Progress

I began Waffles' sweater last night. Here it is still on the loom. I am at the point where I need to add the arm holes. Loom knitting is pretty easy. I know some people don't consider it "real knitting" but it sure is fun and quick and I should have Waffles' sweater finished by weekend's end. Then I'll begin on Alfie's.

 

If I have time this winter, I think I'll try my hand at crocheting. My sister-in-law Gretchin made my niece the prettiest purple hat. She learned by watching a YouTube video, but I don't think that will work for me. I'd love to crochet a hat for the pugs! I saw some neat ones online and it would be great for photographs. I once started a "bee" sweater for one of the pugs and think I may finish it and make another for Waffles. Then if I learned to crochet "bee" hats I'd be all set. I think I'll be a busy bee this winter.

Loom Knitting

Before Waffles and Alfie there was Vader and Mira. Vader was a total gentleman, sweet, peaceable, the kind of dog who calmed those around him. Mira? She was pure joy. The happiest creature I ever met -- canine or human.

But, this is not a post about them. It is a post about their sweaters. I joined the loom knitting craze a few years back and after a plethora of ill-fitting hats for the whole family, I finally succeeded in making the pugs sweaters. I adorned Vader's with brushed gold buttons and Mira's with a knitted, orange flower. The two wore the sweaters every time we went for a car ride, fall and winter. They held up incredibly well. I have them stored in plastic bags. When I took them out the other day I noticed they still had their hairs tucked in the weave and even smelled like them. Even if they fit Waffles and Alfie I think I would still start afresh. Those were Vader and Mira's sweaters. Alfie and Waffles are getting their own.

In the years since I first took up the loom, I have learned to do some traditional knitting at least enough to make a yellow washcloth bearing the Star Trek emblem, and a pink one bearing something that resembles a one-legged flamingo. I gave up before finishing the one with Obama's face. But now doggie sweaters have become a necessity. While Alfie is a furry bundle, Waffles is thin and sleek and is already shivering. I am still not skilled enough to take up needles to complete this endeavor, so out come the looms again. Waffles' sweater is going to be white with red, fun fur trim and Alfie's pink with gold. I am not sure yet about the embellishments. I'll post pictures when I'm done.

Writing Prompt: Thursdays

Thursdays are my weary days -- my wet dishrag days, where I have little incentive to do much. Mostly, it is because on Thursday evenings I teach, which means the day is spent in preparation -- correcting papers, putting together lesson plans.

I come away from the class, late at night rejuvenated. I love to hear what my students have written, but I don't relish the preparation. Usually, on Thursdays there are other things I should be doing -- writing articles, conducting interviews, personal errands, but because the class looms at the end of the day I can never begin much, can never get too involved. That makes me weary. I don't like boundaries; I like the freedom to take flight.

I choose to teach on Thursdays because of this. So I can get as much done earlier in the week as necessary, so that Friday -- my favorite day -- looms ahead. Thursdays are nice days, in fact, I have always had a fondness for them, but they are slow days, deflated days, sometimes stressful days, depending on how much I need to prepare and how much else I have to do. They are sisters to Sunday afternoons only with work to do. They are not days of rest, but days with only one particular focus, one outcome, and a long steady stretch leading to it. I like the freedom to take side roads and byways. I like to be open to possibility.

Tonight, after class I will feel differently. Thursday nights infuse me with energy. I always wish I could bottle this and bathe in it on Thursday mornings, so I would wake refreshed and effervescent, ready to zoom forward. It doesn't work that day.

Writing Prompt: When do you feel tired?

Alien World

Tonight I saw my almost 9-month-old niece Ellie. She is the daughter of my brother, Mark, and his wife, Gretchin. We were meeting at the AT & T store to upgrade our I-phones and she arrived in a purple coat and purple hat that her mother had just crocheted for her.

She stared out at me from among the largest set of eyes I have ever seen. I wish I could tell you the color, but they may not have made up their mind yet. They are still baby eyes and not yet set, but are wide and deep, holding pools of foreign knowledge.

It is easy to look at a child this young and think that like Brad Pitt in Benjamin Button perhaps we age backwards, losing wisdom as we go. As with my pugs, I can't be sure of what goes on beneath the surface, what this child is thinking or trying to say. Mostly she watches and observes, like maybe if she applies enough effort she will be able to record enough details to remember later what she now knows for sure.

I have never met a child, no matter how innocent they appear, that looks like a blank slate. They most certainly have their own way of thinking and communicating. Who tells them what's funny? And, yet they laugh. Who tells them what's frightening? And, yet they cry. We are as foolish to try to explain their thoughts and actions with our emotions than we are to apply them to a dog. Children this young are still their own creatures. If, like a camcorder, they record our actions to learn, than I think we may be overwriting a previous program.

Do children lose a little bit of who they are every day, becoming in chameleon-like fashion more like us? Is our subconscious world of dreams and emotions and our penchant for imagination simply the remains of a world where we all once lived? One we leave, step-by-step, behind us as we learn to talk and walk and mirror our adults?

In many ways it is harder to discern my niece's thoughts than it is my dogs because the mirror is too close. Her likeness makes me jump to too many conclusions. I think I can anticipate her needs, but then she looks and stares and nestles her face into her mother's chest and lifts her head and looks at me from behind impossibly long lashes. I deduce she is playing shy, but is she? She looks too sly, but I do not know. Like Alfie's paw brush of Waffle's face, Ellie is talking in ways I may not understand. But, I love to watch and wonder and stare into those swirling orbs while the portal is still open - before the color sets and this alien world is lost to me.

Writing Prompt: The Fingerprints of God

The apocryphal Gospel of Thomas includes a passage that reads: "Split the wood and I am there; pick up the stone and you will find me there."

I understand these words, for it is in ordinary moments that I find God. I watch my pugs at their dance: a commonplace conversation to them, the mysterious, the profound to me. I am on the outside as they talk, privy to something beyond my understanding.Alfie grabs a toy or a rose petal in her mouth and Waffles comes for it. Alfie bows her head to the right, lifts her left paw and gently brushes Waffles' face. Waffles approaches and filches the bone or the toy or the flower from Alfie's mouth. Sometimes Alfie relinquishes it as if this is the expected outcome, sometimes she engages in playful banter. They speak. I bear witness.Sometimes it is just animals talking, sometimes in their conversation I see the fingerprints of God.Writing prompt: Where do you find the profound?

Smelling the Roses

On these soggy, autumn afternoons she drifts to the back stoop, you on her heels. You almost trip her as you rush the door. What are we doing you ask? What exciting thing is ahead?

She basks in autumn's dance between slate and rust, gray and gold, not moving from the steps. Sun breaks through like a spotlight, illuminating forgotten corners of the yard. You wander off to investigate, discovering mushy piles of fallen leaves and other smelly things. You savor their wet, earthiness. Nothing could be better. Your girl is nearby.

You check on her often, sometimes with a glance. Sometimes running back. She fusses with an object on the steps. You race to her. A container, holding pastel petals. You sniff. Are they good to eat?

They might be. These soggy, autumn afternoons with her are drenched in possibility. Life smells of food and fun. You bury your nose in velvet. Heaven!

Response to The Face of Memory

I received back several lovely responses to the writing prompt: "What does memory look like to you?"  One of my favorites, and I assure you this is not simple nepotism, is by my sister-in-law Gretchin Gifford. You can read it on her blog: http://yourmomisstrange.blogspot.com/2012/09/memory-writing-prompt-from-pugs-... Gretchin is a new mommy and a graphic designer by trade, but there is more than a little writer in her. I am still thinking of her phrase "fire by the friction of major and minor chords."

Writing Prompt: The Face of Memory

In addition to being a writer, photographer and avid pug lover, I also teach memoir writing. When I launch my new web site, I thought I might try adding a writing prompt at the end of some posts such as this one.

When I went outside today I saw this fallen petal from yesterday's photo op with the pugs. Unlike most of the others, which had blown away or shriveled up and died, this one sat withered, but still pink, glistening with yesterday's raindrops. It had a fragile beauty that fresher blossoms lack. If memory had a face, I think it might look like this: a velvet petal tinged with the blush of youth; slightly worn and crumpled, holding tears and promise, and the hint of many soft smiles. Tears run off smoother faces tainting their bloom, here, they caress the wrinkled surface, refreshing it like dew. The weary petal embraces its identity, like memory it reveals past lives, discarded hopes, reawakened dreams.

Writing prompt: What does memory look like to you?

Today Part 4: Exist Light Woman/Origin

I returned home later than I expected. I had hoped to have some time to rest before heading off to hear my friend, writer Jon Katz, read from his new book Dancing Dogs at the Northshire Bookstore in Manchester, Vt. But my day had exhausted me, my medicine making me dizzy. I put the kettle on the burner for some coconut cocoa tea. The pugs scampered around my ankles as I sat at the table. The windowsill's blush bouquet of flowers shed its dying bloom. Petals fell on the tabletop. I realized I wasn't up for another trip today. Time to rest, but first I took the vase of flowers outside, placing it on the stoop. The pugs sniffed at it and I couldn't resist a final photo op. I grabbed the pugs' nearby fairy wings, snapping away as they fleeted across the back steps in an enchanting game of tag. Light floated across the pastel fabric. The day circled back to where it began -- a woman existing in light; a woman existing lightly.

Today Part 3: Photographing Light

Before going home I stopped in West Lebanon to buy some cotton-pink candy thread and diamond embellishments to adorn my Orphaned Princess collage. Getting back into my car I noticed some tree branches brushing against the window, their yellow berries shed a ready splash of color across the cement-gray parking lot. I reached for my camera and began photographing them, trying to capture the glass-like droplets that clung to the tiny, lemon spheres. While I tried to target a single berry, my camera instead chose to focus on the space beyond. Light broke through the viewfinder as sky and leaves replaced the sunny berry and dark, tree trunk. Although an imperfect shot, I inhaled the light 

letting it melt away my stuffy head and fatigued mind.