Small Boy and Dog: Magic Moment!

Yesterday, small boy was sleepy while watching Curious George on TV, so he climbed onto the sofa and curled up where squatty dog usually rests. 












When something exciting happened to George,

small boy sat up. Squatty dog saw his chance and jumped onto his favorite spot, edging boy over.  Small boy responded by carefully resting his body on top of squatty dog’s flank.

Nana hovered in the distance, watching, ready to protect small boy and dog. Nana expected dog to move away. Dog has never allowed boy to lay on him for long. Squatty dog acts like the other dog is stoo-pid for allowing small boy to hug and suffocate her.

Now, with his body perfectly molding the stout curve of squatty dog’s hip, small boy was perfectly still. His brown eyes wide with wonder, boy instinctively honored this magical moment with dog.  Dog moved his big head from the arm rest toward boy’s face. Nana moved to intervene, but stopped when dog simply looked at boy; boy looked back, brown eyes on brown eyes. Nana’s heart melted.

Dog broke the spell with an awkward lunge forward. Nana rushed toward them ready to separate the two.  She is the bite police, vividly remembering the horrible dog attack on small boy’s face just over a year ago.  She stopped again, as squatty dog heaved his cumbersome body up and dropped it solidly over small boy’s legs. Dog, now splayed across boy’s lap, belly up, sighed deeply.

Boy’s grin split his face; the faint scar above his lip smiling too as if in acknowledgement of this unique offer. Chubby fingers started scratching squatty dog’s belly, chest, hip as dog responded in little pig noises: contented grunting, blissful snorts, eyes closing. Boy locked eyes with Nana; adoring green eyes on big, round, brown eyes, silently sharing this enchanted moment. Nana hardly breathes, knowing how boy always wanted to love on THIS dog.

Then, as all moments do, this moment ended. Small boy’s chubby hand froze in mid-air over dog as his eyes turned from wonder to panic.

“Help, Nana,” he cried.  “Turnip is gwishing me!”  Nana laughed, spoke gently to wake dog from the trance, while lifting dog’s JackRussellBasset log-of-a-body up, so small boy could pull his legs out from under.

Dog jumped off sofa; boy curled up and returned to Curious George.  And, as is the norm with precious moments, hints of love and trust lingered in the room. 

Small boy and dog wish you all a Blessed Thanksgiving!!! 

In Celebration of Duds!

I survived our first major book signing! 

Fears were present but not overpowering- fears of introvert burnout over the endless socializing often required of an author, and of course, fears of vulnerability always part of a writer's life.  

But, last Saturday,  at the Jesuit Center in Wernersville,

I greeted people with my brother and co-author, Don. I had deep conversations, signed books, laughed, made connections and oozed extroverted energy.

When I could have holed up my room, I still felt energetic. So I took a walk 

with a good friend, soaking in the gorgeous surroundings...

front yard, Jesuit Center in Wernersville, PA

.....and was powerfully present to color, breeze, birds, our deep conversation. 

portico in late afternoon, Jesuit Center

I only needed a tiny bit of solitude

      and recharging 

               that afternoon. 

                       It felt good, flying high....

...felt smug even!  I'm beating the dud introvert label!  So this is how one rolls with the extroverted majority, the actively happy, school-desks-in-pods and office-teams-not-cubicles, American culture. Woot woot! 

Night ushered in more fun! In celebration of the book release, a few close friends gathered around me to release bright colored Chinese lanterns and light candles that shoot sprays of sparkles.

 Each friend clutched their favorite 'releasing' poem to read before lighting a lantern.  

But, the weather was a dud. WINDY.  Kicking up leaves and unwinding scarves from our necks, the wind gusts made the night dangerous for sending fire-powered lanterns into the sky.  

Disappointed, but determined to light something on fire, we huddled

labyrinth, Jesuit Center 

in the center of an outdoor labyrinth, blocking the wind with our bodies, hands, and books, and we tried to light a firecracker candle stuck in the center of a muffin.   

We tried over and over exhausting our trigger fingers. The lighter gasped, coughed and stuck. The wind quickly snuffed out each tiny spurt of flame. Laughing, we gathered round that lighter coaching it into flame like midwives telling an exhausted laborer to carry on, carry on for surely a burst of life is coming! But, alas, my lighter was a dud. 

  

We moved to the portico. One friend ran inside for a big box of matches. 

  Huddled even closer, and with hands and palms spread all around to protect the candle from gusts, we tried again. I loved the antics of my friends, the collective groaning and hoping for flames and fireworks. We threw away that candle, got another. We moved fast and worked hard like boys striking matches quickly before mom takes away our fun. But, both candles were duds.

Giving up on the candles, I pulled out my box of celebration crackers, wrapped in gold polka dots, tied with gilded ribbon. Yes, we would still celebrate with snaps and bangs!  We held our crackers, took turns reading our poems. One poem, one cracker. A dud.  Next one did not pop or snap either.

More moaning and disbelief. The next crackers were pulled apart faster. We so wanted to outsmart those inhibited crackers. How dare they be so unwilling to part with their party favors inside! (sounds like a bad metaphor for extroverts insisting introverts are holding back). Only one cracker cracked.    

Yet, I've never had more fun laughing with friends over duds. Their precious poetry made me teary, their enthusiasm for celebrating with me (and playing with fire) was delightful!  

And, we celebrated anyway…maybe even more so than seeing flame-lit lanterns floating into a starry sky, or candles exploding with sparkles.... 

in my dreams

                                        
                              ...NAH!    That part was still disappointing.

After continuing the party indoors with two friends, champagne and soul talk, I fell asleep that night, smiling and content. Another extroverted day followed, and the weekend ended by sharing dinner with friends. 

Got a massage the following Monday morning, went to my spiritual director afterward. After 30 minutes of talking with her about life, excitement, changes, unexpected losses, autumn beauty,

near fish pond at the Jesuit Center

exhaustion, decisions, poignant weekend moments…

photo by Mim Hurst 

                    suddenly, just like that…. 

the extroverted ride was over. I completely ran out of juice. Couldn't bear one more word, facial expression, scent of candle or color outside the window.

                                            

                       Full sensory overload! All circuits shutting down!

I fell silent.  

In her gracious, quiet presence, I cried. She smiled her beautiful Italian expressive extroverted smile, sat with me in silence and tears, then handed me materials on introversion. Introverts crashing. Germanic, stoic, smug introverts crashing.

We ended our session laughing.   

Sometimes life moves really fast. My sensitive soul has trouble keeping pace. It’s not about energy levels or out-goingness, it’s about giving myself quiet space to catch up. Introversion isn't the dud I sometimes make it out be.  

Even if that were true…..

                                       duds can be celebrated! 

~ ~ ~

more photos of Jesuit Center - ENJOY!        - http://jesuitcenter.org/

Helpful links:

Article - The Physical Behavior of Introverts

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/11/07/physical-behavior-of-introverts_n_6069438.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000063

Book - Quiet 

http://www.amazon.com/Quiet-Power-Introverts-World-Talking/dp/0307352153/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1415448785&sr=1-1&keywords=quiet

Sidetracked!

 
This one of my Small Boy and Dog stories about my grandson and our dog, Turnip. I often put these very short stories on Facebook as my status update. This one is longer and fits the theme of celebrating and savoring life, so I'm posting here  ....

SIDETRACKED

Small boy is completely fascinated with all things on our farm. Especially Aunt Kim's new dump wagon. According to him, he 'must use it for his werk' before she starts using it to cart horse manure. So, yesterday, I helped him into the wagon, tied our dogs,Turnip and Burren, to the wagon's side, and I pulled all toward the corn dryer. Because he wanted answers to his constantly asked questions:  what's that sound, (the corn dryer) what is a corn dryer, why does it make so much noise? Once at the dryer he heard and saw the fan, looked at the huge round bin all closed up and got upset that he couldn't see the corn inside. Luckily.......

...he got side tracked by this.  

Small boy is not allowed to touch this particular piece of equipment when it is connected to the farm auger. He says it's because his 'fingers will get stuck.'  Worse than that of course, but this description works without giving him nightmares. Anyway, this was sitting out near the shed unattached to any auger or tractor. The lure was too great. (He loves running his fingers through what he calls:  "corn, corn, corn, so much corn to feed Aunt Kim's a-ma-mels.")   So he asked if he could play with this corn. I said yes but only if he first told me why he isn't allowed to touch this bin chute when it's hooked to an auger or a tractor. 

     "Because my fingers will get stuck and it will hurt and I will cry and cry." 

     "You are absolutely right! Okay, since this is not hooked to a tractor or auger, you can play in the corn." 

The dogs sat by the wagon and watched as the small boy used the back of his chubby-but-not-quite-a-toddler-anymore hand to slowly brush all the corn to the left side.  

The dogs watched patiently as he slowly brushed all the corn to the right side.

They watched as he stood up, bent over at the waist and reverently brushed all the corn to the front. 

Then they got antsy. I did too. The sun was low in the sky and I hadn't taken the dogs to the pasture yet for their evening run. 

I started the normal phrases an adult uses to help a child transition, "In a few minutes it will be time to stop playing in the corn. Why don't you put some corn in the wagon to feed the goats?" 

    

 "NO!"  

Burren started whining. 

Small boy began slowly sweeping all the corn to the back. I got sidetracked myself, mesmerized by the way he used the back of his tiny hand to sweep. Who is he imitating with this motion? Does Papaw do this and I never noticed? Does my son, his daddy do this? Or is this the small one's own way to savor the sensation of golden kernels flowing over his skin? The dimples that kiss each tiny knuckle of his hand are hidden in the corn and suddenly, my mind flashed to the future, seeing him as a man brushing something away with the back of his hand. My heart caught. Turnip broke the spell when he suddenly jumped trying to pull the wagon. I yelled.

     "Turnip, stop it!"  

In reply, the hound dog's body language said:  Com'on, there are bunnies to sniff and pigeon poops to gobble. 

Without missing a slow sweep of hand, small boy called out.

    "Turnip, 'top it! You have to be quiet because Imma farmer and I have to do my werk." 

More talk of feeding corn to goats finally convinced the boy to leave the bin. He insisted on pulling the wagon to the barn. Because he is a farmer, Because he has to work. I loved how often he used his favorite word - because. The dogs loved to be moving.   

Unfortunately, the small one kept getting sidetracked. "I have to move all dis corn into the bin. Because I have to. Because I'm a farmer. Because I have werk to do."  

And then there was Honey the cat....

And a woolly caterpillar...

  

On his way to the goat barn, and much to the dogs' frustration, the boy found scattered corn stalks wilting on the lane. The small farmer had to pick up each stalk and throw it into the wagon to feed the goats. We rolled painstakingly slow to the barn, the small boy concentrating on his work, the dogs going half nutty and smelling CHICKENS in the barn. (dogs' work leans dangerously toward killing chickens)  

By the goat feeding trough, small boy methodically placed one wilted corn stalk at a time in the feeder, turning to the wagon to get another.  As he faced the wagon, I removed each stalk and hid it behind a stack of hay bales. While keeping an eye on the dogs. Do wilted corn stalks make goats sick? I wasn't taking any chances. The goats were all lined up for their unexpected smorgasbord and maa-ed their regrets as the stalks disappeared. The little farmer mumbled something about the goats eating  'real-dee, real-dee fast.' 

 I'm relieved. 

             Fooling him so easily proves he is still a small boy. 

                              For this moment, I savor his smallness, 

                                  

                                               grateful to be side tracked from the thought of his growing up. 

One more photo of the little farmer (and his dad), just for fun. And because I have to.  :) 

A Sketch of Sweet Old Dog

photo by Stephanie Landis
My daughter, Stephanie's Kelpie, "Sketch", and her toy fox terrier buddy, Teo

A Sketch of Sweet 
          Old Dog

She looks up with grizzled

muzzle, old face, big feet,

gnarly body; she has the sweetest

expressions.

Scrabbling for footing as her

world tilts, dizzily. Who turned the sky

grassy green? The horizon is over there,  
no over here. Vestibular Disease…

       
or brain tumor. Hard words for humans,

but not in dog vocabulary. Old dogs

know truth is found in smell alone.

Food, favorite bed, the scent of loved

ones.

Soft growls at the vet, indignant

grunts when picked up like a lopsided

sack of lumpy potatoes,

held in position for relieving the belly

of the undigested and unneeded.

“Have a tablespoon of mash. Have a lick

of ice.”  Old one says, don’t put your offerings

under my nose; give me the dignity to

choose my own bowl. Of limping, staggering,

even falling.  Life is risk.

Don’t make my world risk proof; not

yet.  Life is feeling floor boards under

your toes, sensing the scrab, scrab

of old claws on wood. 

I say, who suffers more: old dogs

or their people?

Missing the Boat

Missing the Boat

It is not so much that the boat passed
and you failed to notice it.
It is more like the boat stopping
directly outside your bedroom window,
the captain blowing the signal-horn,
the band playing a rousing march.
The boat shouted, waving bright flags,
its silver hull blinding in the sunlight.
But you had this idea you were going by train.
You kept checking the time-tables,
digging for tracks.
And the boat got tired of you,
so tired it pulled up the anchor
and raised the ramp.
The boat bobbed into the distance,
shrinking like a toy–
at which point you probably realized
you had always loved the sea.

---Naomi Shihab Nye

While on a Sacred Rhythms writing/yoga/dance retreat in Cape May, leader Christine Valters Paintner read this poem to our group. Then we were asked to do a ‘free write’ answering the question:  What is the boat you are missing? (a free write invites a writer to simply ‘write raw, untouched- up and free’ without judgment or editing or over thinking)

My responding free write:

“What is the boat that you are missing? What is the boat, what is the boat, oh my God, what is the boat? The boat is life as it unfolds, slowly, beautifully even as I rush about wanting experiences, wanting love, my dog sighs in his bed, loving the warmth of his own body heat reflected back and holding him in fuzzy flannel.  

The boat is love blossoming everywhere in the obvious, in the unseen, hiding in crevices, in buzzing cicada songs, in flutters of wings and flow of willow branches, teasing in breezes and hints, in the color of pale blue climbing my split rail fence shouting glory, glory

while I grab another bag to stuff full of things I might need on my journey. While I gather up supplies to ease anxiety or bring comfort, my husband’s eyes lovingly follow my movements in brown liquid wonder. While my heart aches for a sunset, a cup of hot chocolate, a cardinal, a sign that God is near….any damn sign will do in this hour of deep longing…  I miss seeing how sunlight catches my friend’s hair and turns the white into strands of gold."

This is so like me, perhaps like us, as humans.  Longing, wanting, seeking is a good thing and might be what keeps breaking us open. Putting down our constant seeking for a moment, a day, a month or two, might be what finally wakes us up. Helps us pay attention to the love 

                                that is 

                     

                      everywhere. 

  Opening our eyes and seeing love, seeing with the heart and with our senses, seeing evidence that Something, some Force, some ENERGY,  indescribable yet tangible, is holding the universe together in love, in the very rhythm and breath of the sea caressing the shore, the beating wings of the monarch,

each human inhalation and exhalation. Love is the Source, the boat with a Capitol B.  Deep seeing this Divine Love gives our hearts more space to hold our own contradictions, and thus we become love, become compassion.

Through yoga, movement, breathing exercises and dance in the Sacred Rhythms retreat, we embodied what came up for us in class, what we wrote in free time.  As we moved or contemplatively lingered in yin yoga poses, our bodies also honored and released congested emotions and thoughts we've carried for a while.

I discovered an old fear.  I grew up in a large family.  Surrounded by many fun-loving, boisterous siblings, I grew up afraid if I retreated into my introvert self, I would miss a joke, the breakout of an impromptu song, a start of a game, everyone piling into the car for a hike or an ice cream cone,

 the arrival of the ‘chip man.’  

Once a month, the chip man drove his wonderful van into our lane, delivering boxes of graham crackers and large cans of Good’s potato chips.  If I were holed up in the bathroom, or out wandering the meadows when the van came, I’d miss the one opportunity mom loosened her junk food rules and opened the lid, releasing the fat- laden aroma of potato slivers fried to a crisp. All kids present were then allowed to gather round and eat right out of the can!

I feared missing the boat; feared getting left behind.  Like the last duckling to cross the bridge in the children’s picture book story of Ping....

I’d get a cosmic smack on the back for being late, being asleep, being lost, being preoccupied with my own needs.  I realize just how much this fear sneaks into my life, my spirituality.

How do I or you, relax to sleep, use the bathroom, go on retreat, let go of cares and anxieties just for a moment or a season to tend the body or the soul, tend creativity or do interior work or heal when we are constantly holding tight or over-adrenalized in constant readiness to gather more, fight some scare, run away or run toward something we might miss. It tells me a little bit more about my individual and our collective insomnia, restless seeking, emotional-physical-spiritual constipation.  

 No wonder Christine taught us retreatants how to sigh.  Sigh deeply, and with release. Sigh with contentment for this moment.  Sigh with joy, with letting go. Deep breath in; deep breath out.....exhale deeply and loudly ........SIGH.

What would it be like to stop seeking for this moment? To open to what beauty already is, to just open?  To stop gathering stuff or info, to stop running or bracing or fearing or being anxious. For Just This Moment? 

    

Trust the boat is here.















And here! 

If you do miss one...

....another one.... 

comes in the next moment! 

Relax......  breathe...... trust...... be who you are .....do what you love.....   be....just be.....

       

Sink in....  

S t r e t c h....

          ...........SAVOR ...

                                                                             .....and remember to

 ....S  I  G  H!