simple reminders...

from the Four Agreements, by Don Miguel Ruiz

1. Be Impeccable With Your Word
Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your word in the direction of truth and love.

2. Don't Take Anything Personally
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won't be the victim of needless suffering.

3. Don't Make Assumptions
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.

4. Always Do Your Best
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse and regret.

saying goodbye

It's therapeutic and cathartic for me to write. So write I will.
I apologize, in advance, for the heavy subject matter.
And if you decide to stay, thank you for listening.

April 18, 2008
It was time for Kona. Her body was breaking down, she was a shell of the dog I've known, skeletal and bony, and feeble.

It felt like the right time - when she was in a place where she could still recognize us and respond and could still be spunky and spirited. When she still had her faculties and her senses about her. But oh, how it hurt, nonetheless. How we still questioned whether it was right. Whether we had the right to make such a decision. Whether we should wait. Whether we should simply let nature take its course.

We fed her peanut butter cookies, when the sedative went in. Dr. Young, a beautiful and compassionate vet, had warned us that sometimes animals react strongly to the sedative - because of it's potency and because of the sheer quantity that they give. Kona didn't even acknowledge that she had a needle - so intent was she on her treats. She gorged herself! Her eyes were bulging with excitement. Her ears were perked forward. She simply could not believe that she was being given so many treats. Never had she been allowed to have so many cookies at any one time. Oh man, this was good, she told us. Give me more! Her excitement was palpable.

After many cookies, she started licking her lips, soaking in the head rubs and caresses and the gentle strokes on her paws and her back end. Her ears relaxed, and for a bit, she seemed mellow and just plain content. Belly full. Love being given. Life was good.

When the sedative kicked in, she had, what the vet described as, a hallucinogenic reaction. Her ears went into an alert position and her eyes shifted from side to side, back and forth. It was like she was hunting down a fly or a wasp, and was intent on following it and getting it. Watching, shifting, slightly tense. Only her face seemed to be animated and alert , the rest of her started to soften and sink into a very deep, and relaxed state.

Mike lowered her head onto a pillow and nestled her in his lap. He caressed her face. Stroked her muzzle. Played with her soft ears, and talked to her - about the fun places she'd be able to explore, the adventures she'd have, where she didn't have to worry about her body giving out on her. Where she could romp and run and swim to her heart's content. Where she could play and frolic. He talked to her about how much he loved her and how much a part of him she was.

She stayed in his lap. I played with her big paws, my fingers seeking out the tufts of hair that grew between the pads. Telling her I loved her, that she was a good girl, that everything was OK. And we sobbed while the final injection was administered. Her body was so warm, her fur so soft and silky, and her face so alive. Content and animated.

I haven't cried so hard in a long while. I cried for this beautiful animal, this animal child of mine, who came into my life by chance, and who gave me so much free and open love. Love without reservation. Love of a scale that moves me to tears when I allow myself to experience it. Love in the depths of those chocolate brown eyes that stared at me, unafraid, openly, intensely. As if to say, "There you are." Without holding back.

I cried for that time of my life , the 13 years, that I spent with her. The memories, adventures, changes that she simply took in stride, in her easy-going, adaptable, happy-go-lucky spirit. As long as we were there with her, she was content. And so accommodating.

I cried for losing something and letting go of something that loved ME so much. It's not often in one's lifetime that you can be the recipient of such an intense love affair. It makes you feel awfully small and insignificant to walk away from that. To know that you may never know that kind of attention and profound simplicity of an uncomplicated love. In it's most raw and open form.

I cried for Mike's loss. For him finally being on his own - and having to experience coming home to any empty house. For the loss of his anchor and his friend. Kona kept him so grounded and made him feel that he had a family.

And I cried because I was closing this final chapter of my relationship with Mike. After so long, the umbilical cord is cut. It's possible that I may never see him again.

She was so still when she was gone, and yet she looked so much like herself. I walked to the bathroom at one point, and when I came back, I just expected her to rise up. To pant. To look me in the eyes and paw me, as if to say, "OK, now what?"

The worst was watching Mike carry her to the van. Her body was so limp, and it hit me hard that she was really gone. We covered her in a blanket, chuckling feebly at her tongue that was slightly pointing out. The tongue that we used to grab when she panted, tugging, trying to get her to play. We hugged and cried. And that was it.

Mike gave me a picture before I left - of me stroking Kona's head. the week before her death. She looks skinny and her muzzle is white, but it's the same face and body that I've known through the years. Funny how things can change so significantly and yet seem like they haven't changed at all. It felt as if it couldn't possibly be real that she was gone. And yet she is. As the Indigo Girls said "And if it was ever there, and it left, does that mean it was never true?"

I don't think so.

Goodbye, Kona

Dear Kona,

thank you for being such a gentle bear. You were such a big dog, with such a big head and neck and powerful set of jaws, but you'd cower at the site of a wee little kitten.

thank you for the way you'd smile when you saw me. You really and truly knew how to smile.

thank you for the way you'd plop onto me, in bed. You'd nestle in with a deep, contented sigh, and half your 100 lb body, all elbows and ribs, digging into me.

thank you for the way you'd lean your head into me, pushing me off balance, just to get my attention. "I'm here!" And then your paw would hook my arm. "You may think you are leaving, but I'm not done yet."

thank you for long walks we used to take at night. You made me feel so safe and your company was so enjoyed when I walked and talked and sorted things out in my head.

thank you for the way that you reacted to sand. You'd flip out! You'd get your feet on a beach and burst out with this crazy dog dance that you'd do; whipping around in a frenzy with your legs splayed out and this look of sheer delight on your face.

thank you for catching snowballs and plowing head first into snow drifts; your legs digging furiously to make deep caverns in the snow banks. You made winter and early morning walks in the crisp frigid air so much fun.

thank you the way you loved to swim. You would spend hours and hours just floating and drifting, and would often go in and swim on your own, whenever you felt like it.

thank you for the way you'd chew on tennis balls as if they were pieces of bubble gum. The top of your "cone head", those powerful, massive jaw muscles, would flex and contract as you happily chewed away.

thank you for being such a shredder. We never had to worry about you eating anything, you simply loved to shred it - sticks, paper bags, balls, stuffed animals, whatever it was. And if you ever did sneak some food in your mouth that you weren't supposed to eat, you'd look at us with those big melted chocolate brown eyes and wait for us to notice. One little "Kona, release" and out it would pop... and you'd watch it fall to the ground with a big sigh and a look of longing.

thank you for being so stoic when you had two knee surgeries. The only dog I've ever known to have both her knees operated on. We used to laugh that she had more athletic war wounds than any one else we knew.

thank you for the funny way you'd run - slightly sideways, to accommodate your bow legs and pigeon toes. You were never graceful, but you had so much fun; chasing after squirrels or playing hide and seek with us.

thank you for enjoying the road trips and the bike races and the traveling around as much as we did. You were always game when we packed up the car, and you'd start your anticipatory panting, and be so happy when we invited you to crawl into a t-shirt (to cut down on hair!), climb on top of the layers of blankets (to cut down on hair!) in the back seat. Off we'd go. We took you everywhere. People would always remark, "She's so good!". You never caused problems or got into mischief.You seemed to be so happy as long as you were with your "pack."

Thank you for all these gifts that you gave me so freely and so generously.
I'll miss you so much.
Love, me.

it seems

the movement of the belt startles me
reminds me to punch in my personal data and start taking steps

i'm pushing keys, watching the numbers climb.
year after year. i enter this information.
year after year, the numbers increase
i'm moving up, it seems.

but really, i'm just getting older. i'm just getting softer.

the repetitive motion seems familiar.
i've been here before.
pounding on this treadmill. punishing my body. pushing myself. sweating.
going nowhere, it seems.

i think about the yearning that is still so ripe in my body.
so new and fresh, it's like a wound; raw and weeping.
this wanting. this desire.
a hunger that drives me to push, do more, try harder, be more...
i've been running like this for years, it seems.

i think about how little i have to show for the years on my face and the wrinkles on my skin.
how the numbers get bigger, and how much smaller i feel.
how far i still have to go, it seems.

how much i hurt at times, when i feel like the world is such a big place.
and i am scrambling to find my place in it. my purpose. my calling.
times like this when things seem insurmountable and lonely and ugly,
my longing is pronounced.

i stumble and misstep. grab the railings to avoid falling.
i've been catching myself, like this, for years, it seems.

~april 10, 2008

talk to the hand

Shirley and I got our palms read on Friday night. I've had it done a few times now - at different. critical stages of my life - all occurring in the last 6 years - and all read by Jolyn at Second Cup. Thanks Jolyn.

It was cool to hear similar themes across the palm reading - and hear that some things had changed or lessened or shifted focus. I was a very different person in 2002 than I was in 2005 and as I am in 2008. I just noticed that each of these readings were 3 years apart. June, February, and April. (6-2-4) Again a common thread?

I think I'll capture the reading that is most recent, as I guess it's most me. Then we'll go back in time...

April 4, 2008
Right hand: Actions
Need excitement, change, variety
I am very interested in Business.
Jolyn saw papers (writing? administration?) everywhere
Independent
Very practical
Strong communication skills
Intuitive

This year is an 8 year - a year for finances.
The focus is on $$, she couldn't tell whether that would be good or bad.

At age 37/38 - I would TRAVEL! Travel lots and for a long time. Travel, travel, travel. (YAY!)

Key work years: 35, 31, 45, 55, and I'd likely retired in my late 60s (oh yay)

Left Hand/Subconscious/Life Path
Giving.
Perfectionist.
Adaptable.
Good energy.

She mentioned that I should check my thyroid later on in life.

Overload years: 30 (yes), 33 (YES!), 35 (meh), 37, 39, 40, 45

Relationships: Big years 35-37 (I must make some kind of decision. Big emotional years for me)

She sees 2 kids in my life, sort of.
She sees 2 loves, but only 1 is real

Mondays are the new Fridays

Apparently Mondays are the new Fridays.

They are the days that you can ease into your work week, take stock of the week ahead, quietly amass your to-do lists. I find that people tentatively book meetings on Mondays, usually with comments like "Is this a good time? Do you want to wait until Tuesday or later in the week?"

This is the day that you can come into work at your own pace, and feel relaxed, like taking a deep breath before you plunge into the deep end of a pool, and have an underwater race that lasts until you feel like your lungs are going to explode.

I am writing this post on a Friday. The day, for some reason, feels heavy. Expectant. I suppose it's partly that I am sleepy. My mind feels foggy. It doesn't feel like a Friday. It feels like I'll be trying to pack a week into my eight hours. I am sitting here waiting - anticipating the frantic busyness and panic that will begin to build in an hour. I'll hear the phones start ringing, the blackberries start buzzing, and voices start to rise. I'll feel the intensity and electricity... increasing in volume and tight with adrenalin and impatience. I'll feel it build and compound; until it bursts into a crescendo, and like a tidal wave, cascades across the desks and cubicles and hallways of the office.

I'll feel my heart pounding, and I'll feel the sweat on my body. My fingers will fly across the keyboard - and with my mouse, I'll become the model of efficiency - clicking and closing, navigating across the three screens on my desk. Reading, copying, typing, correcting, responding to emails, to queries, to demands, to requests.

Before I know it, it'll be 5pm, and I'll be exhausted, dehydrated, and so ready for the weekend. Ready to soak up the sunshine and play.

OK OK, it's a quiet day. But you never know what might happen.... ; )