Feathers for Flight for a Friend

“Every fear hides a wish.” David Mamet

Recently an old college friend, Koko Cooper, who directed me on stage in David Mamet's Duck Variations––the performance of which I am probably proudest––announced that she'd accepted a new job, the training for which would require her to fly here to Colorado for a few days. Koko was a good friend, kind and patient, and incredibly generous, so when I read about her fear and the experiences she's had flying, I knew what I had to do. She had to have one of my magic feathers. They did wonders for me when I was preparing for my flight to Buffalo last year and I figured maybe all she needed was a little extra magic to get her off the ground.

So last week Duncan and I dumped all the feathers I've collected over the years onto the coffee table and went through them. The table, a heavy and dark tiled thing, turned into a rainbow of memories and inspiration. I took a long time going through them, running my fingers along their sleek bodies, strumming the music from them, holding each up to Duncan for his inspection. Finally, he seemed to settle on a nice red one, bright and vivid, a parrot feather my friend David had sent me. I picked out a simple card with a puffin on it, a bird most people falsely believe doesn't fly despite the fact that it does, and slipped it into the mail.

It has arrived safely in Chicago, ready for Koko to carry with her onto the plane that will bring it back to Colorado. It will not bring her luck but the kind of magic that is familiar with the air, with its currents and calms, with the serenity of boundless blue space, and the strength to accomplish whatever it is she sets out to do. She doesn't yet know that that magic resides deep within herself, but I have faith the feather will whisper its secrets to her as it whispered them to me. 

Koko, you will be fine. And if we can see each other after these eighteen long years, I will experience the magic of that feather again. Be strong and brave, my friend. The feather will carry you far.

"Ducks!"

One Year Ago

A year ago tonight I was sitting in East Aurora, New York, surrounded by new family and friends, marveling at the distance I had traveled the night before, writing on my new iPad, wondering what Duncan was doing in my absence. It was the first night in years I had been without him near me, and only the sixth in our shared time together.

It was a long road getting there and one I have not taken for granted in the three-hundred, sixty-five days since. It started in Atlanta, when my anxiety first manifested on a business trip and continues to this day. But the real turning point was the morning Duncan presented me with his magic feather, when I kissed Ken farewell at the airport, and climbed aboard that red-eye flight to Buffalo. That was the night I finally understood how much control I had over my fear, that anything is truly possible if we work hard enough for it and believe in ourselves, and if we have the company of a good dog at our side to share in the journey.

And of course there were all the magic feathers sent to me by people across the country and from around the world who believed in me even when I doubted myself. I do not know whether I could have made that journey without their support and encouragement and faith. And I just want you to know that I remember, that I am still thankful for the gift you gave me, that there is not a day I haven't drawn strength from your generosity and kindness.

Thank you all. You got me there and back and have walked in my heart every time Duncan and I have ventured out since.

Middle

I'm in the middle of MaxDog, a wonderful book by my blogging friend Caryl Moll. Caryl writes of her Golden Retriever Max, who entered her life just prior to a very tumultuous time, filled with uncertainty, anxiety, grief, and depression. Max filled her days with confidence, exuberance, and the kind of special devotion only Goldens can provide and helped her overcome the challenges that interrupted a seemingly idyllic life in South Africa.

I first came to know Caryl two years ago when I stumbled upon her blog, Living Life to the Max. Almost instantly we connected in a way that only people who have shared similar circumstances can understand. Max was her rock during some very bleak days and as I learned more of her story, the more I understood her bond with Max and the tremendous impact he has had on her life.

Like, Max, Duncan entered my life at a difficult time. Just a few months prior to his unexpected arrival I'd lost my grandmother, who I'd been close to and with whose passing I was having an extremely difficult time coming to terms. Max was originally intended to be Caryl's husband's dog just as Duncan was meant to be Ken's. But life has a way of turning things around and soon Duncan and I formed a bond that transcended his relationship with Ken. Not too long after Max arrived Caryl's life was turned upside-down by a series of events beyond her control. And a mere six months after Duncan joined our family I was diagnosed with a debilitating anxiety disorder that changed my entire existence. Duncan was there for me in ways entirely unexpected, and through his guidance I began the long process of rebuilding my life, a task that continues to this day. Max did the exact same thing for Caryl, offering his unconditional love and acceptance, while encouraging her to reenter the world and resume her own life.

I identify with this book in many ways and am thankful I've had the opportunity to read it and grow closer to Caryl, or as close as two people on opposite sides of the planet can grow. Caryl was one of the amazing people who sent me a magic feather last year prior to my trip to New York. While I don't have an autographed copy of MaxDog, I keep the card she included with her feather as a bookmark. In it she wrote, "Remember, courage is not the absence of fear but that special person's ability to embrace it... Fly, Curt, fly!!!" I have cherished it, and the feather, since their arrival, and stop every time I open the book and thank The Universe for putting her into my life.

If you'd like your own copy of MaxDog, you can order it here. Or, if you own a Kindle and would like a digital copy, you can download it from Amazon here. Please be sure to visit her blog and tell her Duncan sent you.

One More Feather

We are getting through this the best way we know how. It helps to believe we did the best thing possible for Winnie every moment of her life––from the moment she stumbled into our laps, her Dalmatian spots and graceful, careful steps around her scampering, awkward litter-mates, including Pip, to the moment she closed her eyes for the last time while I held her in my arms, wrapped in my baby blanket, whispering close in her ear, "Papa is here, Bean. I'm here. It's okay. Find me again. I'll look for you." Our apartment is small and plenty full between Ken and me, Duncan, Olive and Pip, but the enormity of her absence is felt every moment, creating a much bigger space than I remember before.

Aside from myself Pip seems the most effected. I assured Winnie that he was safe, that I would look after him and make sure he always knows he is loved. We had the vet, Dr. Jason Cordeiro, come to our apartment to assist in her passing, sparing her the anxiety of being moved to an unfamiliar, sterile place away from the others. After she was gone, curled up on my lap, each of her siblings came to her, touching their noses to her nose, sniffing and then moving on. Only Pip lingered, standing over her protectively, his body taut and straight, unmoving, for a long time. He has stayed close to me ever since, snuggling to my chest, climbing onto my hip where she once laid, constantly reassuring himself that I am nearby. The night her ashes were returned to us and we placed her in the beautiful urn we picked out, Pip lingered long moments nearby as though understanding that his sister was back home where she belonged but unsure why he couldn't see her. Wednesday night, long after Ken and I had tucked ourselves into bed, Pip's screams pulled me, running, down the hall to him. It was a sound I'd never heard him make, a tortured yowl that was pained and desperate. I found him curled up on the arm of the couch looking at her urn, his body trembling. He ran to me when I appeared and let me carry him back to bed where he stayed curled against my shoulder all night. I stayed awake long after he and Ken had fallen asleep, each of them snoring in the soft way they have, stroking his back, running his paws between my fingers, kissing his ears and telling him he was safe, just as I promised I would.

I cannot tell you how fortunate I feel that Dr. Jason was the man who assisted Winnie in her transition. He was empathetic and kind, patient and sincere. He stayed with us for several hours, letting us take our time, laughing as we shared memories, holding our hands and hugging us when we needed it. Tonight I received a heartfelt condolence card from him that brought me peace even as it brought tears to my eyes. He is a good man, the kind of person I'd like to know better, and I am grateful for his presence at such an important moment in our lives. You can read more about the work he does on his website, One Last Gift. If you live in the Denver area and are in need of such services, I cannot recommend him enough.

We bought Winnie's urn at Hero's Pets, from a local artist, Lee Wolfe. Despite being larger than we needed, Ken and I knew the moment we saw it that it was perfect in every way, especially because of the feathers that were hand-painted across it, one more to give me strength as I move forward. 

I still call out her name, especially when I'm in the shower, where she liked to join me in the mornings, sitting safe and dry behind the liner, watching me, occasionally talking and rubbing up against the plastic while she waited for me to finish so I could spank her gently on her rump while she rolled on the bathmat. I still see her from the corner of my eye, especially in those places she spent her last days with us, curled up behind the guitar, sleeping peacefully on the chair, perched on the table drinking from her glass of water.

It's still there. Waiting for her. As am I.

Winners

It has been a busy couple of weeks and I'm only now getting around to sorting through photos of my trip to Upstate New York last week. I meant to do this sooner but life kept being life and things kept coming up.

You may recall that Henry and Thomas, sons of my friend April, were the winners of the Magic Feather Contest. April was kind enough to send some photos of the day they received their prizes. I wanted to share them here because the boys are so darn cute and because this makes me very happy. 

Thanks, kiddo, for brightening my day. I'm glad they enjoyed their prizes. I love you. Be careful.

"Hope is the Thing with Feathers..."

The feathers have been collected and are ready for flight. As am I. But before my family arrives and we climb on that plane tonight I wanted to take just a moment and show you the collection I have amassed over the years. They have become so much more than mere feathers to me, but tokens of faith and encouragement from people all over the world, people who know me and love me, who believe in me and want to see me spread my own wings and continue to fly through this little life of mine. They are my talismans and bring me incredible courage and peace of mind when I face challenging situations. I laid them all out for you, each and every one I've received. I hope you're able to spot the one you sent or simply admire the beauty of the collection, the generosity of the community I've built in this little outpost on the internet, and the creativity of the people I love.

I cannot tell you how much your kindness and support have meant to me. I cannot tell you how many tears of joy I've let slip when I read your cards and notes and hold your faith in me in the palm of my hand. I cannot tell you how utterly overwhelmed I have been by the remarkable people who join Duncan and me on our walks.

Each of you, whether you believe it or not, have changed a life for the better, and that is one of the greatest things we can do on this planet.

With all sincerity, with the entirety of my heart and soul, I thank you and love you all.

"A willing heart adds feather to the heel." (Joanne Baillie)

Duncan's Feather

Morning came early, grey but blessedly cool, with grass tall and bending under the weight of an early sprinkle. I woke before Dunc, who whimpered and stretched as I knelt down beside him on my side of the bed where he started sleeping once the weather turned hot. I touched my lips to his cheek and whispered, "Good morning, Roo." His tail thumped twice and his eyes blinked open, his paws reached out and his whole body elongated, thinning and stretching out long across the floor. "Let's go play in the park."

Five minutes later we were crossing the field, me throwing his ball far across the wet grass, Duncan chasing after it with an energy and enthusiasm I was still working on. But watching him dart among the starlings, pecking in the earth for drowsy worms, brought a smile to my face and soon I was running after him, slipping him a treat each time he returned the ball to me. Eventually he lost interest and ambled up the hillside toward the playground. I whistled once but he only paused and looked over his shoulder at me before hurrying forward, ignoring my call. I followed him to where he was sniffing in the grass and looking up at me expectantly, his eyebrows raised, his tail a red flag flapping high above him.

And resting there, damp but perfectly shaped, sharp and as narrow as an arrow, was a single feather, silver and sleek near the quill, the inner vane striping into a soft grey as it fanned out. The outer vane, with its short barbs, were a vivid blue, electric and metallic, crisp and straight which made a buzzing sound when I ran my thumb along them, spraying misty drop of dew into the morning air.

I have never claimed to know what it is he was thinking, but I felt for sure that he was proud of his discovery, that he knew what it meant and how important it was to me, that I would cherish it always.

So I will keep it close to my heart tonight on the plane, in my pocket where I can touch it and find strength in the love and faith of my good, red dog, who knows me better than I know myself. How I ever became so fortunate to have him in my life I will never know.

My Magic Feathers

Yesterday afternoon, after six weeks of collecting feathers sent in by readers from across the country and around the world, all in preparation for my trip to Buffalo on Wednesday night, Duncan finally drew the winning name out of the hat.

And here, at last, is what he drew:

Henry and Thomas are the sons of April, one of the most beautiful people I have ever had the pleasure of calling a friend. It is no surprise that her sons, whom I've only met once, are just as lovely as their mother. They are smart, incredibly funny, sensitive, full of life, and I am very happy Duncan chose their names from the long list of remarkable and generous people who joined together to support me on my journey.

The only trouble is they don't have a dog. April wrote in her card that Henry wants a bulldog named Cedar and Thomas wants a little white dog he can call Hannah. Taking that into consideration I decided that while I was unable to provide them with real dogs, I could send them the next best thing. So here's what they will be receiving in the mail later this week, hopefully on the very day I depart for New York.

The box is loaded with candy, Starbursts and Kit Kats, because they're their favorites, superhero coloring books, colored pencils (because I was afraid crayons would melt in this heat), thank-you cards, and of course, a bulldog for Henry and a spotted white dog for Thomas. They're not the real thing but I figure they can practice and perhaps one day their parents will break down and get them a dog, perhaps a little white bulldog. After all, a boy without a dog is like summer without the sun.

Thank you all for participating in my contest, but mostly for showing me how much you believe in me. And please join me in congratulating Henry and Thomas. They gave me far more than I was able to give them.

Buffalo Wings: The Feathers for Flight Contest Winner is Chosen

This afternoon Duncan was kind enough to put on his favorite hat (actually, it's mine, courtesy of Sue from Random Ramblings, but he agreed to wear it, if for only a moment, in exchange for more than a few treats) and prepare to draw the winner of my Magic Feather Contest.

We printed up the names of all the entrants, those of you who were kind enough to send feathers for my trip to Buffalo, and laid them out on the floor in front of Roo.

Dunc sniffed through them, turned them over with his nose, pawed at a couple and helped verify that everything was in order (and that there weren't any treats taped the bottoms of the names as possible bribes). After everything was checked and double-checked (those pumpkin crunchers can be sneaky little things!) the names were tossed into the hat where he nosed around for a bit, took his time, and made his selection.

And finally, after six weeks of waiting for the feathers to come in, a name was chosen!

And the winner is.....

Come back tomorrow to find out! I'll even show you what the prizes are!

Buffalo Wings: Serendipity with The Shepherds

It has been a very long time since Duncan and I have encountered The Shepherds on our walks so I was surprised this morning to come face to face with them once again, only this time the outcome was completely unexpected.

We were playing fetch on the shady side of the park, staying under the tall elms that grow above the lower soccer field. The morning was hotter than usual and Duncan was feeling it, panting and laying down to roll in the grass clippings. He lost interest quicker than usual and instead became fixated on sniffing out the goodies leftover and discarded in the grass from yesterday's sun-worshippers. Just as I laid down next to him I noticed The Shepherds not far away. We have been respectful and courteous to each other since our showdown that dark night several years ago, keeping far away from each other, nodding politely and leashing our dogs as we pass one another. I leashed Roo and stood up to move away but Duncan, always far wiser than me, turned and trotted right in their direction. When I pulled on his leash and said no, he bore down against me, flashed me a look as though to say, "trust me," and pulled me after him. I was nervous but he has yet to steer me wrong so I followed, reeling in the leash and commanding him to heel as we approached the man and his two dogs.

"Good morning," I called.

Mr. Shepherd leashed his dogs, one of them a dark puppy with enormous feet and a too-big tail, fluffy and black and longer than his body. "Good morning," he replied tentatively. After all, none of our conversations have been positive and he was as nervous as I was.

We made small talk for a bit and I asked about the puppy. All those years ago there had been two mature shepherds but Enzo, the male, died just before Christmas and Bodi, the puppy, was a new gift to his wife. Bodi was playful and loveable, nipping at Duncan's ears and rolling in the grass at his feet, but Jay, the large female, was still aggressive and unsure of our presence.

I don't remember exactly how it came up but Mr. Shepherd said that he'd just returned from Buffalo where he was born and raised.

"I'm going there in a few days!" I exclaimed. He asked if I was from there so I explained about Kevin's father's memorial service and meeting his family and how I'd only passed through Buffalo on a train twenty years ago on a trip to visit April in Boston. He asked if we were planning to visit Niagara Falls, which is where his family now lives.

"Of course!" I said. "We're really excited about it!"

"Oh, that's great. It's a pit, a real shit-hole on the American side," he said, "But you have to stop and eat at Viola's! They have the best sandwiches! Don't get anything except the double steak and cheese. You'll thank me later. And if you have time, go to The Como! They have the best Italian food you'll ever eat!"

"Viola's and The Como," I repeated. "Got it!"

"And be sure to try beef on a weck. And don't shy away from the horseradish!"

We talked for nearly an hour about Buffalo and Niagara Falls and then about our dogs, all of whom were laying in the grass, Duncan minding his own business, Bodi still struggling to latch onto one of Roo's ears, and Jay batting at our shadows on the ground. We laughed and exchanged stories and shook hands when it was time to go. I still didn't get his name but I'm sure we'll meet again, next time under far better circumstances than in the past.

It felt good walking home afterward, grinning ear to ear, which puzzled Ken, who was sitting on the patio sipping his coffee and watching us when we arrived home. I explained the story to him and we both marveled at how The Universe has a way of giving us what we need exactly when we need it. Forgiveness, like feathers, come in the most surprising shapes, at surprising times.

Buffalo Wings: A Magic Feather Update (5)

The last few feathers have begun to flutter in from the far corners of this magnificent and astounding world of ours and once again I have been moved to tears by the generosity of others.

The first to arrive came from, Michelle, a high school friend who now lives part-time in Belgium. Her feather, a petite grey and brown-speckled tuft from a turtledove, found her in her garden in a moment when she needed it and it seems it was meant for her as much as it was for me. In her card she wrote two things which touched me deeply:

Le plus beau voyage est de se prouver sa liberte´. 

(which translates into "The greatest journey is to prove one's liberty to oneself.")

and

"My soul is in the sky." William Shakespeare (A Midsummer Night's Dream)

They are both true, Michelle, for you as much as me. Thank you and bless you.

My good friend Sean surprised me at work the other morning with a feather he'd painted by hand. It contains all the colors of the rainbow and is strong enough to carry me wherever I go. Sean is a remarkable man, one I'm not only fortunate enough to work with, but one whom I am incredibly blessed to call "friend." He's a talented musician and artist and I urge each of you to visit his website and listen to his music. It's all amazing and visionary but I do have to recommend his latest project, Seven Days, which is truly astounding. Buy it immediately and send him a note telling him Curt sent you.

My plan for the trip has been to watch the movie "Up" once we get in the air, but when I mentioned this to Sean he was insightful enough to tell me, "No. That's not right. You should watch Dumbo. That's the whole point of the feathers, isn't it?" And he was right, so thanks to Sean, Dumbo has been downloaded and will be viewed at 30,000 feet. I will be flying with that beautiful little elephant at last!

The final feather arrived last night from my friend Traci, an extraordinary woman, an artist and musician, strong and courageous, who is one of those lucky individuals who has managed to examine her life and change it into something beautiful and powerful. Several years ago, during the first round of feather hunting, she sent me a collection of music to see me through my journey. Her latest feather is another collection, which will certainly play almost constantly on my flight. Along with her feather she included an autographed chicken and accompanying note ("Be Brave!") courtesy of The Bloggess. Many of probably already know The Bloggess, but if you don't (shame on you!) you should begin reading her immediately! Thank you, Traci, for the gift of music and a smile to go along with it.

The feather contest is officially closed. The winner will be drawn tomorrow and the prize should be sent out Monday. I still welcome your feathers, though. My family and I don't depart for Buffalo until Wednesday evening so there's still time to stick a feather in the mail and get it to me. And even if your feather arrives after our journey has began, it will certainly be nice to come home to.

Thank you all, not only to the people who sent a truly astounding collection of feathers, but to those of sent emails and offered words of encouragement. Those feathers I will carry in my heart always.

Buffalo Wings: A Magic Feather Update (4)

How beautiful a day can be
When kindness touches it!
(George Elliston)

It has been an incredible week for feathers, humbling and emotional, bright and full of untethered hope and encouragement.

My friend David, who has been with me since those long-ago-days at Barnes and Noble back in the safe confines of The Shire-like Midwest, who I have known longer than I have known Ken, and who has been as true as steel, sent me an incredible box full of every kind of feather imaginable, from giant, magnificent parrot feathers––metal blue on one side and sunlight gold on the other––to the tiniest, most delicate fluffs of white no bigger than a baby's fingernail. There are no words to express my awe and gratitude at his generosity and faith in me. I love him like I love the Russian Olives, like I love the appearance of the flowers on the Lindens, like I love the first true day of Spring.

Lori, my faithful friend, first blog buddy, and published author, and her wonderful husband Tom, sent me a peacock tail feather that dazzles my eye. It was tucked into a box that contained an incredible afghan that Lori spent weeks crocheting just for me. While it arrived in the hottest day of the year and won't be getting much use for quite awhile, it is sure to bring as much comfort on a cold winter night as her feather will on my flight. Meeting and getting to know Lori and Tom has brought me unspeakable joy and I am forever in their debt.

Jyoti, another amazing person I met through our blogs and a shared love of Golden Retrievers, sent a gorgeous card with a beautiful dog print and a single beautiful feather tucked inside. It is striped and soft, as vibrant and strong as her spirit and will make an excellent traveling companion. Jyoti is the owner of Sedona Body and Soul in Sedona, AZ. If you're in the area and need a massage, or have health issues that you'd like treated holistically, please pay her a visit and let her know Duncan and Curt sent you. She's a remarkable person and I'm lucky to have found her.

Kemia, one of my oldest and dearest friends, sent a feather she found recently while visiting Croatia. I have known Keem since before I could grow a mustache and have been blessed by her place in my life every day since we first spoke. She has seen me through my awkward adolescence, the challenges of college, and the triumphs of becoming the man I am. Few people have had the kind of faith in me that she has and my life has been forever altered and improved for her place in it. On her card she wrote, 

"My sole intention for you since my journey began was to cast you bravely into the world, and every step along the way I have meditated upon you and wished and prayed for your heart to be still so you can easily take flight. So, so many places await you and require your artists eye and writers pen..." 

Thank you, Keem. From the bottom of my heart. You are an inspiration.

I received a wonderful letter from my father who included an ink drawing of a feather. His words of encouragement moved me deeply and knowing his feather came from his own hand, was drawn with love and faith, brought me to tears. Thank you, dad, for your belief in me. It means more than you will ever know.

And finally I received a packet of feathers my mother sent. Several weeks ago on Memorial Day she and Kevin and my uncle Dennis visited my grandparents grave only to discover several feather laid out neatly near Grandpa's headstone. My grandfather was a dedicated fly-fisherman and spent countless nights tying his own flies, many of them from the feathers he found on his long walks. Mom grabbed them, knowing how much they would mean to me, how remarkable they were. I miss you, Grandpa. Thank you for your gift. Skinadinkinaw!

And thank you to all the people who have supported and encouraged me on this next phase in my recovery. These past few weeks have touched me deeply, brought me to tears, overwhelmed me with the goodness and generosity out there in the world. I am the luckiest person alive to have been touched by so many remarkable souls and wonder what I possibly could have done to deserve so much kindness. I cannot express how deeply you have all impacted my life, strengthened my spirit when I need it most, and brought one silly man in Colorado so much joy.

As a reminder, my family and I will be leaving for Buffalo on Wednesday of next week. If you'd like to send me a feather it's not too late. While I will never stop accepting your feathers, the deadline for entering my contest will end on the 15th when one lucky winner's name will be drawn to receive a thank you prize from Duncan and myself. To request my address please send me an email with the words, "Feathers for Flight" in the subject line. The winner will be drawn on the 15th. Please include the name and kind of pet/s you have, if that's the case.

Again, thank you all.

Buffalo Wings: A Magic Feather Update (3)

It has been a windy week, with the trees bending over themselves, their boughs and leaves making the most divine music as they sway. And the feathers have been blowing in from all over the world.

I received three bright feathers from Sue, my friend from Sunny Sandy Eggo, keeper of the heartfelt and celebratory blog, Random Ramblings. Sue is an incredible woman who volunteers her generous spirit and the love of her dogs at local hospitals even as she heads up the San Diego Golden Meet-Up Group. She is a tireless survivor, a dedicated mother, and throws one hell of a Halloween party. She recently visited her favorite feather shop and found the most remarkable blue, violet and purple feathers a gay man could ask for. They're perfect in every way!

Marianne and her Golden, Finn, sent me a long, robin's egg blue feather from where they live in New York City. Their blog is fun, adventurous and always brings a smile to my face. Please stop by and tell them Curt and Duncan sent you.

Denise, a new Facebook friend and bird lover, sent a beautiful card and numerous feathers she collected over the years from her African Grays, Benni and Teeka, Chippy, her Cherry Head Conure, Lucy her Cockatiel, and feathers from Stella and Stanley Kowalski, whom she's fostering. They're an incredible variety of greens, grays, yellows, mango-colors, and the purest, fluffiest white. They arrived on the same day the very first hummingbird to visit the hanging basket I keep on my patio arrived. Enclosed was a beautiful note: 

"Legends say that hummingbirds float free of time, carrying our hopes for love, joy and celebration. The hummingbirds delicate grace reminds us that life is rich, beauty is everywhere, every personal connection has meaning and that laughter is life's sweetest creation."

My old friend April and her sons, Henry and Thomas, sent a wonderful card with feathers from every color in the rainbow: speckled and spotted reds and green, blues and yellows, startling pinks and rich turquoise. The messages the boys included read, "Good luck, Love Henry" and "For Curt, Don't Fly Away! Love, Thomas." I will keep them near me always.

And finally, Caryl, blogger and acclaimed author of MaxDog, the true story of her Golden, Max, who became her rock and helped save and change her life during one of the most difficult times Caryl faced. Despite the vast distances of the world, Caryl and I somehow found each other and have shared our stories. She is a strong woman, and one I admire greatly. Her feathers, grey and small, from a dove who never quite learned to fly, arrived at my mailbox all the way from South Africa. I am touched by her generosity and kind spirit. In her note she wrote: 

"Remember, courage is not the absence of fear, but that special person's ability to embrace it... Fly Curt, fly!!!"

I have been greatly touched by the support of my friends and readers. Each day I am reminded how blessed I am, how fortunate I have been to walk with Duncan, who has led me so many places and helped introduce me to so many remarkable and kind people. My life has been forever changed by your unfailing belief in me.

Thank you all!

As a reminder, it's still not too late to send your own feathers, in whatever form you find them. In the past I've received original artwork, music, newspaper clippings, smudge wands, and just about everything else you can imagine. Everyone who sends a feather will be entered into a contest to win a prize picked out by Duncan and me. All entries must be received by June 15th when I will send the winner their package. My family and I don't depart to Buffalo until the 20th so I will continue to receive feather until then. Simply send me an email with "Feather for Flight" in the subject field and I will gladly send you my mailing address. Don't wait too much longer. There are only eleven days left!

Buffalo Wings: A Magic Feather Update (2)

More feathers have found their way to me in preparation for my trip to Buffalo, New York in a few weeks. These came from Lisa, Denise, Frannie and all the other good folks at my doctor's office, as well as a beautiful dark blue one from Risa Buck, a friend I worked with several years ago. My father's oldest friend, Rick, who creates metal art, sent an incredible angel he made. Rick is a remarkable man and a talented artist and I can't urge you enough to visit him online. Please tell him Curt sent you!

Please continue to send feathers, even if you sent one several years ago! As a reminder, anyone who sends a feather will be entered in a contest to win a care package for your pet (or for you, if you don't have one) from Duncan and me. The drawing closes June 15th but I'll accept feathers up until the 20th, when my family and I depart. Be sure to include the name of your pet and what kind they are. And if you're one of those unfortunate two-leggers who don't share their life with an animal companion, you're still eligible to win a prize! Simply email me for my address. My email is located in my profile, in case you're wondering.

As always, thank you for your support, your generosity and kindness! You have lifted me long before my feet even considered leaving the ground.

Early Bloom

It seems Spring is over and we've jumped right into Summer, so much so that our Russian Olive trees have been blooming for the past week, nearly a month before they regularly appear.

I hadn't been paying attention and then one evening, after the sun dropped low and the air cooled, Ken and I took Duncan out for a slow walk down The Run, quiet, transparent clouds of gnats and other hovering motes dancing in the air before our eyes while a lazy breeze drifted across the golf course, the tall grass that grows along the fence line rolling under its touch. Dunc ambled ahead and Ken and I were doing what partners do on slow evening walks, talking about the unimportant things like the shape of the clouds or the falling snow of the cottonwood seedlings, when suddenly it caught me, that familiar buttery mint sweetness of my youth on the foothills of Pocatello. It stopped me dead and I caught Ken's arm and squeezed, startling him.

"There," I exclaimed. "Do you smell it? Close your eyes and smell it."

He did as I asked and nodded. "The Russian Olives?"

I could hardly speak, standing as I was, inhaling the sweet air, feeling the gold veins of the fragrance course through my lungs and into every inch of my body.

"Yes," I said finally, a smile spreading across my face. "The Russian Olives. They're here."

And everything will be good because normally they don't come until the middle and end of June, when I plan on flying east with my family. I'd feared missing them but Nature found a way. I will take a clipping of a branch, wrap those precious yellow blooms in a bag and carry them with me. Flowers for flight.

Buffalo Wings: A Magic Feather Update (1)

The feathers have began to arrive, first from Mary, a wonderful woman I work with, who brought me two feathers from a hawk that perched in her patio during our last snowfall three weeks ago. Then Eileen, my boss, brought me two feathers her children, Jenna and Michael, found while walking home from school. And finally we received a beautiful feather from Vickie and Bert, whose blog, Four-Legged Views, we visit and enjoy daily. Vickie is one of those people the internet led me to, and I have been thankful for her presence out there ever since.

As a reminder, I'm collecting feathers for my trip to Buffalo in June. Anyone interested should email me for my address. To sweeten the deal I'm putting everyone's names into a hat and one lucky winner will receive a gift from Duncan and me. Please remember to include your pet's name and what kind of pet he or she is. All entries must be received by June 15th. I don't depart until the 20th, but I'd like to have the entries early enough so that I can get the prize mailed out before I depart.

Thank you, again, for your help and support.

Feathers for Flight

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.  (Emily Dickinson)

Several years ago, when this outpost here on the internet was still new, I wrote at length about my anxiety disorder. I've done so numerous times since, but I thought I'd take a moment to explain it again so that the request I'm about to make doesn't seem quite so strange.

A little over seven years ago, when Duncan was still a puppy, I was prescribed Wellbutrin to help quit smoking. Unfortunately I was one of those extremely unlucky souls who suffered very serious side-effects because of it. My chances were somewhere along the lines of one in a million and not a day has gone by since that I haven't wished I'd spent a thousand dollars on lottery tickets instead. After six weeks of taking that wretched drug I began having strange episodes that at first seemed like extreme vertigo but quickly turned into all-out manic episodes that sent me to the hospital three times. I was forced to take an extended leave-of-absence from work and my life was turned completely upside-down. My doctors finally diagnosed a severe anxiety disorder that was either unmasked or triggered by the Wellbutrin. Unfortunately, though, it seemed that my body couldn't handle the drugs that are commonly prescribed to help control such an illness. Instead I turned to acupuncture, a change of diet, lots of rest, and a very intense dose of cognitive behavioral therapy, which continues to this day. I was forced to rebuild my life completely. 

Anyone who suffers from anxiety knows that it's a truly horrific experiece that changes your entire perception of the world. Nothing is safe and even when there doesn't appear to be any anxiety the fear of it returning becomes even worse than the anxiety itself. The world becomes your enemy. Tasks that most people take for granted, things I'd done daily, like drive to work, or watch television, go to movies, visit friends, walk Duncan, become impossible. I spent three miserable months holed up, hardly venturing outside, watching as Ken struggled to be brave and patient and comprehend what was happening.

Since then, though, I have worked very hard to reclaim my life but there is not a moment the fear––or rather, the fear of the fear––is not there. It took a long time but eventually I started going to movies again, hiking, venturing downtown to visit friends, all the things I'd once done with little or no thought. They are such silly and minor things, but to someone like me, each of them is a momentous and life-changing event.

And then Christmas of 2007 happened. Ken was unable to drive home to Idaho with me that Christmas and I was forced to make the trip on my own. I did a lot of soul-searching and mustering of courage, and just when I thought I'd have to spend that holiday alone I remembered Dumbo.

Yes, Dumbo. As in the flying elephant who carries a magic feather in his trunk. I remembered that as long as Dumbo had the feather he could fly and perform tremendous feats of magic and courage. But then there's that fateful evening when he loses the feather and is unable to perform until Timothy, his mouse friend, tells him that the feather wasn't magical at all, that he had the power all along. Eureka! I knew exactly what I'd do!

So I turned to my blog and asked my readers to send me a feather, an ordinary feather that contained the magic of their support and encouragement, something I didn't need for the trip but would help remind me that I was strong enough to do anything I set my heart to. I received countless responses, many in forms I hadn't anticipated, from peacock and hawk feathers, to geese and doves, paintings of feathers, photos, news clippings, music, ceramics, dream catchers, smudge kits, all of them magical and wonderful and remarkable in the power they contained.

In January, my step-father Kevin lost his father, Bob Spencer, a remarkable, adventurous man, who touched and changed many lives and has been sorely missed since he embarked on his latest journey. I did not get to spend a lot of time with Bob and his wife Mary, but they occasionally visited Idaho, sent Christmas cards, attended my college graduation and engaged me in some of the most incredible and inspiring conversations I've had. And even though he's no longer with us,  Bob is inspiring me again. Kevin's family, most of whom my sister and I have not met, have been kind enough to invite us to attend Bob's memorial service this summer in Buffalo, New York. I am incredibly honored and touched by their generosity and look forward to spending time with them and getting to meet all the people I've heard so much about for the past twenty-six years.

And so, as I did seven years ago when I needed that little bit of extra courage to travel home, I'm turning to my faithful readers once again. I need your feathers. I need feathers enough to make me a pair of wings that will help me fly––the final really big test of courage I need to face––all the way across the country. I'll be taking the ones sent to me all those years ago, but I'd like more. I have worked hard at steeling my courage and I know this is the final bit of preparation that needs to be done before I embark. If you'd like to send me a feather, please do so. They must be received by June 20th when I'll be trading these walking feet of mine in for a pair of wings, which I quietly alluded to back in February when my eyes began to turn from the ground and toward the bright blue sky.

To sweeten the deal, I'll be putting all the feathers into my feather bag and keeping track of who sent them so that I can draw one lucky feather out of the bag. The winner will receive a dog-approved prize from Duncan and me. Be sure to include your name, the name of your pets, if you have them, your address, and get your feather to me no later than June 15th. I plan on sending the prize the following Monday, so all contest entries must be received by the 15th. To get my address you can email me at jcr138@gmail.com. Please put "Feathers for Flight" in the subject field. It's not the most important of charities to contribute to, but I can't tell you how much it would mean to me.

Thank you all, once again, for your kindness and support over the years. We may not have walked together, Duncan tugging on his leash, but you have certainly been in my heart and thoughts on all the adventures Roo and I have been on.

A New Feather

It has been a difficult week and tomorrow Duncan and I will climb into the car  once again and make an unexpected return to Idaho. I have spent much of the day packing and cleaning, getting organized, running errands and grieving.

Last night my grandfather passed away, the last of my four grandparents, and my heart has been breaking ever since. Duncan was with me, on a walk through the dark and quiet when the call came. Almost immediately my good, red dog was at my side, standing so that his head stood even with my hand, gently resting his weight against my leg in reassurance, a reminder that he was there for me. The sky was brilliant and clear and vast in a way it hasn't been as of late, and as my mother and I cried softly and tried to be brave, I tilted my head back, turning my face into the darkness above. "Look for that new bright star," Mom told me. And so I spent much of last night doing exactly that, standing with Dunc in the dark watching the heavens, wondering what a world without grandparents would feel like.

My grandfather was an amazing man and I wish I could have introduced each of you to him. Perhaps, in a way, I did when I wrote about him several years ago. He would've made you laugh even if you didn't want to. And so tomorrow as Dunc and I drive the six-hundred miles back home, I'll be thinking of all those stories and laughing even when it seems so hard, smiling against the bland miles of Wyoming, through the winding snow-covered hills of southeast Idaho until I arrive home and can receive the hugs I've been sorely missing these past few days.

But we won't be alone. Grandma and Grandpa will be with us. Perhaps all four of my grandparents will be there, magic feathers, strong and light and able to carry us across the distance to the home they built on the edge of the Idaho desert, to the family they loved so very much.

Not Just a Mountain, Not Just a Walk

When I lived in Illinois, or The Shire as I like to call it, all that flatness and rolling green monotony tended to unnerve me after awhile. I'd been born and raised in The West, where the landscape can be desolate and magnificent, where mountain ranges offer shelter and safety, and the people, for all their crazy religious and political faults, are wild and dangerous, but somehow beautiful in their purity. After months in Chicago's suburbs, nothing brought me more joy or peace of mind than returning home to Idaho, driving up to my special spot in the mountains that surround Pocatello and sitting or walking in silence while a summer breeze played with the bumblebees and wildflowers, or a winter wind ravished the junipers and the sandstone cliffs. Mountain Therapy, I called it, and it was so precious to me that only a few hours of it could sustain my mental health for months, or even a year.

When Ken and I moved to Denver ten years ago we spent our weekends exploring the area, driving up to Lyons and Estes Park where we sipped Bloody Mary's at the Stanley Hotel, or visiting Keystone and Steamboat, venturing south to Pikes Peak and Colorado Springs, where the crazies live, driving through the San Juan Mountains and over Wolf Creek Pass, feeling as though the car was flying and not touching the ground at all. Ken had grown up in the Midwest and there was something magical about watching his face each time we rounded a curve in the road and entirely new vistas opened up before us, jutting mountains, treacherous valleys, an endless expanse of desert, sage and antelope.

And then I got sick. I couldn't conceive of visiting the mountains let alone leaving the safety of my home. The anxiety robbed me of much of my ability to enjoy the things which were at the core of who I was. For an entire summer I laid on my couch unable to read a book or watch television or listen to music. Duncan stayed with me, though, and looked after me, offering his weight as a brace when I was so dizzy I could only crawl to the bathroom. When the panic attacks got bad, when my chest felt as though it would explode and my brain throbbed and raced as though it already had, when I couldn't breathe and began doubting my strength and how much more I could endure, he would climb onto the couch, step softly onto my chest and look directly into my eyes, matching his breathing to my own and then slowly, almost imperceptibly take longer and deeper breaths, soothing me and bringing the calm I thought would elude me forever. When I had no faith in myself or my doctors, Duncan stepped forward and reminded me that magic still exists in the world and that not all of it could, or should, be explained.

There have been a hundred small triumphs in the four years since, almost all of them things that most people don't even have to think about, like driving to work, going to a movie, standing with pride in a crowd of two-hundred thousand people at an Obama rally, traveling to and from Idaho in severe weather with only Duncan and my magic feathers to keep me sane. But yesterday, quite unexpectedly, The Universe offered me another chance to reclaim a part of myself I felt had been lost.

Duncan, Olive, Winnie, Pip and I had hunkered down on the couch, pulling the blinds, turning on the AC, trying our best to avoid the heat which raged outside. It was a bright day, hot and dry. The dew had burned off the grass early and I didn't really want to go outside, but after Duncan, sprawled beside me, sighed with boredom and turned to rest his chin on my hip––unsettling poor Winnie, who only barely tolerates him––I decided we needed to try something new. A walk through the park just wouldn't cut it, so before I knew quite what I was doing, I'd started packing water bottles and doggy bags, sunscreen and everything else we'd need for a nice afternoon walk in the mountains. It was time for a little Mountain Therapy.


Moments after making the decision, we were in my car and on the road to Chautauaqua Park in Boulder. I've been there several times, once to see my friend Marc graduate from Naropa, once with Rick on a day when the mountainside was taken over by a mother bear and her two cubs, and once two years ago when Traci had paid me a visit. We had taken Duncan and attempted to climb the trail to the Royal Arch, but Traci is an asthmatic from Chicago (elevation 500 feet) and I was a smoker and the trail was a lot more strenuous than we'd anticipated for a leisurely Autumn walk. We made it halfway, which was a good place to turn around, especially since neither of us was serious about the climb. We simply wanted to be outside where the air was crisp and smelled of pine.


Yesterday was much warmer, which made the shade that much sweeter. The climb through the meadow to the base of the Flatirons was tough in the heavy sunlight, but once we reached the treeline and began the ascent, the air cooled and the breeze coming down the canyons was sweet and gentle. The rocks and eroded trail, however, were not, and as the switchbacks became steeper and more frequent my anxiety began to increase. I poured Duncan water into his fold-up travel bowl and took sips from the bottle, watching as our supply began to dwindle. Halfway up my inner conversation amped up and I began to doubt we'd make it at all. I know my limits––have become well acquainted with them over the course of the past four years--and took no shame in the thought of turning back. But we didn't. We pressed on, taking frequent breaks to rest against the sides of enormous boulders and listen to the silence of the mountains, the call of the hawks and the scurrying of the chipmunks playing tag in the wild berry bushes along the edge of the trail. People often passed us, but once we resumed our march we'd pass them as they rested in their own spots.


It was grueling and at times frightening. As the doubt and panic increased I started worrying not about reaching the goal, but the return hike and the subsequent drive back to Denver in heavy afternoon traffic. Each step up that occasionally nearly-vertical trail became more and more difficult. I began to judge myself based on the ease with which our fellow hikers marched along unaware of the difficulty I was facing, not just physically, but emotionally as well. Their mountain was not my mountain. We were on two completely different journeys, two different paths.


And then, after nearly two hours of marching up steep canyons and back down through winding valleys, we neared the end. The blood was pumping in my ears. The back of my neck was constricted and ached. My heart raced in my chest. Duncan was panting and kept looking at me questioningly, as though unsure of my safety. But we marched on, a small group of people in front of us and a couple out for a leisurely afternoon behind us. Dizzy and on the verge of utter panic, my despair and self-loathing at their peak, I collapsed on a rock and sat taking huge gulps of air as a million thoughts raced through my mind: Why had I done this? Why had I done it alone? Why had I left the cell phone in the car? Why had I not brought more water? Who did I think I was that I could accomplish something like this? Who would help us if something happened? What would happen to Duncan if I was carried down the mountain a raving lunatic?

I shook my head and heard that part of my brain I know too well rise up and speak to me. You don't have to go on. You can turn around. It's not a big deal.

And then, as if in answer, the woman in front of us, the self-proclaimed leader of her group, turned back and saw me. She hopped down a few rock outcroppings toward us and yelled at me. "Come on, man. Get up. You can do it. You've only got three minutes and you're there."

I felt my body collapsing inside itself and shook my head again. "I don't have three minutes in me," I gasped.

She came closer. "Turn around," she yelled at me. "Turn around and look. You're there! Forty-five seconds! Get up now!"

I looked over my shoulder and saw it, the Royal Arch, an enormous stone bridge crossing from one side of the trail over the other. I could not calm myself enough to think, so Duncan, sitting at my feet, panting and watching me, thought for me. His leash was around my wrist and curled tightly in my hand. He jumped to his feet and scrambled up the last few boulders, his feet nimbly catching on each rock and propelling him forward. I had no choice but to follow. I stumbled after him, leaving the water bottle where I'd been sitting. I crawled on all fours up the boulders under the arch, and then suddenly we were at the top looking out on forever. And with my good dog, my amazing best friend at my side, everything stopped as I caught my breath and let it all go.


There we stood at the top of the mountain, the city of Boulder spread out before us, and Denver beyond that, and an eternity of green plains vanishing into a horizon I suspect was Kansas and Nebraska. The silence was loud and unmistakable, even over the soft conversation of the others who'd gathered to sit and marvel at the size of the world. Duncan perched on a rock and licked my calf as I scratched the top of his head and felt my chest fill with air and relief.

While the others whispered and looked out on their well-earned reward, I sat with Duncan and hugged him, actually teared up as I pressed my face into his chest and whispered over and over again, thank you, thank you, thank you. Once again, Duncan had known me better than I knew myself, had faith in me where I had none, had literally dragged me to my own salvation. My climb meant something different––not more or less––than the climb the others had made. I hadn't conquered the trail or the mountain, I'd beat my fear, which has been great and terrible but now seems a little more transparent, something not quite so permanent.


Eventually I was able to compose myself and made small talk with the others gathered beneath the arch. I took a picture of the couple who'd followed us up and promised to email it to them. The man, Jim, gave me his email address, which he was sure I would forget, but have not. That moment is sealed in my memory, every part of it––the shaking of my legs, the burning of my lungs, the sound of the air at that altitude, the colors of the world. They will be a part of my body forever. That climb is now built into me, a piece of my fabric, something which can never be undone.


After a good long while we began our descent, Duncan leading the way sniffing for chipmunks while I smiled into the sunshine. I repeated the stranger's email address like a mantra and before I knew it we found ourselves back in the broad meadow at the base of the Flatirons, the ache gone from my legs and my spirit a thousand pounds lighter. A storm was gathering over the mountains but the thunder, gray and heavy, and echoing off the rocks, sounded like triumph and glory in my ears. I was practically dancing by the time we reached the car, where Duncan and I shared a bottle of water as the first small, hot raindrops spattered against the asphalt and our skin. The earth smelled, like grass and late Spring and I could not contain the emotion inside me.

I am getting better, one small but significant step at a time.

There are much worse things than anxiety in this world, like the loss of loved ones to terrible diseases, or unjustifiable wars, poverty and hatred. My story isn't much, but I'm glad it's mine. Getting sick and then getting better has taught me that no task is too small, that everything has significance and worth, that the destination, however beautiful and rewarding is not nearly as remarkable as the journey.

And that there is nothing--nothing!--better than traveling through this life with a good friend at your side.