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I’ve been trying to understand what’s wrong with me. I’m having amazing experiences and opportunities with my book, Life on All Fours. Yet, I can’t explain why my family and friends sometimes seem more excited than me. I’ve been blessed with incredible support and feedback and yet the glow of those experiences sometimes fades to something else. That “something else” feels like hovering over something murky and foreboding. It’s not a place I want to land. I’m great at being in the moment when the moment feels like swimming naked in a summer lake. I’m not so good at landing on a moment when it feels like I showed up for church and forgot to put on clothes. I’ve been having a lot of naked dreams lately.
As much as I might want to claim my book as fiction, it has an intimate relationship to my personal story. That intersection continues to unfold in expected and unexpected ways as I show up for these book events. Perhaps my dilemma is one of expectation . . . I always want paradise. Yet, the invisible force that calls my name and invites me to take a bite of the apple leads me to places that are a bit more complicated. The journey of telling my truth is not an invitation to lounge unaware in the Garden of Eden but it is the dance between the liberation that comes from knowing and the sheer fear that comes with being exposed. Maybe I’m a conflicted nudist, but nakedness does not always bring exhilaration and the process of exposing is never done—there’s always more to discover. There is grace and healing in this space but it requires that I show up and make a landing. By the way, as you might have guessed . . . Rufus LOVED apples! P.S. Speaking of church and nakedness—here’s a link to the message I gave at GLIDE Memorial Church this December 7, 2014, the Sunday we commemorated World AIDS Day. I'd love to hear from you, please post your comments below..
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Yet, here he was in a birthday card, my first birthday without him. Aunt Eleanor’s card made me feel sad, loved and grateful all at the same time. After a good cry, I put one of my favorite Rufus-stones (one of many I’ve collected over the years from our beach outings) into my pocket and said a silent prayer asking for help to stay open to if and how Rufus might show up at the reading.
Twenty-four people showed up, many I knew and some I didn’t, some of their stories I knew and some I didn’t, but our collective and unspoken connection was palpable. I did a short talk on the power of story and then did a reading. At the end of the reading, I felt the weight of my Rufus-stone in my pocket—that compelling and tender spot that inspired this book. I knew I had to acknowledge his presence and welcome him into the room so I read my Rufus poem, This Little Light, which appears in the Dedication of my book.
The Q and A was beautiful—the questions were heartfelt with a “knowing” that at times surpassed my own. One particular poignant question was whether I had intentionally made Beau, the puppy narrator, into the spiritual voice for the book. I always knew Beau’s perspective provided some levity and distraction to a difficult topic but was he really the spiritual compass? Our usual association with spirituality is a looking up—beyond our temporal being. In the book Beau rarely looks beyond. He faithfully experiences every moment with all his senses engaged . . . transcendence is not a journey to somewhere else, it’s a commitment to now. It makes me think about all the ways we get stuck in our grief, especially when those losses become traumatic. I remember one of my early PTSD trainings where the instructor said that life is like riding a train. The scenery is constantly changing; things appear then fly past our window—replaced by something new. She went on to say that the nature of trauma is looking out the window and always seeing the same thing. Is it any wonder that we try not to look? However, not only is this virtually impossible, there also is a cost . . . living. It's counterintuitive but healing requires us to move towards our pain rather than away. The Rufus-stone is not an albatross around my neck, it is the gentle reminder to be open and look out the window—to see, hear, smell, taste, and touch—sadness, joy, subtle changes, surprises, beauty, movement and connection. Life is not lived in our attempts to avoid or freeze moments— to wrestle life into our control but it is best lived in the fluid moments that never offer a destination but instead something more spiritual, regardless of how many stones we carry—all is well. Dedication from Life on All Fours
This Little Light Life on All Fours is dedicated to Rufus, my best friend and muse. (July 4, 2002—June 17, 2014) Halley's Comet blazes across the sky Too bright, too beautiful, gone too soon Firecracker baby born on the Fourth of July This little light of mine Wiggle, wag, propeller tail, meant to soar Red-brown beauty in motion, one speed—YES Into cautious laps and hearts he flies This little light of mine Wonder and awe, with every pitter-patter Paws that race to keep up with possibility On a leash, at times tethered to reluctant feet This little light of mine “ Yes you can,” wet nose inches close and closer Slow down, wait, too messy, too much Undaunted, his kiss always as close as he can This little light of mine “Oh the places we can sniff, you and me—you’ll see.” Not this time, stop pulling, leave it He shakes it off, lets it go, forgives, next time … This little light of mine “Everywhere you are, I want to be.” The jingle of his tags like sacred chimes Follows, bears witness, even as he snores This little light of mine How can this much life ever be dead? Yet he leaves as he arrived Too bright, too beautiful, gone too soon This little light of mine But in my tears is the warmth of his glow His nose print forever on the window of my soul Heart breaking yet full, this love has changed me His little light IS mine |
Daily Bites and BlessingsWelcome to "Daily Bites and Blessings." Pull up a chair. I’ve set a place for you at the table. These edibles are sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet and often they are both. This is a come as you are party. I invite you to bring your compassion, courage, and curiosity as we dine together on life's bounty. May our time together give us more light and more love.
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