E  S  S  A  Y   Here’s something to know about me at the start. I’m not a fan of guns and not knowledgeable about them. Gun, rifle, pistol, even an Uzi. It’s all pretty much the same to me. Up until the time of the incident at the shooting range I had never seen a gun up close, much less held one in my hand.

It was a dreary Saturday afternoon in autumn, one of those days when you just want to eat hot soup and contemplate the coming winter. A young man of my acquaintance suggested to me that I ought to know how to handle a gun for my own protection. I doubted that. I immediately flashed on to a vision of a home intruder grabbing the weapon from my hands and turning its power on me. This is something I’ve read happens to inexperienced gun owners.

Exactly why you need to use a gun, the young man said – so that sort of thing won’t happen. I could think of another way to prevent it from happening: keep the doors locked and guns out of my home. But I remained silent on that point. He was a young, twenty-something relative, eager to please, and I was pushing sixty, a guest in his home, and wanting to keep harmony in the family. Besides, as I said, it was a gloomy day with nothing much to do.

We drove through a light rain to the shooting range, he chattering on about how I was going to love the feel of the gun in my hand, me mostly silent – no point arguing about it now. We were already launched on the mission.

The range turned out to be a large metal building, rather forbidding looking. If there’d been any sun that day it probably would have reflected off the walls in a blinding glare. But as it was, the building just sort of loomed at the end of the road as we approached it.

Once inside, I learned that I would have to read a handbook, see a short film, and then take a test on gun safety before I would be permitted to touch a weapon. I found that comforting. Good idea, I said, as the almost deafening sound of gunfire rattled around the tin can of a building. People were busy shooting all around me and I was glad to know they’d all passed the safety test. Or so I hoped.

It turns out I was the threat. I passed the test but somehow didn’t get the message that I should not point the gun at people when I’m talking to them. Here’s how it went: First, I was surprised, when I actually had a gun in my hand, at how easy it is to shoot it. It takes a little effort to release the safety but once you’ve done that you can almost shoot the gun by just looking at it. Of course it doesn’t tell you that in the instructions. I guess they assume everyone knows. Second, when you’ve spent your life looking at people when you talk to them it’s a hard habit to break. The rule is, set the gun down before you turn around so you do not point it at someone. Not once but twice, I turned around from the target to talk to my companion, gun in hand and waving wildly to make my point, and he hit the ground in a very admirable, quick reaction.

“Oops, sorry,” I said each time.

But really, can you be expected to change a lifetime habit after just reading a little booklet? The young man looked pretty shook up after the first incident, and just plain tired after the second, so we called it a day. I didn’t shoot him, of course, but I’m startled all over again when I think how easily it could have happened. I rolled up my Osama bin Laden target (he was the villain of choice just then) and we left the shooting range. The sun had come out, our spirits were at least somewhat restored and, best of all, we were both alive.

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.

E  S  S  A  Y   So, I’m driving home about 5:00 last Friday night, and have safely made it across our busiest road, the one that leads from our small town west into the wilds of the nearby rural county. Because it’s Friday it’s particularly busy, with folks hurrying home to a good meal, a football game at the local high school, or simply to start a relaxed weekend. I’m within a minute of home when I have to jam on the brakes to stop for not one, but two waddling fowl. In what I’m fairly sure must have been a daring escape from a nearby farm, a cheerful multi-colored duck and his traveling companion, a fairly complacent white chicken, leisurely stroll across my path without a care in the world. One can’t help but ponder just why these fine feathered friends are out on this beautiful autumn evening. Have they indeed escaped the confines of pens at Farmer Jones’? And if so, just how far has their journey brought them tonight? While there are still plenty of rural areas within ten or fifteen miles of our little town, that seems quite a long distance for these two to have traveled without being either maimed or killed. Where exactly are they headed?  Are they simply strolling or deliberately  heading for the feed store about three blocks up the road?

If so, I totally get it.  I myself am a regular visitor to our local wine and cheese shop for the Friday wine tasting…who doesn’t want to get out at the end of a long week and sample the newest and best of the local cuisine?

I swear, I could not get these two out of my mind, so cheerfully making their way uptown, totally oblivious to the myriad dangers that lurked enroute. Were they okay? I asked myself during the night. Had some kind soul with an extra chicken coop in the yard felt sorry for them and taken them in?  Was their farm family worrying about them too and searching for them in the Friday night dark?  When I mentioned all of these concerns to my  daughter,  she showed scant sympathy for either the fowl or me.  “But Mom,” she logically pointed out, “Haven’t I seen you eat fried chicken more than once, and don’t you ALWAYS order duck when it’s on the menu in a restaurant?”  Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.  And yet…I’m still wondering a week later HOW duck and chicken are, WHERE duck and chicken are, and indeed IF duck and chicken are at all. I choose to believe that they’ve found a happy place to settle themselves and their wandering days are thankfully at an end.  And if this seems both naive and optimistic, well, consider that I work with children, I read a fair number of stories aloud to them that anthropomorphize animals, and let’s face it…I’m an eternal optimist.  I’m in your corner, wandering barnyard fowl, I’m in your corner….

Barbara Tulli is a retired elementary school librarian in Virginia. Now she devotes more time to writing, reading, traveling and sleeping past 5:15 AM. Read more at her blog Just Beyond the Tracks.

E S S A Y   My current project of decluttering my life is already producing the effects I wished for. With each thing I discard I feel freer and lighter. This isn’t confined only to the material possessions I’ve kept through the years, it also includes outdated, ill-fitting, or otherwise unnecessary ideas and goals, but it begins with the material world and filters on through the mental, emotional, and spiritual. Funny how that works. I’ve always maintained that our outer environment reveals the condition of our inner state and, this cottage, with its doilies, figurines, lace, and old family chotchkies revealed my need for a home life I enjoyed growing up. It’s been nurturing and safe, but I’m ready to step out from that womb. I’m not saying I don’t like the cottage style, I’m just tired of it. It’s holding me back and it no longer resonates with who I’m evolving into, and who Nettl and I are becoming as a couple. Oddly, when I was younger I adored the grandma look, but now that I’m of the grandma age, I want a more active look. “I don’t want the ‘Arsenic And Old Lace’ look anymore.”

The most arduous part of this project is emotional, though. Thoughts of Oh, look. Mom’s doilies! and I remember when we bought this! flood my mind, and I’m forced to decide which box something is destined for: “Keep on Display,” “Store in Attic,” “Donate to Habitat,” or “Trash.” You have to be mentally and emotionally ready for this kind of decluttering; it isn’t something I’d advise you force yourself to do. You’ll know when (or even if) you’re ready when the urge to feel unencumbered  outweighs your sentimentality, and when your peace of mind is crowded and pinched by the things you’ve been holding onto. Whether it’s an idea, a habit, a relationship, an attitude, or a table, you’ll know when it’s time to let it go. If it happens at all. I mean, it’s not mandatory for everyone in order to maintain their happiness. For me, it is. I’m done with the pain, the drama, the fear, the xenophobia, and the chaos of modern life and I’m creating a private world where curiosity, the arts, intellectual pursuits, wanderlust, and the celebration of our diverse and magical world can be celebrated. As above so below, as without so within.

Mostly, my work right now consists of cleaning out the debris and clutter I’ve accumulated in myself through the years. The physical part of this project ends at the close of the day, but the mental, emotional, and spiritual parts continue.

Hm. I wonder how my inner self will relax once my outer self is planted in the recliner we’re buying…

SK Waller is an author and composer. Books One and Two (With A Dream and With A Bullet) of her rock and roll series, Beyond The Bridge,  takes places in late 70s London. Read more at SK Waller Blog and SKWaller.com.

E  S  S  A  Y   Around ten years ago I wrote an essay for this blog about not being much of a hugger. I theorized then that hugging is a learned response and no one in my family seemed to be enthusiastic about hugging. Who knows what went on behind parents’ closed doors but that’s another day on someone’s couch.

Only recently has hugging become important to me and what a revelation that was. Chalk it up to age or life changes or whatever, the point is that I now have come to understand the value of a hug. Now I know that it’s a vital connection that tells someone that they are important to you, and if the hug is reciprocally enthusiastic, you know that you are important to them. And that’s what hugging has always been about – I just didn’t know it.

I still have a problem hugging a tall person. Getting up close and personal with a sternum is not my idea of a good time or a good hug. But it’s a minor complaint in the scheme of things, especially when hugs are loaded with health benefits. Yes, when you feel close and connected to people you care about, studies have shown that this enhanced social support can mean you’re less likely to catch a cold.

Then there’s the fact that hugging can release oxytocin (also known as the bonding hormone) and that in turn reduces stress. Receptors under your skin can increase vagal activity that helps to put you in a relaxed state. The calming effect of a hug has been shown to reduce anxiety and depression.

I’m not confident that our current state of polarization could be ameliorated by increasing hugging, but it might not be a bad place to start. It’s hard to yell insults at someone when you’re in a close embrace.

So I’ve come late to the party but that beats not being invited, or worse, not knowing there was a party. I no longer shrink from the hug. Quite the opposite. I’ve embraced the embrace. Don’t you think I even sound calmer?

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. He’s written a mystery novel, which therefore makes him a pre-published author.