The Courage Of A Seed

Water Lily Seed Head, © Joan Z. Rough

Water Lily Seed Head,
© Joan Z. Rough

“In nature, we are quietly offered countless models of how to give ourselves over to what appears dark and hopeless, but which ultimately is an awakening beyond our imagining.  All around us, everything small and buried surrenders to a process that none of the buried parts can see.  We call this process seeding and this innate surrender allows everything edible and fragrant to break ground into a life of light that we call Spring.  As a seed buried in earth can’t imagine itself as an orchid or hyacinth, neither can a heart packed with hurt or a mind filmed over with despair imagine itself loved or at peace.  The courage of the seed is that, once cracking, it cracks all the way.  To move through the dark into blossom is the work of soul.”

Mark Nepo, Seven Thousand Ways To Listen, Staying close to What Is Sacred

 Last Sunday, found me shuffling through a pile of books that I had started reading and put aside because something else called to take their place for the moment.

I had started reading Mark Nepo’s, Seven Thousand Ways To Listen, in early December.  Wanting to preserve the sweetness of the experience of reading Nepo’s words, I opened it daily, reading only a few pages or even just a few paragraphs at a time.  I would ponder what I had just read, savoring the wisdom, as I might a raspberry lozenge that I don’t want to dissolve on my tongue too quickly.

Obviously, it was slow going and in the midst of total chaos and my failed time management in February, I set it aside until things calmed down and I could once again tap into the richness of Nepo’s writing.

Sunday, I opened the book slowly to the page where I had left off, starving for a shot of spiritual wisdom. I sat in my reading chair, while a chorus of birds sang just outside my window, and read the words above.

It was like a homecoming … finding a long-lost relative who I haven’t seen in years.  I was awed by the words and found myself rereading them over and over, filling up the empty spaces in my heart that had been drained over the past month or two.

I am so ready to begin reading just a bit of this book again every day … without rushing, so that the words settle in my soul and I again carry within me the courage of a seed.

What are you reading?  Do you have a book that you cherish and read only a few sentences at a time?

Don’ Give Up

Grandlings, Zoe and Noah on the Downtown Mall.

Grandlings, Zoe and Noah on the Downtown Mall.

I’ve been running into those words often for a couple of days now as I try to get myself back into my daily routine and at work on my memoir.  It’s been a crazy couple of weeks in which the routine, the writing, exercise, and getting enough sleep have taken a backseat to other things.

The loss of Brody took a number of days before the waves of grief that overtook me became fewer.  During that time I mostly sat and cried, unable concentrate on the simplest of daily activities.

Five days later the annual Virginia Festival of Book started here in Charlottesville, and with it came a visit from a friend whom I’d never before met in person, but with who I knew I had much in common.  We’d emailed and made comments back and forth on each other’s blogs and even talked on the phone once.  Shirley Showalter of 100 Memoirs was someone I’d stumbled upon on the Internet and it turns out she lives only about two hours away.  Her book, Blush, will be in print and on bookstore shelves sometime in the fall.  She’d been planning to visit the Festival of the Book and I invited her to stay with me here in my home.

What a wonderful time it was.  We went to a few of the festival sessions together and spent hours talking and reading to each other from our memoirs. Way ahead of me on the writing and the publishing angles, she is an inspiration and I know that if she lived any closer I’d often be on her doorstep asking unending questions. When Shirley returned home l was filled with excitement, new ideas and directions for my writing as well as pinpointing publishing options.

For a few days I struggled with catching up on all that I had let slide for a week.  The daily rounds of laundry, preparing food for the upcoming Easter weekend and visit from my daughter’s family took up most of my time. Not to be forgotten was taking time to play with our new adoptee, Max, who snuggled his way into our bed and hearts, easing the sadness of Brody’s untimely death.  There was little time for writing, except for capturing notes as I remembered things I would change in my memoir, made lists of new books to read, and emailed a few new contacts. I also just needed to sit with myself to bring the roar of excitement to a lower level in which I could think more clearly, keeping myself from being overwhelmed by all that I wasn’t getting done.

Easter weekend was a blast with my Grandlings (read grandchildren) staying with us, sleeping in our basement, “Harry Potter” room, which looks somewhat like a set from the movie.  We gifted Lisa and Deena with a stay in a nearby hotel so that they could have a few evenings without the kids. We spent lots of time walking and laughing and on Saturday helped to surprise Mark’s stepdaughter Casey on her 25th birthday with a lovely party.  It was the first time in a number of years in which my kids were all here together. We joyfully spent our time celebrating each other.  As I grow older occasions  like this past weekend become more and more important to me.

Casey blowing out her candles.

Casey blowing out her candles.

We’re all back in the daily grind now, and I can’t help but feel a bit let down.  I’ve not felt like writing and last night caught myself thinking that maybe this memoir I’m working on is a waste of time.

I’ve so enjoyed the distractions of friends, parties, great food, laughter and being with my kids, that returning to the serious work of reliving the past and moving through it to healing, seems more painful than usual. The sunshine and the bursting forth of new life is stealing my attention and my need to get my hands into the earth is growing.  Words flow onto the page with difficulty and I struggle to make myself sit down and dive back into what was.  Time marches on and there are so many things I still want to do.

But I am returning to my work, knowing that it is something I must do, even when it doesn’t feel good. I’ve moved my September 1st deadline for a finished first draft to November 1st, and plan on giving myself a few breaks along the way.  We’ re making plans to kidnap Zoe and Noah for a week this summer when we’ll ride the train up to Washington and take in the museums.  We’ll also go swimming, read books together, see a silly movie or two and just be with each other.

In the meantime, I’ll not give up working on my story.  I love the writing, even when I hate it. I’m growing way beyond the trauma that once made me hide from life.  The secret is to integrate the past and the present, stay out in the sunlight, breathe deeply, and enjoy every single moment that comes my way.  Time will do as it will.

“Never give up on a dream just because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway.”  Earl Nightingale

Meet Max

IMG_0652I can’t help myself.  Today is the day I usually post a quote that inspires me.  But we’ve a new member of the family and just can’t wait to introduce him to you.  If you haven’t read this blog before you need to know that I love dogs. There are many posts to check out here if you do, too.

Just over a week ago we lost our dog, Brody, to pneumonia.  My family, the people who took such good care of him at day care every Thursday, and Brody’s veterinarian team were all devastated.  He had lived with us for only six weeks and I could not understand how I would be able to go on without filling the enormous hole he left in my heart.

My very kind and sensitive dog trainer friend, Karen, sent me a picture of a picture of Max and so began the task of my beginning to come to terms with what I now understand to be part of my job description in this life.  I was an abused child. I find it comforting and necessary to take in small abused and abandoned dogs. That does not mean that I stop grieving for all of those gentle souls who have shared their time with me.  There will always be cracks and crevices in my heart through which sorrow and tears will seep when I think of them.

This new little guy in named Max and he came to live with us this past Sunday.  He weighs in at about thirteen pounds and is mostly, if not all, a Shih Tzu. He lived with a single mom and her two kids.  One day she decided she’d had enough and packed up the kids and the dog and dropped them off at her mother’s house.  He was turned into a shelter because the kid’s grandmother couldn’t take care of the children and the dog, too.

Max hadn’t been clipped for a good long time and was covered with mats and infested with fleas.  The caring folks at the Louisa Humane Society, took him from the shelter. They had him shaved down to his skin and put him in a foster home until he could be adopted out.  His foster parents took great care of him and were kind and generous to be able to give him up.  I would not have been able to.

IMG_0632He is a sweetheart of a dog. Gentle, quiet, and he loves to cuddle more than anything else.  He and Sam are beginning to make friends and Lily, who tried to avoid him altogether, has finally given in.  Just this morning I found her rubbing up against Max, the way cats do to mark their belongings and territory.

Yesterday, Max passed his test at doggie day care with flying colors.  I took him in for a brief visit where he was introduced to a number of other dogs to make sure he won’t cause trouble in the big day care pack.  Tomorrow will find him there, mostly following big brother, Sam, around and figuring out the ins and outs of day care.

He’s been sleeping at night in a crate since he’s been here, but at 5:30 this morning he woke me, asking to be let outside.  When he returned instead of going back into the crate, he jumped up on the bed and curled up next to me under the covers.  Uh-0h!  I wonder where he’ll want to sleep tonight.  Although I prefer that he sleep in the crate, (Sleeping with dogs in the summer time can get overly warm.) he just might get the best of me.IMG_0630

Missing Brody

Brody and big brother, Sam.

Brody and big brother, Sam.

A week ago this past Friday, Brody died of pneumonia. He apparently had it for the entire six weeks that he blessed this household with his big heart and huge personality.

He lived every moment of his life with gusto.  When he was afraid, he turned snarly. He thought he was the biggest dog in the world and if he didn’t like you, he tried to make you as afraid of him, as he was of you.

When he slept, he slept deeply.  He loved lying on his back in my lap and have his tummy rubbed.  His head would drop toward the floor, his eyes would roll back into his head, and he’d snore a little.

He ate like it was going out of style, afraid that someone might steal his treasure, but there was no food aggression.  He never tried to get Sam’s food away from him and never seemed to be jealous that Sam was getting more attention than he was.

He played the way he did everything else, emptying a large basket filled with toys in minutes, seeking out the noisiest squeakers he could find.  He’d roll on his back, flipping his chosen plaything up in the air, catching it in his mouth and between his paws.  The living room floor was always a maze of stuff that Brody brought out to play, and if I picked it all up and put it back in the basket, he’d immediately begin emptying the basket over again.

He was always happy to see me, running at full speed through the door and into my lap just the night before he died, after Bill had picked him up from “Doggy Daycare.”

He loved with every cell of his body, consuming those he loved with his deep, dark eyes and his smile. Mornings, I’d lean out of bed, open his crate, and he’d jump up on the bed, waking me with his kisses. He loved Miss Lily, the cat, with as much love as he had for Bill and I, and simply adored his big brother, Sam.

Except for some coughing and sneezing that became nonstop the night before he died, he never showed signs of being sick.  He ate well, played well, lived well.  He had been examined by at least three veterinarians and they never picked up that his lungs were filled with fluid. His presence and his passing have served to remind me of how all of us must live … with gusto … with love … taking nothing for granted.

We all miss you, Sweet Brody, but we know you’re up in heaven somewhere, amongst the other angels, Molly, Charlie, Peppermint, Hannah, and Cleo, who blessed our lives before you. We’re taking your cue to live well and will soon be welcoming another little doggy soul into the place you kept warm for him.

IMG_0625

Brody, taking a nap.

Who’s Afraid Of The Big Bad Wolf?

Brody is afraid of big, bad strangers!

Brody is afraid of big, bad strangers.

Fear can be a good thing. It keeps us safe and on our toes when we dodge an out of control car. Or when we walk down an unlit street in middle of the night hoping the dog will pee so we can go home and back to bed. When we’re afraid, our senses do double time. We hear the snap of a twig off in the distance, the crunch of gravel underfoot … things that we may not notice during daylight hours when we’re not on guard.

As children, fear makes us behave when we know that we’ll be beaten if we don’t. We fear hurricanes, tornados, and earthquakes. It allows us to make decisions more quickly, as a jolt of adrenalin wakes up our response system. We then choose between fight and flight in a heartbeat.

But fear can also be a bad thing. If you spend your life being so afraid that you dare not leave your home, you are missing out on a whole lot of good living. To a certain extent, everyone is afraid … of losing a loved one, being abandoned, and dying.  We’re afraid of the boogeyman that haunts the hollow tree down the street and the bedraggled old woman who walks by every day carrying all of her possessions in two worn shopping bags.  Sometimes she stops and stares and all we want to do us run in the opposite direction.

I have spent a good portion of my own life living in fear.  I was afraid of my father because he was mean, hateful, and abused me. I was afraid of my mother because she didn’t protect me from him. For a good long portion of my life I’ve been afraid of being useless, unloved, and being alone. I’ve lived on adrenalin, ready to run like hell or fight to the end.

The most important question I was ever been asked was, “What are you so afraid of?”  At the time, I was unable to come up with an answer for the psychologist who sat across his desk from me. I was twenty-five years old and a new mother. I’ve spent the years since trying to find the answer to that question. It’s been a long, difficult journey of digging down so deep it’s made my heart bleed at times. I’ve got a handle on it now and continue to work at bringing up the rest of the remains of my somewhat fractured life.

Over the last few weeks I’ve had the pleasure of becoming a mom to one of the cutest, funniest, little balls of fuzz I’ve ever been acquainted with. Brody is a bundle of joy … happy, respectful of his big brother Sam, and ready to wash your face if you smile at him. He often streaks through the house with odd bits of laundry I’ve neglected to pick up from the floor, like my bra or underpants.  He loves toys and at the end of the day the whole basket of dog toys that Sam is usually bored with, are spread from one end of the house to the other.

But the joy ends when someone he doesn’t know walks through the door.  We know very little about him, except that he’s four year old and was given up by his owners because they could no longer care for him. He supposedly lived in a barn for a good long while, so most recently hasn’t had what I would call a real home.  All we can do is guess at the rest.

The problem is that Brody is afraid of losing his space and this place he now calls home.  When my brother arrived a few weeks ago for a four-day visit, Brody was not comfortable.  It took him the four days to get to the point where he trusted Zed enough to allow him to pick him up and hold him.

He snapped and bit a young man I was trying to hire as a dog walker for a time when we would be away for a whole day. Brody broke the skin, but there was no blood.  Needless to say that didn’t work out very well.

He seems to be mostly afraid of men and especially my son. As long as Mark sits still on the couch, Brody will be calm. But as soon as Mark gets ready to leave there is hell to pay, with Brody behind him, barking, growling and lunging trying to get hold of a pant leg. Should Mark turn around and face him, Brody backs way off with his tail between his legs. It’s a serious and scary situation. I don’t want him to bite anyone, yet I want my family and friends to feel welcome in my home, especially by this little guardian of mine.  And I have no intention of giving him up.

Because I know and understand fear so well myself, I feel nothing but love and compassion for this sweet, little being.  He is always on alert. Even when I think he is sound asleep in my lap, he’ll rise to the challenge of the slightest sound that may mean an acorn has just fallen from a tree outside or that we are being invaded by aliens. They are things that I can’t hear or smell myself. Things that lie hidden in his past that I will never know of.

But I am bound and determined to help this little guy through his fear so that he can live a peaceful life. And while I’m helping him, he is helping me discover more things about fear and myself that I was not yet aware of. Every day I ask both myself and Brody what we’re so afraid of. With the help of a dog trainer friend, I know I can help him have a chance at a happy life and my own healing will continue.

What do you fear?  What do you do to keep your head on straight when you’re afraid?  Do you whistle a happy tune or hide?