From my Journal The Book of Delights: Quiet

Quiet. 

There was this moment this afternoon while walking Duncan, when even as the clouds seemed to lift a little, and the sun seemed a bit brighter, that the snow started to fall. Despite the parking lot being full of cars that belonged to people who, like myself should have been at work but have been quarantined inside for an unknowably long and uncertain time, we were the only ones out walking and it was another perfect moment shared between my dog and me.

When the snow first came, muscle memory seemed to kick in without my even being aware of it and I pulled my hood up over my head. We walked on, Duncan tripping in the slush and me drawing smily faces on the hoods of cars as I do after a good snowfall. I was listening to music on the Beats I wear around my neck when we walk. There came this moment between songs, this long silence when all I could hear was the world being the world in a way that I’m not sure I’ve experienced before. It was the middle of the day in a city covered with wet roads and I couldn’t hear a single car cutting its way through the streets. The only sound was that of the snow falling onto more snow, a soft rhythm that normally goes unnoticed, especially on what should be a busy Friday afternoon. A gentle weight alighting on another gentle weight, like a whisper or a kiss blown from one set of lips to another. Hardly a sound at all. But there it was, imperceptibly loud, cacophonously mute. I pulled my hood back, turned off the music, and just stood a long moment on the sidewalk, Dunc at my side, his nose nuzzling the treats in my left hand. I turned my face toward the brightest spot behind the clouds, closed my eyes, leaned back and let the snow fall all over my face as I just listened to the goddamn blessed quiet of it all. 

Yes, the world has been much quieter as of late, but you’d never know it through the fear and confusion, the anxiety and fist-clenching paranoia. But it was suddenly silent in an unexpected way. So I sat down, laid back in the snow, enjoying the cold of it as it crept up under my jacket and into the waist of my jeans, stinging the small of my back, biting my bare neck and naked ears. Dunc stood over me, looking down with that smile of his, as though basking in my moment of realization, of all the lessons he’s been teaching me these past fifteen and a half years. I laid in the snow and smiled and cried and laughed when he insisted on leaning down and kissing my face over and over and over again. And eventually he laid down beside me, if for only a moment, and we enjoyed the quiet together, a well-earned reprieve from the noise rest of the world.

Shorts

It was almost 80˚ today, and although most of it was spent in my windowless office, I couldn't stop thinking about how good it would feel to finally get home and be greeted by Roo and the cats at the door, change into more comfortable clothes and talk a nice long walk in the park. While it was not the first time I have worn shorts this Spring, it was the most rewarding. The pair I picked were in a box at the top of my closet with most of my other Summer clothes where I put them when the weather turned and it seemed warm evenings were too far away to even dream about. They were a little tighter around the middle than I remember them being but I was determined to reclaim them, and once Dunc and I were outside and off-leash, with the sun beaming down on us and a cool breeze drifting across the newly-greened grass, they seemed to fit as well as ever. But the best part was that when I reached into the pocket I discovered not only a couple of crumpled doggy bags, but a nice crisp twenty dollar bill wrapped in a Hero's Pets receipt for a couple of bully sticks and a bag of Blueberry Pumpkin Cruncher treats.

If only all my clothes were this magical.

Button

My last car, the reviled Hyundai Sonata, which I never named and which was the bane of my existence mere days after getting it, did not beep when I locked and unlocked the doors. It did, however, beep––wail, actually––at random times, like during thunderstorms or when the door didn't shut all the way. Some little gizmo was perpetually coming loose, which caused the door to register as ajar, thereby leaving the dome light on and alerting a little bell which would ring all night long, thus causing the battery to die and when the battery neared the end of its pathetic life it erupted in the most unsettling caterwauling known in automotive history. At least for a few minutes, and then it would heave and sigh and give up the ghost and die. But generally it did not beep when it was supposed to.

My new car, though, my beautiful black Subaru Outback which I have christened Simone, after the Jazz singer, Nina Simone, beeps whenever I want her to. And it's not an annoying little beep either, but a full and melodious one, cheery and confident but not overly so. It's assertive, an "I'm-Ready-Whenever-You-Are" sort of beep, and Duncan has grown to recognize it as my beep, the signal that I have returned home and am ready to take him out on our first walk of the evening. That beep summons him to the windows in the office that overlooks my parking space so that when I climb out of the car––mug of tea, water bottle, and backpack in tow––I have only to look up to see a beaming face, bobbing back forth in such a way that tells me his tail is wagging excitedly, rocking his whole body with it. And as I move around the building Duncan moves too, from the window by the desk to the front window, which will soon be obscured by the leaves of our Linden tree. His smile travels with me, and by the time I'm at the door, he is also, waiting, dancing, chirping as Goldens are wont to do, ready to go, full of love and exuberance.

A button is such a silly thing. A beep even sillier. But it is music to the ears of my best friend, who brings me such joy. I could push that button all day long.

Red

Today is the day the Prop 8 case goes before the Supreme Court, and tomorrow they'll hear arguments on the constitutionality of DOMA (the Defense of Marriage Act), which denies marriage rights to same-sex couples. In an act of solidarity, people all over the country have decided to wear red as a means of showing support for same-sex couples and the rights currently denied to them.

I, of course, have been all over this.

And Dunc, not wanting to be left out or outdone, decided to join in and support his two dads.

I'd like to invite you to join us, too. Today and tomorrow people are wearing red to show their support for marriage equality. Don't be left behind. History is on our side.

New Toy

So Duncan got a new toy this morning. Just a little sumpthin'-sumpthin'.

We took it for a spin before the weather got nasty and destroyed the shiny perfection and surprisingly, Dunc was not as happy as his papa was. Perhaps he takes after me a bit in that change doesn't always come easy. He whined and didn't seem too sure of his footing but hopefully it will grow on him. After all, there's a lot more room in back for him, enough for plenty of future road trip videos.

 Oh, and I like it, too. I think I'll keep it!

Farewell

 

“You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.” 

 (J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan)

I love you, Winnie Bean. Find me again soon. I'll look for you among the stars, my sweet Mouse.

The Quiet Return

While there are many things I am good at, one thing I do not do well is return home alone after dropping my family off at the airport after a wonderful visit.

Mom and Kevin left this afternoon and although the apartment was bright and sunny and warm enough that I opened the patio doors and all the windows to let some cool air blow through, and Olive and Duncan were waiting at the door for me with the kind of greetings saved for the best of friends,  my small apartment seemed awfully quiet and unexpectedly big and lonely. The kitchen still smells of pumpkin pie and turkey and the carpet still holds the marks of the table we'd set up for our Thanksgiving feast but the long weekend has slipped into memory and it'll take a day or two to ease back into my quiet routine. They have only been gone a few hours and I miss them already.

In the meantime there are chores which need tending to and Duncan is more than ready for a nice afternoon walk. The sun is very bright and very warm, the birds are singing and all sorts of tiny, hovering insects and bees are floating through the air. Duncan will know just the thing to distract me and bring a smile to my face.

He always does.

The Promise of This November Day

It is supposed to be nearly 80˚ in Denver today, so Duncan and I woke early and headed over to the lake for a quiet morning walk along the path that winds around it. I wish you could have been there. The sun was bright and warm, and seemed to be shining in two places at once, above us in the faded and metallic sky and from the reflection off the lake below. The air was still and the water was impossibly smooth, with only the lazy wakes of the gliding ducks to mottle its surface. By 8:30 it was already too warm for the jacket I was wearing, so I slipped it off and tied it around my waist. The sunflowers are still in bloom along the shoreline and bees still dance from one wide yellow stage to another. When I closed my eyes and followed the gentle tug of Roo guiding me on his leash I felt as though I was a kite, untethered and witness to the world spreading out all around, basking in the warmth of the morning, breathing in the rich scents of both Autumn and the summer that has steadfastly refused to depart. I smelled mint and greenery, thought I caught an echo of the Russian Olives and the Lindens, imagined I was still in Lake Forest, where the scent of the lake seems to be the only scent that matters. Blind but led by a dog and the light of the sun on my closed eyelids, all time seemed to come together and melt into a single, extraordinary moment that surpassed logic and sense.

Perhaps one day technology will be as magical as any given moment in this wakeful life and I'll be able to sit at my computer and write something that will transport you this lakeside, where you will be able to feel the pull of Duncan on his leash and hear his soft footfalls on the path and the long grass that rises up along its edge. You, too, can close your eyes and savor the brilliant gift of warm sun on your face on a November morning. The scent of the lake and the trees will wash over you and the lowing of the ducks on the shore will be like a whisper in your ear. And only then will you come close to knowing how wonderful this morning was with my good dog at my side and the promise of the day spread before us, as vast as a lifetime and as silent as prayer.

Walk On

It feels as though we've been walking and walking and walking some more, from afternoons when the sun was hot and it was easy to raise a sweat just by breathing, to these cold days when the wind has lifted the leaves from the trees and scattered them in a raucous chorus across the yellowed grass. But, as I've always claimed, the destination would be nothing without the journey.

Over these past few months I have made friends and shared experiences I'm unsure would've been possible without the journey of this election and the reward of its historic outcome. My faith in mankind has been elevated and I will never forget those jubilant moments just after Barack Obama's name was announced as our 44th president. I will take that memory with me on many journeys and I'm sure each of you will do the same. It is important, crucial even, that we never forget how we felt at that moment, like the door had swung open, light had been let in and all the promises of our country were made real.

If there's one thing I've learned from walking with Duncan it's that no matter how satisfying a walk can be, how utterly fulfilling and joyous it is, there is another waiting just beyond it, full of the same unknowing and challenges as each of its predecessors. Duncan demands we keep walking and despite weary legs or a tired spirit, blistering heat or painful cold, I take him out and we walk again, not always with the same result, but rarely without reward. Duncan knows with his special wisdom that there can be no destination without a journey, and we must apply that same knowledge to our new government. As Obama said in his acceptance speech on Tuesday night, this election was never about him, it was about us. He did not elect himself and he will accomplish nothing without our assistance. So, in these days of celebration and excitement, I call on each of you to search your soul and find one issue that is of special significance to you––be it health care or equal pay, the environment, education or gay rights––and never stop walking until you reach a destination that brings you comfort and peace of mind. Write your senators and congressmen, join a group, educate yourself, speak and speak until your voice is hoarse and then speak some more, and do everything in your power to make your vision a reality. Do not stop until you've reached the world you've always wanted to live in. Walk on.

"If you're walking down the right path and you're willing to keep walking,
eventually you'll make progress." (Barack Obama)

Obama Sunday

I was a part of something today which was enormous and important and which could potentially change the entire world. You may have heard that Barack Obama spent Sunday morning in downtown Denver speaking to a crowd of well over 100,000 people, which included Melissa and myself (watch part of it here).



It was an exhilarating experience, one I hope never to forget. I cannot tell you how amazing it felt to be a part of something so big with so many other people who recognize that this country is in dire need of change in a positive direction. They were people of all types and colors, economic brackets and classes.


The volunteers, who numbered in the thousands, handed out fliers, sold buttons and shirts, bumper stickers, recruited even more volunteers and shared their message of hope. I have never been in such a large crowd with so many considerate people; everyone wished us a good morning, thanked us for coming out, wished us well as we left. It was electric and there were times when I listened to Barack speak that tears actually came to my eyes. I felt I was part of history, that this day and this election was a one I could look back on and be proud of. I felt part of a community which wants nothing more than to help this country and her citizenry realize its full potential.


I can not urge you enough to vote early, to tell your friends and family to do the same, to speak with everyone you know about why Barack Obama is the best candidate for the future of this country. This afternoon I signed up to go canvassing door to door, which makes me proud and helps me feel like I've earned the right to see this man made president of the United States. Do all you can do. Don't just sit there, get involved!

"Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time.

We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek."
(Barack Obama)

*The last photo was borrowed from The Huffington Post

Wet: How My Dog is Driving Me Crazy

As much as I love the rain and the re-greening of the park and hillsides, I must say, I'm quite ready for it to end. Storm after storm has passed through for nearly three days and we've had nothing but cold, miserable weather accompanied by an unending shower of heavy, gray rain. Our walks have been short and when we do amble outside we move quickly. It's no easy task taking Duncan outside in the rain. I have to lay down the rug and get the towel ready for our return, then shake out my rain jacket which is usually still damp from our previous foray outside. Dunc, who does not like getting wet, pines at the window and whines at the door for long periods of time only to get outside, duck his head low and glare at me accusingly, as if the weather is somehow my fault, as if these wretched April storms and October skies have anything to do with me. And even though he's miserable I'm forced to coax him along and drag him behind me, encouraging him repeatedly, "Come on, Roo, go potty so we can go inside." He dillies and dallies, sniffs even more diligently than he usually does and take his sweet time picking out a nice spot for his business, turning this way and that, squatting or leaning forward only to decide at the last minute that he could do better and begins the search anew. And all the while I stand nearby, huddled up, shaking the water from my glasses and bouncing on my heels to keep warm.

We've both had a serious case of cabin fever but Duncan shamelessly let me know how dissatisfied he is with our current weather conditions this morning. He started whining a little after 6:30, so I climbed out of bed and thinking we could somehow manage a quick trip outside threw on my slicker and slipped into my flip flops, which were sitting near the door. Duncan chirped and danced around me while I grabbed a few doggy bags and put his leash and collar on. As soon as the door was open he bolted down the breezeway and into the soup that is our front yard, dragging me behind him, my feet almost instantly cold and soggy. He poked around the patch of lawn at the front of the building then led me into the parking lot and up the drive toward The Glen, where, at the corner he spotted the tall Snapdragons in all their pink and yellow and peach glory. I don't know what it is about those flowers but he can't resist marking them as his own. And so while I stood faithfully nearby, watching the early traffic on Bowles, Duncan raised his leg and leaned a little too far back, his stream missing the flowers completely, arching, instead, over the sidewalk and right onto my bare, flip flopped foot. At first I didn't know what was happening and thought something along the lines of, "Wow, that rain is really warm... and concentrated," but then looked down and jumped back. There wasn't far to go as I still held his leash, which isn't that long. And because we were standing on a very busy corner I couldn't let go for fear he'd step off the curb and into traffic. About all I could do was move back and avoid the splash. He stared up at me the entire time, shamelessly, then turned when he'd finished kicked some wet grass in my direction and led me back home, where the towel I'd set out for him came in quite handy for myself.

If there is no sun tomorrow I think I'll go insane.

The Coming Storm

Duncan and I stood on the edge of the park, the sky on one side of us blue and hot, a wide, foaming wave of churning black clouds on the other. The wind had picked up and tried to whip the cap from my head, so I pulled it off, scrunched it up and crammed it into my back pocket. The sporadic whipping of the wind was just as hot as the air rising from the street before us. Duncan leaned into it and his nose twitched as he pulled the scents from it: paint from the buildings, fast food from the Carl's Jr., freshly mowed grass from the golf course and a myriad of other things I know nothing about. I looked up at the slowly breaking wave, its crest white and jagged, miles high and as wide as the Colorado sky and pulled on the leash.

"Let's get inside, Dunc. There's a storm coming and I don't like the look of it one bit." He resisted until the first faint clap of thunder rolled across the sky and into the ground. Then he turned and we hurried back to the safety of the apartment.

There is a storm coming and I do not know where we will land.

Visitors and an Ordinary Walk

When my dad announced several weeks ago that he and his friend Jane planned on overnighting in Denver, he said, "Would it be possible to go on a walk with you and Duncan? Jane and I have talked it over and we think it would be a great thing to experience, if it's okay with you, of course."

I smiled into the phone and told him, "Well, I have to be honest with you, our walks are just like any ordinary walk. The clouds do not part, angelic choruses do not burst into song and there certainly isn't a beam of golden sunshine that follows us around. We just walk. It's really quite mundane. I'm afraid you wouldn't be very impressed."

But they insisted and when they arrived yesterday afternoon I was more than willing to take them with us to the park and around our usual spots. I was glad to have them but also a little nervous. Duncan tends to assume that when others are present I'm distracted, which he thinks means is reason enough to attempt to get away with murder. I don't know how many times we've gone over this lesson, but I am not distracted, perhaps more in tune with our walk simply because we have a reputation to protect.

And so we ventured across all six lanes of traffic on Bowles, which my dad rightly remarked upon as being "a bit dangerous." I laughed and told him that last winter when the snow and ice were piled up there and Duncan and I were standing in the median waiting to cross I'd envisioned my own death by sliding down the ice into oncoming traffic.

The park was wonderful, although a bit quiet. We walked down to the high school and then up toward the memorial. On the way we spotted several bunnies and dad and Jane got to witness Duncan's hunting skills live and in person, which I thought was quite exciting. He put on a full show for them, going rigid, lifting one paw slowly and letting it hang in the air, bobbing lightly before setting it back down. We climbed Rebel Hill, which offers a nice view of Littleton, the mountains and the eastern plains and looks down on the prairie dog town, which Duncan alternately shows mild interest in or utter indifference.

On the way home dad asked. "Was that a typical walk? Was that the way they normally go?" Except for the pace, which Duncan prefers to amp up a little more, it was a pretty typical walk, and as I'd explained, no angels burst into song and the sun did what it normally does which is take no notice of us at all. Even Duncan, who tends to act up, was well-behaved, only pulling on his leash every now and then. He even sat on the curb before crossing the street, waiting for me to give the all-clear command. It was an ordinary walk, except for the fact that dad, who I haven't seen in eight years, and Jane, who I'd never seen at all, were there with us. It felt good showing them the places I cherish, the places that inspire me and the places Duncan has led me to. And it was good to be in a place that is my own, to know the trails and the roads and to be able to point things out, to show others that that little boy, who, as my dad likes to tell, peed on the doctor the instant he was born, has made a place for himself in the world with a dear friend he calls Duncan.


*Please pardon my comb-over look. Dunc had given me a bath right before the picture was taken.

Ghost Games

Some days are too good to end, the air too warm, bleeding into the night. We walked this morning, we walked this afternoon, and after a long play with Khan down at The Glen, we ventured to the park and back. But even being home and tired isn't enough so we've found ourselves sitting on the patio, sipping Chamomile tea and breathing in the April air.

Warm weather brings phantoms. From my patio I can hear them playing in the park––echoes of laughter from the darkness––and if I squint I can even see them, thin shadows running back and forth across the fields. Bowles is mostly deserted this time of night with only a few cars crossing every couple of minutes but the voices are continuous, heedless of the hour. Duncan leans through the patio into the sound, his ears rising as the night catches and plays phantom calls. He cocks his head when he sees them, stick shapes chasing back and forth between the trees on the wide expanse of grass we walk every day. We listen and watch, and sometimes we can see a flash of green––although sometimes it is red, dull and not very bright, little more than a dim slice of movement––or even bright yellow. The voices rise up and the shadows run again, the sound of their quick steps an imagined stampede we almost think we can feel trembling the earth at our feet. They always make me smile and I wonder, if I came from another time, what would I think of the glow-in-the-dark Ultimate Frisbee game that has taken over the park, the nearly formless shapes of the players, ghosts under the orange street lamps, crossing back and forth calling out to one another, laughing as they move? I remember days that don't seem all that long ago when late still seemed early, when my night started as the nights of most people wound down. Duncan watches the glowing disc and wants to chase it, grip it in his jaws and carry it away, his head and tail high. I merely want to remember what it was like to run and play without thought.

Spring is the time when the world––our half of it, at least––comes back to life. But every Spring I find myself remembering Springs of old when I didn't feel quite so tired or my obligations seemed nearly as heavy. It would be nice to forget tomorrow and run across the street and join those shadows in play, if only to remind myself that I am not a shadow but still very much muscle and bone and breath.
April is a good time to play. I think we'll do that tomorrow.

Defending the Glen

After our walk this afternoon–a rather uneventful trip through the park, up Rebel Hill to the memorial and back home–we stopped by Duncan's favorite spot, The Glen. Everything looked the same to me–the curling brown leaves that littered the bottom of the natural bowl in the earth, the bone-white limbs and branches of the Aspens, even the page of newspaper that had blown through and gotten caught in the bars of the gate was still there. But Duncan knew things were different. He had no interest in his tennis ball, dropping it from his mouth right where I'd tossed it. Almost immediately he began making the rounds, scouring the perimeter with his nose, stopping every few feet to sniff, sometimes veering wildly off course as if following an invisible trail, only to retrace his steps and start over. After several minutes of investigating every tree and shrub and post, he began marking, which seemed tedious work, all that squatting and peeing, leg-lifting and peeing, crouching and peeing. When he was finally satisfied he returned to where I sat on the hillside near the spot where he'd accidentally taught himself to fly a few weeks back. He rolled over on his back and let me scratch his belly, but I'd hardly began when a sleek black shape appeared in my peripheral vision, charging down one side of the depression and up the other straight at us. She was a lean lab mix, quite thin and long. I jumped up to grab Duncan, but he met her dead on, leaping into the air, spinning Matrix-style around her and catching her neck under his chin. They huffed and crashed into the leaves and began rolling wildly down the slope. I looked up to see a young woman darting toward me through the trees, a wide smile on her face. "She's okay," she said. "She's just young." I'd frozen on the spot. thinking of the stories I'd heard of dogs mauling other dogs while out on innocent afternoon walks with their owners. It had been on my mind a lot and I'd wondered whether Littleton's unenforced leash laws needed to be addressed– after all, only twenty minutes earlier at the park we'd been charged by a rather large German Shepherd whose owner finally appeared and stopped the beast just as he loomed right over us. I was relieved to see that Duncan and Kona, the newcomer, were not fighting, but had become instant friends instead. His best friend at Stapleton is Maddie, and I wondered for a moment if he thought this narrower and lighter version was his old pal. Melissa, as she introduced herself explained that they'd just moved in and that Kona loved our spot and had become pals with the few other dogs she'd met there. No sooner had she said that than two other racing shapes appeared, a smaller Golden who looked exactly as Duncan did two years ago, color and all, and a matted, yip-yip dog, a "Malty-Poo," Leanne and Deke, her owners described her breed when they appeared. Melissa and I left the dogs to wrestle and romp while we did what I imagine parents do when they meet the parents of their child's friend for the first time. We quickly introduced our dogs (theirs were Sadie and Cinnia) but it was a while before we thought to introduce ourselves. We made small talk for a bit and then just sat and watched the slobbering, leaf-encrusted parade of dogs, Cinnia always at the rear, yapping and snapping at tails and ankles as little dogs are wont to do.

Finally, covered in saliva and exhausted, Duncan appeared at my side, nudged the hand I was holding the leash in, and announced that it was time to leave. His ears and the top of his head were wet and matted, and a thick string of someone's slobber streaked across the top of his head. He looked beat so I hooked him up, waved good-bye to the others and we took our leave. No sooner were we in the door than my tireless dog collapsed in a heap and slept. And I got to sit and do nothing.

Quiet and Ready Enough

"If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment." Henry David Thoreau

I had a terrible day and was exhausted early, but refused to allow the day to beat me. I did not watch the clock, I did not count the seconds. My mantra was Duncan's, which has done wonders for me the past week. Hunt. Dive. Tree. And as tired as I was, as badly as I wanted to come home, take off my shoes and do nothing, I knew that my salvation was with Duncan at the lake. And as we marched along the trail–Duncan, low with his nose to the ground–taking in the sound of the meadowlarks and the crickets and feeling the warm sun on my face and arms and the back of my neck, I understood the Thoreau quote, that even our disappointments, if we allow them, can lead us to a place of peace and provide a strength we did not know we had. I would not have loved this afternoon as I did without the nastiness of the morning and the trials of the day. It was like discovering the turning lines a poem, this rewriting of the day. Yesterday I said that dogs could lead us to poetry with their vision, and today that point was made again. It reminded me of a portion of the poem "Lake Water" by David Ferry.

"It is like an idea for a poem not yet written
And maybe never to be completed, because
The surface of the page is like lake water,
That takes back what is written on its surface,
And all my language about the lake and its
Emotions or its sweet obliviousness,
Or even its being like an origination,
Is all erased with the changing of the breeze
Or because of the heedless passing of a cloud."

If we let it, anything and everything can move our spirit and change how we see the world. We need only listen.