This is our cat. This is his I will tolerate you taking a photo of me ​face. He 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. Except without any worry or anxiety. 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.

Phoenix is now fifteen. We got him 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! It took a while to remember that he was a boy after that...

Speaking of balls, we had a pet rat once, too. Well my daughter did. The 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. She 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 names Ruckus, he 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 our of the toilet. 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. Weimeraner'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 dogs 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 got 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. They 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 due. 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 have Nava, my perfect Doberman.  

But back to Phoenix. The incredible hunter-who-could-probably-kill-a-wild-boar if-need-be cat. 

So his hunting. We have been feeling really badly about this lately because he has been bringing in a lot of birds and we realized that we are kinda 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 crouches very quietly right next to the side of the fountain, his body pressed up against the concrete. And he waits. And the birds, they 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 gets one. So basically we are setting up these birds for slaughter. 

He hunts quite a lot. And not just the birds we are supplying him with. Mice and Rats and geckos. He is amazing at it. He sometimes brings them in dead. I do not consider them gifts and since he eats them pretty much completely, I am thinking they are not gifts as far as he is concerned, either. They are meals. My nephew believes he has a trophy room.

Usually, though, what he catches he brings in live. And then gets bored and we are left with a traumatized mouse running around our home while our now not interested at all kitty is sleeping on the couch or on the table near the salt lamp.  He loves being near the salt lamp. Good chi I think.

This post is about a dog. But really it's about more than a dog. Still, the dog part needs to come first, it sets the stage for the message that comes later, in act two.

This post about a dog is not about my dog. Though this photo that I have included is my dog. I love this photo. It was taken this past Saturday when my husband and I went to the beach to walk our beautiful and perfect Doberman. I love how alert she is. And focused. And him, too. They both are so into this game of ball that they play together.

It is a different game than my ball game. My game consists mainly of throwing the ball with my ball chuck thing. But my husband, this is an art form for him. He has Nava so focused in and so intent on working. He has her sit and stay and long down stay and circle around him to the left and then the right. She high fives and low fives and goes through his legs and then he'll have her wait and he'll place the ball down on the ground a ways away and then call her to him. She comes and sits right there in front of him but you can see that, though her head is facing up at him, there is just the slightest pull of her eye to the right where the ball sits on the ground. And after he lets her get the ball and bring it back to him for me he will throw it so far down the beach and she will run with such grace and sometimes pull the ball from the air as she soars above the sand. They are awesome together.

But this post is not about them.

It is first about this other dog that we found on the beach a week ago. We were there with Nava and as I sat on this great shaped-like-a-bench-with-a-back-and-all rock this sweet dog came over to say hi. He had a harness collar and lots of tags. I expected the owner to show up next but no one did. And so we looked around. And asked around. First this couple who had just showed up in their camper for a day at the beach. Standing with them we called the numbers on the tag and got the dad of the guy who owned the dog. He didn't know where his son was but would try him and call us back.

Then we talked with this other guy a ways down the beach who said this sweet pup - his name is Kona - had been at the beach since the day before. He said that a surfer girl had tried all the numbers and left messages and no-one called back and so this kind man took Kona in over night for a sleepover. They ate hotdogs and Balogna together. 

We tried the dad again to let him know that his son's dog had not been with his son since yesterday. And while we talked, with dad and with the sleepover man and with the couple with the camper, Kona stayed right with us. Playing a bit with Nava and standing close for love. And then jumping into my car and curling up in the back seat. My heart was full.

And then camper couple said they wanted him. That they had been wanting a dog and obviously this owner had abandoned his dog and so we gave them some food from bags we had in the car and left Kona with these new people.

And then on the way home, the owner called me.

How did your dog get lost on the beach last night, I asked him. And why did you not stay to find him? He answered that Kona ran away a lot, searching and hunting and doing dog things and he could not find him and needed to go home. 

And I felt uneasy, it was already almost 9:00 in the morning and he had not been back at the beach looking for his pup. Who came when called for me so would have come to this man, too.  Right?

But I did not know this man and I did not know this dog except to know that he was a loved dog and a well-trained dog and who was I to judge even though I was.

We had to leave the beach, I said. Kona is still there, someone else is watching him and I believe will take him to the humane society when they leave. It was a white lie. A partial lie. A not wanting to tell the truth but not wanting to really lie lie. Because I wanted Kona to stay with this new couple. I was mad at this man on the phone who made excuses. I didn't want him to have his dog but - and this is what this post is really about - it wasn't my place to make that decision. To control this. 

I wanted to. And I still question if I should have. Should I have said that we had to leave and someone else took Kona to the humane society already? Should I have said that so that this man would not even go to the beach to see if he could find his dog? 

I struggled back and forth, after the fact, for days. My husband said it will be what it is supposed to be. This man either went to the beach and found this couple and got his dog, or he went to the beach and did not. Or he deciding just not to go to the beach. 

And now it is nine days later and I still think about this. On two levels. I think about Kona, sweet and scared, and I wonder where he is and is he safe. Because of these moments he was with us, I love him.

And I think how are we to know, in these moments when the story is unfolding around us, when we need to step back and let the action take place unencumbered verses when we need to play a leading role in the story? 

It is a judgement call. And for me it is an energetic reaction that sits in my stomach and tells me where to walk next. And usually it tells me the right way to go. Though sometimes I don't listen and head down the wrong path despite myself. But then, every once in a while I get stuck in the crosswalk, not sure which direction is the right one. My intuition tells me two things. Always for a reason, but I cannot uncover the lesson that is being taught and so I get stuck.

I am stuck there now, after the fact. For nine days I have been standing right in the middle of the intersection replaying my choices over in my mind. Just as I played them the second I got off the phone with this man.

I wish I had said that Kona was no longer at the beach, I think. But then I circle back to was it my place to decide if this man deserved his dog? And I think no. But then I get mad at him again and I am back where I started. It is a tricky thing knowing when to step in and when to step back.

But here's the thing: if we assume that it is not our place to control the outcome of something that is outside of ourselves do we lose our humanity? 

And as I write this, my lesson becomes clear. The word I am using is wrong. Control is the wrong word. The word is participation. This is where I was stuck. Because we really can't control anything can we? We think we can, we want to, but we can't.

What we can do is participate. Show up. Be in it. This is the lesson I needed to uncover. That we need to participate but that the outcome is not a sure thing. The outcome is out of our control. Yes, I think this is what this was about.

And so now, though I still will think about Kona and hope that we see him on the beach, perhaps with this couple that wanted him so much or perhaps with his first owner who loves him in his own way, I am feeling a bit less hard on myself. I participated in this dog story. In the best way that I could in the moment I was in. 

I missed last Monday's writing. I realized this on Wednesday morning when I was sitting in the shower. I love sitting in the shower. I make the water really hot, much hotter than it would be if I were still standing. And then I sit. And I lean forward to let the hot water hit my back and then I lean back against the tiles. And I do this a few times so that the hot water is pressed from my back against the surprisingly-cool-considering-the-temperature-of-the-water tiles. And soon they are finally not too cold for me to lean against. The heat off my back warms the tiles just enough. And I sit. For a long time. 

So there I was. And I started to think about my next writing, thinking that it was coming up soon, but quickly realized that it was not, and that the reason why I thought it was is because I hadn't written one in a while. And then I thought fuck, I forgot my Monday morning writing.

I had missed writings before. Not very often, five times I believe in all this time. And when I did miss it, I always wrote as soon as I remembered. Like when I first starting writing this writing and it was a Sunday morning writing and then it became a Sunday night writing and then finally settled into Monday morning as those Sunday times were just not working out with life and my children were around a lot and there was weekend stuff to do. When I missed my writings back then I wrote right away and acknowledged the delay

And a few times I forgot the writing altogether, not because of anything like a weekend event or a conflict in time but just because I forgot. My most recent time doing this, before this time this past Monday, was six weeks ago. 

And again, each time I forgot, I wrote right away to explain why I had missed the writing. Each piece explained the delay and re-committed to the process once again because the intention was still very clear to me, in that energetic way, that it was important to adhere to the structure I had created.

And so I wrote a Monday on a Wednesday, or a Monday on a Tuesday, or a Monday morning on a Monday night writing and all was good. I was back in my groove.

Until this past week. This time I did it differently. Because this time, it was different. I could feel it. It was not just about missing the writing and then going and doing it. There was a message in this one. And I needed to sit in it and listen to it. 

And so I did. 

In the still hot water of my shower meditation, I sat in the discomfort of it. And then over this past week, as the urge to write something pulled me to fill up the space that held my Monday musings, I sat in it still. It was hard. I had this burning, well not burning but very strong, desire to write something and put it out there because I was worried. About not doing what I had committed to doing. And about whether anyone would wonder where I was. And about whether I would lose you by missing a writing. Because even though I write for myself, I write for you, too. For this connection with you. And so I worried that I had disconnected. And so I felt badly, too.

I sat in the discomfort of all of this and I sat in this worry. And in my sitting I took the time to reflect on what was really happening. And question what I was to learn here. And figure out what the next best step is. And this is what I figured out. 

I love my Monday morning writing.

And the plan is not working in the way that it was. This is not to say that I will not write my writing each Monday. It is a Monday morning writing after all, and I likely will write each Monday still. I've got a lot to say.

But if I don't write, this is ok, too. 

Because what this is about is the awareness of what I am doing. It is about being present to the choice to write. The structure that I created, that commitment to have to write each week, it worked for as long as it worked. This structure, it created the rhythm for my writing and was the foundation I built my words on. And was right for me for quite a long time. But not now. Now what is right is that I write, but if I don't, well that is right, too.

This is the mindfulness of it that I am noticing and honoring. There is importance in this. This is a message from the universe that I need to pay attention to.

I starting writing this piece on June 26, 2016. Well, not really writing it, I put the title down - I Am A Shadow Dweller. Because I was dwelling there then. And I added a photograph, not this one, but one of me. I'll include it at the end. It captures that shadow looking feeling that I am, today, going to try and capture in words. So the title and the picture and then I saved it. Because the words, they... well, they were hidden in the shadows and I could not see them clearly enough to put them out here in this bright light.

But this past weekend, I started thinking about this again. This shadow play place that I love so much. Loved so much. Because I do not love it so much anymore. I like it still. There is a familiarity in this shadowing place. A welcoming and a safeness that is provocative and inviting. So maybe love is the right word. But before there was also a beckoning and that does not happen so much anymore.

Perhaps this is why I am able to write about it now, because it is not the place I love the best.

When I loved the shadows most I loved them because I felt them the most. It was a time in my life - there were many times in my life - when I was sad. Deeply. And with that sadness came a loss of feeling most other feelings. 

Yes, there were moments of joy and happiness. Moments I would see my children and love them deeply. Moments when a run in the woods with my dogs would fill my soul and still my heart. But these feelings were not ones that I was able to access at these times when sadness was my constant companion. And so I loved him. (He is a him) Sadness. I loved his darkness and his warmth. I loved his lush breath and the way that he enveloped me in a cocoon of softness.

I loved him because I felt him.  

When I was sad - and was it really sad? - my days were days of deep depression, when the only feeling that I really felt was the feeling of him. And feeling him, this was so much better than feeling nothing. And so I would enter the shadows hungrily and I often did not want to leave. It felt good in here and I did not care that the light outside, she had gifts to offer me. 

My shadow play was not always with me. He led me inside occasionally when I was growing up, but only held me in his arms once for any significant length of time back then. I was living in New York and dancing at Tisch at NYU. I was a dance major without the ability to dance having had surgery on a toe that was fractured and chose to disintegrate rather than heal. It was a defining moment in my journey as a dancer because I really did not want to be one anymore and so this injury, it was an opportunity to shift direction. Still it was sad - ah that sweet space of despair - and I sat in it for the entire time I lived in New York before heading back to Massachusetts to finish college.

And then there were no shadows for many years. Until postpartum nestled into my bones followed by a winter wonderland of seasonal depression that lasted fourteen long years of October-thru-April-I've-just-gotta-get-through-this-winter-and-things-will-be-fine and then two more long years of transition and introspection and self-discovering and growth that could only have happened within the shadows of my mind.

I got a lot done in this shadowy space. In this time spent in this place of darkness that is warm and knows me well. And that, coupled with the truth that the deep emotions that live in the shadows were my only emotions, well... why would I not want to sit here. In these shadows that held me gently.

And then the light crept in.

It was not like the shadow space was not still inviting. It was not like that feeling of sadness that offers an intensity of emotion was not still tempting to sit in. It was not that I did not sometimes - do not sometimes - still miss standing complete in shadow.

It is that it is lonely here. For when I stood in shadow I stood alone. For along with keeping out the light my shadow sentinel kept out all others.

And so we made an agreement. 

As I write this I have this lovely image in my mind. When I was back east I took a walk on the Appalachian Trail. Not for long. Just a short bit of trail but the sunlight was strong though still low in the sky and the shadows played against the warmth of this light. It is this image that captures my shadow play now. An intermingling of light and dark. Of light and shadow. And I can play in the coolness for a moment or more but he will not be my only friend. 

I think about writing about my mom. But then I don't. My first instinct is not to. I think I am not brave enough. But something is calling me now. For when I picture time having passed and writing about her later on I feel this feeling that I am missing something. That there is significance in writing now. That the vulnerability that comes with this writing of passage is important. That I cannot miss this even though I do not know what this is. 

Because the feelings are hard and because my mom will read this. And my dad, too. And while these words are an honoring, they are also words of challenge and frustration and this is hard to share. 

This most recent need to write about my mom comes on the heels of my visit last week. The culmination of a week with my mom ending with my reading aloud to my dad the writing my sister and I wrote about him created a lacking feeling. That my mom needed a writing, too. That this was this something I had to do. 

And so on the plane on the way home I started this. I wanted it to be a writing that was light and joyous and honored all the good that is my mom. But instead what came out was fast and raw and I knew that this early writing six days before a writing was due was necessary because I needed time to sit on this. To reread and revisit and rewrite if need be. This one. It is hard. 

You see, my mom has a form of dementia that makes her lose words as the language center of her brains dies. As I write that sentence it autocorrects to worlds. Lose worlds. Appropriate as she is losing worlds, too. 

For along with language comes the loss of comprehension. And the loss of knowing. Names lose their meaning. Friends become unrecognizable. Events fall away and moments drift by and often times she is not quite sure. 

And this is hard. As her daughter. For along with the loss of all these things and more that I am sure I still don’t know there is an accentuation of those things that have always challenged me as her daughter.

And then, yesterday, I read this beginning of this writing to my husband.  ​I started writing about my mom but don't really want to/am worried about sharing it/maybe I shouldn't I said to him. And then I read it to him and he said it is beautiful and you need to finish this. 

So here I am.

Mother/daughter angst is hard to explain. Not in the general sense but in that intimate way where the smaller nuance of expression can turn a daughter's head around but from the outside really, what is the big deal.  But as the daughter, standing in this daughter place, the challenges are there, the triggers continually happen, the actions and reactions find that familiar rhythm that is as old as I am.

This past week with my parents was a beautiful week. Being with them is necessary. And it is important. And it is filled with love and joy and fun. Lots of fun. And along with this it is filled with the hard fact that my mom is struggling. A lot. And I am, too.

I am usually a better version of myself when I am with her. I am patient. But it is a sad patience because it sits in this place of detachment. A necessary coping because without it I cannot stand in compassion and caring.  

This past week the place I created to support and love my mom as she journeys through this awful disease abandoned me and I stood in the rawness of having to respond without my boundaries on full alert. And I behaved badly.  

I could not disengage and I could not be kind. I heard the edge in my voice as I answered her questions and felt my body pull back as she sought to encircle me in love. And each time I saw this, in the moment that I was in this, I spoke small words to myself to step back and regroup and remember that this is not about me at all, really and so step up as the best of myself so I can be the best me for her. And then the next interaction would happen and I was deep in it again in that dark way that is so not fair to her because it is so not how I want to show up for her.

I thought I did not care. My coping of my lacking was to tell myself that this was ok. That I had closure and completeness. That the lack of an emotional connection with my mom being this elusive thing was just what it was and was ok.  

But then, I as write this, I see that this is not true. That there is grief and loss in this. That the disconnect, whether in this most recent interaction of impatience and frustration or even in the more accepting dynamic of caring and nurturing, still is a detachment from my mom. And so a loss of mother.  

I did not see this until just this moment.

My mother-in- law died in December and we had her memorial service in January. I wrote a piece about her and read it aloud at the service. And, as I walked up to share my words, I started to cry. This surprised me. I did not think I felt the loss of her until I was there, standing in the loss of her.

This feeling I have, right at this moment, writing this writing, this is that same surprise. That there is loss here. That I miss my mom. Even as she is still here with me.

It is important and it is good that I see this now. I hope I can hold on to this. 

I'm here with my sister, the little one. Not that she is little. She is an adult. Like me. And my other sister, too, who is the older sister and so the big sister. We are all adults. But this weekend we were little again. Even while we were not.

I am here with my little sister, as the big sister went home. She left yesterday and the little sister leaves today and then I leave tomorrow.  We are leaving from our parent's home in Florida. This is the first year that they have spent at their new apartment that they just bought so that they could get away from the cold and the snow and the storms of the New England winter. 

So my little sister and I are writing this together. Which we do sometimes when we are together. Because it is fun. And makes us laugh while we write some pretty awesome writings. We have very similar perspectives. And the same sense of humor. We write great together.

Ok, so let's get started.

We were going to talk about this door thing. We were going to name the writing A Door Metaphor, which is a really nifty rhyme and talk about why the wrong way is often the easier way. Like it's easier to eat badly, it's easier to not to exercise, it's easier to not work hard. 

We started thinking about this when the sliding doors in my parents porch kinda place that looks out over the water got all twisted up. Now, these are not the kind of sliding doors you are thinking of. These are three panels on each side sliding door kinda things. And each door is on it's own track and each door can move. And so they can get all tangled even though they shouldn't because if you push to hard they easily move too far passed each other - which is the wrong way - and it's really hard to get them back.  

So we asked.. why is it easier to move them the wrong way and have it be so hard to move them back the right way?  

So let's talk about food and the fact that we had key lime pie every night.  But we don't want to say that key lime pie is bad or that eating it every night is bad. It's not good to say that things are bad, it's just when you pair this with six baskets of bread and full meals, and some snacks during the day, let's just say we are feeling a bit sluggish this morning. 

Ok, being little. 

It was just the original five, the nuclear family that our parents created. I was coming down for my birthday and invited my sisters to come with me as my birthday present. So we could all be together without the focus veering off to our children or husbands or any other distractions that happen when the rest of life comes along, too.  

It was nice like this.

We went to the beach like we did when we were little and our dad woke us up early - like 6Am early - to get to Jones Beach before the crowds and then we would leave at around noon to head back home and go to the local, community pool.

He did not wake us up that early this time. He wanted too but, though we were little, we are really still adults and we said no.

We sang in the car like we did when we were little. We sang show tunes. Fiddler on the Roof and Godspell. And listened to Hamilton because no-one but my little sister knew the words. 

We played ball in the street like we did when we were little. With a Spalding. We don't like this spelling because we call the ball a spaldine, or spaldeen and so we think it should be spelled like this. We played catch and we played this game where we have to bounce the ball one more bounce each time we send it to the other person. So one bounce, then two, then three....

We hung out on beds - one on the floor because this place doesn't sleep more than four. So my little sister slept on this foam mattress thing that my dad's dog loved because he got to sleep on it, too.

​We held hands as we walked around this really cool, old Florida neighborhood rather than the built up and mall-like stores and restaurants that line the highways now. We held hands as we walked and talked.

We went out for every meal (hence the key lime pie) and shared plates of food.

And we took lots of pictures of the five of us as we squeezed in for a selfie while we walked along the path outside my parent's home or jostled for space on the bed.

So last Monday I was going to write about our reactions to our reactions.  But then I changed my mind. I wasn't in the mood. I didn't have the focus or - honestly - the interest at just that moment when I was writing my writing to delve deep into something that demands a necessary introspection that I was so not up for.  And so I skipped the writing of it and wrote about other stuff instead.

But then, all this week, this concept kept coming up for me. 

Like I had this amazing conversation with my dad.  I have an amazing dad. I wrote (with my sister) about him here if you ever feel the need to read up on him. I think you should. He's pretty friggin' awesome.  

So, I had this conversation with him. On the phone two days ago. He was talking about mindfulness and how he is practicing this practice, this mindfulness practice, and one of the things he is doing is noticing his reaction to things. And then, instead of reacting to how he reacted in that moment and letting his mind do all that self-talk that is often filled with negativity - because we often react to something in a way that we wish we did not and so we shame ourselves and berate ourselves and tell ourselves that we did it wrong - instead of doing any of that he is just sitting in noticing what his reaction was in that moment. And then letting it go.  

Like this is what he is telling me over the phone and I was like did you read my writing on Monday? because this was what I avoided writing about because I was not in the mood to work that hard.

The best thing was he had not read my blog yet. And so the fact that he brought this up, and I had been thinking of this, well really, the serendipitousness of this is just too good. (and yes, I know that I should use "serendipity" but it just doesn't capture the bigness of this coincidence enough)

And then it came up again. This reaction to our reaction idea.  It came up again. And again still. In conversations that I had with other people. All week. And so I knew that it was time, in this Monday's writing, as in today's writing, to delve on in and explores this more.

You already know what it is as I so succinctly explained it above in the paragraph about my dad. So what I really want to talk about is those beautiful lessons that come out of being able to notice our reactions to our reactions.

Do we berate ourselves? Do we tell ourselves that we should have done it better? Do we then think about it over and over and over again because we are disappointed or angry at ourselves? And why do we do this?

These are the big questions. And this is where the lessons live.

I do this. A lot actually. Much more than I thought I did until I started to notice. And not only do I self-talk myself into a really lousy mood by reacting negatively to my reaction but I do it for a really long time. Ten, fifteen, could be twenty minutes that my not so nice voice in my head goes on and on about how I really fucked it up and didn't do it good enough. She is persistent, I'll give her that.

But now, now I am aware of this and noticing my extremely obstinate and tenacious, negative voice in my head.

Wait, that is not exactly true.

I have always been aware of her. But until recently I engaged with her. I interacted and listened and responded back sometimes in conversations in my mind that took over my spirit and prevented me from moving on from an incident that happened so many moments ago and was over long before my conversation with my self-talk was.

But now, now I don't engage. I notice. And then I reflect.

What pain happened way back in my life that she grabs onto to try and keep me from growing forward? What pain and how do I heal from it? 

What pain and what shame?

What stories does she keep repeating to me because she wants to keep her footing in the door to my soul?

What stories does she find and then retell and why do they work so well?

I notice all of this. I notice and explore what she is saying without feeding her my attention which is fuel for her fire of negativity and blame. It is interesting to notice what she says. And, because I can see her from this distance now and hear her without taking in her chatter and making it mine, I can reflect on her words and her stories and her blaming and think back to where she may have found them in the first place.

​For you see, they came from inside me, those parts of me that I still need to nurture and forgive, to accept and to love. She sees them as opportunity for pain. But now I see them as the opportunity to grow. 

And this is what is happening now: when she shows up I take her in my arms in my minds eye and I tell her that it really is ok. That I know that she hurts and that I know that its hard but really its all good. And she quiets down. Not completely silent yet but not as loud and not as long. The lessons are being learned and the hurt is being healed and soon she'll get to rest.

Ok, so I was going to write about our reactions to our reactions and... credit where credit is due: I first heard about this concept - paying as much if not more attention to your reactions to your reactions than to that first reaction you have to a situation - from Kelly Schwegel.  You can check her out here.

It's an interesting concept to explore. That self talk we do after we have reacted to a situation is where so many of the lessons really live.  Think about it.

But not now. 

Because as I sat down to write about this I realized that I really didn't want to write about this.  I kinda wanted to write about lighter things. Like my walk this morning with my dog (what a surprise) and the personal satisfaction I am feeling having drafted new By-Laws for the theater that I am the Board Chair of (I love writing documents like this).

I want to write about the anthology that I am creating with a becoming-a-new-friend woman that I met over social media. It is book about the Thomas Fire that circled our valley - we are a valley surrounded by fire - and then swept north becoming that biggest wildfire in California history.  This book is a collection of photographs, artwork, poetry and prose from our Ojai community.  We are still in the submission phase and are receiving such amazing images and writings. This book is going to be beautiful as it honors the loss and grief and strength and possibility of our community.

So this is really cool.

I want to talk about the fact that I have had to restart my computer like three times in the space of writing this writing because it is old and slow and freezes up and I need to buy a new one but this stresses me out.  All my stuff is on here. All my documents and passwords and pictures and stuff.  And I know, I know, I know all about backing things up and I am doing this. I have a OneDrive account with everything in it. I have Carbonite on my computer which backs up things automatically. And I also email myself the things that are really important (yes, the old fashion back-up system). But still, technology stresses me out. Like A LOT!  And so this is tough.

But the new computer will be fast and speedy and I can write my writings and draft my documents and sign into sites and not have to wait like four minutes for something to load.  

So this is really cool, too.

And finally, I want to talk about where this picture above was taken.  Take a guess.  You'll never get it!

I missed my Monday writing. And now it's Wednesday. This picture was taken on Tuesday. When I was lying here, in my warm and cozy bed, I had to pee really, really badly.  But I couldn't get up because look how sweet they both are and how could I disturb them!?  

I was on telephone with my sister at the time and said just this, and we remembered together when our babies were babies and not these big people that they are now and we would sit to nurse or because they were sleeping and so perfect in our arms and we would sit ourselves down and get all comfy and the phone and tv remote and our cup of tea or glass of water was over on the table, or even on the couch but all the way over on the other side and there we were.  We could not move. How could we move? 

That is just like what this was yesterday with my cat and my dog. And I was so happy to be between them that it was worth it not to move. Just like with my sleeping babies all those years ago.

But this writing is not about this. It is about the fact that I missed Monday's writing. Fuck.

I have been late for writings before. There was a time that my Monday morning writing was actually a Sunday morning writing and then a Sunday night writing before becoming it's Monday thing. Because I had too much going on, on Sundays, to write in a timely way.  And so we moved to Mondays and, though there were times that it was a Monday afternoon (sometimes late afternoon) writing it still was a Monday and I still remembered.  For this past Monday, I have nothing. I just missed it. Fuck.

And then I got an email from a dear friend and he said: There was no Monday writing, working on something else, or too busy?  And I emailed him back: Oh shit. Fuck Fuck. I didn't write :-( And then I signed onto Weebly to write this.

So.  there is a lot going on. And so this writing is about giving myself a break. Because I have gone from retirement, and really having my days be my days only with me and my perfect dog and walks and ball playing and more walks and naps most days and maybe I'll read a book or have lunch with a friend or watch the entire series of The Secret Life Of The American Teenager because my daughter was watching it and so I watched it, too and got sucked in and so for like two straight weeks all I did was watch this show.  Which wasn't even that great. It was good.  I digress.

So, I had that, that simple life and then I started up my mediation practice again, and I started working again on a TV show I had written with a writing partner that is now garnering some interest, and I am the board chair of an amazing theater in Los Angeles called the Echo Theater which, if you live in LA, you must check out and you must come to our shows because we are the best theater in town.  And so yeah, I have a lot going on. I am sure there is more, I cannot remember. 

Oh yes, I am editing another book for a dear friend and have a second editing job as well with a beautiful writer who's work I really love and so that is something more, too.  Did you know I was an editor.  Here is my site, just in case, you know, you need me :-)

And so that is why this is now Wednesday and here is my Monday morning writing.  And I am going to take a deep breath now. Because I have not since I heard from my friend that I forgot until I got to this place of almost finishing this piece.

Big Breath.

And I am going to take a moment and reflect on the beautiful walk I had this morning with my sweet and perfect dog.  We walked very quickly along the edge of the grove and then got in the car and went to the dog park which was open early and we played ball and then we walked along the horse trail that runs along the park, in the mud, behind the fence. And that was lovely, too.

Thank you for reading my Monday on a Wednesday which happens to be Valentine's Day writing today!

We went to the beach both mornings this past weekend. My husband and I. It was sunny. And warm. I wore light pants and a shirt without a sweater and Garth wore shorts. Our feet were bare to the sand and the water felt cool against our toes as it rushed up against the cluttered beach, the remnants of the Montecito mudslides still coming up onto the shores of the neighboring beaches.

We went both mornings without our dog. Just us, with warm drinks in hand and the opportunity to walk slowly and talk deeply. To take our time and take the morning in. And take each other in, too.

This photo above is not from either of these last two mornings. The photo is from an early winter morning - of which there are many - when Nava wakes me up close to 6:00 each day and I dress quickly in layers of winter leggings and sweatpants, three shirts, a fleece jacket, a hat and mittens and my hiking boots. Garth comes with me when he can. When his mornings are not full with calls to India or consulting meetings in Australia or Canada. Then he too dresses in his layers against the cold, before the sun rises, and we take our alert and ready to play Doberman and walk the barren beach.

I love the beach on mornings like this. We are the only ones. Either Garth and Nave and me, or just me and my dog. Sometimes there are fishermen there, perched up above the sand when the tide is so high that there is no place to walk without the ocean covering my shoes with salty water. Sometimes the fishermen settled closer to the sea, in low tide then, spaced apart as if they measured their distance to each other though I know they did not. 

Nava pays no attention to them. She is more interested in the smells that wash up from the beach each night waiting for her gifted nose to track them down. And always, as in every time, she finds a tennis ball which I quickly hide in my pocket. Our walk comes first, then we play ball.

So in this photograph above, which looks cold not just by my bundled up husband but by the colors of the sky and sea, it is a before the ball playing part of our  morning walk together. I wanted a photograph of my husband by the ocean as I wrote about our weekend together. But I did not bring my phone with me to the beach this weekend to capture him there.

So here you have this one instead.

This was a special weekend for us. We had those kinds of conversations that are sweet and honest. It started with an acknowledgement that we were in our thirtieth year of marriage. That this July 3d, this would be thirty years since I wore a dress that I picked out because it reminded me of what someone would wear during the civil war and that was the look I was going for. Thirty years since I looked out the window from the big house as I was getting ready to walk down the aisle, only to see my husband-to-be swimming in the ocean. Thirty years filled with the gift of three miraculous children and infinite adventure and challenging times and poignant moments and so much laughter. And lots of dancing.

But this is not what I spoke about when we spoke this last two days on our walk in the warmth of the mid morning beach sun. I spoke about our last year and a half.

Marriage is funny. We mark each year and honor that date that started it all and fall into our cultures boundary of how we celebrate. And so the counting of the years is a big thing. A milestone that we reach each year and that we then check off our calendars, whether real ones or the one that keeps track in our minds. And we hold significance to that which the world holds significance, too. 

But that did not resonate with me this last two days on our walks and talks as the sun warmed our hearts to each other. Yes, being married thirty years is very cool. A long time, a lot of compromise, an awful lot of growing that wasn't always at the same time or in the same direction or sometimes something neither of us liked very much about the other, and still we were right here, walking this beach. And so to notice the length of time together, I am not saying that this is not something special to do. But what really makes me proud, and what I spoke about aloud and shared with this man that I love more today than any day before, is who we have become this last year and a half.

We became our own people this past year and a half. We learned that we were not merged. That those images and words that are used to connote the success of a couple - the "you complete me's" and the "we are one" and the "I can't live without you's" are not the images and do not capture the essence of who we are or who we want to be with each other. 

This year and a half was an amazing year for us because we held space and allowed each other to grow in our own ways, with no expectation from each other. There was no judgement. There were no shoulds. We just were. And we shared the journey with each other. We shared how we felt. We tried out new things and explored when the other got triggered. We took self-care and spent a lot of time alone. And we sat together, practicing breath work so that the taking in and letting go of air matched the intention of our hearts and the merging of our souls' song.

We learned vulnerability. He is better at it than me. But I am getting there, too. Especially when my heart is open and I have the time to just let it stand there, beating without worry and warmed by the sun.

And so it was this weekend on these two beach walks. My open heart met his as we talked the length of the sandy tide, and found a rock that was a bench and held our backs just right as we held the sun on our faces and his knees burned because his skin is too fair for sun of any kind.

We walked and talked and sat and our hearts held gently the beating of the other. And we honored this last year and a half.  A small part of the length of the entirety of our thirty year marriage and the biggest part of all.