dog walks at the shelter

Walks with my canine friends at the shelter continue. There is always a need.

Most of my furry buddies are pretty excited to get out into the snow, delighted to snuffle their noses a bit in the white stuff. They want to chase things down into the bushes, and explore the tracks of those who’ve gone before them. There are actually quite a few birds flitting around in the trees and brush, teasing the dogs with their chirps.

Some of the residents are so incredibly loving and anxious for affection — they are more interested in cuddling or petting than walking. A few are so bruised from their personal histories that they are petrified with fear. It breaks my heart on both ends of the spectrum.

They wear the ghosts of their histories. Just like people, they are each interesting and individual and feeling. I am glad they have a safe, warm, and caring place to be right now, but I am sad for the path that led to their arrival there.

I come away from my shelter walks with a smile, but always feeling blue, too.

the long month of february

Contrary to the simplistic assertions of the calendar, February is, in fact, the longest month of the year. Ask any Michigander.

The cold, the snow, and the dearth of sunshine conspire to thwart our typical notion of time. Where once life carried on with abandon, now the terrain is silent, stark, and foreboding. The snow is piled up into formidable mountains under heavy, grey skies. The short days of winter are long and wearying.

Rarely does the sun emerge from behind those walls of gray clouds to beckon us to venture forth. It’s cold. Really cold. All the time.

Precious few dare a walk or run. It’s a lonely endeavor. Still, for some of us, there’s an instinct that compels us get out, to move one’s limbs, to feel the whole arc of our selves.

Sidewalks are generally a thing of the past, of course. Where folks made the effort and actually did clear their sidewalks, those turn out to be the most treacherous stretches for walking anyway – they have turned into unmaintainable ice sheets.

As a result, one walks or runs in the road, and at their peril. The roads themselves leave little space for a pedestrian. The snow and the ice encroach on the traveled portion of the pavement, forcing one to be wary and nimble, always prepared to negotiate oncoming traffic. It’s a sketchy endeavor.

It’s actually not strange to be forced to stop now and then just to figure out how to get from one point to another, like across a street. There may be such an amalgamation of dicey ice and snow mountains and traffic that it demands to be puzzled out in advance. Sometimes, the best course of action is actually to turn around and go back.

Nevertheless, those of us committed to walking or running persist. It remains, always, uplifting to get out into the air, if frigid. To see the trees, to hear the birds and be amazed by them. To spy the squirrels, still about their business somehow. To observe the dark river push its way through the stark landscape, sometimes carrying icy chunks. To feel the freedom of movement in space. To simply allow one’s mind to relax and expand beyond the confines of indoors.

I admit to feeling restricted to walking. The roadways are just too unpredictable and hazardous for me to feel safe running. And I am anxious to run. I need to run. I have considered an indoor track, but I yearn for the outdoor one. It’s how I feel whole.

Regardless of my petty needs, the reality is that February just carries on. And on, and on, and on.

I know, however, how these long, bleak days finally transform, making the wait somehow worth it. The little clues begin to show themselves before spring arrives and revives all of the life of this strange, harsh, sleeping world. Then, the long month of February becomes a fleeting illusion, a dream half-forgotten on waking.

It won’t be long. The calendar is proof of that.

flight path

Absolutely spectacular day here yesterday. The temperature soared up to near 50 degrees, with blue, blue skies lavishing the scenery. Too good not to be out in it.

I ventured out this time to a town with which I am not familiar. I just wanted to explore a little.

Along the way, I travelled country roads, and that wonderful phenomenon took me by surprise: the way things just fall away from you as you leave the city behind and you begin to absorb the calm of the country. It feels almost physical. Worries, concerns, the general buzz of background stress just begin to drop away.

Once I arrived, I discovered that the town had a riverwalk. So, of course, I started walking.

As I set out, I heard the loud honking of geese just overhead. I quickly realized that I was surrounded by them – on the water, in the air, in the field. Apparently the migrating geese liked this location, and I just happened to be there at the right time.

They were wary, but neither did they flee. It was such a treat to see them all, and so close, and at this particular moment – a moment of change.

I wended my way along the path, also noticing that there were quite a few ducks, carrying on a rather lively discussion, too.

When I had walked a ways along, I looked back across the field where so many geese were resting. Just then, two people walked out. Instead of walking the path, they walked straight into the field. And, naturally, this inspired the entire assembly of geese in the vicinity to take to the air. It was a lovely sight to behold, though I was chagrined that their stop-over was interrupted.

I just stood and watched the rising layers of geese, easily forming their orderly flight arrangements. Up, up, up, and sailing off into the blue all together.

I wonder how far their travels will take them, when I’ll see them returning. Why now is the right time.

So much that I don’t know. So much beautiful mystery in life.

hey, it’s a start anyway

New Year’s Eve day we had reports of a snowstorm moving in. So, that morning, I am happy to say that I did get out and on the move, hoping to beat the storm. During the first mile, I began to feel the cold pings of sleet, but forged on. It picked up, but never got overwhelming. It turned out to be a great, invigorating run.

The snow didn’t materialize according to schedule. First, there was the long, steady sleet, and eventually it was rain. At a couple of points, it was actually raining pretty hard, with puddles and all. It wasn’t until late in the evening when the rain finally turned to snow. That, of course, meant ice.

I had originally planned to participate in an organized hike on New Year’s morning, one of those First Day Hikes, at a place I had never before visited.  When morning actually arrived, however, it was pretty clear the roads were really too treacherous to get to the starting point. 

Nevertheless, I still made myself venture out on foot. It was a tentative, careful exploration. It was indeed very icy everywhere.

I slowly headed for one of my familiar routes nearby and I just walked, rather mincingly. I knew running was out of the question, but I carefully and gradually picked up a little speed. Most of the time, I crunched my way through the grass since the sidewalks and the roads were really not safe.

I crossed paths with a couple of teens who were delighted to discover just how slippery it was out. They weren’t making much headway, and one took a tumble, but they were getting a good laugh out of it.

All in all, I covered about five miles, albeit with much retracing of steps – happily meditative. I noticed my own footprints as I came upon them, and felt that apparently I actually had made my mark, if ephemeral, on the world.

My New Year’s outing wasn’t fast, but it was good. It made a cheerful compromise, in keeping with my plans for the new year. Staying in motion is so important for my physical and mental/emotional health.

I consider it a good start to 2019.

epic journeys

I stumbled upon a surprising and happy memory the other day.  Peggy’s Cove in Nova Scotia popped up in a post on Glenn and Lynn’s engaging Just A Bit Further blog.

I crossed paths with Peggy’s Cove many years ago while in the midst of an epic journey, double-handing a sailboat on a very long voyage. I wrote a little bit about it before here and here.

I carry many cherished images in my mind from that journey, Peggy’s Cove among them. Even more than the treasure trove of mental images, though, it’s the stories I love. In the end, it’s the elemental experience itself – the challenges and  unknowns I faced and weathered – that I prize.

That journey changed my life. It changed me.

There were so many life lessons and character forgings I could not quantify them.

That is what happens with epic journeys.

Not all epic journeys are lengthy ones. Sometimes it’s a few days or even a few hours. You know when you’ve been on one.

And every single time, you come out richer, wiser, closer to your own soul.

Earlier this year, I spent a couple of days hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail in California. I met some thru-hikers while I was there, and later I followed some of them via their vlogs. Talk about epic journeys!

It is amazing to see how these folks change and grow and adapt and meet challenges and face fear and injury and make friends as they hike those 2,650 miles.

A few years ago, I met a young man who set out to walk across the United States. His whole mission was to promote kindness – to oneself, to those we know, to strangers. Sharing a moment with him a little past his 1,000-mile mark in his solo trek made a surprising impact on me – a real-time glimpse into the power of his experience. By the way, he’s still on that mission, even though that particular journey’s over. Check out his website, Go Greater Good.

There’s travel, and then there’s epic journeys. Those are the ones that test you. The ones that demand you confront yourself. Learn your own amazing strength. Face your fears. See what really matters. Grow your resilience, fortitude, creativity, self confidence, determination, humility, compassion, capacity for joy.

They remind you that your own life is an epic journey.

I don’t think it’s about doing anything extreme or exotic, it’s mainly putting yourself in situations that call on you to respond with parts of yourself you may not know so well or that you resist.

Or maybe forgot.

a different path

After some pretty frigid temps, there’s been a nice respite in the weather. It felt good to get out on the city park trails which wind along next to the river. Didn’t even wear a hat.

In the summer, the trails are pretty busy, but right now they’re basically deserted. It’s a little eerie.

Still, I was able to hear birds singing, and see them flitting among the brush. Spotted two squirrels practically cuddled up on a branch together. Ducks were cavorting in the river, splashing, and riding the current.

At one spot, the train tracks run across the trail. What do you know, a train came. I stood there close enough to feel the rumble under my feet.

As I crossed through the abandoned park expanse, I saw a man approaching. As he got nearer, I could see that he was carrying something in one hand, but kind of shielding it from view. It made me uncomfortable. As we passed, I looked back. I could clearly see that what he was carrying was a large wooden club.

I wondered if the city trails are more dangerous than I know. Or if this is just a man who is a little paranoid. Either way, I think carrying something like that actually does make the city trails more dangerous, and it serves to make one a little paranoid, too. Certainly bothered me.

That brief, uneventful encounter alters things. Regardless of my intentions, I realize I already feel less inclined to return to the trails for a run, despite the fact that I truly love the access to nature there. It makes me mad that on a perfectly pleasant day, people feel compelled to arm themselves to be out in it. 

I am sad for our loss of community, for the distrust and fear with which everyone lives now. It is time to find our way back – to find connection and purpose and joy in our shared experience on this earth instead of the manufactured violence and separation that greedy capitalism fuels.

I believe it is possible, too, but it takes vision, intention, and personal effort to move to recover true and functional community. It won’t come from the top. It takes each one of us to make it happen. It takes courage, too, at the very least, to choose a different path than the one we’re shown and herded along.

The birds and the squirrels and the ducks – they’re on to something. Beautiful, peaceful coexistence within nature. Why wouldn’t we?

remembering who you are – the toolbox

I still struggle against unhealthy patterns learned early on in life and in a long-term abusive relationship. The objective is always to remember who I am, and to honor that. That’s not always as easy as it might sound.

There’s been a tremendous amount of work and education sorting it out. Along this journey, I’ve realized there are a few essential things that facilitate the process in a practical way – my tools, if you will.

My toolbox contains six go-to items that reliably help me remember who I am. I try to ‘touch’ my tools every day. (As a quilter, I remember a maxim that one should at least touch their current quilting project every day. The logic was that if you took time out to stop and touch your project, you couldn’t help but be drawn in to working on it no matter how busy or crazy your day was.)

So here are the tools in my toolbox right now:

• Write

Writing is essential to me, whether I am journaling or writing for publication. The act of writing helps me to process and organize thoughts, to explore issues, and to connect. I write lots of different ways. Even when I am not writing, I am making notes. Writing also relates to photography, making me more aware of what I see in a day, and what matters to me.

• Run

If I’m not running, or at least walking, it is a clear signal that I have shut the door on my self. Running is an amazing gateway to remembering who I am. It is a meditative process which engages my body and all its memories. When I run, I am very present. I am able to quiet the noise of the inner critic, and to just see what’s there. I am so grateful to have discovered this tool. It is indispensable.

• Make

Creativity is at the core of who I am. This relates to writing, but it also relates to hands-on, tactile creative acts. I learned to sew when I was 12 years old, and the process of creating things from textiles has been a part of me ever since. Pen and ink is another medium to which I am always drawn. Building things, using tools, always satisfies. I love to express and to give through creative acts, but this is an area into which it is often very difficult to allow myself.

• Nature

Oddly, it took me awhile to recognize my real need to be in nature. Nature is absolutely restorative. It brings me back to one. All of my running and walking is done outside, which is part of the reason it is such a profoundly centering experience. I love to feel the wind, the rain, the snow. I love the trees, the birds, the wooly bears, the Monarchs. When I am in nature, I am home.

• Nourish

If one honors one self, this most basic act of properly nourishing one’s self must be addressed. I have noticed that, like running, when I stop eating and hydrating well, I have turned away from remembering who I am. It is, obviously, fundamental. This is a far more complicated topic than it might appear, because it touches on so many big issues from physical to spiritual, environmental, gender, ethics, and more.

• Connect

Given the destructive patterns established early on for me, I struggle with connection. I do find ways to connect through all the other tools in the box, though. For example, at times, when I may have difficulty actually connecting with other people around me, I may connect by writing and/or publishing. I recognize, nevertheless, how important it is to be connected with other folks and with my self.  It is something at which I must consciously and deliberately work since my self has learned so well to simply hide. Running, creating, hiking, food are avenues to connection. I stay mindful of this. I am gentle with myself about this, though. This tool is not always easy to use, but it’s essential. Spiritual connection is also integral to, well, everything.

There’s a lot more I could say about each one of these areas.

One of my little ‘grounding’ reminders is to sort of count off my first five tools on the fingers of my hand – write, run, make, nature, nourish. Then, I put my hand against my heart to remember: ‘connect’. My little mantra helps to remind me that I have these tools, and to look for ways to employ them each day.

When I honor who I am, I am the best I can be for others.

What’s in your toolbox?

walking buddies

Flora bounds out the door, and flies as fast as her little feet can carry her out across the grass. I trot behind her, letting her lead the way. She zooms along like there’s no tomorrow until all of the sudden, wham, she stops on a dime. I know this is coming, so I manage not to run over her.

She looks shyly up at me without moving her head in my direction. I reach down and pick her up, we walk slowly for a few paces while I give her ears a gentle rub and scratch underneath her collar. Then, I set her down, and off she goes again to the races – until the next abrupt stop, where we reprise with more cuddling.

It’s my morning to walk dogs at the animal shelter – always an adventure. I usually walk about four of them in a session. The shelter is lucky to have a beautiful trail out behind it dedicated to the activities of walking and socializing the resident canines.

I never know who I’m walking until a staff person brings them around the corner amidst the din of barking and howls from the assembly in the shelter. Some of the dogs I have, sadly, walked many times. There are always newcomers, too.

The dogs run the gamut from the little ones, like Flora, to the bigger ones, like Bailey.

It took me awhile to figure Bailey out just a little. He’s very aloof, seems very uninterested in relating. Then, I discovered that he loves ear rubs. He leans into them, hard. After that, I saw the first flicker of recognition in his eyes – as if he was finally seeing me.

Shasta’s a flipper – he gets so excited to be out and running that he just flips around in circles in the air. Danny loves to bring his bone with him and eventually finds a spot to bury it.

They are all investigators of one sort another. Some are sniffers, meticulously making their way along the edges of the trail to see exactly who’s been here before them. Others don’t seem to care so much about scents, but they are visually very alert.

I’m always both sad and happy when I’m walking the dogs. They’ve each come to the shelter with a history of which I know nothing. It’s easy to see the fear in some of them, the lostness. Others seem impervious to it all. I like to think that they were well-loved before this chapter in their lives, but sometimes it’s hard to convince myself of that.

Then there’s a dog like Frank, a real character I walked quite a few times. I was delighted when I arrived one day and learned he had been adopted. About a week later, he was back. Thankfully, he did eventually go home to new adopters.

The dogs are all mysteries, carrying whatever baggage they’ve accrued, but they are open and trusting, even if sometimes rather tentative about it. Sentient beings indeed.

We have a lot in common.

I love my dog walks. I love getting outside in the fresh air with them, roaming around the woods on the trail. We see butterflies and snakes, hear the birds calling, feel the sunshine and wind without a fence around. I talk a lot with the dogs, and give them plenty of pets.

I am always so grateful for this time with them. I really hope it helps them and makes them happy, at least for a bit. I know they do that for me.

you are here

Today, it’s raining.

It’s one of those light, steady rains that’s not going away.

Having recently reached an agreement with myself to get outside and walk or run every day, I pull on my windbreaker and head out.

The river that runs through the park flows swiftly in places, roiling over the hidden rocks. Eddies churn in the various corners of the route. Other spots are flat and still, quietly dotted with raindrops.

Along the edges, everything looks so dark and so green. It makes me realize how close we are coming to the change of seasons.

People blast music out from under the protection of the park’s pavilion. The smoke of barbecue wafts through the air. Snippets of laughter and chatter bite the atmosphere, eerily crisp and distinct.

 

On the other side of the wide expanse, another pavilion is draped with white. A crowd gathers there for a wedding, folks struggling hastily with their dressy attire in the rain.

I silently skitter along the path, noticing the cabbage butterfly flitting among the viney greens, the pair of ducks nestled against the far shore of the river.

Thunder rumbles.

A small boy rides his bicycle up and down, up down through the empty skate park. He halts and looks warily at me as I pass.

“Looks like fun,” I smile at him.

He suddenly brightens all over and smiles back.

“Thank you!” His little voice sounds surprised and hopeful and suddenly proud.

No, today, I didn’t bother worrying about pace or posture, I just made sure I got outside and moved. And I knew why it is so worth it. It’s the magic of that gentle, affirming connection with what’s out there – the earth, the sky, the air.  And the occasional soul.