Companionship

August 12, 2012 By

Sam the Man, also known as Sampson, Sambo, Little Sam and one big hearted dog.

Sam has lost three of his best friends this past year.  Last November it was Molly, the little Maltese/Terrier mix with whom he fell head over heels in love with the first time he met her.  They were very close and when she died, he grieved along with the rest of us.  After a month or so it seemed as though he was okay with her being gone.  He enjoyed being the only dog in the house, finding it easy to break the rules we had set up for them when there were two dogs instead of just one.

We always allowed them up on the bed for afternoon naps, but at night they both slept on their own cushy beds on the floor next to us. They seemed to understand the difference between afternoon and night and rarely jumped up on the bed during the wee hours unless there was a thunderstorm or one of them had to pee.  After Molly died, Sam gradually made his way up onto the ottoman at the foot of our bed.  He’d get comfortable and when he was sure we were asleep and the sound of snoring filled the air, he’d quietly move up onto the bed.  If he dared, he’s snuggle up against a human leg. Not liking hot legs, we’d gently move him back to the ottoman, until one night we said, “The poor boy is lonely,” and left it at that.  By then, he knew he should sleep in the middle of the bed, not up against his human’s bodies.

Of late he’s been looking sad.  He wasn’t eating much and wasn’t bringing us his favorite toys for us to play with.  Just two weeks ago, the day after his best kitty friend, Peppermint died, Bill and I left for a week visiting our grandkids. Though Sam was here at home with his beloved, Bobbie, who always comes in to stay with him while we’re away, he got even more depressed. When we got home he wasn’t eating.  His tail, usually a happy wig-wag machine and a sign of how he is feeling, didn’t wag much. I was very concerned and knew he was deep in mourning for his three family members, Molly, Cleo the cat who died in June and now Peppermint.

I knew what the best medicine would be and sent a message out into the Universe to see what we could do about it.  The following day, when I went to the SPCA to pick up Pepper’s ashes, I took a walk past the dogs up for adoption.  They were mostly big hounds and pit bulls, not matches for Sam.

Next, I went to the pet supply store hoping to find a new exciting dog food that might tempt him into eating again.  I walked through the aisles and turning a corner entered into a larger open space. There right in front of me was the cutest little terrier mix I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.  He came over to me, greeting me as if we were long-lost friends.  Terry, was one of the dogs at an adoption event the store was hosting for Animal Connections, a local dog rescue group, that specializes in small dogs.  It was through them that we found Molly, ten or so years ago.  I knew this was the little angel dog that would be powerful medicine for Sam.  And if Sam and Molly had been able to have puppies together, this little man was what they would have looked like.

Terry. Sometimes I think of him as Terrence

I rushed home and brought Bill and Sam back to the store to meet  one year old, Terry.  When they met, Sam’s tail was waving a mile a minute and we took them both outside for a little pee party in the grass.  I was happy, Terry was happy, and Sam was happy. But Bill was reluctant.  We’d promised each other we that we wouldn’t fill the house back up with animals again and thought Sam would be fine after a while.  He’s also been wanting to travel more and knows I don’t like to be away  from my animal companions for very long.  He thought that the more animals there are in the house, the more reluctant I would be to leave them.  Not so.  When it comes to my furry friends, whether it’s one or ten, they are my special companions and I don’t like to be away from them for very long.  I’d find my life empty without them.

Lily and Terry

At the end of our meeting, we set up a day for Terry to come to our house for an overnight.  That would give him and Sam plenty of time to get to know each other. On Thursday morning when Terry’s foster mom, Lynette, brought him over, Sam was very excited.  Within two hours, beside myself with joy, I called Lynette to tell her that Terry would be staying with us forever.  We’ll sign the final adoption papers today. But in heart and soul, no papers are necessary. He’s ours and we’re his already.

Sam is eating again and playing for the first time in many months with a new companion who he wanted and needed. Terry has a new forever home and seems to be as delighted with us as we are with him.  He loves to play and this morning finally coaxed Lily, our remaining cat, to play with him.  The floors are a jumble of toys that haven’t been used in a long time and when Sam gets tired and needs a nap, Terry carries on by himself, chasing a tennis ball he tosses around for himself. Or sometimes he crashes next to Sam. Bill adores Terry as much as Sam and I do. He whispered to me that if I wanted him to, he’d put it in writing that I was right all along.  Companionship, of all kinds, is big, powerful medicine.

The Boys

Filed Under: Animals I Love, family, Friendships, Gratefulness, Life, love, marriage, Mental Health, Travels Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,

Meltdown: What Happened After A Recent Trip And How Not To Let It Happen Again

June 29, 2012 By

Lily and Sam taking a nap.

It’s Tuesday. I just walked in the house after a six-hour plane trip from Vermont.  It was a fast paced and emotion filled trip seeing friends, family members and revisiting old haunts.  I’m tired, but before I can sit down and pull all my lose threads together and get back to my ordinary life I need to make a list of groceries so that Bill and I can have something to eat for dinner.  Out the door I fly, back into the car that just delivered me from the airport and head out to Whole Foods.  I’m back a little while later with fresh local produce and some Thai spiced chicken breasts from the deli counter.

The older I get the more exhausting travel seems to be. I’ve been up since five AM and it’s now three in the afternoon.  I need to lie down for a quick nap, but my suitcase lies open and unpacked in the middle of the bed. Sam is sniffing around in the dirty clothes trying to figure out where I’ve been. The easiest thing to do is to do the unpacking now and take a nap later.  I haul the laundry downstairs and since there is so much of it and tomorrow will be a hugely busy day, I set the washing machine on regular and walk away as the tub fills with water. Upstairs there is a pile of mail for me to sort through and I notice that the answering machine is blinking. There are eight messages to listen to.  My feet hurt. I have a headache and that list of places I need to be tomorrow is attacking me.  I need to take a nap, but there is so much to do. I only have two days to get my life back in order before a good friend comes to visit.

It’s now Sunday, almost a week since I’ve been back. Susan, a friend I haven’t seen in several years left an hour ago. This weekend was the only time we could fit in some time to see each other. We spent our days together talking about what we’ve each been up to, enjoyed delicious food together and stayed up way past my bedtime.  In between conversations, thoughts and feelings about my trip to Vermont kept whispering in my ear, telling me they needed to breathe. They wanted out of my head and onto the pages of my journal. But it will most likely be another few years before I see Susan again and I didn’t pay any attention to what I needed to do.

I’ve watered the garden, checked emails and Facebook and just finished lunch.  My head hurts and my stomach is churning like a cement mixer and I feel my eyes begin to fill with tears. My weekly calendar, a page I print out every weekend so that I know what is ahead of me for the coming week, sits in front of me.  Tuesday and Wednesday, days I always set aside as “My Days,” are filled with things that won’t necessarily be relaxing or creative  There is no time for sitting in the garden, reading or writing the next piece of my memoir.  I’m still playing catch-up and on Friday another very dear friend will be arriving to spend a good piece of time with me.  I so look forward to her visit.  We met two years ago at a writing retreat and we’ve become fast friends ever since, talking by phone every week and trying to come up with plans so that we can get together.

I’m feeling the first pangs of an incoming meltdown.  I start breathing deeply and envision myself on an empty beach. As I inhale fresh air into my lungs I say, “ocean” to myself.  On the exhale, I say, “wave,“ and find myself breathing to the rhythm of waves washing up on shore and then returning to the sea.  This is what I do when I meditate and also when I’m feeling unsafe and highly stressed.  But today it’s a struggle and my mind rushes back to all of the things I need to do before Sharon arrives. I’m shaky and I find myself entering that no-man’s land of panic, all alone and unable to pull myself back.

The tears start flowing. I am impatient with Bill and my world seems to be collapsing around me.  I still haven’t written much about my trip except for a brief blog post, which is more of a travelogue than anything else. It doesn’t cover what being in Vermont meant to me.  I feel as though time has boxed me into a cell without access to paper, pens, or my computer.  I want to write it all out but as I sit down to do it, my Inner Critic arrives, seating herself on my shoulder. She starts hammering, “You’ll never  write your memoir, so why bother feeling so glum.  Just turn the computer off and go clean out the refrigerator.”  My Angel of Sanity, who just flew in says, “Your tired. You need some alone time. Cancel all of your appointments for the next week. Be calm. Trust the process.”  I take a nap, then a walk, wondering if I will ever write again.

A week has passed and all is well.  I had a meltdown.  Sharon knew as only good friends do, that I needed to be by myself.  It wasn’t the perfect time for her either, so we bagged our get-together and decided to do it another time.

I’ve spent the week taking it easy.  Being alone, naps and going to bed early help a lot. I cancelled some of my appointments and I started writing. Slowly at first. A day or two later it began to flow and I feel as though I’ve returned to the land of the living.  Ms. Inner Critic has been banished and my angel is sitting over on the book shelf, looking smug, trying not to say, “I told you so.”

Three days ago Sharon called and asked if she could take me to lunch.  She and her daughter, Amy, were on their way to New York for a workshop/retreat.  She arrived too late for lunch but we had a wonderful dinner together.  They stayed the night and went their way early the next morning.  I loved seeing them and they didn’t intrude on my recovery.   Actually, seeing Sharon, helped a lot.

What I’ve learned:

  1. I need time after a trip like this last one to rest and process what just happened.

2.  I need to take plenty of time to be alone.

3.  I mustn’t fill my calendar with appointments right after a trip.  I need to give myself time to readjust.

4.  I need to be aware of how I’m feeling and be honest with myself and those around me who need to know what they’re up against if they plan on hanging out with me.

I have another heavy-duty, emotionally challenging trip coming up in October, when I go up to Long Island where I was born and spent my childhood. I will scatter my mother’s ashes in the places she loved the most during her lifetime.  And I will hopefully visit with cousins I haven’t seen in fifty years.  Before I leave I will revisit this post and take heed.

 If like me you suffer from overstimulation and have meltdowns when life gets too busy and emotional, how do to keep yourself from going ballistic?

Filed Under: family, Friendships, Memoir, Mental Health, Navigating Through Life, Time, Travels, Vermont, Writing Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

My Summer Garden

May 26, 2012 By

The back yard.

The artist is the confidant of nature,  flowers carry on dialogues with him through the graceful bending of their stems and the harmoniously tinted nuances of their blossoms.  Every flower has a cordial word which nature directs towards him.  – Auguste Rodin

It’s been a perfect spring for reworking the garden.  Throughout May rain has been abundant with regular showers during the late afternoons and the dark of night. Just a few nights ago we had well over an inch of rain which came down fast, heavy and loud, leaving the new additions to my gardens dancing.

Most of the work is done for the summer except for continuous weeding and deadheading to keep the blossoms coming. There is space available for more plants but I wait to find the one that calls my name as I walk past it at the nursery. Or I might marvel at one in someone else’s garden and then do an all out search to find it.

Keeping the garden moist enough so that the plants thrive is another chore throughout the warm season.  In the past I’ve been guilty of over watering many plants causing them to die because they don’t like wet feet.  So this year I’m being extra wary, using a meter that tests the moisture level of the soil when it’s looking too dry.

When we bought this house almost two years ago the bank out front was covered with low growing junipers. They were green year round and were easy to maintain, but not colorful or interesting.  Last summer they started turning brown but then came back to life in the fall.  This spring there was a massive die-out and we removed them all, replacing them with a much more interesting selection of plants with the help of my gardening mentor, Maria. She and her sons have worked with me for years, doing the big, heavy jobs.

The front of the house with newly planted bank.

This year she redesigned the front bank and did all the planting. Many of the them came from Maria’s own nursery as well as from Lowe’s, where at this time of year their plant benches are overflowing with low-priced shrubs and flowers. The secret is to check in daily to see what new goodies have been delivered.

I took on the gardens in the back of the house. There is another bank above the driveway but it’s not the back breaker the one out front is.  Most of it’s in deep shade, which I love. I also added a few annuals to a sunny location for cut flowers.  I love Zinnias and Cosmos. They add boldness and grace to any flower arrangement.

Every morning as I look out into the gardens my heart swells with joy. Simply passing through from the house to the garage, any darkness of mood disappears as I take in the colors and textures around me.  Yellow day lilies, hardy white gardenias and purple coneflowers offset by a riot of soft and sharp greens make the day bright even if the sky is steel-gray.

The shade garden out back.

There is so much more to come as the season progresses and I find myself on the other side of summer.  Late bloomers and fall colors hold until the last leaf drops and the flowers go to seed.  I’ll fill an album with photos as the summer passes, so that next January when it’s cold and dark, my inspiration will continue.  Without my garden I become disconnected, unable to write or paint. It fills me with life, love, and keeps me centered. It feeds my soul.

 I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.  – Claude Monet

A reblooming day lily.

PS  I found the quotes above on one my very favorite blogs. Check out Terri Windling’s artwork and words here.

Filed Under: Life, love, Matters of the Spirit, The Garden, The Seasons Tagged With: , , , ,

What I Have To Say

April 1, 2012 By

The floodgates are straining. They cannot be opened up just a little.  I don’t have the strength to hold them so that only some of the run-off leaks out.  It’s all or nothing. By letting the stream overflow on it’s own, I risk being swept away by the torrent when the gates can longer resist the building pressure of words on the other side. Just a few weeks ago there was a void so deep that I was sure it would never fill again.  Such is the writing life and to be expected, I suppose.

For me it seems to be about satisfaction with life in general.  When the river dried up about a month ago I allowed myself to do other things.  I played, pottered about the house, straightening, neatening, and allowing myself to be at peace with the drought of words. I had time each day to notice the moon and stars as evening slowly overtook my world.  I sat and marveled at the early swelling of flower buds, the unfurling of leaves and a robin chasing his image reflected in the side view mirror of a neighbor’s car.  He was  intent on capturing the heart of the lady robin who appeared to be flirting with him. She disappeared each time he would try reaching out to her. I could feel his frustration growing. Can the desire for a mate and the desire to write be the same?  If it has to do with love, it must be so.

Instead of playing with words, I’ve been planting seedlings in the garden.  A few days ago I planted over three dozen plants: Christmas ferns, bleeding heart, tiny shooting stars, native columbine and Alleghany spurge. They are happily growing in the corner of the yard under blooming dogwoods and forest green hemlocks. Now that corner is aglow with new life, Mr. Robin appears to have found a real Mrs. and they are carrying dried grasses and leaves to a newfound nesting spot.  I’m at my desk writing words.

I’ve come to believe that the muse will never abandon me. We need a break from each other every now and then, like two lovers who go off to travel separate corners of the world.  They return vowing never to leave each other again.  They will of course separate again, but only for a time, because as the old saying goes: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I wrote the following poem back in 1991 when I was struggling with words and life in general.  Writing it helped me release the pressure building inside my head and my heart.

Words

Push
Through
Spreading
Fissures
I force
Them back
Repress
Meaning
Sounds
Dismiss them
As inadequate
Already said
Yet they must
Begin somewhere
As if there is
A place to start
Here on this line
Reaching those
Who would hear
What I have to say

A few of the plants I put in.

Filed Under: Gratefulness, love, Poetry, The Garden, The Seasons, Writing Tagged With:

Trusting Love

March 7, 2012 By

Hellebores

“I was lying in bed one day, thinking about my death, wondering if I’d be conscious enough to talk to my children, what I’d like to leave to them; famous last words as it were.

The key word is trust.  Trust everything that happens in life, even those experiences that cause pain will serve to better you in the end.  It’s easy to lose the inner vision, the greater truths, in the face of tragedy.  There really in no such thing as suffering for the sake of suffering.  Along with developing a basic trust in the rhyme and reason of life itself, I advise you to trust your intuition.  It is a far better guide in the long run than your intellect.

Next on my list is to learn what love is.  It is complete and utter surrender.  That’s a big word, surrender.  It doesn’t mean letting people walk all over you, take advantage of you. It’s when we surrender control, let go of our egos, that all the love in the world is there waiting for us.  Love in not a game, it’s a state of being.”

Henry Miller
from Reflections, edited by Twinka Thiebault

Filed Under: Life, Wise Words Tagged With: ,
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