I write you this evening, wondering if you are thinking what I'm thinking, how this world, sometimes our world, once my world, just seems to be some bad bad news channel that keeps clicking out death. More gone. Senseless. A truck rams through a crowd. 77 dead. At this moment, which will change by the hour, until this night fades into memory before the next night becomes our present.
I write you this evening because I know you too try to find light in all this horror, try not to fall every moment, deeper and deeper. Sadness. Videos replaying events. Shouts. Sobbing. Sounds. But this is not all. It is music that rescues, even if temporary, voices. Rufus Wainwright and harmony, a chorus of Hallelujahs that cut beneath my anger, tears, hope.
Do you try to remember names? Make lists in your head. Philando Castile, Alton Sterling, Pulse, Istanbul, Dallas, Nice, and lots in between, forgotten, unnamed, never forgotten.
I write you this evening because I cannot be silent, even though I don't quite know what that means, but I know that no words cannot be an option, in these times that have no name since they are not yet history. They are alive.
And why this evening, and not last evening, or the evening before, or even last week. It could have been then.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Monday, June 13, 2016
Orlando Shooting
It's been more than 24 hours, and for the first number of hours, I stayed away, not wanting to fall into the reality of hate, not wanting to dig below my tears. But then, I had to dive in, to listen to others first, find my words in their words, because again, I found myself mute, unable to find words for another lost count of death at the hands of guns, our weapons of mass destruction. I can no longer name all the mass shootings, because their names pile on top of each other, and when I can remember some of the names, I cannot always remember the details, because there have been too many. One is too many.
Today, I listened to the names of the dead, a paced reading, photos to give face to the words, to the names. I read bios of some of the dead, tearing up at unfinished promises stolen by one man, hate, hate.
Gay bars are refuges, places we go when we want safety, want a dark corner to kiss, to hold hands, to lean in tight like lovers, without fear. Nan and I seek out gay bars when we travel. It's somewhere we know we can sit for a bit, hold hands, feel a bit of normal far from home.
Today, I need my own words to make this loss palpable. There is no sense to be found. No solace. Just a reminder of the ugliness one person can create. I am not hopeless. I am angry, heart heavy, mourning.
Today, I listened to the names of the dead, a paced reading, photos to give face to the words, to the names. I read bios of some of the dead, tearing up at unfinished promises stolen by one man, hate, hate.
Gay bars are refuges, places we go when we want safety, want a dark corner to kiss, to hold hands, to lean in tight like lovers, without fear. Nan and I seek out gay bars when we travel. It's somewhere we know we can sit for a bit, hold hands, feel a bit of normal far from home.
Today, I need my own words to make this loss palpable. There is no sense to be found. No solace. Just a reminder of the ugliness one person can create. I am not hopeless. I am angry, heart heavy, mourning.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Circling into the year
I like when years don't have defined edges, places where you can mark clear beginnings, endings, a specific indication of time lapses, lapsing. Years are measure, ways to see an aging in ourselves, in others. But at that edge between what was and what is to be, I often sit grateful, reminded of what is rather than what isn't, might not be. When the calendar announces the end of a year moving into the start of another, I can't help but reflect a bit, look forward, wonder as if it is a reset, a tabula rasa.
Perhaps it's because of travel--most years Nan and I are fortunate enough to disappear a bit, closing out the year somewhere away or usher in the year somewhere away. Last year we leapt from 2014 into 2015 on the beach in Isla Mujeres, a quiet escape into recovery, a needed rest, stillness. 2015 began there, eating while our feet played with sand, fish pulled from the water before us, grilled while I remembered patience, how to sit, sky staring.
And then life whirls, a slow steady at times, quickening its pace, clouding intentions. I set intentions and forge successfully. I set intentions and forget to follow, get lazy, tired, forgetful.
This year, we finished in Mexico, but this time in Mexico City and Oaxaca, the latter a new place, a discovery. Instead of the sky, I stared all around, lost in the unknown, enthralled by celebrations and foods. Days filled with ancient cultures, conversations with people that still resonate and make me consider as I move slowly and firmly into 2016, ready to work, even when the work is difficult, even when it's easier to coast in boredom.
Early in the trip we ventured for a day with Enrique, an engineer turned tour guide after losing his job, a man who is grateful for the work, despite long days and only 10 days off in a year. We spent hours with Victor and Bulmaro, artisans proud of their lineage, devoted to their craft. Each day left me alert, engaged, noticing the everything I sometimes forget to see.
When the year starts to speed, I might forget a bit, fall back. But for now, this moment, I am in it.
Perhaps it's because of travel--most years Nan and I are fortunate enough to disappear a bit, closing out the year somewhere away or usher in the year somewhere away. Last year we leapt from 2014 into 2015 on the beach in Isla Mujeres, a quiet escape into recovery, a needed rest, stillness. 2015 began there, eating while our feet played with sand, fish pulled from the water before us, grilled while I remembered patience, how to sit, sky staring.
And then life whirls, a slow steady at times, quickening its pace, clouding intentions. I set intentions and forge successfully. I set intentions and forget to follow, get lazy, tired, forgetful.
This year, we finished in Mexico, but this time in Mexico City and Oaxaca, the latter a new place, a discovery. Instead of the sky, I stared all around, lost in the unknown, enthralled by celebrations and foods. Days filled with ancient cultures, conversations with people that still resonate and make me consider as I move slowly and firmly into 2016, ready to work, even when the work is difficult, even when it's easier to coast in boredom.
Early in the trip we ventured for a day with Enrique, an engineer turned tour guide after losing his job, a man who is grateful for the work, despite long days and only 10 days off in a year. We spent hours with Victor and Bulmaro, artisans proud of their lineage, devoted to their craft. Each day left me alert, engaged, noticing the everything I sometimes forget to see.When the year starts to speed, I might forget a bit, fall back. But for now, this moment, I am in it.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Learning the mornings
I have seen the morning. It's unavoidable these days. Long gone are the lingering hours in bed, sipping cup after cup of coffee delivered by Nan, reading and slowly waking to the world. Long gone are days and evenings wandering to the movies. My schedule is no longer directed by me.
This happened five weeks ago. Whitman. Now almost 40 pounds of puppy energy, puppy determination, and puppy love. He's intense, in that intense kind of way that says, "I'm trying so hard to get what you want me to do. Really."
He picked us, in a way. We were looking for a dog more Sasha's size (20-40 pounds), somewhat mellow, maybe 1-2 years old. But a visit to the farmer's market and Life is Better Rescue brought him to us.
And from that moment, he has been teaching me that the morning has possibility. Nowadays, Nan's alarm doesn't quite reach its ring at 5:30am (occasionally we get lucky). Instead, Whitman nudges our hands, a sweet good morning, and I can't get angry. He is ready for the day. He's slept seven hours.
So I rise, open the back door and watch him run out to pee, and press the coffee maker. It's a tag team in the house, with Nan rising and preparing the cat's breakfast (they are enjoying their current separate apartment downstairs) while I ready Whitman's breakfast. Whitman is quick back to the door, hungry, politely waiting for his food.
We have a deal. If I get up and feed him, then he has to hang out for a bit, a quick morning snooze while I watch the sun rise from the corners of the front door, steady with my coffee, sipping and slowly waking. It's still and quiet, so I read a bit, treating myself to other's words before I slip into the rhythm of the day. By 7 or 7:15am, Whitman and I are out the door, into the cool wisps of almost fall, traveling into the day. He smells and smells and smells, ducks to the ground in his playful pose when he spots a dog, and then pulls me into a quick pace. I worried that after returning from Paris I wouldn't be able to keep up a steady walking habit. Whitman ensures plenty of miles a day, usually beginning with a 2.5 mile walk.
And I like it. I like the quiet. I like watching the world wake up, passing the familiar walkers with their dogs, watching Whitman watch the world and learn what the night released to the day. I catch moments I might miss, like this tonight--a slight blur as Whitman tired of sitting waiting for my shot.
He picked us, in a way. We were looking for a dog more Sasha's size (20-40 pounds), somewhat mellow, maybe 1-2 years old. But a visit to the farmer's market and Life is Better Rescue brought him to us.
And from that moment, he has been teaching me that the morning has possibility. Nowadays, Nan's alarm doesn't quite reach its ring at 5:30am (occasionally we get lucky). Instead, Whitman nudges our hands, a sweet good morning, and I can't get angry. He is ready for the day. He's slept seven hours.
So I rise, open the back door and watch him run out to pee, and press the coffee maker. It's a tag team in the house, with Nan rising and preparing the cat's breakfast (they are enjoying their current separate apartment downstairs) while I ready Whitman's breakfast. Whitman is quick back to the door, hungry, politely waiting for his food.
We have a deal. If I get up and feed him, then he has to hang out for a bit, a quick morning snooze while I watch the sun rise from the corners of the front door, steady with my coffee, sipping and slowly waking. It's still and quiet, so I read a bit, treating myself to other's words before I slip into the rhythm of the day. By 7 or 7:15am, Whitman and I are out the door, into the cool wisps of almost fall, traveling into the day. He smells and smells and smells, ducks to the ground in his playful pose when he spots a dog, and then pulls me into a quick pace. I worried that after returning from Paris I wouldn't be able to keep up a steady walking habit. Whitman ensures plenty of miles a day, usually beginning with a 2.5 mile walk.
And I like it. I like the quiet. I like watching the world wake up, passing the familiar walkers with their dogs, watching Whitman watch the world and learn what the night released to the day. I catch moments I might miss, like this tonight--a slight blur as Whitman tired of sitting waiting for my shot.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
It's a Wrap
I could bemoan the end of summer. Curse its quick close. Yup, it's that final moment, the night before I return to work after three solid months of summer vacay. Most summers tend to have a central moment/theme, something that stands out. The Waterworld summer where I hung on the lazy river with a friend. The four days alone in Ireland unexpectedly summer, walking my way along the sea. The I do summer, Nan and I married, road tripping out to Oregon. This summer yet unnamed. So on this eve, I am thankful and in denial of what tomorrow brings. For now, I am still in this summer.
- Paris. Ever since high school French I've always wanted to go to France, see the quicksands of Mont St. Michel, eat and eat and eat and drink wine, wander amongst Rodin, stroll by the Bouquinistes, and walk and walk and walk miles through neighborhoods unfamiliar.
- Kansas City, MO. Who knew. It has some charm, sort of. AP English Lang reading moved this year to this city with an awesome train station, good barbeque, and a hipster mix of bars. Instead of my usual bourbon trail, Boulevard Tank 7 served to take the edge off the day of endless essay reading.
- Pacific Northwest. I love it. The way the trees tower. Water. Hanging out at Reed College for a diversity based training and discovering that simultaneously Tin House's Writing Workshop shared the campus which meant free author readings every evening, watching a river otter nightly swim into Reed Canyon. Hanging time in Portland, twice. Beauty and good friends in Tacoma.
- Celebrating George. A quick trip back east, to see family and go to NYC to celebrate George Braziller's book signing for his memoir. Such joy. A moment. Inspiration.
- Reading. Lots of it. Long books. Sinking into good writing. Essays. Stories. Memoirs. Novels.
- Writing. Not so much. But a start. Some revision. Generating. Hopeful.
- Naps. Always naps.
- But in this moment, it is this final week of summer that stands sharpest, because its close, fresh. Two brilliant concerts at Red Rocks Amphitheater, reminding me that I live where the greatest music venue sends sounds into the night. Damien Rice putting on a stadium style show set against his haunting voice and solo presence. Brandi Carlile rocking out. Joy.
- Whitman. Our new dog. One week to get him settled or starting to settle. Long walks. Belly rubs. Early rising. Household adjustments.
It's been full. Happy. Eclectic. Until next year summer, I bid thee adieu.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Goodbye Sweet Sasha
For weeks, I've been rewriting and rewriting a blog in my head, titling it "Almost Goodbye". It's probably been a couple of months, though, that I have been thinking about goodbye. But before I get to the end of the story, there are beginnings, moments that made Sasha my sweet boy.
You see, I didn't always want a dog. In the beginning, I specifically argued against him. It's not because I didn't like dogs. It was situational. A former family with children wanted a dog. I knew that meant the responsibility would fall to me and my ex, not the children who wanted it. They're children. They don't want to wake up in the middle of the night when the puppy wants out.
And so life with Sasha began. Adopted from The Denver Dumb Friends' League at about two months old, he was feisty, a puppy wanting to run wild. When we took him camping, he'd escape, scampering about, yet at night, he'd cuddle in the tent with us, a fluffy white ball asleep. Out on farm land when young, he ran and ran, while I watched, scared that the horses he ran near would trample him. But just a few years into his life, my relationship with him shifted a bit. He began to take care of me. After a messy breakup, the only thing I insisted my ex give me, was Sasha. I needed him.
And together, we rebuilt my life. He and I would walk often, wander parks together, breathe in the sky and say hello to people. My pal. When I began my relationship with Nan, she needed to pass my Sasha test. So on our third date, we spent the afternoon in City Park, walking Sasha around and around to the point his three year old self exhausted, plopping down to rest, refusing to walk without an ample time out. Nan tolerated him at first. Sasha liked Nan.
Sasha grows on you. And he did on Nan. He did on everyone he met. Simply, he was a good sport. A love. One year, we humiliated him in a Halloween contest. Despite not winning or placing in the contest, he happily paraded around, welcoming the attention. On Sundays when he'd stroll with us to the farmer's market, he always attracted compliments, children wanting to pet his fluffy white coat (which he welcomed), and the noses and butts of other dogs.
He loved company. Other dogs--cool. Especially if they tolerated his horny humps. His toys he shared, always. Letting other dogs rip them even when he only nibbled and nibbled on the toy, keeping toys for years and years.
Cats. They loved him. At times he tolerated their attention, but he never snapped. He would walk away. And they would follow. Dowan would swat at him, throw himself at Sasha's feet, desiring some play. Sometimes Sasha would wrestle with Dowan, careful never to hurt him, leaving only remnants of dog spit on Dowan's head. When a cat took over his bed, Sasha simply moved to a cat bed. That's who he was. When we brought Spot home as a kitten, Sasha belly crawled into the room to meet her, wanting to see his new sister.
For 16 years I have gathered Sasha tales, memories of long walks, belly rubs, happy post grooming pictures, and a connection with a pet that I've never had. He kept me whole when I felt broken and lonely. He protected me from the mailman (he was on the postoffice list of dangerous dogs even though he's never bitten a person before). He loved me as unconditionally as love can be, and I hope he felt at least a fraction of what he gave me.
But I knew that as the last years passed, that his time wasn't forever. Fortunately, for most of his life, Sasha only saw the vet for routine check-ups. But as he aged, especially during the last couple of years, he had extensive surgery for corneal ulcers. He had multiple teeth removed. He visited the vet more frequently than in the past.
And then he got sick. Initially diagnosed as a kidney issue, we knew that there were deeper things going on with him, causing gastrointestinal issues. Yet he masked the pain, the issues, wanting to eat, frolicking about with toys. Over the past several weeks, he worsened. I spent many nights beside him on the floor, chatting, telling him he could go if he needed to--I would be fine without him. I asked only one thing--please go when I'm home, not traveling.
Yesterday morning we made the decision. After an ultrasound revealed so many issues, we knew it was time. Rather than wait until he couldn't eat, couldn't move, couldn't take himself outdoors, we wanted to be more humane and let him go while he still had some sense of Sasha. He woke in the morning having difficulty moving, dragging his back leg some. Yet, he breathed in the warmth of the morning and the sun with us. But we could see in his eyes that he had been fighting for awhile.
Caring Pathways said they could be over that day, in just a couple of hours. We said goodbye. But Sasha wouldn't leave quickly, not before giving me a final gift of love. After the first shot of sedative, he wandered to Nan, his alpha, his protector, letting her love on him and reassure him. He wouldn't give into the sedative, still trying to stay strong for us, not wishing to submit. After the second shot of sedative, though, he could no longer pretend. So, right before he gave in, he came over to me. A final gift. He put his head in my hands, burrowing a bit, letting me kiss on him and love on him. And then he rested on his side, taking the final injection, quietly and peacefully saying goodbye.
You see, I didn't always want a dog. In the beginning, I specifically argued against him. It's not because I didn't like dogs. It was situational. A former family with children wanted a dog. I knew that meant the responsibility would fall to me and my ex, not the children who wanted it. They're children. They don't want to wake up in the middle of the night when the puppy wants out.
And so life with Sasha began. Adopted from The Denver Dumb Friends' League at about two months old, he was feisty, a puppy wanting to run wild. When we took him camping, he'd escape, scampering about, yet at night, he'd cuddle in the tent with us, a fluffy white ball asleep. Out on farm land when young, he ran and ran, while I watched, scared that the horses he ran near would trample him. But just a few years into his life, my relationship with him shifted a bit. He began to take care of me. After a messy breakup, the only thing I insisted my ex give me, was Sasha. I needed him.
And together, we rebuilt my life. He and I would walk often, wander parks together, breathe in the sky and say hello to people. My pal. When I began my relationship with Nan, she needed to pass my Sasha test. So on our third date, we spent the afternoon in City Park, walking Sasha around and around to the point his three year old self exhausted, plopping down to rest, refusing to walk without an ample time out. Nan tolerated him at first. Sasha liked Nan.
Sasha grows on you. And he did on Nan. He did on everyone he met. Simply, he was a good sport. A love. One year, we humiliated him in a Halloween contest. Despite not winning or placing in the contest, he happily paraded around, welcoming the attention. On Sundays when he'd stroll with us to the farmer's market, he always attracted compliments, children wanting to pet his fluffy white coat (which he welcomed), and the noses and butts of other dogs. He loved company. Other dogs--cool. Especially if they tolerated his horny humps. His toys he shared, always. Letting other dogs rip them even when he only nibbled and nibbled on the toy, keeping toys for years and years.Cats. They loved him. At times he tolerated their attention, but he never snapped. He would walk away. And they would follow. Dowan would swat at him, throw himself at Sasha's feet, desiring some play. Sometimes Sasha would wrestle with Dowan, careful never to hurt him, leaving only remnants of dog spit on Dowan's head. When a cat took over his bed, Sasha simply moved to a cat bed. That's who he was. When we brought Spot home as a kitten, Sasha belly crawled into the room to meet her, wanting to see his new sister.For 16 years I have gathered Sasha tales, memories of long walks, belly rubs, happy post grooming pictures, and a connection with a pet that I've never had. He kept me whole when I felt broken and lonely. He protected me from the mailman (he was on the postoffice list of dangerous dogs even though he's never bitten a person before). He loved me as unconditionally as love can be, and I hope he felt at least a fraction of what he gave me.
But I knew that as the last years passed, that his time wasn't forever. Fortunately, for most of his life, Sasha only saw the vet for routine check-ups. But as he aged, especially during the last couple of years, he had extensive surgery for corneal ulcers. He had multiple teeth removed. He visited the vet more frequently than in the past.
And then he got sick. Initially diagnosed as a kidney issue, we knew that there were deeper things going on with him, causing gastrointestinal issues. Yet he masked the pain, the issues, wanting to eat, frolicking about with toys. Over the past several weeks, he worsened. I spent many nights beside him on the floor, chatting, telling him he could go if he needed to--I would be fine without him. I asked only one thing--please go when I'm home, not traveling.
Yesterday morning we made the decision. After an ultrasound revealed so many issues, we knew it was time. Rather than wait until he couldn't eat, couldn't move, couldn't take himself outdoors, we wanted to be more humane and let him go while he still had some sense of Sasha. He woke in the morning having difficulty moving, dragging his back leg some. Yet, he breathed in the warmth of the morning and the sun with us. But we could see in his eyes that he had been fighting for awhile.
Caring Pathways said they could be over that day, in just a couple of hours. We said goodbye. But Sasha wouldn't leave quickly, not before giving me a final gift of love. After the first shot of sedative, he wandered to Nan, his alpha, his protector, letting her love on him and reassure him. He wouldn't give into the sedative, still trying to stay strong for us, not wishing to submit. After the second shot of sedative, though, he could no longer pretend. So, right before he gave in, he came over to me. A final gift. He put his head in my hands, burrowing a bit, letting me kiss on him and love on him. And then he rested on his side, taking the final injection, quietly and peacefully saying goodbye.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Balancing Act
I finished my 2013/2014 semester exhausted. I had months of summer ahead of me, and I had imagined spending them reading, writing, traveling. By the end of the summer of 2014, little reading and writing occurred. When I set my work goals at the start of the fall 2014 semester, I had only one that really mattered--finding a better balance between work and life.
Adopting a "Just Say No" attitude seemed a necessity. Word spread and people knew not to ask me to join any more committees, take part in task forces, or help with a new initiative. When staff emails flooded my inbox with requests to serve on this or that, I would open them, quickly read, and delete, feeling a bit of power at reclaiming back my time I had so willingly given over. Initially I felt a bit of guilt, unaccustomed to saying no when asked to do something additional at work. Over time, though, I found my schedule opening up and no longer was clocking a 60-70 hour work week every week.
During the fall semester, I took two writing workshops, carving enough time to attend to that which truly mattered. Reading happened, my own reading rather than just student compositions and prep for classes--8 books that were not required for any courses taught. Eventually, I found that I had stopped complaining about being overworked.
This semester, I've stopped instantly deleting work requests. I read through them and ponder whether they're something I truly value, something worthy of my time. Most often, I say no. What has changed though, is I am starting to occasionally say yes. Not to too much. Not because I feel I have to. But because I have the space. The time. A bit of balance.
Adopting a "Just Say No" attitude seemed a necessity. Word spread and people knew not to ask me to join any more committees, take part in task forces, or help with a new initiative. When staff emails flooded my inbox with requests to serve on this or that, I would open them, quickly read, and delete, feeling a bit of power at reclaiming back my time I had so willingly given over. Initially I felt a bit of guilt, unaccustomed to saying no when asked to do something additional at work. Over time, though, I found my schedule opening up and no longer was clocking a 60-70 hour work week every week.
During the fall semester, I took two writing workshops, carving enough time to attend to that which truly mattered. Reading happened, my own reading rather than just student compositions and prep for classes--8 books that were not required for any courses taught. Eventually, I found that I had stopped complaining about being overworked.This semester, I've stopped instantly deleting work requests. I read through them and ponder whether they're something I truly value, something worthy of my time. Most often, I say no. What has changed though, is I am starting to occasionally say yes. Not to too much. Not because I feel I have to. But because I have the space. The time. A bit of balance.
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