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! 

Pierced by LOVE!

About a month ago, I picked a bouquet of flowers from my garden and brought it inside. Days later, while watering the vase, I noticed this odd flower bud. One swelling bud from my Mandeville plant pierced a nearby leaf and was held captive. Kept from full bloom. My soul saw this amazing curiosity with as much wonder as my eyes.

What are the odds of me gathering blossoms from this plant? Picking this particular blossom? What made me not notice it when picking, then notice it so deeply? My soul told me: this is not a coincidence.

But, what could it mean? Why did it touch me so? Beauty and budding life held captive by parts of itself. Symbolic. I recognize the symbolism. I’ve been in this place.

I wonder: how am I moving in the world these days? Am I holding myself captive again? Am I stifling my own blooming?  If so, what has captured me? Fear?  Busyness? Ego? One of the many other ways I unconsciously sabotage myself? Is this piercing symbolic of bigger things than me? Could it be the world’s suffering?

I felt uncertain about freeing the bud. Should I allow nature to play out, unaided?  What would happen to the bud, left this way? Would the bud come into full blossom if I freed it?  

I asked my photographer daughter, Stephanie, to come document this strangely captured bud with her camera. Together we marveled while she snapped photo after photo. Hours later, I couldn’t stand by any longer to watch the stem end of the bud swelling, while the tip turned dark, slowly dying. This freedom will not change anything except a few days of extra life for this bud. And perhaps change me. So, I gently pulled it back and out of the hole it drilled for itself through the leaf.

My gift to the world is caring. Sometimes, caring is done best by leaving me out of things. Sometimes, it involves taking action. Knowing the difference takes some fine discerning. 

Often, the listening gets distorted while pulling apart the voices clamoring for attention in my head, heart, and soul. Sometimes, I fan the confusion into quite a roar, as I don’t really want to hear that still, small, most authentic voice of Love, Sacred Spirit, God. Sometimes, I want SO want to hear that I rush to make meaning, any meaning, just to get on with it.

I did this with the bud. I rushed to see it as a sign to say YES to a role, a job, a position that would have blessed me incredibly, and blessed a few others. As I fit this meaning on for size, I felt it was some of my truth, but not my deepest truth. Go deeper.

So, I found another meaning.  The bud represents how my heart feels – pierced by the news, the constant horrible news, the images and facts that break my heart every single day. The suffering, the violence, the sorrow and suffering is too much to bear.  

Yes, yes, but there’s more. Go deeper.

Beauty also breaks my heart open. I see God in beauty. Beauty is everywhere. Even in the worst I could image, the most wretched beheading, there is courage displayed, strength, calm. Beautiful hope that I too may find courage in my deepest suffering.  This face of God is beautifully vulnerable and right there also being beheaded, one with and yet more than the human suffering. Does love, does God take away some of the suffering, bringing courage and peace?  I hope so. 

Mystery is mystery though, so I am not sure of anything, how love works, how God suffers with, how God is in us yet way more than us. I just feel the effects of love and hope.   

Today, I’m practicing giving my presentation on the theme of self –compassion for a Soul Tenders retreat.  I’m trying to articulate how much courage it takes to be vulnerable.  I’m also celebrating my brother’s and my book release of The Spacious Heart: Room for Spiritual Awakening. (see more info on main blog - upper, right corner)

 I feel vulnerable. So many are already reading what I wrote from my heart. I feel slightly naked. Some days, my guts twist and bunch with the nakedness. Some days, I soar on the wings of courage.

I have no idea how this shy, invisible, terrified-of-performing-in-front-of-anyone person got here. It took much tentative sharing of my writing, many teachers and encourage-ers, much healing, much throwing myself into the wild competition of herding trails with dogs, sheep and cows outside of my control. (The dogs I handled were only partially controlled by me since their talent far exceeded my own.) 

Happy September birthday to you too, sweet Hutch boy. I miss you so! 

Miss you too, Carey.  Cattle dogs = love! 

Much throwing myself into teaching positions from children to adults and seeing if I fell apart. (Sometimes yes but hopefully no one knew) And much wrestling with love. (Lenior, do you remember how much I feared Julian of Norwich's 'wound of love' teaching? I've come a long way, baby!) 

My deepest truth is: I am the bud.  

I am both beauty and hurt. I am courage and vulnerability. I am wildly excited for this book release and I’m scared stiff by what comes next. I wrote in secret, knowing the terror of being seen was yet to come. I celebrate release publicly while longing to go back into secrecy. I offer self-compassion to others while realizing I often have unreal expectations of myself. I let go of needing to be perfect while wishing you were, so I wouldn't have to suffer with your failings, because I care so dang much. When you hurt, I hurt. I'm learning to just let us hurt together. I am contradiction and paradox.  I am love, and ugh, sometimes I am hate. (Just writing that breaks my heart) I teach best what I am learning myself. I am teacher and student, writer and reader, sage and fool, saint and sinner.  

free at last!!!!!!!!!!

 I am both set free and held captive by love. I am beautifully human. I am imperfect and I am enough.  And so are you. Isn’t it grand?

On this, my birthday, I celebrate birth. The earth’s. Mine. Yours. The Universe.  May we all have space in our hearts to hold it all!

once free, it came into FULL BLOOM  :)

And once free, may we all come into full bloom!  Continually. Never done becoming, and perfect just as is.

giving kudos to the mother plant

Cheers!!  

Running Dogs - Poetry in Motion

The trio waits, trembling. As we fumble with lines and clips, their muscled rear ends crouch low, toes dig into the ground readying for push off, their heads point straight ahead into the softly lit expanse of grass land before them. And then, free! They blast into the meadow. The fire in their bellies is fuel enough to launch them around the field countless times.
 

Turnip, our dog- Jack Russel x Basset 

Burren, our dog- Catahoula Leopard Dog x Border Collie

A friend's dog that I'm boarding - a mix of ? x ? 

Sadie, dark and glossy with legs flung wide and a spine that almost floats across the land, runs down the west side of the fence line, turns and runs south, in the lead, always in the lead. Burren’s lean form in dappled gray pumps and stretches directly behind her. Burren moves with elegant power, made for running and also for stopping and turning on a dime. For two seconds she is neck and neck with the black wind runner, before falling behind. Turnip, short and squatty, but powerfully muscled, shaves yards off each turn to meet the other two on the straight aways. 

Two circles completed, the dogs fling themselves onto the ground, bellies on the cool earth, mouths gaping wide, tongues dragging across front legs. Their bodies glisten with morning dew, each muscle well defined, each pant sending little puffs of heat into the chilly air.  Chests heaving, hearts pounding, they gather up steam to feed the fire in their bellies.

A car horn sounds in the distance sending the three hurtling into another furious race. Sadie flies ahead, Burren cuts diagonally and Turnip races to a spot in the center of the pasture and waits. He watches for signs of Burren tiring and then starts running to meet the two. Burren slows and Turnip launches himself into a great and powerful sprint, close to Sadie, his short rear legs grab and bust the turf sending grass flying out behind him. He runs with an amazingly smooth, powerful rhythm of gathering his stubby legs under him and then flinging them out before and behind. His legs and paws are angled and stumpy, yet they move him powerfully forward. What he lacks in grace he makes up in pure will and heart for the run. Turnip pours out everything he’s got, but Sadie is still a nose ahead. Even running tag-relay, Turnip and Burren can’t catch Sadie. Sadie is sleek grace, pure poetry in motion. 


In a flat out run, Sadie’s paws reach way past the end of her nose and past her tail’s end. She is made for marathons. Burren’s reach covers less distance but she is still fast. And, dear Turnip’s little stumpy legs barely stretch past his nostrils and half past mid-tail as he catapults his body forward. He is made for powerful short sprints, for digging furiously; his will to engage the other two is the fire that ignites the competition. 

Awe is not only experienced on a mountain top, or when coming upon a gorgeous field of flowers, or in the gaze of a newborn babe. Awe is also watching dogs run free.

It's good I'm a painter of words and not a photographer because I seem to ruin every camera, I own. 

R-E-S-P-E-C-T Not Just a 60's Song

" I'm not concerned with your liking or disliking me... All I ask is that you respect me as a human being."

Jackie Robinson

Since I love the earth, and want to respect to all peoples, and growing things and creatures....

                     .......and especially since I interact with dogs daily, I'd like to change that quote to 'respect me as a living being.'  Isn't respect a lovely emotion? Not overly dramatic. Not stagnant and stoic......

                                            ....RESPECT is simple.   
                                                            And powerful. 


Life constantly flows with opportunities to show and offer respect:  for our precious land, the good earth that nurtures us, for our friends and loved ones, even to those who are odd, different, or to whom we dislike. It's hard to know how to respect those who are violent, harder still to imagine our fury at them comes, in part, from our refusal to acknowledge our own potential for violence.  

It takes courage, maturity and self-compassion to be aware of all parts of ourselves, to exist in the tension of hurt and pain in ourselves and others, while choosing to live out love and respect.  

I tell stories about my life. And, right now, my grandson and his relationship with our dog, Turnip, are major characters in my life.  Jude and Turnip play together, bop each other, steal toys, share food and want the same space on the sofa. However, this is not a story about Turnip and Jude.  This is a story about respect.

Burren, our other dog, is more aloof and prefers watching more than demanding. She is a dog of integrity, but she is still a dog. Even kind dogs will put teeth into their 'no' if they have no other choice. Burren has her own relationship with Jude, less flashy but just as real. While Jude and Turnip go on adventures and get in trouble together, Burren's interactions are more mothering.  I shared a photo of Burren obliging Jude's pleas to swing with him, or "fwing"' as he says, but the following story has no photographs.

I captured this with the lens of my heart:  

Jude is playing in our sandbox. The sand is so wet he can't get his scraper truck to make roads, or his molds to release their shapes. Frustrated, he stands and shakes his hands, but wet clumps cling to his fingers. He holds his hands up, fingers splayed, looking around for a solution. He spies Burren sleeping in the dog-shaped ditch she dug near the sand box.

The little boy goes over and sits on the edge of her ditch, hands still up. Dog acknowledges his presence by wagging the very tip of her tail. She shifts her body over slightly. He sinks down into her ditch, knees drawn to chest,  hands held in front. Boy and dog gaze at each other. Then Jude gently puts his splayed fingers onto Burren's back. She leans into his touch. He begins petting, threading his fingers through her coat.  Then, lifting his hands to his face to peer at his fingers, he smiles and repeats the threading and petting.

Jude's fingers move up Burren's neck. A strong pat on the head showers sand in her face. I move, ready to intervene, stopping when Burren stands up and moves away. Jude follows the dog. Curling her body around his waist, Burren once again allows him to pet her back and wipe more sand into her coat. Whenever his hands move toward her face, she takes two steps forward.

For the next few minutes, dog and boy move in a sandy dance, Burren gently teaches the little one how to be polite about wiping his hands on her. Hands clean enough, Jude moves away. She shakes violently; boy turns away, squinting against flying sand. Burren goes back to her ditch and Jude runs off to play on the toddler slide.

Somehow witnessing this exchange gave my heart hope. Seeing respect offered between different species and watching it play out right in front of me, in the midst of all the heart breaking and violent news of today, helps me not give up, helps me want to continue being a loving, respectful presence in the world. 

Perhaps Jude is onto something:  approach gently, wait for an invitation before striding confidently into the other's space, and back off when there is a hint of 'no.'  Perhaps Burren is onto something:  Watch, wait, accept another's presence, decide whether it's best to speak up or move away, be ready to model what you want the other to be or do. 

Perhaps we can all learn from the actions of small boy and a dog. 

Gentle, Gentle, Only Coaxing, no Forcing

While sitting on my meditation bench, under the pine tree in the early morning..... 

                    .......I notice the Mandevilla's 

single trio of buds is pinking up, but still tightly closed. Though July is humid and hot, almost tropical, the Mandevilla

is reluctant to respond to the lush juices cursing through its veins.

On the opposite side of our patio garden is an amaryllis, gorgeous and brazen, shouting scarlet in four directions, dripping sexy pollen down swollen petals.  

In seven months, this is the fourth time of wanton blooming for this fecund bulb.

My soul senses wisdom hidden in the contrast of reluctance and wild abandon. Is there a reason why I've deeply noticed these plants?  Sleepy insight curls in my depths, as the ash from fires of early morning farm refuse burning whorls and rides air currents above me before falling gently to the ground like summer snow on green grass.  Interior movements rise and fall in my depths, as wisdom smudges the edges between wakeful routine of day, and reluctance to leave the soft cocoon of dawn. 

While I fertilize the Mandevilla, coax it to do what surely comes naturally, photograph the budding process, and wait in eager anticipation, I never touch the swelling buds. Gentle, gentle, only coaxing, no forcing.  Likewise, I've learned not to pick at the buds of insight. In due time, if ever, I will know what I am to know.  

find the buds! 

I am not irritated at the Mandevilla while adoring the Amaryllis. I water both, feed both, and talk to both.  I see myself in them as I know reluctance and wild abandon.  Well maybe a tad more reluctance.  Ah yes, there’s that niggling insight again…..