My wish is that other people could be more self-contained (I am speaking of off-line life here for anyone reading this ;O) ).

Rembrandt's painting of Philosopher in Meditation has always resonated with me.. that is who I am. I have it framed beside my bed. I'm going back to my cave now and I hope I don't have any bad dreams about people demanding to know why I'm so absent.

"Learn that mortality is the stuff of life; learn how soon the young get old, how short a while forever is. It's sad to stand on the hill and one by one, see the lights go out around you; sad to know the paper has begun to yellow before the pencil gets to the bottom of the page, to realize there won't be time enough to get it all done -- the chores, the kid raising, the sitting on the porch to watch the swallows dart at dusk, the major work. But there's something reassuring too in understanding that it -- death -- is nature's, life's, God's way of letting us know that we were never meant to save the world singlehandedly, to keep the sun aloft and the old globe spinning.

What we're meant to do, I hope, is fill some small and temporary slot, to give off a little light for a little while and then lie down. I'm comfortable with that, with the notion of being a small voice yapping away at the edge of a large prairie in the northern half of a small planet. One of many voices, neither the wisest nor the best, but mine, and fairly close as good as I can make it."

~Jerome D. Lamb "The Small Voice"