Sitting on the kitchen floor, with my dying dog . . .

Gaia as a pup, already 35 lbs. . .

Tuesday evening, February 28, 2012 . . . I've been holding a "bedside vigil" for Gaia all day, most of it spent outside with her . . . as some of you know, she developed an overpowering aversion to the indoors back at our St. Paul respite; I'm trying hard not to add to her stress by forcing her to come inside, as much as I so want her by my side . . . intermittently, I don winter gear, head out to the front steps, or to the snow-insulated hosta bed, or out to her doghouse on the deck (she has just enough strength to pull herself upright and take a few wobbly steps, before collapsing in different location every now and then). I sit by her side, massaging her limbs, brushing her a bit. She so hated that when she was well, being brushed. She'd indulge me for about 30 seconds before she'd start snapping and yowling at me to stop. . . she doesn't put up a fight when she's dying. . . as I gently brush clumps of dirty fur from her coat, I toss handfuls into the yard, to the birds, squirrels, to other creatures living around Wrenwood. A keepsake of sorts, or perhaps an offering, a gift from my dear pup. . . At 3:15, I call our vet to give her an update. Gaia is weak, not eating, but quiet and resting, doesn't appear to be in pain or distressed. "There's really not much more you can do, just keep her comfortable, and if anything changes, if she appears to be in pain or if you get scared, give me a call," my vet says.

"Don't worry, honey—you'll grow into those bat-ears . . ."

Later in the afternoon, 5-ish maybe? I'm losing track of time, I hear what sounds like pattering and scraping/scrambling from within the living room walls. My worse-case-scenarioitis flares up and I suddenly have visions of being invaded by an army of mice, before I realize it's fat, icy raindrops splattering on the sky lights and windows. Snow is one thing, freezing rain is another. Freezing rain isn't for anyone, not even a well-seasoned, 14+ year old malamute.

About the same time, a faint wailing comes from the deck. I slip on my boots and run outside. Gaia is lying on on her side, in the lean-to doghouse Jim had made for her. Barely lifting her head, she emits a faint, hoarse whisper of a howl, again and again. If she wasn't before, she definitely appeared to be in pain now, or at least quite distressed. I don't want her lying outside in the harsh elements alone, so I gently drag her (as gently as as a pint-sized woman can drag an 80 lb dead-weight malamute) from the doghouse, across the deck, through the patio doors and into the kitchen, gently arranging her body on the thick bed of blankets and comforters that I had already gathered and laid out, a comfortable bed for her. We've been lying here, side by side, ever since. Once inside, the hoarse crying out stops. I gather a few pillows and a blanket for myself, and settle down next to her on the kitchen floor, holding her big paws, rubbing her arms, massaging her big ol' melon, plucking chunks of fur from her coat, apologizing for each pluck. She doesn't seem to be very coherent or responsive, just stares off into the distance. A few times, she slips into what looks like a seizure, her whole body goes rigid, then starts trembling, shaking, her mouth gaping, grasping, clamping down on the corner of a blanket, release. . .

"I said, 'GO POTTY!!!"

6:48 pm . . . the intermittent "seizures" have segued into what appears to be full-blown, constant pain. Gaia wails plaintively, constantly, a hoarse, raspy how. . .  Rocco emerges from his under-the-bed hiding place and is sitting five feet from me, on the edge of the kitchen steps, watching my every move. He's scared but curious, tentatively tiptoes over to us, lets me rub him a bit, then trots off again, toward the bedroom. I've put a few calls into our vet, hoping to catch her before the day's end. . .

For a couple of hours or so, it is almost peaceful, me sitting next to Gaia, she sleeping/resting soundly, me whispering words of thanks, and it's okay to let go, that Bob and Liddy are waiting for you, sweet girlie. . .I  thought this might play out on its own, but now, at 7:34 p.m.,  it's gone on long enough, and if she's not exactly suffering, she's definitely distressed, wailing, rasping her cries into the floor. She doesn't see me, she doesn't know anything now, but pain. 7:46 another seizure wracks her body, trembling, shaking, teeth rattling, collar jangling seizure. . . I am fighting back memories of Bob's last days, the breathing, the breathing, the breathing . . . I call my vet, she's at a kid's volley ball game, the weather is getting worse, she can't get out here until the morning; she suggests I take Gaia to the emergency clinic, which is just down the road from our house . . . I start crying, I don't know how I'm going to get Gaia into the Jeep by myself, I tell her, most of my neighbors are older, maybe be in bed by now—it'd be asking a lot for someone to come out in this weather to help . . . I think, do people call 911 for dogs? Probably not—if I don't already have the reputation of Wacky Widow of Wrenwood, calling in an ambulance for my dying dog will surely secure that title . . . my vet apologizes profusely, suggests endless things to try to comfort Gaia till she can get here in the morning—do I have Percocet or cough syrup with codine on hand? I hate to ask this, but do you have any pain meds of your husband's left? No, no, no . . . even if I did, I don't think I could get them in her—she seems to be unresponsive, save for her unrelenting, weak wailing. . . I don't remember hanging up with my vet . . .

I call the emergency clinic to get their advice—do I try to ride this out at home with her? Try to get her in? I know there's nothing they can do to "save" her, and I wanted so badly for her to slip away quickly and relatively painlessly at home, but this doesn't seem to be the plan . . .

"I did NOT destroy your favorite boots . . ."

     The person on the other line tells me if there's any way I can get Gaia in to them, that would probably be best for her but at this point, it's totally up to me—what I feel is right and what I can do, within the scope of my situation. I start crying again, I'm by myself, the weather is bad, it's late, I don't know how I can get Gaia into them—she's too heavy for me to lift by myself, but she's now clearly suffering . . . the technician suggests calling the non-emergency police number—people have done this, she tells me—and they can help get Gaia into the car—Really? I briefly consider it, then remember that it takes a good 20 minutes to get to our house in good weather, when my husband was in the throes of a massive heart attack, and a GI bleed, and countless other human crises—I can't imagine they'd be any quicker for my dog . . . I look out our front window and see Herman and Judy's lights still on across the road. Herman is well into his 70s, but Bob and I used to call him Jack Lalanne of the 'hood, this man can tear circles around whipper-snappers a fraction of his age . . . I tell the technician I'll see what I can do and hopefully be in within the hour.

Even if you DID destroy my fave boots, I still love ya . . .

    Herman and Judy are sitting in their living room and see me running up their sidewalk; the door opens even before I reach the steps. I'm not sure what I said to them, I was crying so hard, something like could you please help me get Gaia in the car—she's dying and needs help or something equally inane. . . Herman says he'll be right over, I run back to the house, the Jeep is already running in the driveway, tailgate open  (I truly do not remember doing that . . .). Herman appears right behind me, we lift the corners of the quilt that Gaia is lying on. The quilt is a very old one that Bob has had since he was a boy, one of Penny's first attempts at quilting, she once told me. . . other than her mournful, raspy pleading, Gaia doesn't move, doesn't resist our lifting. We exit through the patio door, and slosh through the icy slushy snow to the Jeep and hoist her in. I thank Herman profusely and hop into the driver's seat and take off. Note to self: get Herman a little "something" for helping me . . . we have such good neighbors . . . 

All wound up and no place to go . . .

I call my mom on the way to the emergency vet clinic. It's just a few miles down the road from our house, but the roads are like driving in a 7-11 Slurpy, the road is covered with a thick layer of grey slush. It doesn't help I'm nearly hysterical, and can barely see the road through the wet snow and my tears. My mom keeps me calm, keeps reminding me to drive slowly, keeps saying all the right things to keep me on the road and safely to the clinic. I am met at the door by a technician wheeling a gurney. She comes out, we slide Gaia onto the blanket-covered cart and wheel her inside. Her moaning is incessant, now sounds like a pleading. . . the technician is met by another, who quickly wheels Gaia into a room off the reception desk. I am told that they'll put an IV line in her, then bring her back out to me in the "comfort room," where I can spend as much time as I need, before they give her the injection . . .

Dog day afternoon

I am lead to a beautifully decorated room, with leather sofa and chair, a wall covered in cards from various thankful pet owners. Just a minute or so later, Gaia is wheeled into the room, still lying on top of the gurney, on Bob's red, white and blue star quilt. Her eyes are moist, she appears to turn her eyes to me when I stand in front of her. She is still pleading with her weak, raspy howl . . . I drape myself across her thin body, hug her, cry into her fur, breathe in her old, outside doggie smell, tell her over and over, how much I love her, how much joy she brought to our world, thanked her for holding on as long as she has, that Bob and Liddy are waiting for her, that life is even better on the other side of the rainbow bridge . . . on and on, I carry on, memories flash like a slide show in my mind, fur sticks to my runny nose, my lips, until her hoarse crying brings me back into the room, reminding me that she is dying . . . I press the button on the wall, the one the technician told me would summon them back to the room. The vet arrive seconds later, with a large syringe. She asks me if I've ever experienced this before, I say yes, I don't tell her I recently watched my husband die . . . she is kind but efficient, talking as she works, telling me not to be alarmed if Gaia should release her bowls and bladder, she may cry or gasp one last time before the over-dose of anesthesia does its job. She slides the syringe into Gaia's IV line and almost immediately, Gaia's soft wailing stops. . . I don't know whether to be sorry or grateful . . .

"Time to get up already?!?"

It's a silly thought, but I feel in my heart that my beautiful old pup held on as long as she could, for me . . . that she knew, in her wise ol' doggy way, that she needed to be here for me, as long as she could, till she knew I would be okay without her. And it's also a silly thought, to think that we humans so arrogantly believe we are the ones taking care of our pets, when they have known, all along, it's the other way around . . . what a heavy burden, our furry family members carry . . .

Bedside vigil for Gaia. . .

Sleeping in the snow. Feb. 28, 2012

My big old doggie, Gaia, isn't doing so well. Well, whadda ya expect, she's 14 and a half, Jen. I mean, c'mon! That's about 98 years in human years—yea, well, not to get technical on y'all, but it's more than 98 years, because that "take a dog's age times seven" bullshit is way off. She's well over a 100, according to the professionals, based on breed, size, weight, and blah, blah, blah . . . as if any of that matters. One year or 14, they're all the same, in dog years, to me. 14 and a half years is still far too short, in my opinion . . . why can't dogs be like horses and live a good 30 years. Or better yet, an elephant? 70 good, long years. . . and a damn good chance Gaia would outlive me, if she were an elephant. . .when you think about it too long, you realize why it's probably not a good idea . . . there are enough old, abandoned dogs in shelters with things as they are, without adding to the problem. . .

Cousins Miya and Katie, with Gaia, February 2005

My big, sweet girl. . . she's had a good, long run at life, a pretty cushy life, really, for a dog. No, make that for any living creature. If there's one thing I can say for certain, its that we treated our dogs as one of the family. As anyone who has a dog, or cat or salamander or ant farm or whatever, should. If all we do is simply take care of one another, animals included, how wonderful, wonderful, wonderful the world could be . . .

Still, kinda catches me off guard, to see our "first born's" life slowly coming to an end . . . at least I'm pretty certain that's what's going on. It's been an ancient glacial decline over the past maybe 5 years or so, nearly imperceptible. But, Big GG's overall condition has taken a remarkable nosedive over the weekend—she's stopped eating, has been throwing up intermittently—foul, greenish bile, accompanied by what sounds like Beelzebub residing in her throat—is so weak, she can barely stand. . . had our vet come out yesterday, and while examining the ol' girl, found what feels like a large tumor in Gaia's abdomen, just below her ribcage. She weighed Gaia. 81 pounds. I don't think Gaia's weighed 81 pounds since she was 8 months old. . . what was normally a barrel-ish figure is now a startling hour-glass. . . I don't think I've ever seen what could be described as a "waist" on Gaia. In another word, emaciated. Things are not good. . .

But, typical Gaia, she doesn't complain. Other than the occasional vomiting, she doesn't appear to be uncomfortable, just incredibly lethargic and perhaps a little disoriented. For the past several days, she has mostly been sleeping, so soundly, in fact, I can hardly rouse her . . . flashbacks . . . If I could be so bold as to speak for her, I'd say she's preparing to slip away quietly, sometime soon . . . at least I hope that's how it plays out, though I'm no longer so naive as to think the world works on my tears and hopes and prayers and demands . . . it'll happen however it'll happen—perhaps quiet and peacefully . . . but it could just as easily end in a violent upsurge. I like to think I have at least a little experience under my belt, concerning this death and dying stuff and am prepared for either . . . we'll see . . .

Gaia was our firstborn. When Bob and I bought our first house in Roseville, the first "big ticket item" wasn't new furniture. Wasn't new appliances or curtains or even paint. It was Gaia. She was born on December 19, 1997, and was about ten weeks old when we brought her home from the Alaskan malamute breeder in Rochester. Their four year old daughter had christened her Pearl. Who the hell names a dog Pearl? Unless it's a useless lap dog (no offense to useless lap dog owners out there! ;) As we were leaving, this little girl looked up at me with big blue eyes fringed in thick dark lashes and asked if we were going to keep that name she had picked out for our new doggie. "Of course we are, sweetie," I smiled at her. As soon as we were safely ensconced in the back seat of the car, I held our sweet bundle of joy's furry face in my hands, stared deep into into her eyes and began chanting, "Gaia, Gaia, Gaia, Gaia. . ." There's a special room in Hell for people just like me.

Anyone who has ever met Gaia falls in love with her, even many self-professed "I'm not a dog person!" persons. She's lovable. She's a clown. She can't stand it if you dis her—she will saunter up to you, she will drive her head between your legs and she will make you acknowledge her. We took her on all of our camping trips, she was such a good traveler. She quickly learned the "signs" of a road trip—the packing of suitcases, the gathering of camping gear, the blankets that went down on the car seats, for the dogs to lie on. She'd walk right up to the Jeep and stand next to it, patiently waiting till Bob or I opened the tail gate to let her jump in. It's only been in the past few years that she's been unable to make that jump, and has needed hoisting by her humans. But she still views car rides with the same excitement. Just this past weekend, I decided to head down to southern MN, to visit my family, Bob's parents, and debated taking the dogs. I've noticed Gaia's energy level waning, have seen "the signs." But as I started packing up the Jeep, she slowly lumbered to the end of the sidewalk, as far as her tie-out would allow, patiently waiting till I was done loading up the Jeep and it was her turn to get in. That sealed the deal.

When I first arrived in St. Peter, my brother Kurt helped me get my ol' girlie out from the back of the Jeep. We gently let her down onto the brown, crusty grass of the boulevard and her legs collapsed beneath her, she struggled to stand and just couldn't muster the strength . . . Kurt and I half-carried her to his back yard, where we set up camp for her—tie-out, bowl of water, thick doggy bed to lie on . . . I did take her on a short walk that evening, and the next morning, a very slow, meandering walk, with countless sniffing-stops along the way. But she didn't eat at all, either meal. Believe me when I say that if a Malamute doesn't eat, you know something is direly wrong . . .

On Saturday, we headed to Penny and Jim's. Same thing. Big ol' girl crashed in the backyard, didn't eat. This time, a walk wasn't even appealing, despite Rocco's coaxing, she just raised her head, stared at him a few moments, then dropped it back down again. He ran around her, barking encouragement to her; eventually (maybe more to shut Rocco the hell up), she did manage to get upright and took a slow walk around the back yard with us, taking great care to sniff every bush and tree within the parameters of their property, but she was easily coaxed back to her doggie bed under the deck when we had made the back yard whip.

We got home late Sunday afternoon and things have gone steadily downhill since. I am worried. Worried that she is suffering. Outwardly, she appears not to be. She appears comfortable, accommodating, ready. If only I could say the same about me. I will mix up a gin and tonic, continue to  pop outside and check on her, sit by her side, give her a massage on her "forearms," as she has loved since the day we brought her home, whisper in her ear how much I love her, how much joy and happiness she has brought to our lives, how grateful I am that she scared all the burglars away at our temporary St. Paul digs, how Bob and Liddy are waiting for her . . .

I need to go now, I hear her softly howling . ..

Owls on the brain . . .

I really should be doing homework right now—I have a 400 page memoir to read (have yet to start) and two 2-3 page papers to write before tomorrow night's class—but I feel like writing about owls instead. Nice to know my ADD study habits haven't changed in nearly two decades . . .Looks like I'll be pulling an all-nighter . . . comfort (or anxiety) in the familiar, I guess . . . (when I first met Bob, I had just started classes at Winona State, and he was astounded at my haphazard study skills. He told me he had never pulled an all nighter, in all his college career. "What??!!? You mean you've never commandeered a booth at Perkins and guzzled endless pots of coffee while cramming for a final?" I asked in disbelief. No, I just kept up with the assignments all quarter, then reviewed my notes teh night before the test and went to bed early, he explained matter-of-fact. Such a foreign concept to me. Take the test, do your best, take a rest, he used to tell me the night before a big exam . . .

Owls have penetrated our lives, Bob's and mine together, going back almost two decades (his life, even further back) . . . little did I know at the time how symbolic the wise owl would become to my life, in my life, as I move forward, without him. This entry might be more of a photo montage, just sharing some images of a lifetime ago, a history, if you will, of Bob and me and owls . . .

This is the invitation Jill had created for my "personal shower"—aka, BACHELORETTE PAR-TAY, BEEEYOTCHES!!! Okay, okay—truth is, it really wasn't like that at all—I mean, we had fun, but it was a far cry from Girlz Gone Wylde! bachelorette parties of nowadays. I threatened my sisters bodily harm if they tried to make me wear anything embellished with a penis or condoms, or do a blow-job shot off some guy's crotch—that did happen to a friend of mine at her bachelorette, for the record and I was terrified . . . There was a penis cake, made by my evil ex-sister-in-law, which I have to admit, was incredibly creative and lifelike, down to the flesh-colored icing—but I'll spare you that image—this is a PG-13 blog, man. The date on this invitation says July 22, 1995, a couple weeks before our wedding . . . it's glued to a page of our wedding scrapbook, before I glued it in place, I had folded over the upper corner to reveal the little image of an ow on the back, proclaiming, "Who? Who's getting married?" I'd written in pen, with an arrow pointing to it, "supposed to be an owl, not a ghost!"

This owl "banner" graced the entrance to the bachelorette party. I'm pretty sure my sister, Jill made it. The photograph itself isn't very good—it's rather over-exposed—so I couldn't get a great picture of it. But the owl is so freaking adorable and the words beneath the owl say, "Who's getting hitched?" It's not like the whole party was owl-themed; these were the only two owl occurrences at the party. Like most other owl connections in our lives, they weren't deliberate or an overtly-consciously part of our lives, they just were. . . If I remember, Bob's bachelor "party" was pretty low-key (one of endless instances throughout my day, for a split-nanosecond, I almost went to ask Bob what they had done for his bachelor party, followed in the next split-nanosecond with the gutting realization that I can't do that. Ever. This phenomenon happens so many times throughout a day—you'd think I'd know better, by now. . . but my widow friends who have been on this path much longer than I say it never leaves, that desire to turn and just talk to their beloved, no matter how long it's been . . .god, this trip is gonna be a long one . . .). It may have been just a handful of guys going out for drinks in the St. Paul area . . . I seem to recall mention of the gratuitous strip joint visit (the only hooters sighting that night, I'm sure) . . . I remember that Bob really wanted to do a camping trip with his friends, but few seemed interested, and since he was only the guest of honor, not the one planning it, he just went along for the ride. . .

Exhibit C: a letter my dear sister, Jill wrote to Bob and me, a week before our wedding . . . the letter itself is so sweet and sentimental—I'd share the whole thing, but it's full of so many cryptic references that would take forever to explain (for instance: Jill saying that even though Bob and I were getting married, she still wanted to be able to spoon in bed with us . . . ummmm, yeah . . .that kind of stuff . . .) Anyhooooo. . . The salutation reads: Dear Bubo and Christopher—"WTH?!" I hear the collective confusion, so here's a longer than necessary explanation of that: let's start with "Bubo." I may have explained this in a previous post, but in case I didn't: Bubo is half of the Latin/scientific name for the Great Horned Owl, Bubo virginianus. Bob had taken several years of Latin in college, because he had planned to go tot law school. That knowledge came in handy, in learning and remembering the scientific names for all kinds of creatures. Clearly, at some point, prior to August, 1995, someone had already christened Bob "Bubo," (kind of a play on "Bob") and the name gained a permanent place in our family vernacular. Again, if only I could turn to him, or call downstairs to his office, where he often would be, working, and ask if he remembered the story behind his nickname, Bubo. My vague recollection is that it happened on a camping trip . . .

"Christopher" was a joke between Bob and me . . . ages upon ages ago, when I was living in Winona, a friend's little boy (maybe 5 years old or so), was introduced to me. "Joey, this is mommy's friend, Jennifer," my friend told him . . . later that day, I heard a little voice saying, "Christopher? Christopher??? Hey, Chriiiistopherrrr . . ." It was several moments before I realised he was talking to me . . . Christopher became one of Bob's many nicknames for me . . .

This is the apron I made for Bob, during my Krazy Krafting Daze . . . the photo doesn't have a date on it, but we're standing in the little apartment in St. Paul, near St. Thomas University where we lived when we were first married, so it must be 1994-95-ish. Bob loved to cook, and maybe I made it for his birthday? A wedding gift? Maybe just for the hell of it, because I was Krazy for Krafts! at that time—nothing was safe from my glue gun or fabric paints, or dried flower embellishments, not even Bob . . .  I hand-painted a Barred owl on the apron, with the caption above the owl, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you aall!!" (The "Who cooks for you" phrase is what birders say the barred owl call sounds like.) Below the owl it says, "Strix varia," the Latin/scientific name for the barred owl. I still have the apron, hanging in my kitchen . . . Often, when I think of the barred owl, I think of a story Bob told me; again, the details are fuzzy, but the gist of it was, a coworker was excitedly telling Bob about his camping weekend, and said he thought a barred owl had visited their campsite. "I'm pretty sure it was a barred owl, Bob—it's the one that has the call that you said sounds like, "I'm late for dinner! I'm late for dinner!" Bob thought that was the funniest thing, and any time we saw or heard a barred owl in the woods after that, he'd call out, "Hey! There's that owl that says, 'I'm late for dinner! I'm late for dinner!'" Geeky birder-nature-boy humor that's probably funny to no one but me . . .

I purchased this watercolor painting of an owl at the first salon I worked. It's not very big—maybe 4" x 6". It is an original work and was a "frivolous" expense—Bob and I were both just starting out our careers, just starting our married life together—splurging on a $45 painting was reeeeally stretching the ol' budget. The salon featured some work by a local artist and this owl painting had sat in the display rack for a long, long time. . . I don't remember why I bought it—could have been for Bob's birthday, could have been just because—because I didn't want anyone else to buy it—it should be for Bob, I thought. So I saved up some tip money and bought it for him . . . he liked it a lot, and had this up in his office for a long time. . .

And, here is our silly little collection of stuffed animals. We truly weren't "into" stuffed animals, but once in a while, on a vacation or browsing a state park gift shop, we'd happen upon a little critter that endeared itself to us, and ended up going home with us. Other times, it might be that one of us had taken a trip without the other (a very rare occasion), and a little stuffed owl or Husky might be presented as a "glad I'm back home" gift. On the right is a big hand-puppet wolf (Bob loved wolves, too)—pretty sure that was found up north near Ely; there are a couple of doggies in the pack—Huskys and malamutes, of course—and of course Taz is also part of the mix (Bob was a big fan of Warner Bros. Taz—he said, at one point many years ago when I first got my tattoo, that if he had been a tattoo kind of guy, which he wasn't, he would have gotten Taz inked on his bicep). But the bulk of the collection is owls. A couple of snowy owls, a little barn-owl looking owl, a couple that are vaguely reminiscent of great horned owls, a little finger puppet owl . . . A couple of the owls were gifts from others when Bob was going through his cancer ordeal nearly two summers ago . . . precious Otto loves to play with these stuffed animals. He sits on the floor and I gently dive-bomb him with stuffed animals. . . he squeals with pure delight as they bounce of his head and onto the floor around him, whole-body laughing, grabbing at the balls of fur as they assault him, burrowing his face into the pile of furry creatures . . .

Since Bob's death, I have been inundated with owl gifts. I love them all, am grateful for all, and hope to proudly, lovingly live out the fast-developing "Crazy Owl Lady" reputation/persona. . . maybe a future blog entry will feature these owls I've acquired . . .

Wisdom of the Owl . . .

Penetrating the Darkness

Wisdom of the Owl

For as long as humankind has recognized animals 

as teachers, wise men and women have 

recognized traits worth of respect in both wild

and domestic creatures. The cultural and spiritual

significance of certain animals transcends

geographical boundaries, unifying disparate

peoples. Not so the majestic and mysterious owl,

which has over many millennia served as the

focal point of numerous contradictory beliefs.

Though owls have been regarded with awe

and fascination, they have also inadvertently served

as agents of fear. Since owls are nocturnal,

human-owl encounters tend to occur at night

and likely when the bird was swooping silently

down to earth to grapple with prey. Yet even as

some shied away from the owl, calling it an agent

of darkness, others recognized the depth of 

awareness in beautiful owl's eyes.

In classical Greek tradition, an owl could often

be found perched on the shoulder of Athena,

goddess of wisdom, while owls could ward off bad

luck in Roman lore. It is in Native American

mythos, however, that the owl attains its own

unique identity. Owls are patient messengers,

bringers of information and holders of

wisdom, and they are capable of seeing the

unseen. With their keen eyesight, they can glance 

into the soul to discern meaning and motive, and

they are totems of truth. Unlike our distant

forbearers, we may never encounter an owl in the

wild, but we can nonetheless internalize the

wisdom of the owl by attuning ourselves to its

most venerable qualities. Fully integrating the

medicine of the owl into spiritual existence is a

matter of considering how we might open

ourselves more fully to the wisdom that can be

found in the larger universe.

Should you find your efforts blocked as you 

commune with the owl, remember that it was not

always revered as an icon of wisdom. This

denizen of the nighttime has overcome many

prejudices in its long association with humankind.

To reveal those hidden elements of the self that

impact your life for better or worse, you must

often make your way through the darkest parts of

your soul as if you are the nocturnal 

hunter. There is indeed darkness both inside the

self and outside the self, but like the owl, you can

transcend it by drawing nourishment from the

insights you receive when you penetrate it.

My Cupid, Otto xxoo!

This piece arrived via e-mail to me the day after Valentine's day (ummm, okay, which was just yesterday . . . I'm heading out, tomorrow, to get a real job, for the sole reason to know what the hell day it is), which was a surprisingly awful day, given how I just went on and on in my last post about how sentimental a holiday it wasn't for Bob and me. It didn't start out that way—it was actually, mostly, a very low-key, precious, self-care kind of day (spent with my Cupid, Otto, followed by a kick-ass kettle bell workout), but ended in a flurry of sucker-punches that surprised and scared the livin' bejezus out of me. Funny, how a "good!" day (and I use "good" in quotes, as I often did with Bob when he had rare "good" day. . . all relative at this point) can end up in the toilet, with the flush of a handle . . . guess that's bound to happen when a fresh widow (despite the fact that everyone else's lives clip happily along, I'm still a young'un, in widow years! It's the only facet in my life that I feel young. . .) gets hammered with relentless reminders of  COUPLES! and LOVE! and HAPPINESS! all day long . . . widowhood ain't for wimps, I'm tellin' ya, peeps, but right now, I'm feeling as wimpy as they come and am not a worthy member of this group . . . 

Anyhoooooo (no, I haven't scored that Rx for Ritalin yet, in case you were wondering), The Wisdom of the Owl was sent by a dear friend, also a widow, who also knows my owl story, and as I mentioned, it arrived in my inbox the day after my traumatic v.d. Not kidding. At 9:27 a.m., there it was. I was surprised by the serendipitous timing of the message, so moved that she thought of Bob and me when she saw it and sent it on probably the best day she could have possibly sent it . . . I wanted to share it on this blog, and was just going to copy and past it from her e-mail. But, for some damn reason, it wouldn't paste. I tried and tried, many times, but the "paste" kept appearing as the title of a book I'd been searching for online, for my night class. Seriously? WTF is going on??!! I am damn certain I never copied and pasted that, at any point. . . so , I had to type The Wisdom of the Owl, word for word, from Suzann's e-mail, to this entry. . . as I typed each word, its message sank deeper and deeper within me . . . wisdom of the ow at work . . .

I got a really sweet e-mail message from one of my nieces tonight. She's so excited to turn 18 this year, and when she does, she told me, she wants to get a tattoo of an owl, in memory of Bob. I cried when I saw this . . . she'd like to come to my house and go through his photographs and have one designed from his work . . . I'm tellin' ya, owls have and always will, link me forever to Bob, and all who knew and loved him . . . and even those who didn't know him, in his earthly form . . . 

One year ago . . .

A year ago today, we were just "winding down" from the phenomenal benefit that family and friends so lovingly organized and orchestrated for Bob. It was astounding in so many ways, and I'll just share the link to that blog entry from the Sofa King site, instead of going into too much detail, as it makes me sad . . . I've been thinking a lot about that day, how utterly astounding it was but my heart is so very heavy because a year ago, Bob was still with me. That is how my days are still measured: "A year ago, Bob was still here . . ."

Valentine's day tomorrow, a day that doesn't evoke really any dread or anything of the like. It was just another day in our world that came and went, like any other. Bob was unsentimental when it came to things like Valentine's day or Christmas or even anniversaries and birthdays, and was quite vocal in his distain for spoon-fed holidays, "I don't need Hallmark telling me when and how I should show I love my wife." A simple statement, not an impassioned declaration. I hesitate to even write such things because some may automatically peg him a scrooge or insensitive, or whatever, and that couldn't be farther from the truth. Bob marched to his own music, anyone who knew him at all knew at least that. He wasn't a crowd follower. Penny even said that as a teen, Bob had said once, that he didn't understand peer pressure,"If I don't want to do something, I just don't do it." Sage at sixteen . . .

Oh, I'll admit it, I was, in the first few years of our marriage, a bit miffed that Bob didn't "surprise" me with flowers and/or candy and/or jewelry—something—on Valentine's Day. (Seriously, how do you "surprise" someone on a day that's been heavily marketed since the day after Christmas?) In fact, there was one year that at the salon I was working at, that I was the only married/dating woman who didn't get a bouquet of flowers delivered to the salon—and I was newly married! Yes, a bit awkward, trying to explain the inner workings of my husband's mind to all my coworkers and to client after client after client after client: Yes, my husband really does love me and is really sentimental, but in his own special way, you have to know him . . .

But then I started to figure out that many of these were the same married/dating women who bitched endlessly throughout the rest of the year, about being football/hunting/baseball/bowling/poker/whatever widows, or complained that he never took out the garbage or didn't know how to use the washer and dryer, or couldn't he give up a night out with the boys just once and spend a weekend with her, or would it ever occur to him to just take the kids—without asking—so she could have a few hours' peace . . . conversations to which I could never contribute. What others didn't know about Bob were the random, out-of-the-blue days, I would come home to a sweet little bouquet of flowers (that didn't happen too often; just enough to make them insanely memorable), or when he'd call, unplanned and unexpected to my work, to take me to lunch because he "just happened" to be in the neighborhood . . . or the times he'd present me with a book he'd seen or heard about—not on my birthday, not any "specially designated day," just because he thought of me when he saw it and thought I'd enjoy it, or . . . or that he did know how to use the washer and dryer, and dishwasher and always took out the garbage without asking, and knew how to vacuum (and did it, again without me asking), and took my car in for oil changes, or washed it for me . . . endless gifts, throughout the year . . .

I recall having many conversations about such things with Bob and learned quickly that he didn't eschew v.d. (that became our little term for the holiday—does anyone even know what v.d. stands for any more? All day long, we'd greet each other, "Happy V.D.!" or "Happy Gonorrhea Day!" or, "Happy Syphilis Day!" mmmmm, yeah . . . guess you had to be there . . .) because he didn't want to or show his love for me. His very pragmatic, very Bob explanation was, "How about getting credit for being a good person every day of the year, not just one?" . . . He was lucky, I've never been a "flowers" kind of girl (I kind of have this strange an aversion to getting flowers from a guy—maybe because I feel it's so cliché, kind of an easy, mindless thing to do; that, and most guys in my past who gave me flowers were of the creepy, stalker-variety. . .), nor have I been big on jewelry either. In that respect (and probably only that respect), Bob got off easy . . .

Most people probably don't know that I was the one who proposed to Bob . . . I'll tell you the "clean" version . . . we had been together for nearly three years, living in sin (gasp!) in an apartment in St. Paul. I had heard Bob talking to a friend one day, who asked him, "So, when are you and Jen getting married?" Bob jokingly replied, "When she asks me!" I tucked that little tidbit in the back of my mind . . . one weekend, we decided to head down to Red Wing, to stay at the St. James Hotel. I don't even know what the "reason" was. Likely no reason, other than to get out of the city for the weekend. I do know it was winter, and we got the cheapest room at the hotel, which was still very lovely, with a partially obstructed view of the river—I was so impressed with the chocolates perched on the pillows and the tiny bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket on the dresser. We wandered through endless antique shops, stopping at a little kiosk in a mall and tried on rings, just to be silly; I mad a mental note of his size and when he went off to the bathroom at one point, and I ran back to the little kiosk and bought the ring that had fit him. It was sterling silver, but tarnished . . . a flimsy, tarnished band, worn thin on one edge, a bit dinged up. I imagined the original owner of the ring had to be a laborer, maybe a farmer, with all the physical flaws, lots of history had to be encircled in this old band. But it was more for the symbolism . . . we went to dinner at a little bar and grill because after splurging on the room, we didn't feel we could blow any more money on the fancy-schmancy hotel restaurant . . . that evening, back in our room while we shared our tiny (cheap) bottle of champagne (I'm sure I had already eaten the chocolates upon arrival), I slipped the simple band on his finger and asked if he would please be my husband . . .

I have been working on a mindfulness state of being lately, as it seems to help with my still-ever-present anxiety, flashbacks, anger and other trauma. . . Mindfulness: living in the present, being conscious and attentive to time and events right now, as they happen, to live in the moment—actively pulling oneself into living here, in this space, to be conscious and acutely aware of everything right now, right in front of me. Not in the past. Not in the future. Here. Now. Helluva lot easier said than done, lemme tell you . . .

Through meditation (and I use that term loosely as "Jen" and "meditation" are two words not often used in a sentence together; I asked my therapist if it'd be okay to get a prescription for Ritalin, so I could meditate . . . counterproductive much, Jen?) and other techniques, I am trying to calm my mind, get a better "grip" on the events of the past two and a half years, so they don't have such a strangling stronghold on me . . . many thought have been unearthed to me as I've been working on mindfulness techniques . . . thoughts about Bob and who he was as a person, throughout his life, who we were together, who I was, who I am, who I am becoming (that last one is a tough one—I don't feel quite yet, like I'm becoming much of anything. . .)  I am still piecing together my "old" Bob, the Bob who is still so far away from me, so fuzzy, taken from me over two years ago, without warning, not knowing that that Bob would never return . . .

Bob was the most mindful person I have personally known. He lived his life for now. In the present. He didn't get too caught up in the future, he didn't obsess over past events. I know it is why he was so drawn to photography, to nature. One has to be right now in photography. To be at one with time and life. Acutely aware of details, senses, what was going on in this slice of time. . . He was zen and didn't even know it . . . or maybe he did. This mindfulness is what I've been thinking of when I think of him lately, but especially in the past few days or so, when I think of Valentine's day and what it meant (or didn't mean) to Bob. He bought/brought me little surprises when I least expected them, not when Hallmark told him he should. He'd present me with a book he had heard about, and thought I might like. When we lived in Winona, he bough me pens and writing paper and stamps, because we wrote to each other so much. I have four thick 3-ring binders of letters we'd written to each other over the years (and I found out, not that long ago, maybe a few years ago, that he had kept my letters to him, too). He'd take me to Landscape Alternatives and we'd buy native wildflowers and grasses for the backyard and rock garden. Together, we'd decide to do a house project, or take a trip, as our joint birthday/anniversary gift to one another.

Everything Bob did was done with careful thought and deliberation. Whether or not it was Valentine's day. Or Christmas. Or a birthday. Mindful.

I truly don't meant to disparage anyone who does celebrate the holiday, because I know it's meaningful to many people; I'm just trying to convey who Bob was, perhaps more for myself, than for anyone, part of my "piecing together" journey, what his personal beliefs were, who he was, before he was sick. And when I say that, I don't mean that Bob wasn't Bob when he was sick; it's just that the illness took so much from him, stripped him down to nearly nothing, literally and figuratively; physically, mentally, emotionally . . .

In my writing class, we had to write about a person who was the complete opposite of us. After much deliberation, I chose to write about Bob. A snippet in the life of Bob, before he got sick. It was an exercise of many things—torture, love, trauma, beautifully bittersweet memories. . . I have never written about my "well" Bob before, and it was a bizarrely easy-nearly impossible task to accomplish. I almost gave up and wrote about someone else. Maybe sometime in the not-so-distant future, I'll share the writing exercise here, to give you all a little snippet of who Bob was, before he got sick . . .

Week two back at Wrenwood . . .

Our bedroom has a patio door that leads out to a small deck constructed around an oak tree. It was one of the many quirky features we fell in love with when we found this house over seven years ago. Our house is a walk-out rambler, perched on the side of a ridge, so the deck is actually quite a distance up from the ground, maybe 15 feet or so; one can actually touch the lower branches ("one" meaning others can, I can't, being so short . . . ) I remember telling Bob it's like having a treehouse for a bedroom . . . we soon learned, however, that when the winds pick up and start tousling the sky-high branches around, the lower part of the strong, sturdy trunk also moves, imperceptible to the eye, but very perceptible to the ear. When the winds roll through, the trunk rubs ever so slightly rubs against the boards of the deck, yet this barely-there movement releases a constant low groaning, popping, grinding, squeaking . . . the first time it happened, we were baffled—this is some serious olde-tyme horror movie sound effects going on—to hear it, you'd truly think that the trunk was ready to rip right through the deck and tear it from the house. Bob hypothesized what might be causing the eerie sounds, took an handsaw and somehow managed to shave a small section from the board making contact with the tree. Problem solved.

We thought. Trouble is, trees grow, even when encircled by a deck, so this has to be done every year; but every year, we'd forget about it till maybe January or February, when the haunting groans of the tree outside our bedroom window returned, robbing us of a good night's sleep. For some reason it's more pronounced in winter—maybe the moisture in the tree freezes, causing it to expand? I wonder who sawed the board last winter . . . I don't recall doing it, maybe Jim did for us . . . it'll have to be done again, as I didn't get much sleep last night, though that could be said for pretty much any night, for the past two years . . .

So, between the spooky tree sounds keeping me up all night, and Gaia clawing at the patio door around 4 this morning, I'm pretty sure a mid-day nap will be happening sometime in my schedule today. Maybe even mid-morning. I've been up since 4, because who can sleep in the midst of their very own horror movie going on around them—the groaning, creaking, grinding, all night . . . the tree sounds were background noise as I drifted in and out of fitful sleep and there's nothing I could do about it right then, but the scraping claws had me bolt upright in bed. I knew it was Gaia—her claws definitely have a different frequency than the scraping sound of a hook of a deranged mental hospital escapee (remember that scary story, peeps?) but it was odd that Gaia would want to come in so early, she normally sleeps soundly through the night. Begrudgingly, I left the warmth of my fleece bedsheets (Kohl's, on sale, now. Seriously. Get yourself a set, if you haven't already), and when I opened the patio door, she sauntered into the house, walked right over to the water bowl in the mud room, where she stood and slurped for a long while. I noticed that her bowl outside was empty, and also noticed that the temps must have dropped dramatically overnight. Not that that bothers my 14 year old Alaskan malamute any, but the frigid blast that rushed into the house when I opened the door for her woke me right up. Wide awake. I filled her outside bowl, let her back outside and have been up ever since.

I bought a new electric water bowl for my big ol' girl at Fleet Farm last week. One more small joy of being back home—outside outlets. At the old house in St. Paul, several times a day, I'd have to bring Gaia's water bowl inside, run hot water into it, to melt the frozen block of water and then refill it. She drinks so much water, I sometimes wonder if her kidneys aren't slowly shutting down. But, at 14 1/2, what can be done? Kidney failure isn't very treatable and I just keep a close eye on her, for signs of distress, acute discomfort. So far, other than her arthritic legs, I don't see anything. My beautiful old dog still likes (demands) her daily walks, slow going as we are, still has a healthy appetite, still lumbers over to great anyone who comes for a visit. She just doesn't come into the house much any more (though she has been coming in more often since being at Wrenwood; not a lot, but now and then), which is hard to get used to, as she used to be such a "people-dog," always having to be right where the peeps are. But when I think of it, it's really been since maybe even before Bob got sick that she turned into more of a recluse, preferring her quiet, alone time, either downstairs in the furnace room, or outside in the elements. But, she's still with me, in pretty damn good health for a 14 year old pooch, and for that, I'm so grateful.

This morning will be my first sunrise viewing, by myself, at Wrenwood. When Bob was first sick, he slept down in the basement, on the futon; I'd get up early in the morning, make our coffee and join him, where we'd watch the inky black slowly give way to the day. This time of year, with no leaves on the trees, we are treated to incredible sunrises, the celestial blue night sky giving way to brilliant pink, fiery oranges, pulsing reds, glowing golds and then suddenly, the burning globe of the sun bursting from the horizon . . . I often think of how lonely and scared Bob had to be, during the entire course of his ordeal. So much of what he went through, he had to do alone and for that, I feel such immense sadness. He couldn't  sleep in our bed, sleeping in the basement alone, so many days alone in the hospitals, so alone in pain, so alone in his fear, no one truly understanding the scope of what he was going through, even those of us right beside him, have no idea . . .

Okay, must be overcast enough that there was no sunset today, just inky black giving way to royal blue, and eventually grey-blue . . . but it feels good, anyway, to be up so early, few cups of coffee and a banana-chocolate chip-walnut muffin, getting a lot of writing done, fed the dogs, did a load of dishes, made the bed, started laundry . . . I let Rocco outside earlier and when I was downstairs, I was looking out our backyard and in awe of how little snow we have now. This time, last year, we had a snow pile that reached from the back yard up to the bottom of the upper deck . . . and for this, I am so grateful . . . I know we need the moisture, but I am still so okay with this mild winter, selfish as it feels.

I have these funny little thoughts now and then, that somehow, wherever he is in the afterworld, Bob is pulling a few strings, talking to a few higher-ups, to help make things a little easier for me as I struggle to recover from the trauma of his illness . . .  I like to think of this crazy-mild winter as a gift from him . . . and Gaia still being with me . . . and Rocco being my velcro-dog . . . and the escape I needed, to the old-soul house in St. Paul . . . and being one of the few in my St. Paul neighborhood to not get burglarized . . . getting into Hamline's MFA program . . . winning tickets and backstage passes to my all-time favorite musician, Lucinda Williams, last summer . . . I don't pray for these things, because right now, my prayer mechanism is still quite faulty—prayers did nothing at all to spare my beautiful husband immense suffering for so long, why would I be so foolish or naive or arrogant to think that prayers are going to "fix" things for me? In my "head" that's all silly stuff, that Bob is playing favorites for me, but in my heart, it's feels true and feels good . . . I have a theory on prayers, too, that goes along with my theory on miracles . . . It's not that I don't believe in either, but I now know how they work, and it isn't the way most people think they do . . . but again, I'm still struggling with the words to say exactly what I mean with that, and am still fine-tuning my theories, so bear with me a while longer . . .

I rejoined my beloved kettlebells studio in Stillwater, Uncommon Age, and am trying to go at least three times a week again. I really slacked off during my St. Paul sabbatical—I did find a kb class in St. Paul, but just didn't feel the love like I do in the Stillwater class. Maybe it's just an imprint of the time; it was the one and only thing I did to take care of myself during those very dark and scary months. I wasn't sleeping, couldn't eat, fighting off an endless onslaught of horrific images that never left me alone, not for a second . . . kettlebells, I think, helped save my life. I know, a tad over-dramatic, perhaps, but it's how I feel. I love how the workouts force me to be right here, right now, in the moment (if I'm not, I could drop a 20 kg weight on my head). The workout demands impeccable form to gain the most benefits (and to prevent injuries), so for an hour, all I do is totally concentrate on what I'm doing right then and there, nothing else. It's a protective mechanism . . .

There was an interesting discussion going on during Tuesday's class; someone had brought up a news story about a guy who recently shot a nail through his head with a nail gun, didn't even know it was there, because he didn't feel any pain . . . which lead to a discussion about pain and the body's ability to perceive pain. Evidently studies have been done that indicate that our ability to feel pain is often indirectly proportionate to the severity of the injury. For example, with a minor injury, one might say their pain level is at a six (on a 1-10 scale), while someone with a life-threatening injury may register much lower . . . theory is, the body's defense mechanism often kicks in with a serious injury, preventing us from "feeling" real pain associated with the injury because if we did, we would die . . . conversations like that always make my breathing quicken, my throat tighten and I fough like hell to not start crying in class . . . I think of the excruciating pain Bob endured for so long, even on copious amounts of narcotics . . . whenever we'd talk to doctors, or go in for appointments, they always asked, "Bob, what is your level of pain at today?" So often, he'd say, "Oh, maybe a three or four . . ." and I'd often counter with, "Ummmm, if I could interject? Based on his body language, I'd up that to maybe a six or seven . . ." I always knew it wasn't because he was playing hero; rather, I often felt it was a protective, defense mechanism that kicked in, insulating him from the reality of the situation . . . likely so many things, coming into play . . .

I continue to marvel that I get up and go about each day, when every waking minute of my every day is filled with such thoughts . . . but I am also marveling that each day, Wrenwood feels more comfortable, more enveloping, more sacred a space for me and my dogs. I feel safe, cocooned, protected, even with the gasping, gaping wound in my heart, my soul. The rooms feel familiar, every action feels a little more like my life and less like an out-of-body experience . . . maybe the edges of the wound are scarring over some, and the pain I felt this summer isn't so jagged, so sharp and raw and debilitating . . . it's now a duller ache, always thisclosetome, but not quite so traumatizing, not so blinding . . .sometimes the jagged pain flares up (the "zingers," Bob used to call the intense nerve stuff he had, after that god-forsaken surgery). Maybe that's a little gift from my beautiful Bob, too, easing my pain . . . part of me doesn't want to give up that intense pain, for fear of forgetting, of losing Bob, losing the lessons I need to learn from our experience, but that is something I will deal with, work on, make damn sure doesn't happen . . .

One of my first assignments for my writing class is to write about a person who is the complete opposite of me. Many people and situations came to mind, but I settled on writing about Bob. We are the absolute polar opposites, Felix and Oscar, Bert and Ernie, Lucy and Ricky, Dharma and Greg—you get the idea . . . I have never written about him before. I mean, other than in the blogs. Even in the blogs, I surely haven't written much about who Bob really was, before he became so violently ill. It's been at once, a jarring, difficult experience as well as a gently therapeutic exercise, to take a "day in the life" of Bob, back when he was so healthy, and retrace his footsteps, trying to capture his personality, his mind, his mannerisms, his very essence, his being . . . it's the Bob that is still so fuzzy and far from me, taken from me so long ago, it's going to take a while, and a lot of work, to bring him back into focus . . . along with therapy and support groups and whatever else I stumble across to try and help me, I'm hoping that perhaps my writing will help bring my husband, that my words will help to bring my healthy, handsome, hilarious, insightful, sensitive husband back to me . . . maybe I'll share some of my writing projects here on the blog, let y'all know that I can write with a little more structure and discipline (and without f-bombs!), when I really try . . .

Widowhood! The tragedy . . . Widowhood! the comedy . . . Widowhood! The musical . . .

Jenley Do-Wrong . . .

The heaviness that continues to compress my heart continues to defy description; a description that continues to sound pathetic, whiney, get-over-it-already-would-you-ish as time goes on. . . so, instead, I'll share a little story that has nothing to do with heaviness. Then again, it's really all part and parcel of the package (huh? what the hell does that mean) . . .

So, I walked the dogs the other morning in my most, I've completely given up, World! getup yet: thick, black soled, royal blue quilted Merrel booties, black fleece pants that belonged to Bob but are high-water even on me (they're practically capris on me—they had to be knickers on Bob, and no, I don't know why he kept them, because though he was known to sport some pretty funky ensembles out here at Wrenwood himself, I don't recall him in Erkle-inspired fleece), which effectively reveal my grubby white thermal socks, and have such bulky, ill-placed pockets that I look like a Canadian Mountie with these babies on. Every time I don them, I think, "Okay, I mean it this time—Salvation Army!" but suddenly, inexplicably, I am enveloped in Bob's love, his very essence. That man was King of Not Caring What Others Think About Me, and for that reason alone, I toss my dignity aside and strut down the road in my black fleece clown pants.

Gracing my upper body was a long purple scarf wrapped so many times around my neck that it looked like I no longer had a neck, and the green and black plaid flannel coat Bob often wore out to the backyard, to "do chores," which is about six sizes too big for me, which means it was about four sizes too big for Bob, again, wrapped in more love . . . and, I topped this all off with a stocking cap that failed to contain my now-short and insanely unruly hair. This image alone could be classified as a tragedy, a comedy and a musical (can't you hear the circus music playing?) all at once. . . if anyone could give me a tiny clue as to which decade this f'n "process" is scheduled to be over, I'd so appreciate it . . .

And if I could, please, make one more request/demand/plea: if I ever mention cutting my hair again, call for an intervention asap. Tranquilize me, tie me up in a straight jacket, lock me in the Olde Tyme village stocks, go Clockwork Orange on my ass—whatever it takes—till the urge safely passes. I know it's been nearly two years since my last "real" haircut with a "real" style (and while we're on the subject of "real," let's be real—with my hair, the phrase "real style" is relative, as there really is only one real style for curly hair, and that is curly.), but I didn't factor in that it was also another lifetime ago, when I used to care about such things. I had over six inches cut from my hair maybe a month ago, to above my shoulders—barely long enough to make a li'l nubbin of a ponytail—and I've been cursing the move ever since. Literally, as in, I hate my fucking hair!!!!!! Why did I fucking do this?!?!? Bob, you were right!!!! You're always right, dammit all to heeeeeeeellllllll!!! I do not have good hair for short hair, not at this stage in my life, when short hair = having to do my hair, which = more on my To Do list, in addition to, getting out of bed. That's it for my "to do" list, btw. 1.) Get out of bed today. I'm kinda stuck on #2. . .

this is not me. . .but dang close these days. . .

Like many things that have happened in the past several months, the haircut seemed like a good idea at the time (all part of this "reinventing" that I "get" to do, which I'm soooo not okay with because I truly loved my life the way it was, immersed in flaws as well as immense love. Like a surly teenager, I'm grudgingly going along with it, kicking and screaming, because I do not want this fake new life, not one fucking second of it, but the only way out of hell is through hell. . .). As always, I digress. . .all I've been doing for what seems like an eternity is wearing my hair in a pathetic twist or pony tail; by cutting it, I would "force" myself to actually put some effort into my appearance, and voila! I would suddenly become part of the Real World again! Boy, did that idea backfire like a '72 Volkswagen Bug without a muffler (my college car, fyi). See, my hair actually looks good in a twist or a pony tail—I can even sleep on it and wake up looking pretty darn okay! But, short hair on a redhead is a slippery slope—one false move, and I look like Carrot Top's twin sister, and now, there's no twist or ponytail option that can save this train wreck . . . needless to say, but I will anyhow, I'm back to growing it out. . . it's a cycle I've repeated as long as I've had hair on my head, and in the wake of this disaster, I can hear Bob's voice, clear as a bell, "I tooooold you sooooo. . ."


But, the beautiful miracle (have I mentioned before, that my definition of "miracles" is pretty far-removed from what the "general public" believes? Another blog, for another time . . .) of this comic-tragedy, is that in spite of looking like the proverbial crack whore of the neighborhood (because you may not know this, but West Lakeland is teeming with crack whores) while walking the dogs, my old neighbors aren't scared of me! They actually recognized me! The bonus (or not) of crazy red hair: always identifiable . . . And they actually stop to say "hi!" (though I'm sure they're all thinking, as I walk away, "Such a pity, to see how she's let herself go—I mean, look at those fleece pants . . .") I've been running into people left and right up here on Walton's Mountain, and it's just wonderful, they practically come running out of their homes, with open arms and all kinds of heart-warming well wishes . . . an endless soundtrack of various "welcome home!" tunes runs through my head as we wave, hug, reconnect: the theme to Welcome Back, Kotter, or my beloved Edward Sharp tune. . . I'm feeling the welcome back love so much, I almost felt like Julie Andrews, belting out, the hills are aliiiiive, with the sound of muuuuuusiiiiiic . . . It reminds me of when Bob came home from the hospital after his very first heart attack, nearly five years ago . . . I know I said it before, but in spite of tough days, in spite of missing St. Paul, it does feel good to be home, and these warm welcomes are helping, immensely. . .

I'm still trying to find the words to describe this Krazy Karnival roller-coaster that continues for me, now riding solo, but I fail. Miserably. I have more unfinished blog entries than I care to count, each one a rambling, incoherent mess, kinda like this one is, up one minute, down the next, never know when the twists and turns will come. I know, I know it's been nine whole months already—get with it, Jen! It should be getting easier by now! Everyone else has long moved on! But I'm still just climbing, clawing, barely inching my way through layer after dirty layer of the f'n process. . . don't wait for me—save yourselves!!!!

I don't know why I think of this often (I don't know why I think a lot of things, often), but I do: a friend had posted on her facebook page, back around the beginning of the new year, that in 2011, she had "finally learned to quit sweating the small stuff!" I thought about that for a very long time (obviously, still thinking about it) and it took a while, but eventually identified what I felt after reading that was pure envy. WTH?! How did she learn that lesson, when—for all I've ben through—all I do is sweat is the small stuff??!! Give me cancer and heart attacks, put me up against packs of mad scientists disguised as doctors at the U of M, give me months of surreal hospice, death, mental breakdowns—that shit I can handle! If there's one thing I learned in 2011 (and 2010, and 2009 . . .), it's the small stuff, the sweet, innocent benign stuff that turns on a dime, changes in a flash into big ugly, unpredictable stuff that makes my breath quicken, tightens my throat, fills my brain with endless chatter, keeps me from sleeping at night . . . the small stuff becomes scary monsters when I expose them to light, get them wet and feed them after midnight . . . "sciatica" becomes cancer, chemo becomes heart attacks, "curative" surgery becomes a crippling, disfiguring, "non-curative" nightmare, "healing wound" become more cancer . . .

I struggle with the most intense case of Worst Case Scenario Syndrome (that's what happens, I guess, when everything one has ever believed in one's whole life has been shredded to beyond recognition, and then given back, in a great big ugly, unrecognizable mess, for one to try to put back together, with a few, very crucial pieces missing) . . . but, I am still in therapy (I heard that big ol' collective "whew. . . "from y'all) and one of my big goals is to learn to put the big and small stuff back in proper perspective. . . by the way, did you know that post traumatic stress isn't just for vets anymore? Yeah, me either. . .

Speaking of scary stuff, I attended my first graduate writing classes Monday, and I was so scared I started sweating profusely at home around 2 pm, switched bags eight times (do I use my backpack? Bob's old briefcase? My fashionable laptop "purse?" My old work shoulder bag? Bob's briefcase won out), left at 4 pm to make sure I got to St. Paul and found a parking space before my 6 pm class started. Got to campus at 4:35. . . to top it off, I sat right next to the professor in class (the room was arranged in a big square, and it was the luck of the draw—the chair I chose to sit in happened to be in the "front" of the room). All I need now is a pocket protector and some tape for my glasses, and I'm set. . .

The class sounds challenging—I am actually going to read real books! Novels! Memoirs! Poetry collections! Things other than grief self-help books! And writing real pieces! Short stories! Essays! Poetry, even! More than just whiney, inane blog entries! I already have to read a book and hand in four 2-3 page papers for next week's class! I am scared out of my mind!

I told my mom that I think I talked more in this very first class session of graduate school than I did my entire undergraduate career. Poor, unsuspecting suckers, don't know they've suddenly become my newest group therapy . . . and I'm probably the oldest in the class, by a good 20 years. So yes, on the first day, I've already taken the role of "that" annoying "non-traditional" student who commandeers the class, divulges way too much about her life, dispensing all kinds of world-weary "advice" to those whipper-snappers, completely oblivious to the yawning and eye-rolling going on around her . . .

I am looking forward to writing things other than this blog. No offense to y'all, just that I really am growing rather weary of thowing my life "out there" as I've done for the past two years . . . you'd never know it, but I am a rather private person and being so "out there" with this blog has been exhausting. Therapeutic, but exhausting, and sometimes downright uncomfortable. After I hit that "publish" button, I so often want to follow that with "delete. . ." I could talk till the cows come home but the truth remains: unless one has walked the path, ridden the rails, no one truly knows the meaning of Krazy Karnival Ryde. At this time, I still lack the ability to "make" anyone understand my journey, and at some point, I am going to have to be okay with the fact that I cannot "make" anyone understand anything. Myself included. . . even as excited as I am to be in the class room, the sobering truth remains, and that is the reason I am in the classroom to begin with. Fuck reinventing.

I don't think I'll discontinue this blog, but the entries may be even more sparse than they have been . . . then again, they are good exercises in writing . . . Stay tuned . . . or not . . .

Swan dive . . .

Without a thought or a word, she let go. 

She let go of fear. She let go of judgments. She let go of the

confluence of

opinions swarming around her head.

She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the

‘right’ reasons. 

Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go. 

She didn’t ask anyone for advice. She didn’t read a book on how to let go. 

She just let go.

She let go of all the memories that held her back. She let go of all of the 

anxiety that kept her from moving forward. 

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it 

just

right. She didn’t promise to let go. She didn’t journal about it. 

She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer. She made no public announcement. She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily 

horoscope. 

She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go. She didn’t call her 

friends to 

discuss the matter. She didn’t utter one word. 

She just let go. 

No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or

congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. 

Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go. 

There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. 

It was what it was, and it is just that. 

In the space of letting go, she let it all be.A small smile came over her 

face. A light breeze blew through her. 

And the sun and the moon shone forevermore. 

Here’s to giving ourselves the gift of letting go… 

There’s only one guru ~ you.

Jennifer Eckert Bernau

~ I attended a Grief Project gathering a few weeks ago, and the above piece was shared with the group . . . I wish I could take credit for the beautiful expression, but I am still struggling with words to define my experience . . .but it does speak to my soul, to my journey, this path I'm traveling, unwilling, unwanting, unwitting. . . it resonates so clearly to me, as a person, in how i've always approached life, or, how I used to approach life, I should say, before all the rules changed. . . I like to think of letting go as a swan dive. . . soaring, graceful, arcing, transcending . . . who ever knows if it's "right' or "proper" or "wrong" or "whatever" label we feel the need to tag on life experiences? A big lesson I'm relearning (or maybe truly learning for the firs time), is to let go. Step off the edge. Loosen the grip. Take that leap. Take the chances. Let go of convention. Lose your mind and just let go. The net will appear. And if it doesn't? So what. it's life. Someone or something will catch you, carry you. Even when you're dying . . .