Still Reaching

Just almost within reach the silvery lengths of mylar confetti, exploding from unseen canons above me, connected the top and lower section of the stadium in a shiny metallic waterfall.  Almost within reach, and yet not.  But still, the inclination to reach, to try, to attempt to become part of the chain. Back side of the waterfall, looking out.  Looking through. Protected between the top and the bottom. Like the filling, the best part of the cake.  Later in the game, the Angel girls,with hand-held canons, shot shrink wrapped t-shirts from the floor of the stadium to the top row of seats. Zipping by me.   Out of reach, but still I reached  and  watched closely to the trajectory of the projectiles and sighed, defeated as they zoomed past.  These seats for the All Star game were great seats for viewing, but not for catching confetti or t-shirts.  Yet I tried. 

       Often I am near the action, but not quite in the action, though I try, I try.  I’m an observer.  Always, since then, always until now.  Attendant at an event, yet not quite fully joining in, holding back to protect myself from disappointment.  Only after the action, when I’m withdrawn into my reflective space do I allow myself to feel the excitement that was.  I look for a remedy.  In millimeter steps I inch towards it.  As I reached for the silvery lengths of mylar confetti, I felt hope.  Did I finally graduate to participant/observer?  Inch by inch...

Bridges

        I take pictures of what interests me. I have no great technique other than to try to capture in the lens what I’m seeing with my eyes.  I point, I adjust a bit, I click.  Taking pictures from a moving train is especially iffy.  And yet I do.  Point, click.  This time I took a picture of a bridge.  I have no specific memory of capturing this picture.  Other than I was taking pictures as the train traveled through Elkhorn Slough.  I wasn’t after any particular image, just whatever spoke to me in some way.  I take the images and file them away.  When I don’t really know what to write about I look at an image and start to write.  I don’t often know where I’m going, but I start and somewhere along the line, after some rambling, I finish.  The writing is somewhat like the picture taking.  It interests me.  I have no great technique other than I try to capture on paper what I’m thinking.  Sometimes I filter.  Sometimes the words flow unchecked.  When that happens I sometimes use my own version of verbal photoshop to edit. I never use actual photoshop on my photographs, it is what was captured.

       I’ve crossed many bridges in my lifetime.  Some I had to construct on my own, many were the only path across the stormy sea. I feel recently that I’ve been walking across another bridge.  I’m further along than not and yet I still cannot see what is on the other side, nor do I know why I am on the bridge.  Below is an abyss and I can hear churning water.  I don’t think it’s a washing machine, although perhaps it is.   When I look back, it’s too far to see clearly but I can think and think.  I know what is there.  The past.  The earthquakes of my life.  The peaks and valleys and triumphs and successes.  Joy, sadness, hope.  All of that and more.  The known, the coming to know.  When I look ahead I see a speck of light.  I don’t know what is there.  Unknown.  I wonder.  What will be? 

       About bridges I’ve learned this:  until I cross over them, I don’t know if I’ve constructed my own, or I’ve passed over a stormy sea.  For this reason alone, and many more which I cannot yet name, I am reluctant to stand in the middle and wait.  I’ll push on.

      About photography and writing I’ve learned this:  until I’ve taken the picture, until I’ve written the piece, I don’t know much about what I’ve done, until I’m finished. And then I celebrate the connection with the conscious and unconscious mind with a grateful alleluia. I learn to trust what I don’t know and value what I do.

Bella and Bella Redux

    I've had to make difficult decision regarding animal friends I have had.  Some I regret when I think about feelings of missing.  All were necessary at the time.  And the time of the decision would not have changed the decision, but in hindsight sometimes I forget that.  Today I miss most particularly my cat Sage and my dog Bella, both of whom are no longer with me but still occupy a special place in my heart.  Below is a piece I wrote about Bella in particular.

June, 2010

      She came to me in the rain, the pouring rain, driven down from Berkeley, California by a former City Councilman who was looking for the right home for his beloved dog.  He lived on a boat and the dog could not be kept on the boat any longer according to the rules of his marina.  He owned her for year or so, after having adopted her from her previous owner who had died.  When Bella arrived in the actual pouring rain, during the time of the metaphorical pouring rain in the months after my husband died, she was lead to my door, scratched on it with her paw and walked inside like she was home.  Satisfied, the former council member thanked us, and got in his car to drive back to Berkeley.  He loved this dog that much to drive over 700 miles  to find her a good home.  I soon learned how much I also would do for this dog.

       He said she was housebroken, and she was not, we soon learned, but he also said she was a good dog, and good dog she was.  Smart, too.  An escape artist as well.  At 65 pounds, not a small dog, she not only tried to dig under, but climb over ordinary barriers in the backyard.  I placed bricks around the perimeter she she couldn’t tunnel under, and plywood around the tree, so she couldn’t climb in and jump over the fence.  It took a while to figure out that escape route for me, I didn’t know dogs climbed trees.  Although, I  also acquired a cat that plays fetch, so my understanding of the animal world is imprecise at best.  

        Bella loved tennis balls which she buried like bones and dug up to chew until they were pulverized.  She didn’t know fetch, only run and get the ball and guard it until she had time to bury it after I lost interest in seeing if she would give it to me.  She talked to me with a howl when she was frustrated that I wasn’t paying attention.  A gentle dog, she was fiercely protective of me until she knew I was okay with the person.  A hunter in many ways, she caught several possums, rats, birds, and lizards. 

          The first time Bella caught a possum she delivered it to the back door in the middle of the night and stood barking. I awoke and climbed out of bed to see what she was barking at.  As soon as I stepped outside, she picked the possum up, took it a few feet away, dropped it,  and started barking at it. This is when I understood what “playing possum” meant.  The possum would not move, Bella would not stop barking and trying to protect me from it.  I learned, over the years, that when Bella caught a possum it was a two person operation to extract it from her.  One person distracting Bella with a treat and the other person scooping the possum in a shovel and removing it from the area. 

           Bella was the queen of what became a menagerie, added bit by bit and introduced ever so gently, opening up Bella’s big heart even more.  Bella got along well with other dogs outside of the house,  but what would happen when a new dog came  into her domain?  About a year after we rescued Bella, who was then about four, we decided to add a puppy for Bella to play with, we hoped.  Sadie, a purebred Golden Retriever pup, who we brought home when she was about four months old, still in downy fur, was the antithesis of the chill Bella.  Sadie barked if there is a gopher three blocks down.  When Bella barks, something is amiss.  Sadie is wired.  She runs, she jumps, she hops, she almost skips.  Bella moves at the speed that is necessary, taking it all in.  At their first meeting, Sadie ran under the table and when Bella headed for her, I had thoughts of possums.  I picked Sadie up and introduced her  nose to nose.  The introduction was built up over days and after time, Bella became a ‘new’ dog.  She and Sadie played and romped.

         When, about a year later, we added two kittens, the introductions took longer, on both parts.  But now they are animal friends, sisters all.  With Bella as the grand old dame.

         About a month ago, Bella developed an ear infection.  Antibiotics and prednisone cleared that up.  Then, a couple of weeks after, she contracted some sort of skin infection which left her smelling rank.  When I trimmed off her fur to get to the source, I found a growth.  A very large growth, just under her tail.  When I took Bella to the vet this time I mentioned the growth.  He said once the infection cleared up he wanted to remove the growth.  He said she actually had two of them.  He said they were melanomas.  He said if they were in her mouth, he would be discussing euthanasia, but he said she could have some time still.  I asked about how much it would be and the receptionist said $200 or $300.  A lot, but for another year or two with Bella.  Not a lot.

       Today when I went to pick her up from surgery the Vet was more concerned.  It was not good news, he said.  The prognosis was hopefully two to four years unless the cancer had spread to other organs.   I left the vet in tears.   I love this dog.  I do not want to lose this dog right now.  I have lost many people that I have loved and yet I have never lost a dog that I have loved.  Not loved as much as this dog.  She has such heart. As she’s laying recovering from her surgery, I walk into the room.  Her tail wags.  Her tail always wags when she sees me looking at her.   She is the dog that loves me without question.  It’s not about the treats I give her or that I feed her or that I pet her.  She is always focused on me.   She is what people mean when they say a dog is a companion. With Bella I feel safe and protected.  She came into my life at a time when I needed safety and protection.  And now, I will protect her during the last time of her life, no matter how long, no matter the cost.  She came to me in the rain and brought sunshine into my life,  I love this dog. I love my Bella.   

     And I still do, even though she no longer lives with me and the menagerie which now consists only of Sadie.  The cats needed to be rehomed, and Bella, my beloved Bella, with heart until the end, lived two more years before it was a difficult but right and kind gesture to offer her peace.   One other day, I will also write about that decision that ended her pain but wracked my soul.  I miss her.  

Amish Country Roads

       Two years ago I visited my cousin in Michigan and on one of our treks,  we drove down country roads in Amish Country in Shipshewana, Indiana,  passing farmers who created straight and curvy plots for Spring planting while standing on the back of plows driven by teams of two matched draft horses, more hands high than I could count. They reminded me of firemen  in times past who stood on running boards gripping the back of speeding firetrucks. Another bygone time.

     Clothing flapped and fluttered on drying lines under the bright blue sky.  Houses dotted the land untethered to power poles, their window shades raised high to attract the light.  Single black horses, lathered with sweat,  seemingly unfettered from the carriages behind them whisked bearded and unbearded men, bonneted women, and many children to their destinations.   Men and women on bicycles lumbered up hills in the crisp air. All transportation devoid of motorized convenience.

      And then, as we descended a hill just over the rise,  I squinted to see how the woman in the black dress made her way up the hill. Walking? Bicycle?   When she came more clearly into view, I was incredulous.  I chuckled.   More than any compromise of old world and new, this stood out to me, a brave woman who found a creative way to stand for her beliefs and her place in the world.  Roller blades. She pumped up the hill, arms swinging in a free spirited motion that connected what was to what is. 

      Ah, life.  Ah, connection.  Ah, woman.  I hear you roar.  You have taken what is and demonstrated possibilites.  You have hallowed the ground blending the spirit and the letter of the law of your land. In it you have become civilly disobedient.  You go girl.  Skate on.  Lesson learned on a country road.  

      And this year, no wonder, I have planned to include a visit to my cousin within my visit to the Midwest.  What new understandings will await me on Amish Country roads? 

Deprivation

     Shades of the 1950’s I thought when I walked into the bathroom at the L.A. County Arboretum.  I could imagine women sitting on the metal stools brushing their stylized hair then  taking out ozone depleting tin bottles of hairspray and spraying with abandon,  mist falling in tiny sticky globulettes. To complete the touch up, golden tubes of lipstick, opened to unveil shades of red, (not pink nor orange nor white, those were in later times), were twisted to full height and applied sensuously to pursed lips that always kissed tissue or toilet paper to blot and hold the color.  The changing table was a nod to later times, beyond the 1950’s, into the 2000’s, when benches and chairs would no longer do for changing baby’s bottom.  Before the changing table, the mist of hairspray would have been mixed with the haze of cigarette smoke. 

     Standing in the bathroom imagining the scene, I felt deprived.  Glamorous times when bathrooms were more than places of necessity. But how glamorous are metal stools, cool to the seat, whether on summer or winter day? Elegance attempted though.  This had been a classy place.

      Even though I’m a native Californian and the Arboretum has been in existence since I was in single digits age wise, I’d never been there before my visit last month with a good friend of mine, a friend from my childhood. We choose a very hot day to wander the grounds, and we did not spend too much time wandering.  We vowed to go back.

     Before I went to the Arboretum,  I’d been thinking about deprivation, in a kind of what we once had sense, not in the we never had it sense.  Deprivation in the never had it sense would be another entry, another time, much heavier and would entail thinking about justice and fairness and equity, issues which sit on my sleeve and weigh my shoulders down, but which I don’t want to tackle today.  Today the deprivation comes from the sense of what we had and now do not.  So many things, so many places, so many notions and ideas. Not nostalgia, deprivation.

     In this kind of deprivation, what was gives way to what is now.  It is the gap between the was and the now that the feeling of deprivation fills.  For example, I am no longer young (whew, thankfully), but neither am I old (well, to some, but not in reality).  To shake off young or even middle age requires me to move into or towards old.  And here I sit.  I’ve been here for some time in my adult life but only now am connected to this feeling of deprivation.  I once could run around the bases after hitting a well pitched ball.  I once had long auburn brown hair.  I once had young children, adolescent children, young adult children.  I once taught school.  I once was married.  No longer.  I feel deprived.  I feel like the metal stools waiting for the return of the glamorous 50’s, lined up in a row before the mirror occupied now only by schoolchildren who realize they can sit and stare in the mirror rather than stand and stare in the mirror.

    My feeling of deprivation doesn’t define me.  Instead it serves to remind me of a fulfilling past.  A past that has grounded my future into which I will age with wisdom, hopefully, so that I can continue to see the use of this type of feeling of deprivation as a filler and connector, and then write about the injustice in the world when deprivation does not lead to hope.  In that sense of being deprived, what was, is.  But it need not be.  That is my hope.

Certainty

   Most of us live our lives as though we know what is going to happen in the next minute or the next hour or the next day.  We plan.  Sometimes we plot. Always we seek certainty and control.  The feeling of uncertainty is unbalancing and few desire unbalance in life.  What about thrill seekers? We all are thrill seekers in some way.  Some are a bit on the edge and crash through life focusing on challenging life to its limits.  But still, this is a kind of search for certainty.  To choose to face an element of danger and feel an adreneline rush is to find the certainty that there will be an adreneline rush, a kind of antidote against feelings of uncertainty.  Who wants to ponder that life is uncertain?  Too frightening.  So we plan and sometimes plot and often plod along.

     I’ve been thinking about uncertainty a lot recently.  A heavy conversation in my head about the limits of control.  I want to be okay with uncertainty in not such a dreadful way.  I want to return to my understanding of uncertainty as the conduit for possibilities.  I’ve had that intuition before and I’ve been dissecting uncertainty for a while from the feeling of dread.  This has given me firmer grounding.  Yes, life is uncertain. Yes, shit happens. But, the feeling of uncertainty connects me to life and to all others living.  There is nothing ominous about connection to life and connection to others.  Instead, there is hope. Each of us on a similar journey. A hopeful journey.  A journey filled with possibilities in uncertainty.  Possibilities of success and failure.  Possibilities of joy and sadness.  Possibilities of future understanding.  Probabilities of attempts at control.  Certainty of the uncertain.  Before each of us is a door and then endless doors of possibility.  The adventure of life, the adventures in life continue.  Relax. Take a deep breath.  Open the door.

chicken soup

Some need a sip of chicken soup

to soothe a troubled soul.

Slurping but a thimbleful

connects parts to the whole.

Others find a spoonful

satisfies the inner need

So pursing lips,

inhaling slowly,

they procede with latent speed.

Many need a bowl or cup,

Especially from time to time

To satiate that emptiness

that disconnects

their rhythm from their rhyme.

And some, a clear minority?

An extra needy group,

should fill a swimming pool

to be

enveloped

in

chicken soup.

   

unless you don't want to ; )