12 Pieces of Wood

I called my friend Joan last night. She was still coughing, but she brushes it aside like a tedious fly buzzing around a picnic table. I ask her what she’s doing and she tells me again about the 12 pieces of wood.

The 12 pieces of wood are those she is moving each day, diligently digging and detaching them from the frozen earth and bringing them inside or closer to the house for the fire. The men who delivered the wood dropped it in the wrong place, a large heaping pile soon covered by the endless snow that blankets her driveway. In all the years I’ve known her it never seems like the men place the wood in the right place and part of my mind always picks away at this fact like a tiny scab in my thoughts. I’ve even mentioned it on occasion, but my words disappear into the ether as Joan babbles on in another direction. I suggest she hire some students to help her – a young man happy to lift some logs for some pocket change. It seems like these helpful lads were always in the past and she doesn’t bother to look. Instead, each day she goes out and unburies the 12 logs. Anymore than 12 and it causes her back to ache, her side to hurt. It is slow, deliberate work. She has set a goal of 12

I puzzle over the 12 Pieces of Wood, meditate on them like a Zen koan. – what is the sound of one hand clapping, what is the meaning of 12 pieces of wood? In the question lies both insanity and enlightenment. I turn it over and over like a multi-faceted diamond. Each time I think of the wood, I come across something new.

It is easy to judge Joan for the chaos twirling around her. It is easy to admire her for her strength. It is easy for those 12 pieces of wood to become my own.

That’s it isn’t it? We all have our 12 pieces of wood, problems and conundrums that others don’t understand. From the outside it is easy to assess and judge to offer help, answers, advice. To find inspiration or comfort or disappointment or bemusement in the wood/cross another bears.

Today, I read an article about Michael J. Fox and his morning routine living with Parkinson’s. It was in Reader’s Digest in a section devoted to Optimism and the article was optimistic. Fox spoke about the trials of getting dressed, but noted that once the morning routine was all done, he left the room with a self-satisfied smile because “It Just Gets Better From Here.”

And, it is optimistic that Fox can look at life that way. It is inspiring. But, I’m sure he doesn’t look at it that way everyday. On some days I’m sure he’d like to give up the ghost and on other days he digs out the 12 pieces of wood, the consummate survivor.

I have lived with chronic illness most of my life, nothing serious like  Parkinson’s. Just illness that returns and returns and leaves me sick for weeks on end. And, I have friends who would say its wrong to say that, that I lack faith. And, others who just don’t understand, mountains out of molehills they think. And, others who assume I must be better by now and others who’ve been through it all with me and admire my carrying on.

And, that’s not even my 12 pieces of wood on most days. I have other things I dig and lift and carry more. And that’s just it isn’t it? We all do. Only sometimes we can’t see our own 12 pieces not from the inside. Sometimes, it’s too hard to understand what seems so clear to others and sometimes they just can’t understand from out there. Each of us has our own digging, our own carrying to do. And, so we puzzle over these problems or we don’t. We go through our routines and plant a smile on our face and hope it just gets better from here.

We learn from each other, we frustrate each other, we inspire each other, but in the end only we can determine how we will address those 12 pieces of wood. They are our anchor and our liberation – a Zen koan to which I will return.

Not about Pugs but Family

My sister-in-law's blog Your Mom Is Strange is listed in the Blogs I Love page of this site and it is truly a site I enjoy. Not only does she post on the joys and challenges in being a new mom to one of the most beautiful and precocious children ever (my niece Ellie), but she also features her inspiring wonderful and inspiring designs. Lately, she has been offering these affordable digital prints. Presently, she is asking for people to try printing out her digital files and report back so she can get a better feel for how they look, etc. and is running a give-a-way of sorts, offering free files to the first three people to comment on her site. I visited tonight and noticed no one had done so yet. So run on over to Your Mom is Strange and leave a comment, even if you don't make the top three, it's worth checking out the blog and the prints are available at her Etsy shop for $3.00. And, while your at it don't forget to check out the great pics and stories about Ellie, and oh, maybe this is about pugs, kinda. As I have mentioned, one of Ellie's favorite words is "Dog!"

Light & Spontaneity

I've been home ill since right after Christmas and tonight was my first attempt at re-entry into the outside world. Not to be too dramatic, but it was like seeing life anew. I loved that there were still Christmas lights up and snapped a picture with my iphone. The iphone camera is a gift. It is portable and allows for spontaneity and imperfection. I take quick pics that I would not think to snap with my SLR. I find that most tend to be of light and action -- they are "of the moment," "on the fly" full of blur and motion. I love these pics for what they represent and what they capture. The two others here are one I took on a raining evening while out Christmas shopping and of my friend Joan shoveling our friend Jane out of the snowbank on the icy night we spun off the road in her tracker. I know you can barely see her here, but it captures the cold and ice and snow in a way a clear, crisp shot might not. Snapping these pics frees me up from my perfectionism, it allows me to have fun and offers me the joy of discovery.

Alfie and Jesus Revisited

I have to admit I had a lot of fun posting the picture I took of Alfie and my Sparkling Jesus bank the other night. A friend and fellow writer commented "this is how we take our madness and make it work for us" and I think he might be right. It was a fun and silly pic, but it kind of stuck with me and I started playing around with it in Photoshop. I'm still working on it, but here's what I've come up with so far. Maybe it's because I have a degree in Religion, maybe it's because I love Dogs, maybe it's because I have a tattoo on my lower back that reads "Living Souls" in Hebrew referring to a passage in Genesis pertaining to animals, maybe it's because I am a little mad,  but I am kind of drawn to this image of Jesus and Dog and I think I'll continue to explore it.

Dog's Eye View

Every since the cold weather arrived, the pugs have enjoyed curling up by the stove in the entryway to the house. Now rather than simply napping they have set up camp. Waffles has a laundry basket full of toys that she tips over and strategically places around  the perimeter and Alfie has taken to joining her. I have been ill since Christmas and I have to admit the cold temps haven't been helping me feel any better, so today I decided to join them and lounged around on the floor enjoying the heat and their happy pug snorts.

While down on the floor, I was able to catch this pic of my mother coming inside. This is Alfie standing guard and monitoring whose coming in the door. It was neat to snap a pic from the dog's eye view.

Alfie Finds Jesus

I brought my Sparkling Jesus piggy bank inside from the car to take a photo for my last post and Alfie and Waffles went crazy. Every time I head for the door it is a matter of intense excitement for these two. So, when I brought Jesus in and placed him on the bench in the entryway, the two just had to check him out to see what this is all about. Here, is a picture of Alfie discovering Jesus.

Writing Prompt: Where I Make My Home

You can learn a lot about a person from their home. Their photos, style of furnishings, lamps, sofa, chairs, all shed light on what an individual likes and values. The problem is I lack a home of my own. The picture above is of my family’s home. It is where I currently sleep and sometimes eat, when I’m not out on the road. My belongings – pottery, dishware, extensive art collection, etc. are boxed and buried in a small alcove on the top floor. They indicate I’m a nesting nomad or nomadic nester, a person with the desire to lay down roots, but instead keeps busy wandering the roads. I spend most days traveling to interviews or writing in the Books-A-Million coffee shop. I teach at students' homes, the local community college, a writers’ center. I drive to a writing workshop in Cambridge, NY and am fine with making the 2. 5 hour trip to visit friends there. I spend lots of time at the movie theater, visiting my brother and sister-in-law in Waterbury Center, Vt., and at my friend Joan’s in Warren. We travel to visit pug friends, see plays, visit her daughter, participate in dog shows. I load my pugs in their doggie car seats and hit the road to dog parks and pet stores. I journey to Hana, Hawaii, Laguna Beach, Chicago. Disney World. I seldom sit still.

For the last few years I have made plans to build a house on the 10-acres of land I own, but all have failed, primarily because I am a starving artist and even if I were to eschew the creative life for the 9 to 5 grind, I have often been too sick over the course of my life to hold a regular job.  So for the time being, the best way to assess my values and judge my belongings is to take a look at the trunk of my car.

In the back, you’ll find a sleeping bag and pillows – two circular smilies, one yellow, one purple, two wool blankets, a host of dogs supplies, CDs, audio books, an array of cleaning products from microfiber cloths to Windex, Armor all and ice de-icer. I have a coupon holder and a sparkling Jesus piggy bank. He is bedecked in silver glitter that often comes loose in the trunk of a car, casting a shimmery glow on everything put back there. He is filled with dimes and pennies, nickels and quarters.

My interior décor consist of two front car-seat covers, clad with colorful peace symbols. A miniature stuff pug a la Man in Black hangs from the mirror alongside a flowered lei air freshener. The backseat currently has one of the wool blankets on it to hide the dog hair and while the doggie car-seats are momentarily in the garage they often take up the back, complete with pugs upon them. The rear of the car sports a host of bumper stickers – one from Dog Mountain in St. Johnsbury, Vt. Another proclaiming “I work hard so my pugs don’t have to,” and a bright yellow and red one declaring “Thank God for Hana.”  I often lose the magnetic ones when I drive through a carwash and forget to take them off, so I frequently have to replenish.

It is not unusual to find a dufflel bag of clothing in the trunk, complete with dog clothes I can don when I’m at Joan’s and heavy boots and coat to temper the frigid weather there. A brown, leather satchel with digital recorder, tape cassettes, writing assignments and interview notes, sits on the passenger seat floor next to the black-and-white Holstein patterned trash bag. My navy blue Swiss Army computer bag containing my Mac and I-pad typically rides along and on the days I teach a wheeled case of books and student papers.

My CD player holds the latest Brandi Carlisle CD, which I alternate with a mix of worship songs we sing when I am in Hana. My car doors hold other choices including Aerosmith, Avett Brothers, and U2. My radio is pre-programmed to VPR and The Point.

I don’t consider my car my home, but it is where I spend the most time. I find my home with my friends and family – my year-old niece jubilantly exclaiming “Ball” and “Dog,” with the students I teach so eager to discuss their work, with my friend Joan and all her pugs, over tea with my friend Kathleen, at the newest independent movie with my friend Sheila. I long for a place to unpack my stuff, hang up my art, showoff the pottery. I crave a physical place to call home, but what I hope my car and its belongings say about me is that I’m doing fine just the same. I may not have my own place, but I have an active life and home is with those I love.

Postscript:

That is not to say I’m not keeping my options open. I’ve been eyeing some communities in which to live, still consider house plans, and look at ways to expand the bankroll. And, my friends and family are always willing to help out. I was sharing with my mother a photoblog I stumbled upon the other night called www.rowdykittens.com. The author/photographer makes her home in a tiny Tumbleweed house on wheels. I have written articles about tiny houses and my Mom is always on the lookout for the perfect one for me. Even my students and friends have sent suggestions and posted links to possibilities. Today, Mom forwarded me another. Here, is the link to her latest idea. I am not turning my nose up at anything that has the words “My Home” attached to it, but honestly, this one presently leaves me speechless.

Writing Prompt: What do you call home?

Liberated Woman

The snow pelts us like a fighter’s punch – cold, hard, relentless – it stings our face and eyes as we shuffle down the frosty sidewalk. My uncle guides my 92-year-old grandmother by the arm, plowing a safe path for her to keep her from falling. I mirror him, holding my mother upright. We take small baby steps, both of us unsure of our footing; I worry about her bad knees.

I am 45; this is the day and age of the liberated woman. Still, I wish there was someone to hold my arm. I worry should I fall who will be there to hold me up?  I swallow, feeling the tightness in my throat; I have a cold coming on, probably more. It’s the third New Year’s in a row, I’ve been sick. It’s hard not to feel vulnerable at times like this. Winter in New England can be brutal, frigid, and as the temps fall below zero, it is easy for warm flesh to feel defenseless against this bone-chilling dervish.

When we get inside and warm up I call my friend Joan to check on her. She often loses power in weather like this. She answers with a hacking cough that has lingered for the last few months. She has been outside clearing wood out of the snow.  It is a tedious, painful process to watch and I imagine it now as she complains to me about the cold. A former concert pianist, Joan’s hands no longer hold their former strength. She doesn’t share her age, but I know she is older than my parents. She dons fleece and flannel and with the help of her friend Jane the two wrap gloved hands over the logs, yanking and digging to remove them from the ice. Then one at a time they bring them indoors, enough to start a fire for the night.

Living near Sugarbush ski area in a house above the snow line, Joan is a native of winter, an intimate acquaintance of life’s bitter sting. She lost the love of her life, her third husband Charlie, 15 years ago, but she speaks of him with the warmth and blush of a new bride. She lives with his memory and her cluster of pugs, creating a makeshift family for herself with these creatures and the people they bring through her doors. My pugs are my family, and I mirror her, embracing her circle also.

She has a tough outer crust and I look at her with admiration. She has no one to hold her arm when the cold throws its punch. She pulls her own weight.  She sees the night through by mopping floors and feeding pugs and sometimes mutters, “S.O.S. (same ole shit) in exasperation, but inside the hardened shell her blue eyes sparkle and those world-weary hands make music. She wears the face of the liberated woman and hides the heart of a gleeful child. Sometimes I look at her life, shake my head at the hardship and chaos that owning so many dogs can cause, and think she is crazy – come in from the cold, surrender, I’d like to say. Sometimes I look at her as a hero; she is not down for the count.

I go to her house, raise my face to the cold and heave wood – two, three, four logs at a time from the frozen earth. I open my heart to winter and feel ice flow through my veins. I put my foot to the gas and blaze up her slick mountain road, conquering fear. I vacation in her life and feel stronger for it. I know winter, too, and loneliness. The wind blows bitter here, but the sky shines clear and sparkles with razor-sharp stars. Nature broadcasts in high-definition from this mountain. The snow whips and stings here as well, but like a pioneer staking a claim, I feel valiant for having conquered it.

The cold’s a metaphor for life’s hard fist and when it strikes we all look for an arm to lean on, a hand to guide us through. I hang up the phone with Joan, melt into my comfy sofa and embrace the snoring pug she gave me. As a child I used to love to tromp through the snow. Cloistered in my puffy snowsuit I would slide and roll, making snow angels on the ground.

I see Joan do the same. Her angel wings brush each pug.

It is not fashionable to admit to loneliness; we just carry on. But, sometimes, I worry what I will do when my hands aren’t as strong, my knees not as certain. So, I look to my friend who still lifts logs, cares for more pets than most and wields both mop and ice scraper. I look to her and see myself in the dead of winter, amidst ice and snow, racing up that driveway to keep her company for a spell. I see Jane helping her light a fire. Joan has formed her circle, made her pack. I make mine.

It may not be the hand we imagine, but I see we are seldom alone in the storm – not as long as we’re living, not as long as we’re reaching out. I march steadily through life’s tundra, finding liberation in that.

icecle

Drafting a New Collage

I've had an idea for this collage for awhile, but have been too busy to start it. In fact, it's been awhile since I started a new collage of any sort. Being home sick, but feeling slightly better, I had the opportunity this evening to start working on this one. It is far from finished, just the beginning -- well, maybe a little more than that. I started to add details such as the pug's shoes and ballet slippers. I wanted this piece to feel festive, joyful, spontaneous and also a little romantic. It also seems to me a bit old-fashioned. Some of the dogs remind me of the romantic lovers you see coming back after World War II and kissing in the streets. I'm trying something new here as well, adding the computer-drawn pugs from my New Year's sketch to the photographic elements. I think it really works here.

Funny, how often I have run into the idea of dogs dancing lately. My friend, Jon Katz, wrote a wonderful book of short stories called Dancing Dogs and during one of the give-a-ways I ran recently a woman told me all about the dancing work she does with her dogs. I originally started my sketch of the celebrating New Year's pugs as fighting dogs, but they looked to celebratory to me so I transformed them into dancers. The Akita in this collage is my brother John's dog. I remember snapping the picture of her standing on her rear legs and resting her arms on his and thinking they looked like they were dancing. Then, I began to realize just how many pictures I had with other dogs who also seemed to be striking a pose, such as the poodle I snapped out on a "doggie spa day."

I added the children (both my niece Catherine, actually) because at the heart I think my work is always a commentary on the relationship and interplay between children and animals, only here the dogs take center stage. I love how "the girl" in the red is reaching out to twirl the ball, just as if she belonged there. I have more I want to do with this piece, but I thought I'd share it as it progresses.

Waffles in the Snow

It's cold in Vermont today and my little pugs don't much like to get their toes frozen. Alfie, my fawn, has a wonderful double coat, but poor little Waffles doesn't have much fur at all. She is lean and sleek like a little black seal. She loves to sit by the stove and roast away until she gets so hot I worry she is cooking. Still, even in the cold it's necessary for the pugs to go outside and do their duty. To entice them in this cold weather, I often throw a treat or two and while both pugs go crazy foraging through the snow, Waffles has turned it into an arctic sport -- snow fishing. She nose dives into the nearest powder and comes back up only when she has claimed her treat or is in desperate need of air. In spite of the fact that she hates the cold, she is a true athlete in pursuit of her goal. I practically have to drag her in as she plants her face again and again in the cold stuff. She usually comes in with a frozen little face of flakes. Even though I am ill and not in the best of moods of late, she brings a smile to my face. I love her perseverance. She is a trooper and if she can be, so can I.