To learn more about why I'm writing this new blog series, and my inspiration for writing it, READ THIS. The impact and contribution of dogs in my life appears in my memory as double underscored, in a bold font. Since childhood, I’ve partnered my life with dogs and can’t imagine living without them. All the best photographs of me, swimming deep in happiness, include dogs. When I was four, we had a tiny teacup poodle named Nannette. When I was ten, a fluffy mutt named Cindy, who had puppies unexpectedly… much to my parents’ consternation, but to my sheer delight. Tiny little bundles of unfinished fur, they took their time entering the world, waiting with patience for hearing, sight, and sturdy legs. But once they got going, they were unstoppable. I think part of the reason children in our neighborhood were never overweight was because we were constantly outside chasing puppies and dogs. We had a black Labrador named Misty who was my sister’s best friend for a long time, and a German Shorthair Pointer named Dutchess. She was an amazing hunter, helping my father bring in quail and pheasants. There was a span of life there for a while, in my early and mid-twenties, when I had cats, but no dogs. The restrictions of living in apartments in Michigan, Massachusetts, and North Carolina didn’t allow it. I settled for cats at the time, even though they were contraband, too… they were easier to hide. But still, cats, although adorable and snuggly, just didn’t fill my heart the way dogs do. When my son was out of his toddler years and I finally landed back in houses again, I adopted dogs from local animal shelters and invited them into my world, filling the void created from too long an absence. Hamlet was a Bull Terrier; you know, the Target dog; with an overwhelming personality and an unlimited supply of energy, but also a tenderness that no one could ignore. Darwin was a Pitbull/Wire Terrier/Dalmatian mutt who was dumb as a box of rocks, but worked hard and succeeded well at making everyone he encountered fall madly, deeply in love with him. As the years passed, my son grew older, and Bear came to live with us. A Golden Retriever, he was a big snuggle floof who loved to go for boat rides, swim, and go for walks more than almost any other dog I’ve ever known. He sang when I came home, and sometimes for his supper, and he liked to plop himself on my lap whenever I sat on the couch. Shortly thereafter, Alex came into our lives. He was a Retriever Mutt, of undecipherable origins… and I loved him. He had a tremendous personality and loved to play and run. It took a while for the two to warm up to each other, but once they did, they were inseparable for twelve years. They were brothers as much as any wolves found in the wild. Bear left us first, and Alex mourned his loss hard, took ill, and left shortly after. To people who say animals don’t have souls – my experience with Alex mourning his brother’s death emphatically proved them wrong. As the years passed, I grew older, and so did the dogs. One by one, each in their own time, they crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. Each loss was heartbreaking for me. I cried buckets of tears and found it hard to sleep at night for weeks after each loss, missing them so profoundly that an ache permeated every muscle in my body. Some say it is too difficult to go through it again, so they stop inviting dogs in after a loss. But for me, I cannot live without dogs. I don’t feel mentally stable or emotionally healthy when dogs are missing. I never replace any dog who has been lost – you can’t do that any more than you can replace the people you’ve lost. But what I can do is envelope more of them into my world, and (if you believe in such things, and I do) have a pack of them waiting to play with me again when I’m through in this world. The latest members of that pack are Finnigan, a Golden Retriever and Charlie, a Jack Russell/Rat Terrier mix. Finnigan recently celebrated his eighth birthday and Charlie his fifth. These two, like Bear and Alex before them, have grown up as brothers. They hike, boat, swim (okay, Charlie doesn’t swim, he wades) play, and snuggle together. But they’re different, too. Finnigan loves to make snow angles and help shovel the walkway. Charlie would much rather stay indoors and watch the snow fall outside from the comfort of a cozy blanket. They are happiest when they can walk around the neighborhood together or run unleashed through the open fields at the dog park. They are what veterinarians call a ‘bonded pair,’ and when either is separated from the other for too long, they search for their brother and are thrilled when reunited. Finnigan and I have a special language. When he was a tiny puppy, he made a humming noise a lot. It sounded like he was missing his siblings and crying for them. So, in an attempt to comfort him, I put my head against his and hummed back. That small vibration between our skulls seems to give him the comfort he sought. We still share this small, special communication. It comforts us both to be close and to understand each other’s love through the resonance of a hum. He is my ‘wiggle butt’ because from the time he was very small, his back legs wiggled when he walked… the happier he is, the more wiggle in his step. At eight, he still recognizes his full name as Finnigan Wiggle Butt. Charlie is the tiniest puppy (at just 20lbs) I’ve had in years – since those early days. He was no bigger than a bug when I brought him home, and the name stuck. He prefers to snuggle under blankets when not chasing squirrels, chipmunks, frogs or fish. Though not a swimmer, he enjoys gliding over the water while sitting on my lap in the kayak, perfectly content to watch the sky and wildlife, or other boaters as we pass by. His favorite thing in the world is making friends with other dogs. He's super-smart, and sometimes he can be willful, and he is very protective, barking at things he can’t identify… but he is my snuggle bug, and I feel blessed to have him in my life. There is something remarkable about sharing your life with dogs. Their energy fills the hallow spaces of a house like nothing else I’ve ever known. They are the most stalwart of companions, never giving up on me, and never rejecting me. They are always eager to snuggle by my side, walk with me in nature, play with unbridled joy, and comfort me on my most insecure days. They remind me about the longevity of loyalty, unfailing, unconditional love, and the importance of embracing joy daily. I will forever invite them to walk with me through life. I know what it’s like to live without them, and I like this better. Snuggly puppies – especially (today), Finnigan Wiggle Butt and Charlie Bug Make Life Worth Living!
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The Inspiration For Things That Make Life Worth Living: 29,000 Sunsets by Andrew Allen Smith Many of you may know my friend, Andrew Allen Smith, an amazing indie author, dog whisperer, conduit of pure joy, wisdom-seeker, and all-around nice guy. Some of you know about his blog, 29,000 Sunsets, in which he writes daily about attitude, perspective, wisdom, joy, passion, and so much more. He also shares tremendously stunning photographs that accompany each day's thoughts. I read his posts each morning as I begin my day with hot cocoa and a sleepy dog on my lap. After reading Andrew's thoughts for some time now, I have realized that too often, I don't pay enough attention to the elements in my life that help to grow a better me, nor do I truly appreciate the wonderment that exists every day. Today, that changes. Today, I'm making a more concerted effort to reassess the value of the now and focus my energies on forward appreciation rather than backward regret. It is said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and so, I've made a choice to reframe my perspective of life daily and reflect on the Things That Make Life Worth Living... the tangible stuff you could put in a box and save under your bed forever, if you really felt the need... and the mysteriously magical stuff that you can always feel, sometimes see and hear, and rarely hold in the palm of your hand. I'll endeavor to write about it all here, hoping that what I write comes close to teaching me the same intentionality of life that Andrew lives. I welcome your comments, should you feel so inclined... but respectfully request that, as Thumper taught us: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." I was first introduced to Josh White Jr. and his music when I was 14 years old. I was an awkward, frail, shy, tremendously self-critical freshman in high school, trying to figure out where I fit. Through the magic of risk-taking, I discovered the family of Theatre in my first period Stagecraft class. Very quickly, I discovered that this was where I belonged. The theatre was filled with tremendously, creatively weird people who banded together like knights defending a castle... except that the castle morphed into a new set every eight weeks, and we were armed with songs and dance routines (many different variations of "jazz hands") as our weapons. We worked late into the night, so many nights I've lost count, building worlds of escapism for others and commonality for each other. We had bonfires to celebrate our victories against becoming "normal," and we sang under the moon, in the stark morning light, and in snippets of choruses as we walked from class to class. One night, early in my first autumn with this new family I'd discovered, I was invited to hear a folk singer perform at The Raven Gallery... an amazing fortress against the world where folk and blues music clung to the rafters and we theatre nuts helped push it out into the night skies. Josh White Jr. was there that first night I visited, with just a guitar and his strong, soothing, welcoming voice and incredible laugh. He told stories, shared the history of his legacy, passed from his famous father, and gave us permission and encouragement to sing on or off key, each with the same measure of reckless abandon. I was immediately captivated by this incredible mistral and his music. He sang about Grandma's Hands, St. James Infirmary, The Dutchman, a Blue Balloon, Unicorns, Rainbows, and One Meatball. He invited us to sing along with him, and he taught us how to make it rain. He had a presence that was engaging, joyful, and larger than life on stage. Afterward, I gathered up my courage and approached him, certain that I would be easily dismissed. But I felt compelled to tell him how he'd touched me that night, even if it meant I would be rejected. I had to tell him how much I enjoyed the show. When my small frame and tiny voice reached him, I discovered a remarkably soft, kind, gentle, humble, loving, generous human... more than imaginably possible. He drew me into a warm embrace and authentically thanked me for coming to the show, and that he was glad I had a good time. I was touched, felt seen, heard, and valued. There are moments in time when we realize that people are meant to be a part of our lives, for all our lives. This moment, meeting Josh for the first time, was such a moment for me. From that time to this, whenever possible, I have traveled to all the venues, large and small... to fill my heart and soul with this man's music. I bought his records and memorized every word, every note. The theatre crew and I attended him at The Raven Gallery until it closed, we followed him to the basement at Red Cedars, to the hall at The Botsford Inn, to small farmer's markets, to The Ark in Ann Arbor, and small village music festivals all over Michigan. Yes, I am proud to admit that I became a devoted Josh White Jr. groupie. Josh's music got me through some of the most difficult and most joyous times in my life. His voice was there when my grandmother passed away, through relationships, heartbreaks, when my son was born, potty training my puppy, and so many more. His stories and songs, many of which were gifts from his father, are gloriously entangled into the soundtrack of my life. At each live performance, I hang back afterward to tell him how I feel so grateful for his support of my spirit, for the joy of his music, and for the honor I feel each time, being able to hear him, and share him with those I cherish. Every time, he remembers me. We recognize each other as touchstone to our lives. We laugh, reminiscing on those early shows, we introduce our children to each other and talk about life and the projects we're working on... music, teaching, theatre, books. Sometimes, if I get to the venue early enough, I catch him and request a song. He never disappoints. After each show, we share a warm, long, sincere hug, and we take photos together to mark the year. (Someday soon, I'll digitize all the really old ones.) This weekend, I again followed Josh to a small music festival on Saturday, and then to The Ark on Sunday, where he was celebrated for his 80 years of contributing to the world through his music and storytelling. I felt honored to be among the audience at both shows. But more, I felt honored to receive his warm, strong hug and return it, kissing his cheek, and telling him in his ear how much he has touched, changed, and enriched my life. My joyful tears were silent... but my voice is not so tiny anymore. The generosity of Josh White Jr. and his music helped me to hear myself and be heard by others. Josh White Jr. is more than a singer/songwriter to me. He is one of the people That Makes Life Worth Living! |
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