Sixteen Candles…and Counting

Another birthday has rolled in for me; another day to celebrate life and assess what I’m doing with it. (Some Lull readers may remember that my family surprised me this year with an earlier summer birthday, but today it’s authentic. Today I’m older.)

Just in time for my annual assessment, by way of Mary Oliver’s A Thousand Mornings, comes this wisdom—which we would all do well to take to heart:

“The life that I could still live, I should live, and the thoughts that I could still think, I should think.”
—C. G. Jung

[Photo by Robert Doisneau.]

What Will You Do Today?

“Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.”
—Annie Dillard

[Art by Guy Orlando Rose.]

Living Fully

“A day spent without the sight or sound of beauty, the contemplation of mystery, or the search for truth and perfection is a poverty-stricken day; and a succession of such days is fatal to human life.”
—Lewis Mumford

[Photo by Imogen Cunningham.]

The Wingèd One

In February I told you about Birdy, a pooch of sweet demeanor who was scooped up from the mean streets of Oakland—starving and riddled with cancer—by one person who bothered to notice her and knew to take the ailing creature to Bad Rap.

From there, Birdy was adopted by “The Lady,” who knew their time together would be short but full of heart. The Lady, a writer by trade, helped Birdy keep her own blog: Birdy Flies Home. It’s a lovely chronicle of living, of making each moment matter and of facing the inevitable.

Today, at 4:00 p.m. California time, Birdy is donning wings to make her great trek Home.

Please join with me in wishing her a calm takeoff and a brilliant landing into a world where bully sticks are in infinite supply, cones of misery don’t exist, and she may dig as many holes as deep and large as she wants with no ill effects.

Birdy, may your Blue Jewel light your way to Joy. We’ll miss you.

Their Brilliant Careers

Though I lost touch with many of my college friends, I did check in now and again on their professional accomplishments. One became a Broadway director, another a Broadway actor; one acquired acting fame in Hollywood, another took home an Oscar for directing. I swelled with pride for all of them—I felt joy, never envy, for their success.

A couple of months ago, I read this:

“My friends are professionally accomplished, and have big important jobs. Using classic Under-Achiever logic, I feel I don’t need to do more with my life, because they are doing so much. It’s kind of like I’m achieving by association. (Keep up the good work, guys! I like feeling important.)”
—Jane Clancy, author of The Literary Horse

I knew just what she was talking about—I nodded. I felt the same way—I laughed!

And then something weird happened.

An e-mail about the publishing industry popped into my inbox, as one does nearly every day, to inform me about who signed with which agent, whose book is headed for the silver screen, and what I should be doing on social media to market myself. I usually scan these e-mails and read only the bits I feel connected to.

On this particular scan, a name gobsmacked me—a name from my college (g)olden days, a name I’d followed for years when the fellow was doing well in Hollywood but then I lost track of him. Now I knew why he’d disappeared: He’d left the bright lights for a professorship, and while he was instructing wannabe actors on howtobe actors, he started writing children’s plays and musicals, which segued into writing YA fantasy fiction, which landed him an agent and a three-book deal for a cool million (and then $ome).

Really?

This time, it was only a little like I was achieving by association. My joy for my friend was fleeting; in its place rose a pang of envy, foreign to me and ugly.

What happened to my usual pride? Why was this different?

Did I yearn for that kind of recognition? Pine for the money? What?

It took a few days to figure out, but I came to the conclusion that I have a problem with people who excel at more than one thing. Well, TWO things are okay, I suppose. But this guy was good on stage, on screen, as an academic, as a playwright, and now as a novelist.

It just felt unfair. It made me feel like I was a kid in the schoolyard again, wondering when someone would pick me to be on the dodgeball team.

Actually, it wasn’t like that at all. I really have nothing to compare it to. My pride had been sucker-punched. I can do a lot of things, too; I just don’t excel at many of them. After whimpering a bit, I got over it. And now I’m happy for my friend. Really.

As Jane says, “Keep up the good work, guys! I like feeling important.”

Soul Check

“If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things in nature have a message you understand, rejoice, for your soul is alive.”
—Eleanora Duse

What We Cherish

Just as Jane Goodall continues caring for Jubilee, I continue to keep Icky by my side.

I’ve no idea how he got his name and no one in my family remembers either. He entered my life shortly after my birth, while I was still in the hospital, and has stayed with me ever since. He’s been cuddled, fought over, lost, found, washed, and stepped on; he’s gone swimming, swinging, camping, and travelling; he’s been read to and cried on, squeezed and loved.

Last week my husband operated on Icky, who had become profoundly impaired. I’m sorry I don’t have a “BEFORE” photo to share with you (although Icky probably wouldn’t have appreciated that). Imagine a wilted mound of terry cloth with felt facial features.

NOW look at him! Icky has never been so solid. It’s the first time he’s been able to sit up on his own. With new stuffing and a clean playsuit (he didn’t come clothed originally, but a good wardrobe was always paramount in my family so I kept him in doll clothes), he’s ready for the next segment of our journey together.

Thank you, dear husband, for reviving my first animal.

And thank you, Icky, for your perseverance and patience.

A Bounty of Bad Choices

I’ve started a project that has me reading books for youngsters, specifically books involving companion animals. While scanning the library shelves last week for dog haikus, I tripped over a Lemony Snicket tome and was curious about what lessons the popular author was instilling in today’s youth.

The content is silly sometimes, sarcastic other times. Readers need to be intelligent enough to know the difference. But some messages in Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can’t Avoid contain both humor and wisdom, as does this passage on decision-making:

“Deciding on the right thing to do in a situation is a bit like deciding on the right thing to wear to a party. It is easy to decide on what is wrong to wear to a party, such as deep-sea diving equipment or a pair of large pillows, but deciding what is right is much trickier. The truth is that you can never be sure if you have decided on the right thing until the party is over, and by then it is too late to go back and change your mind, which is why the world is filled with people doing terrible things and wearing ugly clothing.”

Wish I’d understood this a LONG time ago…

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

That old Rolling Stone song is true. The question is, How will you respond?

When 15-year-old Regina Mayer was told she couldn’t have a horse, she took the road less travelled…


[Story and photo from Horse Connection magazine.]

Heaven on My Mind: Never Can Say Goodbye

Heaven’s been weighing on my mind, but I’ve had a hard time envisioning it.

“Every living thing dies. There’s no stopping it.”
—the opening paragraph of Unsaid, by Neil Abramson

As I posted earlier on Lull, my reading these last few months has been full of heartbreak and partings—people from dogs, horses from people, goats from turkeys, geese from cows. There’s no end to these losses.

I grew attached to the animals I read about on blogs and in books and when they passed into the Great Beyond, my thoughts followed them. I was reluctant to let go.

I take some solace in imagining an idyllic Afterlife where once-Earth-dead creatures now frolic (or graze or float or whatever they desire) and live beyond their psychological and physical constraints.

When I finished reading The Eighty-Dollar Champion: Snowman, the Horse that Inspired a Nation, I kept thinking about the sweetness and patience Snowman had extended to everyone. He had a good life back in the day, but I wondered what his life was now. Surely his story continues.

I e-mailed a friend to share my thoughts about the book (which she had also read) and said I hoped Snowman had found his way to Just-A-Bob, our favorite character in Jane Smiley’s Horse Heaven.

I e-mailed again after realizing my remarks had populated Paradise with fictional creations as well as the blood-and-bones variety. My friend, ever gracious about my many blunders, wrote back to say that of course our fictional favorites reside in the Afterlife. What’s more, fictional places are part of the landscape there (think environments devised by Tolkien and Lewis).

Fictional places? Wow! My friend had just exponentially expanded Paradise for me. I started rewinding my memories of all the books I’d read and all the films I’d seen. It made me dizzy.

“I have always imagined that paradise will be kind of a library.”
—Jorges Luis Borges

Playwright Eugene O’Neill imagines Heaven for us in “The Last Will and Testament of An Extremely Distinguished Dog,” a piece he wrote for his wife in dreaded anticipation of their beloved Dalmatian’s death. It’s written from the perspective of the dog, who describes Paradise as a place “where one is always young and full-bladdered … where each blissful hour is mealtime.”

Like Borges, O’Neill (on behalf of his dog) fashions Heaven in simple and self-serving terms that I can easily understand. It’s whatever you want most—every birthday and twinkling-star wish you ever made all rolled into one. While these are sweet notions, I suspect the truth is a bit more complex.

In his essay “Sick Dog,” environmental activist and writer Rick Bass speaks to the sorrow of loss and posits a different type of Heaven,* one that stokes my imagination and belief:

“[P]erhaps the seams, the laminae, between the various worlds—the past, present, and future, as well as the living and the nonliving—may not be as distinct and clear-cut as we have been taught, or as our somewhat arbitrary clocks and calendars have led us to believe.

“Sometimes—not always, and I think I could even say rarely—but still, sometimes, I perceive that there is a stillness and a wholeness in the world, or in some portion or corner or fragment of the world, for some little place in time, where things just feel so right and huge and powerful and easy that I will have the perhaps blasphemous thought that maybe there are layers of heaven, and that, with our species’ dependence upon visual acuity, we might fixate too much on notions of streets-lined-with-gold as indicator or marker of when a traveler arrives in that place.

“There are definitely moments in time and places in the world where we have each felt the peace and wholeness, the stillness, spoken of in such prophecies and promises. For me it is experienced most often when I am deep in the wilderness, or up on the ridges of mountains, or in the fields and prairies with nothing but field and prairie to the horizon, or when I am simply in the presence of family. In such moments I think very much that the case could be made that we are already ankle-deep in heaven.”

Ahhh. Thank you, Mr. Bass. A picture of Paradise is coming in clearer now.


I think again about the people and animals I’ve met through my reading—their deeply felt bonds, their unfathomable grief over the deaths of their mates. It’s a comfort and a relief to view them through Rick Bass’s lens: to believe that in each relationship, long before the untimely departure of one being, the pair’s Earthly life together was already “ankle-deep in Heaven.” In the future, this is the layer I shall try to commit to memory.

* Paragraphs may not be in original order. Essay is included in the anthology WOOF! Writers on Dogs.

[Painting by Abbott Handerson Thayer and recolored for Lull.]

The Apple of Our (Technological) Eye

It’s quiet here today. All our Apple gadgets—including some museum pieces from 1990 and the first iteration of the iPod Mini—are in mourning.

In case you missed the headlines, Apple cofounder Steve Jobs died yesterday.

Even if you don’t share Jobs’ innovative mind, or his entrepreneurial spirit, or his inquisitive nature, his approach to Life is worth emulating. In that one respect, he will remain a beacon.

“We’re here to put a dent in the universe.”
—Steve Jobs

[Pic from Hubble Telescope.]

If It’s in My Weekly Reader, It Must Be True

When I was in first grade—back in the Dark Ages before family-owned farms became artisanal and watermelons became seedless (and may I add tasteless) wonders—I read a fascinating article about witches in My Weekly Reader, the trusted news source for grade-school children. A single sentence captured my attention and my imagination: One sign of a witch is a dark spot on the palm of the left hand. (I’ve paraphrased.)

Gosh Golly! MY left palm sported a large, dark spot… I must be a WITCH! I was no longer just a middle child; I was special. For to be a witch meant I had superpowers. I just had to figure out how to activate them.

Dreaming commenced immediately. What would I do with my special lot in life? What did I want? Suddenly, the world had no limits.

Superficial desires sprang to mind, of course: Barbies, Breyer horses, doing a backstand from a stand-up position. But I also wanted global peace and a place where I could oversee the care of every homeless and orphaned creature of the world.

Over the years, the closest I came to being a practicing witch was in the theatre as Gillian in Bell, Book and Candle and as the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. I grew out of my desire for Barbies and Breyer horses, and halfway through my life I realized world peace was unsustainable. I’m still holding out for watching over orphaned animals.

Over the years, the dark spot on my left palm has turned increasingly lighter and smaller. Now it’s hardly noticeable.

And what of those superpowers?

I practiced wiggling my nose and waited for something snappy to happen, like the Bewitched ladies could pull off. I hoped for something courageous like the X-Men dished out, swooping down from the clouds to rescue a rabbit from a hunter’s trap or issuing a turbulent wind toward a gang of schoolyard bullies every time they even thought about tormenting someone.

Nothing. I was destined to be a normal middle child with an abnormal spot on her hand.

ut wait! What if we all have superpowers, whether we’re part of a coven or not? What if the special traits and talents that combine to make us unique—that provide us what we need to forge our singular path in life and to serve the world wisely—are our superpowers? These superpowers—for instance, patience, modesty, empathy—are with us all our lives, yet if we don’t recognize their value, we can’t employ them for the greater good.

Hmmm. I suppose we don’t have to be witches or X-Men to have influence in the world after all. We just have to be able to see our gifts and use them well.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische.]

Seeing Value in Every Life Form

On my last trip to the library, I intended to drop off the books that were due and hightail it out of there. But naturally, I couldn’t walk past the shelves of New Arrivals without glancing at the titles. I came home with three books that are due back in short order.

Though the subject matter of two of those books—vision loss and parenting a disabled child—seem out of step with my usual library choices, it turns out that they’re not. At least, the one I’ve finished reading isn’t.

The Boy in the Moon: A Father’s Journey to Understand His Extraordinary Son is a loving, brutally honest account of the moment-by-moment challenges parents with severely disabled children confront (in this case, a kid with cardiofaciocutaneous syndrome). The “father” in the title is journalist Ian Brown, who reveals his tale in engaging, unsentimental prose.

Brown didn’t write his memoir to gain our sympathy. Though I’m sure he could list any number of reasons for sharing his life so intimately with the world, the one that stood out to me was his quest to know whether his son’s life (and, thereby, the lives of all extremely disabled individuals) has purpose, meaning, value—and whether Life, in turn, offers purpose, meaning, and value to his son.

This is the $64 million question, isn’t it? It threads through everything I read and everything I think about (National Chicken Month, for instance), even when I don’t want to think about it. I would guess you think about it, too.

Ignoring the usual “God’s Will–God’s Angel” explanation for disabled children, Brown explores the science behind genetic mutations and discusses historical and current perceptions of disabilities. His encounter with author and scholar Gilles Le Cardinal is the book’s payoff. If you’ve ever worried or wondered about quality of life for people who have extreme disabilities, or if you’ve ever cast that proverbial stone at a family who sent a disabled relative to a group home to live, Le Cardinal will change your outlook. The Boy in the Moon is worth reading if only to understand Le Cardinal’s research and teaching philosophy.

The Boy in the Moon reminds me—as have Mary Oliver’s nature poems and Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson’s The Pig Who Sang to the Moon—that it’s easy but not appropriate to filter life through one’s personal experiences and cultural norms. Neither my culture nor anyone else’s is the standard by which the rest of the world should be measured. Whether we’re regarding the lives of humans, animals (nonhuman), plants, or organisms, we should honor this truth from Brown’s memoir:

“There’s no lesser than. There’s just different from.”
—Bruce Blumberg, geneticist

Going Blind Is No Biggie

On my last trip to the library, I picked up Coping with Vision Loss: Understanding the Psychological, Social, and Spiritual Effects from the New Arrivals shelves. Here’s an excerpt from page 3 of the Introduction by authors Cheri Colby Langdell and Tim Langdell:

“Losing one’s sight does not resemble losing a limb. One is not disabled in quite the same way, and in fact, as we shall show in this book, one need not think of oneself as disabled or challenged at all. The blind person is not constantly conscious of any sense of loss; instead, the personality changes somewhat, but the person is still the same whole person as before.”

Now, dear readers, what do you think of that assessment? Please, please tell me your thoughts and I’ll tell you mine.

What Will You Do with Your Life?

“[T]he very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.”
—From Animal Dreams, by Barbara Kingsolver

[Art by Camomile Hixon.]

Start Your Week “In the Pink”

This is Belle. She’s 5 days old.


That’s it. That’s all I know about her. Except this: When I try to imagine her perspective, to really sense life through her young eyes and nose and ears, all is new and hopeful again. The weight of the evening news—its sorrows from Somalia and Syria, its hubris from Congress and joblessness from across the U.S.—falls away and I see, instead, a world beckoning to be explored.

Try it yourself.

Oh, I know. The weightlessness doesn’t last. But still … for one moment or two, everything is possible. The week doesn’t start much better than that, does it?

[Pic by Brittney Williford of Whisker Snaps Photo.]

Art Becomes Life

This definition of surrealism from illustrator Brad Holland caught my attention some time ago and I thought I’d share it with you today.

“An archaic term. Formerly an art movement. No longer distinguishable from everyday life.”

Yup. Aptly describes my existence. How about yours?

[The illustration is Brad Holland’s. I think it’s how some writers envision editors.]

Fleeting Treasures

“Sometimes the most moving, altering moments of life are in fact only moments. Sometimes they are not destined to be novels, essays, or memoirs. Sometimes, there is no bigger picture.”
—April Monroe

Four Firsts for a Friend

We welcomed a friend here a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately for her, we were still emptying my father’s barn and exhausted from our efforts. We made lousy hosts, hardly up to showing her the highlights of the Horse Capital of the World. But surprisingly, she managed to experience some personal firsts anyway:

1. She ate her first Girl Scout Cookie—the classic Thin Mint.

2. She watched the Oscars on television with us.

3. She visited a humane society. The fact that said friend had a French upbringing doesn’t explain why she’s missed Thin Mints and the Oscars in her lifetime—especially since she’s lived in the States for a number of years now. However, her supersensitive allergic reactions to all things animal do justify her avoidance of animal shelters. She did fine, though. Even toured the dog kennels after we donated some bedding to the place.

4. When she called an acquaintance who currently resides in the Bluegrass, he couldn’t talk at that moment. He was hunting squirrels for dinner. (Do I really need to explain why this would be a first for most of us?)

In spite of her hosts, our houseguest had a memorable weekend here in what H. L. Mencken named the Bible Belt (now also dubbed the Diabetes Belt by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention), proof that adventure awaits us no matter where we are. We only have to recognize it.

[Vintage Girl Scout cookie tin bank courtesy of Girl Scouts Make History; armed squirrel photo from Treehugger.]

Learning Life’s Lessons Over and Over Again

“Life is easier than you’d think; all that is necessary is to accept the impossible, do without the indispensable, and bear the intolerable.”
—Kathleen Norris


Indeed. This is the chipper outlook I’ve been trying to embrace. But it hasn’t been easy and Life’s little surprises keep taking me on the road and away from my Apple.

Bear with me. Please.