Finally, we’re getting the rain we’ve all been waiting for. After a long dusty spring, summer and fall, the heavens have opened up and showered down their glory. I’ll take it, alongside every plant, animal and mineral around. And we accept it gratefully.

            But let me say here how much I strongly dislike the cold. I’m sure some of you don’t think it’s all that chilly, but I beg to differ. My whole skeletal system shakes and shivers this time of year and I start fantasizing about getting away to the Caribbean or Hawaii or Costa Rica… Just the thought warms me right up. I know I’m a wimp when it comes to these frosty mornings, but I also recognize that in a few weeks I’ll begin to acclimate—a little bit anyway. And for the time being, at least while it’s pouring outside, I’ll take this brief respite from outside chores (except when it’s time to go feed the animals) to sit by the fire and write.

          Ahh, the luxury of warmth, the pitter patter of raindrops on a metal roof, a cat snoring nearby… Woops, I spoke too soon. It’s really coming down now. I’d better go trench and mound-up some crucial spots in the dirt road so it doesn’t completely wash away our only route in or out. There goes my attempt at hibernation, even if it was only going to last a couple hours.

          Back again, clothes saturated, hair dripping wet… But the dog had a great time: jumping over the creek, running circles around us, flushing out who-knows-what in the bushes… These little happies are what sustain us, aren’t they? Whether it’s vicarious pleasure such as watching the dog frolic and play or catching your grandchild’s eyes light up when they see you. It’s often the small things that really make our day. A chance meeting with a stranger in the hardware store, and after a snippet of conversation, we find out that both of us are trying to work out kinks in a similar project. What about those special friends who take time out of their busy schedule to make prayer flags for me to mark our trail up the mountain? Or when we take the opportunity to give something of ourselves when it’s not expected? Sometimes a completely random comment comes our way and makes us stop and think and smile. It’s just what we needed at the time.

(Many days and rainstorms later)

            Well, it’s time to go out and feed the critters. I’m sure they’re wondering what’s taking so long. My horse will whinny when she sees me coming (because it’s dinner time). But it still feels good to be appreciated—one way or another. And now with Christmas here and gone, I’ll set my sights on the new year and try to be present enough to recognize those little happies when they present themselves. In fact, I’m going to try to create a few of those for some of you when we happen to cross paths. A kind word, a helping hand, a good joke…

          This year, tomorrow, even right now, I raise my glass— “Cheers” to you. Let’s appreciate all the little happies which abound. Happy New Year!

Chi Varnado has four newly published books. The Old House in the Country, women’s fiction; and three YA novels in The Dance Centre Presents series. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are also available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com. You can follow her on Instagram or on www.Facebook.com/dancecentrepresents.

Instinct is a funny thing. Each species has its own unique version of it. Even us, whether we recognize it as such or not. And then we wonder: is it instinct or is it training? The debate over nature versus nurture has probably been going on longer than any of us realize.

            When I was younger, before I had children, I was convinced it was all in how you were raised. But now, after raising my own kids, I believe the scales tip more on the side of nature. I have to chuckle when I recall how sure I was on this matter, before coming to realize how very little I knew then—and now still. In our children, we can easily see the inherited physical characteristics, but also what comes blazing through are those annoying and, occasionally, not so annoying traits when they rear their unexpected faces. I think we’ve all seen them.

          But back to species’ instincts. Our eight-and-a-half-month-old Australian Shepherd/Border Collie is, by breed definition, a herding dog. And with this trait she’s almost constantly on the move—watching, tracking with her eyes and patrolling the area. She loves to run in circles around us, or the grandkids, or me pushing the wheel barrow… So along with regular obedience classes we’ve tried a couple sheep herding lessons.

            On our second time in with the sheep, as she circled around them, one escaped from the group. Even though we have yet to learn how to give and understand commands, she ran wide and brought it back to the group. That was instinct. Her training had nothing to do with it.

            So, what about us? What are our instincts as part of the human species? I’d like to think we have a few positive ones. And I believe we do. We seem to gravitate to community. As long as we “Play nice and try to get along,” this can work out well. That’s perhaps where the “nurture” part comes into play during our upbringing. But so often we, as a group, can become shortsighted and forget to make allowances which might encourage broader views.

            A large group often fractures into smaller segments where the like-minded find their tribe and their views narrow further. And this might be instinctive too. But aren’t we supposed to be smarter than that? You know—big-brained and all? But we set those brain cells to work on ways to keep us better than them.

            I read something recently that pertains to this. I’ll tell you what my takeaway on it was. Stories, such as Star Wars, based on the good guy/bad guy theme, encourage the taking of sides. Joining a cause can feel like a moral obligation which can make it seem legitimate, even though it’s often imbedded in a political vision. Consequently, it no longer feels necessary to deliberate or think deeply about the ramifications of our actions. A person is either on the good team or the bad team. This simple stance makes it much easier for us to rationalize bad behavior.

            Is there a way out of this? It’s gone on throughout history. We may be smart, and smarter than—but not smart enough. Not yet anyway. But I really hope we will be soon enough.

Chi Varnado has four newly published books. The Old House in the Country, women’s fiction; and three YA novels in The Dance Centre Presents series. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are also available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com. You can follow her on Instagram or on www.Facebook.com/dancecentrepresents

          Front porches are the best, aren’t they? They allow one to invite the outside world in while at the same time giving you a front row seat to what’s going on out yonder. Folks can visit with their neighbors across the way, as long as they’re outside at the same time. It also offers a quick check-in with the weather or a place to scope out some different sounding bird… I can hardly express all that it is for me. I don’t look out on any neighbors—just trees, shrubs, and a creek bed out front, with a multitude of birds, lizards, and other species of wildlife everywhere. So, naturally, I commune with them.

            This year, it seems as though I spend way more time than ever before napping on the little porch couch. It’s an old thing I picked up off the side of the road back in 2008 and delivered it directly to my dad’s new ‘temporary’ place where he lived the last few months of his life. After that, we re-homed it to the front porch of our log cabin where it is now adorned with an old bedsheet. I’m trying to preserve my comfy outdoor ‘day bed’ for as long as possible.

          My grandma in Mississippi had a wonderful front porch. When we were kids, my sister and I would crowd onto the porch swing with our Southern cousins and tell scary stories on those sultry summer evenings. It would groan at just the right times to send us shrieking back into the house. Sometimes we’d go visit our aunt and uncle for lunch. You had to walk through their screened-in porch to enter the house. Everybody there had a front porch. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone to have it any other way.

            I’ve often dreamed about clusters of small homes, all with front porches, built around a communal green area—all facing each other. This way, if you saw anybody out there that would mean they were up for socializing: a quick “hello”, an opportunity to return the borrowed bowl of sugar, or a chance to join a community happy hour—all from the comforts of one’s own front porch.

            Some of the best conversations are had on the front porches across America—threading through time. Snippets of literary genius can be heard while snapping beans, singing songs or simply sitting for a spell. I’ve always needed to snatch as much time outside as possible, every day, or I just don’t feel very well. I’m not sure if it’s the fresh air or the breeze or the nature surrounding us. Porches help make all that happen more easily.

            Hammocks are a pleasure as well. Many an afternoon I’ve wandered down to the creekbed and reclined into the crisscrossed rope web to read a book, stare up through the tops of the trees, and then doze off. Not much reading going on, I’m afraid. The dog seems to enjoy the soft sand beneath and closes her eyes as well.

            Back up to the porch—the rocking chair beckons. The squirrels run to and fro, chirping their warnings over there in Squirrel Town. In the meadow beyond the creekbed, their elaborate burrows and tunnels, beneath the desert bird of paradise bushes, house a good many of them. Their visible numbers have dwindled recently as they prepare, or have already begun, to hibernate. Underground they’ll sleep, with their body temperature lowering to match the cold in the burrow. Heart rates drop and breathing slows as they fall deeper and deeper into a sporadic winter’s nap. They awaken as the surroundings warm up and their internal temperatures begin to rise, and a few may surface temporarily. When spring arrives, there are scores of them everywhere.

            So, I stand up and nod to my front yard neighbors, at least those that remain to gather a few more acorns to hide, and often forget about. And here’s a wave to you, my neighbors across town—from my front porch to yours. Let’s be neighborly.

Chi Varnado has four newly published books. The Old House in the Country, women’s fiction; and three YA novels in The Dance Centre Presents series. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are also available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com. You can follow her on Instagram or on www.Facebook.com/dancecentrepresents.