When I was young I learned to pray in church. There was a specific protocol for prayer: gratitude always came first. Then I was free to do the asking. As a child in a home fraught with strife, praying for God to release me into a life I could claim as my own was something I could hardly wait to do. Repetition couldn’t hurt, as God must have been pretty busy and I wasn’t ever quite sure I was being heard – things at home only reinforced the sentiment, while strife in general escalated rather than calming down. I never did lose faith, however; never ceased communication with the forces of Creation. I held the epithet ask and ye shall receive closer still to my heart. And gobbled up that asking like jellybeans.
If I reflect on the thankfulness part (and I always strove to get the order right, being just that kind of person), I have to admit it slowly magnified in importance. As my independent life blossomed, along came parenthood and a few painful and profound life experiences. All served to deepen my understanding of gratitude. After all, there was much to be grateful for. When I better understood the cyclical nature of things; grasped the nature of ebb and flow – my thankfulness multiplied each time abundance chanced to spill into my lap. I realized it for the gift it was. Perspectives began shifting: that metaphoric Christmas longing to open as many gifts as possible transformed into a genuine love of giving, increasingly preferential to receiving.
I certainly know people who find it hard to express heartfelt gratitude – they are either too beaten down by circumstances or they do it by rote, like memorizing a mantra. Gratefulness can’t be forced – only life and life itself can grant us experiences which pry our hearts open, whether from sheer joy or from wracking loss. If understood for what they are, both stimulate humility – and if one is truly open to the gifts hidden even and perhaps especially in the swamp, it’s easy to realize that all are beneficial. From this understanding emerges profound gratitude. And the funny thing is that attitude of gratitude unlocks all sorts of doorways, until life itself is accepted for the miracle that it is. Nothing’s changed really – just a frame of reference.
[And if you crank up the volume on this link and move your body to the feel of the music, I don't know how anybody could possibly feel anything but gratitude for life, itself. Peace.]
It’s already written that today will be one to remember … ~ Steve Winwood
I had to cry today. In fact, I used to cry all the time. Honestly, it got to the point that I wondered if I would ever cease weeping. Looking back, I view my life as a jumble of confusion – I did not know myself well at all, and less did I accept that I might hold any place of significance whatsoever in the world. This was of some importance to me when young and remains so unto this day: a feeling that merely marking time – simply taking up space on the planet – is a waste of life.
I am determined to offer something of value to the living, and it matters not if it is received by a single person or many. Whether dog or bird; man, woman or child – it’s the quality of the gift that counts. An intention and willingness to leave the campsite cleaner than I found it etches itself upon a guidepost instilled in me as a small child from my scoutmaster father. It takes nothing away to offer a smile or a moment of heartfelt sharing with another. In fact what is offered thus freely returns to me in manifold proportion, each and every day I draw breath. It simply consumes a bit of time to discover that inner fount, though it’s always longing to be expressed. I’m convinced it’s part of our essential nature.
As a child living in an urban environment likely too stimulating for her sensitivities, I proved too ebullient, too enthusiastic; in a word, too eager. These attributes were off-putting to boys I found interesting, and adults simply didn’t know what to make of an energetic, intelligent child who gazed deeply into their souls; who spoke freely and called them by their first names. Then again a few did take the time to satiate my abundant curiosity – answered my questions and sparked a dialogue, nose to nose. Remember too that this was a time when women were only beginning to come into their own – the nineteen fifties and sixties. No wonder I cried almost daily, wondering what was wrong that God made me so peculiarly.
Meanwhile decades passed before discovering a strong foothold in this life. And despite years of various therapies which I am sure were useful in their own way, the most powerful force of healing has been an immersion in nature. This included countless sunrises and stargazes but also encompassed giving birth to children – that primal, visceral experience which sealed my kinship to all mammals, from the tiny mouse to the great whale. I cannot say how many hours or days, months or years of observation it required to willingly assume my place in the scheme of things. I didn’t realize how out of touch I was with what is now essential to my wellness and functionality as a sentient human being until, bit by bit – like a seed bursting through its fragile skin to unfurl before heaven – I rose up steadily on two solid legs as if for the first time somewhere in my forties.
Now much as small children do, I marvel daily at the minutiae of existence as exemplified by all living creatures – the drive and determination of beetles and ants, squirrels and voles, marten and fox, herons and loons. Each seemingly independent and insignificant event has worked its way into my psyche bit by bit, granting me peace and gratitude for existence, itself. Perhaps the deepest wisdom lies in viewing adult experience through the guileless eyes of the innocent.
Indeed, while lying prone upon an acupuncturist’s table under geometric patterns of sensitively placed needles, I had to cry today. And it might momentarily have been a cry of mourning for another brother recently lost to self destruction. But when I wound into the feeling, spun it into the centrifuge at the core of my being right down to my toes, I discovered a wellspring of happiness – a joy in living that precipitated tears of gratitude that I am finally able to appreciate the tenuous threads that weave me into the fabric of life. My colors blend well into that tapestry, and I am content.
baby cardinals in their nest, tucked into our sandpaper vine
If you lose your money – great God, don’t you lose your mind …
Today I hear Eric Clapton’s voiceechoing through my mind in a brand-new way. Since I have decided to be happy – all joking aside – the pall of the ‘08 crisis begins lifting from my innermost being where it has been knotted up in places I didn’t even realize. Our house is on the market, and I’m more than okay with relocating to a smaller dwelling. It’s just that I’ve allowed the pressure of monthly obligations to wring me out like a pair of sweat-soaked socks, ignoring just how fetid and dry I’ve become. At the same time, I remain thirsty for the juice of human goodness and decency – and for once, I feel as though I’m receiving more than I’m giving out. A wellspring of gratitude percolates beneath the surface like a bright clutch of shimmering fish waiting for the tide to sweep them into deeper, bluer waters.
Like manna on desert sands, happiness beckons. And it’s no mirage. Joy is at least as palpable as fear, and given the choice, I am determined to discover how imbuing that feeling will play out. For years I have been highly suspicious of perennially sunny folk, especially while detecting strain around their eyes and in the purse of their mouths; knowing that what they say and how they act (and often react) doesn’t really seem to match. Thus I surmise that somehow they are trying to fool the world. (When and how is it my business to disabuse them of their theories? Haven’t I advised clients in the past to fake it ‘til they make it?
Now I am saying to hell with it – might as well give ‘er a try, myself – a sort of experiment in lightheartedness. Because the alternative is not attractive and I’m tired of feeling low and flat like a mechanic’s dolly wheeled beneath every damn thing, examining its underbelly for flaws. To what purpose and end I have executed this little exercise for some years now, I cannot immediately render, nor is there apparent or plausible justification. I only know that it’s time for a change, and I am ready to embrace it.
I havegot to wrap my mind around this thing called happiness. The Tibetans say that every human being wants first to be happy. I find this oddly strange. For doesn’t that desire arise simply in comparison to the option of suffering?
It’s not that I don’t feel like I’m happy, but it has never taken up residence in the forefront of my consciousness until recently. Before that, service to others lorded large, crowding most anything else out of the frame. It emerged with motherhood and ripened in my practice as a medical intuitive. But even prior to those times when I was young and care-free, was I happy? Was I, in fact, ever happy?
Casting back after I left the house of my parents and was on my own, I discovered a serious girl, save when she cut loose by partying. Somehow substances provided an excuse to lighten up, but I always felt horrible the next morning. As if I had trespassed onto some forbidden ground. A territory others could freely tread, but not me. You think I would have learned, but I suspect few of us do until we’ve had a few years and heartaches under our belts. Happiness was, after all, just a word.
Why now is my attention thus riveted? We run a guest house, among other endeavors. Last night I was speaking with a return guest who has lodged with us a few times in the past. Someone for whom we have quite naturally acquired fondness. If she’s fifty, I’d be surprised. We were talking about the stress we’ve all been under since the economic collapse, and she casually mentioned that she’s pulled all her money out of her retirement accounts, taken six months off work (as my mind reels with images of her as a derelict older woman living on a pittance somewhere) – and, oh. By the way. She’s dying. Of congestive heart failure. You could have heard my jaw hitting the floor. No recourse but a transplant at this point, and she’s decided not to go with that. Personally, I’m in accord. The heart is, after all, a place of our own feelings, not somebody else’s. And ever since Christian Barnard transplanted a baboon heart into a human being back in the ‘sixties, the whole idea of having another’s ticker beating in my chest has made my skin crawl.
Suddenly and profoundly, certain themes snapped into focus, while others that once held sway blurred into the background. Insignificant.
I believe myself to be optimistic, conveniently declassifying disruptive ripples of pessimism into cynicism. Again, distinctions are rapidly dissolving as never before. And I realize I need to be happy. I want to be happy. Perhaps the Dalai Lama is right, though I wasn’t aware of the significance of inner sunshine on my horizon until now. And isn’t now all we actually possess, moment to moment? We can’t hold onto the past, cannot accurately predict the future. All we can capture in our two vulnerable human hands lies in this very moment.
I think of Carly Simon singing in that large clear voice of hers, Suffering was the only thing made me feel I was alive. Thought that’s just how much it costs to survive in this world … Was that me? Is that really what I believed, up until recently? And now, at fifty-eight years of age, can I allow myself to feel something cleaner and more precious; less tongue-in-cheek – and still deem it authentic? And if not now – when time seems more fleeting and far less certain than in the bold days of my youth – When?
I think, Today I shall begin. Yes, I think I will. For there is no other time but the present shimmering squarely in my sights. There is, in fact, no other time at all.
I have been blessed to have several caring souls nominate me for various awards or keep me on their Blogrolls over the past year I’ve been part of this fabulous WordPress community. Have a Dream. morristownmemos. Partial View. All Write. So Far From Heaven. Vikram Roy. If I have forgotten you, please forgive me. I want to take the opportunity to offer thanks once again for that recognition and validation, and also to explain my lack of traditional response. Typically I offer posts to address some of the questions these awards ask a writer to share, as answering pat questions somehow doesn’t mesh with my brain chemistry. I’ve never been much for following diagrams or rules for their own sake. I leave that to my husband, a stalwart individual who can read a manual about anything and sort it out. (He once rebuilt a truck transmission this very way, having never had a mechanic’s training.) Thus while I greatly respect and appreciate these qualities in others – for better or for worse, I seem to march to a different drummer.
I’m always searching under rocks and behind walls to discover what lies beyond proscribed reality. Where my husband is solid, patient, enduring – I’m rather like thunder – lightning – fleet. I haven’t the patience the gods gave a flower to open. I am aware, however, that patience is a virtue worth cultivating. Almost everything that has been worth anything to me in this life has demanded I wait for it. Born in June and astrologically ruled by the god Mercury, I have come by my winged feet honestly. Geminis think – all the time: on our feet, on our heads, and no doubt to the utter consternation of many a partner, on our backs. And while I can slow this mind down and even capture the interstices between thoughts in contemplation, I’ve come to appreciate how easily inspiration strikes home. It then becomes about sorting through and sifting out – getting onto the page what first gathers as an amorphous mental jumble. For folks like me, it’s not about forcing or schedules. Instead what seems to work well is attuning to the subtle signs and cues while getting it written down. Harness the thought before it flies on through, over and out. Craft it later.
image: Dexter Bellows - sunset, Mauna Kea beach
As for favorite colors, flowers or times of day, it is now and has always been nature’s ever-changing palette that enthralls. Again in that open-minded, open-ended, spontaneous way, a sunrise will awaken me from slumber to beguile with periwinkle, heliotrope, violet, purple-pink hues. A sunset will blend gold with a fiery melon, rose, cerise and finally indigo. How any of these colors could curry favor over another in my consciousness, I do not know. The magnificent nectar of magnolia blossoms, paklan, stemmadenia – all unremarkably white – any of which sends me straight to heaven.
Mention food or drink and I cannot begin to sort out the delight of the pure and simple: freshly picked and juiced carrot, beet, daikon, ginger. Squeezed Kona orange juice, often blended with that of giant tangelos. Press guava or lilikoi (passionfruit) or Calmonsi lime into half a strawberry papaya and I cannot imagine a soda or cocktail that approaches that kind of glory to the tastebuds. And don’t get me started on the virtues of organic unsulphured California Blenheim apricots. I am also a fair ethnic cook – I love Indian food and preparing it, from cashew or saag chicken to samosas and fried pineapple. A great coconut rice pudding. I love to bake, and making pies is about as easy as walking, for me. Fresh peach pie, tarte au fruite, blueberry, apple, lemon meringue. Throw in a Boston Crème Pie, though that’s not really fair, as it’s a cake with a thick custard in the middle, topped with melted dark Valrona chocolate. And so I might as well toss yeasted breads into the mix, sweet and plain – while longing to try sourdough.
image: Fleur Weymouth - my pulla (Finnish coffee bread)
I love creatures of all kinds, especially dogs and horses, with whom I share a gentle understanding. I love our neighbor Boolcow – his hard shiny nose and the way he sniffs and licks our hands in greeting with his long pointy tongue. And although I think of myself as too serious at times, I delight in small children who, even upon first take, seem to recognize the impish child that lies within me and respond to it favorably – giving me license to cut free a bit and be silly.
noble Boolcow
And finally, I am happiest among those I love who enjoy the things I’ve mentioned, and more. Sunsets. A long hike or a swim in the ocean. A bracing bike ride. A great meal. Quiet company. Gut laughter. Deep conversation. A good film. Touch. The warmth and honesty and undeniable goodness and heart-rendering satisfaction of proximity, one to another. Our time together is always too short. Then again, too much stimulation and I crave time alone. Paradox. Gemini. Me, in a nutshell.
If I drown in the ocean, if I die in this way – if I slide low and deep, I’d feel lucky today. If I dive in the water; if I crash in that wave; if the sands pull me under, I’d feel happy to stay. Life would lack certain meaning (with respect due to You) – let no fear come between little me and Big Blue.
Chanting this little made-up-on-the-spot ditty on the way home from a long swim in the turquoise waters off the north shore of the Big Island, I realize how very lucky I am to live in some of the last vestiges of Old Hawaii. Paradise does indeed exist, and it remains, at least for me, in places such as this – not in the crowded streets, shops and beachy snippets of Alii Drive.
image of Alii Drive: funhawaiitravel.com
At first it was challenging to get past swimming off of these old abandoned concrete docks – having roamed parts of the world over the past fifty years where numerous varieties of coral still thrived with hundreds of species of brightly colored fish; where black- and white-tipped reef sharks lurked in caves threaded through with moray eels; where starfish dotted ocean floors. I remember running beach sand through my tiny fingers, feeling the texture of billions of cast-off skeletons of crustaceans, walking endless stretches of abandoned, pristine beach, picking up more shells of a greater variety than I had pockets to collect them. When years later I had children of my own, we reveled in rolling ourselves in the runoff of red Hawaiian clay that streamed down to the white crested surf, then rolling ourselves in sand like sugar cookies.
friend Velvet and me 1992 - Moloka'i
Many times I have stood on the asphalt and concrete overlooking this ocean near our home – wondering how we could transform it into a different landscape. Now I accept it for what it is and simply dive into the delightful sea below. Lately these waters have hosted schools of baby barracuda and pipefish, parrotfish and yellow tang. Urchins punctuate the rocks below, regenerating and maturing since the last floor robbers came with their giant orange net bags, sweeping the area stark naked clean of these spiny treats. A giant anchor and chain remain from sugar mill days, lending navigation to the depths below. Follow the chain, turn either left or right at its end, and you will cruise along the reef, companion to a smattering of unicorn fish and other inhabitants. Seek the depths beyond at your own risk. The currents on this part of the island are perilous enough to prevent even the largest boats from exploring its waters at will. The ancient Polynesian outrigger canoe was better suited than most modern seafaring vessels for traveling the blue road from destination to island destination. And yet only the tug and barge, listing high and sometimes vertical on the roil of blue-grey waves during times of winter tumult, are a constant in the here and now. For without them, commerce would cease and we truly would regress to the grass huts of yore.
Mahukona - Big Island, Hawaii
The Alanuihaha Channel is world-famous for its danger and unpredictability. Poised between the looming precipices of Maui’s Haleakala and the Big Island’s Mauna Kea – both exceeding 12,000 feet – this is a channel of changing tides, high winds, volatile seas. Still, the best approach is to become familiar. Befriend the ocean, respect her. There are days and then there are days. Today is calm, windless and warm, even in the early hours of morning. What has brought us the worst drought in memory has likewise gifted us with deep and clear blue cloudless skies and relatively still waters. What has robbed animals of dense emerald fodder and long drinks in cool irrigation ditches has granted us the quality of this moment. Mahukona, “sugar boiler,” is shining forth like a young bride at her wedding.
Most dedicated swimmers living on the islands keep a bag filled with fins, mask, snorkel and suit in their vehicle. Today that kind of backup seems most useful. After sitting and watching for a few minutes, then spotting a tiny clutch of swimmers like mask-and-snorkeled dolphins cruising the reef’s edge, I plop awkwardly in. There is no fear for me in the depths. Some seize up when feet fail to meet floor. For me it means weightless, boundless joy. I flip and turn, readjusting my mask, twisting my spine and hips, stretching my body out full. Finally I reach out, stroke after stroke, along the chain and now, for the first time, to the left. Unchartered terrain fails to intimidate, especially since the surge is all but absent from the surf. I am certain not to get dashed to the concrete jetty, as could assuredly happen in adverse circumstances. I am rewarded with clarity and variety. Popping up like a cork to the surface, I spot a brown skinned man casting a line from the sharp lava rocks ahead. My eyes sweep the shoreline, settling on a young couple cuddled close, eyes fixated upon the horizon. Back under and out, skirting the depths, neck craned, visibility extending its reach. It is this technique that rewards me with an occasional giant manta or honu, sea turtle. Not today, though I am far from disappointed.
I could swim like this for hours, for days. Like Andersen’s Little Mermaid, I am torn between the magic of the deep and the pull to terra firma, like some prehistoric sea creature transforming itself into a land-walking amphibian, fins morphing into heavy land limbs. Stroking my way back to the dock ladder, not quite ready – not yet. I toss my fins and mask onto the hot cement and now, free of the onus of rubber, I turn, flip, arch, pivot, pike, roll, play. There is no temptation to wander far from what is known, just enough freedom to gauge the mind back to neutral. Decision made, I draw the heaviness of skeleton and skin onto earth once again, making transition after transition – sea to dock, dock to car – car to road and back home again – clock ticking, laptop waiting, stomach grumbling.
"LOONS" - origin of image unknown. Post title borrowed from Elvis Costello, who doubtless borrowed it from de Maupassant.
As we slip into the dusk of the year, I am reminded of the need to slow down, savor the days, hibernate like a wild thing. If Mother Nature pauses in her great labors, so then must I. If that great ball of fire in the sky sinks lower on the horizon from the weight of the season, I shouldn’t wonder at the heaviness in my bones as I sink onto mattress and chair.
Keeping pace with nature’s rhythms seems easier when living close to the heart of the land. Observing birds on the wing must be coded in our DNA. Gazing out at a vista of landscape changing hues sets off a chain of invisible events, as image hits retina. Just because we might not be aware of it does not make it any less stupendous. If I consider the million sensory impressions assaulting my body every day, there is no filter that can effectively cancel them all. And even if that were possible, I would not wish it into being. Changed and charged currents waft on breezes tinged with the damp of winterchill. Dogs pick up their ears, cock their heads. The full-time simplicity of their lives grants them a necessary rhythm in acutely attuning to minutiae.
When I lived in Maine where seasons merged at nature’s whim, I was often devastated by the sudden and profound advent of the equinox. In thirty-two sets of seasons, I can honestly say I was never fully prepared. Perhaps as a result of my birth and upbringing on warmer shores, I lacked the intuitive sensitivity to a tinge of morning frost. Too energized by the thin air and the wafts of wood smoke in my nostrils; too enthralled by the variety of wildlife scurrying about, readying for the inevitable. Too enchanted with the labors of loons launching overhead, furiously flapping wings to offset the density of solid bones, their lilting cries piercing the stillness of morning. Often and one time too many, I was too distracted by beauty to repair to the warmth of hearth and home – just another sack full of leaves, one more armload thrown on the brush pile – ignoring the frigid hand of impending winter wrapping itself sinuously around the back of my bare neck.
Life on Hawaii island is vastly different, but thirty-two years of syncing my body to the rhythm of four distinct seasons and it doesn’t easily give up the memory. I must fight this laconic feeling, this sense of endings – or I must flow with it, as my ancestors have for generations before me; before the advent of the Age of Technology which keeps us well wired but ill grounded. Perhaps I shall leverage this leaden feeling to anchor myself more fully to the planet. Perhaps I shall, with a certain muster of grace, embrace the warmth of this Hawaiian winter like a wraith getting a bye on life. One final round before yielding to the great Unknown.
Today I had the silly notion to look up love in the thesaurus, to investigate, inquire, elucidate, and perhaps pontificate on the kinds and qualities and misappropriations and justifications for using this word for a feeling. After all, it’s such a very big word. It’s so all-encompassing in fact, that these are the synonyms I found. I kid you not:
adore, like very much, admire, adulate, be attached to, be captivated by, be crazy about, be enamored of, be enchanted by, be fascinated with, be fond of, be in love with, canonize, care for, cherish, choose, deify, delight in, dote on, esteem, exalt, fall for, fancy, glorify, go for, gone on, have affection for, have it bad, hold dear, hold high, idolize, long for, lose one’s heart to, prefer, prize, put on pedestal, think the world of, thrive with, treasure, venerate, wild for, worship
Good grief, no wonder we’re confused.
Just as there is no manual that can assure we will be good enough parents, there is nothing that assures us success in intimate relationships, despite our best efforts or whether or not our parents were adequate role models. There are too many variables in each human life to account for simplistic reductions.
If we hearken to the din of our ever-present media, and heaven knows it has a very loud and persuasive voice, aren’t we all but doomed? The media would largely have us believe we must sustain a romantic ideal, a fairy tale ending. If we learn about relationships from a script however, isn’t it almost certain we will fail to be in touch with anything remotely close to who and what we, in our essence – our heart of hearts – truly are? We might, for example, find ourselves compromised until the person we were, that unique individual drawn to another in order to share this thing called love becomes a shadow, a ghost of what once was genuinely, unequivocally and delightfully us. Resentment would cloud vision on both sides as the future we attempted to build as a couple crumbles to cinder.
If we expect another to fulfill an ideal, aren’t we bound to be disappointed? It takes a great deal of energy to hold ourselves equal to another’s illusions. As women, it may keep us infantilized and powerless. I cannot speak for men, though I would imagine it proves debilitating and exhausting. There is no room for power plays when we seek equal footing, and no room for pedestals in a long-term relationship. Living in close proximity to another helps clarify both our highest and basest qualities. Owning this, being open and willing to grow with these painful realizations, along with the support and loving acceptance of another, can help us mature in unexpected ways.
What would you do, how would you present yourself, if tomorrow you and your lover parted? Would you go back to school, dye your hair green, get a full body tattoo or the job you always wanted? If the life you are living and the life you dream of are radically divergent, you may have lost touch with this essence I spoke of earlier. And the only one with the power to get your life back on track is you. If I live fully, if I make choices as though my life matters both independently as well as in relationship – meanwhile allowing the same freedom for my beloved, I enjoy a stimulating, successful union. This always seems to require many adjustments over time, and conciliation can be tricky. It cannot succeed with me losing myself to the needs and/or demands of another. It does require, however, that I learn to dance, and occasionally toes get stepped on in the process. I can groan in pain or realize it as a minor misstep. Sometimes both realizations occur simultaneously, and it’s a split-second decision as to which is more important. However as I practice, I get better at knowing where these metaphoric toes are, both mine as well as my partner’s. As my significant other does the same, we deepen in love and understanding.
Of course nothing can be reduced to simple platitudes when it comes to human interaction. Yet it seems to me that expecting love to ever be romantic is to insist another transport us into fantasy. And although this might be a welcome respite from time to time, I don’t think it can sustain over the long term. Being fantasy, it eludes reality. So while it can be dessert, the main meal – our daily sustenance – comes from consistently holding one another in the bonds of deep friendship and caring, of sharing a life best lived together.
I left Southern California at eighteen. You could say it was my reverse gold rush. Folks had been pouring into that state for as long as I could remember and before that, looking for adventure. Fame and fortune. To move away from winter. To get out of Dodge.
Yearning to escape the crowded cities of the east, frontier fever got folks thinking of wide open spaces. And so they came to Southern California in droves, developing tracts of desert land that extended from the mountains to the sea. Irrigated it. (Swimming pools, movie stars.) The orange groves lining the streets of my youth were chopped down to accommodate wider and bigger and newer boulevards and freeways. The land of milk and honey became choked with smog, traffic, and the same or worse crowded conditions many fled from not too many years before. The streets paved with gold were paved instead with the detritus of living, Caligula-like, satis superque. In excess.
Imagining the easy life in the land of surf and sun and seersucker instead of worsted wool, they came – looking for Mr. Goodbar, for the perpetually tanned George Hamilton, Jayne Mansfield, Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe – figures more iconic than human. Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning for maps to the mansions of the stars, give us Disneyland, Hollywood, the Beverly Wilshire. Give me fantasy or give me death. Such was the world I was raised in, by mothers fascinated with Modern Screen, precursor to today’s Us or People. Alongside the rich and famous that dotted our mountainside neighborhood. Forget Winter of Artifice, Anais Nin – it was all artifice, all the time.
Image consciousness became the pinnacle to which many aspired. To attain it, women only had to become blonde, buxom and most importantly thin. From kindergarten on up, too many girls measured themselves against the yardstick of an ideal. Thanks to a strong infusion of northern European blood, many attained it, too, quite without effort. The rest of us maturing women were left only to wonder what further betrayals nature had in store. Though there were ways in which we could adapt … bleach, silicone and sun could cure most of nature’s obvious mistakes. What the sun couldn’t accomplish, a good dentist and a plastic surgeon might. Some suffered silently, horrified as our beautiful girlfriends hacked at their lovely Patrician noses before graduating junior high. Others of us were prescribed diet pills at thirteen to beat back impending curves. Years of tetracycline and cortisone were de rigeur for a few pimples. The word diet did not reflect balance at all, rather it stuck in the craw as penance for every woman who did not aspire to be a cookie-cutter Twiggy. To this day, save for the brave indie film movement, Hollywood yet lacks imagination.
Seeking solace in forests, in streams, in wild places and creatures drew me to northern New England, where I was to spend a significant portion of my life. Bit by bit the granite and icy winters ground me down, forced me to don flannel and wool and large insulated boots. Slowly I began to realize if I cared too much about how I looked, I would freeze to death six months out of twelve. (A good dose of reality is boon to the soul.) It took thirty-two years to undo what eighteen had wrought, and if I had to do it over again, if the gods whispered to me in the interstices between cosmos and conception, I would say, Grant me, oh lords, the gifts of birdsong and the singing stream. Fill me with the bounty of freshly-picked peas and the depths of star-pocked heavens. Trust that I will find my way in enough time to pass along something of value to my fellow human beings, and add to the bounty which is Creation. This I ask in the name of all that is sacred within me, Amen.
Me, in the first years of arriving in the woods of Maine ...
Many more times than I can count, I have tried in my way to save various creatures in dire circumstances. Baby mice when mom was poisoned somewhere. Baby birds after a cat knocked their nest to the ground. Cats hit by cars. Dogs hit by cars. Birds of all sizes careening into windows. Even a porcupine who fell forty feet out of a hemlock tree. Raptors I’ve taken to wildlife rehab centers.
It’s tough putting a good friend down after a long and eventful life. But I’m not into prolonging suffering for an animal just to delay my own grieving. I’d rather they exit this life feeling the wind in their noses rather than in a state of drug-induced confusion. I’d rather death be coupled with dignity, and that extends to my human brothers and sisters as well. That being said, I long ago made a pact with heaven and earth to face what the gods put in my path as open-eyed as possible so I could truthfully say, “Well met.” Win, lose or draw, I would do my best to confront life on its terms rather than to always insist those terms be mine.
It has been two months since a bike ride brought me Lucy, our little foundling dog left on the side of the highway to suffer after being sideswiped by a car. Lifting her head into my cupped hands and gazing into her eyes told me she wanted to live, and I’ve come to trust the wisdom in animals’ eyes. They do give up when they sense they’re done for. Fears, regrets and unresolved issues do not cloud their thinking.
The first month demanded absolute immobility. X-rays confirmed a triple fracture in her last large vertebra prior to the smaller discs of the tail. A sharp piece of bone was poised to sever the spinal cord. Over that month, I massaged her and manipulated her body to align the spine to a natural curve. I covered a thick foam mat with plastic and bedding. Every day to her great distress, the bedding was wet and feces-stained. On the advice of the vet and to my own daily distress, I scooped poop out of her with gloved fingers. After the second week, she could lie in the sun and the other (big) dogs did not bother her. She usually relieved her bladder in this way. After a month, she would scoot along the ground and defecate. Then she stood. Then she walked. Yet with each milestone, we recommitted to detachment from outcome. This little dog would live or she would die, but we would give her the most even chance we were able. Then another x-ray revealed that sharp bone fragment being resorbed by the body. “Miracle!” the vet exclaimed, and miracle it was.
What do we do when time and again we are faced with adversity? It’s tempting to move away from probable defeat in order to avoid pain and disappointment. Expectations can bring so much misery, they make cowards out of the most noble hearted among us. In the end it may seem easier to simply give up. But I look at life like this: if I confront what it brings me rather than floundering in fruitless manipulations, it seems to enrich my experience, deepens my interactions with others. It bolsters my courage in moving forward.
Lucy Milagro is indeed a lucky dog. She now runs, plays and roughhouses with the two big dogs that have become her family, her pack. She can’t go far just now, for two months post accident, she has come into heat. This is as much a surprise to her vet as to us, but apparently she has healed much better than any of us could have imagined. In six weeks she’ll be spayed and we can again freely roam the valleys and hills and rocky coastline. It’s a little messy in the meantime, but what in life isn’t? We experience birth in a slime of mucus and blood, shower to shed our daily detritus and then one day return to the earth as compost for the living. Meanwhile someone or something else is being born.
