There was a pause outside my window and then I heard a small reply, “I love you daddy.” She must have been three or four years old. "I love you too,” the daddy said in response. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. I let go and took a shaky inhale and my eyes became misty as I felt something release—gratitude for lessons that show up in unexpected places. * * * *I had a birthday in mid February. For my birthday I gave myself a day pass to the Cavallo Point Healing Art Center and Spa in the Marin Headlands (just across the Golden Gate Bridge). I wanted to celebrate my birthday with quiet reflection. I began the day with my journal. Without conscious thought, I dated the journal entry, February 19, 1959 (my birth date)--that’s a weird slip of the pen, I thought. Later during my first meditation, a warm cocoon held me with such tenderness. I knew I was safe and all was well. However, as often is the case, bliss is the kiss that never lingers—I was filled with anxiety for what was coming next. Things began to move and change as I was pushed towards a door. I fought and resisted but was forced out—I couldn’t breathe, my fear was suffocating. Then, like a sunrise, I felt the Creator’s warm gaze on my red, angry and scared little face . . . and he said, “It is good.” My lungs gulped their first air. Back at the spa, I wondered who was watching, but didn’t care as a smile and tears appeared together--a birth-meditation for my birthday—gratitude for lessons that show up in unexpected places. Later outside in the heated pool as I took in San Francisco Bay’s beauty; the Golden Gate Bridge—orange audacity poking through stormy clouds, beach grass, oak trees and sage scrub, grateful for a wet winter, dripping with green, and the Bay—the grand blue lady that birthed the rock and soil upon which it all this stands. My reverie was interrupted by rain. Everyone, except me, rushed inside. The splashes of cool raindrops on heated skin transported me. I rolled over on my back and began to float. I started to laugh with a body memory of the first time—feet slowly leaving the safety of gravity and surrendering to the mysterious buoyancy of water. I thought of the first time my brother let go of my bicycle—little legs on pedals that became wings. I couldn’t stop laughing at the miracle of surrender—of falling into something that catches you—gratitude for lessons that show up in unexpected places. * * * *A week after my birthday, I got the results of my quarterly blood work. After almost 30 years of these lab tests, the drum roll is more of a clock ticking. However, this time I felt compelled to call my doctor—as it turns out I am teetering on the edge of diabetes. It’s unclear whether it’s medication related, another HIV long-term survivor co-condition or whether the last few months of family stress has taken its toll. Some years ago I had to stop working because of related concerns. As I struggled to find a place to put this news, I ate a bag of potato chips, some homemade gougère (French pastries made of butter, eggs, cheese and flour—yum) and three Trader Joe’s dark chocolate peanut butter cups. What the #*%@?! After I cussed out my weak and pathetic self, a gentler voice prevailed, stop . . . be where you are. I sat down and tapped my phone for my meditation app. On cue, when the prayer bowl chime vibrated through my body, I began one of those ugly cries that include snot. It was simple—underneath the disturbing, distracting behavior, I was just plain scared and vulnerable. Once my truth was named and claimed, I had the feeling of my feet coming off the ground as I was held. And once I was heard, I faced my dark green leafy vegetables, whole grains, legumes and cardio with renewed determination—gratitude for lessons that show up in unexpected places. * * * *I rarely find God in the places I expect. She almost always is a surprise. Her presence takes my breath away and makes my heavy feet feel weightless. She waters my soul with either laughter or tears and sometimes both.
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Dad wore a too-big wool coat to fit around his multiple layers. He looked out the van window at his home on 311 East Main Street. “Good bye . . . old house.” He choked on the words as his eyes filled with tears. “You . . . served us well.” I wished we had time to sit and reminisce, understand, celebrate, forgive—countless Christmas’ and summers, long tables with family conversation and food, grandkids, celebrations, plus-one visits, minus-one endings, coming outs, prayers, politics, illnesses, Tim (my brother) died in this house, . . . mom and dad grew old. But we were already late for the nursing home admission so I began to pull away from the curb. “Back up” my sister demanded from the back seat. She sat next to mom who in addition to her winter coat was swaddled in a red and blue hand-knitted afghan. My sister held up the camera on her phone as mom started to sing ”This Ole House” but the only words she remembered were “Ain’t a-gonna need this house no longer. I’m a-gettin’ ready to meet the saints.” Here’s the first verse and chorus (think white people gospel music and Lawrence Welk):
And if you want the 80’s YouTube version: Underneath my smile at my mom’ s sense of timing and humor (that ironically seems to get sharper with age), was my own wall of tears waiting for their turn. Laughter and tears are married in times such as these. Not now, I told myself as I put the van in drive, leaving their home in the rearview mirror. * * * * * Even though my sister and I had just been in Wisconsin three weeks earlier, we both decided that we were supposed to return. As much as I tried to talk myself out of it, I knew I had to go. It felt like a calling. My dad used to talk about getting “the call” from God whenever he decided it was time for our family to move. I was always skeptical because I never heard the phone ring. Maybe a calling is when you know something even though you never received a phone call. When we arrived, things had changed significantly from our last visit. When we left in December, mom seemed to be making a slow but steady recovery from her hospitalization for heart failure. But now mom was even more fragile, barely eating or drinking, unable to take herself to the bathroom, recently had fallen, frequently expressed her belief that she was dying and refused to see a doctor. She required help with everything. At night like an infant she needed us almost every 2 hours but instead of crying, she used a school bell—which she rang like life depended on it—I think it did. Dad was doing his very best but was clearly overwhelmed by mom’s needs and her seeming letting go of life. It was heart breaking. He was obsessed with making things better—changing doors and moving beds to make the house more conducive to their needs. Yet we also witnessed the cracks forming around his hope. It was almost too painful to watch—the man who views self-sufficiency as one of the Ten Commandments brought to his knees. Loss and grief were palpable.
Maybe the process of showing up is not something you learn. Perhaps it always feels like the first time because it’s supposed to . . . because it is. Showing up means I step onto a blank canvas in spite of my fear and say yes to the thing that is yet to be. It’s a birth—it’s always hard and always a miracle.
* * * * * Dad greets my siblings and me at the door in his wheelchair. His unshaven face is creased with lines of worry. “Hi dad, how are you?” I ask. “I’d say I’m good.” He pauses and then adds, “Good as can be expected—as long as my expectations are not too high.” His honesty feels heavy and my smile becomes a sigh. I walk into the living room and mom doesn’t try to get up from her recliner. “Hi mom, how are you?” “No good. I’ve never felt this bad,” she says weakly. Mom is surrounded by pillows and looks small and tired with translucent skin, tiny bones and sunken eyes. Several hours later she is hospitalized with atrial fibrillation and congestive heart failure. The timing of our visit, all my siblings being home, was one of those experiences that gives me pause—synchronicity that makes me ponder something bigger than myself. It certainly wasn’t the visit I expected. * * * * * As a kid I took swimming lessons at Bible Camp on Minnesota’s Shamineau Lake. I knew how to swim but wanted to learn endurance. The camp counselor who taught swimming believed that kids just needed to be pushed off the deep-end. I remember the lesson on treading water. If we tried to stop and grab ahold of the dock before the counselor said we could, he would step on our hands. During the class I thought I was going to drown yet somehow my thrashing skinny arms and legs kept me afloat. The last two weeks with my parents felt similar. I was in the deep-end and while no one was stepping on my hands, my internalized camp counselor was standing over me with his arms crossed. I did a lot of thrashing. The road to discovery isn’t all sunbeams and butterflies. It’s scary and hard. I’ve always thought that love is an action word. During this trip home there were so many opportunities: hard conversations about “do not resuscitate” orders, constant rearranging of pillows, more blankets, less blankets, fetching ice chips, lip balm, the search for the illusive “just right” volume for the “Higher Power” CD, deciphering medical information and jargon, preparing meals, trying to get the house ready (hopefully) for mom’s return by downsizing my dad’s treasures (using a teaspoon when a bulldozer was needed), listening and collaborating with dad’s obsession about a different refrigerator, kitchen table, electric skillet, countless hours in the hospital, getting dad in and out of his wheelchair, and the “pièce de résistance” the constant journey with dad’s failing colostomy bag. Many times it didn’t feel like love. Many times it felt like the water might take me down. What began as an act of love became something else. I was treading water—longing for the dock and just trying to stay afloat. This morning during my meditation I received a gift--discovered a way to reframe love’s journey—a way to forgive. I get frustrated and sometimes disillusioned when love turns into an expectation, resentment, a commodity, or a transaction—when the purity of love’s first imagination somehow becomes distorted with action. Here’s my discovery—love is not the action (although action can be loving) love is the breath before the action. As such if we get lost, all we have to do is return to our breath.
My pen has been quiet lately. I think I have something I’d like to write but I am at a loss for words. It's a strange place for a writer. I don't know where or how to begin. It's in my head and I think that's the problem—it’s not worth writing unless it migrates to my heart. My mind reduces. My heart opens. It’s in the open spaces of my heart that I take this amazing journey of faith where I know but don’t always understand. It's this sweet, invisible, wordless state of grace that always seems to lubricate the hinges of my heart. There is power in words, power in story. That power can both liberate and incarcerate. They are the wings upon which I can fly and the bars behind which I am imprisoned. The irony is that the same words, the same story, can do either or both. It's been over a year since I published my book and I have ridden the rollercoaster up, thinking, "Wow, it's pretty great," and then down, thinking, "So what?" or worse, "It's pure drivel." I am capable of falling in love or in hate with my novel, and the irony is that they are opposite sides of the same ego. Like Narcissus when I become enamored with own reflection, the truth of the story metastasizes into a capital T. The "Truth" is a stagnant place that leaves no space for discovery. Conversely, when I disdain my work, I make myself too small to claim the magic of my creation or my Creator. Both paths leave me stuck in the muck of fear--afraid of losing what I had and afraid of finding what is yet to be. Well, it's time to start digging. Once again, enter Rufus, my spirit guide—the sacred beauty of his story is that he lived it. He wasn’t motivated by ego. If the coast was clear and if he was unleashed, he just did it! At the beach he dug every hole with the thrill of finding something new (even if he didn’t). His was a love for life born from living. Socrates said, "An unexamined life is not worth living." But the inversion is equally true, "An unlived life is not worth examining." Once again it's time for me to follow Rufus's example and put my head in the sand, not to hide, but with hands, feet, and heart in motion, find what's buried and waiting to be discovered Look what I found!The last time I went camping was with Rufus. I have a beautiful carved wooden box that holds what’s physically left of him. I have always planned on spreading his ashes in places we both loved . . . when I was ready. This weekend I put a handful of Rufus into a glass jar and took him camping in Humboldt County, one of our favorite places. Humboldt County is 200 miles north of San Francisco and is part of the Coastal Mountain Range. This rural county has more coastline than any county in California. It has the largest old growth Redwood forest on the earth. The rugged, ancient and majestic personality of this place always tends to right size my position in the universe and at the same time makes me feel more connected. It was a beautiful weekend filled with good friends, swimming/floating in the Eel River, starry nights and communing with nature. Unfortunately, Northern California has been hit hard this year by forest fires. While there were no fires near the campgrounds, the wind shifted on the second to the last day and brought smoke from one of the fires. It was a reminder that connection means that we also feel the pain and destruction around us—some of which we are culpable, some of which we can only bear witness. On my last morning I planned to bring Rufus’s ashes to the river. Although the drought has dwindled the Eel River, it still has some of the most clear and beautiful water you will ever see. At 6:30 a.m. I woke to one of nature’s most obnoxious alarm clocks—the irreverent Stellar Jay. If you’ve ever heard these birds, you know they are the bossy neighbors who don’t own an “inside voice.” There was no snooze button so I pulled myself out of my cozy cocoon, got dressed, and headed to the river with Rufus. Day was just beginning. The air was cool, the smoke had cleared, and sunlight had started her first salutation. I trudged down the path to the river with some amount of dread. What was I thinking? I should have left Rufus at home in his box. I found a spot where the river tumbled over rocks with that paradoxical sound of stillness. I sat on a large rock in the middle of the river and waited for something to happen—tears, memories, insight—but nothing happened. Here’s the thing about waiting—you never know when—but it often becomes something else. Something shifted and I thought of my Rufus poem, “This Little Light.” Surprisingly, I found it on my phone and read it to the river, the Redwoods, the rocks, the morning—all matter of snot and tears bubbled up from within me. When I was finished, I was ready to share Rufus with this magical place. I pulled out the jar and poured Rufus into my hand. I had the notion that I should take a picture so with one hand I held my IPhone and the other I released Rufus’s ashes into the river. Unbeknownst to me, my camera was set for burst (a series of consecutive shots). When I looked at the photos my heart leapt—I could not have staged this if I tried. The photos revealed what my heart knew—my hand had been holding the light. No words . . . only gratitude and love. Ashes and Light
August 17, 2015 The hazy air mutes the verdant palette Tiny grey particles float in mass formation Smoky remnants of life Forever changed by flames Cruel dancing spirits that consume Life eaten before we are finished loving My hand holds all that remains Ashy grit of bone, flesh and fur How can I hold him? How can I let him go? The bubbling water knows Pitter-patter of invisible paws Belligerent shout of Stellar Jay Sweet bird song of Varied Thrush Wind whispers of Redwood bough The river waits for no one yet waits for me I open my hand Dawn breaks Beautiful, blazing, heartbreaking, and clear My dad turns 90 today. I’ve spent much of my life trying to understand, resist or change him. The irony is that my journey has never been about him—it has always been about me. That’s hard for me to say because it feels like surrender. Turns out, I have some Harold in me. He’s a man who needs to be right (a stubborn Swede). However, the problem with win/loose relationships is that no one ever wins. Over the last couple of years I have come to appreciate a different understanding of surrender—I have had glimpses of forgiveness. This is not a religious kind of forgiveness. There is no judgment based on right and wrong. This forgiveness has no interest in moral high ground or blame because it is not about the other person. It is about the gift I give myself when I let go. There are miracles on the other side of letting go—you see things—things that “holding on” have prevented you from really seeing. The following vignette, from one of dad's hospitalizations, is one of those moments. Summer 2013Dad called the house this morning sounding disorientated and frustrated. It was a strange conversation. “The door was locked,” he said with irritation. Mom assumed that he was confused and replied, “Harold, you’re not at home. You’re in the hospital in Eau Claire.” He insisted, “I couldn’t get in,” and then added, “I just wanted to give my wife a kiss.” Mom shook her head and smiled, “I’ll be there soon.” She hung up the phone and we decided that he wasn’t disorientated—he knew where he was—he just wasn’t where he wanted to be. When we arrived in the hospital room, mom held on to her walker and stood as straight as she could; “Good morning dear.” A nurse was trying to adjust the nasogastric tube in his nose. Dad’s face lit up as he turned his head towards mom. “Oh, here’s my beloved wife,” he almost sang to the nurse. His cheeks had lost their handsome padding and his arms looked so small in the loose fabric of the hospital gown. Plastic tubes sprouted from him like tentacles. The nurse looked at mom and smiled, “Someone has been missing you.” Mom slowly moved from her walker to the side of the bed. With one hand on the bed to steady her she leaned towards dad. He opened his mouth like a hungry baby chick and on cue mom opened her mouth too. They lip-locked in a long and shaky kiss. Everyone in the room watched—I was compelled to look and wondered if I should look away. I felt like an eight-year-old who had caught his parents in an intimate act. It was amazing—sixty-three years of marriage and these two people still felt this kind of love and passion. My parents’ big kiss ended with a lip smacking pop. It sounded like a champagne cork—a celebration. My eyes glazed over with mist as I settled into a sweet knowing—I have been conceived, cradled and raised by two people in love. Happy Birthday Dad Thank you.
It was all pretty usual but I remember the vague sense that as of late Rufus seemed to be even more determined to have my attention, was always ravenous, and our usual routine of four walks a day seemed insufficient. I now recognize that time as Rufus grabbing life with all his might. Memory is always insufficient for the days that in retrospect are filled with meaning. However, for better or worse, everything that happened after he collapsed at my feet is written with indelible ink. It was a blurry drive to the vet, not because of memory but because I could barely see through my tears. His body that had served him so well with almost every desire now could hardly raise his head. I intuitively knew that this was our last drive. My neighbor offered to go with me as we carried him in a blanket to my car but so much of the last 12 years with Rufus was just he and I—so I declined. In retrospect I must have known that some good-byes need to be said with the curtain closed. Anyone who has ever sat with a being as they take their last breath knows the unfathomable, unspeakable power of that moment. Before the vet administered the medicine, she warned me that Rufus would make a big gasp after he was gone—an involuntary response of the body releasing the last of its air. The transition from life to death is both fierce and serene. There is no good way to say this kind of good-bye—life only gives us glimpses of this kind of completion. I doubt we are ever ready. Yet it marches towards all of us without blinking. Our only choice is to hold it with as much love as we are capable. I know that Rufus’ exuberant, vivacious life form was confused when his body suddenly applied the brakes. I know that in the moment that defies understanding, Rufus felt held and loved. On Monday I did a reading and discussion of Life on All Fours in Chicago at TPAN (an HIV/AIDS social service agency). The spirit of Rufus is alive and well. He still has not met a human he does not love! Although many of you have seen this before, I offer this poem as my witness to the beautiful life I know as Rufus. This Little Light
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 the 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 My inner parent—not my parents but that invisible close relative, told me that I should NOT send out a blog with “hard-ons” in the title. Then this morning I received an email from a good friend with an essay by Anne Lamott about the fourteen things she "knows" on the occasion of her turning sixty-one. For the record, Anne Lamott is one of my heroes—she’s my kind of Christian. If you aren’t familiar with her, check out her essay. Anyway, this is what she said about writing “Shitty first drafts. Butt in chair. Just do it. You own everything that happened to you. You are going to feel like hell if you never write the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves in your heart — your stories, visions, memories, songs: your truth, your version of things, in your voice. That is really all you have to offer us, and it’s why you were born.” I’m taking this as a message . . . here’s my hard-on blog. I should write today. I need to write today. What's wrong with me, you lazy, stupid, joke of a writer? The voice is so clear and yet rather than acknowledge the crossed arms and defiant glare, I find so many wonderful ways to distract myself from my inner insolent teenager. You may know this art form as procrastination—the dust bunnies under the couch suddenly are explosive devices that need to be defused, this very keyboard is only too happy to take me places I never knew I wanted to go—a merry-go-round of stuff, people and information; one more click, really, just one more! I choose spinning in the same place over moving forward. What would happen if I got off this dizzy ride of distractions and just sat with my recalcitrant adolescent? What does he have to say that I can’t bear to hear? With a quiet mind and receptive heart, the monster would most likely be defanged. Rather than something powerful and horrible, I’d probably discover that the pimply-faced, awkward boy-man is just scared.
When a young child discovers his or her body, particularly their genitals, there is no shame, no fear, just awe for the unexpected surprise. Perhaps our bodies are a metaphor for our life journey and sadly as life happens we move further and further from that unadulterated place of joy and possibility. Take for example those damned thirteen-year-old hard-ons. I’d give anything for a few of those instant woodies today but if I looked back into my thirteen-year-old eyes, I wouldn’t see much pleasure or adventure. That symbol of male potency was anything but—with my teenage brain, Christian guilt and zero sex education, it was just scary. It could spring to life without notice, answering to a call that was both confusing and disturbing. It felt like the world was watching . . . and when I joined the wrestling team, they were! Suited up in a skintight purple wresting leotard there was nothing left to the imagination. And to add insult to injury, I was convinced that I was suffering alone. Little did I know that all the jokes and crotch slaps (that strange ritual of teenage boys) were a mask for the collective terror of getting caught with a spring in our jockstrap. Adolescent fear is not merely about what is but god forbid, what could be. In a world spinning out of control, safety is about crossing one’s arms and doing nothing. Fear holds me in the very places I don’t want to be. Its seductive voice says you might not like where you are but you are going to like being somewhere else a lot less. While I aspire to be an active agent in my life, I am terrified of the possibility. Marianne Williamson says, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.” Perhaps fear is not something to be solved but rather something to sit with under really good (non-fluorescent) light. What if someone had sat with my terrified thirteen-year-old and told me I was OK . . . just as I was? What if someone had assured me of God’s loving gaze even as I waded into the murky waters of my sexuality? What if that someone is now ME? When I feel the yearning to procrastinate, what would happen if I stopped and listened? And rather than lecture, correct or discipline, what if I simply held my scared, skinny, teenager’s hand? 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..
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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