secret notebooks • wild pages

Checking In

2009-12-15T21:04:00.002-05:00

All I can seem to do lately is read and think. Which makes it hard to write. But I wanted to post this out-of-focus photo of tree branches at the Montague Book Mill and say hello. I hope you're all taking time to relax and breathe in the holiday rush.

Looking Forward

2009-12-13T10:27:00.001-05:00

My brother Ken, J and I will be ushering in the new year in NYC, where we're headed for 4 nights after Christmas. The three of us should have time to visit lots of spots that J and I normally don't slow down enough to catch - like museums (Kandinsky at the Guggenheim! Jain manuscript paintings at The Met!). We're also going to see Fela! at the Eugene O'Neil Theater, a production described by Time Out New York as "more than a musical; it's an ecstatic phenomenon." Whoo-hoo! Bring on the ecstasy! I think we deserve it.

You Learned that Where?

2009-12-12T11:15:00.006-05:00

Watch CBS News Videos Online

Lately I've been absorbing books on both spirituality and the science of consciousness like a giant sponge, perfectly content to curl up in a chair by the fire and read all weekend long, occasionally muttering, "wow!" and dog-earring a page I feel I have to investigate further or read again. I must admit to feeling a little nervous about the one I'm currently working through, Your Eternal Self. Yes it's received just shy of 5 stars on Amazon.com, but who's ever heard of Greater Reality Publications? And what's with the dated-looking cover design? Yet between it's covers the author, R. Craig Hogan, Ph.D, presents an amazing summary of the scientific evidence for irreducible consciousness, citing evidence from psychology, medicine, neuroscience, parapsychology, afterlife studies, etc. and he provides a cumulative (and solid) argument for his thesis.

My first dog-eared page — child prodigy Jay Greenberg, subject of the 60 Minute segment above. Savants and child prodigies are two of many arguements for a unified field of consciousness that our minds, separate from our physical brains, can tap into to gain knowledge and information — also known as non-local intelligence. Wherever one believes his gift originates from, Jay Greenberg (or "BlueJay" as he likes to be called) has been deemed "... a prodigy of the level of the greatest prodigies in history, when it comes to composition" by Samual Zyman, his professor at Julliard.

An amazing world we live in. I'll share more dog-eared discoveries as I find them.

UPDATE: This book is fantastic until Chapter 5 and then, in my opinion, loses a lot of its focus.

Enchantment

2009-12-11T21:18:00.001-05:00

On Wednesday evening I left work and headed into the snow-covered Berkshire hills to experience a Kirtan at Kripalu Yoga in Lenox. It was my first time at the center and I found it a hive of activity — men and (mostly) women filled the dining room and hallways, the café, gift shop, and lounge areas. How many more were behind the closed doors of private offices and yoga studios I can only imagine. I wandered quietly, awkwardly carrying my winter coat in my arms, removing my tall boots and stowing them in a cubby while I waited for the sancuary doors to open. Inside I could hear a familiar voice warming up.

It's hard to express how thankful I am to have found this practice the same week I lost my mom. I attended my first Kirtan the Sunday after her services and the Thanksgiving holiday, hoping it would help center me before returning to the daily grind the next morning. As long time readers of this blog know, my 40 minute commute to and from the office can be a difficult time for me. In winter's darkness I've often found myself with a dangerous combination of too much time alone to think, and too many sad songs on my iPod. During the three year span from my mom's diagnosis to her death I filled many miles with grief, and dreaded a return to that routine of despondency. That first Sunday I bought a copy of Dave's newly released cd and played it for my commute in the morning and again at night, chanting along as I drove. Dark thoughts rose, but fell quickly away. There were no tears (at least not while driving). I listened to it all week and purchased more Kirtan music from iTunes: Ram Dass, Krishna Dass, Govinda. My commute's been radically transformed from sorrowful to soulful.

When I think about the music I've loved the most through the years, my immediate passion for chanting makes perfect sense. The Cocteau Twins, known for their nonlyrical yet emotionally gripping vocalizations; Lisa Gerrard, who like Elizabeth Fraser often sings in a language of her own invention that she's been working on since she was 12 years old; Indian dance music. When I made a brief foray into working on my own music I felt drawn to layering repetative, chant-like vocals over Middle Eastern rhythms. All of it certainly seems to have paved the way for feeling very comfortable with Kirtan.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor at Kripalu I could still hear my thoughts in the silence between chants, but they were much quieter than they were last spring when I attempted to still my mind after yoga, and they seemed to lack any negative emotional force. A child in the back of the room would babble and break the stillness (a distraction that would normally aggravate me to no end) and I was able to note it and quickly let it go. For a few seconds my thoughts seemed to stop entirely and I experienced the edges of a very unfamiliar inner stillness, at once both grounding and heady. And oddly, in the middle of one chant, I felt a sense of unexplainable happiness spreading. It wasn't overwhelming bliss, but it was a noticeable warmth. It was a start.

For further reading, check out this short piece from The Times on the growing popularity of Kirtan in the West.

Sweet Dreams

2009-12-08T22:05:00.005-05:00

Last night I dreamt about my mom. Since she died I haven't been able to remember any of my dreams, and that's been disturbing to me since I'm accustomed to waking up with entertaining memories of them.

Once I fall asleep I often find myself at a train station/subway platform, and last night I returned there. My mom was standing on the platform, the only person in sight, looking at me with a serious, calm but somewhat concerned expression. You'd think I'd jump for joy at seeing her, but I actually couldn't believe it was her. She looked to be in her 50's, dressed stylishly in a long skirt, blouse, and cardigan-style sweater, nice jewelry, nothing flashy but pretty and well-composed, as she always was. That woman looks just like my mom I thought to myself, and couldn't stop staring at her. I noted that she even had a small mole and a darkened brown spot on her face, exactly where they should have been. I started to cry and she approached me. "I'm sorry" I said, "but you look just like my mom who just died." She put an arm around me and we sat down on a bench against a wall and talked.

I don't remember exactly what we talked about, but I think I was telling her about my job and life and about losing my mom, as if she were a concerned, motherly stranger. She listened, still with an arm around me, and I think she spoke as well but unfortunately I can't remember what she said.

Yesterday I was dealing with a very stressful situation (which has since been resolved), and it was something I had actually asked for my mom's help with (hopefully I'm not the only one who still talks to people who are no longer alive?). It was perhaps not surprising I'd dream about her at this time, but it was still very intense.

Books and Beer

2009-12-06T16:10:00.000-05:00

After my visit to the Peace Pagoda on Friday I drove to the nearby Bookmill in Montague, MA. It's been many years since I've visited and I fell in love with the spot all over again.

What's not to love about a funky old mill building full of used books and comfy chairs situated on the banks of a roaring New England river? Narrow stairways, tiny rooms, cozy nooks, great light...and so many books...

I was pleasantly surprised to see books from the company I work for prominently displayed everywhere — on the checkout counter, in rows on top of the book cases, beneath a sign that read something like, "Books We'd Like to Find Beneath the Tree." As I studied rows of philosophy books, a woman and her husband pulled this book from the stacks and began to discuss it as a possible gift for his mother. I had to laugh — reminders of my work were everywhere on my day off.

What could be better than books you don't need in a place you can't find (the shop's motto)? How about books you don't need in a place you can't find with a little café overlooking the river? And on this particular afternoon, an open table in the corner, just for me.

And what if the café offered delicious, healthy foods like warm brown rice salad and cold soba noodles, baked goods, fresh coffees, and a fantastic selection of beer and wine? I could live in a place like this, personally. Here's the Farmhouse Ale Heinnieweisse (in a can no less) I ordered while waiting for my enormous bowl of soba noodles, and yes, the letter they handed me just happened to be an M! Perfect!

I sat there at my little table for an hour, reading one of the books I'd just chosen and leisurely enjoying my beer and noodles, which felt luxurious. Going in, I knew I would focus on self-help/spirituality titles, but there were quite a few to choose from. I wanted to make wise choices — how could I narrow it down?

Two ended up jumping out at me thanks to their use of the word "quest," my word for the coming year. Among other things, the jacket copy for Twenty Spiritual Lessons for Creating the Life You Want: The Way of the Wizard, promises "...twenty spiritual lessons that help the reader transcend ordinary reality by creating a shift in perception that opens the mind to the value of spiritual transformation in everyday life. This transformation was the real alchemy of the wizard. Deepak Chopra invites the reader on a quest."

The description of the second book, Where Are You Going? was equally intriguing. "Sometimes it seems that we have been sidetracked and have lost sight of our true destination. One of the great spiritual masters of the modern age, Swami Muktananda, tells us, "Now is the time to get back on the main road. " In the essays, stories, and conversations that compose this book, Swami Muktananda offers us an engaging and comprehensive introduction to the spiritual quest: how we can embark on it and how it will unfold. This is an essential guidebook for the spiritual journey."

It was this second book I began to read first.

Peaceful

2009-12-05T19:27:00.000-05:00

On Friday I made my first visit to the Peace Pagoda in nearby Leverett, MA. It's white dome was breathtaking against the blue sky, it's golden statues glinting so brightly in the warm sun I could hardly bear to look at them. Below the pagoda colorful prayer flags fluttered above a small lily-pad dotted reflecting pond alive with small fish, and beyond the grounds rose the dark Seven Sisters of the Holyoke range. With a few fleeting (but loud) exceptions I had the grounds to myself and remained there for several hours, taking photos, crossing back and forth over the pond, circling the Pagoda itself, sitting on a small bench in the woods.

The "few exceptions" posed a challenge - visitors who insisted on chatting loudly and seemed to follow me wherever I wandered in an attempt to escape them (though this was just my perception). Maybe it's an old-fashioned remnant of my strict Catholic upbringing, but I tend to speak in hushed tones at sacred places (if I speak at all), especially when I sense my behavior might disturb someone else. The distraction of the talking visitors filled me with anger, until later when I was headed back down to my car and began considering the challenge of the situation from a different angle — in the same way that I felt these people should have controlled their voices, I should have controlled my anger and felt compassion instead. Perhaps their (outward) behavior and my (inward) behavior were equally inappropriate? I'm not entirely sure of the answer, but the consideration itself was entirely new to me — I'm usually a lot more protective of my anger.

The Peace Pagoda is the first Nipponzan-Myōhōji Peace Pagoda to be built in the US and was completed in 1986. Constructed as shrines to world peace, the pagodas are a result of the inspiration that Japanese monk Nichidatsu Fujii (1885-1985) felt when he met with Mahatma Gandhi in 1931 and decided to devote his life to promoting non-violence. According to signs and literature on the grounds, this particular order of Buddhist monks and nuns relies entirely on donations and does no form of fund-raising for itself. All the materials and labor for the Pagoda and surrounding structures (including a stunning new temple that's slated to open in October 2010) are donated.

Five Senses Friday #32

2009-12-04T18:53:00.010-05:00

Part of me feels bad to have skipped a few weeks of Five Senses Fridays, but another part of me didn't want to dwell in the sights and sounds of those weeks for too long, and then to share them...I just don't know. I certainly reflect back on them often with a mix of tears and wonder.

See:
• Traffic lights lurching back and forth in a gust of wind
• A trolley car of of Santas pulled over by a police cruiser
• Overhead, 2 stunt planes spinning in a streaked sky

Taste:
• Farm fresh eggs
• Cold soba noodles
• Fresh baked bread from a co-worker
• A feast of homemade desserts and red wine at a friend's house

Smell:
• The mingling, spicy scents of my mom's perfume collection hang in the air of my own bedroom now, a reminder.
• Fresh Freesia flowers brought by a friend
• Lilies and roses in a gorgeous bouquet from afar
• A pine-scented (and shaped) air freshener, exactly the same variety my dad used to hang in his car when I was little

Hear:
• Church bells ringing out of tune, Hark the Herald Angels Sing. A lonely sound.
• Pigeons squeaking in their night roost, tucked in to a sill against an exterior office wall
• Heavy wind across wooded hills
• A train whistling in the distance

Touch:
• Yeti asleep on my feet as I type this. He's still around quite often,

2009-12-02T21:38:00.002-05:00

I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one but I give myself to it.
I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I've been circling for thousands of years and I still don't know: am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?

– Rilke

Listening to the Spiritual Dialtone

2009-11-30T22:05:00.000-05:00

I enter the Yoga Sanctuary and immediately remove my coat and shoes, then hesitantly shuffle in and out of the dimly lit studio where three musicians are warming up at the front of the room. I'm the first to arrive.

What am I doing here?

It's not long before I'm surrounded by a group of decidedly non-intimidating people, men and women, young and old, even a couple of families with children line up along the edge of the room and bob infants in their arms, dance hand-in-hand with their toddlers. Most of us sit on cushions atop striped rugs, legs crossed. There's a 4 page handout that acts as a songbook and includes the words to 32 different Kirtan chants, plus opening and closing chants. The evening begins with a warm up of Ommmm Ahhhhh Ommmm to open the throat chakra and find one's voice, and I'm immediately awe struck — to sing like this with others is simutaneously invigorating and calming, serious and joyful.

Ever since I moved out of my parent's house 20 years ago, my mom and I have either visited or talked on the phone on Sundays. Though we emailed each other every day, Sunday was the time to really catch up on the events of the week. Halfway through the evening, sitting on my purple cushion and chanting Sri Ram, Jai Ram, Jai Jai Ram Ommm (a mantra often used by Mahatna Ghandi) it strikes me all at once, what it is I'm doing here, and I think the last line of an article I found about Kirtan chanting today sums it up perfectly...

"This chanting is exactly like the genuine cry of a child for its mother."

I think Kirtan will be my new Sunday night conversation.

Oddly enough, as I left the building (which was closed for the evening and under the surveillance of a security guard who sat at a small cafe table at the bottom of a staircase) I was thinking about my my last post and the word "quest" and noticed that the young guard had brought a a thick paperback along for his shift — Don Quixote!

Quest

2009-11-29T16:37:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow I return to work and my regular schedule after almost 2 weeks away from the office. Perhaps the return to routine will be helpful in some way, but I worry about falling back into the hectic grind. Jobs are necessary, my career good, the company I work for generous in addition to being an organization I can feel proud to be a part of. And yet I've enjoyed the time I've had at home to watch the way the light falls through the windows, to curl up and read, to keep rooms tidy, to visit with friends, to be mindful.

I'm determined to make this the year I attempt to peer through the fog and ask some important and oddly difficult questions; Who am I? What do I want? And what's my purpose in this lifetime? With my mom gone, I feel an almost desperate need to focus on the bigger picture.

The word I chose for last year was, fittingly, acceptance. I think I'll make my word for 2010 quest. I'm not entirely sure who or what will guide me, but my mind is open. In these past two weeks I've been voraciously reading and giving lots of thought to the spiritual, philosophical, and creative ideas that have inspired me thus far in life. Tonight I'm venturing out to participate in my first Kirtan (Sanskrit for "to repeat'), which is a group practice of singing ancient mantras that are set to simple melodies. I hadn't heard of this practice before last week, but I'm looking forward to the experience. Here's a video I found on YouTube of a Kirtan in Portland, Oregon...

Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T06:04:00.000-05:00

I hope your Thanksgivings are filled with abundance,

and the presence of friends.

Tribute

2009-11-25T12:37:00.000-05:00

Some of you have asked if I would post the eulogy my brother and I wrote for my mom, so I'm going to make this my final post that's specifically about this topic (though I'll continue to reflect on both her and this experience in the context of the larger picture. How could I not?) I put a * where my brother's part began, though he needed to start reading for me a bit before that. If I'd known when I wrote this that I would also have to deliver it, I may not have been so gut-wrenchingly honest! At the end my brother also thanked the many friends, relatives, doctors, and nurses who helped our family along the way.

Line by line, a eulogy forms the hardest story you'll ever have to write. It isn't easily started or finished, not because we don't know what to say, but because in saying it we are saying goodbye.

Some of you are here to say goodbye to the woman you knew as a devoted Catholic. Maybe she stood next to you singing in the choir, or led a prayer meeting you attended. She might have been your CCD teacher, or placed the Eucharist in your hands on Sunday morning. Others are here to say goodbye to a gifted artist, a woman who spent her life painting in oils, acrylics, and watercolors, attending art classes, participating in gallery shows, becoming a member of the Rhode Island Watercolor Society, and traveling to Block Island in late summers to paint by the ocean, a place she loved. You may have known her as a secretary or a talented seamstress. You may have called her wife, friend, sister, cousin, or Auntie Winnie. All of you, I'm sure, knew her as stylish, soft spoken, and sweet-natured.

My brother and I knew her in many of those ways too, but most importantly we knew her as "mom" — a devoted mom who told us many times that she was happiest with her family gathered around her, and who proved this by filling our lives with love that manifested itself as warm meals on the table, a well-kept home, a thoughtful gift for no reason, sound advice when we asked for it, hugs whenever we needed one. She never failed to put our family first, and there was never a time she said, "I'm tired" or "I'm busy. Fend for yourselves."

In my mind is a collage of memories hard to categorize except as things I won't forget: my mom and I crying and laughing while we chop onions and sip wine in my small, over-heated kitchen on Thanksgiving; how she liked to make stuffed animals "talk" to us in a funny high- pitched voice; back-to-school clothes shopping expeditions; her making me not one but two birthday desserts for my 36th birthday; her uncanny ability to find out about whatever one of us was trying to get away with; how she would wait expectantly in the kitchen to greet us when we came home; how for the past ten years I could always count on seeing a new email from her in my inbox every time I checked; how much time she spent helping me practice the piano and complete homework assignments; how she doubled the joy of any success we've had with her happiness, pride, and unwavering faith in us.

It's impossible to share memories about our mom without mentioning Christmas, which was her favorite holiday and a year-round endeavor. As soon as one Christmas was over she would begin preparing for the next, stowing away presents all over the house and usually forgetting how many she'd acquired by the following December. Our family didn't have "gifts beneath the tree" because they wouldn't have fit beneath the tree. We had gifts piled up on all sides of the tree, practically hiding it from view. As we got older my brother and I would teasingly scold her saying, "Mom! You really don't need to do all this!" But she would laugh and shrug and tell us, "I know that. But I want to. I enjoy it!" And she did. And when another holiday get-together was drawing to a close and we were getting ready to head our separate ways, she would lament that it had "flown by" and was "over too fast" and looking back now, I know we whole-heartedly agree with her.

Somewhere in a family album there's a snapshot taken on my first day of kindergarten. My mom is trying to leave me with the teacher and other children, and I'm fastened to her leg, my face red from crying, my mouth open in what I imagine was a howl of fear at the thought of being separated from her. 32 years have passed since that first day of kindergarten, and I like to believe I'm all grown up. But inside a part of me there's a 6 year old reluctant to let go, and as an adult I've come to realize fully what we know instinctively as children — that a mother's love and devotion is a gift greater than a million presents around the tree. I have faith that for my brother and I her love will endure far beyond the limits of the mortal body it came wrapped in.
*
That mortal body suffered greatly over the last few years. I still remember how badly we were shocked when we learned, in 1994, that mom had aggressive breast cancer. We were devastated, but our mom would not let us fall into despair. She faced her illness with grace, courage, and a strong faith in God. She was more worried about how the illness would affect my dad, my sister, and me than she was about herself. Her attitude surely was a big factor in how long she was able to beat cancer and continue to enjoy her life. Doctors, nurses, and staff constantly remarked on my mom’s good nature and kind personality.

In February of 2009, mom moved in with me. Despite her many physical problems and increasing pain, we still shared many good times together. When trips to the theater and DownCity Restaurant, where we were greeted as “mother and son,” became impossible, we replaced that with Friday night fish and chips at Ye Olde English and Saturday night steak sandwiches at Kay’s. Later, we would get take out and watch TV together. And when my sister would drive down, either alone or with Jason, we knew that we would end up laughing until our sides hurt at some bit of silliness. My mom was my hero, and I’m sure my sister shares that sentiment. She taught me so much through her example—through her quiet dignity—and I know that the Lord has greeted her with, “Well done, good and faithful servant! Come and share your master’s happiness!"

2009-11-24T22:21:00.000-05:00

"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience, we are spiritual beings having a human experience." — Dr. Wayne W. Dyer

Dear friends,
This week I've witnessed and done things I never imagined I was strong enough to bear. And yet, here I sit, back at home in the hills with candles burning, the smoke from a stick of incense circling above the mantle, the dogs at my feet, and the computer open on the table in front of me. I'm definitely not the same person I was a week ago, but at least right now I feel peaceful and still. And right now is all I'm going to worry about at the moment.

Maybe the stillness is because I've already been grieving for three years, ever since my mom received her last diagnosis. Maybe it's because last Sunday I looked into her eyes and promised her, wordlessly, that I would be strong. Maybe it's because I've had help, from my brother, from J, from concerned friends who have stopped in with flowers and food, from relatives, from the clergy who were with us in Rhode Island, from your emails and comments, and from two amazing books I ordered from Amazon last Tuesday in expectation of what was coming. I've already finished them both, and plan to recommend them to anyone and everyone. The first is Deepak Chopra's book Life After Death, The Burden of Proof, and the second is the short book On Life After Death by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, MD. They are both illuminating and comforting.

I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was meant to be with my mom as she passed from this life to the next, and that's brought me great comfort. This is a woman who practically wished me into being, as she was told she couldn't conceive again after my brother's birth. The odds of my being here were not in my favor at any point during the process. I was even born blue, the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. Someday I'll relate whole story of how my parents came to call me "the miracle baby." For now I'll just hang on tight to the feeling that through some combination of fate and intuition I was given the opportunity to repay a small portion of a great debt to my mom.

Several sweet things happened in the days after my mom's passing. First, I uploaded the photo of her on the mountaintop to the website of the funeral home where her obituary is posted online, without telling anyone I'd done so. The next morning my brother was thinking of my mom, asking her to please send him a sign that she was ok. He immediately felt moved to check the website of the funeral home, and upon doing so he discovered this photo he'd never seen before, our mom in the days before cancer, sitting on top of the world, beaming.

The second occurrence had to do with the eulogy that my brother and I wrote for my mom. I started it, and my brother finished it (both the writing and the delivering of it). I'll post it in it's entirety soon, but for the purpose of this story I'll tell you that the line he chose to end it with was from Matthew 25:21 “Well done, good and faithful servant! Come and share your master’s happiness!" A long-time family friend and clergy member created beautiful programs for the funeral service, and when someone handed one to me at the church I discovered the words "Well done, good and faithful servant" on the cover. "How nice that they coordinated with each other," I thought. But neither of them had known of the others intention.

There were little signs that lifted my spirits along the way. A flock of tiny birds darting in unison around and around as we entered the church for the funeral mass. My parent's long time neighbor telling me with tears that just before he'd heard to news about my mom he'd looked up to discover a deer standing in their yard, something he'd never seen before. When I arrived back home with some of my mom's clothes I reached into one of her jacket pockets and pulled out a fortune, something my brother and I have never known her to save.

"Someone is speaking well of you." the fortune read. And on the other side the Chinese word of the day, "Disease."

Winnie Jolicoeur: January 20, 1933 - November 19, 2009

2009-11-20T23:01:00.003-05:00

Dear friends,
Yesterday, as the sun-filled morning crept towards afternoon, I was blessed to be sitting by my mom's bedside and holding her hand as she took her last breath.

Though my family is filled with the grief of losing her, we're relieved that her immense suffering is over, and buoyed by the outpouring of support from family and friends, as well as the beautiful series of events that led to my being with her at that time.

Thank you for the comments you've left here this week. I checked in and read them each night, and they've brought much comfort.

2009-11-18T10:10:00.000-05:00

The sun has climbed the hill, the day is on the downward slope.

Between the morning and the afternoon, stand I here with my soul,

and lift it up.

My soul is heavy with sunshine, and steeped with strength.

The sunbeams have filled me like a honeycomb,

It is the moment of fullness,

And the top of the morning.

— D.H. Lawrence

from my zen page-a-day desk calendar today.

Here in the Hills

2009-11-17T08:30:00.002-05:00

Here in the hills my heart is broken. When I open my mouth to speak, tears fall. When I look at any one thing for too long, more come. I knew this would be hard, but nothing could have prepared me for the intensity of the disease, and the corresponding depth of my grief. I don't understand how something that's right in front of me can be so inconceivable, but it is.

I appreciate your comments, emails, thoughts, and prayers. My brother was also touched by them when he caught up with the blog last night. I'll post as I'm able, maybe just photos until we catch up with the details on Five Senses Friday. I've been visiting your blogs, and love seeing what you're doing and creating out there.

Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst.

2009-11-15T05:16:00.004-05:00

November brings with it deer season in the hills, and along the quiet roadways sit the empty shells of pick-up trucks. The hunters have trudged off into the woods with their deer calls and shotguns, and will remain there until darkness settles, more often than not leaving behind a pile of discarded beer cans and fast food wrappers as they pull away and head back to their out-of-state homes. Litter in the fallen leaves: an unfortunate sign of the season.

Before our hikes in the woods J and I don bright orange coats, advertising premiums left over from my dad's life-long career as an auto parts salesman. Though the coat styles are different each covers our heart with a black and white FRAM Autolite patch. Dad had acquired hundreds of jackets, coats, and baseball hats in a rainbow of colors, all bearing various logos and labels: Monroe, Champion, Delco, Dayco (if my dad could see this list he'd be beaming and pointing at me, exclaiming "She knows! She knows! You take after your old man, Mel!") His coats-of-many-colors collection eventually grew so large he built a closet for it in the basement, shiny nylon arms sandwiched tightly together on three closet bars, dozens of baseball caps looming above like trophies. Several of the jackets ended up with J when my parents house began getting cleared out last summer; these safety orange ones have proved to be the most useful.

We've also wrapped blaze orange bandanas around the dog's necks, just in case, though I'd like to go one step further and spray paint the tip of Yeti's deer-like white tail. "He doesn't look anything like a deer" J assures me. He could be a mini deer though, or a deer way off in the distance. Things are not always what they appear to be. Someone could make a mistake, jump the gun.

After our rainy, wet woods walk, devoid of any birdsong or mushrooms at this time of year, I head to my computer and J to his wood shop. He's building a long, sturdy step stool with a hand rail on each side for my mom, 6" that will enable her to climb safely in and out of bed at my brother's house. I'm finishing up my part of the eulogy my brother and I are writing for her. Last Wednesday, after several days in a row of growing ever weaker and sicker, my mom agreed to let the ambulance take her to a nearby hospice suite. Originally, the plan was to keep her there for 5 days, regulate her medications, try to get a bit of her failing strength back, and let her return home to my brother's house. If she does, she'll need the step stool J's built for her — but we'll deliver both the stool and the eulogy to my brother today, before the three of us head to hospice together to visit her.

Hope, meet my companion, reality. Reality, this is my good friend, hope.

Play

2009-11-14T05:47:00.000-05:00

“Play is the exultation of the possible.”
— Martin Buber

Especially when it involves toys that dispense treats.

Perhaps I'll try the sideways approach.

Have I won yet?

Five Senses Friday Number 31

2009-11-13T22:23:00.000-05:00

See:
• There have been beautiful nights of crimson sunsets this week
• Thousands of crows roost in North Adams, and I saw them circling and resting in a tall tree on Main St. Thursday evening. To me it was breathtaking, though no one else around seemed to notice
• Long white Yeti fur covering my black pant legs. A small inconvenience balanced by a thousand moments of utter cuteness.

Hear:
• The roar of fire catching in the wood stove. The rattling of November's wind through dried leaves and the tall cornstalks I used to decorate the front door. The wreath of dried branches against the window knocking all afternoon, like a ghost.
• Water on the moon?!
• Only very random people talk to me about my mom during the week. An older gentleman at the gym, the Vietnam vet who works at our town recycling center, the IT guy at work. I don't have good news for them.

Taste:
• Early, local Thanksgiving last Friday
• Tonight: Bulgogi: Korean Marinated BBQ beef — lettuce wraps, white rice, pickled vegetables, miso paste and kimchi
• A lunch packed by J, in a special "m heart" lunch bag no less. What's in there? A natural turkey and provolone sandwich on fresh bakery bread, a local apple, a peanut butter protein bar, and some chips, something I would never in a million years pack for myself but am happy to discover in the bag
• Bagels and lox, though the bagels available here don't really deserve to be called bagels. They should be called "stalegels."

Smell:
• Walking in North Adams last night, I swore I could smell cotton candy
• Green apple dog shampoo
• New leather boots, in expectation of winter

Touch:
• Dog fluff
• The heft of a new book

More Non-Dull Moments with Yeti

2009-11-12T16:23:00.004-05:00

J just emailed me this little series of photos to sum up what he's been doing this afternoon. I'll just give you his captions...

"Yeti, you come!"

"What's that extra green stripe on your back?"

"Hold still, Yeti."

Is that not the saddest face you've ever seen? Apparently another of Yeti's pastimes is rolling in things that smell horrible. A habit Vixen stopped engaging in so long ago I almost forgot about it completely...

Have a wonderful, clean-smelling evening, my friends!

A little older, a little more confused

2009-11-12T13:49:00.000-05:00

I was probably in my 20's the first time I heard this song and the opening line (from Dennis Hopper in The American Friend, by the way). How much more poignant it is now though.

Tennis for Dogs

2009-11-12T05:34:00.008-05:00

I considered naming this post "Tennis. Doggie Style" but imagine the various related google keyword searches I'd have to see every time I checked my stats...

Yeti can run ridiculously fast. Especially when he's escaping into the woods, which he's done several times this week, leaving J and I calling his name in the happiest sounding voices we can muster and trudging along the path with a bag full of all-natural doggie treats. One morning I took him out on a leash (not an ideal situation for such an exuberant dog), only to have it mysteriously fall off halfway through our woods walk.

"Yeti!" I screamed in a panic as he quickly realized his freedom and bolted away, bounding over fallen trees and whizzing to and fro, a little white blur of potential coyote snack tearing through the trees.

He sprinted teasingly back to me several times ("good boy! good come! here's a treat!") then darted away again ("damn!") before I could grab him. Finally I decided to start to jogging back towards the house with Vixen circling me nervously. Yeti, perhaps unable to control his instinct to herd his suddenly-running-away-pack, rushed around and around and tore past us, beating us to the door.

Vixen is still the alpha of the dog household, which she reminds Yeti of by holding him down and nibbling him like a corn cob several times a day. She's probably wondering how long this play date is going to last (until the weekend, actually). I don't think she's noticed that Yeti has wormed his way into sleeping on the bedroom rug unless she heard J and I thrashing around and screaming "what the hell is that?!" when he tried to jump on the bed at 4 in the morning. I think poor Yeti was as surprised as we were by the sudden ruckus.

There haven't been a lot of dull moments with this little guy around, which is fine by me.

Lightness

2009-11-11T05:21:00.003-05:00

“He who loves, flies, runs, and rejoices; he is free and nothing holds him back.”
— Henri Matisse

Ready to Rouse Your Inner Warrior?

2009-11-10T14:00:00.000-05:00

via succeed blog.