This is Moose. 
 
He is our new puppy. He is from Indiana, so he is a Midwestern puppy.  This wee little puppy, he will grow to be between 30 and 35 pounds. He is what is called a Moyen Poodle. A Moyen Poodle is a poodle that is between the weight of a Miniature Poodle and a Standard Poodle. Some people say they are large Miniatures, others call them small Standards. We call him Moose. 
 
At first, I was thinking that I would get a little little dog. Like a dog that I could put in my purse and carry everywhere I go and fly back-and-forth anywhere I go. 
 
Well actually, at first, I was pretty clear that I was not getting a dog at all.  When Nava died (Nava died :-( ) I was pretty clear that I was done with having a dog. I just couldn’t do it again. 
 
But this is Moose. So obviously that was not the case at all.
 
I found Moose because I was looking for a little dog. That I could put in my purse and take everywhere. But Nava wanted to come back as a medium size dog. She wanted to come back as a medium size dog who is very healthy and gets along with all other dogs and humans and learns a lot and goes on vacation with me and my husband. Nava wanted to come back as a medium size dog and be my dog. 
 
So, this is Moose. He was born on February 24th, two days after Nava died. 
 
His name is Moose because when I saw his little face for the first time, just over two weeks ago when I was on my computer looking for him—even though I did not know he was who I was looking for until I found him—the name just dropped in. When I saw his little face and felt so deeply that this is my dog the universe dropped in his name. 
 
This is Moose. He is my dog.

​I am a high Creative. And a high Individualistic. Let me explain what this means. We use this very cool tool in our consulting work called Talent Analytics. For those of you who know about DISC, this is like a DISC tool and more. There is this second part to this tool that captures your ambitions. Your motivating values. The things that drive you to show up and do what you do within the behavioral style that you are. 
 
My top two motivating values, my drivers, are Individualistic and Creative. (And I kind of like to help people) This basically means that I want to do things exactly the way that I want to do them. And I think out of the box and come up with new and creative ways to do pretty much anything. 
 
But let’s move on to painting. I did not know I could paint. And then I went to a class. The high creative in me needed another creative outlet. So I went to a painting class. And painted. And I can. Who knew…
 
And then there is wire. I have only worked with wire once. Way back in my senior year in high school. I took an art class. In wire. A wire class. And I created a dancer. I love this dancer that I made. I love the line of her back and her leg held up high behind her. She captures the movement of dance. I am really proud that I made her. And surprised, too. Like painting, who knew…
 
And I sew. As in on a machine. And by hand, too. Quite often by hand. I am a lazy sewer (Not to be confused with a city’s plumbing system). I do not start from scratch. I find clothing I love but not quite. Fabric that is in a dress that would make a good shirt. A coat that is not quite right but can be. A pair of suede boots that need a zipper but come without. And I pull them all apart and make something new. 
 
I work really hard on these items. So maybe not a lazy sewer (Perhaps I should use “sewist”?). Though I am a messy sewer. The outsides of my outfits are beautiful.  The insides, not so much. I think this is often because I sew these items on myself. I fit them on myself in front of the mirror and then sew them, standing right there. So, they will fit exactly right. The insides are messy—with tucks and pleats and extra stitching. But the outsides sit smooth and fit just so. (This is definitely a life metaphor I will use in the future!) 
 
*Painting class with the amazing Robin Schwartzburd

​I had a conversation with a dear friend the other day. This friend who is also a guide for me as she walks me through a constant exploration and deconstruction of the internal belief systems that no longer serve me.  
 
And on this day, the roles were reversed and I was blessed to be able to show up for her in the process of dismantling her own stories and patterns to find the truth inside.
 
The conversation centered around when we speak and why we speak and if what we say is helpful or harmful—for ourselves and for those we share our words with.
 
And this got me thinking, as everything gets me thinking these days, about the big questions that live here. Like, when is sharing our thoughts and feelings a benefit and when is it a coping mechanism that keeps us from our inner truth? Like, when do we speak in honor of our higher self and when do we use our words to deflect from our pain and seek to control? When are we showing up authentically and when are we merely manifesting our fears camouflaged as communication?  
 
Let me digress. I have a witness that sits on my shoulder. I have written about her before. She has wings like a fairy and she is very quick. She is my all knowing inner voice that keeps me from harm’s way and most of the time I can hear her before my thoughts fully form in my mind that are oh so not the right way to go. This is how quick she is. But with this….
 
With this communication piece of when to talk and when to truly keep my mouth shut, I cannot hear a fucking thing she says. I know she’s talking (she’s always talking) because she does not desert me. But my internal mind dialog is so much louder, and also really smart and quite manipulative, and most of the time convinces me that I am heading in the right direction, only to open my mouth and speak and shortly realize, fuck me, I did it again. I bypassed my discomfort and believed my mind’s story that this is a good idea.
 
And then I have to sit in the discomfort of this place I created. Or try to fix it with even more words while my witness is flapping her wings and stamping her feet and yelling in my ear. She is mad. And she is always compassionate. And she knows I’ll eventually heed her advice.
 
I hope that this is soon. That the breakthrough to understanding the trauma response that is this pattern happens in the next instant that I am faced with this desire.  And that my mind will quiet for just a nano-second of a moment so that I am able to hear my fairy witness words.
 
Until then, I will try and forgive myself for my mishandling and for the misunderstandings that occur from speaking at times where I say too much. 

Pole 
 
If ever there was a physical activity that engages the entirety of my body, this is it. I mean, I had no idea the strength involved in doing this.
 
This is back strength. A lot of back strength. And this is arm strength. And leg and core and glute and hip flexor strength. For everything that I am doing. Whether I am climbing this pole (can you believe I am climbing this pole), turning around this pole, going upside down on this pole, flowing on the floor around this pole, whatever I am doing, my body is engaged. 
 
And what I love about this is that this strengthening of every part of my body is secondary to the act of this movement that I am learning to do. I have reached this place in my life where I don’t want to “work out.” I have no interest in the rote and routine exercise that I once so loved to do. Pushing weight, just not happening. But this, lifting the weight of my body as I flip backwards while my arms hold strong to this pole—while this is movement, this is flow. 
 
And this flow--
 
This flow is the grounding into the sensuality of this movement practice around this pole. This is the most beautiful part of this dance that I get to do. Pole is a celebration of the movement and the power of the feminine. I have done many kinds of movement before and many types of dance and many journeys into strength and speed and stamina. But nothing taps into this Shakti power. 
 
This is creation energy. 
 
It’s the figure eight sway of my hips, the way I roll my body up and down my spine, the bend and the curve of my legs and my back and my stomach and thighs.  It’s primordial cosmic feminine energy. It’s the feminine coming out unapologetically. 
 
It’s occasionally triggering. And it is always enlightening. And it’s why I love this so much.

In this current journey of, dare I say tragic, transformation, I keep getting messages. From the Universe. A quote or a meme. Something in an article I read. In an overheard conversation or something someone says directly to me. Small pieces of information offered up. And while I will often question “am I reading into this message something that is not there?” I do believe there is no coincidence and information is all around us to help us on our way.
 
And this is doable. 
 
The Universe is also offering up some not so small moments. These are not messages from with-out of me but rather moments from within me that I find myself landing in. These are moments, in each day, where the portal opens and I am in it. 
 
This happens most every early morning. I am awakening each day around 4AM and there is this about two-hour window of wake/sleep where I am in a dimension that is the deepest place of self-discovering.
 
This transportation into this realm feels like a re-activation of a medicine journey which is really the activation of my higher knowing. That place where the information lives.
 
When I am being pulled into the portal, there is this here I go again feeling. I am on the roller coaster and we’re at the end of the climb and about to head into the intense part of the ride. 
 
I hate roller coasters.
 
So, this ride into the portal of my mind. I can always tell when it’s coming. There is an energetic aura that shows up right before. Kind of like that tingling that happens before a hot flash or that aura that happens before a migraine. There is this energetic shift, and then a tightening in my belly and I know, ok, this is happening in like, five, four, three…here we go.
 
I am exhausted. Awakening to the meaning in each moment means that I am hyper aware that each moment might be the next one. I am riding the roller coaster each morning and then again throughout each day, and I don’t know when I will find myself taking this ride. 
 
While the mornings are constant, the rest of my day are a constant surprise. Will I join the ride while driving my car? Maybe while I’m on a run or in a dance class. Or watching a show that triggers a thought of a feeling that compels the Universe to take the opportunity to connect the dots and connect me back into this alternate reality, which, in reality is the true reality of what happened in my life, as I am learning that what I thought happened in my life is not the reality at all.
 
And so now there is also a questioning. Of what is real. If I can create all these stories of what was what, and now am discovering that what was what is not what happened after all…well… do I do this all the time?
 
So, while I am in this place of discovery, what is also swirling through my brain on a daily/constant/reality questioning basis is this—What is the story? What is the truth? Do we write or rewrite what happens because life is but a dream and we are all just living the fiction of this human experience anyway so….
 
If I didn’t know that I was sane, and I read this, I’d think I was insane. 
 
And I truly want a break. I want to shut this all down. Say to the Universe, you are moving too fast, you are showing too much. I can’t take this all in.  
 
I meet with this amazing practitioner I am working with. And our conversation the other day was about the constant information that the Universe has been offering me. I am getting depleted, I said. (I am losing my mind, I thought) And while I am so hungry to complete the story that is now only unfolding in flashback and snapshots and images and body awareness somatic actions and reactions that have no cognitive story yet, I am feeling that I need a break, too. 
 
And this wise woman asked me, have you thought of creating some boundaries?
 
This never entered my mind. You mean, I can tell the Universe I can’t talk right now?  
 
You would think I would know that this information we get from other worlds—the spirits and ghosts and angels and guides, and God and the Universe—that I could structure this discourse in the best way for me. It doesn’t have to be that I receive all this information when it is offered. I can say, “Hey Universe, I don’t think I have the capacity to engage in this right now.” You would think I would know this, but truly, it never entered my mind that I am both riding this roller coaster and running this ride at the same time.
 
The other night/early morning/4AM wakeup, I woke up to that tingling that proceeds the dropping in. I can’t do this right now, I said. And I went back to sleep. 

​This is my cat. His name is Phoenix and he is 20 years old this month. 
 
Phoenix is really my son's cat but he is our cat because he lives with us. But he is so my son's cat. His personality is my son's. Like just a really chill version of my son who is really chill in his own right so you can imagine how laid back and easy going this cat is.

We got Phoenix when he was just a kitten. We thought he was a girl. A friend of my son's brought him over and said he was a girl so we just assumed that he was. Then my kids went off to camp and while they were gone our sweet girl kitty's balls dropped. I wrote to my son at camp Phoenix has balls! Still, it took a while to remember that he was a boy.

Speaking of balls, we had a pet rat once, too. Well, my daughter did. This daughter who, after we got her the rat said wanting a rat is more fun than having a rat. This rat was one of our last pets. Except for the three other dogs, a snake named Scratch and Phoenix.

Well this rat, he was very sweet. My daughter named him Sweetie. And she would play with him a lot. Then one day his balls dropped, too. For anyone who does not know this, teenage boy rat balls are about the same size as their head. My daughter wouldn't hold him anymore. We had to get him neutered. It costs double the cost of buying him in the first place.  

Many of our pets ended up costing us—it was worth every penny but still worth noting.

Scratch, our snake had a respiratory infection. That was a huge vet bill. I didn't realize he had this, I thought he was making noises when I came in to feed him because he was hungry and happy to see me. But then I was told that snakes don't make noise. I left the vet with a ten-day supply of syringes filled with antibiotics that I had to inject in his neck—which looks just like his body but closer to his head. He got better but then escaped from his cage and got lost in the walls of our house. We found him a year later. 

As I write this, I am remembering that all of our pets were a bit quirky. Like our first pet, a Standard Poodle named Ruckus. We named him Ruckus because my son, who was just one years old at the time, could say truck—though often it sounded like fuck—and so we knew he could say Ruck-us. Ruckus had a problem with drinking water. He drank incessantly and was really sloppy about it. I brought him to the vet. I was worried he had diabetes as a symptom in dogs was drinking a lot. The vet called me and said he's not diabetic, he's inefficient. Turns out his tongue was not attached correctly and he couldn't lap the water. The vet told us to let him drink out of the toilet so the water would be that much more contained. Which we did, and which all of our other dogs—and our two cats—learned to do, too. 

Ruckus also ate socks and underwear and tubes of diaper cream. 

Then our second dog, Gabby, she was blind in one eye, which we did not know until she turned a year old. Weimaraner’s have these amazing blue eyes when they are puppies that turn a golden color at around a year. So, this first year both blue eyes looked fine and we just thought we had a goofy puppy who fell off curbs and ran into fences but then her eyes turned gold and one was not right.

We brought her to the vet to get her eyes checked. You may ask, how does a vet check a dog’s eyes? Well, they cover one eye and drop a dog biscuit in front of the other eye. With one eye she looked down as the biscuit fell, with the bad eye, she just sat there.  I called her breeder. She's blind in one eye, I said. This very strange woman offered to take her back and give me a new dog. I was like, what the fuck????!!  No thank you, I said. I love my dog. Just pay for all the vet bills.

Then we had Ophelia, our Ragdoll kitty who we hoped to breed but she had a flipped uterus. She also almost died when she had her first rabies shot and we learned she was allergic to most vaccinations. More vet bills.

We had birds. We had a bird named Jill. She loved my son. But we wondered if she was lonely so we got her a boyfriend. His name was Buddy. Jill wanted nothing to do with my son after that. Our cat, Ophelia, would sit on their cage and swish her tail back and forth when we weren't home. Jill and Buddy lost their feathers due to stress and we gave them to our babysitter. A much calmer life for them both.

And we had bunnies. First Calm who was this lovely black bunny that was so sweet and clean and well behaved and would hop around our house and never make a mess. Until he hit puberty and we HAD to get him a girlfriend.  We named her Whore Bunny but called her Clover. They had babies. She taught him bad habits. They eventually went to live with friends. 

We had giant goldfish. This was a miracle really. I never cleaned the fish tank. A massive fish tank. With cats and dogs and bunnies and birds and a rat and, which I haven't even mentioned until now, an aquatic frog and gerbils ...well, those fish just had to make do. They did more than that, they thrived. Their names were Conan and Raphamon. Every now and then we'd see a bit of orange swim by against the glass and then disappear again into the mucky water. When they died, we finally got to see their size. They were basically individual salmon steaks. We kept them in our freezer until we could give them a proper burial. A whole separate writing.

Our first Doberman, his name was Mac and he was huge. His quirky thing was terribly sad, we thought he was just this easy going, didn't care that he was a Doberman kind of Doberman but, in actuality, he had a heart condition and died right before he turned seven. Broke my heart. 

When he was one and a half, he dated the girl next door and they had twelve puppies. She lied to him and told him she was spade. Bitch. 

We took a puppy, A dog named Tank. I thought she was going to look just like her dad, my Doberman, because she was the biggest puppy. But she ended up looking like her mom—an Australian Cattle Dog. Except a much fatter version. My theory is that she was a Doberman in a cattle dog body. A big, massive Doberman stuffed into a small cattle dog body.  You get the idea.

And of course we had Nava, my perfect Doberman—soul of my soul-heart of my heart—dog who, like Mac, had a broken heart that broke my heart. 

But back to Phoenix. 
 
He has always been an incredible hunter-who-could-probably-kill-a-wild-boar if-need-be cat. Even at this late age he will still, abet occasionally now, bring in a small meal to eat on our carpet by our bed in the morning.

A few years back, we were feeling really badly because he had been bringing in a lot of birds and we realized that we are kind of helping him with this.  You see, we have this fountain outside, a really cool one, very modern looking, square and low to the ground. And our cat, smart cat that he is, he would crouch very quietly right next to the side of the fountain, his body pressed up against the concrete. And wait. And the birds, they would come to drink and play and flap their wings in our fountain because it is hot where we live and so this is so great for them and then my cat... well basically we are setting up these birds for slaughter. 

His prey of choice, however, is not just birds. There were mice and rats (HUGE rats) and geckos. He is amazing at it. He always brings them home. I do not consider them gifts, since he would eat them pretty much completely, I am thinking he did not consider them, gifts either. They were meals. My nephew believes he has a trophy room.

Usually, though, what he caught he would bring in live. And then get bored and we were left with a traumatized mouse running around our home while our now not interested at all kitty would be sleeping on the couch or on the table near the salt lamp.  He loves being near the salt lamp. 
 
Good chi, I think.
 
Happy Birthday, Phoenix Pussy-cat. You are a badass kitty!
 
*Parts of this writing are excerpts from This is about Phoenix, and all the other pets we’ve had, 4.16.2018.

I wrote a book. About my dog. Which I know that pretty much nobody is surprised about.  Because, while there are a lot of books I have thought about writing--A Divorce Mediator Shares How To Create A Mindful Divorcebook, a How To Stay Married By A Divorce Mediator book, a The Respectful Parent book, a Reflections Of An Aging Badass Mother (as in a mom, not “mother”) book, a book about my cat (which I am actually in the process of finishing up as we speak and which is called Where’s Phoenix?) to name a few—I have obviously been called to write about my dog first.  
 
I wrote this book before Nava died, almost three weeks ago now. How it is possible that it is already almost three weeks ago now? I wrote this book before she died.
 
This is that book. 
 
It’s a children’s book. With pretty awesome photographs that I took of my incredible and amazing and smart and God-is-she-just-the-most-beautiful-dog-you’ve-ever-seen dog. And a catchy rhyming story that shares how Nava spends her day, from morning till night.  
 
I actually wrote it a couple of years ago for my grandson who lives across the country from me. We would facetime and play ball with Nava together. And so I made him this book through Shutterfly which costs like a gazillion dollars for one copy but still, it is my grandson and so, so worth that price.  
 
And then I got to thinking that this is a really good book. This was right after my amazing daughter, Teagan, published a book called The Emotional Body and while I was creating a book for a local school in town, Ojai Valley School, and I got to thinking about taking this Nava book (and also my Where’s Phoenix? book that I mentioned above) and actually publishing it. Teagan’s publisher was interested, and the rest is Nava, A Bedtime Story history.
 
So here is my book. It’s a great book. 
 
You can purchase it on Amazon and Barnes & Nobles. Please and thank you :-)
 
And thank you for reading my writing today.

My dog died.
 
I, at first, was going to leave it at that.  My dog died. A Monday Morning Writing.
 
Then I was thinking I’d share this book I wrote about her. I wrote it a while ago, like a number of years ago, like 3 years ago. For my grandson back east who I did not see enough when he was just him before his brother was born and I wrote this book about Nava. And then, more recently, a publisher published it. I will write about it more on another Monday day. About my Nava book. For today, this Monday…this Monday is just about my Nava. 
 
My dog died.
 
This past Wednesday. At exactly (or pretty much exactly) 3:30 in the afternoon. I know this because I was finishing up a call while playing ball—because Nava and I are always playing ball—and waiting for a couple to come over for a mediation. I am helping them end their marriage. They are a beautiful and mindful couple and it is an honor to work with them as they navigate this end that is a new beginning really.  
 
They were due at my home at 3:30. And my dog died. And they arrived. And sat with me and my husband for just a time. And helped move my sweet and beautiful and now gone dog into my home to nestle in her bed that she always loved. They held sweet space while the husband of this couple held up half the weight of my dog.
 
My dog died. 
 
We were playing ball. And then, for a moment I was kicking at the ball alone and turned to see my dog. Something was wrong and I called her name and she tried to stand and couldn’t. But soon she calmed, and I thought that what it was had passed. And then she passed.
 
How do I write about my dog now that my dog died?
 
I thought I would just write that. My dog died. A Monday Morning Writing.
 
Then I thought I would share all the times, in all these times that I have been writing, all the times that I write about her. That I reference her. That her photograph accompanies my writing as her soul accompanies me. 
 
But, you see, almost every writing that I have written since my dog became my dog has some reference to my dog. Almost every writing includes my dog. How can I share every writing?
 
And so, instead, I read every writing. I read all my writings. Looking for her. And I found her everywhere. Often Nava writings. Often just pieces of bigger writings that I wrote, not, maybe not, necessarily about Nava. Just that she was there. In my writings. All the time. 
 
Just as she is here. In my heart. All the time.
 
My dog died. Her heart broke. My heart is broken.
 
~ Photograph taken at Ventura Dog Ranch on 9.6.2021. Nava would board here when we would go away. She loved this place. And they loved her. ~
 
~ What makes Nava so extraordinary is her soul. She is my soul dog. Truly. She is. She is my grounding rod. My stability. She is the place I rest my spirit, often as I lay myself on top of her. She is that big. And strong. And she can hold the weight of me, both my body and my heart. Held by her body and her soul. Excerpt from I Love My Dog—12.12.2022 ~

I recently stepped gently into a medicine journey. This was not a deep dive. 
 
I have done a deep dive before. Back in January 2017, I dove into a weekend of ceremony dressed in white with many others, in a canyon in the hills above Santa Barbara. That first night was too deep for me and it took many moments that were mere seconds to say out loud, help me, and then I was surrounded by these beautiful people who took me to a safe space and helped me re-regulate before coming back to my temporary community of medicine travelers. The  second night offered me a more respectful balance and I danced in this power of this feminine plant that still, to this day, sings songs I remember. When I remember.
 
There was a just the right depth of a psychedelics journey that joined me for one amazing night at Burning Man, with my daughter in 2019. Ah, the joy and laughter and art and sand as we adventured to the far reaches of the Playa.
 
Then there was a deep dive only a few weeks before this most recent one. In that one, the medicine was strong. The energy was masculine. And while this ‘get it done’ masculine motion serves me often, in this time of exploration that my life journey is taking me on, I am finding I need to ground into the feminine, and this medicine, it did not offer what I longed for. I wanted to get out. But out was not real because I was not in anything. Except myself. I was in myself and couldn’t get out. I was scared. The whole time.  
 
Yet this, this fearful journey into the chaos that is my mind, offered me lessons that re-activated for over a week after. The wind was softer against my skin. I could hear my steps against the gravel of my road. I was so tall, then short as I walked outside. My meditations fed me glimpses of moments of nothing. Beautiful nothing where I wanted to stay for a long time.
 
The newly connected synapses in my brain soon calmed and revisiting the journey stopped. I have the memory, parts of it scares me still. And I find I can no longer tap back into the peace that is the nothingness of just moments in the turmoil that is me.
 
And now here is this most recent, almost five-hour journey, again with wise grandmother plant wisdom mixed with fungi from the earth to propel me along. The dose was low and the dance was sweet and I felt, in this relationship I had with this medicine magic, that we were in collaboration.  A constant dialog of question and answer. Of I need to take a break to are you ready to come back in? And soon, Yes, I am ready to come back in.
 
I spent a great deal of time, on this journey of hours, lying on the dirt in the corner of the yard of the home of the healing woman that shared her potion with me. I lay on the dirt, my head on my sweater, rolled up to soften a flat concrete stone. The sun on my skin, the earth against my back. I went in and out and in again.
 
In this container of infinite feminine wisdom, my grief, it is blue. The color surrounded me. Sometimes dark, sometimes more dim but always blue. The tears nestled into a blue haze each time I dropped into my sorrow. And I did. A lot.
 
I cried. A lot. And fell into love. And where at the beginning there was mostly grief, by the time I lay outside, I saw that my grief was a habit. This did not mean I did not honor the emotion. My grief is a marker. 
 
And also my lover and it is hard to step away. And this wise medicine from the earth, she kept reminding me, honor the grief and come back to the light. Honor the grief and come back to the light.
 
Till finally, I could land in my sorrow dance and sway for a moment before quietly stepping away, so as not to miss the lesson the medicine wanted to share.

These woods I am talking about are the woods that surround my incredible apartment in Bedford, Massachusetts. I was here again, these last two weeks. I love this place. I walk these woods and each step sounds that crunch of snowy leaves and soil beneath my feet. The tall and abundant trees, some with evergreen, others sparce and bare in these wintery months, stand tall against an almost white sky. The cold air on my face, there is a smell to it, of moisture and moss. This is a good place. 
 
And then, on a walk that I took with my landlord’s son he walked me to see the Emu. I wanted to create the story that the facility that housed this bird was a secret, hidden place.  But it was just here. No apology at all. And here, behind a chain fence, stood the bird. 
 
He’s been here for as long as I can remember, said my woods walking companion.  
 
And in that instant, despair landed in the beauty of the trees. Because I immediately projected that this was not a good place, nestled in my good woods.
 
But it is. It is the Concord Field Station and supports the “physiological and biomechanical laboratory-based research of animal performance, seeking to understand how animals operate in their natural environment.” It is research, not testing. 
 
And then there is this bird. 
 
I had so many questions. Does someone love him? Is he out there all alone all the time? And so is he lonely? What do they do with him? Is he a him?  Or a her? 
 
She/he looks incredibly healthy. Did you know that an Emu in the wild may live only 10 years or so (though some will live to 20) but in captivity they can live up to 35 years! And an Emu in Eastern Victoria is almost 60! 
 
I went back a second time. And then, again, a third. And this Emu, here in this place, behind this metal fencing, this bird that has been here for as long as my previous walking the woods companion can remember, each time I show up he/she runs to the fence, and then along the inside edge, lowering and raising their head up and down, up and down, as they looked at me. Do I make him nervous? Or is she happy to see that someone is here with them? I truly could not tell though worried I was kind of upsetting them and perhaps should not stay for too long.
 
I called the facility, while I was standing on the path with my bird, to ask, am I bothering him? Is she happy to see me? How old is my bird anyway?  And I learned he is 18 and loves company so feel free to step off the path and come in close to say hi.
 
Which I did. And while I did not stay for too long, it felt good to come in close to say hello out loud to this bird and not just to this bird. To the air out here. And the trees. To the path that I walk along to reach this place again. To say out loud, I see you and I know that you are here.