When You Can Endure the Dark

WHEN YOU CAN ENDURE

When the words stop

And you can endure the silence

That reveals your heart's pain

Of emptiness or that great wrenching-sweet longing,

That is the time to try and listen to what the Beloved's eyes

Most want to say.

We have not come here to take prisoners, 

But to surrender ever more deeply 

To freedom and love.

~ Hafiz

Beautiful image taken from Dr David G Benner's FB page

“I can’t even see my hands in front of my face!” My younger sister exclaimed as we lay side by side on a dusty old mattress. I reached over in the pitch blackness, found her shoulder with my fingers and followed her arm up to touch her hands wiggling in the air. 

“I can’t see them either.”  I replied nervously, the darkness set off tiny acrobats in my stomach. We listened to our staccato breathing, throwing our hands out and drawing them close to our faces stopping only when our skin sensed their nearness. Then we took turns feeling each other’s hands to discover how close we got to our face. Giggles escaped into the blackness. Then outright laughter; hilarity is easier on the psyche than fear. We huddled close and repeated our dare to spend a whole night in the dark attic without a light.

If I was around ten, that night, my sister would have been eight. I don’t remember if we spent the whole night in the dark, if we slept at all, but I’m pretty sure her eight was braver than my ten. 

Kids are often afraid of the dark. Even as adults, most of us depend heavily on our sense of sight. Unless we are blind or become blind and get used to permanent dark, we feel safer with enough light to see. This blog post is different that what I usually write. My soul has been experiencing a season of darkness, obscurity, unseeing, some sadness that usually doesn't exist in the spring. More typical for the season of autumn and preparing for winter, feeling this way when the rest of the country is growing and blooming and sunny, has me pondering what such darkness is about.  

Yesterday, my grandson, Jude, lay quietly on the floor while I changed his diaper.  I hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights; suddenly he proclaimed, “Dere’s a dragon in here!”  

Was he afraid of the dark or was his imagination coming into play?  I calmly asked him to tell me the dragon’s color. Not knowing his color names or not getting the reaction he wanted, he pulled his arms in tight around his torso and whispered, “I’m scared.”  

Stephanie Landis photography

“Well, we better get out of here then!” I whispered back, tickled him while pulling him to a stand then grabbed his hand. He repeated, bedder get out of here, and joyfully shrieked as we ran away from the dragon. I’m sure his sacredness was part game, yet I do notice how we don’t give kids much chance to develop their courage in darkness. Lights are just too accessible.  

Perhaps this is symbolic of our spiritual development too. We often don't take the time to practice being awake in the dark. How well do we handle not seeing, not being in control, not knowing the future, not being able to see or sense God, not seeing our interior growth or developing insight until the ‘aha moment’ is ready to be revealed?  Are we stuck in black and white answers to the questions: what is light and what is dark?  Is dark evil, is light good? How do we develop our spiritual muscles of handling despair, sadness, depression, loss of the sense of God’s presence, desolation when culture norms are all about happiness, positivism, control, God is Light and sunshine, buck up be courageous, don’t air your dirty laundry and
 keep your act together?

shutterstock.com  -full moon moving across night sky

As a child, I was very aware of my bent towards melancholy. And how little such a personality is tolerated or encouraged. I grew up believing my empathy and sadness was wrong, dark, maybe even letting the devil get a foothold in me.  Religious language was strong on assigning good and bad to light and dark. Even today, spiritual leaders spin their whole approach to life and faith on the axis of feel good positive thinking and sunshiny beliefs.  I’ve struggled at times to understand my ability to hold darkness, sadness, and the waxing and waning of both joy and sorrow.  Is my capacity to hold sadness for myself and others a gift or a lack of faith? I’m leaning towards seeing it as a gift.  

under our pine tree

Even in this strange season for me, opposite of spring energy, I'm learning to trust obscurity, and the dark. I'm sure I'd still fear being in pitch blackness, or deep physiological-psychological depression, or hiding in a dark storm cellar waiting for a tornado to pass, but I like ordinary dark. When my family can’t find me at night, they go outside and look for the moon; I’m usually found under a canopy of tree and night sky, gazing up...

The night feels refreshing, a break from the brightness of day. 

I’ve also come to trust the way the Spirit moves below our surface, the way the soul goes through darkness in preparation for shedding what is no longer necessary. In this odd season of my sadness in the midst of spring flowers, I recognize the end of a very busy winter of book writing, dachshund fostering, babysitting, birthdays and holidays, the need for rest and rejuvenation, the melancholy that always comes after I've given myself completely to a project and now it's completed - a natural rhythm for me. (my co-authored book, A Spacious Heart: Room for Spiritual Awakening is coming out in September!) This season of completion and wondering what comes next, along with different times of sorrow or uncertainty and melancholy for other reasons has taught me to hold and respect what is happening in my soul as I wait for the next season, the next drawing of Spirit, the next direction.

my camera going all wonky- interesting result

While I have nothing against positive belief systems, my own spiritual gifts to not seem to include constant up-beatness, bright inner sunshine, bubbly joy and cosmic happiness. I’m not talking about pessimism or optimism.  I’m referring to our cultural repugnance for anyone telling raw, un-prettied up stories, having emotional displays that go on too long or are less than victorious, messy spirituality, messy living, or just not having it all together.  

 I’ve noticed that as my capacity for holding mystery, obscurity, sadness and sorrow expands, so does my willingness to celebrate and see life as good. No matter what is occurring, in my inner or outer landscape, I find safety and rest in the Beloved's gaze. I've noticed this expansion in others who are improving their walking in the dark. 

Pretending to not have dark times, painful times, inner or outer chaos damages our spirits. Keeping secrets kill our souls. I hope our culture is moving toward more safety in telling our pain, of sharing our messiness as we journey toward healing and greater loving. We all need to listen more, to encourage and hold each other in our unpolished life stories. And, we need to be gentle with our own becoming, so we can then extend gentleness to the process in others.

Macbeth Motifs by meganlui | Publish with Glogster! ww.glogster.com

When, I had cancer, I was often surprised by the battle and sunshine imagery sent to me in cards, emails, spoken advice: ‘you’re a trouper and you can fight this’ - God won’t give you more than you can handle - this is a test to see if you will stay positive and fight. Sometimes, I felt such talk eased their fears more than ministered to mine.  Who of us hasn’t uttered trite platitudes in the face of something uncontrollable?  While I was so grateful for everyone supporting me, and appreciated any comment given, I realized I mostly sensed God sitting there in the dark with me, feeling sad to over my loss of health, sharing my melancholy. 

I often wonder if it is ever okay in our culture to collapse in a heap and just be sad?  Is it ever okay to give up, or choose not to overcome?  Is our faith only good when we’re winning? What is winning, anyway?  Who is to say dying or giving up isn’t winning?  How do we know that sadness and lamenting doesn't increase our capacity to bear other’s pain or thrive even when life is not all sunshine? 

Barbara Brown Taylor gives me hope in her newest book Learning to Walk in the Dark:  She describes “solar spirituality” – bright and full of light and happy- in comparison to lunar spirituality of those who often find God in the darkness.  She writes, “My spiritual gifts do not seem to include the gift of solar spirituality. Instead, I have been given the gift of lunar spirituality, in which the divine light available to me waxes and wanes with the season.”

another crazy camera shot of the full moon

I love Taylor’s lunar metaphor. It helps me accept my own gifts.  Such gifts make it possible for me to sit with a friend, listening to her ragged, raw sobs over the loss of her son, and carry some of her despair. It definitely helped when I held another friend’s hand in the car after a fun evening of dining and laughter, listening to the story of abuse pouring out of her. I remember how dark it was in that corner of the restaurant parking lot, how safe the dark cocoon of the car felt, safe enough to spill secret horrors. I had no words, couldn't say one thing about God and light and a fighting spirit.  I could only hold her hand and dwell in the presence of God who sat in the darkness with us.

Even as I am aware of deep emotions, deep seasons in me, I've had a lifetime of compartmentalizing them since my stoic culture judged emotion and melancholy as untrustworthy and spiritual immaturity. So, life  presents continual challenges for me to be present to all my own emotions, moods, and seasons as I listen deeply to my own and others' life experiences, and not shelve or put anxiety,sorrow or sadness in a compartment over here or over there in a blind attempt to make life easier. I notice my gift of lunar spirituality, and I notice it's false twin: the sinking into a funk that is more about avoidance than wholeness. I must always find ways of expression and release or my body will express my emotions for me, sometimes to the point of illness. I'm grateful to Barbara Brown Taylor for saying so exquisitely what I have struggled to articulate.  For writing such an encouraging book, helping us all learn to walk in the dark, to share our secrets in safe places so we can stretch towards wholeness.  For showing all of us how to listen to what the Beloved's eyes most want to say.....

Joyfully, 

Sharon

"When I listen to college students talk about faith, beliefs are what interest them most: Do you believe in the virgin birth? Do you believe that Jesus died for your sins? Do you believe that only Christians go to heaven? No one asks, “On what is your heart set?” No one asks, “What powers do you most rely on? What is the hope that gives meaning to your life? Those are the questions of faith, not belief. The answers to them are not written down in any book, and they have a way of shifting in the dark. " 

~ Barbara Brown Taylor  Learning to Walk in the Dark

I’ll Take Two Pauses, Please

At some point in my life I learned to type with two spaces after each period. Modern typesetting only requires one space after each punctuation mark. I've published a few pieces here and there but have never been told to stop entering two spaces after a period. Now that I've written half a book – the other half written by my brother- I earned the privilege to delete my extra spaces. It can be fixed with a magic Word.doc tool, but I still have to check each punctuation mark to be certain two spaces aren't proper here and there.

Tedious work that I don't want to do again, so I’m retraining myself in the mechanics of writing. It's rather beastly! I write more Face book statuses just to catch myself hitting the space bar too often. It’s humorous too, dredging up old memories of my sisters tattling on me when I took two rests between each job. I've always worked best with pauses. I find pausing useful for daydreaming, percolating ideas, resting.  I pause to notice what I've accomplished and to marvel over what I see around me.

I brake for ducks.  And more.

I brake to savor what I've done or catch my breath. Or journal my reflections. I slow down for a body scan now and then, to see what is tight and holding too much. And then there is pausing to name emotions and give them expression.  Sometimes, inertia does plague me and I stay paused too long.  A good reminder helps me then. Thank God for sisters  who speak truth. I confess my mother-in-law, at eighty plus, can still stay on her feet for longer periods of work than me. This brings me back to sentence periods. (I had to go back at correct five sentences- gah!) Any good practice requires diligence as well as pauses.

The fun part is sharing. so, as I write and work to enter the correct number of spaces I’ll share a few favorite "pauses" with you....

I Pause For Children

here's a story as I heard it told to me.  Two sisters, my grandies, are riding in the backseat of the car. The first is six; the second is newly turned four. They have the following conversation. 

Ave: God made the trees and the swings and the birds.

Rae: No God didn’t.

Ave: Yes, God did. God is bigger and stronger than everything.

Rae: No God isn’t! 

Ave: Nothing is stronger than God.

Rae: I’m stronger than God!!

Ave:  No, you're NOT. 

Rae: YES, I am, Avery. I AM stronger than God.

 ~~ 

Knowing how insipid, shy and fearful I was as a child, I just have to love a girl with such spunk!  Railynn is the toddler girl who turned on the overhead bedroom light in the middle of the night with no chair pushed against the wall for climbing.  When asked how on earth she reached the switch, she showed her dad how she took the lid off her diaper pail, shoved it up against the wall while standing on tippy toes, and flipped the switch on with the rim.  Being stronger than God is debatable, but she is quite clever!  

~~

Speaking of Rae, I might have traumatized her a little last week. She pulled a stool up to our kitchen counter and saw a bag of chicken feet thawing there.   

      “What is that, Nana?”

      “Chicken feet for the dogs.”

      “Dogs wike chicken feets?”

      “Yes, they do. Dogs like all parts of chickens.”

      “They are not feets, Nana. They wook wike hands.” And then she exclaimed, “You have a bag of hands on your stove!”         

~~

It’s amazing what children notice. When I read to Jude, my 2yr old grandson, he assigns almost every object in the book to the people he loves. Every tractor is driven by Papaw. Every telephone conversation includes MomMom and every horse and wagon belongs to Pop. I've wondered what reminds Jude of me when others read to him. Last week, my son said Jude stared at a handful of flowers at the bottom of a page, and then said, “Nana’s flowers.”   

Sophie (Sassy)  in her new home

I Pause for Dogs

Wren with her adoring adopter

 As you know, Sophie Sassafras has been adopted. And as of a few weeks, so has Wren.  As hard as it was to give Wren up, I must confess I’m really enjoying a quieter house. I wrote about my goodbye to Sassy; Wren’s goodbye is another story, for another time.   

 ~~

It's a writing day today, and the dogs are thrilled. Writing days mean treats are hidden all over the house. Their dinner is in a kibble dispensing puzzle. Nylabones are spread with peanut butter and tucked in corners. Empty yogurt containers wait to be licked out and biscuits hide in toys. I love the happy noises Turnip and Burren make while I write. The bangs, grunts and patter of feet make fixing writing mistakes tolerable. 

 ~~

Whoa!  Turnip just unscrewed a toy that I didn't know could be unscrewed!  He might be as clever as Railynn. 

                                                           I Pause for Spiritual Direction 

Last month, after sharing a poignant moment of finding my voice, finding my powerful side and combining it with being open and soft, my spiritual director said this to me... You found your strength and power.  And, you know your softness.  So, the trick is to hold them in balance always, to be strong and soft at the same time.”  That was powerful enough for me to jot down and ponder. Can I truly be softly strong?  Or strongly soft?  Can I be open and pliable, while being powerful? I asked her how I can remember what this felt like, the combining of the two energies so I can repeat this. She reassured me that I've carved out a new groove so I’ll know how to be this way again: strong, creative, flowing - not expecting perfection and not fearful.  

~~

Perhaps I’ll pass this on to Railynn: being strongly soft is enough – no need to aim for stronger than God status. Though, come to think of it, she’s already not fearful and not perfect, so she’s carving out her own good groove!  

Joyfully,

Sharon

Ps: Please ignore any extra spaces. I’m powerfully pliant and letting them be.  And enjoy the bonus photos of my sweet dogs.....

    

Turnip learning to balance silly things on his head

Eventually, he'll hold my Kindle for me while I read. 

Burren learning to wave. Oops, she's fast- I missed it! 

She gets overly excited and sometimes raises two paws. :)

The Dogs on Love Row

Sassy's beautiful 

     Adoption Day 

             has arrived!  

As I open crates and leave the doxies outside to potty, the snowy scene before me is breathtakingly beautiful.  My snow-covered backyard glows pink as the rising sun paints the sky in stripes of white cloud and rose orange. The earth is telling me all is well.

I stand facing the sun, welcoming this newborn day and tell Sophie how lucky she is to be going to her forever home.  (calling Sassy “Sophie” now as that is the name her new family gave her) As the girls scamper in the morning chill, I savor all those evenings snuggled on the sofa with two dachshunds. 

Wren (red) and Sophie (chocolate) foster doxie sisters snuggled together

Last night was rowdy.  Turned out to be a Sophie going away party, complete with pizza, half the family, 5 dogs, and a loud toddler.  

toddler 'Puppy'

Well, six dogs if you count the toddler who often acts like a puppy.  

Teo (daughter's rat terrier) and Turnip

Teo was the tiniest dog guest. Wren decided she loves Teo, and Turnip.  The two boys fawn over her and she flirts back.  She holds their muzzles between her front paws and kisses them.  It’s so funny.  Turnip accepts all kisses until she tries to clean out his eye buggers; then he harrumphs away from her like he’s saying: ‘we don’t know each other well enough for that! ’  The commotion didn’t give me much time to get soppy and sentimental over my last night with Sophie.  Mostly, I watched the dachshunds with awe – hard to believe these two doxies are the same two shivering, skittering, nervous pair that I brought home 2 months ago!   

first time in their new foster home; first time I held them both in my arms

 

The doxies with the whole gang - Burren (border
collie mix), Turnip (Jack Russell mix), sister Wren
and Sophie.  This is their goodbye treats with Sophie

Sophie earned her first name ‘Sassy’ because she and Burren are the boss dogs. The other dogs won’t mind having the number bossy females reduced to one.  They probably won’t miss Sophie as much as she’ll miss them.  Although, insistent might be a better word for Sophie than bossy.  She craves all the attention so she’ll be the star in Gordon’s loving home.  She might not miss any of us with all the attention she'll receive in her new family!

Back to this morning, both dogs are completely innocent to coming changes as they do their potty business and rush inside.  I haven’t changed a thing in their routines. Sophie’s packed bag is out of sight.  So, all the dogs cavort and play in our kitchen, shaking off the night’s sleep, waiting for breakfast.  After feeding them, I spray Sophie with lavender mint grooming spray and clip her nails. I tell her to be a good girl and know that she is loved by many people, but mostly by me and her eagerly awaiting adoptive parents. She licks my face.  I check out her bag to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything:  toys, bed mats, food, Christmas Santa stocking, health records, etc. I neurotically recheck the bag.

last time the doxie girls played together

And then, it’s time to go. My dogs get crated and Sophie trots out to the car on leash. She shakes on the drive – she’s still not quite used to car rides- but settles in for a snuggle after 10min.  We arrive at the Gordon residence.  Marianne and Harrison greet Sophie with happy smiles and joyful pets. And camera snaps! Soon, Sophie is running around inside their gated kitchen as we humans sit on the floor and talk business.  Sophie checks out her new pheasant stuffed toy and her new crate. She does not whine at all, though she does hover near me at times.  I have no worries about leaving Sophie with the Gordon’s. Marianne and Harrison are the best people I could have wanted for Sophie, sweet, gentle dog loving souls.  And I was a friend of Marianne before.  Love when friends adopt a foster dog!

Marianne surprised me with a gift I will cherish:  wool dachshund slippers!  I had so admired hers when I brought Sophie to visit her house. She got me a pair of my own- how sweet! They are my Sophie/Wren slippers.  Beautiful, warm cuddles for my feet.  When I miss the warmth of two doxies on my lap, I will put on my slippers and cherish the memories.  

              After I bombarded the Gordon’s with 45 min of telling everything I know about Sophie, I gather my things, pat Sophie and say goodbye.  No tears on the way home. I’m eager to see how Wren is faring.  As soon as we get home, we let the dogs out of their crates.  Wren wriggles and prances, sniffs my coat over the strange smells and then promptly goes out the doggie door. She stands out there all alone for a few minutes, looking east, then north, then south. At first I’m sure she’s looking for Sophie, but when it continues, I like to think she is honoring her sister, somehow.  Then she turns back to the house with a hop and a wiggle, sashays through the doggie door.  Well, that is that.   

Since snow began falling on the drive home, and seeing the sky bunching up preparing to spew out more snow, Jay and I take the dogs out to the pasture for a romp.  Knowing Wren will be distraught left alone, I take her with us.  She trots around with the big dogs checking things out.  Soon, the cold, dry snow freezes her pads and she limps. I take her inside leaving the farmer out with the snow loving hounds.

As soon as I get inside and see Sophie’s empty crate, the tears flow. I have to rearrange everything, so I collapse Sophie’s crate, and put Turnip’s crate in the line of other crates. This tells the dogs a change has occurred, and it helps me move forward.  After the vacuuming and reorganizing, I look at the newly aligned row of crates, watch Turnip leap into his and tears flow again.  Turnip is our newest dog, fostered by my good friend, Patty Lane through the awesome organization Mid Atlantic Jack Rescue, Inc.  His crate was on the other side of the room; I was waiting until Sophie left to fit him into the row.  I call this special line 'the dogs on Love Row.'  Wren’s tiny crate is next to Burren’s large crate which is now nestled beside Turnip’s medium crate.  All three dogs were rescued.  May all lost ones find shelter, food, protection and love FAR away from death row.   

Cheers! to your new life Sophie 

And now, Wren is sleeping beside me as I write. I wondered if she would assume her normal position as I write, up the side of the chair arm, even without Sophie here to take her position beside my leg. Wren did put herself into this position at first, and then slowly slid down beside my leg. I smile watching this seamless move into her sister’s sleeping position. She has come up a notch in the dog pack world, so don’t be sad for Wren. 

Sophie’s story will now become the Gordon's to tell.  I will (okay, I already did)  steal a few Facebook updates from them, but it is sayonara to sweet foster: Brown Girl, Sassy Brown, Sassafras, Long Brown Train and all the other crazy names I called her.  Love you, your new peeps, and your new name, Sophie Sassafras! 

Thank you Marianne and Harrison for adopting sweet Sophie!!  

You are a sweet man, Harrison!  

Joyfully,

Sharon

“If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and man.”      ― Mark Twain

“Happiness is a warm puppy.”   ― Charles M. Schulz

Good people are good to their animals; the "good-hearted" bad people kick and abuse them.     ~Proverbs 12:10 (The Message)

Before Our Life Changes

 

Today is the day before our life changes. 

The pause between what will happen and what we've been through. In the past, such days of pause gave me anxiety and restlessness. They still do, in moments.  Mostly, I remember the other pregnant pauses, the waiting, the unfolding, the ripening, the birth, labor and the joy. 

So, today I elbow past the anxiety and restlessness and dwell in wonder. In gratefulness.   

Deep in my belly the universe sings to me. Melodies of summer grasses ripple in my heart. Notes of warbler and hawk blend with aromas of orange peel, balsam fir and cinnamon that simmer on my stove and in my bones.  Muscled arms hold me as tears of aliveness fall down cheeks of apple and otter. Whimpering dogs and laughing children rush through my veins.  

My tendons stretch toward the night sky, where sister moon is blanketed in fog and circled in rainbows. 

Pigeons line up on a barn roof, rows of stunningly beautiful pigeons.  Their hearts beat in my chest, my love pulses with each shimmer of sun on rain splashes and rippling creeks.  Leaves brown and gold and dirty float on macadam puddles as I walk the dogs. My soul sees a pattern of gold sprinkled on brown and my heart weeps with beauty.  

 The owl in the tree clutches sinews of bark, its talons tickling my elbows and knees; my heart is open, thrown wide and scattered like joyfully flung confetti into the night sky.  

Starlings catch the star dust, their feathers shine with midnight iridescence. 

                  How can I be more in love?    

My soul is so full I sit up in the middle of the night crying joyfully in my sleep: Cobie! - that dear, huge golden-haired angel dog  I recently fostered.  My sweet husband tells me I called her name and then my eyes leak.  Not tears of sadness, but of Mystery.  Cobie still lives with me as does my beloved Hutch, protector of the farm and Carey, my sweet darling cattle dog shadow, and all the amazing animals I've ever loved.

My sweet mother also shows up with the appearance of doilies strung over rafters in a wedding reception, or the memorial pamphlet my granddaughter pulls out of a drawer and scribbles on.  Rae tells me what she wrote:  I love Grandma.  The grandma Rae has never really seen.  Of course she knows grandma; Rae is made from love and grandma’s DNA.

Dad comes to me in salmon grilled to perfection on my plate, in the smell of coffee and toolboxes.  My past morphs into my present becoming my future and love seals all the crackly questions. 

With overflowing heart, with experience and life wisdom, in this pregnant pause,  I celebrate with my brother before we sign our book contract.  I anticipate with my hubby the joy and confusion of adding a new dog into our home, Turnip, a sweet Jack Russell Basset hound mix.  

And, before I know how our foster dachshunds' stories will end, I embrace it all and soften into trust.  

My body, my soul, my heart, my mind holds all gently, loosely; I breathe deeply. I breathe in love and breathe out fear.   I breathe in grace and breathe out love.  I breathe in the universe and breathe out love. 

I breathe. 

                        

                  I simply breathe. 

                     

                                             Love and I are one.

Joyfully,

Sharon

Love never fails. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a woman, I put the ways of childhood behind me. (well, not all my childhood- not the part that wonders and asks questions!) For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.  

                                     ~ St Paul,    1^st Corinthians 13

A Christmas Story

Foster Dachshunds, Wren and Sassy.  Photographer, Stephanie Landis

Merry Christmas!!   

If you are hoping for a perfect Christmas day story, well look elsewhere!  Keeping it real, here. Christmas Eve brought cold and wind.  Doxies wouldn’t go outside; they were too terrified of the sound of air blowing through the trees, around the corner of the house, and bumping bits of tin on the shed roof.   

Christmas Eve day, I tried attaching a leash to the doxies’ harnesses, coupling them together since they move as one when stressed.  Of course, they did the opposite!  They pulled apart, reached the end of the line and froze in a T at the end of the leash.  No amount of gentle talk or petting unfroze them.  No treat coaxed them to move.  I had to remove all the trappings before they relaxed enough to walk away.   So disappointed!  

Dogs were discombobulated enough that Sassy marked the rug by the kitchen door. I yelled no and crated her.  As I was cleaning up the marking, Wren marked right beside me.  Sigh. 

After dinner, some of the family came over to watch the Muppet Christmas Carol.  Both doxies growled at the littlest human, so into their xpen they went.  Sassy soon settled, became curious, and earned the right to lie on daughter, Stephanie’s lap.  Wren rumbled on and on, just the sight of the happy, dancing 2yr old made her quiver, so into her private crate she went. After awhile Sassy stressed and went into her crate too. Both dogs were stressed from Christmas Eve festivities but only Wren wouldn't go outside to relieve herself once everyone went home.  She held it all in for 18hours.  Her record hold is 2 days so I figured she wouldn't explode.    

Halfway through the puppet movie, I went with Jude out to the kitchen.  He pointed to the freezer so I opened the freezer door to see what he wanted.  I couldn't make out his words so I leaned down to pick him up so he show me, somehow in the leaning over my right eye collided with his finger; his finger went up underneath my eyelid.  He shot my eye out without a Red Rider BB gun!!  The eye poke was bad...eye swelled, watered nonstop, oh how it hurt and burned!  I cold compressed it for hours. 

Early Christmas morning, Wren still won’t go outside because Jay is loading the corn/wood pellet furnace; she fears all those sounds. Okay, back in the crate until the scary sounds stop.  Later, both dogs run wild in the sunny back yard, ears flopping, long bodies hopping.  Sheer joy on Christmas morning!  In all my smiling I forget the pain in my eye. 

Burren opens her wrapped gift first.  She digs out the hide-a-squirrel and pounces with glee.  She bites it so hard I have to slow her down.  Gentle biting rewards her with pulling a squirrel out of the log.  Then, onto her stocking.  Filled with excitement she almost rips it in half so I open the sock for her nose to reach in and grab a squiggly toy, which she promptly tosses away.  She goes back in for the gingerbread biscuit and dried hamburger bone. 

Sassy gets her stocking next.  She too almost rips her in half until I help her grab a toy and then her biscuit and bone.   I offer Wren a sock; she snatches it and takes it to her den behind my chair. When I hear ripping sounds, I follow her and help her get out the treats.  She wolfs down her biscuit, then darts out to snatch Sassy’s bone and sock and toy while Sassy is chewing on the biscuit.  Sassy is oblivious, only focused on the yummy gingerbread.  Wren’s second nickname is Snitch! 

It’s 9:30am on Christmas morning.  All dogs are fed, tuckered out, sleeping in their beds. I’m listening to the Ephrata Cloister Chorus.  My dear husband is cutting boughs of greens to adorn the nativity sets we put up on this day.  The song, Still, Still, Still comes on and I remember my sweet mother who loved this song.  She is gone now, so is my Dad. My left eye waters now, along with my right.  I’m shedding tears of pain, love, memory, and joy.  I await my family gathering later in the day, will continue to celebrate love, despite painful eye pokes, loud ruckuses, dachshunds peeing on my floor, kids flying around, and the general joy and mess that is holidays.

Burren goofing off during photo shoot

For all that is, for all that has been, for all that will be, I open my hands and heart.    

May the Child of Love born this day, bring love, peace, joy and renewal to you and your precious families.

Joyfully,

Sharon