Dwindling Days

We recently found out that Lorelei - our 11 year old Rescue has inoperable cancer.  We took her to the best Veterinary oncology surgeon in the state, the cost didn't matter, but there was nothing he could do.  An aggressive soft tissue sarcoma, it's symptoms were likely masked by her arthritis and hip issues It was only when the ortho Vet that sees her monthly found a suspicious lump which was biopsied that we knew something was worrisome.

She's happy as long as she has her pain meds which he's amped up, and she's playful and eating well, enjoying her new little "sister" and enjoying the moment.  But our time with her is short (weeks perhaps) so blogging will be light while we spend as much time as we can spoiling her (which includes extra cheese treats).

Hugs your loved ones close, especially the furry ones.

Staying Earthbound

Sometimes you think you can fly, only to be destined to drown.

And so we stay earthbound. "Should have". "Would have". Those are words in all of our hearts, at least once. We recall much of our life as each year passes, candles on another cake, warm breath against the flames. But what do you remember most, the best day of your life or your last regret?

The difference is profound.

I remember looking at my Dad in his last years, and when my late brother's name was mentioned he got this look of profound grief on his face, even as I've learned to get through the day as a stoic. He was a man who was not Time's trinket and for him, my brother's collapse and death on April 18th,, Good Friday that year, was as if it were yesterday.

But he'd not have given up the experience of adopting and raising him, both of us, for any happier ending.

I remember a few short years ago when I thought my heart was in pieces, not likely to heal. A fractured goodbye, and the realization that the person I had cared for, who had asked to meet my family and had done so, was a breathing ghost. I was left with just a rose, drying between two pages, the blood from an internal thorn tearing something loose inside, the print of a nose against the glass of a skyscraper where I leaned into it so the tears couldn't be seen. Afterward, I wondered if life was even worth living, there in that brief darkness before there is light.

But I didn't go down that path, the thought only one of brief self-pity, not intended to be action. I had a really good cry or two and a giant plate of Nachos and a beer or three with a six-foot pony-tailed blond, who has always been my rock among best friends. Then I met my friend Stephanie and as we drove around a haunted landscape, I realized that although I hurt, I FELT, and that was a good thing.

Then, after a long night's sleep, I picked up the phone and called a guy friend, someone I had chatted online with for years, sometimes spending hours sharing geeky puns and jokes. I knew he would understand. My boyfriend and I broke up", was all I said, and he listened, as he always did while I talked it out, and tried to put it behind me.

It wasn't the first time my heart had broke, and it probably wouldn't be the last, but the feeling peeled something from me, like skin from an onion, leaving nerves exposed to a cold that bit with weasel teeth. It brought back a memory of that first loss of someone I loved and a memory of how I handled it. For that first time my heart broke, I did what a lot of people do. I pushed everyone away, pushing my boundaries, sometimes hanging up high in the air, the g-forces on my body a distraction from the pain, the air parting like the Red Sea, my only need to move on at maximum risk to my body, and minimum risk to my soul.

I wanted nothing from the world but the ability to push through it without being touched. I talked little to people but much to the sky, whispering to it my regrets as I rolled through 40 degrees of bank, taking counsel with that great blue solitude.

You think that cheating death like that would make me feel alive but for a time, it was a battle without passion, grey and colorless, with neither the urge to win nor the fear to lose, played out before an arena with no audience. I came within a few knots of a final pronouncement more than once and found that I had nothing left to say.

The only sound was the wings cleaving the air, a sound that is like all other sounds of profound mystery, the lap of a wave upon a shore, the echo of taps, the whispers of a voice that speaks to you in dreams from an eternity away, heard but not comprehensible.
I lost out on a lot of life during those brief years.

This time, I was a bit older, and a little scar tissue and I weren't strangers, having been through much worse than breaking up a budding relationship. This time I was going to open myself up to friends and get out and enjoy my life with the four-legged friend who had taught me that lesson. With Barkley in tow, we got out and we talked and we learned to laugh again, and in fairly short order. There was coffee and bacon and late nights with two good friends laughing as we compared the merits of Barry White versus William Shatner and Greensleeves or Zamfir and his Pan Flute as music to get lucky by. On one of the rare days, I let that last heartache get the better of me, one of my friends said "if you had to do it all again, knowing it would teach you how to feel again, would you"? I looked at her and said "@*$#, yes."

I didn't see my friend that I called that night for a few months, our talks continued with the usual matters between people that share hobbies and books, even if they don't share the same generation. Then one night he mentioned a date with a ballerina, and I pictured them out, young, beautiful, laughing, and felt something twist in my chest that had not been there for a while. But I didn't say anything, not then, not when Barkley and I would meet him for a coffee.

Then one day he called me after landing from a long business trip overseas and asked me to an event we both loved, not a date, just a typical outing with friends someplace upstate. I said yes and plans were made. After hanging out all that day, he asked if I wanted to get a bite to eat once we'd had a chance to get cleaned up (playing with steam engines all day can get a little dirty) and we located a couple quick burger places near our respective hotels. He showed up at my door dressed in dress pants and a crisp shirt, and the burger joint I was expecting as planned, turned into an intimate, elegant bistro, a glass of wine, and a conversation about things much deeper than the night, things only hinted at, never said.

Halfway through the meal, I thought to myself "holy cow, this is a date". That was 13 years ago, on a warm, clear day. That date is now my husband.

Because he asked.

How often do we stay silent, when we are searching, when we need help, or when we are hurt? How often do we shut ourselves away when we want a cool touch upon the brow or a hand that helps us up a steep slope. There is so much that can keep us from the truth of things, holding us in that toil of a heart's hesitation.

Sometimes it's pride, sometimes it's hurt. Sometimes it's history. Often it's the fear of being rejected The safety stays on, the mouth stays closed and while we think we are protecting ourselves, we're merely closing a door on life, one that can be as fixed as one of a prison. In doing so sometimes we lose a friend, we lose an opportunity or we lose out on love- that improbable, inexplicable, and sometimes bewildering thing that binds us together despite our blood, or through it.

A fellow I knew professionally, lamented to me in a moment of vulnerability after a very late night on the job that his old high school crush was marrying someone else. I said "did you ever ask her out" and he said "no. . . I knew she would say no, she was beautiful and popular and I'm. . . . ", accepting the words as he uttered them with an almost eager fatalism. That which makes something its truth also makes its meaning. I should have offered comfort, but I remained silent, not knowing what to say.

So he and I just continued to work, in silence, our untrammeled feet taking us to a place rendered quiet not by solitude, but by loss. We worked on, blind and deaf to any emotion but the gathering, and I realized I should have said something, if only, "next time. . . ask" said with a smile, and a hug from a friend, not a colleague.

On a day when another prescious year is now behind me, I look at what is around me, and how I almost lost it, lost myself, simply by never taking the chance, listening to my fears, and not to my heart. For the past does have a way of coming back to us. You can fear it in silence, treating it as if you would an unwanted dream or you can learn from it, remembering it like a fine book, full of wonders and maybe occasional warfare, but as full of life as the landscape around you.

From what I've learned in 65 years on this planet, is the earth is simply a standing place and how you look at what is around you is your loss or your gain.

The sky and water weld together without joint, the sun descending down, touching the lake with a soundless hiss. Soon, the moon would spread over this place with the thick sheen of silver. This is just one day in time, one day to be cataloged in memory. The living trees, the flowers planted by another's hands, so still they appear to have been formed in stone, even to the smallest bud, the feather stroke of a tiny leaf.

I touch the porch railing of this old house, tracing it the way fingers trace a human backbone, there under the skin, in the silent perusal of that which becomes wonder. Another year older, another day wiser. I could worry about, or as I did on that August birthday 10 years ago where I could give my best friend and partner a T-Shirt that says "I Can't Drive 55" and just laugh, a sound that will bend the trees and shake the fixed stars in the sky. I turn towards the door, where there is a light on, waiting.

 - Brigid

Moving Forward

"The mind replays what the heart can't delete.”

Yasmin Mogahed

There's something about the cold that brings about its own introspection, at least for my age group.  On one such morning, this winter, it was in the low 20s as I hit the sidewalk for some cardio to get the blood circulating, carrying with me some peanuts to toss to the squirrels as I ran.  I don't use this time or the hours later in the week that I'll spend with the punching bag or on the exercise mat as a time to worry about things, such as why anyone thought that doing a plank was a good idea, or how I ended up with so many dust bunnies under the recliner.

There are times when, in order to dwell in the present, focused and aware, you just have to let everything else go and embrace your truth.  Your truth may be clarity, it may be fear, sometimes it's a little of both, but I'd rather have a healthy fear of the unknown than a fear of myself.

I wouldn't be out long; I needed to get showered and then to the church that day, and as I moved, I paid close attention to everything around me, tilting my head to the sound of a garage door going up behind me.  I listen like this when I'm lying in bed alone when my husband is on the road.  There is the gentle huff from the closet of a black lab rescue dog, who sleeps on a soft dog bed there among the clothing that hangs over her head like boughs of a tree. There is the soft chime of a clock, a footstep down the driveway next to our bedroom, the familiar sound of our retired neighbor making one last patrol of his property before bed, a Navy tech always on watch, even if it's been 40 years since he's been on board a ship

I'm reassured by the stir and murmur of his moving, knowing he watches out for me like a daughter when Partner is gone, making sure I am safe.  We were lucky to have such neighbors.  My husband often plows their driveway, and they make sure I'm in safely at night, the light from the bedroom which is across from their kitchen, letting them know I'm in, and not floundering out in minus 20 degrees weather after busting a move down the stairs taking the dog out to the backyard.  It's just one of the many things I think of on such nights, things I am grateful for as I hear the gentle sound of his gate closing as he rejoins his wife. Although my mind is still moving too quickly for sleep to come, I find rest with those attentive perceptions of the slight sounds around me.

But I also listen like this when I run, paying attention not to just possible traffic but possible dangers lying about in the shadow.  I know of people who never consider fear as they move around a quiet neighborhood, trusting others to keep them safe, trusting in a good fortune that has not as yet failed them.  Life seems an indestructible thing for some people, continuing in light and in dark, awake and asleep, tirelessly watchful of us, not realizing that in reality, it hovers just as affectionately around our impending death.

Call me cynical, but I've made it past 60, only having been shot at once (OK, several times if you count bullet holes in an aircraft) by watching the darkness and listening to its conspiracy of breath.

I spotted her just as I rounded the corner to home, a dark red colored parka standing like a flame on the frozen ground. From a distance, she looked neatly dressed, a young twenty-something professional woman pulling a small roller board suitcase. Her posture was stiff and angular almost as if she were a carved figure and not a human being. I didn't recognize her, but the large house on the corner had been made into apartments where young people who are new to the area often briefly live when they are first out on their own.  I figured she was waiting for a taxi or Uber to the airport perhaps.  Most of our neighbors don't pay the extortion that is O'Hare airport pricing and it's common to see such a vehicle at the curb in the early morning hours.

But what drew my attention, was even as I was not going to directly pass her, she moved as if to make herself invisible, pulling back into shadow, not making eye contact. Even though she was in the shadows her quiet anxiety took on the glare and glow of light.  Though her stance was one of watchful age, her face had that youthful look to it that was someone barely in their 20s.  I noted a pale and extremely thin face, pants that were more worn than you would wear to travel and thought "she's homeless".  Coming from a two-generation LEO family that knows a lot about self-reliance, that can't help but pull on my heartstrings.

My husband had spotted her one night when he was out with the dog, and I was almost certain this was the same young woman.  He'd mentioned the unique coat and the roller bag and how she tried to avoid the gaze of anyone out for an evening stroll.  On that night, he had called our local police, hoping that someone could come by and take her to one of the shelters, but when we saw the cruiser amble past, they were met with only shadows.

As I ran, I pulled my jacket closer around me.  It was still winter, a freezing mist laying along the slopes of the bungalows.  What little light the heavens were emitting fell down upon it, as if an abyss, swallowed up by the darkness. From above, the morning sound of a songbird, weightless and transient herself, one which hawk might prey on or owl, still at this moment, singing as if it is immortal, and indeed at this moment, may very well be.

I thought of approaching the young woman and offering help, at least some money for the cheap local hotel where she could sleep in warmth for once.  She literally froze where she stood and we looked at each other from opposite sides of the streets like mismatched bookends. I'm familiar with the usual homeless that panhandle on my drive home, many of them cheerfully engaged, even if they were perhaps fighting their own personal demons. This young woman looked, frankly, LOST, as if fate had someone plucked her out of the paradox of her surroundings to be a paradox of her past, as she wandered the same streets over and over looking as if the answer was somewhere close at hand

I paused, smiled, and moved towards her, and the look in her eyes shifted as she drew away from me.  It was the look of a feral animal and a dangerous one. If I approached she was going to run or fight, and one thing my LEO Mom taught me was to walk away from the fight when you can.

I have worked as a volunteer in enough shelters to recognize the look, one of mental illness and pain.  I can only guess how she views me, if she even SEES me, her reality perhaps being no more than bright outlines, painful colors, and voices that make her hide under a blood-colored coat as they rang in her head with a great din of cymbals. There was no difference in her mind between the voice of anger and the voice of assistance. All I could do for her this early morning was leave her territory, hoping she could see in my eyes that I was no threat.

I saw her a couple of other times as I drove home from the town square, always in the vicinity of a home we knew was vacant, as the locals didn't always think to have someone pick up the flyers and advertisements that make their way to the porch while they took their kids on vacation. I'm guessing she was sheltering in the backyard, or perhaps a garage left accidentally unlocked. She always had that roller bag, but anytime she saw another human on the street, she would turn and go the other way, instinct and anguish guiding her step, not wishing to be saved.

She then disappeared from the local neighborhoods. Ours is a very small village, surrounded on two sides by dense forest, and a river on the other, tending to isolate the locals.  Someone like that will stand out when perhaps they don't wish to.  Today, months later, on the way to church which is a fair drive away, under an overcast sky, we saw the red coat and the bag that trails her like a forlorn puppy as she crossed a busy street ahead, disappearing into a crowd of people going out for breakfast in that upscale community's main street.  None of them noticed her, her thinness, the tremor of a hand, there in the fog of their morning conceit, and she disappeared into the masses, like an invisible line of wind running through a wheat field.

Later, we quietly sat in our pew, in quiet prayer before the organist began, the sun finally broke through the stained glass, its light merging with the brilliance of the alter, becoming one bright immensity, there among the formerly lost.

Before I raised my head, I said a prayer for that young woman.  I can't take away her pain, for events in the past that hurt or harm often stand out in our minds as they are no longer surrounded by a clutter of insignificant details that then disappear over time. No, I can only pray that in spirit, she can remember back to the time before her aimless wanderings, back to the days when she was a young child. For the very young, don't have those standout painful moments, even a bruise or a bump is immediately forgotten after a kiss from Mom to make it better. No, the very young have the freedom to live forward of their coming days in all the serene continuity of hope which knows no respites and no scrutiny.

In that, I would hope she could, if only as a brief dream. move forward as a child would, without fear.
 - Brigid

Human Training

Sunny doesn't start training with a trainer until next week, to give her some time to acclimate If you have never acclimated a rescue puppy that's 65 pounds, take a small Rhino, 45 towels, and a few squeaky toys and unleash in your small house.  Yard playtime time is essential.  That is where the puppy will race around with all the speed of a tree sloth, sniffing everything as slowly as possible, only to resume the last 3 laps of the Nascar race once re-entering your home.

But she knows her name now, will sit on command, and takes treats gently from my hand when she is praised for doing well.

I won't change a thing. 

FREEDOM RIDE!

We have a new addition to the house.  Meet Sunny (Former AKC "Honey Bee" who joins rescue Lorelei who turns 12 this May.  The name was changed as I just had visions of shouting out the back door at 6 am to the dogs and Partner in Grime

"HONEY get that OUT Of your mouth".

"HONEY, drop it drop it drop it drop it"

or

"HONEY - don't EAT the rabbit poop!"

She's 10 months old, and was released from a breeder in another state.  Her front legs are bowed slightly,  she probably grew faster than expected in a small enclosure, but outside of walking a bit like Festus, she is active,  healthy and playful and came well nourished and up to date on all her shots and heartworm.

But she is VERY happy to have a family!  Thanks to her foster family who helped with that first week transition and to the Lab Rescue who sprung her.  

I think Barkley would be pleased.

I know you said it was a long drive home but are we there yet?

Seriously, we're not there YET?