|
The heat blasts on. I hate this fucking heat. It’s forced hot air and it roars to life like a goddamn jet plane, sending its stale, arid air through the vents to dry out our sinuses and stuff us all up. The whole family has had some mild cold symptoms since we arrived here a few weeks ago. Not unusual for November, especially one that has been full of change, but it’s not allowed this year. This year, no one is allowed a sniffle, or a sore throat, or a headache or a cough. I make the mistake of mentioning that we all have a little something on the phone to a friend and “Are you going to get tested?” comes up. Of course it does. It’s all any of us talk about…still. And, no, I’m not dragging all six of us somewhere to spend close to a grand to get an invasive test to confirm that we have what we get every year when the seasons change. But the COVID guilt is there, and with it the “what if?” I stare into the dark as the heat rages on. I asked my husband to turn it off, but he must have forgotten. I try to remember if I covered all of the vents in the kids rooms, trying to find the longest, heaviest books to cover the grates. This is not our house and these are not our books (and this certainly isn’t our heat). We have come to stay at my husband’s childhood home to be with his mother at the end of her life. It started as an idea in late spring. My mother-in-law had been struggling since the death of her husband two years prior and her dementia was getting worse. The family has round-the-clock care-giving in place, but these people are strangers — of course they are skilled, and many of them genuinely caring — but it is still just a job for them, not family. And the house was not being cared for. Everything was slowly deteriorating. At the same time, 3000 miles away on the opposite coast in New Hampshire, my husband was deteriorating as well. Working as a chiropractor, his skills were in high demand as the pandemic hit. As a gifted practitioner, the town relied on him for more than neck and back pain. For many, he was their ‘’go-to” guy, and patients relied on him to evaluate every type of health care issue. They knew he would know what to do, and if he couldn’t treat the condition, patients trusted that he would refer them to the person that could. He shouldered this responsibility for close to three decades with very little respite, and then was one of the few practitioners that stayed open and available straight through the pandemic (even working solo when his office staff was too frightened to continue). It took its toll. So when COVID-19 turned the world upside-down, and took away most everything that anchored us in place — school, friends, opportunities, futures — we began to wonder where we belonged. We had created a beautiful life in the east, but the earthquake that was COVID brought much of it down around us. Suddenly, we were unsteady and uncertain, and vulnerable to change. On a hot, humid morning in early August, I decided to list our house for sale online, just to see what would happen. I had a cash offer, well above our asking price, six days later. Oh. I guess we were really going to do this. Now, three months later, I lie awake in my husband’s parent’s bedroom, cursing the heat. It has woken me at 5 am and it’s still dark as night outside. My husband and dog are both snoring away, adding to my annoyance. If I were “home” I would simply get up and start my day. But, (although this is where we live right now) this is not my home and I feel trapped. I have nowhere to escape to. Early mornings have always been my sacred time — I like to get up before all of the others and have some tea alone in the dark. There is no “being alone” here. If I go to make some tea, there will be a caregiver there with me. I continue to toss about, but I’m waking my husband, so I have no choice; I get up and sneak out of the room to get dressed. Out in the kitchen, I say good morning to the caregiver and quietly make my tea. I will grab my computer and head outside, my only option for peace. It’s cold and misty out, but I know of a dry place to go sit. I have been seeking out a place since I arrived here. It is damp and cold, but it will have to do. I step into the November air and try to appreciate: the lovely scent of eucalyptus, the unexpected hoot of an owl, a group of starlings flying through the mist as the sky begins to lighten. So this is November in California. It’s been close to thirty years since I’ve experienced one. I’m from the east and I moved my husband back with me after we married. I now (finally!) look back at that and wonder how that made my mother-in-law feel. I took her oldest son and first grandchild away from her. I never felt as if she liked me much, and now that I have grown sons of my own, I understand why. I am now sleeping in her bedroom and clearing out her closets. This turn has me dismantling her precious life just so that I can make room for my socks and underwear. This is such bullshit, yet this is life. Fifteen years ago this November, my own mother died of dementia. My younger brother happens to be in the process of writing a novel and he’s using the painful memories of that time as the backdrop of his story. He sent me the first few chapters and his skillful writing is bringing it all back for me. It’s surreal to read about the experience we shared as siblings, and then look over and see my husband’s mother lying in bed, fidgeting with her dolls, that same blank stare on her face. When I got the call all those years ago that my mother had passed in her sleep, I was relieved. Watching your mother slowly disappear for over a decade is a cruel and brutal thing to bear witness to. I was glad when she was finally free. That same November, I gave birth to my fifth child, two weeks after my mother’s death. Ava was born at home and died peacefully in the arms of her father ten days later. We lived in grace for those ten days, and it remains the most profound experience of my life. November is a sacred month for me. When the darkness closes in, I do my best to honor it. And though this year might bring its unique challenges, I will find a way. Life is uncertain and uncomfortable. Change is hard. Heartache is inevitable. I’m feeling the truth in all of this. But beauty and grace are in there, too. I guess my work this November is to dig a little deeper, and try a little harder to see. Even though I am weary from a cross-country move and I have left my older son and beloved friends behind (and have asked my children to do the same); Even though I am living in a strange house with strange noises (that damn heat!) and smells, as a pandemic rages and our country is a mess — I will choose to sit and be present in the divine darkness that is November, in all of its mystery and grace, and surrender once again.  Calvin meets Ava Mae. November 19, 2005-November 28, 2005 (photo by Anna Stockwell) You showed up and ruined everything
You destroyed everything that I thought was true: you destroyed my friendships and my community, the lives of my kids and the place that I called home. We’ve never even met (thankfully) and I still fucking hate you. I hate you for showing me how fragile it all is. How it all really is a goddamn illusion. Oh, I’ve read about it, for sure-- it sounded dramatic and elusive on the page. And when those monks visited the high school and worked for days on that intricate mandala and then brushed it all away, I got the message! I thought I understood. I thought I could wrap my head around it. Sure, OK. Impermanence, I get it. I’ve watched people die—my dad, my mom, even my baby girl. I know better than most, don’t I? I’ve written about this shit, I’m supposed to know. But I don’t. And it’s scaring the hell out of me. You're stealing my life from me day by day, bit by bit. You're fucking with my kids-- in deeper ways than I can even comprehend right now. I can feel you doing it and I’m helpless to make you stop. Your dumping my mandala in the trash and all I can think to do is yell fuck you. Fuck you, COVID! And all you do is look at me, and smile, and dump. ----------------- I wrote this last night before bed. This morning I got up and walked the dog and drank my tea. I sat in the overstuffed chair and closed my eyes and listened to Deuter’s “White Light” I was surprised by the peace I felt. Huh, peace and despair can coexist. Peace still there, nestled deep. You can’t take that from me COVID, you fucker. They get tangled, my pearls
Six of them on the strand That lay heavy around my neck Each born of my flesh But not mine at all. The row never comes off It is once more part of my flesh At times worn raw by abrasion I want to rip it from my neck, But that would break me, my soul. Constant, they lie sharp and beautiful They slice if I don’t take care They strangle while I sleep Their sadness, rage—and worse—indifference, burns. I wake and they are cool and smooth-- Luminous in the light More precious than my own heart I reach my hand to my neck And feel my blood course through. They are a collection
Of us, These shoes. They lie haphazard, Tossed in the rack. All present and accounted for, Our likes and dislikes All exposed in the rows. I like fluff, He likes rubber, She has been neglected, And he breaks the rules. It is a tumble of chaos And a testament of love. It is all right here, in our shoes. I've fallen in love with someone else. I didn't mean to do it. One Saturday a friend told me about another and my interest was piqued. When I saw her in person, I fell head-over-heels. Now it's all I can think about, this new love of mine. Every moment away, I’m thinking of how I can get back to her...back to her beauty, her quiet grace. My soul yearns for her peace. I sneak away every chance I get to be with her. I’ve even started bringing my kids to see her. I needed to see if they, too, would be as enchanted, and their laughter has told me it is so. We are drunk with new love. I walk about in a dream state and think of where I will place my things and where my children will sit, what their voices will sound like in the rooms and what the snow will look like through the windows as it falls from the sky. Yes, I am in love, but it is a complicated love, because I still love my first, and I cannot have you both. Oh, how I have deeply loved you, my first home! When we moved in over twenty years ago, we told you it was forever and we fully believed it was. With the blind faith only inherent to energetic young adults, we entrusted you with our lives. We didn’t care that you were neglected and abused; we saw beneath all of that. I ignored my mother’s tears as we credulously placed her only grandbaby into your decrepit arms. We crossed your threshold full of exuberance and hope. We looked beyond your peeling paint and odious floors and trusted your essence. And we were right. We spent years (and oh-so many dollars) shepherding you back to your true glory and you did not disappoint. Together we created place full of beauty and warmth. We created our home. But someone new has come along and I cannot ignore her. It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you because I do! I still love you so much! But something has shifted in me and I am feeling the pull of change. I never anticipated this. I know that I will miss you. You are strong and solid and stable. She is ethereal, sublime and the place of dreams! But she is also slight and that scares me. I sometimes wake at night worrying that I have made a grave mistake, that my desire has ruined everything true and good. Am I out of my mind? How could I have betrayed you? But I cannot step back. Change has been ignited and there is only one direction to go. We are meant to move forward in this life, even when that almost assuredly means moving through fear. I wish I could have you both, but I know that can’t be. All I can do is tell you how much you have meant to me and ask that you release me gently. The time has come for both of us to move on. I hope that you can understand and we can part with little hurt. My gratitude is immense, but all I can leave you with is this: Ode to a home Thank you for taking our little family in. Thank you for growing so graciously with us; for being patient as we moved your walls and your windows and doors; for tolerating dirty hands, pounding feet and incessant chatter. You watched as I birthed my babies and stood vigil as one slipped away. And you held us as we wept. Thank you for holding us, for keeping us safe and warm, for catching our laughter and listening silently as we cried. And now, thank you for setting us free. We will miss your comfort and your ease. We will ache for the memories that only you hold, deep in your bones. Hold on to all of that love, dear house. Share it with the next family that walks in your door; wrap them up in it and carry them through. Use it to soften the hard times that will inevitably come. Hold them gently, dear house, as you have so beautifully held us.  Thank you. looking to the future       The devoted Kings march toward the manger, ignorant to my wrath It's over. And I’m glad it’s over. The Kings have reached the manger and I’m finished with all of their sorry asses. I'm annoyed at them and I know it's ridiculous. But, the feeling is there and it’s real. It’s in my gut and it’s been there for a good six weeks. I finally stop and analyze it because it’s not a good feeling and it kind of bums me out. I also think about all the people relying on me and I realize I’m probably affecting them, too, even if my dissing of the Kings has been in silence. After all, the Kings are really innocent in all of this--they’re just trying to visit the kid in the manger, but they just happen to be the final players in this mess that I have created for myself. And this personal nightmare that I’m referring to is the Christmas season in our home. Today, well into January, I have finally vacuumed up the last pine needle. I am thrilled to be done. Perhaps a little too thrilled... After six kids and 22 years, we have amassed more than our share of tradition and holiday magic. And it's all brought into being by me. First there's Advent, in which we honor the dark and await the coming light. It begins four Sundays before Christmas and ends on Christmas Eve. We recognize it by making an indoor garden of moss and stones, and the magic happens each night when something new appears representing the natural kingdoms of the earth; minerals, plant, animal, humans, depending on the week. A lovely ritual, to be sure, about which there should be no whining (but...alas!) During the first week of Advent, the gnomes arrive in our house as well.   Tiny stuffed little men that hide in a new place every night, waiting to be discovered by delighted children in the morn.  Mary and Joseph and their donkey join the party and start their journey now, too. Their wooden forms come out of cardboard hiding and start their long walk along our windowsills on the way to the manger at the other end of the house. They will reach the manger on Christmas day. When the baby arrives, the Kings will come out to start their journey, walking for twelve days along the sills until they reach the baby in the manger. This all happens at night, by some magical Christmas force. (And then there’s the presents and the whole farce that is Santa. I got very tired of that whole story a few years back and brazenly declared that he didn’t bring any presents. Mom did! Santa just filled the stockings. So there!) All of our traditions started when my first child was a babe over 20 years ago. Never did I imagine that my 52-year-old self would be lying in bed and awake with a start and mutter, ”Shit, I forgot to hide the gnomes!” and then have to drag my tired ass out of my warm bed, trudge downstairs, fire up my brain and think of yet another spot to hide them to keep the dream alive for my littles. When I started it all, I was so intoxicated by the wonder of my adorable little boy, that I kept creating magic for him. (It never occurred to me to include him in the creating. As a veteran mom, I see the value in that now, but that's another story.) And then it just kept going as the kids kept coming and here I am, two decades later, reluctantly and grumpily creating holiday magic. Frankly, this season I was a total bitch about it. Without the power of my initial intentions, I didn’t create magic, I spread gloom. My complaining continued well into the clean-up of the magic this year (look at this mess! POOR ME!) As I was laboring, I took a break from the misery to unpack my son’s backpack. In it was my kick in the pants.  Twice a year we need to fill out emergency forms for the kids. At the bottom there is section related to housing. The district needs to know how and where their students are living. As I checked my standard box: “in a permanent home”, I realized that there might be someone out there checking the “in a car, bus, train or campsite” box. Wow.
My newly humbled self signed my name and placed the form back in the pack. I let myself be ashamed for a moment because, comparatively, I was being ridiculous (self-absorption is indeed ridiculous). Even though I was appreciating so many details of my lovely life on a daily basis, I still slipped into self-pity. It happened so easily, I didn’t even realize that I was doing it. I got caught up in the minutia of life...again. Though, after catching myself in this and similar character slips (judgement, anyone?) several times, I've come to believe that that is part of the work- this dance of getting caught up and finding our way back again. And when we find our way, we take a moment to sit and contemplate the journey--to notice and acknowledge our missteps as well as our leaps. This is how we grow. This is of course about a lot more than Christmas decorations, but they were the trigger--the symbolic straw. They are now all neatly packed away, with more care than ever before. I even asked my kids to help (which, astonishingly, I had never done before) and they did it willingly. I don't think I will look at this task the same way again. However, there is a chance that the year will pass and I will fall back once more. But this time the path back will be familiar and I will more easily remember my way. The journey will not take so long and soon I will find myself home again, deep in appreciation. I had a perfect moment today. I had been feeling that I needed some time alone. Jeb was gone all last weekend and the kids were home sick a few days this week. Throw a new puppy into the mix and the thought of Thanksgiving coming up and I was about to short circuit. And then I remembered that it was Ava's birthday. Ava was our fifth child, born 11 years ago. She was only meant to live on earth with us for ten days. Every year we celebrate her-and the important lessons she taught-with cake and candles. But I couldn't whip up the energy for a party just yet. I needed some space. I let my understanding husband know and made a reservation for an overnight in one of my favorite spots. I spent the morning with the family (and puppy! She's a lot of work right now...) and headed out on my own. I meandered my way slowly to my destination and stopped half-way for a break and a bite to eat. It it was a beautiful November day and I wanted to be outside. I ordered my food to go and sat outside in the sunny courtyard. I took a few bites of my lunch, but something wasn't right. There were a lot of people that wanted to enjoy the day and I was surrounded by conversation. This was not the peace I was looking for, and besides, I felt like a glass of wine. I packed up and got in the car. I wanted to soak in this sun, but I also wanted quiet. It was getting close to 3pm, so I knew I had to act fast. This sun wouldn't last. I rushed to a grocery store and got myself a bottle of wine and headed toward my new destination. Nearby there was a magnificent granite quarry. I would spread out a blanket there and have my picnic. But when I arrived there were two young boys there playing soccer, screaming and delighting in this 60 degree day. I drove on. I have been to this area many times, a favorite runaway spot for me. I knew of another place, and I knew I would be the only one. Several years ago I rented a house on this road with friends. It wasn't the greatest rental because it was right on a busy route, but I discovered an old cemetery right across the road. It's dirt roads climbed up a hill and twisted deep into the woods. I was right. No one else was hanging here on a lovely Saturday afternoon. I parked and found my spot-a nice, soft patch of grass right in the sun. I spread my blanket and opened my wine and re-opened my lunch. I turned on my most soothing playlist. Deep sigh. I had found it...the perfect spot. After I finished eating, I just sat and enjoyed. I felt so content, so at peace.  Some think my love of cemeteries is strange (my children call me Igor), but I tell them they are missing out. Cemeteries are usually on the most beautiful pieces of land and there's really nothing scary about them. I guess you could focus on the fact that there's a lot of dead bodies under the ground, but I don't believe there are any spirits hanging out here. If you're finally free to go wherever the heck you please, are you really gonna hang out by your dead body? Nah, that would be the last place my soul would hang. And I believe all the other souls feel the same...they're off floating around their loved ones or doing some other important work. They're not hanging around a bunch of stone markers waiting for someone to show up and have a picnic! I sip my wine and close my eyes and soak up the day. The Sun is just about to dip behind Mount Equinox, but I have made it in time. I think of Ava and our family and what we went through all of those years ago and how that experience shaped us. Death came and kissed me right on the mouth, and everything changed. I lean back on my elbows and open my eyes and notice the stone marker next to me for the first time.  I have indeed chosen the perfect spot. Back in 1870, another mother may have stood at this very spot and mourned her loss. I get up to inspect the stone and look at the others around it. I don't have to go far before I find another.  I feel peace because I am in the company of other women who have let go of their babies. And maybe at this moment those souls have indeed come back to this cemetary to be by my side. They too knew what it felt like to watch a little life slip away. And maybe they too discovered that there was a whole depth of emotions involved in the experience, not just pain. I hope so. There is comfort in knowing my situation is not unique. In fact it is the opposite of unique-death is what we all have in common. We will all face her. So today I lift my glass to her and my sweet baby, Ava. Thank you for adding a new dimension to my life. And I am thankful for this perfect moment: sitting with kindred souls in this cemetery, my scarf wrapped around me, music so beautiful it makes me weep, and chickadees calling so loudly that I almost cannot hear the notes. Thank you for my beautiful husband who understood that I needed to be alone and who would never, ever make me feel bad or guilty about that. I sit on my hill and whisper thank you to the sun, who kept me warm and thank you to the mountain who will soon swallow her whole. Thank you, I say. Thank you. Cheers, Ava!  The sun goes down and I get in my car to drive away, deeply satisfied. As I'm pulling out of the cemetery, I realize one more thing- the song that was playing during my perfect moment is titled "Immortelle". Immortelle. Everlasting. It was perfect. Wow. Wow... It was easy to be wise when I believed that things were going my way. Today I am struggling and confused. But my children are looking to me for hope and I will find some. Somewhere. There is a man. He's got to be in his 70's, maybe even older. Every time I drive a certain road at a certain time, I see him. This is a busy road and for a lot of it there is no shoulder, but there he is, riding his bike. I've seen him many times in different places along the same route, so my guess is that his round trip is at least 8 miles. I've seen him in every type of weather- blistering heat, rain and snow-and some mercifully beautiful days, too. He has an old bike with no gears with a plastic shopping bag on the seat. His coat is faded blue canvas and he carries an old, worn pack on his back. On his head he wears a metallic blue helmet. He reminds me of The Great Kazoo. I loved The Great Kazoo. (And today I take solace in the simplicity of childhood.)  He rides slowly and deliberately and he walks the inclines when he needs to. I see him pass on my way out to the dentist and I see him on our return trip, both of us on our way home (I assume) two hours later. This is what he does. This basic and simple chore soothes me this morning. His consistency and commitment inspires me. When everything feels crazy and out of control, this stranger is my steady and I am thankful for him. Be committed. Be reliable. Be strong. Thanks, Mr. Kazoo.  When I spotted my guy on the way to the dentist, I kinda freaked out- like he was my messiah or something. "Oh my god! There he is!" "Mom, you're being weird," came from the backseat. On the way home we saw him again and I had to pull a u-ey. I tried to take a picture but he was too far out. "Mom, we're going to be arrested!" No boys, we're good. We're all good.  Yes. Please. A friend stopped in for dinner the other night. He mentioned that the night before he went to our small town theater and saw Art Garfunkel perform. “Oh, my mom loved him!” I exclaim without giving it much thought. We go about dinner prep as my friend continues to talk about the concert. He talks about all the Simon and Garfunkel tunes he heard the night before. No, no! I protest. He had some beautiful stuff all his own! I reach for my phone and pull up Spotify to remind me of the album I was thinking of--a favorite of my mom’s. I draw in my breath when I see the cover of the album again. It's probably been over 40 years since I’ve seen it. I find the song I’m looking for. Did he play this? I’m thinking of asking my friend, but I never get there. I only listen to the first few opening notes before my finger must quickly find the pause button. My eyes sting with tears and my throat closes. I have to leave the room. There would be no Garfunkel for me on this night. I am not at all prepared for the ambush of memories that come so fast and so clear. All triggered by a few piano notes. I walk outside to be alone and sit in the dark. I look up at the stars. “Hi Mom,” is all I can squeak out. The next morning I’m headed to the woods. I have forgotten all about the music from the night before until I look at my phone; it was still on my search from the night before, and there was the song, beckoning me. I wait until I am deep in the woods before I find a log, sit and let my finger I press the button that now asked me to play. I weep quietly as the memories started to come: my mom opening the green cabinet my father made for our stereo, his signature hearts carved into the door. Me lying on the flowered couch wondering why I had to endure this song (again!) But, I listened and I secretly loved it. I could sense the music's power for her, even then. This was in the mid-seventies, and my mom was probably younger then than I am now. Now my 51-year-old self knows all too well what Garfunkel was singing about. By this age we all know of endings--we know that they come at last and they pass too slow. I wonder now what she felt when she heard this song. What ending was she thinking of? But I can no longer ask. I can only stand and turn to the noises of the woods. I am so sad I feel like I will crack in two, but I let the music play on and I allow the tears to come. I walk and cry. No one around to hear, no one around to console and no one to judge. By the time I reach the top of my hike, my eyes are dry. I'm a bit surprised to notice that the sadness has left me. I have moved through it and I am on the other side. Huh, I think...that’s kinda cool. Victor Hugo said, “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.” Yeah, that. Exactly that. For the rest of my walk my mom is with me. Music has brought her back to me for the moment and together we walk and appreciate the woods. I feel light--no sadness, just contentment and something else...Grace, I think. Yes, Grace. I love that there is something we humans create that transcends all. Music has the power to touch us and shift something deep within. Did whatever created us think this through? Did he/she/it sit down and ponder the possibility before installing the hardware that makes it possible for us to create such beauty, and then the corresponding pieces that allow us to respond in such a way? It’s one of those mysteries that our mind cannot even begin to understand, but our heart knows for sure. "Without music life would be a mistake.” Strong words from German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche and there are times when I want to agree. Music connected me and moved me through. So happy am I to spend this fall morning with my mom. Thank you, Art.  my mom and her mom Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go. “In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver Thank you, Mary.
It’s that time of year again. While everyone around me is buying candy and creating costumes, I’m thinking about the dead. I’m not a big fan of Halloween, but I do like to honor the origins of the holiday. I appreciate the opportunity to take a few days to consciously connect with my loved ones who have passed. Many traditions believe that between October 31 and November 2 the veil between the living and the dead is at it’s thinnest point. I like the way this feels, so I choose to believe this, too. This morning my energy was low. I haven’t been sleeping well and it was grey and cold outside. I was tempted to pass on my hike, but I put my shoes on anyway. I told myself I’d just go around the block and listen to some music. I have to do this sometimes. I have to trick myself. I give myself an out, but what almost always happens is once I get outside, I’m glad. I feel the familiar pang of missing my dog, and I sent a friend who understands the following simple text:  A few steps in it is obvious that I have outsmarted myself yet again. My walk is cold and glorious.  The woods feel sacred. Even the most simple things boast beauty.  technicolor decay When I reach the top of my hike, I sit on the rocky ledge and look over my town. I close my eyes and think of my dead. I have quite a collection at this point: My mom, my dad, Ava and just recently, my sweet Roxie. As I sit, a soft rain falls on my face. Just a few drops. Just enough to awaken another sense. When I open my eyes and look to the sky, I see blue. No rain clouds in sight. I get up and start my descent. I put on some music to make the trip down a bit more fun and I dance a little in the woods. I arrive home invigorated. When I glance at my phone again, I see I have missed the following voicemail: “Hi Nora. I’m calling with an unusual subject and it’s maybe a little too early to talk about this, but I thought I’d give it a go. I have a client who has a puppy and they’re having some trouble keeping it due to big life changes. She’s a beautiful dog and I didn’t know if you might interested in looking for another dog or not. I know it’s a little early and I’m sorry if I’m pushing into delicate territory, but I just thought you might want to consider it. She’s beautiful. Call me when you can.” I call her right back. How could I not? I just proclaimed an hour before that I wished I had a dog! My friend answers right away and she is a bit tentative. “Well,” she says, “this is a bit weird, but the dog’s name is Roxie.” That makes me a bit uncomfortable. Could I adopt a dog with the same name as my last? The dog is also 7, the same age my Roxie was when she died. I tell my friend I have to think about it and give her permission to share my contact information with the owner. I’m a little let down because I thought she had a true puppy for me, not an older dog. But then as I get in the shower, it dawns on me: What if this isn’t about adopting someone else’s dog? What if this is just my Roxie’s way of saying hello today? I smile...oh, I like how that feels! Hello, my darling, Roxie. Hello! Beware! Beware!
Don't mistake me for this human form. The soul is not obscured by forms. Even if it were wrapped in a hundred folds of felt the rays of the soul's light would still shine through. -Rumi |