Forgiveness

I'm going to tell you the truth, and that is never an easy thing. But I'm going to do it because I've never really admitted this to anyone and my friends, who all know, have been kind enough not to say it.

I am not always a very good person. In fact, I would go so far as to say that sometimes I can be downright petty and mean-spirited, vengeful and bitter. More often than not my rashness leads me to overreact. Most of the time I'm able to quell my initial instinct but the fact remains that I am capable of some very nasty and treacherous thoughts that teeter on the very fine edge of becoming actions. It's always been something I've despised about myself because such things lead me to question whether I'm a good person at heart.

For instance, there is this woman who lives midway down The Run, a strange little thing with silver hair she tries to conceal behind a gloss of maroon dye. She has eclectic tastes and decorates her patio with odd trinkets, bizarre art rendered in bright, almost garish primary colors, things with eyes and many arms, or shapes unknown to the natural world, invented entirely by the mind of Man. When she first moved in last fall, shortly after the departure of The Wretched Hyenas, I was intrigued and wondered if we'd strike up a conversation as Duncan and I passed by two or three times daily. I wondered if, like Jeffrey, we'd develop a routine and if she'd ever confess the secrets of her strange taste in decor. But that never happened. Shortly after our first pass-by, she appeared on the patio to lecture me about cleaning up after Duncan after he took care of business. The odd thing was that I was already carrying a bright green bag filled with his inner goodness. And anyone who knows me here on the property knows that I am a tireless advocate for cleaning up after your pet. It infuriates me to discover someone is not. And here was this woman––this stranger––accusing me of doing the very thing I have fought so hard against. I politely assured her that I was very mindful of cleaning up after Roo and held up my bag as proof, but the next day and nearly every day after that she appeared on her patio, arms folded across her chest, a scowl scratched across her face, to watch us and make sure I didn't leave anything behind, which, of course, I hadn't.

We were blessedly free of her for most of the winter months, but she has appeared again recently. This morning I noticed she's planted a patch of tulips in the red-tinted mulch at the edge of her patio. Duncan noticed them, too, and as he trotted among the shrubs, he stopped to sniff each in turn and then move along to the trees where the squirrels crouch. She was sitting at her couch watching us, her back straight and tense as though ready to spring forward and scold me. But Duncan, intrigued briefly, ambled away, his tail wagging happily behind him, his curiosity leading the way.

She was waiting for us on our evening walk. I was whistling an Indigo Girls song about the joys of being out in the world in the glow of the sunshine while Dunc jogged here and there, pausing to sniff or just raise his curious eyebrows at the discovery of something new. She practically careened through her screen and called after me. Before I could even speak she began to lecture me about her delicate flowers and how Duncan was destroying them and how she'd worked hard to plant them and wasn't about "to let some dog run them under." My mouth snapped shut and I felt my cheeks redden as my heart rate picked up. "Do we agree?" she asked. There was nothing I could say except, "I'll try."

But, oh, what I was thinking. And if my eyes were capable of melting her with those thoughts she'd be little more than a puddle, dusted over with the sad maroon remnants of her thinning, pink hair. We walked away, Duncan completely oblivious to the situation, but inside I was seething. I'd tolerated her scorn and suspicion for months and now she was practically accusing my dog of desecrating her precious tulips, which he clearly had not. My walk was ruined. Inside I had all sorts of thoughts, and each time Dunc paused at my side to nuzzle his nose against the cup of my hand where I hold his treats, I'd say, "She needs to move. I need to find a way to make her move." And then my mind would race with things I will never type out. I even went so far as to envision myself sneaking out in the dead of night and stomping all over her flowers, uprooting them, crushing the fat bulbs under my heels and leaving them on her patio. I had skipped anger and gone straight to evil.

After an hour of walking through the park, my anger spilled over into the soccer hoards and their parents, who crowded the park and will undoubtedly leave the remnants of their water bottles and fast food wrappers behind them when they depart. I seethed at the traffic on Bowles and the foul odor of the exhaust left behind in clouds along the edge of the road. The wind picked up and I raged internally at its presence and how after three weeks of enduring it I wished it would just blow itself straight to Hell.

There was no way Duncan could not notice my state of mind. Rather than walk this way and that he stayed close to my side, often leaning against me as though to say, "C'mon, she's a harmless, sad old woman. All she has is her flowers. It's not that big a deal." I patted his head absentmindedly and walked on, my steps sharp and quick, my thoughts and heart sharper. But finally he couldn't stand it any longer so he took control and led me across the park to a quiet, secluded spot where the crab apples blossoms have exploded into dazzling white, sweet-smelling clouds hovering in the low trees just above our heads. Days of wind had loosened the petals and a light downy bed of them coated the ground. He pulled against the leash and tossed himself onto his back into the short greening grass, only just beginning to take on the rich fragrance of Spring. He rolled and growled deep in his chest, snorting and huffing as he did, his thick red fur catching the grass and ivory petals and holding tight to them until he was covered. He paused, looked up at me a moment then rolled again.

I am smart enough to know when he is instructing me and offering up another of his life lessons, the ones I seem to constantly require. So I laid down next to him and rolled, the cold of the flowers igniting the nerves on the back of my arms and neck, the grass, still slightly damp from yesterday's morning snow. We rolled together and when we were done he rested his head against my ribs, breathing heavily, one paw pushing against the top of my head.

And then, like that, I understood. I had to let it go, and not just this anger but all of it. He was right. She is a sad, miserable old woman who lives alone and rarely, if ever, has company. All she wants to do is plant flowers and enjoy their blooming in this blessed time of year. Is it so wrong for her to want to protect them? They are simple things, but important nonetheless. Perhaps just as important to her as Duncan is to me.

And with that realization came shame. I hated my thoughts and the venomous places they'd led me. I had grandmothers once and it would kill me to think anyone had thought as ill of them as I had of her. Over flowers, which are beautiful and remarkable living things. Flowers.

Now don't laugh when I tell you that just last week I was ordained in the Universal Life Church, which believes that "we are all children of the same Universe" and "that every person has the natural right (and the responsibility) to peacefully determine what is right." I was "ordained" because my sister and her fiance, Christian, asked me to conduct their wedding this summer in Idaho. I have delivered three eulogies and have spoken at all sorts of events, delivered insightful stories and more than one killer toast, but this will be my first wedding. And as Duncan and I walked home I couldn't help but feel that perhaps I was the wrong person to do it, that maybe Dunc would be a better choice, with his big, open heart and patient and forgiving spirit. But we paused and he sat before me, watching me carefully before leaning forward to touch his nose to mine and to lick my cheek. In that instant I knew that all was good, that I'd forgiven and was forgiven and that flowers in Spring are a priceless thing and that even the best of us can sometimes go astray.

So this Spring, in preparation for Casey's wedding, I am going to make a concerted effort to control my anger, to see things for what they are and not just what I perceive them to be and to let Duncan lead me to the kinder places I sometimes forget exist within myself. I am going to protect the flowers.

A Night Like Tonight

I could go crazy on a night like tonight
When summer's beginning to give up her fight
And every thought's a possibility
And voices are heard, but nothing is seen
Why do you spend this time with me
May be an equal mystery.
(Indigo Girls, "Mystery")

We had a late walk––a delicious walk––with children running to Dunc to pat his back and scratch his chin, a vivid tangerine sunset followed by night so dark and clear it seemed we could see faces smiling back at us from the planets above. We played fetch around the few vendor trailers and kiosks which are beginning to arrive for this weekend's Summerset festival, and the air was sweet in a way that it hasn't been for weeks. At the end of August David commented that the world was weary of Summer; the flowers had withered, the air was stagnant and exhausted and even the sky seemed bleached and weary of the season. "Enough already," he sighed. But I wish he had been there tonight in the park with us, where pockets of sweet coolness hung above the fields and the candied breeze somehow smelled of Russian Olives and Lindens, Spring and mint all at once. Duncan chased his ball tirelessly and then rolled in the thick grass with a vigor he reserves for snow and wind. On a night like tonight Summer seems to want to last forever and I want nothing more than to throw my arms around it and beg it to carry us southward with it, dancing under the skies of stars and singing songs only the crickets know by heart.

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. (P.D. James)

Days Gone By

"I'm trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
And the best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
Its only life after all."
("Closer to Fine" Indigo Girls)

I feel blessed and lucky. After a wonderful night with my friends, Andy and Sarah and their family, a night of hanging out on the patio, laughing and sharing stories, making fun of each other and people we know, drinking beer and eating grilled chicken and some mighty fine potatoes, I drove home, the windows down, the cool night air blowing through my hair, a cigarette clenched between my lips and sang along to the Indigo Girls. With the smell of the Russian Olives so much sweeter and clearer in the darkness and empty streets, I felt as if I'd somehow made my way back to those wonderful and free Summers of Days Gone By, before all my friends had children and we could stay up drinking and smoking pot until all hours of the night, when it didn't matter how much sleep we got because we were young and had untold energy and no fear of anything. It was a feeling I knew wouldn't last, but the true joy of it was that I got to come home and walk with Duncan through the park, dodging sprinklers, watching the constellations turn slowly above us and the planes fly in from the southeast as they circled around the city before banking north and heading in the direction of the airport, making their own changing constellations as they moved. Duncan was happy to see me and I was happier than I thought I would be as a grown-up, the memory of Summers Past still fresh in my mind.

Love Song to This Night

Don’t you write it down
Remember this in your head
Don’t take a picture
Remember this in your heart
Don’t leave a message
Talk to me face to face
Talk to me face to face
("Dead Man's Hill" Indigo Girls)

I wish you could have seen it. I wish your hand was in mine, balanced amid the heavy stick I carry, with its pale bark, smooth except for the places on the ends where Duncan chewed before I realized it would make a fine weapon should a situation arise which called for a weapon. Your hand would've felt warm and of a good weight, although Duncan would've pulled us, anxious as he always is to get to the top of the hill, and we would've had to adjust and tighten our grip just to keep touching through our gloves and mittens. But we wouldn't have minded because the sky was so gloriously pink and gold, and the silhouettes of those two kites, black against the brilliance of the sunset, would've pulled us as anxiously as Dunc. There was wind tonight, but we would've laughed into it, glancing at each other and not speaking, listening instead to the melting of the day and the flapping of those kites on their delicate strings as the wind caught and pulled them. And there was the laughing of the children, too, tiny captains of their ships who did not want help from the shape of mom or dad–their bodies were dark against the sky and nothing but shadows of big people. Not children. But it was time for them to go and so each of them reeled in and reeled in, a quick twisting and heavy work for small wrists. The kites fought, or the wind fought, it was difficult to tell which, especially with the sound of the fabric slapping against the air and struggling like a fish on a hook. But slowly they descended and for a moment I forgot I was standing, holding my own kite, a ground kite, red and warm and four-legged. I forgot my feet belonged to the earth and imagined I was up there, tethered to a string and struggling to stay afloat amid all that color, the explosion of the day against the fist of night. I didn't want to come down. Down is not in my nature. I belong here, high above the hill and the lake on the edge of the mountains with people looking up rapturously at my flight. But that child pulled and pulled and I could almost hear heavy breaths and the struggle of the tiny heart as it worked and worked that flapping air fish. The kite came down, losing its silhouette and becoming a thing of color, drab compared to the sunset, manufactured and plastic, its illusion blown away with the wind, its tails little more than long, thin streamers of a sliced garbage bag. No wonder it fought to stay aloft. Some things, as Monet knew, look better from a distance, behind a fog, slightly out of focus. Some things are not meant to be seen up close. Cautiously the child reached up, caught the kite at the place where it met the string and I swear I could feel that tiny hand on me, pulling me to earth, gently keeping me from crashing into the brittle grass. Standing there I realized I'd been holding my breath, which is why it would've been good to have you there. You would've said, "Curt, breathe," and I would've. And once that moment was over it would've been nice to see your face painted in sunset and to turn with you and walk back down the hill, the east dark before us, Orion already peeking up over the plains, the moon above, a flock of geese taking flight from their sanctuary on the baseball field below. How glorious it would've been to have seen them from the other side, the side facing the sunset, all those heavy bodies flapping and struggling for flight, resisting gravity and its sirenous kiss. With you, in this night, walking would've been like flying and the memory would last forever.