Zed and Mousse

March 26, 2012 By

Zed with Mousse in the foreground, begging and Sam over to the side.

It’s been a lovely week.  The weather has been astounding with redbud and dogwood popping out overnight in the warmth and humidity that has more in common with early June than March.

My brother, Zed, is visiting from Vermont.  It’s been two years since I’ve seen him and five years since he’s been here in Virginia.  He came accompanied by Mousse, his soul mate and loyal companion. A dachshund, right on the line between a mini and a standard size, Mousse’s silky long hair is the color of rich dark chocolate. His nose, paws, and rear end look as though they’ve been dipped in a bit of caramel. He is well-behaved and a total delight. Sam loves him and they’re happy together, racing around the house at top speed. After a few minutes they collapse, smiling, happy, and panting with long tongues hanging out. Mousse is very respectful of my cats, backing off and giving them lots of space as they try to figure out exactly what he is … a strange kind of cat or just another small, silly dog.  Pepper glares at him but every now and then seems to want to rub up against him and welcome him into the pack.  She thinks she is a small dog rather than a cat.      

Mousse is unlike most dachshunds in that he is a Service Dog and he has made a huge difference in my brother’s life. He loves everyone and is the star of the show wherever he goes, because of his obvious attunement with all of the humans he meets. In a group of people sitting in a circle conversing, he hops from lap to lap checking out each individual’s mood, bringing heartfelt smiles from those who might be stressed from life’s deepest woes. 

Zed struggles with ADD and like myself, has often had difficulty with severe anxiety. Mousse brings stability to Zed’s life, reminding him to breathe and filling the sometimes deep, dark shadows that follow him with love and comfort. With Mousse there is no high blood pressure, only the sweet softness of his kisses and the unconditional love that every one of us craves.  Mousse and Zed have been together for two or three years and there is a world of difference in how Zed sees the world since his Service Dog arrived in his life. He is happy, calm, and with his small pal by his side, Zed is better able to deal with what at times are difficult social situations. Introductions are so much easier with Mousse taking the spotlight. Not being able to find the right words to greet someone he’s never met before is less of an issue since the beginning of most conversations are always about the huge presence of that sweet, little dog.

Terri Conti, a friend of Zed’s spent one night with us as well.  A lovely, soft-spoken woman, Terri is a musical powerhouse.  Sitting outside one evening listening to a recording of her playing the accordion, I was swept away to Greece, and a small Taverna where Bill and I enjoyed frosty glasses of white wine and servings of freshly prepared calamari in a spicy tomato sauce, as the sun set over the Aegean Sea. Later, on our piano, Terri played part of the latest piece she is working on, George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. And then she got us singing show tunes, all of us off-key to be sure, but having the time of our lives. It was a totally delightful weekend.

Having my brother here has been very special for me.  We are the only ones left of our small clan and our time together this past week has been a time for reconnecting after years of being apart. We’ve been able to share memories about what it was like growing up with our parents and that helps to keep me inspired to continue writing my memoir. He heads back to Vermont tomorrow and I’ll miss him and Mousse terribly.  As I grow older it’s hard to have him so far away.

Got any treats?



Filed Under: Animals I Love, Childhood, family, Gratefulness, Memoir, Vermont Tagged With: , ,

Seeking Balance

March 17, 2012 By

My growing garden.

 I was feeling blocked, unable to unplug the movie I’d been screening in my head.  Writing a memoir is difficult work, especially since I’ve spent most of my time for the last month reliving parts of my life that were less than pleasant.  I needed a break from the past.

This week, the days were in the mid-seventies and eighties, sunny with a few clouds, but only a drop of much-needed rain. It was almost perfect gardening weather. I did a tad of pruning and pulled weeds. I bought four gorgeous hellebores in full bloom and this morning tucked them in the ground on what was once a bank of nothing but Ivy.

In Charlottesville, as in most regions of the state, there is more Ivy than any other kind of plant. It can easily overtake a stonewall and bring it crashing down. It can kill trees, shrubs and any plant that decides to take it on.  Last fall I hired a man to pull up all the Ivy on that bank and we built a small patio on top of the rise. This spring my project is to fill the empty garden space with shade loving plants. Hellebores that often bloom in late January, ferns, and hostas are the most likely candidates. But there are many others that will not be overlooked. Since doing my daily memoir writing was not happening anyway, I figured it was a good time to start.

The garden is a perfect place to come to terms with what’s bothering me. Among the plants and the promises of spring I can do some inner weeding.  When I spend time outside with plants, allowing my hands to dig in the soil, my mind and heart opens, awakening to earth messages and spirits sent at this time of year to heal the land and its creatures after a long, dark winter.

Here in Virginia, the winter has been a warm one. The two snowfalls we’ve had are the joke of the season. Now the land is alive with trees and shrubs that usually begin blooming in mid-April. Today we had our lawn mowed. It no longer looks like a typical hayfield in late July. I’m anxious to go off to the nurseries and find more plants for my garden.  Spring officially arrives early Tuesday morning and I’m ready to dance into the new season.

My hands and fingers are happy that I’ve dipped them in the warming soil. But now they again itch for the keyboard. My heart and mind are clear, ready to process the next part of my story. I will gently place the words on the blank screen that awaits them, and this time I will try to be continually mindful of the state of my emotions so that the wall that I ran into a few weeks ago doesn’t stop me from moving forward.

For me, balance is the key.  I am not like the tightrope walker who gracefully dances her way along the wire while balancing her umbrella on the tip of a finger.  I need stops along the way where I can take the time to recompose myself.  The garden is one of those places.

Hellebores planted today.

Filed Under: Gratefulness, Life, Matters of the Spirit, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, stories, The Garden, The Seasons, Writing Tagged With: ,

Books

February 23, 2012 By

There is no friend as loyal as a book.
Ernest Hemingway

I love books.  You might say I’m addicted to them.  I have a long list of books at Amazon ready to be purchased.  Right now they are mostly memoirs and books on writing.  I try to order only three or four at a time, but that’s very difficult for me.  They are as tempting as my favorite locally made chocolates or a quart of freshly picked, June strawberries from the farm down the road.  I often tell myself, “I’ll never have enough.” or “I’ll buy it now, because I REALLY NEED it. ”

I also tell myself that my addiction is harmless because books aren’t narcotics or contain alcohol. I’m not into buying diamonds, furs, or private jets.  I don’t need those things and I don’t have that kind of money.  If I did, I’d probably spend it all on books, with a healthy dose of traveling and clothes thrown in.

I’ve been told by those who frequent AA meetings that thoughts like that are called, “Stinking Thinking.” Well, I’m guilty.  And though I’ve known that I’m a bookaholic and do a lot of stinking thinking for a long time, I am in the middle of confirming it as official. We moved to this house almost two years ago.  In the frenzy of the move, my husband and I got rid of a lot of books.  I can’t speak for him, but for me it was difficult.  I chose books that I remembered as not being engaging … that no longer drew me and/or that obviously for one reason or another,  I never should have bought in the first place.  After the move and unbeknownst to me, Bill asked a friend who was helping us to unload all of the boxes of books onto our bookshelves.

I discovered a problem a month or two later when I was looking for one in particular, a favorite poetry book.  All of my books had been unpacked and in some cases packed in such a way that they were all mixed up and out-of-order. You might think I’m a bit anal, but I’ve always grouped genres of books together.  Poetry, Gardening, Nature, Novels, Memoirs, etc.  The only ones I keep in alphabetical order are the poets. There are too many to do otherwise.

So, as wonderful as it seemed to have all of my books unpacked for me, it was a nightmare. I had my work cut out for me.  Just after Christmas, Bill and I decided to finally get our downstairs “Tornado” room put together and unpacked.  It’s underground, where all of the bookcases are located, along with a TV, puzzles, games and a fireplace.  It’s cozy.  Warm in the winter, and cool in the summer.   A perfect place to ride out any storm.

It’s where one night last summer, while Bill was having a meeting of associates, we made everyone go when a tornado warning came across on our emergency weather radio, telling us to take shelter immediately.  We flew to the basement, glasses of wine and crackers and cheese in hand. We sat amongst unpacked boxes and moving rubble for about thirty minutes waiting for the tornado to hit or move on.  One friend laughingly realized she was a “Tornado Virgin,” never having gone through a warning before.   Thankfully, the tornado passed us by and we were safe. No damage had been done, except for the embarrassment of having everyone see the mess and the boxes still needing to be unpacked.  We swore we’d get the room organized.  Reshelving the books was mostly my job since most of them are mine.

Since Christmas I’ve been working a little bit at a time to get my precious tomes in order.  First, I did poetry.  Then came gardening, cooking, and books on using herbs as medicine.  I’m now at work on my books on religion and spirituality, which are many.  I know I could get it all done in one day, but I’m enjoying the slow pace.  Books feel good in my hands.  They smell um, booky. They are filled with wisdom and some actually seem to glow.  No, not like a kindle. Like a real book that’s offering itself to me.

I have discovered that I have many books that I bought and have never read.  As I place each one onto it’s new shelf, I flip through a few pages and immediatley want to sit down and read it from the beginning. There are others I consider to be “old friends” that I’d like to read again or that I simply could never part with.  I started out making a pile of books that I wanted to read for the first time.  I gave up.  There are too many.  And there are three more on their way through the postal system that will be added to the stack by my bedside.

I’m trying to be honest with myself.  I am an addict.  I need to get my problem under control.  Someone suggested that I start going to the library instead of buying books.  That’s all well and good for some, but I like to write comments in books and I’m afraid that wouldn’t do if it belonged to the library.  Maybe I just need to read faster.  Maybe if I stay up later than I normally do and get up earlier I can get them all read.

And just maybe I shouldn’t buy any more until I’ve read the ones I’ve already got … Ah yes, books.  They’re a problem.

Filed Under: Addiction, Books, Life, Memoir, Poetry, stories, wonderings, Writing

Art And War

February 17, 2012 By

I just finished reading a small but hugely important book.  If you are an artist, writer, or anyone who has a project of any kind in mind, but can’t seem to get started, this book is for you.

I’m writing a memoir. It took me a year to say that out loud or to write it down. It’s hard. I love the process.  I hate the process.  It comes in fits and starts.  Some days you’ll find me flying high above the treetops loving the world and everything in it. Other days, I might be floating underground on my way to the city’s sewage treatment plant. That’s how these things go and I know I’m not alone.

After reading Steven Pressfield’s, The War of Art, Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, I’m feeling oh, so much better. I’m confident I will finish my memoir.  It’s a kick in the butt for scared, lazy people like myself who can find a gazillion reasons why they shouldn’t begin what their heart is calling them to do.

It’s three books in one.  Book One is about Resistance in all of its manifestations: procrastination, self-dramatization, victimhood, fear and every other possible reason I can come up with to not sit down at the computer and start to write. It’s about those little voices in my head I call stink bugs, who tell me I’m not good enough. What this man has to say about them squashes them in their tracks and sweeps them away before the stink has a chance to rise into the air and get on your fingers.

Book Two, Combating Resistance, is about being a warrior set on wiping Resistance off the face of the earth. It’s about becoming a pro and keeping yourself from wandering off course. It’s the hard part. If you’re like me, tending toward being a peace-maker and conscientious objector, the militancy will make you wince.  But in that you might also recognized one more mask of that sly fox, Resistance.

Book Three, Beyond Resistance, is my favorite part. It brought me back from the realm of the warrior to my own inner knowing about what I need to do.  It’s about the magic of putting words down on paper and how that, in and of itself, can become very habit-forming.  It’s about growth and waking up.  It’s about healing. It’s about communicating with the Muse. It’s about being a visionary.

Do yourself a big favor.  Read this little book. 

Filed Under: Books, Memoir, Wise Words, Writing

Writing Mishap Turns To Blessing

February 12, 2012 By

Today my brother Reid would have turned sixty.  A few weeks ago I found a letter I had written to him, but never sent. It was a rant about stuff that I was angry with him about eleven long years ago.  I thought, “Hmm … maybe I can use this in my memoir.”

As a first step I rewrote it to make it clearer and more understandable. Maybe I could include it as it was. But reading it to Sharon, who is one of my best “reader/listeners,” we found it didn’t work.  And it didn’t work the second time I rewrote it either.

After returning from Florida and getting caught up on the “to dos” that pile up when I’m away, I pulled it out again. Rereading it for the hundredth time I started fiddling with it in a new writing program (Scrivener) I was trying out. It suddenly disappeared. I tried everything I could think of to find it.  I checked the trash.  I checked my documents to see if I had tucked away another copy for just such an occasion, but never found it.

I spent five minutes muttering nasty words and feeling victimized by my *&?##!% computer and then it slowly began dawning on me that it was okay … it wasn’t working anyway… what’s the big deal?

I opened up a new file and began thinking about the letter and what I had been trying to say. My fingers started moving across the keyboard and the words began to flow.  I began listening to my frustrated self of eleven years ago. She expressed what was happening in her life that made her feel so bad and the things she was afraid of.  It started a whole stream of thought that had been missing when I’d written that letter trying to blame Reid for all that was wrong with the world.  Sure, he’d played a role in it, but he wasn’t the devil-incarnate I’d been making him out to be.

I’m glad I never sent that letter to him.  Right now I can see him sitting on the edge of a cloud, laughing at me.  Oh well, better late than never.

The story I was writing that started out as a vicious letter, is now unfolding in a much more truthful way. Things that I was having difficulty connecting are suddenly falling into place.

That doesn’t mean that I won’t stop accidentally deleting things or making other foolish mistakes.  What it does mean is that if I do, it isn’t the end of the world.  Sometimes the Muse has to step in when I’m being stubborn and not listening to her.  It is my story I’m involved in telling, but I’m not really the one doing the writing. I’m just taking dictation and occasionally trying to have my way with it.

Happy Birthday, Bro’!

Filed Under: family, Memoir, stories, Writing
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