Dear Family and Friends, For over a week I have been trying to write the 2014 Rufus Chronicles. Most of you know that for the last twelve years Rufus has written an annual chronicle of the year. Despite his death, I WANTED to have one more Rufus Chronicles. I have struggled with this task and have deleted every draft. They just didn’t sound right! Then yesterday morning it hit me like a sucker punch to my gut—I can’t hear Rufus’s voice. The recognition brought me to my knees. Things are not what they were. I can’t write in Rufus’s voice because that very sensory life force I loved as Rufus is silent. I recently told someone that grief is like a breeze that unexpectedly floats into consciousness. You can’t see it coming and can’t control it . . . the most you can do is go with it and breathe its salty air. Sure, you can distract yourself, numb yourself, or pretend it’s not there. But grief is a patient and tenacious lover whose purpose is not to destroy us but to move us through the seemingly impossible task of letting go. My writing owes its life to Rufus. Whether the Rufus Chronicles or the puppy’s (Beau’s) narration in my novel, Life on All Fours, the words are inspired by the playful, soulful, naïve, insightful, irreverent, spiritual, narcissistic, loving voice of my Rufus. He could as easily talk about poop, as he could love. He was free of any filter or self-consciousness. His beauty was his complete commitment to right now. For someone like me whose journey at times has been mired in correctness and carefulness, Rufus was a challenging and inspiriting voice to follow. As one friend said, “Rufus wasn’t the dog you wanted, he was the dog you needed.” Over the last six months I have been supported and loved by all of you in many ways. I am forever grateful. Yet, when my front door closes and it’s just me, I’m so aware that I am alone. Our greatest loves leave the biggest holes. But here’s the real kick in the pants . . . as it turns out, alone is a powerful place to be. As it turns out, alone is one of the most honest places to be. As it turns out, alone is not the same as lonely. And as it turns out, (and this one makes no sense at all) alone is the fertile soil where I have found my greatest capacity for connection with God, myself and others. In the empty space that once was Rufus, with the courage that comes from loving and being loved, I have found a voice that is willing to be heard . . . mine. With gratitude and love, David Rufus Chronicles 2014 |
My heart is full even though there are cracks. It seems that abundance is not the result of leak-proof vessel but rather is the result of an unlimited resource that is only limited by my ability to be open to it—love. It’s not a commodity that can be stored up, hoarded, traded, purchased or stolen because it is completely free . . . for everyone, everywhere, all the time! As it turns out a closed and self-contained container becomes stagnant and ultimately diseased. The cracks and holes of my heart are the places that create movement and allow the flow of healing if I remain open to the infinitely abundant liquid miracle called love. |
LOVE does not require a giver, but it’s beautiful when it’s given. LOVE does not require action although its presence will always move us towards justice. LOVE does not require an occasion but the gift will always be remembered. LOVE does not require perfection but will always encourage us to be better.
Exhale
Life on All Fours
Book Launch Party and Fundraiser
Book Launch Party and Fundraiser
Among sunbeams filtered through a ancient vaulted ceiling of needle and bark, transfixed and transported, am I dreaming? Five long, short years in the making, the struggle with a blank page and the love affair, divorce and make-up between words—it is finally done. The mere fact of this completion feels like one of life’s great wonders.
On this day the soft carpet of redwood giants makes everything sound like a caress and the rustle of pine leaves like the coo of tree fairies. This is a gentle gathering, hearts connected. In the middle of the small forest cathedral is an offering—two dozen tall and proud pink lilies surrounded by plates and bowls piled high with food, dreamed and crafted with love by my family’s hands. We are a tribe raised on edible love. Eat, drink—celebrate life and the ability to eat it.
Legs, two and four, play, sniff, consume, and converse in a verdant meadow marked by balloons and blankets and sparkling sunshine. Every so often a poster monument—a wet, shiny, brown dog, covered with sand, expectant eyes and “Life on All Fours,” prominently placed at his feet. This is the spirit that I can barely hold without the accompaniment of tears; the spirit that sat by my feet through the hours and hours of labor, the spirit that became voice and led me through the dark valleys, the spirit that loved me despite my ill-tempered impatience, the spirit that left his physical form when his work was done.
Gathered in a semi-circle, sitting on fallen logs, reminiscent of boyhood campfires, soft eyes hold me in their gaze. As one wise friend declares, “The day is perfect, it requires nothing more of you.” Yet the hardest task is yet to be lived—show up and be seen. Generous arms hold me as I stumble over tears and words. The waiting is over. |
His belly hugs the cool Pacific Ocean shore, oblivious to the gritty sand that covers his twitching nose. His paws are spring loaded in temporary repose; eyes focused on the prize, He waits, waits, and waits . . . for me.
****
So much of life is spent waiting. Usually it feels like wasting time. I’m hardwired for productivity so the empty space feels like that spinning icon on the computer that tempts me to drown my laptop in the bathtub. I’ve been waiting for a blog inspiration commensurate to my amazing book launch party and fundraiser but the wheel won’t stop spinning.
And then it came to me—I’m spinning because I don’t want to exhale. The book party was pure magic and I’m not ready to let go.
****
So much of life is spent waiting. Usually it feels like wasting time. I’m hardwired for productivity so the empty space feels like that spinning icon on the computer that tempts me to drown my laptop in the bathtub. I’ve been waiting for a blog inspiration commensurate to my amazing book launch party and fundraiser but the wheel won’t stop spinning.
And then it came to me—I’m spinning because I don’t want to exhale. The book party was pure magic and I’m not ready to let go.
Stay tuned for Waiting, part two . . .
P.S. To channel my very smart niece who works in social media and well . . . . is twenty-three, "Please friend, follow, like, share me on Facebook (wow, that sounds weird), follow me on Twitter, purchase my book on these on-line retailers, and please review my book on Amazon,"
He could have collapsed outside—alone. I wonder how long it would have taken me to discover him. Instead he found me. He was barking at squirrels when I left him. Those damn squirrels tormented him—but for a dog that rarely used his words I think it must have felt good to yell once in awhile. On that sunny warm day in June, I’m sure he wished he could have barked a long time, but instead he found me.
I never gave it a second thought when I left him on the deck and went inside the house to do some work. I knew he would eventually find me. In his senior years, when his hearing was failing, I could often hear him trotting from room to room looking for me. He always found me. In retrospect there’s no surprise that he collapsed at my feet. It was his last act of love. I didn’t know I was lost.
The upside of being lost is that no one can see you. The downside of being lost is that no one can see you. Life on All Fours, is now live and on-line. Even though it’s fiction, the whole process of writing this book is about being found—turns out being found requires acts of love from others. Thank you Rufus and a host of other "others."
My parents want to read my book. Why is that parents often represent parts of ourselves that are afraid of being discovered? This book will make some people uncomfortable—there are parts that will make me uncomfortable knowing they are being read. It’s not easy to collapse at someone’s feet—and reveal things we hoped no one would ever see. But ironically that act has the potential to not only bring me out of hiding but others as well. Rufus was never afraid of being seen, whether sticking his wet nose in peoples’ faces, humping his pillow during dinner parties, or collapsing at my feet in the last hour of his life, he understood that love doesn’t live alone or in shadow, it thrives in the places where we can see and be seen.
I never gave it a second thought when I left him on the deck and went inside the house to do some work. I knew he would eventually find me. In his senior years, when his hearing was failing, I could often hear him trotting from room to room looking for me. He always found me. In retrospect there’s no surprise that he collapsed at my feet. It was his last act of love. I didn’t know I was lost.
The upside of being lost is that no one can see you. The downside of being lost is that no one can see you. Life on All Fours, is now live and on-line. Even though it’s fiction, the whole process of writing this book is about being found—turns out being found requires acts of love from others. Thank you Rufus and a host of other "others."
My parents want to read my book. Why is that parents often represent parts of ourselves that are afraid of being discovered? This book will make some people uncomfortable—there are parts that will make me uncomfortable knowing they are being read. It’s not easy to collapse at someone’s feet—and reveal things we hoped no one would ever see. But ironically that act has the potential to not only bring me out of hiding but others as well. Rufus was never afraid of being seen, whether sticking his wet nose in peoples’ faces, humping his pillow during dinner parties, or collapsing at my feet in the last hour of his life, he understood that love doesn’t live alone or in shadow, it thrives in the places where we can see and be seen.
If the soul is the unconscious and fertile soil of our knowing and eyes are the window to that soul, it makes sense that sometimes our windows inexplicably fling open. A few nights ago I was lying in bed and without thought or words, tears bubbled up and began to overflow. I was surprised—I assumed it was grief but lately my grief has been feeling less runny. Then in the silence of my bedroom I heard what my soul already understood—there were no snores. Rufus’ sleepy-time breathing was a force of nature. His snores were a steady, deep-throated rumble. To me, they were the big soothing sounds of the Pacific Ocean. To others, well, they were just loud.
There’s a scene in my book, Life on All Fours, where the main character, Ben, brings his puppy, Beau, home for the first time. Beau is completely freaked out, confused, over-stimulated, and missing his Mama. Ben doesn’t know what to do but we get the first glimpse of his parenting instinct—from a man who never knew he had one. We witness the beginning of a bond and see that they are connected by that unsung miracle—breath.
*****
My dad moved carefully towards me and picked me up. He sat down on a chair and cradled me close to his chest.
“Poor baby, do you miss your Mama?” My dad’s eyes glistened as he spoke softly.
I squirmed to get free. My dad rubbed all the right places in all the wrong ways. I twisted and turned. His hands held me tight.
“It’s going to be OK, you’ll see. Shhhh.” He petted me slowly. “There you go.” He was warm, and I felt the slow thump of his body. “Yeah, that’s a good boy. Shhhhh.”
His voice hummed low. My wiggles began to have less fight, and my breathing slowed with his. My body felt heavy and limp. My eyes twitched and things started to get blurry. I hadn’t closed my eyes in a very long time.
I heard a chuckle followed by a sniffle, and then my dad whispered, “Little boy, you snore like an old man."
*****
At times, it feels like Rufus’ death is going to take my breath away. Yet, I’m still breathing. Like the undulating ocean surf, breath connects me to life. It is impossible to inhale and not experience the full complement of life’s hardships and joys. Likewise, it is impossible to hold on to any of it because of my need to exhale. My eyes, the window to my soul, understand this. Salty droplets slide from the corners of my eyes to express that which words cannot . . .
There’s a scene in my book, Life on All Fours, where the main character, Ben, brings his puppy, Beau, home for the first time. Beau is completely freaked out, confused, over-stimulated, and missing his Mama. Ben doesn’t know what to do but we get the first glimpse of his parenting instinct—from a man who never knew he had one. We witness the beginning of a bond and see that they are connected by that unsung miracle—breath.
*****
My dad moved carefully towards me and picked me up. He sat down on a chair and cradled me close to his chest.
“Poor baby, do you miss your Mama?” My dad’s eyes glistened as he spoke softly.
I squirmed to get free. My dad rubbed all the right places in all the wrong ways. I twisted and turned. His hands held me tight.
“It’s going to be OK, you’ll see. Shhhh.” He petted me slowly. “There you go.” He was warm, and I felt the slow thump of his body. “Yeah, that’s a good boy. Shhhhh.”
His voice hummed low. My wiggles began to have less fight, and my breathing slowed with his. My body felt heavy and limp. My eyes twitched and things started to get blurry. I hadn’t closed my eyes in a very long time.
I heard a chuckle followed by a sniffle, and then my dad whispered, “Little boy, you snore like an old man."
*****
At times, it feels like Rufus’ death is going to take my breath away. Yet, I’m still breathing. Like the undulating ocean surf, breath connects me to life. It is impossible to inhale and not experience the full complement of life’s hardships and joys. Likewise, it is impossible to hold on to any of it because of my need to exhale. My eyes, the window to my soul, understand this. Salty droplets slide from the corners of my eyes to express that which words cannot . . .
Whoever is running life’s clock has a sadistic sense of timing. It’s taken me over five years to finish Life on All Fours. There is nothing efficient about collaborating with a dog. Rufus provided the inspiration for this book but he insisted on showing and that takes so much more time than telling. The completion of Life on All Fours is a testament to those projects that you stick with even through all the “Are you serious, you're still are working on it?” that make you feel lazy and incompetent. As I approached the publishing process I wanted to celebrate with a new photo for the book’s biography page, Rufus and me—the happy, industrious, and competent writing team. Two days before the photo shoot, Rufus died.
Even though he’s nine weeks dead, it feels like I just left him lying on that aluminum table; his last heart beat as palpable as the air being pushed through my congested nostrils right now. I thought I was doing better but this feeling came careening into my carefully constructed mourning this morning. I was picking out a shirt to wear and there it sat on the closet shelf, like the enticing song of a Siren—the bright green t-shirt I had on when I carried Rufus into the pet hospital—the last piece of clothing to touch the breathing Rufus. I followed the music and held the shirt to my nose, inhaled, crashing again into the devastation that is death. It hasn't been washed but has long forgotten his smell.
The t-shirt is designed by one of my sister’s friends and reads, “Release, flow, give thanks, let go.” On the morning of June 17, 2014 with no idea that six hours later I’d be saying my last good-bye to my best friend, I got dressed. Nine weeks later—release and flow (mucus and tears mostly), I want to hate this t-shirt because I’m not ready to give thanks or let go but I can’t help but love the hope that waits patiently for me; like Rufus waiting at the front door for me to follow. The truth is that grief is messy business and the only way forward is lots of Kleenex.
Even though he’s nine weeks dead, it feels like I just left him lying on that aluminum table; his last heart beat as palpable as the air being pushed through my congested nostrils right now. I thought I was doing better but this feeling came careening into my carefully constructed mourning this morning. I was picking out a shirt to wear and there it sat on the closet shelf, like the enticing song of a Siren—the bright green t-shirt I had on when I carried Rufus into the pet hospital—the last piece of clothing to touch the breathing Rufus. I followed the music and held the shirt to my nose, inhaled, crashing again into the devastation that is death. It hasn't been washed but has long forgotten his smell.
The t-shirt is designed by one of my sister’s friends and reads, “Release, flow, give thanks, let go.” On the morning of June 17, 2014 with no idea that six hours later I’d be saying my last good-bye to my best friend, I got dressed. Nine weeks later—release and flow (mucus and tears mostly), I want to hate this t-shirt because I’m not ready to give thanks or let go but I can’t help but love the hope that waits patiently for me; like Rufus waiting at the front door for me to follow. The truth is that grief is messy business and the only way forward is lots of Kleenex.
Five days before his death
June 12, 2014, Buena Vista Park, San Francisco.
Daily Bites and Blessings
Welcome 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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