There are all kids of good photos, but one of my favorites – and it is a rare photo for me – is what I call a tableau picture. It captures a place or moment or feeling. This morning, Maria was out in the grass taking one of her meditation videos – the tall grass blowing in the wind. Fate is very close to Maria, she is mostly her dog, and she has the gift great dogs have of sensing the moment and entering it without disrupting it.
Fate, an intensely active dog, came over and lay down next to Maria as she took the video and lay still. I loved the image, it captured the connection between them and the connection of each of them to the other. I deliberately overexposed it a bit and used my Petzval 58 lens, the Russian glass.
It’s Spring again, of course, and Fate is back out in her beloved meadows. I sat down to photograph some wildflowers this morning and there was a rustle in the grass ahead of me and out of the green mist came Fate, heading straight for me. She must have smelled me or heard me working the camera, she appeared like an apparition, and I just hit the trigger. She seemed mystical to me, coming out of the meadow like that.
The Round House Cafe will re-open in a week or so, but we have set out to explore Sunday brunch places in between. Today we returned to Vermont, and we drove past the littlefreelibrary.org set up by the roadside. Maria got a book on Goddesses there two weeks ago that she has been reading ever since, and today she returned a book, a novel she had just finished.
We were inspired by this little free library – there are now more than 50,000 across the U.S. The first one was built in 2009 by a Wisconsin man who wanted to honor his late mother. They are all over the place, although some communities have tried to ban them as illegal structures or unsightly additions to pristine neighborhoods.
I think they are quite beautiful.
The little free libraries are popular all over the country – Cape Cod, the Pacific Northwest, the Deep South. As far as we know, we will be the first to have one in our town, perhaps even our county.
We asked our friend and carpenter Jay Bridge to build one for us, and he is working it. We’ll put it out in front of the house. People say it takes a while for people to get used to it, but then there is a steady flow of books taken and books replaced.
Maria and I both loved this idea, we stopped in the rain to add a book to this collection, we noticed several books had been taken and replaced since we were last there. Sometimes, the Internet brings wonderful things. Sometimes it takes things away.
More times than I can count, and six times today, I got messages from people who are thinking of getting a dog, or who have gotten one – rescues, shelter dogs, breeder dogs, stray dogs.
They are messages of fear, not excitement. They say they are afraid to say so online or post photos for fear of the cadres of know-it-alls and busy bodies and boorish spirits waiting to pounce on them for doing it wrong.
“I got a puppy, but I’ve told no one but my best friend,” wrote Susan, “I just know there are all of these strangers out there waiting to make me feel bad or stupid about it. I want to share my joy over this new friend, but I don’t dare. Whatever I do, somebody will tell me it was wrong.”
Sheila wrote: “I see what you go through, I don’t tell anyone where I get my dogs, I am afraid to tell the truth…”
What a remarkable thing this is, being afraid to share the joy of a new dog for fear of self-righteous strangers waiting uninvited or unwanted to tell you what you should have done, or ought to do, because it is what they would do. And in the name of loving animals, no less.
Some people call this simple advice or animal love, I call it a kind of tyranny, a new by-product of digital media that attacks the sanctity of decisions, degrades free and open speech, and perverts the very idea of compassion, empathy or animal love.
Animals are loved best when their fates are considered openly and thoughtfully, not fearfully and in the dark.
Americans invented the very important idea of minding your own business, it was not often possible in a world filled with monarchs and despots, where there was no protection for the individual, or the individual’s right to make their own decisions and learn from them.
I see there is not much protection on Facebook or Twitter either.
This phenomenon is well-known to me, although I am proud to report that it has never stopped and will never stop me from writing openly about my decisions, even when I know they will be unpopular. I will never surrender to that. But I have great empathy for the people who do.
Getting a dog is in intensely personal, important and joyous decision for me, I have done it very few times in my life – perhaps a dozen, and Leroy could well be my last decision about getting a dog.
I am getting older, he has a good chance of outliving me. A few days ago, I announced I was considering buying him from an impressive new breeder named Robin Gibbons, she is also the bartender at a popular American Legion branch near my town. So she works well and efficiently under pressure.
Within minutes, there were e-mails and social media messages expressing anguish and anger that I had chosen a breeder over a rescue or adoption dog. “I just can’t understand why you would buy this dog when so many need homes,” wrote Stephanie, “I just can’t understand it.” That was the nicest one.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, you just killed a dog,” wrote Sue from Michigan.
It is a startling idea to me, truthfully, I have done a number of awful things in my life, but it never occurred to me to be ashamed for buying a sweet and healthy puppy and bringing it home. Makes me want to go hug Red and Fate.
When I wrote about getting Leroy, there was a typo in a Facebook teaser that suggested he was coming home to me in six weeks, instead of the customary eight. Another dozen messages excoriating me for taking Leroy home so early. I posted a correction and that furor calmed down.
This morning, yet another series of messages, much like Deborah’s: “As a breeder, I am uncomfortable with your breeder letting her puppy go to you at such a young age.” And she wasn’t squawking about six weeks, she was complaining about eight weeks.
“Puppies need to learn lessons from their mother and their litter mate before they go off into the world,” she wrote.”I think he would be a better family member if he has those experiences. Sorry just my feelings, puppies should never go to forever homes until at least 10-12 weeks of age.”
Kind of makes me want to go and bring the puppy home today, bust some blood vessels that need busting.
I asked Deborah why she had posted this message on my Facebook page. Had I sought her advice? How did she know that a puppy should “never” go to a new home at 10-12 weeks of age when virtually every reputable vet, breeder, behaviorist, or trainer I have ever spoken with or read recommends eight weeks? Is there no other idea but hers? I am not new to the dog world, I have gotten some wonderful dogs in my life, and all of them came to me at eight weeks of age, adapted quickly, and grew up to be wonderful, grounded and healthy dogs.
She did not answer of course, they never do. Sending a message on Facebook is simple. Thinking about it is hard.
Animals would do well if the term “never” was banned from their lives, it is poison in the hands of the know-it-alls who have turned social media into a cesspool of recrimination, arrogance and judgment. It is just too easy for people to send unknowing, even hateful messages, without accountability, restraint or penalty. A medium meant to make information free is making information hide.
Beyond this, there is the much larger question of identity and the sanctity of decisions. Decisions are a very personal thing, the hallmark of the free person. They are very important to me, I study the ethics and morals of decisions all of the time.
When decisions are assaulted even before they have had a chance to live and breathe, it is, of course, undermining and disturbing to the people who express them. It does not advance ideas, it kills them before they can live.
I have written 12 books on dogs, lived with them my whole life, interviewed scores of breeders, rescue workers, shelter workers, vets and behaviorists, I have heard a single one of them use the word “never” in their writing or opinions. There is no “never” in the animal world, it is diverse, fluid, individualistic and wildly variable.
How are we to form confidence in our views if we are assaulted so instantly and thoughtlessly?
I did not ask Deborah or anyone else for her opinion on my decision to get a dog. She is free to express her own on her own blog or Facebook Page. I would not dream of second-guessing or questioning her or offering my perspective without being asked. For me, it is the essence of self-righteousness and bad manners to do that.
Getting a dog is a momentous experience for an animal lover.
No one should have to instantly and continuously defend themselves against rude and mannerless and joy-killing strangers they have never met and will never know. I have been through this enough times so that I pay little attention other than to challenge these people and advocate for the silenced. I hope no one succumbs to them, free speech can easily die a death by a thousand cuts.
Why is this important? Because this is how ideas die. When they are not permitted to live. Someone with less experience or wilfulness than me can easily be damaged or frightened or silenced by the platoons of righteous people feeding off of other people’s ideas and experiences. These people are vampiric to me, they live off of the blood and decisions of others.
I very much like this centuries-old passage on the sanctity of decisions, I found it in a book by Eric Fromm on sanity:
“Neither heavenly nor earthly, neither mortal nor immortal have we created thee, so that though mightest be free according to thy own will and honor, to be thy own creator or builder. To thee alone we gave growth and development depending on thy own free will. Thou bearest in thee the germs of a universal life.”
These beautiful words were written by a Renaissance philosopher named Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, who wrote a famous work called “Origins Of The Dignity Of Man,” a legendary defense of individuality.
This is not a matter of being cranky to me. I hope I am speaking on behalf of the good people – growing in numbers now – who are afraid to share their stories in public because so many people can only talk and no longer can or will listen.
I urge them to read Henry David Thoreau, a fierce individualist who would have perished in the age of Facebook, when every idea and experience would have been instantly challenged by one of the Tyrannical Know-It-Alls, exploiting the cheap license of the computer to challenge every idea as soon as it peaks out of the womb.
Thoreau called upon every individual “however mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are…The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is.” And I would add, respect your ideas and fight for them, and do not permit anyone to silence you.
The fault-finders have made me strong and clear. All in all, they are a gift to me. I have learned to think about my ideas, and to defend them.
I love my ideas, even though I often change them and adjust them, as I should. I will make my own decisions, and utter them freely, and learn from every single one of them, my successes and many failures. So that I might be free according to my own will and honor, to be my own creator or builder.
Emotional Realism. Warning. There is some humor in this piece.
Robin and I spent much of the weekend sticking our tongues out at one another and shaking our heads back and forth, and then our bodies.
I think we were dancing, but I can’t say for sure. By the time she left, we were smiling and grinning at each other, our pirate eyes connecting in the time-honored ways of mischievous and rebellious spirits.
It was like Fate and I glancing at one another in our “let’s make trouble looks” and then making some. Robin, I discover, is a fun baby. She is quick to laugh, quick to dance and quick to make her iron will known. Ah, that’s my granddaughter.
I have been pondering the proper role of the grandfather, and apart from offering adoring and unconditional love, I have not found a lot of relevant guidance. People keep telling me there’s nothing like it, but I have not found that to be my experience. She has not transformed my life, or made it more or less meaningful. Not yet.
But she has added something rich and loving to it, and that is not a small thing.
For me, it isn’t true that there’s nothing like it.
There is a lot like it, at least in my idea of well-balanced life. I met a friend of mine at the Farmer’s Market yesterday, a mother and writer, and she said she had been reading some of my writing about me and Robin, and was puzzled about my uncertainty about my role. It must be that men are different from woman, she said. A woman wouldn’t raise that question.
Welcome aboard, I said, I don’t seem to be in sync with much of the world on anything, let alone this. Let’s say it is part of my charm, I added, hoping (unsuccessfully) to evoke a laugh. Laughter is considered heresy in America, I think, life is to be taken very seriously.
Maria asked me if I was sad that Robin was leaving and Emma urged me not to give up on the idea that I could be a major influence on Robin’s left. It was nice of Emma to want that.
To which I sensitively replied: “Really? When Robin is 10, I’ll be 80! In a few years I’ll be applying to live in the Mansion! Just what kind of influence am I supposed to have?” Emma did not laugh, and the conversation faltered a bit. Poor kid, no wonder we have had our difficulties.
I got serious for a moment, and said if I could pass anything on to Robin, it might be the idea that a creative life is worth living, and if she were drawn to creativity, I hoped she would consider pursuing it as far as she can, avoiding day jobs, taking the plunge. I believe it is the pathway to a meaningful life. Working for money alone makes us slaves.
Emma is saner than I am, and wiser. She didn’t seem too excited about my proposed role as the crazy grandpa taking photos of donkeys up on the farm.
Seriously, I am not seeking a major role in Robin’s life. I do love her, and will continue to love her, and I believe she is beginning to know me, I hope she will love me when she can. It seems to me she loves everyone she meets, just like Fate. If there is more than that, fine. If that’s what is is, I will be most happy.
When people ask me about my photographs, I describe them as images of emotional realism. That is, they come out of real life and seek to capture the emotions of people living their lives.
That’s how I feel about grandfathering. I am emotional about it, but also realistic. I don’t with to romanticize or emotionalize the experience. Perspective, perspective.
I love my life very much, there are no big holes in it. I am not looking for other people’s lives to meddle with, I wish to live mine. I believe Robin has already been powerful role model for me. I believe every time you love someone, a wildflower garden grows in your soul.
Robin and I know one another know, some seeds have been planted, we will see how they grew.
