…and now, quite near the very tippy top of our tree branch out on the deck – the one with happy lights and a peace sign – the one where tiny birds perch to rest (and our branch smiles) – the one that was broken off our sturdy old tree in the front yard – now, there are blue lights.
because.
and so, the last two nights – wednesday and thursday – when we have looked out of our sunroom windows a shiver has passed through me.
it is a shiver of gratitude. it is a shiver of some relief. it is a shiver of pride. it is a shiver of anticipation.
there are no guarantees, but we – as a nation – from sea to shining sea – have spoken up.
we have clung to ideals of morality and decency and democracy. with our vote, we have lit up hope.
today is friday again and – for the first time in a long time – it has been a good week for the united states of america.
when the fog lifts, we are hoping that our beloved dogga will be more himself.
it happened the beginning of this week. suddenly, for no apparent reason whatsoever, dogga collapsed. he was unable to stand, to walk, his eyes were jerking back and forth (nygastum) and he was dizzy and, clearly, terribly nauseous. it was pretty terrifying to witness this strong, vibrant dog suddenly incapable of movement, confused and scared.
vestibular disease (IVD) affects the balance system and comes on without warning. with symptoms that look horribly like a stroke, between reading dogcare sites, joining an online group and calls to veterinarians, we became aware of this syndrome (actually, a group of symptoms) we had never heard of before.
our world reduced to the sunroom.
we padded the floor with more non-skid rugs and cleared the room of extraneous stuff.
then we sat on the floor with our dogga and gently petted him, trying to ground him and keep him reassured.
we sat. and we sat. and we still sit…on the floor with him.
we moved an air mattress into the dining room (right next to the sunroom) and slept right next to him, waking multiple times during the night to help him move or to clean up from his extreme nausea.
for days now, we have not ventured further than the sunroom, though david carries dogga outside while i bring the big beach towel that serves as a sling to help hold him up.
we are learning presence and patience. we are leaning into hope.
when the fog lifts – and they say that sometime after 72 hours things should improve – we hope that he is able to be the dogga he knows he is, for we can see in his eyes he has no idea what has happened.
he’s been drinking water on and off when we hold it directly under him and on wednesday he ate the tiniest bit when i hand-fed him some chicken and rice. it is a very slow process and everything seems to be in slow motion here.
in a time when people are so divisive and angry and mean-spirited, i have found that there is a community of generous people whose dogs have experienced this who are out there, ready to help with reassurance and wisdom that comes from being through it. politics do not enter into the equation, not one little bit. instead, the opposite – compassion.
as i write this (on thursday) i remember late last night – also sitting at our little bistro table in the sunroom with dogga resting. last night we watched the milwaukee brewers win the world series and the fireworks went off in our neighborhood all around us. probably one of the worst days for dogga to hear fireworks, we both jumped back down to the floor to help shield him from the noise that frightens him. we tried to explain to him why people were so excited that they were shooting off fireworks. i could see what looked like a literal fancy firework display coming from just around the corner. it was an exciting night for milwaukee and wisconsin and it just took a few minutes to calm dogga back down while the fireworks eased up.
when the fog lifts – and dogga is past these crucial hours of this disease – we hope he returns to us as the dogga who jumps on the bed with his candy cane, who races in circles around the yard when the dachshunds are out next door, who noisily demands treats and happily follows us around the house. we hope the zillion words and expressions he knows are still present with him and that his confusion in the blurry world he is in right now begins to quickly wane. we hope that he feels better.
the thing we are sure of? when the fog lifts we will have spent every moment in the fog with him. and we wouldn’t have it any other way. we will walk with him out of the fog into whatever comes his way and will deal with it all one day at a time. dogga will still be dogga, regardless.
all things are possible – as long as he knows he is loved and we are right here with him.
and, geesh, isn’t that something we might all take into the rest of our lives?
in the middle of the guided imagery, she says the words, “like a lake with no ripples.” even now – really, anytime – i can hear the rise and fall of her voice, the rhythm of these words, the feeling of them as they fall upon my mind’s eye.
guided imagery is a form of meditation that seems to work better for me than silent meditation – which is a field day for my mind to wander. i know i need more practice, for i do not have a quiet mind. instead, i am list-making, worrying, fretting over details. guided imagery takes me on specific paths and i try to steer away from distraction accordingly.
in these times we have found that – at the end of our daily exercise regimen – listening to an evocative piece of music helps us. the cinematic painting the music creates flushes out some of the other stuff – the stuff that’s nagging us. following the music we turn on the guided imagery. i mean, eighteen minutes on a yoga mat just laying and listening is not to be underestimated.
if i have any trouble with the “like a lake with no ripples” my mind conjures up our lake – on days like this.
glassy-like – ever so gently – i hold this tenderly – the sky low on the horizon the color of mango sorbet, the aquamarine and navy blue water seemingly waiting for the slightest pin-drop, the tiniest movement, with the softest waves rolling into the shoreline.
my sweet momma and poppo – in their last years together – lived on a little lake. they would sit for hours and watch the lake, the waterfowl, rain on the surface, any rippling result of wind passing over the body of water.
neither of them did any sort of meditation. but this was – indeed – their form of seeking peace, seeking quieted minds. i have no doubt that their little lake was a panacea for them in many ways…for contemplation, musing, reflection. though mindfulness may not have been an active or conscious pursuit, they – unknowingly – pursued it nonetheless.
with everything that is happening around us these days – in these times, in our life, in this country, in this world – we find we must proactively and intentionally set about finding ways to quiet our minds and bodies.
i am still working at it, but – i must say – finding my way to that place of mind-body balance feels like one of the most important things. it’s called a practice for a reason, i suppose. there is always a place to reach for that stills the wandering of your mind and brings focus back to your breath.
there is always a place where my mind might reflect this beautiful lake with no ripples and where my body might breathe as gently as the waves that lap on this shoreline.
when d’s sweet dad died a few years ago now, i told him that the grief he would feel was hard to explain. grief is not tidy nor is it linear. it has prevailing winds that sometimes are at your back and sometimes are right in your face, pummeling you. i told him that it will take him by surprise – moments when, all of sudden, grief – in all its glory – arrives and slams you, taking your breath away.
and there are other times. when grief kind of sails along with you. it oddly softens the blows of other hurtful things – for, grief asks, what it is that could be more hurtful than the loss of someone you love. and so, by sheer comparison, grief puts all in perspective.
i told d that, though he may be pounded by grief on certain days, they will not be the predictable ones – not the birthdays, not the anniversaries of hardships that befell columbus (or another beloved), not the hallmark-card days.
instead, they will be the regular days, the days in which you are just living and doing and suddenly the light will line up and the sounds will echo and the scents will waft by and you will be – figuratively – or not – on your knees.
tomorrow – merely 83 years ago – my parents married. to say that i am grateful for that day would be an understatement. where – on this earth – would i be without that day, i wonder.
i can feel them around me. some days most definitely more than others, but always, always, there is a presence that informs me somehow.
in these times – absolutely dreadful days when our democracy is being assaulted by our very own government – i can feel their horror, the kick-some-ass my dad-the-ex-mia-ex-pow is pissed enough to wish for, my mom’s be-kind philosophy railing against this vile establishment.
and i totally miss them. i wish to have a conversation with them. i wish they could tell me that everything will be all right. and, with the schisms in their own family thanks to this heinousness, i wish they could be here to comfort me the way only families can comfort each other.
no matter what, the grief of missing them – even after fourteen and eleven years – is sometimes kicking my butt.
but love prevails.
despite any perceived boundaries that different existential planes may present.
most of the people we know – or hang around with – have like 40 or more. 11 is way different than 40. in some ways, it is like we are still newlyweds, not quite catching up to the tenure our friends have had in their relationships or marriages.
i wonder – sometimes – if we will have 40 someday. we’d be well into our nineties. considerably different than 40 in your sixties. i guess we’ll find out. i hope so.
in the meanwhile, we will be rambling on – traveling what is now the daisy path – trying to attend to the littlest details of this thing that is love, trying not to miss stuff, trying not to be lax or in any way aloof. because – no matter what – we will have less. less time, less experiences, less of a life arc together. so every thing counts.
we had different plans for this 11th anniversary. plans to be away on this day, plans to hike under high mountain sun, plans to renew our vows. but you know the story. our dogga needs us to stick around here right now. and so here we are. cause that’s what love is.
the daisy path is not etched in stone. this tender path is fluid and the dirt under our feet creates stardust as we walk along it.
when i dip, he raises me up. when he dips, i lift him. when my frustration gets the best of me, he helps reorganize how i am thinking. when his frustration gets the best of him, i help him cut to the core of what’s actually important. when a tear falls on my face, he can feel it. when a tear falls on his face, i weep along with him.
it’s the same with laughter and simple stuff and beauty and anticipation and moments of adventure and moments of glory.
we don’t have as much time as our friends. so the time we have seems amplified. and every day is liminal space between where we have been together and where we are going.
it looked sickly hanging in the garden section of the home improvement store. there it was – all dry and twisted – a boston fern with no one to love it.
our sweet potato vine had given it up on the old vintage ladder that leans against the house on the deck. it was not handling life well there. we moved it to the top of barney and it came back to life, its lime green trailing around barney’s keyboard, its heart leaves offering company to all the birds and squirrels that frequent the top of barney’s upright-piano-ness.
we were sort of looking for something else for the ladder, though it was not with fervor – it’s only an old ladder on a deck leaning against the house – it is not necessarily a priority as summer wanes.
the sickly fern was in and amongst lots of other sickly ferns. this one, however, made it into our hands. “‘it’s $7.50,” i complained, “that’s a lot for a fern that looks like it’s not going to make it.” plus it felt like so many plants there needed people to care for them. i felt a little overwrought looking at all the dried-up herbs and annuals, perennials outgrowing their pots, the potted canna lilies and small ornamental trees fallen, laying on the concrete.
we pondered it – like we do most purchases – and decided to adopt the fern, bring it home, nurture it and hope for the best.
when we checked out, it rang up at $3.75 – half-price – making it a bit more palatable.
we placed it carefully in the backseat of big red and told it we were bringing it to a new home. we told it we would take care of it and not to worry – the first item of business was to get it some fresh water and sprinkle its crunchy-dry fronds.
it doesn’t really take much to take care of a fern. “ferny” as we dubbed it (because we are clever like that) perked up as soon as it started drinking in much-needed water.
devising a way to hang it from the ladder (three old shower curtain hooks did the trick!) we placed it in its new home. it immediately looked proud and we decided that next year we would go straight to the ferns for the ladder-on-the-deck.
now, as summer continues to wane, we are watching our tomatoes and mint start to lose their exuberance. the jalapeños are still trying to make new little baby peppers and the chives are pretty much going strong. our licorice plants all seem happy and so do the vines growing from the actual sweet potatoes we planted in dirt. but the other flowers are showing signs of fall coming, the ornamental grass plumes are changing color, the day lily flower shoots have browned and are ready for pulling. we are gearing up to enter a new season.
i wonder how ferny will do as time goes on – and september becomes october. i wonder if it will survive moving indoors as we are not necessarily intuitive green-thumbers.
no matter what, we will do the best we can. and if calling it by name (along with all the other named plants in our home) and cheering it on – best-guessing its care with the help of our horticultural friend google – will keep it nurtured and thriving, then we have set our course.
i am convinced of the direct relation between nurturing and flourishing. and that – nurturing – we can do.
when i was sixteen and seventeen and eighteen i spent a lot of time hanging out with crunch. he and i worked together at the dive center and were close pals. his fiancée lived a bit of a distance away so she left me to “keep an eye on him”. crunch didn’t need any eye kept on him – he was a straight-up good person. nevertheless, he became a part of the family and we had grand adventures together, most of them out on the water somewhere.
in the way that people stay with you through the decades of your life, there are certain things – expressions – behaviors – you take from them. there are several i cannot even begin to describe that i learned from crunch. one, though, came from spending a lot of time with him and our constant companions: our cameras.
because of crunch i am obsessive-compulsive about my horizon line. i can hear him in my head – keep your horizon straight, straight, straight. it has haunted me for the last almost fifty years. that’s a long time to hear someone in your head. but it never fails – every single time i take a photograph – whether it’s on water or high in the mountains, canyonlands or a wildflower meadow adjacent to a hiking trail – i can hear crunch’s voice: keep it straight.
there are worse things. things that have stood the test of time that i hear other people saying, things that are deflating or hurtful. so keep-the-horizon-straight is harmless and, actually, good advice…even over and over and over.
we are fortunate to be able to walk along lake michigan any time of day or night. a few steps and we are on the path that takes us past the rocky shoreline to the beach and the marina. every day we try to walk at least a 3.5 mile loop – and every day one of us comments about how lucky we are.
i have only been out on lake michigan’s waters once. on a sailboat a long time ago. i don’t remember much about it – it was an extraordinarily busy time of life and i think my sail got lost in the shuffle of other memories to remember. i’m fairly certain it was lovely – to set sail and be adrift in this lake-that-looks-like-an-ocean, this lake with so many personalities and moods, this big lake whose very energy we can feel at our house.
i always thought i would grow up to live on the shores of long island sound…somewhere along the rocky cliffs that fall to the beach, sunrises and sunsets over the horizon of water a part of my every day.
it didn’t turn out that way. i left long island prematurely, fleeing trauma and fear.
in recent days i have been back there – restoring my relationship with what was my beloved home, the water that grounded me for all those earlier years.
i still don’t think i will end up living on the shores of long island sound now. but here i am, mere steps away from a beautiful great lake – with access to it for day’s beginning or day’s end.
and as i stand on the rocks alongside the water’s edge, the sailboat – adrift – is lit by the west-sinking sun. i snap photos of it as it glows and i hear crunch – ever-present – “keep the horizon straight!”
our out-of-town guest had never been here before. not to our state, not to our town, not to the shores of lake michigan, not to our home.
staying at the local hotel right on the harbor channel, she sent photographs right after arriving, stunned by how beautiful it was. she repeatedly expressed this – along the lakefront, on the channel, by the rocks, in the gardens, in our neighborhood, in our old house, on our patio.
through her eyes we saw Home.
this week i passed through my 37th anniversary of living in our old house. more than half my entire life, it’s longer than i’ve lived anywhere else.
sometimes – no matter where you live – you stop seeing it…really seeing it.
and you get caught up in every everything else.
and you miss the sweet creak of the floors, the breeze off the lake, summer sunlight streaming in all the windows, the fresh basil in ball jars in the kitchen, the dogga-holes in the backyard, the giant pots filled with flowers in the parks, people out sidewalk-walking together, the birds lined up for grape jelly, sunset’s eastern sky over the water, the sound of children giggling in the surf at the beach or an amplified live band drifting over from by the harbor.
it might benefit each of us – even for just a few minutes – to just follow the advice of this chalk artist:
no matter what someone wants you to believe about something, facts will stand the test of time, they will rise to the surface like a bobber on a lake, floating in incandescent shine into the air, ready for discovery. facts will – and should – lead the way, speaking loudly, burning down all the detriment of machinated false narrative, twisted stories that serve no purpose to truth.
they will come back to grind out the stump. the crew said it will likely be a few weeks before the grinders get around to it, but eventually they’ll come and remove the last vestiges of our sturdy old tree.
after that we can get on a list for a new tree, the cost partially underwritten by the city. there’s a list of tree varieties one might choose from, depending upon availability. we’ve printed the current list and have begun studying trees – like one studies refrigerators or washers and dryers when you need one – immersing in photographs and information and reviews.
when we are officially on the list we will request our tree; we are actually hoping – with all the space out front – we might be able to purchase two. we’ll see. and then, maybe in the fall (or next year?) it (or they) will be planted in our parkway and we will start a new relationship with our tree or trees. it will signal a new time, a new era. and, in the way that these things go, it will also mark time. a new tree for both of us in this time of daisy-pathing.
there is something about a fresh start, something inviting, even compelling. a chance to write new narrative, from a different starting gate.
i can feel it – that fresh start – peeking out from around the corner. it has showered me from time to time with its freeing grace. and when it does, it is euphoric, a buzz of sorts – intoxicating like dopamine. releasing all harm that has been tightly held – stored – a toxic i did not choose but which has stayed with me through all the silent times.
and i hope – against hope – that soon i will also be a new tree. soon, there will be a sapling i can nurture. soon, there will be new growth, new branches and leaves. soon, all manner of the old pain-inducing stump inside will be gone.
and our new maple – or honeylocust – or ginkgo – and i will freshstart together.
