Thank You

The last few years have been some of the most challenging of my life and at times it's been difficult to find things for which to be thankful but this year my blessings are easily recognizable and I am can say for the first time since my family lost my grandmother in 2004 I am truly grateful and humbled by the blessings that have found their way into my life. On this incredible Thanksgiving afternoon, on a warm, sunny Denver day, I am thankful for

• Ken, who was able to find his way back home to Denver, and for the time we've been able to spend together since, rebuilding our family and bringing new life into these nearly sixteen years we've been a part of each others lives.
• the smell of homemade pumpkin pie first thing in the morning.
• Kevi, who reminded me this morning that we should be thankful for our troubles, for they too have purpose: to make us stronger and to help us truly appreciate the blessings that we have found.
• Patty Griffin's song "Heavenly Day," in which she sings, "No one on my shoulder / Bringing me fears / Got no clouds up above me / Bringing me tears / Got nothing to tell you / I got nothing much to say / Only I'm glad to be here with you / On this heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly day."
• The good people I work with, who are supportive and kind, who make me laugh and think equally hard, who have become a sort of family to me.
• The poetry of Mary Oliver.
• The soft weight of cats sleeping against me on cold nights.
• My family, who seem to get stronger and closer every day, especially my sister, Casey, who had a difficult year but has shone brighter than ever before.
• The memories I have of the people who have walked with me, if only for a time, and shared so many special experiences, from April and the WNG to Marc, who knows he's smarter than me; from Kelly and The Dirt People to John, who has cow dreams; from Little Ruth to David, who taught me that not only are things good, but they're good for you; from Karren and her cookies to Rick, who understands the butterflies as well as I do.
• The power of Skinadinkinaw!
• The "It Gets Better Project" and Dan Savage for changing so many lives.
• Russian Olive and Linden trees for being sweet enough to get me through the entire year.
• Orion standing watch over these Autumn skies.
• Facebook and the connections it has restored.
• Duncan, for his ability to say "I love you," for his voice and eyes, his delight and wisdom, for the miles we have walked and will continue to walk, for the courage he has taught me and the dreams he has encouraged, and for being with me, not only during the difficult days, but the kind ones as well.
• And, as always, A.A. Milne, who wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."

And I am thankful to all the people who have joined Duncan and me on our walks through this blog, who comment and email and love him as much as I do. You have all enriched my life in countless ways.

Blessings to you, this Thanksgiving Day. May they be too numerous to count.

After the Storm

This week of storms seems unending. I sit at work and venture out every now and then to take a break and cast my eyes to the south and west, along the base of the seemingly ever-greening foothills, black against a treacherous sky, knowing that somewhere in that direction, under the menace of darkness and flashes of lightning, Duncan sits panting alone in the kitchen or on the floor of the windlowless bathroom, his body pressed against the cool of the ceramic tub. Sometimes it is all I can do not to climb into the car and race home to check on him, to kiss the top of his head and let him lay on my lap. But we have the Thundershirt and his herbal drops, and the music I sometimes leave playing on the stereo before I leave in the mornings, something just loud enough to drown out the sound of the thunder. I watch the flashes move from the clouds to the earth and see the gray smear that is falling rain and remember the last thing I said to him in the morning before I left: "Please know you are safe. If you hear the thunder it is only the universe saying––loudly so you're sure not to miss it––that your papa loves you, that he is looking out for you and won't let any harm come to you. It is the sky reminding you how greatly you are loved and nothing more."

I worked from home today so when our afternoon storm rolled in from the north, following the line of the range until it flattened out over our corner of the world, I was there for him. I pulled the blinds and turned on the fan, hummed "Nights in White Satin," a song Ruth put into my head last night, worked from the couch and let Duncan spread out under the coffee table, my feet securely tucked under his soft belly, my toes tickling his ribs while he snored. He did not stir, did not pant or pace, merely laid against me, breathing softly.

After it passed, dissipating and spreading thin over the east, a spill of milk on a vast blue table, the last of it lingering playfully against the mountains, painting the sky orange and vivid gold, we ventured out for a roll in the grass and a last look of the fading day glowing over the rooftops and the mountains.

There is calm in togetherness, a reassurance that only silence in shared company can bring.

Holiday Glee

Here is the annual holiday video Ruth and I made this year. Many of you have already seen it on Facebook but I thought I'd post it here, too, even though some of you felt Dunc didn't appear enough. I, of course, believe the entire world needs more Duncan in it, but we'll just have to be patient and see what next year yields.

Enjoy!

Cheat

Duncan doesn't like to lose and, like my friend Ruth, has somehow reconciled cheating as a perfectly valid means of winning. In the morning I prepare his breakfast before heading out on our walk around the complex where we inevitably meet up with Pepper the work dog, who loves him despite his indifference and me for the treats I carry in my pocket. After visiting for a few minutes we usually bump into Sophie, the little white collie mix, who looks like a princess and dances around us in circles like a ballerina. Duncan pays little attention though because he knows a nice raw chicken breakfast is waiting for him at home. The squirrels in The Run are the only thing which really capture his attention but when I mention the food waiting for him at home he's quick to forget them and gallop back along the narrow path between the  buildings and the fence-line toward home. By the time we round the corner he's nearly in a full sprint. I make him wait for me at the bottom of the stairs and ask how badly he wants breakfast. He can hardly sit still while I challenge him to a race up the stairs and just as I begin to count he takes off, leaving me behind, his tail a red swinging flurry ahead of me, ready to whap me in the face should I gain on him, which I rarely do. It's not fair, but it makes me smile and starts the mornings off with a nice little adventure, the kind he's sure to always win.

Blessings of Silence

Tonight on our walk there was a moment after the sun had slipped behind the mountains and the light slowly extinguished from the sky like a candle flame swallowed by rising wax, when the world held its breath and we stopped moving down the path. Strangely the geese on the fields were quiet and even the light traffic on Bowles seemed to come to a standstill. Duncan stopped and looked at me as his leash fell slack on the icy sidewalk and I thought of those last few minutes in Pocatello, just before we left town.

I'd pulled off Philbin Road and up the lane toward Ruth's parent's house and the giant green barn I've wanted to explore for the past twenty one years but have somehow managed to never set foot in. It was a cold morning. I could see the frost building up on the fence posts. Even the gravel beneath us was crystalizing. Pocatello was at the base of the mountains in the distance, the morning just bright enough that not even her street lights could be seen. I stopped the car and rolled down the window and breathed in that sweet Idaho air once more, relishing the silence out on the potato fields a quarter mile from the reservation. I climbed out and looked south toward the orange line in the sky. Duncan turned in the backseat and leaned out the window to follow my gaze. An entire day's adventure loomed ahead of us, six hundred forty miles, most of it yellow and windy Wyoming. My body was already beginning to vibrate as though the road had begun to pass beneath us at seventy, eighty, and sometimes ninety miles an hour. But at that moment, with the day still only a vague notion, only the silence mattered, the silence and the journeys we'd made together.


Tonight, on this the first night of the new year, with Pocatello and my family so far away, with another Christmas only a memory, the silence and the oranging light above the mountains was like a wish for peace and health and love, for kindness and pleasant dreams of flying, all the good things one could hope for as the calendar turns over once again. It was a wish for the future and a prayer that the past is able to find its place and be content there.

And as the moment of silence ended––for it was only a moment, lasting only as long as it takes two hummingbirds to kiss––as the world swallowed and its ears popped, as the traffic noise returned and the geese took flight and the ice on the lake shifted and moaned softly, Duncan and I stepped together into the new year. We have shared many steps, weathered many storms, but also many idyllic days and nights. Here's to hoping the blessing of the new year join us in our journey.

Christmas Be Illin'

And now, as promised, the latest road trip video, starring Ruth, Duncan, and myself! Enjoy!

Within

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

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

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

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

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

Here There Be Monsters

It's been over a month since I've walked with Duncan through the winding nameless stretch of grass directly in front of our apartment. That's where Gil roams and I haven't wanted to expose Dunc to that lunatic, red-eyed German Wirehaired Pointer since their last encounter. But the other night, after leaving Brady's, we cut through the yard, which seemed quiet and empty when we first stepped foot into it. And then all hell broke loose.

Gil appeared from nowhere. Pete, his companion, wasn't paying attention while he talked with Sarah and her yellow lab, Ross. Gil charged around the building, stopped short when he saw us and stiffened up. I saw the hackles raise on his shoulders and a moment before he jumped forward he seemed to smile. And then he was running across the yard at us, his head low, the force of his body in his shoulders, his mouth open and ears back. I could only watch while I pulled Duncan behind me and used myself to block Gil. I called out to Pete, bent my knees and braced for the attack. It felt like that scene in "Jaws" when Roy Scheider is the sole survivor from the ship and he's perched on its sinking mast with a rifle watching as the shark approaches for the kill.

I said very loudly, for Pete more than Gil, "I swear to God, if you touch my dog I will kick you in the head."

And then Gil was on us. He swerved around me, grabbed Duncan's flank in his teeth and yanked, growling as he pulled and ripped. Duncan hopped back but Gil followed, lunging for his ears, missing and getting his cheek. They circled around me, Duncan on his leash, Gil free and wild. Ruth had told me only the day before that you should grab a dog's hind legs to pull him from a fight, but I couldn't reach for Gil and didn't want to let go of Duncan's leash. They kept pulling me in circles, Duncan defending himself, Gil attacking, and I wondered where Pete was, why he wasn't doing something. It didn't matter because when Gil lunged at Duncan's throat I swung my foot back and kicked his head as hard as I could.

He sat back a moment, dazed, picked himself up and lunged again. I finally saw Pete, who was frantically trying to grab his collarless dog. Gil was moving so quickly, however, snarling so ferociously, that Pete couldn't get a grip on him. His fingers couldn't catch on that wiry coat and kept slipping off.

So I kicked him again, yelling Gil's name, demanding he sit. He snapped at my shoe, leapt at us again and wound up with my foot in his rib cage. Hard.

That got him. Gil fell over, which gave Pete time to throw himself on top of him and pull him away. Sarah was standing helplessly nearby holding Ross. I handed her Duncan's leash and stepped up to Pete, who held Gil but kept his head down.

"Put a goddamn leash on your goddamn dog!" I yelled. Pete didn't say anything, wouldn't even look up. "This is the fourth time your dog has attacked us. I'm sick of it! If I see him without a leash again I'll report you to the leasing office and the police."

Pete nodded but wouldn't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sarah released Ross, who hurriedly sniffed Duncan to make sure he was okay. Sarah smiled a sad smile as I thanked her, took Duncan's leash and walked him home to inspect him. He was frothy with Gil spit but there wasn't any blood. I dried him off, we cuddled on the floor and all was well.

The next morning I actually felt bad for kicking Gil. I'm a dog lover and I kept replaying the scene in my head looking for some other way it could have been handled. Brady and Ruth both assured me I'd done the right thing, that the fault was with Pete for not leashing his dog. I agreed, but I kept wondering how I'd feel if I watched a stranger kick Duncan in the head and ribs. I finally decided that the next time I saw Pete I was going to talk with him, apologize for kicking Gil and work to reach a peaceful agreement.

And then came last night. We'd strolled down the Run, played in The Glen and were on our way home, skirting the edge of the winding yard where Gil roams, the once nameless grounds where Duncan and I used to watch bunnies in the morning, where he plays with Sophie, where we stood down a coyote. After two years of not knowing what to call it, I now call it The Lair.

Again, Gil appeared with Pete right behind him. I stopped and watched to see if Gil was finally wearing a collar or leash, neither of which he was. I stood dumbfounded as he trotted back and forth, head high, chasing a ball Pete was throwing. Then he stopped, turned and stared at us. I took a step back but Pete whistled and Gil sat down.

"Is he on a leash?" I asked.

Pete held up a leash, coiled around his hand but not attached to Gil. He dropped a bag of Gil shit in the garbage can, turned away and snarled at me over his shoulder, "Get fucked."

Apparently Pete doesn't play nice either and I no longer feel like apologizing.

While Washing Duncan

I think Duncan rolled in something dead last night. If it wasn't dead it should've been. It certainly deserved to be.

But then if he hadn't rolled in whatever it was, I wouldn't have been mistaken for a twenty-two year old by the young man--nay, boy-- who worked at Wag 'N Wash where Duncan got his bath.

While my friend Rex and I stood outside chatting late last night, the dogs circled around the trees, mingling with the moths and occasionally vanishing into the shadows for a few moments at a time. Obidos, Rex's Chow/Shepherd/something else mix was good and stayed relatively close, coming when called and keeping his nose close to my pocket where I kept the bag of treats. Duncan, however, crawled down into the lower levels of Hell where he found the most disgusting thing imaginable and decided he wanted to share it with me, a surprise he waited to spring on me until he climbed into bed and nestled down against my pillow. Needless to say, he was banished from the room and pouted in the living room all night and well into the morning.

It has been a hectic day and the rest of the week promises to be just as crazy. You see, my friend Ruth is flying in from Minneapolis on Wednesday so that Thursday morning we can hop in the car and drive to Pocatello where we will celebrate our twenty year high school reunion. We're very excited, but of course these things tend to bring up some silly concerns about age and mortality and other such pleasantries. Naturally an adventure of this magnitude requires a lot of prep: an oil change, a car wash, a hair cut, cleaning of the apartment, laundry, packing, making arrangement for Ken to tend to the cats, and all the rest of it. Discovering that your best friend smells like rotting carcas dipped in Linden dust tends to alter the plans considerably.

So tonight, after working late and missing my chance to get an oil change, I raced home, grabbed Duncan, took him to Hero's to buy enough raw food to see him through our trip home, and then headed to Wag 'N Wash where I discovered I'd missed the last chance to give him a bath. I pleaded, offered to clean up my station and gave them the best puppy dog eyes I could manage, even explaining that this was the one chance I had before tossing him into my car for a nine hour drive to southeast Idaho. Finally, in utter desperation I made them actually sniff him, at which point they cracked under the pressure and gave me a tub, a hose and a supply of freshly washed towels.

And while I washed Duncan, spraying him and kissing his nose as he whined and looked at me like I was torturing him, the nicest young man--nay, boy--made our acquaintance, offering a few pointers and helpful tips while standing awfully close and asking all sorts of questions,which eventually led to me revealing I was venturing home to attend my twenty-year high school reunion.

He cocked his head. "You graduated in '89?" he asked. His eyes grew wide and he stepped back. "That's the year my parents graduated."

It was almost like getting kicked in the nuts, only not as pleasant.

"Sorry, man," he stammered. "I thought for sure you were my age, maybe a little older. Seriously. I thought you were twenty-two."

"You're very kind," I told him. "But you're too late."

"I'm eighteen, " he offered and I pretended not to know what he really meant. And even though I can still hear those words ringing in my ears, That's the year my parents graduated-- a sound not unlike the time I hit an elk and heard the imagined echoing crunch as it smashed against the side of my car for weeks afterward--I have to admit I smiled all the way out the door, Duncan, clean and fluffy, prancing at my side.

It may have been twenty years since I was in high school, but I still have it. Oh yeah.

Now if only I can find the time to get an oil change.

Seven

Today Sue at Random Ramblings tagged me to name seven things I love (she thought it would make me feel better and already my heart is a little warmer). Thanks for thinking of me, Sue!

In no particular order, here are seven things I love (not most, just love):

• Obviously I love my family, especially the memories we have shared, from my mother removing her sunglasses and handing me a can of beer in order to retrieve our dog Skeeter from the murky depths of the Blackfoot Reservoir, to Casey singing songs we made up while riding in our camper on weekend getaways when we were young. I love Kevin's laugh and his dislike for mushrooms and chocolate.
• My kids, Winnie, Pip, Olive, and, of course, Duncan.
  
• Idaho in the early summer, when the mountains are still green and the smell of sage and Russian Olive trees rise up all around.
• I love my best friends in the whole world: Ruth, who spends her time super-heroing with me in our off-hours; Kevi, whose stories of food poisoning in foreign locations remind me to never take myself too seriously; David, for being my Jewish mama; Jen, for being able to harmonize to anything, including a fart; and Kelly, my "Good Friend."
  
• My Illinois restaurants, The Hoagie Hut in Highwood, where it's best to order a cheese-steak, bacon hoagie and a medium root beer, and Salutos, where everything is good, especially the salad.
• The magic of words, making my own, as well as those of others, such as Tom Spanbauer, Mary Oliver, Tim Muskat, Phil Simmons, Michael Cunningham, Jonathan Franzen, Michael Chabon, Geoffrey Eugenides and John Irving.
• Ken, with all my heart.

And because seven is simply too small a number I've also thrown in some random loves: peanut sauce, new socks, clean sheets, Orion and Venus, tres leches, butterflies and dragonflies, the music of Patty Griffin, the quiet moment of darkness before the sun rises when all the world is holding its breath, Egg Foo Yung, the Grand Canyon, riding my bike down a hill in the sunshine, a brand new pack of Sharpie markers, how much Duncan loves Brady, writing about, campaigning door to door and voting for Barack Obama, the French Quarter, Devil's Tower, Miss Katie's Diner in Milwaukee, acupuncture, and more things than I could name.

And now to pick seven other blogs to tag. You know the drill: once you've been tagged you have to pass it along to seven others.

Property of Kelly
Fermented Fur
The Midnight Garden
Charlie!
Mackenzie Speaks!
A Red Dog in the Red Rocks
Life is Golden


Thank you, Sue, for including me and making me think of the things I love most. It's easy to forget when life does that thing it occasionally does.

While Walking in Dreams

And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?

And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life? (Mary Oliver)

The grass is golden and tall, reaching nearly to my hip, and in some places where perhaps water has pooled and trickled through shallow channels, it rises even taller, to the middle of my chest, reaching with spindly fingers to the soft place just beneath my arms where it hopes to coax and tickle a smile from my lips. But I am not smiling, not entirely, only the smile of one who walks with his face pointed directly into the sun, squinted and necessary, almost uncomfortable were it not for the joy of the heat kissing my cheeks and lips. The sky is blue, cool and frosty, not Summerish in its delight, but tinted and artificial, distant, something that clings, like dust motes in the thick air of a tightly cluttered space. My hands are flat out at my sides and my passing stirs the long grass around me, the tall blades reach up to brush against the flat warm terrain of my palms, a map of valleys and canyons, wide plains, forgotten winding paths that end subtly, vanishing as the last song on an album fades further and deeper into silence. There is a soft wind, and although the field around me stirs and undulates, rising and falling in wide waves, there is no sound, just the sound of my feet on the earth and my breath in my ears. My pocket is heavy and deep with a few of the things I hold most precious. When I reach into it my fingers are able to discern the names of the things without pulling them free for my eyes to dance across: the sound of a flock of night-flying geese skimming the upper surface of a low cloud beneath which I stand, the silver shimmer of mist caught in low clumps of wet morning grass, the fat round face of a full moon peeking through the clouds on the eastern horizon, the spearmint and perfume scent of my grandmother's purse, a photo of Ken's shadow-dappled face taken on the bank of the river up Boulder Canyon, the color of my mother's yard under the Christmas lights, the rabid laughter of Kevi when she's on a roll and the gentle hmmmm of Ruth when she listens to me talk of fears and sadness, every word written by Mary Oliver, the steps of the kittens when they climb onto my back, turn in a circle and settle down in tight little balls between my shoulder blades. The other pocket is empty so there is plenty of room for the scent of the Linden and Russian Olive trees, the bounce of the road on my bike ride to work, the feeling of Ken's hand in mine, the bubbled laughter and songs of the children I may or may not get to have, shooting stars and the wishes bound to them. When my fingers fumble in all that empty space my pace quickens, the walk becomes a jog and then a crouching run and from somewhere close by I hear a steady rush, movement through the grass, which seems to whisper my location and give me away. I smile and run harder, one hand clutching the pocket, careful to keep the call of the geese safely tucked inside. I stumble but the grass catches me, is cool against my face, a thousand tiny fingers massaging my scalp, the back of my arms, stealing peeks down my collar. The rushing is close, coming faster and I give up crawling and hiding and roll onto my back, the blue of the air obscured by the gold of the grass, and then Duncan has found me, his tongue big and pink, his eyes brown and joyous as they push through the field, dragging the rest of him behind. He sees me, does that little leap of his where his front feet leave the ground for only a moment, as if dancing, and then falls onto my chest, the long red hair at his neck pushing into my face, his scent filling my nostrils, the cold of his nose a chill across my neck into my ear.

And as the dream ends I think, there are many things I want, and may even need, but for now I am content in the love of such a good dog.

Political Monday: Character

My friend Ruth and I were discussing the election tonight and I mentioned that this election is unlike any I have experienced in the nearly twenty years I've participated in the political process. It seems that since 1988, when I was two months shy of being allowed to vote, most of the elections have been centered on hot-button social issues such as abortion or gay rights (being allowed into the military or granted the right to marry), or universal health care, but that this election is about America's place in the world, as both an economic and democratic leader. This election is about restoring the principles which made this country great and repairing the tremendous damages by a single dangerously ignorant administration. I feel so strongly about this country's future because I have never felt quite so patriotic and wanted so badly to believe in the truth of the American Dream. I want to see our flag and nation restored in the eyes of a world which once looked to us for guidance. I firmly believe that this is the most important election of my life and that only one man has the values and character to guide us out of the quagmire that George Bush has left us in.

John McCain has waged an erratic and divisive campaign and it is clear by the lies and deceit he's perpetuated in his ads, his handling of the economic crisis and the hateful and dangerous rhetoric he and his pit bull lobbed against Barack Obama last week, that he has little sense of direction and is a volatile and unsafe candidate. The character of the man now is an indication of the character of the man in office. Barack Obama has kept his campaign focused on the issues which are of concern to the American public. He has not used smear tactics and has remained presidential throughout much of the turmoil that has engulfed this country over the past several weeks. I want a community organizer to lead us into the future, a man who knows how to teach others to lead themselves, not a maverick who shows little respect for the greater need of the majority of our citizens. I want a man who is clear-headed and calm, who surrounds himself with a group of advisers who are experienced and intelligent rather than cronies and lobbyists. The country has never needed change as terribly as we need it now. Please speak with your friends and family about the issues that matter most to you. Use your voice, be it in a telephone call or an email or on your own blog, as a force for change. Volunteer in any way you can, if that means canvassing your neighborhood or offering to drive voters to the polls on the 4th. Any effort is better than remaining silent. Silence will not change the world but strangle it.

Be sure to watch the third and final presidential debate on Wednesday, October 15th! Host a party, attend one, talk about with everyone you know.

Across the Universe

Last week, on the morning the bottom fell out of my world, I made a cup of tea, something I do every morning. Yogi Tea is my favorite and each morning I alternate between Egyptian Licorice and Egyptian Licorice Mint. I have never been a fan of licorice, unless it's the red kind, but as I learned from my wise and wonderful friend David, who alternately channels the voices of a Jewish mother and a Lutheran wife, depending on the urgency and magnitude of the issue at hand, "Red licorice is not really licorice." But this tea, this licorice, is good stuff and I've made it a staple in my home and of my mornings since I gave up caffeine cold turkey three years ago. Prior to the anxiety and the coffee ban I'd never been much of a tea drinker but I think that was because I'd never found a really good, flavorful cup of tea. I'd been raised on Celestial Seasonings, which is watered down, typically bitter and always bland. When my friend Ruth learned of my dislike and the absence of a warm cup of anything from my mornings she sent a care package of tea, lots of it, all of them warm and vibrant, but especially the Yogis, which include a little tab at the end of the string which contain valuable words of wisdom. During the middle days of the anxiety––when I was still wobbly and busy shoring up self-confidence––it was this "daily wisdom" which helped sooth my mind even as the tea calmed my spirit. I took to taping the messages all around my desk at work so that wherever I look I'm reminded of the things which really matter, or receive instruction on how to survive from minute to minute during the worst and busiest parts of the year. They are The Universe's message to me, personalized by my own hand as it pulls a bag of tea from its box.

Last Saturday, when everything seemed upside down and my mind was reeling and it was all I could do to stand still, I brought my red kettle to a boil, sat at the dining room table looking out on the grass and the traffic just beyond that, the slow mechanical clink of the water warming and stirring in the pot building behind me until the first sputter hissed from the kettle and turned into a whistle, which always makes me think of my friend Wendy who would run to the kettle when it erupted in readiness, hands over her ears calling, "Screaming babies! Screaming babies!" I set the bag in my favorite mug, the one with the E.H. Shephard drawings of the Pooh characters doing somersaults and the line running across the base, "Some days are more tumbly than others." I poured the water, watched the bag saturate and change colors then puff up big and fat before turning the water a nice shade of greenish brown. The steam smelled of mint and I closed my eyes, as I always do, and breathed deeply. One way or another everything would be okay, The Universe would do what it does best, which is merely Be the Universe. I watched the water grow darker then pulled the bag from the mug, twisted the string around it to coax out the last of the flavor, plucked the tag from its end and tossed it in the garbage. Sitting back down at the table I blew lightly across the surface of the cup, raised it to my lips and took my first tentative sip, which, not surprisingly, was perfect in every way. I smiled that Make-It-Through-the-Day smile we all have and read the bit of "Daily Wisdom" I clutched between my thumb and middle finger. In small tea-leaf colored letters is said:

Let things come to you

And so the week was spent letting things come to me. My father and Jane arrived not long after and we spent a marvelous afternoon and evening together enjoying old photographs and stories, food and drink, and a long walk with Duncan. My mind was in the moment, not on the other things, and it felt good to show them places that belonged to Dunc and me, to show them the person I've become and maybe talk a bit about the person I still want to be. Then suddenly mom called mid-week and asked if she and Casey could come for a visit this weekend. And then there they were, at my door on Thursday night, as if they'd walked through it a thousand times and it hadn't been nearly eight months since I'd last seen them. A week of family and love and strength brought to me because I let them come, opened myself up and received all they had to give.

And now that they are all gone, back to their homes across the prairies, around the mountains and through the deserts, I am here with Ken and the kittens (who are really cats but will always be my kittens) and Duncan, a family in our own way, just as strong, struggling just as hard, although sometimes it seems we struggle harder, although I know that's not true. Last week I wanted to sit in this room in front of this screen and tell you that every silver lining has a cloud, but the past eight days have changed that and once again I know the opposite is the truth. Goodness and peace swirl around us like the bodies of myriad paper-thin tiny jellyfish we stood enraptured in front of at the aquarium yesterday.

There is a place, a wide dry patch under one of the large trees in The Glen, where there is little color, only the brittle brown and yellow of pine needles, and direct light only on the far end of day when the sun dips low before being extinguished behind the silhouette of the mountains. It is a sheltered spot, but also a forlorn one, forgotten and not very pretty. Duncan pulled on his leash so I dropped it and watched as he bent low under the lowest boughs to sniff a single sprig of green, which had somehow managed to push through the hard cake of earth and rough, sharp points of the needles and reach out for the day's last thin rays of golden light.

There are miracles every day. I know that if you let them, things will come to you. And sometimes, if you love and are loved hard enough, if you're open and very lucky, those things will be good and your walk will be better and easier because of them.

Sounds of laughter shades of earth
are ringing through my open ears
exciting and inviting me.
Limitless undying love which
shines around me like a million suns
and calls me on and on across the universe
(The Beatles, Across the Universe)

A Walk to the Mailbox

There is much I would miss if Duncan was not at my side. I could not tell you how many times I have plodded to one mailbox or another, watching only where I was going (still wise, especially after the minor concussion I suffered Wednesday afternoon after slipping on the sole remaining patch of ice in the parking lot), not looking up, treating the brief walk as little more than a chore. There was no joy in going to the mailbox, except on the occasional arrival of a letter from David or April, or one of the eclectic packages Ruth sometimes sends.

While most of our jaunts to the mailbox are uneventful, at least in my eyes, there's no telling what juicy morsels of information Dunc gleans from all his sniffing (Oh, that saucy little spaniel is in heat, or the floozy boxer won't be in heat for awhile, or even, that macho yellow lab who struts around is no longer quite so macho and will need a few days to get his strut back).

Tonight was a cold one and although I was feeling extremely lazy after my day preparing the champagne apricot chicken for tomorrow night's farewell party dinner for a former co-worker. The apartment was nice and warm, I'd indulged myself in an evening watching my newest guilty pleasure, Battlestar Galactica, and the temperature had fallen quite dramatically after the sun had set, pale and white and not its usual pink and spilled sherbet colors. I didn't want to put my shoes and jacket on and I certainly didn't want to take Duncan because what should normally be a five minute round-trip excursion would turn into thirty minutes of watching him sniff every pole and shrub and flower bed between here and there, and then back again for any late-breaking updates. But, being the good and dutiful papa I am, I leashed him up, grabbed some poop bags and headed off, Duncan leading the way.

Almost immediately the walk became an adventure. Not far down the lane the sound of a thumping bass mmmp-mmmp-mmmped its way into my ears and chest in that disturbing way that occurs at stoplights next to teenagers. The further we walked the louder it got until eventually we were standing two stories below what looked to be a rocking party. While Duncan sniffed I did what anyone would do and looked up at the patio window and straight into the barely-covered g-string ass of some slicked up and oiled-down muscle dude dancing in front of a room full of middle-aged applauding women, their eyes wide, their hands clapping. I could hear the cat-calls and whistles as I looked away––blushing I'm sure––and wondered what exactly the differences between the sexes really were. Not wanting to appear to linger too long, I gave Duncan's leash a quick tug and we continued on our way.

After checking the mail (no letters or eclectic packages to be found) we stopped on a small grassy patch next to the leasing office. Duncan didn't see the rabbit lurking in the shadows near the newly tilled flower bed, but I did, so I stopped, whispered the word "Bunny," which always gets his attention and watched his head jerk back and forth as he looked for it. His nose twitched when he found it and his body immediately tensed. We stood there for five minutes, creeping slowly, almost imperceptibly forward. The light on the corner of the building blinked off, casting us in complete darkness, but as we waited it came slowly back on, building from nothing, growing in brightness as steadily and cautiously as our advancing steps. By the time it was full again, orange and as bright as the moon, we stood no more than seven feet from the crouching rabbit. It jerked and turned in our direction, its dark eyes and twitching nose zeroing in on our position. Duncan had hardly moved when it bolted right along the edge of the building, its shadow bouncing across the brick and stone. Duncan reared and was about pursue when the building alarm––a single high-pitched note that cut right through us with its shrill scream––sounded, shattering the quiet like nails on a chalkboard or the sound of breaking glass. I startled and winced as my heart pounded in my chest. Duncan backed off, forgetting the rabbit and turned to me for an answer. The alarm rang and rang, louder than the strip party in the next building, louder than anything the night allowed.

"C'mon, Roo," I said, pulling on his leash and ducking away, hurrying back home while visions of me spread-eagled up against as wall being frisked by a cop ran through my head. I even imagined the bachelorette party and vengeful little bunny looking on, a smirk on his pink face while I was cuffed and dragged away crying, "It was the rabbit! We didn't do anything! I've been framed!" The guy in the g-string, once again wearing his leprachaun hat and bow tie would nod smuggly, as though I were the strange one.

Remember

The moon was big tonight, big and orange, like a peach, or a breast. Big enough to pluck from the sky and carry home with me in my pocket. A new ball to toss for Duncan. An eye watching the night. I figured we'd climb Rebel Hill where we haven't been for a month and watch the moon rise over the DTC and Aurora. Occasionally I get these romantic notions of walking my dog, of doing something poetic and nice, something I think I'll remember forever. We all have those moments, when we're standing outside, our faces tilted up into the sweet-smelling rain or when we're jumping into a lake, the sound of laughter rising up all around us. Or driving fast down a long straight stretch of road with a really good song playing loud, maybe "Fresh Air" by the Quicksilver Messenger Service or "Cowgirl" by Underworld. I've had those moments where I step outside myself, watch the scene, like that last good New Year's Eve in Pocatello when everyone was there, dancing at The First National Bar and Ruth smiled and cried out, "It's just like a movie." And it was like a movie and all I could think was, I will remember this forever. The night I watched Elijah slip into the world, purple and wet and so, so new, I felt the same thing. I will remember this forever. There are moments that stand out for no reason whatsoever that will be with me always: pulling over at a rest stop in Minnesota with my mother and sister late one August night. The air was heavy and warm and I'd been sleeping in the backseat using a folded up green Boston College sweatshirt as a pillow. My face bore all the lines and wrinkles of the sweatshirt, like long pink scars criss-crossing my cheeks and forehead. I strolled through a grassy field to sneak a cigarette, which tasted and felt different in such humid air. Like the cherry wanted to jump right out of it. The grass was long and brushed against my calf and I thought, I will remember this moment forever. Or the afternoon Winnie and Pip, still kittens and able to fit into the palm of my hand, curled up on my lap and slept for hours. I didn't want to move so I stayed still, my legs falling asleep under me. They were so warm and felt so safe on my lap. It was a moment that could've slipped right past me but I carry it with me. Forever. There a million of them. Running down the hill on a Sunday afternoon to play in the fields behind Edahow Elementary School with my sister, two step-sisters and a step brother. Sitting at a bar in downtown Pocatello with my mom while Ray Charles' "One Minute Julep" played on the jukebox. Playing Hansel and Gretel with my grandmother and sister and later reading Italo Calvino's Italian Folktales. Grandma had a cubby hole under her stairs and Casey and I liked to pretend it was our house. The night my friend Blaise taught me how to pick out the constellations. A million things I will remember always. Forever.

Anyway, I thought Duncan and I could climb Rebel Hill and watch the moon rise over the city, the first full moon of the new year. He'd sit next to me, his hip warm and soft against my foot. The wind, cool but not cold against my neck, not stinging my eyes or biting my nose. The sound of the traffic would fade away as it sometimes does when you hope it will, when you want to make yourself very small but still very present, alert to every rustle in the branches of the twig-like saplings planted last Spring, aware of the moon glow on the snow and even the places where it doesn't glow, the dark places. Maybe more aware. And as one little wisp of cloud slips overhead I'd think, I will remember this forever, me standing here in silence, a secret from the world, a part bigger than the whole, my dog sitting at my side. A breathing poem.

But then Duncan discovered the joy of sliding down the hill on his side. At first he just rolled, in that seizure-like way of his, where he throws himself down, burying his nose in the snow, shaking his head as it piles up around him. Then he flips over on one side and pulls himself forward, then flips over on the other side, his four legs sticking straight up and dancing on the night, a jitterbug right across Orion, before he turns. It was then that his momentum propelled him forward and he slipped, like oil on water and slid probably twenty feet. His head perked up as he discovered he wasn't where he started. So he leapt up, climbed the hill and did it again. And again until his coat was shiny and slick with ice crust, his nose white, his eyes dark, like olives. And I thought, I will remember this, but not for the reasons I thought. But remember it nonetheless.

God I love him. Especially when he's just a dog and not what I want to turn him into.

Snowman

During the best of the snow someone took the time to make a snow family in the yard on the other side of my building. They lack for faces or clothing but at least their creator saw fit to provide them with skinny twigs for arms. Today's sunshine and warmth took a toll on them and now they don't resemble people so much as some sort of bizarre snowhenge, three oddly shaped obelisks jutting up in a ring, slush totems that fail at announcing the time or day of the year.

As Duncan warily moved among them, not quite sure what to think, I remembered the afternoon of Christmas Eve when Duncan and I took Ruth to the park for a walk through a tremendous snow storm. While Duncan galloped and careened among the trees, Ruth and I rolled up the first snowman I've built in probably twenty years. He was a nice tall fellow with enormous hips, a wide belly and a head as big around as a boulder. We found berries for his eyes, twigs for his brows, a red seed pod for his smile and Duncan provided sticks for arms.

I've thought of him a lot the last couple of weeks, wondered if he's still there, even if only as a slushy pillar. It's a shame that our snow people have to melt, leaving on the memory of their births behind. But even when they seem to serve no further purpose, Duncan finds them useful as places from which to retrieve his sticks. As we passed by the trio in the yard this afternoon he sniffed them cautiously then pulled off one of the arms before merrily prancing away.

Idaho Sky

There's this thing that happens every time I'm here, one of the things I most look forward to: I re-learn my place in the universe.

Idaho is vast and as varied as the snowflakes which are currently falling outside. My family lives in the southeast corner of the state, where deserts meet mountains. Our valley, the Portneuf, is the place where two ranges come together. The northern part of the city opens up onto sage-scrubbed, volcanic plains, but down here, in the south, everything gets squeezed together into a tight little gap, through which the Portneuf River runs. We are surrounded on all sides by mountains-tall hills, really––which are covered in juniper and more sage, some of it taller and wider than my car. I can leave and drive up the hills to an isolated place that overlooks everything, surrounded by pine and aspen, quakies and cedar. Or I can turn in the other direction and find myself in vast emptiess, the mountains distant bumps on the horizon, with only the sound of the wind, or the occasional grumble of trucks on the interstate to remind me that I exist at all. Idaho's landscape changes constantly and it's one of the things I love most about it.

But nothing compares to Idaho's skies. Montana is the "Big Sky" state, and they do give good firmament there, but I have to say (and perhaps I'm a bit partial) Idaho's skies are spectacular beyond anything I've seen in the Absarokas, or from the Big Horns. I have stood in the Tetons and gazed upward. I have perched on the edge of the Grand Canyon. I have floated in the Gulf of Mexico and watched the sunset, but I remember those skies only as setting, backdrop full of color and emotion and little more.

I have spent entire afternoons with friends sprawled on our backs watching clouds roll overhead. One memorable day at the end of high school my friend Ruth and I couldn't tear our eyes away from a cloud shaped like a falling man. Every few seconds his arms would shift, his hands reach out for something-anything-to grasp ahold of, until after fifteen minutes he'd actually turned from his back onto his belly, his head pointed down at the hill below him, his hair and shirttails flapping behind him. I have watched cloud dogs chase cloud rabbits and then witnessed those rabbits turn into airplanes that chased the dogs. I have seen the sunsets mottled with balls of gold and purple fire that burned away the blue and painted everything as far as I could see in deep crimson.

But as beautiful as the days are, the nights are even better. There is always a moment when I stand on the hill behind my mother's house and gaze upward at a night sky so deep and clear that it's like a scene from a movie. Picture a close-up of my face and then the camera slowly pulls back until you can see all of me against stone and yellow grass and sage, and it keeps pulling back until you can't differentiate me from a clump of juniper. It pulls back more and you can see the whole hill, then the valley and the city, then the city becomes a mass of orange lights, then a single glow amid vast darkness dotted by other orange pools. It keeps moving, faster and faster until the whole planet is in view and then the moon slips by and stars flitter past and you're looking at earth, a tiny glittering dot, as seen from the Big Dipper. It keeps racing away until finally there is only darkness that magically pulls out from the pupil of my eye and you see my face again.

That is how night feels in Idaho, bigger than the words that describe it or the pictures that can be taken of it. It's a moment I cherish and I always feel as though my knees will give out from under me and I'll be forced to the earth by the weight of infinity. It sucks the breath out of my lungs and I can only marvel, mute and deaf, unaware of any sense except vision.

Duncan was with me last night on the hill when it happened again. He was busy sniffing out a clump of sage while I staggered and shook my head on my backward-craned neck. He did not care, because for him all that mattered was being outside and pushing his nose through the snow, over shale and thistle.

All that mattered to me was that I was there, with him at my side under that glorious Christmas night sky.

Rewind (Part 3): Team Duncan

In the three years Duncan has been with us, we have only been apart five nights, three when I was in Atlanta when I first got sick, and the two he spent at Alameda East. Ken came home late that Saturday and we both went back to the hospital to take him for a walk and let him know we had not forgotten him. After an hour or so, sitting with him, cradling his tired head on my lap, talking with his doctor, Ken returned to Thornton and I spent the night laying awake in bed, Winnie curled on my hip, Pip rolled up in a ball on my chest, Olive on the pillow above my head. I was exhausted having spent much of the previous night standing in the cold watching my dog vomit into the bushes. I spent most of the night on my back watching the orange glow of the street lamps peek through the curtains and between the slats of the blinds. I missed the way he rolls over me as I climb under the covers, snorting and and rubbing his head against my arm. I missed his weight at my feet. He always stays with us until we fall asleep and then he jumps down and shuffles under the mattress where he snores softly. It was a long night and as warm and protective as the cats were, Duncan's absence weighed heavily on my mind.

Ken came home the next morning and we went to Alameda East once again. His condition hadn't changed and although subsequent x-rays had yet to determine what was happening in his stomach the doctor was still encouraging immediate surgery. Do it now! He could go septic at any moment! You don't have time to think! While figuring out what we could do I applied for a grant the hospital's board of directors offer, which is used to prevent economic euthanasia. They wouldn't meet until Monday morning, which could be too late but it was worth a try. Obviously we wanted the surgery but our finances were such that we couldn't afford it on our own which was the most horrible feeling in the world.

It was at that point that I went home and called everyone I knew and begged for money. It was not a pleasant experience and each time I made a new call I found myself sobbing all over again. Ken watched helplessly as I snotted over the phone, pacing back and forth and pulling my hair out, but by the end of the afternoon I'd finally raised the money we needed with the help of my mother, Ruth, Kelly, David and his mother, Cee Cee, and eventually my father. This generous group became known as Team Duncan and it's to them that Duncan, Ken and I owe every memory we've made together over the course of the past year.

I quickly called the hospital and gave them the go-ahead. "Do it now," I practically screamed. But this is where things became confusing. The doctor said no, she wanted to wait and see what would happen. The radiologist had looked at the x-rays and wasn't sure surgery was necessary at that point.

"But you've been telling us his intestinal wall could perforate at any moment, that he could go septic and that if that happens the only viable option would be to put him to sleep." I was near sobbing again.

But she held firm; she wanted to keep him on the fluids, keep monitoring his x-rays and hold off on surgery until they knew exactly what was going on. Reluctantly and with an enormous amount of fear we agreed. Ken decided we'd hold off and try to get him to our vets, Dr. Rogers and Dr. McCarty at Fire House. They knew Duncan, they knew us (Ken had worked for Dr. Rogers and we occasionally socialized with him) and we trusted them completely. Until then, all we could do was wait and hope nothing happened in the meantime.

Thank You

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, because it's genuine, and because it doesn't really ask all that much of those celebrating it. No obnoxious lights and ornaments to hang, the universe has spared us Thanksgiving Carolers, people aren't banging at our doors dressed as pilgrims or Indians, or, God forbid, headless turkeys. Our animals aren't startled by the continuous explosion of a million snapping cornucopia crackers or the bright burst of pumpkin-scented bottle rockets. Thanksgiving has remained pure, if only because the retailers use it as the jumping off point for the exploitation of the rest of the holiday season. Its message is not one of consumerism, but rather a quiet time to come together, be it with the family you were born into or the family you've created on your own, and to acknowledge the the blessings of your life.

With that in mind, here are some of the things for which I am grateful (in no particular order, of course)

• The sound of Elijah singing or Jonah cooing while I talk on the phone with their mother.
• The warm bodies and soft weight of Winnie, Pip and Olive, who curl up on my hip, against my chest, on the pillow near my head each night while I sleep.
• The speckled color of cinnamon and allspice added to pumpkin, whipped together and poured into a pie crust
• The sound of a new book as you crack it open for the first time
• The word "skinidinkinaw," which has been used by my family since before I was born. I have no idea what it means, but my grandfather uses it best as an all-purpose curse.
  
• Dill bread fresh from the oven with butter melting on top
  
• The warm, fresh smell of the bathroom after Ken has showered and shaved.
• This American Life on NPR
• The way Ruth calls me, "Sweetie," Kevi calls me, "Curty-Wurty," Casey calls me "Bro" and Jen calls me "Curtle" (which to be fair she got from my father, who called me "Curtle the Turtle," playing off the Dr. Seuss character).
• Squinting into sunshine reflected off of snow
• The short, sing-songy melody my mother makes out of the word "hello" when she answers the telephone.
  
• Duncan's amazing eyebrows, the loose skin of his cheeks and his puppy paws, which aren't as soft as they once were, but I still love to cradle them in my palm when we cuddle.
• Talking with Kelly every night on her way home from work, the way she makes me laugh and how old and comfortable our friendship is.
• Peanut sauce, postcards, Poi Dog Pondering
  
• Finding lost things, especially if they're much loved.
  
• Having a space to write and voice with which to do it.
• Kevin, who loves my mother more than I love dreaming.
• New pens, new journals, and a nice flat place in the sunshine to sprawl out and use them both.
• Working with Phil Simmons before he died and knowing that even now he's encouraging me to do what I do best.
• "Feeling Good" by Nina Simone
  
• A.A. Milne, who wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."
  

Lake Dusk

I was feeling a bit lazy tonight, so I drove Duncan down the street to the library. I didn't want to walk him and tie him outside as I've seen other people do with their dogs. I never really thought of it until it was my dog and I couldn't imagine leaving him outside at the mercy of strangers or other dogs without me there to protect him. So we drove and I left him in the car only long enough to run inside to check out some of the books Ruth listed in her comment to my "Inspire Me Sunday" post a few days back. Unfortunately, my library is the worst library in the world and they carried none of the books I was looking for. It seems if you're a member of The Juicy Buns crowd you're good to go, with an unending collection of self-help books and Chick Lit murder mysteries. Or if you're the kind of guy who never moved out of his parent's basement and lives for Star Trek conventions, the Columbine Library has a vast collection of science fiction and fantasy books, but nothing that interested me. I had to dig to find a copy of Sarah Vowell's Assassination Vacation and Dan Savage's, The Commitment.

After getting my books I took Duncan for a walk around the lake, which is immediately adjacent to the library. It was a lovely evening and I'd never been there after dark. The recent cold has killed off most of the bugs, but the night was warm and smelled wonderful, like lake and Autumn and rich dark earth. It was past the feeding hour so we missed out on the wet slaps of the fish breaking the surface for a succulent fly, and most of the people had vanished inside for dinner or the Rockies game. The lake was mostly ours. And it seemed that even the traffic on Bowles was quieter than usual. Duncan chased two bunnies, although I had to point both of them out to him first. We even stopped by Hero's Pets to say hello to Chelsea and her mother, who dote on my red-headed boy and give him plenty of treats and affection. It's nice to feel part of a neighborhood, a place that rejuvenates with its familiar faces and comfortable nooks. I feel more at home here since I left Stapleton.

They say it's going to be nice for the rest of the week. Here's to hoping they're right. We need more of these quiet walks while the warmth lasts and the colors still adorn the trees.