Within

Today was the first time I've spent Thanksgiving alone since 1994, my senior year in college. In those days all my friends went home to be with their families, but because mine was so far away, and because I was an RA in the dorms where I lived, I always stayed behind, taking my dinner at the Denny's in Highland Park on Route 41, a thick notebook and a nice pen in tow. It was not the most ideal way to spend my favorite holiday, but I'd sit at my table eating my turkey and stuffing while I wrote letters to friends. After I graduated my roommates and I hosted an orphan Thanksgiving dinner, and the year after was spent with Ken and April, and every one of those Thanksgivings was magical, from making the world's best mashed potatoes to giving Winnie and Pip a bath after they somehow became infested with fleas. I would not lose a single one of those memories for all the money in the world.

This has been a challenging year. Ken and I separated after thirteen years together and I had to relearn much of my life. It hasn't always been easy and quite often I've struggled more than these writings admit, but I spent a great deal of my time today reflecting on past Thanksgiving dinners with Ken and my friends and comparing them to where I am now. It would've been easy to feel as though a terrible accident had happened, that by being alone I had somehow suffered some sort of failure. But that's not quite the way I see it.

I believe that happiness comes from within ourselves, that while material things may offer a temporary pleasure, and the company of family and friends certainly enriches us, it is we who determine how to feel. I was invited to spend my day with several people I know but in the end I chose to stay at home with Duncan and the kittens, to make my own dinner, to reflect on the past, both distant and recent. And while people tended to pity me for being alone I can not stress enough that I was not lonely. A year ago I never would've imagined I'd be where I am now, but I had plenty to celebrate and honor within myself. For that I am proud. It was a far better Thanksgiving than those ones spent in Denny's.

I would like to take a moment to thank Amber and Jesse and Kenzie for stopping by, bringing me a decaf latte and a beautiful picture Kenz colored, which now hangs on my fridge. I'd like to thank Andy for knocking on my door and giving me a hug. I'd like to thank my mother, Ruth and Kevi for calling, and Brady, Allison and Larisa for inviting me to join in their own celebrations. My day was made all the more perfect knowing that people love and think of me as much and as often as I love and think of them. Bless you all.

Now that the day is behind me, now that I am sitting in my bed, Duncan snoring at my feet, Olive batting her big yellow eyes at me from the pillow at my side, Winnie and Pip waiting patiently for me to lay down so they can claim their spots on my shoulder and hip, I think I'll just enjoy the silence and reflect, as I do every year, on what A.A. Milne meant when he wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."

While Working with Duncan

It's official, I am finally on vacation for the next eleven days. I can barely contain my excitement, and because the store is closed on Fridays and I only work a half day I decided that Duncan would come to work with me. We did this last year and had a great time; in fact, it was one of the best days I've ever had there. This year was just as wonderful. Duncan was quite the hit, flirting with all the girls, especially Amber, but that may been because she was enveloped in a cloud of his favorite perfume, Eau de Turkey Sandwich. He spent much of the morning laying quietly behind my chair, only occasionally getting up to demand a game of fetch down the text aisles. He rarely left my side and began crying the one time I stepped out to fill his water bowl so I hurried back in so he could jump all over me and shake his rear end like he hadn't seen me for weeks. It was a glorious reunion, let me tell you.

I think every day should be Bring Your Dog to Work Day. It's so much more fun, and even a little productive. We should start a petition or a movement!

What You Give

I have spent much of the last three days preparing for a farewell dinner party for my co-worker, PJ, who is moving to Houston with her family in a few weeks. Amber and I have shopped and planned and finally, yesterday we began cooking. With great encouragement from my mentor, David, I prepared a meal of champagne apricot chicken stuffed with spinach and cheese, served over a bed of lemon-butter pasta with a side of steamed asparagus. It's been a fearful experience, especially since I basically cooked for 15 people, a number far greater than I've ever cooked for before. And luckily, we somehow pulled it off. The meal was delicious (thank you once again, David, for all your advice and support) but the best part, the part that will be remembered is how we all just sat and talked afterward. PJ was amazed that we'd gone to so much trouble for her and that so many people showed up to wish her well. "You get what you give," I told her when we hugged, and I believe that. We receive whatever we put out there in the world.

I was a bit late getting home, or rather, later than I should've been considering Duncan hadn't been let out in nearly eight hours. I was anxious to take care of him, but not exactly excited to walk because the night has turned cold and wet, misty with halos around the lights (like the Illinois nights I fell in love with during college) and the snow is just beginning to fall. Im tired, my heads hurts, my wrenched neck and back are still not happy with me and my belly is warm and full. Walking in the cold is not high on my list of priorities.

But I did it. I came home to a dancing, chirping dog who, despite smelling Amber's dogs on me, was overjoyed to see me, as though I'd been gone for weeks. He jumped up on me, wagged his bum back and forth, and when I knelt down, slathered my face in kisses. Almost immediately my reservations about the walk were gone. I wanted to take him out, wanted to be with him, wanted to experience the night. So we leashed up, grabbed the poop bags and walked down the lawn.

The night was quiet with only a few cars sluicing up water out on the street. The street lights reflected off a million droplets and painted the cement in green, red and brief splashes of gold. The grass, still greening, slowly but surely, finally felt springy rather than crisp and the cool air was good on my cheeks after sitting in Amber and Jesse's warm living room. A rabbit darted past us and we followed him a ways before turning back. We stood near the fence looking out over the park, shrouded in mist, its darkness broken by intermittent pools of gold light and I felt warmed by the thought that we were alone in our noticing of the silence, which so few people experience.

"You get what you give," I told PJ, but I could've told Duncan the same thing as he sat down beside me, pressing his warm body against my leg, his hip resting comfortably on the top of my foot, the two of us watching the world be the world and the night be this night.

The Longest Day

I am burnt out. Today was the longest of the semester. From the moment I arrived at work this morning, turned on my dying computer and took my seat I knew I should just close up and go home. My patience with the customers is wearing extremely low and the only person I could stand speaking with was Amber, who understood but frowns at anyone who isn't at work when they should be. I've seen her work through strep throat and tonsilitus, which I think is just plain stupid, and would probably come in even if she was bleeding from the eyes. Although she isn't my supervisor and says she doesn't judge me when I stay home, I worry about what she thinks when I'm not there. She listened as I ranted, as she always does, and gave me that sweet North Dakotan smile of hers, the one that says, "I'm sorry, but really, it's time to buck up and deal with it."

I tried all day to remember my Duncan mantra, Hunt. Dive. Tree. but couldn't help watching the clock. When 4:30 finally arrived I shut down, grabbed my things and was out the door before the second hand had reached the five second mark. By the time I got home I knew there was no way I could walk Duncan without resting first, taking some time to be by myself, breathing deeply and putting my needs ahead of anyone else's. As I put the key in the lock I listened for his familiar chirp and the sound of his paws dancing on the tile in the entryway while he waits for me. I knew the minute the door opened he'd jump up, grab my wrist and drag me around the apartment until I put on my boots and leashed him up for the thing he'd waited patiently for all day. I took a deep breath, opened the door and found him sitting quietly, his head cocked, his eyebrows creased. I sighed, rubbed behind his ears and was shocked when he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the bedroom. As I kicked off my shoes and laid back, he jumped up on the bed, licked my hand and curled up beside me. Without a word and no explanation I fell asleep. And that was fine by Duncan because somehow he knew that today this was more important than our walk. Having nothing better to do, he gave me a quick head bath then spooned up against me and we slept for two hours.

These Boots are Made for Walking...

I had a busy day, what with taking care of the tires, running to the bank, a quick stop at Best Buy and then an hour at the world's worst library. I was barely home when I heard a curious scratching at the door. When I opened it there stood my friends Amber and Jesse, who came bearing gifts. It had been a long time since I'd had a pop-in (The Breakers was a gated community) so I was a little unprepared and the apartment was a mess. Duncan did a quick run-through of all his tricks and seemed particularly fond of Amber (I don't think there are enough women in his life. I'll have to have them over for dinner!).

It seems that Amber had grown tired of hearing me complain about my lousy shoes and how my walks with Duncan keep my feet in a nearly perpetual state of cold and wet, so she and Jesse picked me up a pair a nice Champion snow boots for Christmas, perfect for galloping through the snow and ice. Duncan will appreciate them because he'll get to stay out longer and I'll be able to kick even more snow in his face. Between the boots and my Everest-proof coat, I think we're set for the season.

Thanks, guys! You made a boy and his dog very happy tonight.

Magic Feather Update

A quick word of thanks to the people who have sent or given me feathers:

• Matt, for grabbing the first one and calling it "Arapahoe Community College's contribution." It's a lovely striped goose feather, small and round, shaped like the belly of a spoon or a canoe paddle, the kind of feather than could float and drift for days at a time.
• Amber, for bringing two lovely white feathers from her pillows. They are long and icicle white and curl into elegant points like pale, sinewy quotation marks. They will be the voice of my journey, calling out our coming across the long Wyoming miles and winding Idaho roads.
• Penny, from work, who knows nothing of my feather seeking, but picked up a soft gray chalk smudge of a feather and was told by Amber to bring it to me.
• Karren, who sent a lovely, lovely feather she inked by hand. She was clever enough to notice that I did not specify the feather had to be real, but figured out it could be imagined as well, then made real by the magic of her long years of friendship. It is long and dark with the slightest, most delicate of arcs at either end, round on the tip, whispy but strong, the kind of feather that could both guide an arrow or tickle a nose.
• David, in Illinois, sent a single, whisper of a feather, like the sheddings off a summer cloud. He included a lovely note which said, "this little fellow popped to fore from my featherbed where, for years, he has offered comfort and warmth to me during good times and bad, during the coldest of winter nights. On this feather I have fretted, dreamt and slept in peace. Now it insists on lifting you as you fly."
• Carol, a work colleague from days of yore. We both survived our time at the Quality Inn in Pocatello, she as the snappiest, smartest waitress in the place and me as her ever-laughing, acne-marked busboy. Carol had big dreams and decided she wanted to be a pharmacist when she grew up, which finally happened. She is one of the most imaginative people I know. She sent a single long feather from the tail of a pheasant, which she said came from her grandson. It's gold and amber with stripes of dark chocolate, rough near the quill, but soft and downy along its length. It's a feather for a Robin Hood, or Powhatan, or a feather that when dipped in ink could write many tales of one traveler's journeys.

Thank you all. Your contributions mean the world to me. I feel more and more brave with the arrival of each one. And I look forward to receiving more as Christmas draws closer. Before I leave I'll be sure to post a picture of my collection.

Homeland Security

Yesterday, shortly after arriving at work, I somehow managed to convince myself that I'd left the front burner on and that the tea kettle was slowly melting, would catch fire and Ken I would be summoned home to find a smoldering pile of ash and cinder, and also a quite few angry-looking neighbors.

I do this; I turn insanely obsessive-compulsive for a few weeks every couple of years. In Chicago I'd drive halfway to work, decide I'd left the coffeepot or the iron on, or that the windows were open and someone would break into the house, before I consciously knew what I was doing, I'd flip a U-turn and drive 30 minutes back home only to discover the coffeepot and iron off and our two golden retrievers, Ashley and Nikki, sitting up in the closed windows watching me and loving me despite my obvious mental illness. I have no idea if other people do this (please fess up if so!), and would love to know that I'm not too far outside the realm of normal mania.

Amber was in the middle of telling an endless and boring story about several other people we work with when I thought, I don't remember turning the kettle off. On and on she went, who said what to whom and what she thought about the whole situation. I bet the burner is red and smoking even as I sit and listen to this inane story, I told myself. I know my eyes kind of glazed over and Amber's voice turned into the buzzing of a nasty florescent bulb. I bet the kettle is made with lead paint. I bet it comes from China. The cats are running wild, trying to dodge the toxic fumes. Those damn Chinese are at it again, trying to kill our pets. Amberamberamber in the background. She's going to Hawaii for two weeks just as my corner of the world is turning cold and brown. I don't have to listen to her. In five days she'll be sitting on a beach surrounded by palm trees and surf boards. Screw her! Duncan is probably scratching at the door, whimpering for help, unable to understand why his papa would allow this to happen to him, allow the Chinese-lead-based-tea-kettle industry to tear our family apart. Something must be done.

"I'm sorry," I cut Amber off and stand up. "I'm pretty sure I turned my stove off but I need to check. I'm going home. It's insanely OCD, I know, but I'll make myself sick if I don't go now."

Amber has seen me sick, has seen me manic and hopped up on Wellbutrin, and she's my friend, which means she knows better than to question me when I get like this. "Okay, go home," she says, and instantly her voice ceases to sound like the voicees of grown-up in Charlie Brown cartoons.

And then I'm off, driving the eight minutes it takes to get home. I imagine coming across the burning mass of my building, firetrucks and onlookers gathered around, their shapes coming and going amid the dark smoke. Briefly I envision myself leaping selflessly into the flames to rescue our chillins, as we call them, our three cats and Duncan. Would The Post cover the story? What about The Rocky Mountain News? Will there be an outpouring of support for me in my loss and grief? Will Oprah ask me on?

Thankfully the building is exactly as I left it 45 minutes earlier, quiet and almost stately looking with the sun shining on the upper floors. The grass is wet and the sky is high and blue and it's a perfect Autumn morning in every way. A Hollywood set designer could not have placed the leaves more perfectly on the trees and at the base of their trunks. Someone jogs by, and then a woman with her baby stroller pushes past.

Ah, life is good, I almost think, and then, Maybe the Chinese have devised a way to make these lead-ridden tea kettles simmer a long time before they burst into flame and spray kettle shrapnel and cinders of chamomile tea leaves every which way. I better check.

So I unlock the door and step inside. The cats are in conference in the middle of the living room looking guilty and shocked to see me as if they've been planning an attack. Pip scampers away, leaving Winnie and Olive to cover. Winnie turns her back and begins grooming her paws nonchalantly. Olive flashes her best baby eyes at me as I move inside toward the kitchen.

Duncan does not appear, which is most unusual.

The first thing I do is check the burner. It's off. The kettle is still warm from my Egyptian Licorice tea so I move it to the back burner, scan all the knobs and tell myself they're all off. Satisfied, I inspect the coffeepot. The kitchen is all clear. I have successfully averted another attack by the Chinese.

But still no Dunc.

I find him in the bedroom, his Buddy tucked under his chin, resting peacefully on my pillows, eyes closed and smiling. He doesn't move. I don't know if he even really knows I was there.
How's that for Homeland Security?!