Boxed In

This is Tiger. 

Hear Tiger hiss.

Hiss, Tiger, hiss.

My ears are back too.  Ask anyone who has seen me lately.  The Verge is a great place for me to hang out but I have managed to box myself in a bit, causing me a small internal hissy-fit over my writing and the sound of my own niggling thoughts.  I have tried to keep to a certain format--discipline is a good thing--and I've tried to describe my Vergy experiences through my walks and works with dogs and cats and chickens and rabbits and their humans.  But this box could use a good airing out right about now.  You've been there too.  You look at your favorite room and suddenly think yuck, ugh, boring! so you decide to rearrange all the furniture and though nothing is new, it all feels refreshingly different.  There most likely won't be any obvious changes--this is mostly an inside job--but I am going to veer off just a bit and see what happens.  The dogs will still be with me of course, and if we get too lost in the woods, they'll lead me back to where we started.

So for today....It's a stunning day out there.  Cold, crisp, bright, still.  In the absence of leaves, the birch trees are now marching forth, preparing for center stage.  I love how they fade forward to winter like this, these brave ethereal souls. Tiger has to stay inside, but I don't.  Millie, Boo, Artemis and Biscuit await their turns in the sun.  Decked in hunter orange, we're heading out to the woods to see what we find outside this box.  We'll also blow the stink off while we're out there.  Mine.   

Sculpture

I was in the woods last weekend.  I walked alone.  Well, sort of alone.  I passed lots of dogs being followed by dog-parents who were each anxiously fussing over their own dog, giving nervous and stern directives about not jumping, about being nice, about stay here, about being a g-o-o-o-o-d dog.  Most of the dogs blithely blew off their parents to go sniff something just off the path, or to trot a few feet ahead.  As I trudged along, I found myself becoming increasingly irritated by the constant stream of disciplinary directives, wishing that parents would hush themselves and trade in control for silence. The woods felt more like Wednesday than Sunday. Silently, I praised dogs like Hannah The Young Shepherd who happily and freely ignored her mother's rapid-fire commands and skipped ahead on the path towards me to say hello.  Mother was overly aghast by Hannah's behavior but I happened to have a treat in my pocket and as soon as I whispered "Hannah", Hannah became an instant listener and expert sitter. I am aware that I probably rewarded Hannah's rebelliousness but that is an aspect of my own rebelliousness which happens to emerge now and then. (Quite truthfully, I actually considered telling Hannah's mother to sit and stop barking but I only had one cookie with me...)

In spite of barking parents, I continued along the path, seeking aloneness.  I crave this solitude.  My work requires constant expert listening.  Constant unsilence. When I can be alone like this, I trade in listening for hearing.  I don't always like what I hear on these solo walks, but I seem to have no other way to hear my own echo.  On this day, I noticed how restless and unsettled I feel.  Unhappy?  No.  But un-comfortable, yes. And to my consternation, my own echo was feeling a lot like those dog-parents were sounding.  The day was particularly beautiful which only seemed to accentuate my disconnect, my discord, my diswhatever.  I was struck hard by beauty and struck hard again by how distant it seemed; a barn recently painted in crisp cold white and outlined in warm copper gutters, perched starkly against a thick stand of dark shadowy pines, the smooth-as-glass river sneaking and snaking beneath fallen limbs, the emergent lush mosses braving the decayed leaves.  These images were both glorious and private.  At best I could only observe and acknowledge these artful scenes.  I was unable to breath them in, to be penetrated by them.  I felt so outside of outside. I don't know why.  


But I did become curious about these sculptures.  Both were as friendly as they were indifferent.  How is that possible?  Both tree and dog were rooted in their places.  Content.  Fixed.  Dispassionate. Peaceful.  Cold.  Unflinching. Friendly.  So what? they said. I liked that.  In fact, I thrived on their quiet indifference and found comfort in it.  My disconnect was put into a context that seemed safe and gratifyingly insignificant.  Control gave way to a rebellious and penetrating silence. I was inside the outside--or perhaps the outside had finally come in. I doubt I can explain it.  I left the woods the same way I went in, but I knew that I had heard the echo I needed to hear, and finally standing back I could just say so what...

                                                               

Dog Walker Tip#637: Know When Pheasant Season Begins

...and don't dress up a like a pheasant that day and walk around in the woods with pheasant-colored dogs.

OK?

But if you decide to do it anyway?

Make sure one of those dogs is Artemis.  She tackles shooters.

Shooter-Getter

10/24/2009

To Diane

Thinking of you today...

xoxo

But I Can Still Write About It.

My Mom and Dad

See how they are both smiling?  Well, that's not what they'll be doing when they read this. They will kill me for this.  Absolutely kill me.  I just sent them an email promising I would stay in the back seat and shut up.  And I will. But technically this is writing and not talking, and so technically I'm not breaking a promise. And as long as I don't get too specific about anything (like their h**lth) then I think they'll recover from my blog-o-blabber (as well as from their unspecified recent "things" having to do with their h**lth). 

Oh me, oh my.  Parents these days.  The things they do.  As they get, um, more mature, they also get a little more, um, shall we say certain of themselves.  [Older and stubborn are words that don't belong here, whatsoever. No siree, nope, no way. ] Recently when they both experienced not-to-be-mentioned unspecified "events" that required the attention of folks who happen to do "rounds", they became as impenetrable as the Pentagon,  expert in all matters and, after years of adversarial cut-throat NYT crossword puzzle stand-offs against each other, they were suddenly, well, like an old married couple.  On the same page. Totally on the same page. 

And if you happen to be a daughterslashblogger who is trying to stay in the back seat and remain supportively quiet from a slightly long-ish distance away, even though it looks like they have all their hands firmly on the big steering wheel, there are moments when it doesn't quite feel like it.  I mean, don't get me wrong--I'm all for risk-taking. Try to get a seat at Arnold's on a Saturday night or--I dare you-- try to wedge into that spot just outside of Mark's in P-town, or even try to sneak popcorn while Maeve is asleep.  Go ahead--go for it.   But my parents have a way of suddenly ( and I mean suddenly) going from all conservative-y about what they do, to getting all "wild" with things I wish they could approach in a softer, more measured way--especially those matters having to do with their h**lth.   

So here I sit in the back seat. I'm keeping one eye shut on this trip.  I'm trying to hide the fact my knuckles are white from gripping the door handle and I've bitten all my nails.  My right foot keeps hitting the invisible brake hard enough to drive it through the floor. I'd like a smoke and I don't smoke. Making this a bit more nerve-wracking is the fact I happen to teach "driving" for a living--the very same kind of "driving" that might (I only said might) be helpful in caring for their (fill-in-the-blank) circumstances pertaining to their h**lth.  But alas, I am still the kid (a very gray and menopausal 50-year-old kid) and I can already see that they have things under (their) control and so that pretty much leaves me one thing to do.

(Closing eyes and assuming lotus position)

Innnnnhale....

Exhhhhale....

Innnnnhale....

Exhhhhale.....

Innnnh--Hey, up there! I can drive anytime you want to take a little break.  If you want.  Just sayin'.

Curves

This is one of my most favorite places to walk.  It's just a few steps from my door and the dogs love to run there once they see where we are headed.  This is the kind of landscape that I too could tumble across--the kind that makes me want to venture beyond its horizon, tracing the curves of the landscape with my feet and vertical curiosity.  These curves roll right into each other without ownership or apology. For a year I walked here nearly every day and watched the seasons transform the land the way a painter does a canvas, one subtle layer at a time.  The effect is a masterpiece of earth and sky. Today's visit was like stepping into an old familiar hug; the path was quiet and gray, and the trees with their tattered sleeves of golds and reds and greens and browns invited quiet companionship.  I wandered close to their branches and acknowledged the friendliness of familiarity. Except for these trees, I was solo today. I listened to the wind. 

In the distance is a barn.  I like to imagine the farmer who used to whistle every morning as he rummaged around inside.  I watch my dogs as they vigorously sniff the area, imagining their own tales about what has gone on here.  The landscape offers tiny clues.  A pond.  An old orchard.  Stone walls.  Berries.  A telephone pole.  The wood pile. A path worn with tire tracks.  Broken glass.

As I walked back out of the woods towards home, I scanned the landscape again.  Soon these same trees would be bare and the field would be brown.  Or white. I have it memorized--the sight of a gray sky over a brown and white field, punctuated by the lonely, cold and gray silhouettes of the trees.  I chuckled and then shuddered to myself.  But those days aren't here yet, I said out loud to the wind.  For now, the trees offer bouquets of warmth and friendship.  The path home curves the entire way so it's often hard to see what's coming up ahead.  Between now and then is a mystery lined with gold.

Blessings

This little bunny is a blessing.  So are the other rabbits, and so are the chickens.  Hmmm.  Hello, dear creatures.

I find it to be such an oddity.  Though I am a therapist, there are days and weeks when my work feels more like roller derby than a place of reflective and deep listening.  This week was particularly difficult.  There was a pile-up of catastrophes and instinctively, I retreat from headlines and the public and private conflicts in order to stay afloat.  Solitude is my retreat, and quiet be-ing helps.

But this oddity....it appears like a gentle wind, and right on time.  I took care of the bunnies today.  There is a barn full of them for me this weekend.  Last week I spent time with such sweet and lovely chickens, with their pale green eggs. But today I stepped into the barn and was greeted by silence.  It's a meditative routine; fill the feed pails with grain, fill the watering cans with water, and push the cart to each hutch.  The barn floor is solid and gentle, soft, and so, so kind. I wear barn boots but this kindness works its way up through my soles and through my soul. It kindly bears my burdens and I am grateful for it.  The grain is sweet smelling and simple.  Each bunny is curious.  In silent acknowledgement, we share communion.  I feed each one, but I am fed. How odd and how right to find it here....

Such creatures are blessings. A piece of reverence, the peace of reverence.