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!