Day: June 14, 2012

Every morning, I wake up, get dressed, go downstairs to let the dogs out,

to start breakfast, I pick up the camera,

switch it on, choose a lens, feel it’s good and heavy weight in my hand,

snap everything into place, put on my cap, my boots.

I love the sound of the old farmhouse,

creaking and groaning a bit, like a beautiful

old steamship setting out of the harbor,

proud and steady. So quiet, the soft yellow

light spreading gently across the big old rooms.

I feed the cats,  let the chickens out of the barn,

throw them some pumpkin seeds, and I

yell good morning up the hill to Simon, a donkey I love,

who brays good morning back to me.

The sun is soaring over the big barn,

lighting up the hillside like a spotlight on Broadway.

Inside again, I look out of every window.

Where, I wonder, is the light this morning?

Shining on what? Casting what shadows?

And my heart beats with excitement. What can I love today?

What can I look forward to? What will come into my life,

And I look up the stairs  and smile with gratitude to you, my heart, curled up

asleep in bed, a baby’s sleep, so deep and untroubled and pure.

Come down to me. I am waiting with your buttered muffin,

your tea, your bowl of fruit, with colors mixed, arranged in an arc,

the way an artist would want, would deserve.

 

I can hardly believe the good things pouring into my life sometimes. I think if you allow it, good things will find you, and fill you up in a blink. I have wanted for years to assemble a gifted, supportive, creative group of writers to work with me to put together some terrific stories, possibly a book or some plays and to see the creative spark in worthy people ignite. I think this dream came true last night at Hubbard Hall.

We got a lot of applicants for the workshop and screened them very carefully, and we chose very well. I wanted the class to be small so that we would all get a chance to talk and know one another.

The class has a doctor, a milk truck driver, a professional photographer, a housewife, among other things. They are all open and eager to help each other. In just a few minutes, we were kicking some wonderful ideas around, talking about the value of blogs, the structure of stories,  figuring out how to support and communicate with each other. You could almost touch the excitement and energy in the room. For our first meeting we met in Hubbard Hall’s Main Theater – for dramatic affect. We will meet again next Thursday in a smaller room and begin to hone our ideas. We talked about trying visuals, texts, video voices, narrative links, photography, collage and words, all focusing on different elements of rural life – health care, community, animals. Lenore provided moral support.

It’s an impressive group and we were just warming up after a few hours. The Hubbard Hall Writers are Jen Baker-Porazinski, Rachel Barlow, Diane Fiore, Kim Gifford, Christine Glade, John Greenwood and Becki Trudell (couldn’t make it this week but will be there next Thursday.) I am lucky to be a part of this group, a dream come true for me.

It always seemed a cliche to me, this idea of the outdoors as one vast art gallery. It depends on what you see, and how you see it, I guess. Anything can be seen as beautiful, give the right eye and the open mind. I am appreciating the Daisy.

I am asked almost every day if I miss Izzy and Rose and if I still grieve for them. As Red’s arrival approaches – he is due here on Sunday night – these questions come more into focus for me. This is an intersection of dog’s lives, and of my life with dogs, the new and the old. Rose was my working dog, a herding dog, and so the idea of Red bears more directly on her than on Izzy. He was also a working dog, but a different kind. He was a hospice therapy dog (one of the people looking at the farm  does therapy dog work. That would be a happy ending) but was not ever trained to work with sheep.

Rose was arguably the dog closest to me in my life and I suppose it is natural for people to wonder how I square Red with grieving and mourning. So I’ll be honest about it. I don’t miss Rose or Izzy too much. I am always surprised to receive messages from people who seem to be grieving these dogs more than me. Once in awhile, I feel a stab or a twinge when I do something I did with them – visit sheep, walk on the path. Last night there was a loud cat fight and Rose used to break those up. She did many things like that and I miss her presence.

But I am not grieving for Rose or Izzy. I don’t really believe in too much grieving, nor do I think it is necessary or appropriate to grieve too long for a dog, especially when there are so many things – including dogs – in my life that I love. I will not be thinking of Rose when Red arrives, nor will I be thinking much of Izzy. I loved them dearly, treated them well, marked their passing. I think grief for me – the sad stories of our lives – is something of a feeling, something of a choice. I don’t have to be sad about a dog like Rose living a wonderful life, leaving the world in peace and comfort. My life is busy and full and I do not choose it to spend too much time in grief. I wonder if grief is not an expectation as well as a natural feeling.

I understand it is somewhat heretical to think this way, and anyone is free to follow their own feelings, but I never really see the point of missing things that are gone, or feeling sad about things I cannot help. I want to move forward with my life and feel there was a purpose to my being born. Since everything I love will die, including me, I accept that as a part of life, not as part of darkness.

A new dog is a momentous event in my life, in the life of the farm, in my work. Red deserves my full and focused attention, my joy at receiving him, my conscientious care of him. I am not the sort of person who loves anything new right away. I do not love unconditionally. There are always conditions, and there ought to be. Red will love me if I treat him well, bring him to work, am consistent and attentive. I will love him through work and training, and also sharing my life with him. On walks, rides, visits to the pasture. These bonds are built step-by-step, day by day. Dogs are generous with their hearts if treated well. And I love my dogs.

There is little grief or lament in this process for me. Rose and Izzy are no longer a part of it. I do not wish her to be hovering in the pasture, visiting us, watching over things. My wish for both of them is that they move on to other lives in fresh new worlds. Make room for Red.

Each day, a new choice, a new opportunity.