animal friends

It took all three of us to lift Luke up on the gurney. His anguished, frail body had given up. Big, soft, brown eyes looked to me, so gentle and calm…this Great Dane, this massive and brittle creature in my embrace. I wondered how and why it had gotten to this point. As we struggled to find a comfortable position for his leg to be x-rayed, the exigency of the reality whispered to me, the weightiness of the moment seemed heavy. He with his warm resolve, whimpered only a little on the cold, clinical table, his leg looking as if it had swallowed a cantaloupe whole. Instead it was the well-known, ever popular, dark looming cancer eating him alive, consuming his simple, happy life. Luke couldn’t walk on it anymore. He couldn’t eat. This Great Dane, this Great Dog was sick, and still his temperament remained sweet and kind, silently stoic, using what energy he could to barely nuzzle his nose into me for affection. It’s times like these, I marvel at the spirit of animals. They are amazing in the very most literal of terms. Their eyes tell us so much about their personalities--indeed they are windows into their souls. Their body language shows us who they are in a different way--what they want. They are all unique beings and so very extraordinary.

There is a grace in what we can do for them in their pain. Lamentably, we must sit back and watch our human spirits deteriorate in agony until life/sickness/etc. runs its course, but we can help our animal friends leave their pain. There is something peaceful in that.  The pain in losing what we love is our heartbreak, an enormous heartache, but we free the ones we love from a suffering we cannot know.

Luke was allowed that grace. I too, have had to make that choice. I believe it is one of the greatest forms of love we are capable of.

For my animal friends…of all kinds…the life you live brings me joy beyond measure. 

birthday

A mad ballooner stopped by last night, unexpected, forever propelling my theory onward: life surprises. People surprise. And it always seems to do so right on cue. 

There is indeed a vast ocean that bellies with ripcurrents and untamed serpents...yet I know to hold on, for there will always be a calm in the horizon where waters sparkle like diamonds, and the moon reflects beauty in bright neon, at every angle for all to see. It’s here where one sails quiescently out into the vista, skimming the frothy undertones of all the turbulence that has past.  My sail is up, the wind is on my face, balloons bobble around me, and I am reminded of wonderful fortune.   

meatball encounter

I love going out to eat. Some poke fun of my bachelor refrigerator, stalked only with condiments and fruit (not to go together of course), or my frozen dinners tucked safely away in the freezer for midnight meals…and yes…the truth is, I don’t cook. At all. I microwave. I have the fastest draw in the east.  My fingers beep-beep and produce a warm whatever-night-meal better than Betty Crocker herself. Ok, that last part isn’t true, but it sounded good. I can cook. At least, I can read directions. The point is; I love going out to eat. And do so often.

Being a vegetarian, I’ve never really had a problem; there’s always something on the menu…some places are better than others…yadda-yadda. However, in all my years of veggie ordering, I’ve never had a situation quite like this:

My step-mother and I were having lunch at a quaint Italian bistro. 

I order a pasta dish with veggies. 

We continue to talk and catch up until our lunch comes. 

Looks delicious: small bowl with pasta heaping over it. 

I bite into it and decide I will need a bigger plate (we're going to need a bigger boat). 

My eyes scan over and see only broccoli and mushrooms, pasta and olives (force of habit). 

I have already taken a few bites. At this time the larger plate comes and I pour the pasta onto it. As the pasta comes toppling down, I see entangled with it, five enormous gray, chunky balls of cow. I immediately shriek and jump back. I have already ingested the pasta which has touched, and been cooked, and been rolled around in the juices of the slaughtered moo-cow. My jaw drops and I realize what has just occurred. My stomach curdles. My face goes white. It has been 17 years. I look at the plate and see the gray, lumpy, gristly meatballs on my plate. It is too late. There is nothing I can do. This is a tragedy of immense proportions. A moment of silence please.

While I realize, this is in part, a comical story to many, and written as such, (also admittedly, even I was laughing hours later)…the actual moment, was not. Anything that is personal, anything that one person believes so deeply in, and lives their life in accordance to, when another interferes with that, it is quite jarring.

So, this was my meatball encounter. I’m surprised there haven’t been more. This is not to say it will keep me from dining out, or rather an impetus to learn to cook. Heavens no. As long as the meat is on the plate next to me and not on my plate, everything is just peachy. 

butterflies

I find myself walking far tonight. The overgrown grass sways in the breeze, rippling up the hill like a bevy of waves, and reaches up faintly tickling my bare legs. I do not know how I got here, or where I am going. The sky shields me in pure, creamy white, and I lay down, enveloped in downy, feathery meadows. The earth is whispering her secret as tens of gilded butterflies fly overhead. They approach closer seemingly magnetized to me, alighting all over my body. I lay motionless, breathing in their intent, and realize they are suddenly gone. My eyes close. I know what I must do. 

feist

One of my favorite videos from 2011.

Artsy, cool, dance-y, trees. Love.

her surprise

She is almost home. They all have been…these wonderful places to rest, to seek shelter from the outside. The night breeze, so gentle and unflawed ruffles her hair just a bit in front of her eyes as she makes her way through her overgrown yard. The smell of sweet roses greet her devotedly, so bittersweet. She tucks the few blond stray hairs from the summer sun behind her ears and takes the steps up to her “home,” her resting place. The key turns, and she thinks silently to herself, how very much she loves this resting place…how she’s truly loved all her safe places…these places in waiting. Yet as she walks in, she knows she is walking in to nothing, to no one, to an empty space…

She shuts the door behind her and breathes in this reality of hers, this reality she never anticipated. Some days paralyzed at the door, imagining what could be waiting at the top of the stairs. She imagines the voices, the various noises, the arms that might welcome her, and the many names she might be called.

But then, she manages to breathe again, a different kind of breath, a heavy, saturated, corpulent sigh.  She sets down her keys. And knows she hears nothing... knows, in this resting place it is just she. The only noises heard are of her own thoughts, at times deafening in her mind.

And then another thought, a more familiar voice, pick yourself up, dust yourself off. No more than that. With lackluster verve she bends down to grab the mail and her moxie deep within and takes the stairs, keeping her gaze locked at her feet as to avoid her fantasies of what could be. Reaching the top, turning the corner she does hear a noise…

SURPRISE!!!

She stands in stupor for a moment. The hugs pile on and her smile grows bright. A single tear rolls down her cheek. Inside she questions its intent, happiness or melancholy.

There was something waiting for her today. For now, it will have to be enough, she thought. Surprises do come. She will hang on to that. If only for a day. 

home to France

It’s too late to write. What am I doing? The white glow from the computer is the only light in the room.  My mind is full. I think I’ll go back to France for the night. Come along for the ride if you will.

The flight is long. It always is. Not in hours; in anticipation. I listen to the voices around me and do my best to nod, pout my lips, and keep quiet. I want Les Francais to think I am one of them for as long as I can. When I have to speak, I do my very best accent of oui and non.

I look out the window and see it approaching. Butterflies. The wheels descend. We touch down. Immediately, I feel home.  My heart feels a certain peace, there is a warm rush in my gut and I smile. 

I walk outside and feel the sun on my face, drop my bags and just stay still for a moment. The sun seems a little warmer here in southern France. I look about and smirk at all of the small colorful cars I love whizz by. Even the street signs are more gladdening to me, with bright blue arrows instead of our stodgy rectangles. 

I get to my flat in the village, up a winding cobblestone street. The shutters, a shade of turquoise are wide open letting in the balmy mistral winds, the floor, a terracotta mosaic is beauty understated. The patisserie is down a charming fleur framed block, and la fromagerie is down another. Café’s line the streets, never seeming to close and animals are always welcome at all. Trees canopy me as I walk along narrowing paths and passerby’s really do carry baguettes in their armpits on their way home for family dinner.

I venture out to the countryside and watch as the sunflowers raise their head to sun in the morning and bow their heads in the evening as faithful parishioners. I walk out to the fields and get lost in them, the stalks taller than me. There is an absolute enchantment in being immersed in the reeds, entangled in their grace. In the distance I see the proud, rugged Montagne Sainte Victoire reaching into the heavens with its vibrant, varying hues from limestone, clay, and Cypress friends.

Fast forward to the lavender fields. I can always smell its sweet perfume in the breeze, the thyme and rosemary mélange. My eyes look as far as they can and see only a blur of violet haze, in the tiers of a maze. My hands float atop the sea of buds as my fingers grab a bunch and pull gently. The scent lingers on my skin. My eyes happily squint from the golden sun resting in the cobalt sky, as picturesque as the day Van Gogh and Cezanne painted it. To be under the same sky, shielded by the same sun, walking the same streets is all but surreal.

It is extraordinary here, my sanctuary, my home.

I do not want to go back. Not yet.

But it is late. Next time I will go back to the market place and sit for a moment in the hall of my favorite cathedral...

For now, I must return to my waking life, and leave my home behind.