One Giant Leap

On a bright Saturday over Columbus Day weekend, my college friend Clare and I planted ourselves in my driveway, spread out the directions, and attempted to mount my new bicycle rack to my car. That’s something I never expected to say, even more than a bicycle itself, a bike rack is something I never would have expected to own. I never would have thought I’d be that interested in any sport, but I am. And, now I don’t just own a bike rack, I have the bike to go with it.

Once I decided to give cycling a try things progressed pretty quickly. I went from interviewing bike shops about the type of bike I should get, to buying one! It all started when I ran into my best friend from childhood, Madelaine, and inquired about the Stowe bike path where she frequently rides. I mentioned that I might be interested in biking there one day and a few weeks later, she called my bluff. I hummed and I hawed and I found an excuse to cancel, but only by a week. She wanted to go out the next Wednesday. My sister-in-law, Gretchin, and I actually had possible plans to try out some bikes in Stowe, but up until that moment I wasn’t sure I was going to go through with it. In fact, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t. I hadn’t been on a bike in 30 years and I had no idea if I could even straddle one. I decided I needed to try that before anything else, so in the dark of night I found the key to my father’s shed, went inside and removed my brother’s trick bike from the wall. Perhaps not the best thing to start with, but it was the only bike on hand. Problem is there was no way I could ride it. Like one of Goldilocks’ bears, I found this bike too short. My knees practically touched my chin.

Another idea dawned on me. Why not go to Wal-Mart and try one of their bikes. If I could at least get on one and stay upright maybe I’d have a chance of actually riding one. I went to Wal-Mart, hopeful, but soon found most of the bikes too heavy and big to lift. Plus, they were located right in front of the customer service desk so there was no way I would be able to try one unnoticed. I tried not to worry about that, lifting the only bike I could reach down and soon realizing, like another of the three bears, that this bike was too tall. This should have been funny, but it wasn’t. I wanted to cry. I did cry. Partly because I was frustrated, mostly because I knew there was no way I was getting on a bike in front of people with the possibility of not even being able to pedal. The potential for embarrassment was too great! And, that embarrassed me even more. How much of my life had I spent being scared of doing things because I was afraid I couldn’t? To be honest, that was my reason for wanting to take up biking in the first place.

When I had visited my friend Clare earlier this year in D.C. she had gotten us coupons to bike around the city. Not only did I have to turn her down, but also I was shocked she’d even think I’d entertain the idea. Me, on a bike? But deep down I was sorry that I didn’t have a choice. We weren’t biking not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t think I could. I didn’t like that feeling, so I decided to do something about it; hence, my research into bicycles and bike paths.

That probably would have been the end of it, if it weren’t for Madelaine and Gretchin, neither of whom seemed to want to give up on my dreams. Gretchin kindly supported me, saying we’d go to the bike shop and rent the bike and if there was any problem we didn’t have to go. “But what if the bike shop guys are watching us as we try to ride off?” I asked. I don’t think she knew how much I dreaded the answer. “I’ll take care of them,” she said.

I tried to warn her, but she seemed to ignore my protests. I turned to my brother. “Gretchin, doesn’t know how I am. I don’t want her to get upset if I get upset,” I said.

“Ah, huh,” he murmured. He seemed to be humoring me.

“Seriously,” I said. “Remember that time they asked me to be a bunny for drama club? I froze and ran out. I couldn’t do it. You have to tell Gretchin I might freeze, or cry or run out!” I protested.

Mark started laughing. “What’s so funny,” I cried.

“I’m just trying to be inside your head. What could you possibly have been thinking would have been so bad about being a bunny that you had to run out?” he chuckled more.

Convinced the situation was hopeless, I continued to try to weasel my way out of going with Gretchin, but part of me wanted to so badly. So we did. On the way, we spied a rusty bike being given away for free. I wanted to stop and try it out, but a guy pulled up in back of me and placed it in his trunk.

At the bike shop, Gretchin waited until the clerks were busy and then nabbed one of the waiting rentals for me to try. She surveyed them all first, choosing a short one, but not too short, for my virgin ride. She even suggested which foot to lead with and moments later I was triumphantly circling the yard. A little wobbly, but I was on the move. We rode a simple mile, but the next week along with Madelaine we tried  more and a week after that I returned to purchase an end-of-the-season rental. Madelaine even chipped in to help me get the bike rack. Last week, we toted the bikes up to Lake Champlain and completed 10 miles around the lake. Tonight, I found myself disappointed when both Madelaine and Gretchin had to cancel tomorrow’s ride. You know the expression one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind? This was more than one simple bike ride for me, it was a giant leap in confidence, in daring, in the willingness to beat back fear and potential failure.  The fact that I discovered that I love it has just been icing on the cake!

It's Like a Child's Birthday Party

It’s like a child’s birthday party – all the noise, the movement, the running, the shouting, hands reaching out and grabbing, tired sighs and gleeful giggles. Only it’s not a child’s party, it’s a pug party, the annual Halloween Party and Pug Parade in Chestertown, NY. And, while parents are often the ones doing the sighing and the children the giggling at a child’s party, here the adults are equally part of the fray. They fall on their knees and stuff squirming bodies into fuzzy costumes, wigs and cowboy hats, handing leashes to children and warning them to keep a tight grip on Penelope and Waldo while they shove squished faces through too small holes, tugging to pull dresses and shirts down over too broad chests. They don wigs and costumes, too, and turn little red wagons into Batmobiles and palaces for their superheroes and princesses; then, into tents for judging and down the hill in a parade. Pugs bark, kids squeal, parents laugh and everyone shouts, “hello.” Two pugs, fur raised, yip at each other in the parking lot.

“It’s not a party if there’s not a fight in the parking lot,” I say.

“Must be someone tipped over a keg,” the man next to me jokes. One thing we both are right about: the party has begun.

A reporter circles asking names of pugs and humans, where they are from, why they are here. But none of the people participating ask why. For a few hours we are all kids again, eating up the chaos and the merriment as if they were icecream and birthday cake. The pugs provide the wag of the tail and the impetus to leave agendas, stress and everyday responsibilities behind.  We are all having fun!

To see more pictures of this event check out my photo album on my Facebook page.

The Rooster

Cock-a-doodle-doo

Cock-a-doodle-doo

Cock-a-doodle-doo

It’s easy to want to kill the neighbor’s rooster

Who crows at the first fleck of light, tilting his red-combed head

Back in delight and letting out his piercing caw, not once but

Over and over and over again

Until morning flowers and darkness becomes a forgotten thing.

It is easy cocooned in my shroud of infinite night, shades drawn,

The room a catacomb of grey, to formulate murderous schemes

I’ll shut you up, I think, my blade gleaming and sharpened against the

jagged edges of imagination.

I’ll slice your throat until vermilion blood – the color of your magnificent comb –

flows as freely as your raucous caws, I think,

rolling over into a dainty clutch of golden light

How did you get in? I wonder as it tickles my cheek good morning

Good morning, the rooster echoes.

Who keeps a rooster in the middle of town, this is no farm,

I grumble, admittedly defiant

The rooster croons greetings to the day with unrepentant glee

Cock-a-doodle-doo

Cock-a-doodle-doo

Cock-a-doodle-doo

it hollers, who knows what today might bring

Such promise –

Nobody likes a Pollyanna, I wanna shout,

envisioning lopping off his head before lifting

my own to the encroaching yellow light.

My cocoon successfully breached, I rise

Cock-a-doodle doo

Cock-a-doodle-doo

Cock-a-doodle-doo

Good Morning goes his refrain

And, as I wrestle out of bed, my feet

smacking a speckle of sun on the wooden floor, suddenly,

His Majesty, the Red-Combed Maestro ceases

his sublime song.

Pugs in Pink Wigs...And, Me Too

I hope to take a better portrait of us all dressed up later, but I couldn't resist sharing a preview of our costumes. The pugs and I are headed to Chestertown, NY this Sunday for the annual pug parade. We hope to enter a few costume contests, too. This is the same costumes the pugs will be wearing for Halloween. I know it's silly, but it's also fun and I love making people smile. The pugs? They don't much like the wigs, but they love the attention, so the costumes are greeted with tail wags, circles and squeals!

Writing Prompt: Happiness is ______________

I tacked a fortune from a Chinese fortunate cookie to my wall several years ago that reads, “Happiness is Activity.” It is certainly my motto, so when a friend calls up with a proposition for a fun-filled experience, I seldom turn it down nor do I ask a lot of questions (especially if that friend knows me well and I deem her trustworthy like my friend Sheila.)

So, when Sheila sent me a message asking me if I wanted to go a Vermont Humanities Council sponsored reading by former Poet Laureate Billy Collins a couple of weeks ago I said “yes.” There was some momentary confusion as my scattered mind tried to differentiate between poet Billy Collins and the musical Billy Elliot, which led to another friend believing that we were going to go see Irish comedian Billy Connolly (who Sheila thought was Australian, but after a Google search, we discovered was actually Scottish), but even had we not solved the problem of the “Billys,” I was in from the start – any of the three would have been fine with me just to be out doing something.

We went and I loved it and quickly said “yes” again when Sheila suggested I attend a free poetry workshop that was starting in Randolph and would be meeting on the Second Wednesday of each month from now until next spring. Mind you, my upcoming Wednesdays from October through December are filled with teaching, but I had one free Wednesday coming up and those in the spring, so I contacted the leader, requested and received permission to attend, and found myself sitting last Wednesday night with around 18 people, one my former boss from the local paper, writing poetry in the basement of the library. I’m still not sure what the group is called – I didn’t ask – and only received the letter describing what it was about after I signed up, but I was game and in spite my nerves at sitting directly across from my former boss and trying not to squirm as we shared our poetic scratchings, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

We are reading Billy Collins’ anthology of contemporary poets, Poetry 180, and using writing prompts to create work of our own. For our first prompt, our leader handed out a scrap of paper with some lines a friend had emailed her.

“Has been and Is are my old friends. We go back. Will be is much less trustworthy.” We were supposed to use these lines to inspire a poem, while hanging on to the concept: Here, was my fledgling effort:

Yesterday

I took your well-read hand

Each callous and wrinkle painstakingly memorized

And promised to open it again

Today

To study it anew, fresh, novel, untried

It didn’t work

I knew the whispers of your creaking knuckles,

the moans of your weathered fingers too well

to restart from page one

So I thought let’s revisit them

Tomorrow

hoping the withered leaflets of delicate skin would not tear

that time would not write a new book,

one never knows…

if Tomorrow

holds the remainder bin or the next bestseller

For the second prompt we had to choose any two words and repeat them three times in our opening line. I chose “later today.”

Later today, later today, later today

I will get around to what needs to be said

Later today, later today, later today,

I will finish what needs to be done

Later today, later today, later today

I will check off my list,

settle my accounts,

make peace with my enemies,

console my friends,

take a hot bath,

put my feet up,

pat my dog,

read a good book,

put tasks to rest

Later today, later today, later today

I will accomplish it all

That is if time remains

And doesn’t run out

Then again,

there’s always later today

Although I didn’t share around the table, I was pleased to actually put pen to paper without freezing up or blanking out. How do my students handle all those writing prompts I throw their way? But, I’m happy to be sharing them here and will continue as the workshop progresses. I wasn’t sure what I had signed up for, but once again saying “yes” and seeking out a new activity yielded some happy results.

Writing Prompt: Happiness is ____________________

My Family's Home

My friends from college are meeting at my house tomorrow for another reunion weekend, following our get-to-gether in Maine this summer. It occurred to me that although I have written about my s home, I seldom include any pictures. This is my family's home -- where I grew up, where I live now.

Mothers' Guilt

I am not a mother, but I am a daughter and as such I may just have the experience to witness and the objectivity to comment on, an unique aspect of motherhood: mothers' guilt. It seems to inflict almost every mother I know from my own to my sister-in-law to my student, who tonight was blaming herself for the rough patches her daughter has gone through in life. “If only I had been a better mother,” she sighed.

My own mother said the same thing to me only a few hours before when I was complaining about some relatively minor problem I was experiencing as if it was truly the end of the world and indeed as if she was to blame. It wasn’t that I held her responsible, it was that I needed a way to lash out, to expel my anger and grief over life’s obvious injustice, and as my mom she was the ready recipient. And, so I could tell my student with 100% certainty that her daughter’s sorrows were not her fault. “It’s mother’s guilt,” I explained. “You could be the most perfect mother in the world and still not get it right – she’d always blame you. It’s in the job description.”

And, so it is -- love and guilt being equal measures on the parenting scale. Funny thing is those moms who feel the most guilt are the least likely to warrant it. A truly bad mom probably doesn’t think twice about the effects of her parenting.  A good mom? That’s pretty much all she thinks about.

This weekend I had the opportunity to watch my 20-month-old niece Ellie. Our march to the park yielded a steady stream of chatter: “Good morning Ellie,” my niece sang to herself. “We’re going to the park, going to the park. Nice park. We made it. Good job Ellie,” she praised and congratulated herself amidst her laughter and her squeals. Not long ago, I told my sister-in-law what a good mother she is and through teary eyes, she told me how she worries all the time about whether she’s getting it right. Looking at my niece, listening to her steady stream of self-praise, glimpsing her growing confidence, there is no question.

Life’s a strange adventure. “As long as they come out walking, you did your job,” I assured my student. We laughed over that. She outwardly acknowledging that I was right, but as certain as I was that this was so, I was equally certain she would never really believe it. Nor would my mother, nor sister-in-law nor Ellie, if she were to have children 20 years from now. Guilt like love is an umbilical cord that binds; even if severed it grows back, a steady anchor in an uncertain sea. Guilt gives mothers some measure of comfort, an illusion of control, a belief that their hands somehow navigate through the blinding fog of life and guide their children, even if they fall short. It is more reassuring than the truth: all one can do is her muddled best, try to give her child a song to sing and a measure of chutzpah to congratulate herself no matter what she encounters. In the end, guilt is the sister of hope, leading a good mother to willingly don it on the chance that its heavy weight will free her child to soar.

Animal Love

Is there anything cuter than a picture of children and animals? Probably not, and that’s just the problem – such pictures tend to be taken as throwaways, too lighthearted, too cliché – I think they hide hidden depths. Both children and animals inhabit worlds we can only guess at, imagine. One we can never visit, another we may have known, but have outgrown and quickly forgotten. We are foreigners to their minds, but we can observe. The cuteness is only the surface layer.

Today, we took my niece Ellie on a fun-filled outing. She encountered several dogs along the way. Each time she greeted them exactly the same – “Ohh, doggie,” she’d exclaim. “I hug!” And, she would proceed to go over pet, nuzzle or kiss the animal. “Goodbye doggie,” she’d then say.

Where does the love of animals come from? What causes it in some and not in others? Why do we find such images so precious, so cute? I see in my niece the ability to step outside of herself and embrace another, the start of lifelong connection, the beginnings of wonder, empathy and love. Animals are so well suited in allowing this connection, in rewarding with soulful expression or wag of the tail, our fledgling efforts.

When Ellie arrived at my house today, my pugs greeted her with lavish kisses. “Tongue,” she said, as Alfie and Waffles licked her, slobbering all over her mouth. “Oh my gosh!” she said! When I witness the angelic calm, the sweet bliss that comes over her face with each embrace, I feel the same way. “Oh my gosh!” And, I hope I never lose my fascination with such exchanges, that I never dismiss what passes between these creatures as mere cuteness. I hope it remains as fresh for me, as curious as it did when I saw it today.

May I always see in such moments the birth of empathy, the promise of acceptance.

New Art Project

My student has been making headway on his book and so I have to work on creating some more illustrations to go along with it. We meet next week for our monthly workshop and I need to present something to him. Hoping to do one or two more in the days ahead. This student is working on a children's fantasy set in a hospital. The book explores a number of themes -- healing, death, and the unseen workers -- nurses, buildings and ground, volunteers that help comfort a patient. This illustration accompanies a chapter on the main character's arrival at the hospital. Her chauffeur is an unique character. I drew a couple of i-pad sketches for my student on a lark and he liked them enough that he asked me to make more for his book. He has been working on it awhile and is nearing completion.

Amazing Grace 2

A day after I last wrote about him, Gandalf died. I was never blind Gandalf’s owner in any official sense, but he owned my heart. Part of the attraction, no doubt, was guilt because the loss of his vision – at least in one eye – was partially mine. He was one of the earliest litters I saw born at Pugdom, my friend Joan’s home. I named him and his brothers – each after wizards, magicians or spells of some sort: Copperfield (who we officially called Copperfeld because of some AKC rule not allowing us to use the names of real people); Merlin, Dumbledore, Hocus Pocus and Gandalf; two fawns and three blacks.

Shortly after their birth, Joan, our friend Jessica, and me were scheduled to take a trip to Joan’s condo near Florida and Joan being Joan piled the litter of five and their Momma into the van, not to be deterred from our travels. They made the thousand-mile trip south before their eyes even opened. It was Thanksgiving time and in typical Joan fashion we traveled with few stops. We enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner in the condo and turned back for Vermont a few days later. On the way home, the puppies began to open their eyes. Ghanny, however, seemed to have something wrong with one of his. It was crusty and gooey and I worried that Joan, who had developed a bad cold on the trip and was in a sleep-deprived state. might not be staying on top of things. So I bugged her and then bugged her again to give him some medicine, which she finally did. Problem is she had two types of eye drops along – one with steroids and one without. One was okay to give, the other not. We gave the wrong one. In the morning, little Ghanny’s eye was bleeding. We had stopped at Joan’s son’s house in D.C. for the night and he rushed the puppy to the vet only to learn he would probably lose sight in that one eye. It was sad and I felt horrible. We didn’t talk about it. Joan, too, felt guilty and over the years memory has kindly blanketed these feelings with a new version of the tale. Sometimes Joan recalls Ghanny being born blind, other times she remembers only the accident that took his second eye, believing it took both. That time a small stick got him while he was playing outside and our one-eyed boy became officially blind.

He never seemed to mind. Ghanny was born docile with a gentleman’s disposition and after the loss of his vision, he settled down even more, developing a trotter’s high-step prance as he would feel his way from his livingroom nest outdoors to the deck and down the steps to the backyard. This was his routine for much of his life – sun on the porch, strolls in the backyard, warm slumber in his corner bed broken by dinner and the occasional concert by me. I always hoped he saw something, that my song would evoke a momentary return of vision, a small grace, but he adapted and never seemed to complain. When he heard my voice, he would rise from his bed, cocking his head and high-stepping it to the livingroom gate where he would wait for me to pick him up and sing. A brush of his cheek to mine and then the anticipated kiss.

For many years I had dreams of taking him home. I knew I could not have three dogs where I lived, so I daydreamed of a camper or building my own home in time for him to become mine. These dreams never saw the light of day and by the time my other dogs passed, Ghanny had grown accustomed to his life at Joan’s. He was a Pugdom dog.

In his old age, the other dogs turned on him as they often do. Perhaps triggered from some pack mentality where weakness could hurt the whole group, they attacked him leaving him wounded. Not long after, he suffered a stroke. I wanted to grab him up then and take him to the vet, make sure that the wounds had not caused an internal infection. But, Joan nursed him and bathed him and I knew that in spite of any ministrations we each could give that his time was drawing near.

We took him on a rare outing to the Tunbridge Fair his last weekend and out the day before for a visit with our friend Norma. He was better the first day, almost comatose on the second. I leaned down and whispered in his ear. I sang his song. On the first day, he still managed a kiss, on the second it was me who kissed him, right below his chewed up ear. In that moment, I hated dogs for being dogs, for the beatings they instill on each other. I hated Joan for having so many, for not taking him to the vet, for not being able to do more. I hated me for not being able to give him a better life. But then, as he stirred beneath my hot whispers, I felt only compassion. We all live by our instincts, we each adapt. I felt an amazing grace settle on us both. No judgments. Things could have been different, things might have been worse. Gandalf might have come to live with me and had snacks and toys and known the noise of a busy home, but he had sleepy days in the sun, home-cooked meals, a dry bed by the stove. He was independent, loved and serenaded, and in his final moments, he knew the comfort of Joan’s hand. Blind, he knew the smells of home.

The amazing thing about grace is it swallows guilt whole, leaving the sweet aroma of love.