So I’m driving home from this play that I had gone to see yesterday.
And I’m having a conversation with God. I always know it’s Him talking because He answers me before each thought is clear because He knows what it is I am going to say. When I’m talking to myself, I have to get my words out before I can answer them. It’s a timing thing. I know I’ve mentioned this before. So anyway, I’m talking to God. God He’s smart. And I’m working through this piece of this puzzle that I’ve been putting together for like, God (yes, He says), almost two years now. It’s tricky. This piece. Because it’s highly focused in but it’s big. Like it’s the missing link piece. It’s the big shebang. It’s the thing. Like I get this, and I’ve got this. And I’m thinking “I’ve just gotta trust this.” And He’s saying “you can trust this.” And I’m thinking “I’ve just gotta let go.” And He’s saying “you can let go.” And “I’m scared.” And He’s “I’ve got you.” And He’s “I am You.” So anyway, I’m talking to God. God He’s smart. And then this song comes on. I feel compelled to share this song. I mean seriously. This song. Sent to me from God. On my drive home. During a conversation that I know He’s answering. Because He answers before I form my words. That timing thing. Like this song. Timed just right. Perfectly dropped in. Right in this moment. My God, it’s a beautiful song. Without A Map, by Markéta Irglová— https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dFp4SIMlbs —Lyrics-- God, I've been sent here blind to learn to see Remembering you were always there with me But do you know just how hard that's been? Could all of this have really been foreseen? I'd like to say a prayer, how does it go? I'm tired. Tell me, God, does it show? What could have called for such a handicap? I was sent out here without a map All this time I've had to guess the way To keep moving when I wished to stay I've been wrong as much as I've been right You tell me: 'Walk by faith and not by sight, and Keep your heavy heart afloat You are a timber carved by knife, but Someday you may serve as a boat.' What I lose here on earth… …Is lost in heaven If I ask you for help… …it will be given But you've waited this long… …you weren't ready My devotion was strong… …it wasn't steady I have one more question… …you have the answer too But what does that mean? You're I, and I am you Why speak in riddles? Then let me show the way That's all I've wanted That's all you've had to say Well come on then, God, show me Which way you would like me to go, and I won't resume to question How I was ever supposed to know There have been signs along the way, but They've been so very obscure At times I thought I knew their meaning, but How could I've ever been sure? God, I was sent here deaf to learn to hear To have faith in you and never fear Life is an ocean, you its every wave Your arms would cradle me, and keep me safe You're right, all this, and more I need to learn All this unease just makes my stomach churn It was I not you who set this trap, but You did leave me here without a map All this time I've had to guess the way To keep moving when I wished to stay I've been right as much as I've been wrong, so All I hear from you is: 'You are strong enough For all you'll ever have to face The only map you need is Love To guide you through this illusion of a maze.' Our Father, who art in heaven Hallowed be thy name Thy kingdom come Thy will be done On earth, as it is in heaven Give us today our daily bread Forgive us, Father, all our sins As we forgive those who sin against us, and Lead us not into temptation, but Deliver us from evil, for thy is the kingdom, and The power, and the glory Now and forever more Amen ~ Did I ever tell you about this time that Phoenix brought me a bunny. It was a gift. Not the most attractive gift because it was dead and bloody on my closet floor. But a gift just the same.
We had gone away overnight and Phoenix got locked in a closet by mistake. When we got home I heard him meowing and let him out. And not ten minutes later, he brought me a bunny. He placed it on the floor of my closet—my safe and most sacred place as we all know—he placed it there as a gift to me for letting him out. This is how kind and thoughtful he is. First he was Fenix. F-E-N-I-X. This is how this went down. My son had a friend and they played StarCraft together. All the time. And this friend had a cat. And this cat had kittens. And this kitten, this was this friend’s favorite kitten of the litter. And he named him Fenix—after a character from StarCraft. But he couldn’t keep him. And gifted this now named Fenix kitten to my son. Fenix, the Protoss zealot and praetor (a Protoss rank of the highest standard and prestige) of the Protoss Defense Forces who personally led his fellow warriors into battle against those who called themselves the enemies of the Protoss Empire. Fenix, revered by his warrior-brethren. Fenix, dubbed the Steward of the Templar and one of the most celebrated heroes in Protoss history. Fenix, legendary for his deeds on the battlefield. This is so him. There was this one time he came into the house with this cut on his head. He was an outdoor/indoor cat. He loved being outside. He used the dog door and went out and in when he wanted. And he once came in with this cut on his head. It was deep. I can imagine what the coyote bobcat bear lion looked like! This cat, he hunted wild boar. I know it. Did I ever tell you about how he would lie in the middle of the hallway floor while tons of kids would run through our house. He would lie on the cool onyx floor, not a care nor a worry that anyone would step on him. Or that he was in the way. He was never in the way. When he lost his hearing he still heard us. I know this because my son and daughter in law and grandkids came to visit and my son, he sat on our lawn, and asked where Phoenix was. He asked about his cat. And Phoenix, the now non-hearing cat, came running from upstairs and to his boy, who he heard with his heart. While his name was Fenix, I heard Phoenix because I didn’t play StarCraft so didn’t know the other spelling/that that other spelling existed/that that other spelling was his name until it was too late and he was Phoenix to me even though he is still Fenix to my son. Fenix is so a Phoenix. The Phoenix is a symbol of endurance. The immortal Phoenix never truly dies. He continually rises from the ashes. Reborn again and again, each time with a deeper and a more profound spiritual awareness. He almost died a ton of times. He has thousands of lives. I know this. He could likely have more. He has grit. Rose grit, my youngest daughter calls it. We all have it. Phoenix is a Rose. He has this grit, too. But his paws are sore. And his teeth are gone. His hips are weak and he walks tenderly. He is tired. He told me this the other morning. He, of the still clear eyes and the ability to jump up on the dining table despite his failing body—God his grit is impressive—told me. I walked into his bedroom—the guest room is his bedroom. It smells like kitty litter and shit. I walked in, and he looked up at me from the drinking fountain that I bought him because he prefers running water, he looked up at me and “I’m tired” dropped into my brain. I have been waiting for this. For him to tell me he is ready. It’s hard because he is fearless. He says he has mountain lion energy. Sometimes. And this morning a few mornings ago, he said, “I’m tired.” Thank you for letting me know, Phoenix. On Friday, we held ceremony. We burnt Sage and Palo Santo. And shared stories that filled us with smiles and remembering. And we passed him thru the portal with love and intention. He traveled fast. He was tired. His face, old and weathered, became young again and his eyes shone vibrant and clear for just a few moments until opaque and cloudy as he left his body yet lingered still in the room around us. This is the end of an era. We all feel this. This is twenty years of life together. Thank you for loving us so much and staying with us for so long. You are a light in the life of our family. Rest in Peace, Phoenix Pussycat. We love you so much. Headshots--
When I had my headshot done recently, she took a bunch of pics. Like a ton. You need to take a ton to get a few. These are the few. I like the laughing one. A film of Joy-- I found this quote a bit ago. “You’re not healing to be able to handles trauma, pain, anxiety, depression. You’re used to those. You’re healing to be able to handle joy.” I found this quote and I was like…. ohhhhhhh…. um. Yeah. Oh yeah. This. Because this is interesting. I wrote a piece way back a long while back, about being a shadow dweller. And being addictive to grief. I wrote—my grief is a marker. And also my lover. And it’s hard to step away. I am working with this, lately. With this addiction to the moistness, and darkness, the inviting-ness, of these shadows of grief and despair. I like it in here. I liked it in here. And I am addicted to it. And so I am working with this lately, with this addiction to this. Because, like other addictions, it pulls me in as familiar and safe even when it’s not. It pulls me and it feels good. Until it doesn’t. And it doesn’t serve me anymore. But it is a habit. I wrote, a while back, about emotional coupling. I wrote about the tractor and the cart. And wherever the tractor goes, the cart is attached and it goes, too. And the tractor is Joy. And the cart, it is grief. And so Joy and then Grief. Joy. Grief. This is part of this habit. The habit of keeping the cart attached. So I am working with this. (With this. Not on this. With). I am working with this. With feeling the Joy and when I feel the pull to pull the cart and to fall into my addiction of not Joy, I pause. Joy. It feels like grief because it became grief quickly but now… Now I sit in the Joy and when I feel the pull to pull the cart, I pause. And stay in Joy. It’s lighter. And sweet. Who knew. So, I filmed a film this weekend. A film about a woman in her sobriety seeing the world through new eyes. Eyes of Joy. Not clouded by addiction. Eyes that laugh. That twirl. That see color and don’t then see despair. And this sobriety. It is mine, too. To see the world without the addiction of despair that is a habit. That is my cart pulled behind me for a long, long time. And so this film. I did this film. It was a beautiful day. A bunch of quotes and bits of thought-- You must replace shame with curiosity as quickly as possible. Move away from the spiral and begin to explore what your behavior is trying to protect you from. Mastering detachment while craving connection is genuinely one of the hardest things to do. Where your fear is, there your task is. Too many people think the grass is greener somewhere else but the grass is green where you water it. The detour I sent you was actually an upgrade. ~The Universe I think it’s important to realize you can miss something, but not want it back. If it breaks your heart but opens your eyes, take that as a win. The portal to every next level is through the parts of yourself that you avoid. The Universe will never give you peace in something you were never meant to settle in. You will be free when you understand that the cage where you live is made of thoughts. The thing that didn’t work out will turn out to be the thing that did. You will know that you are completely done with something when you give it up and you feel freedom instead of loss. You will be ok. Or you won’t. One of those. Thank you for reading my writing today. I read this really good quote about the loss of a soul mate, whether for now or for ever. I read this really good quote—"we must somehow come to understand that our separation is just as significant as our coming together.” (Satya Colombo)
And this reminds me of this importance of bringing ourselves back to ourselves. Of grounding in to our selves. Of trusting our selves. This is often hard to do. Especially when we have others in our life who fill that need to feel grounded. Or safe. To feel loved. Now don’t get me wrong. These connections with others, they are this beautiful thing. We are community beings and these deep dives with those of our tribe… well you know. But sometimes (often) they become a need not a gift. We seek them out for outside input. And we forget that our soul mates are our mirrors. We think they are our maker. Our other half. The one that completes us. The place we find love. And often it feels like a sacred contract. This soul connection, it feels like an agreement was made and this contract, it is binding. And here’s the thing. It is. This sacred contract, it is binding, but not to who we think it is. We think it is a soul contract with another when this contract, it is really a sacred contract with ourselves. This is the life dance with the Creator. With the Universe. With the oneness of us with each other. With the oneness of us with ourselves. And so our soul friends. Maybe we do get to dance this dance throughout this lifetime of humanness. Because it is healthy and wise and full of grace and love. Or maybe we now must separate, because the connection enables that other bucket of need and validation. Of good enough and not enough. And maybe we now must separate. And then we are reminded. Because the pain is deep. The loss is great. The void is big. Like really big. Like huge. And so the only choice is to turn internal. To take the separation and the loss of that love that this other soul gave us and find it in the only place that it truly exists really anyway. Inside us. This is the great lesson. The cosmic teaching. The home we seek and the space we can really only ever truly ground into. So I’m in this play. That I wrote about a few weeks ago. A play about a house that is a home that I am in.
And it’s amazing. Like truly. Not just the play and this role of Maddy Van Allen, this woman that I get to be that is now me. It’s not just that. It’s that these other actors are this incredible collection of souls that keep showing up in this deep and open-hearted way that truly is just beautiful. And so this play. I am loving this. And I am good at this. And this feels, God, so good. And as this past weekend started—this past weekend, second weekend of this four-week run—as this weekend’s first Friday night and then Saturday night runs ran, I felt…oh, here is Maddy and I am along for this ride. It’s a sweet juxtaposition that happens with my acting. Once I know my characters, and they know me, we get to integrate, where they are me. And then it is a channeling. It happens with my coaching, too. Where this higher self, wise wisdom weaver shows up and I just sit back and watch from this small place in my brain that makes a point to make note when the words are worth remembering for another time. I get to watch and trust, and in turn, these spirits from above that drop in to share their knowledge and creativity and intuition, they know that I’ve got them. I am a safe place to land. And can, when the moment calls for a recalibration of the vibrations that arise, shift from within and align back to balance. With acting, it’s like this, too. Maddy gets to show up on stage each night and I get to ride along with her. I get to see where she’s at, what she does, how she moves. Always a bit surprised when she does something new. And always keeping gentle watch. There is a trust in this. In the me that is me. A trust that it is safe for Maddy to show up. Because I’ve got this. If she strays to far afar, I can move her back in place. But yesterday, Maddy lost her way and I was nowhere to be found. When I first got off stage, I thought I was upset that I fucked up my lines. Like so deeply upset. I seldom am this upset when I fuck up my lines. I may not like it but it doesn’t upset me this deeply because I always recover. I always find a way to make it work. I trust this. And my character—in this moment, Maddy—trusts this, too. She knows I’ve got this and she can be. But tonight. “Why was I so deeply upset that I fucked up my lines?” I asked my inner self through my tears. And then quickly moved through the “I fucked up my lines” to land squarely in the “I’m upset because I fucked up my lines. I’m upset because I couldn’t recover from fucking up my lines.” I lost the stability that is necessary. I was nowhere around to save me. This is not surprising to me now. That this happened. As I reflect today on what this is really about. It was surprising when it happened yesterday because this doesn’t happen. One of the things that I trust that is true is that I can land on myself in those times where things are out of balance, when things go astray, when conversations pivot into a new direction, when lines are lost on stage. When action is required, my ability to respond is always right there. Except yesterday, it wasn’t. This is not surprising to me as I reflect on this today because this is exactly what I am exploring in the work that I am doing these days. It’s somatic work. And deeply moving as I move through those hidden traumas that my body has held for quite some time. And what I am exploring in this work these days is the idea of internal safety. The Universe picked yesterday, during this show that I value so deeply, to tell me something important. In this moment of instability, where I was nowhere to be found, in just this moment where I needed me the most, the Universe, she picked this moment to show me something. By the end of the scene, Maddy was back. And so was I. And it was probably the best performance ending that I’ve given so far in this run. Like what the fuck… Because I am a bit pissed, like very pissed. The Universe, she picked a performance as her time to drop in this lesson for me to explore. And I am pissed. And she is smart. This wasn’t an accident. The Universe, she always knows exactly what she is doing. I don’t have an answer to why she picked this moment. This moment that is important. This moment where I am doing something I love. This moment where my creativity is full and rich and vulnerable. This moment where my trust in me is essential to who I am. To who Maddy is. To my fellow actors. To this audience that I strive to show up for in the best way. I don’t have an answer why the Universe picked this moment. Oh, the answer is there. I just can’t see it yet. I will sit in this a while. My first play I ever did was in sixth grade. I was Hodel in Fiddler on the Roof. I loved it. I caught that acting bug big time. And while over these last many years I have not dipped my toe into this pond that is the theater, I never quite recovered from that bug.
I’ve had a relapse recently. And I am in The Elite Theater Company production of SHE. SHE is about a Victorian house. That is a home to these four extraordinary women who don’t know each other except that they do. Because of this house that they all live in, at different times over the span of 60+ years. I play Madeline Van Allen, a recent widow who’s lovely husband Jimmy has just passed after 56 years of marriage and a life filled with adventure. SHE opens this coming Friday, May 24th. I hope that if you are in this area, that you can plan to come. It is good to be back in the theater again. The smell, the darkness, the sound of my footsteps on the stage. And behind it, too. And these other actors and crew that I get to to play with. This feeling of creativity that is a mixture of preparation with spontaneity with love. There is nothing like this. This is home. It is not lost on me, not surprising to me, not a coincidence in any sense, that I stepped back into my home that is the theater and into a play about this home, that is my home. It is intentionally perfect. Just like SHE. I love this. ~ If you’re in the area, please come see SHE, at The Elite Theater Company, Oxnard. You can purchase tickets here: Elite Theatre Company Presents: She ~ I was talking with my youngest daughter last week. We were talking about friendships. But not just that. It started with a conversation about friendships and moved into a reflection on the impact that is left by all the people in our lives. Whether an instant/just this moment/a one off, or a lifetime of friendship and deep connection, it is those markings—my daughter calls them footprints—that stay imprinted on our souls.
Picture a beach. And as you walk along your foot, it prints itself into the sand. Sometimes the beach is soft and easily impressioned and deep indentations sink below the surface. Other times, barely a mark is made, despite the weight against the ground. And then the sea. It washes these barely left marks away in just one rhythm of its tide, while those other, deep imprints last over numerous ebbs and flows of waves. This is us. This is us in relationship with others. And it’s not merely length of time that we play along the shore. Oh no, it’s not just that. Sometimes maybe, but that is not the only requisite. How deep the imprint goes until it finds our soul is also of other calculations. Sometimes we walk the miles of beach with this one other being, and not one dent is made in the grains beneath us. And other times, it is an instant, a one step, that forces such a deep groove into a soft sand. And stays with us, maybe for a lifetime. Maybe more. And then, oh then, there are those that visit many beaches with us. Soft sand, and hard, lay beneath us as we walk. The water’s edge may wash away some moments that we leave those tracks that track our path. But these footprints, they linger longer, and we can see them, many steps behind. And we can feel them forever. These are those soul friends. They make deep, deep hollows that, while softened by the salty sea, never quite balance back to the level of the surrounding sand. The beach has been transformed. We have been transformed. I have a new car. A green Kia Soul, 2018, 51,009 miles, great price. Great car. Standard transmission.
I sold my old car. To CarMax. Have you ever bought or sold a car a CarMax? They are like the best thing that happened to buying a used car or selling your used car. Like ever. I sold them my car. I sold them my 2012, gray Kia Soul, 149,911 thousand miles, manual transmission, keys that don’t work and I could no longer lock the doors, and the engine light is on ALL THE TIME, and even Kia Corporate—plug that shit into their universal diagnostic world—couldn’t figure out what was wrong car that I just love. And CarMax bought it from me. Angels camouflaged as car sales. And I bought my new car. From CarMax. My new, new car. Because my first new car was an automatic transmission, Kia Soul, 44,506 thousand miles. Great price. Great car. Did I say automatic transmission. I was in Massachusetts. We have a new baby. As in, my son and daughter-in-law of the Framingham Roses brought a new Rose into this world. So I was there. Doing that Grandma thing that included this amazing gymnastic class with my older two Framingham Grandsons of Rose, and playing with them—a lot—and having sweet conversation with my son and daughter-in-law, and watching this amazing new human grow and change every day and just being with this amazing now family of five. And while I was there, my amazing Husband of the Ojai Roses, he bought me this Green Kia Soul, automatic transmission car. And I drove it when I came back home. And I so didn’t like it. Because it was not a manual transmission car. Which I love to drive. It was not that. And I felt like I was giving something up. That was bigger than that giving up my standard—it’s so fun to drive and I love to downshift on the curves and I have control of the road—car. The lack of the kind of car I love was more than the lack of the kind of car I love. I gave something up. It felt like my identity. In a six-speed manual transmission car. I am not ready to give this part of my identity up. Hence the return and exchange and the one I have now. We take things that are in our lives and they become us. What I drive. The clothes I wear. The things I do and say. Where I live and how I live and who I love. I gave my up apartment. The one on the beach. In Scituate. On the water, with the sun streaming in, and the 11-minute drive to our beach in Cohasset. The beach we own. Like we own a beach. God, I love this. It makes me laugh. I gave it up, after a sweet 6-month stint that I thought would last longer when I stepped into it back in late September into October to start my lease there. I gave up this apartment because, oh my goodness, the drive up to my son and daughter-in-law and grandkids including this last new one that was just this past month ago born, this drive, it’s long. It’s really long. Like really long. Like more than an hour long. I thought this would be hard to do. To give up this space. I thought I still needed it. For a while I needed it. First the one in the woods on the Concord River with my Emu down a path through the trees. And then this, this morning light on the water outside my door just an 11-minute drive to my beach up the beach, apartment. I thought it would be hard to give this up. It wasn’t. I changed my earrings. This is a weird one. I have these really amazing diamond earrings. Great story about them. Back when my kids were little, like little little, I had this feeling that I had nothing of my own. Garth had his office with this amazing high ceiling. And his great job and while our money was our money it felt like his money. And I felt like I didn’t have anything. Which was so not true. I had everything. Yet it felt, in this moment, that nothing was mine. The kids had their rooms. I had the floor in the kitchen below the sink, where I would sit because this is where the heating vent was and oh it is fucking cold in Massachusetts. So I had that. And felt like I didn’t have anything else. And so we decided I would open a bank account and we would put some money into it, so I would have something. And we did. We moved in this money and once I had it…I was like…I actually don’t really need this. It was the fact that it was possible. And so I took this money and I bought myself these kickass diamond earrings. The only earrings I wear. Until now. I bought a new pair of earrings. These tiny hoops. Still with diamonds but little ones set in these hammered gold hoops that sit close on my ears. They look different. I am different. I read this quote a few days ago. By Emily Maroutain. “You will know that you are completely done with something when you give it up, and you feel freedom instead of loss.” Yes. There are other things I am slowly giving up. That are not in alignment with me. There is loss still, so I know I am not completely done yet. The earrings are good, though. And I do love this new car. Imagine you are riding a tractor. And attached is a cart. Attached right there behind the tractor. Always. You like can’t undo it. And so everywhere you go, the cart, it goes with you.
Now imagine that your tractor you are riding on, it’s Joy. That amazing feeling of deep Joy. You know the feeling. When you hold your grandkids. Laugh deeply with your sister. Love your husband. When the sun shines warm on your face. You get to dance with your daughter. Your dog hits your funny bone in just that right place. That feeling. The tractor is that. It’s Joy. And right behind it, attached, is Grief. Stuck right on there. Soldered on. So everywhere Joy goes, Grief comes right along. A split second later. That’s emotional coupling. I need to make a distinction here. I’ve written about the grief that comes with joy. I’ve shared my thoughts about this here. A number of times. When my son was first married. The birth of each grandchild. Other times of change and beauty and change and newness and change. And I thought this was the way it was. That grief comes with joy. That it just works this way. It doesn’t. And it does. I wrote once before, there is loss in transition. And there is grief in loss. I was trying to make sense of emotional coupling. That I did not know about. Until recently. But. And. There is a part of this grief that comes with joy that is not this. Not this cart and tractor trajectory. There is the loss in transition, and grief in loss that is not a coupling of emotional constellations, but a circling of changes that transpire. Becoming a new mother is amazing and juicy and there is the loss of not mother. Being married to another extraordinary human means the loss of being not that. And we honor those things we leave behind when we step into what is now new and where we are at. So yes, there is loss—and so sadness and grief—with joy and the sweetness of growth. And an honoring. And a noticing. But not a coupling. So the distinction. So Emotional Coupling. What happens is—often in trauma, usually in trauma, and usually when we are young, but not always—what happens is that the experiences we have with the people we have in our lives, illicit both things. Two things at once. Two emotions at once. And so the emotions couple. They bond. They fuse. They think they are supposed to show up that way. One after the other, right after the other. The tractor, then the cart. In an instant. Because they are attached. Because this is the way that they learned to do that so long ago. And for such a long time, Emotional Coupling. What happens is—often from trauma, usually from trauma, and now that we’re not young anymore—what happens is that the coupling continues. The learned, one after the other, emotional response can’t not be. The joy and the grief. Joy and Grief. They have to come together. Now, if Grief comes first…Joy…nope, she doesn’t show up. But Joy. When she comes first…Grief, he’s right there. In an instant. One second away. Joy doesn’t even get a nanosecond of a moment to sit in the euphoria that is her before…and here we are in grief. In that order. So joy feels like grief. Love is sadness. Happiness is fleeting. Emotional Coupling. The work is to detach the cart from the tractor. Step one is to notice that it’s there. Simple, right? But like, woah. Like oh. Like wow. Wow. I never turned around before. I never turned around and noticed there is this cart attached to my tractor. I just thought that love feels like sadness. Step one is to notice the cart. And you have to do this for a long, long time. This noticing. “The first step in behavioral change is awareness.” Yup. Notice. Feeling joy. There’s a cart of grief behind me. Attached. Soldered on to my tractor. Feeling joy. Oh, grief. Love sadness. Happiness is fleeting. I have had moments in my life that stand out where I got to sit in the good stuff longer. Like holding my new babies. Each one. The image that comes to mind, not any better than any other, but a clear one in my mind—my middle daughter just born and my first-born boy came to meet her in the hospital. My husband, fresh from holding my hand and cheering on the birth of this first new daughter of ours, had rushed back home to bring back the older brother. He fell asleep, in blue striped pajamas, curled with me on the hospital bed. And then, when he and my husband left to sleep in our home, the lights were dimmed. No overhead fluorescents with that constant hum. It felt like the entire hospital floor was sleeping along with this new daughter in my arms. She had so much dark hair and oh my god such big blue eyes. And there was just joy. The grief cart uncoupled for a couple of minutes that moment. So yes, there have been moments, of just these moments. Of just Joy. I can count them. A week ago a year ago Nava died and Moose was born.
If Nava is my soul dog–and she is, even now when she is of this life no longer—Moose is my heart opener as he sits squarely on my funny bone. This dog makes me laugh. All the time. He has this amazing Poodle prance that Poodles do. This deet deet deet rhythm when he is playing with me and comes towards me with his toy. Fast forward and then those last few steps become the Poodle prance to land in my lap in the game that we play. And he has this beautiful and so expressive face. And this lovely Poodle body. He zooms around the house—true nervous system regulation—making these puppy now one years old sounds of activation. Prance and puppy pounce and then is at it again. Until he’s not and it’s time for a rest as he plops down, rolls to his side, and sleeps. He jumps on our table—as I have shared here before—and which makes me laugh every time. He eats very gently from my fork. Pineapple and watermelon. And peanut butter. Peanut butter is both of our favorite food and we eat it together. We share. He sleeps deeply on our bed at night. At the foot, or stretched in-between, and at some point, each night, above my head on my pillow for just a short time. When the coyotes are out he will sit up, alert, at the end of the bed looking out to the darkness through the closed shades. Guarding our selves. He loves to show his love and excitement by licking us. Not my most favorite of Moose activities. Good morning licks. I just got home licks. I walked out of the room for a nano second licks. He is his own self. He is smart. God is he smart. And quite discerning. Friendly and playful and quite the alpha with most of his friends. And quick to decide a dog is not for him. Same with people. Don’t just go to him and get in his face. He’s a Poodle. He’ll consider you and decide if he wants to engage. I love this dog. Where Nava, my soul dog who I miss every day, nurtured and protected me by creating this container of safety and stability, Moose, my heart opener, funny bone prancing Poodle, walks forward with me in this joyful way. The light shines very brightly on this Poodle dog of mine. Rest in peace, Nava Doberman—January 20, 2015 to February 22, 2023. Happy Birthday Moose—February 24, 2023. You light up my days. |
Elizabeth RoseMother, Wife, Friend, Sister, Daughter, Dancer, Rower, Runner, Dog and Cat lover. Archives
January 2024
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