I understand little about Phrenology, but I love my Phrenology head, I bought it a few years ago as a muse,and it has been somewhat supplanted by other muses – writers are superstitious. Phrenology is a kind of Victorian pseudo-medicine focused on measurements of the human skull, he idea is that the brain is the organ of the mind, and certain brain areas have specific and localized modules. It is a theory of the brain and the science of character reading derived from the largely forgotten and highly idiosyncratic theories of Viennese physician Franz Joseph Gall.
The head is supposed to show and outline the various centers of the brain, and how they affect human behavior. That’s about all I know. My head sits on a bookcase in the living room, and I think it is alive sometimes, the eyes seem to follow me around the house when the sunlight strikes.
This morning, I sat in my chair meditating and the sun burst into the room and it landed squarely on my Phrenology head, which took on an eerie and somewhat beautiful glow against the books that keep it company. Perhaps I will take him out into the study for awhile and give him a chance of pace, he can stare at me all he wants in there, and who knows, perhaps Dr. Gall’s head will help my writing.
I like the photo, I took it my new Petzval lens, which makes it a bit eerie than the head already is. If you stare at the photo, you will see he is looking straight at you.
Good news today from Christie L. under intensive physical therapy at the Indian River Rehabilitation Center and Nursing Home in Granville, N.Y. It was the most optimistic and hopeful message I’ve gotten yet in my dialogue with Christie on Facebook.
“I had a good night,” she wrote. “I am not feeling so bad about being here. I can make it work. Hopefully, I will only be here a couple of weeks. I really need the physical therapy. I don’t want to sit forever. Give Red a hug for me. I really miss my friends at the Mansion. I think about them all the time.”
This is the most determined message I’ve gotten from Christie, she is adjusting to Indian River and accepting her need to undergo physical therapy so she can walk on her own again. Christie is only 60, she is strong and clear. All of the Mansion residents have to be mobile and able to transfer themselves from a bed onto a wheelchair or into a walker if necessary.
The doctors have said Christie’s mental state and willingness to work hard are the keys to her getting back to the Mansion. They are out of medical treatments to help her, she needs to move much more regularly and frequently, change her diet and focus on her rehabilitation.
I’m not at Indian RIver, but it seems she is coming to terms with these challenges and accepting them. This has made me think it’s soon time for Red and I to visit her at Indian River, about an hour from the farm. I think boundaries are essential here, this is Christie’s show, not mine, her decisions, not mine. But the visits from Red clearly help. Maybe Wednesday or Thursday.
Christie has to commit herself to her treatment, and it seems from her words, that might be happening. This is the first time she has expressed confidence that her rehab can work. One of her doctors told me that if she thinks it can work, it can work.
If so, she will get back to the Mansion, where the staff has refused to move her things or permit them to be moved. They expect her to get back there. They have not given up on her, and from her message, Christie is not giving up on herself. She is missed there, her friends ask about her every day.
There is much at stake in Christie’s mental attitude towards her health care. To change is one path, to not change is another, and that is her decision and hers alone.
Today’s was a good message to get.
Your messages to Christie are a combination of oxygen, fuel and inspiration. I am not here to save Christie or to pity her, but she does have the option of saving herself and getting herself back where wants to be. You can write her if you with at this address: Christie L., The Indian River Rehabilitation Center and Nursing Home, , 17 Madison Street, Granville, N.Y., 12832.
Christie, like some other Mansion residents, has felt invisible and forgotten. It matters greatly for her to see people believe in her and are watching her.
Today is Chloe’s last day with us, we exchanged nose kisses. We will miss her and wish her well.
In some ways, my life is a monologue – my blog. At other times, it is a dialogue – my books and social media pages.
One of the things I have always struggled with is the behavior of the people I call the Sadness Thieves, people who take the lives and stories I write about animals and twist them to meet their own sadness and grief about life.
Yesterday, I wrote about the horses in our lives: the carriage horses, Rocky, the blind old Appaloosa Pony, and Chloe, our Haflinger-Welsh pony who is going to live with someone else today.
Almost immediately, there was a post from someone saying she loved Rocky and was saddened by his story.
I replied that there was no reason to feel sad about Rocky. Maria and I don’t, and he was our pony and we loved him very much.
Rocky had a wonderful life, he lived the equivalent of 100 years. Our donkey Simon would not accept his presence here – herd animals drive away the sick and infirm, they are a danger to the herd – and Rocky was distressed. He had been alone on the far for years, this was highly stressful for him.
He was also struggling with a long list of serious health problems. It took many hours just to fix his teeth.
At the vet’s suggestion, and following our own instincts, we chose to euthanize him before another winter.
It was one of the most merciful and loving acts of love I have been a part of in my life with animals. Animals have taught me what mercy really is, it is not just keeping things alive by any means at all costs. And farm animals are not pets in the way dogs are.
Rocky was loved every day of his life, and had freedom and purpose all of his long life and was safe and cared for. You cannot say that about a lot ponies and horses. Approximately 150,000 horses are sent to slaughter every year in Canada and Mexico.
I think Rocky’s life was never easy, especially as his owner aged and fell ill, but I think it was a better life than almost any pony anywhere might live. He managed it beautifully, he had his own trails and sense of distance.
For animal, for people, just because something isn’t easy doesn’t mean it isn’t good. I can testify to that.
We loved to walk with Rocky (and Red, who acted as his guide sometimes) down into the woods and down to the stream where he drank. We loved to brush him and sit with him.
We’ve taken the same walk with Chloe many times. This prompted another huffy Facebook post right away from Anne. “That depends on your definition of “wonderful.” As I recall, Rocky was terrified at the end.” Nothing should surprise me on social media any more, but some messages do startle me. I just can’t imagine writing that to someone I i didn’t know about their own animals that I had never seen.
I also replied to Anne, saying “Anne, I don’t remember seeing you here at the end. It was quite a peaceful and beautiful moment, Rocky was in no way terrified. Were you hiding in the bushes? And why are you sadder than me?”
I cannot begin to understand how a total stranger can tell me what me and Maria and one of my animals was feeling at the point of death, such a private and personal thing. It seems so arrogant to me. I guess people do it because they now can, it’s as simple as a couple of clicks on a keyboard. You don’t have to think about it. Would she say that to me if she were standing in my living room? Why is this different?
In my therapy, I was told again and again not to steal the grief or troubles of other people. I have always been a bit outside the circle, but I am always surprised when people who do not know me or my animals see their struggles and their inevitable and eventual deaths as something for them to be sad about it.
It feels like they are stealing my sadness and using it for their own purposes. It feels invasive.
To flatter myself, I could say it’s because I write about the animals well, and I hope I do, but that would be the most arrogant interpretation. People in our culture do not seem to know or accept the fact that we will all die and suffer.
Or that we can’t give our animals perfect lives. In the case of Chloe, we just are too busy – successful, I guess – to give her the attention she deserves. We know somebody who can, lucky pony. In the case of Rocky we went to great expense and much trouble to give this blind old creature a couple of really good year before he succumbed to life.
In the wild, or even in another time, would have been killed long ago, and much more brutally.
His confrontation with Simon was unfortunate, and yes, sad, but he was very ill and frail, and he simply could not have handled another winter, said the vet, let alone Simon’s rejection. The trouble just sent him over the edge. He had lived a long, and yes, “wonderful” life, his troubles with Simon do not negate that.
One reason I don’t write more about the animals in my life – Orson, Rose, Lenore, Frieda – is the outpouring of messages I get from people every time I do who are sadder than me about their loss. Is something wrong with me? Am I cold and detached? I don’t wish to make people sad or feed their sadness.
When we have problems, does it mean we don’t have good lives? Can we give our animals perfect lives, even when we can’t give them to ourselves? Should we really try?
I am grateful for Orson, for Rose, for Chloe and Rocky and Lenore and Frieda.
They all have brought me great joy and love and pleasure, and what would be sad for me is to never have known them or had the opportunity to care for them. I am sorry Rocky had to get butted and kicked by Simon, but his life was in no way sad. How many old ponies get to live happily for more than 15 years after they lose their sight?
Whenever I think of those animals, I smile, I am happy and feel gratitude, not sadness. Maybe something is missing in me. And I surely will not take in the grief and loss of millions of other people whose animals die every day.
This is the choice we make, or I should say, that I make. Am I grateful for what I have, or grateful for what I have lost? I do not expect my animals to live forever, or even for too long. Animals have rough and unpredictable lives, many things can kill them or bring them down.
That is a part of it. I am not sad when someone else’s dog dies, I am sorry for their pain. But I will not be a grief and sadness thief, and I will not give my own emotions or sadness away to others. Maria and I share a life with animals, among other things, but our feelings about them are still personal, and it is not for anyone sitting at a computer a thousand miles away to tell us what our animals felt or what we feel, or to steal our own loss and sadness.
Social media challenges all of us to respect the boundaries of others, especially when they are invisible and so easy to cross.
I am not in favor of walls, but I do understand why some people want them.
It is okay for people to disagree with me, I don’t hate them for it. I do not wish to share or steal all of their sadness and trouble, any more than they are responsible for mine. I am not sad when other animals live natural lives and experience life as it really is, unpredictable, glorious, frightening and difficult.
We will all die, us, everyone we love, every animal we know, every plant or tree or flower that we see. That is the glory and mystery of life. We are believed to be the only species who know they will die, yet we seem to avoid it all costs, we think we can fend it off.
Theologians have long wondered why, if there is a God, he allows pain and suffering in the world. I can’t answer the question.
For me, grace is not about a pain-free life without loss or sorrow, it is about the way in which we respond to loss and pain and sorrow. I will not steal anyone’s sadness, or presume to tell others what they feel. Identity and dignity are sacred to me also.
