I've come inside from a morning of outdoor chores. Dasher's been watching me in a relaxed state of canine consciousness on the sofa's back, just high enough for a comfortable view out the window. She follows anything that moves. I bring myself down to her level, given her a kiss and pat, and decide to keep going and stretch my tired limbs out on the couch. She sees that I mean business, and stretches, downward dog, then joins me, nestling herself onto my chest and belly. The weight of her relaxes me, provides a familiar comfort and within a few minutes, my eyes become heavy, and we nap together. These moments feel like grace to me.
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Today, I Googled my former therapist, Tom M., also an avid photographer, who'd a few months ago had sent me some of his photos I'd found online. I'd asked his permission to use them in a newsletter I produce at my work. Always gracious, he said, yes, of course, please use them. We'd had a brief, cordial exchange, given that it's been over thirty years since he'd been my therapist. The Google search today provided his obituary. He'd died at the end of April, with no mention of the cause of death, though he was probably in his early eighties. He leaves his partner Suzannah (also a therapist), and five children, his daughters Jennifer and Betsy, and his sons Jamie, Rob and Peter. When I'd started seeing Tom for therapy, I was in my mid-twenties, at the beginning of my own tenure as a Counselor, and was in the throws of understanding my difficult relationship with my father who had been an alcoholic throughout my boyhood. Tom was the antidote for my injured and tender psyche, providing fathering wisdom, insight and care. He loved me unconditionally through those fifty-minute hours we'd spent together over the course of a few years, helping me gently mend my tattered soul and shift my perspective on what was mine to repair (my father's disease of alcoholism was not mine to fix). Our time together was a turning point in how my life would evolve; my personal agency began to flourish. The psychic seeds he'd planted during therapy helped me embrace the person I was becoming and celebrate my unique contributions to the world. I still remember on our last day of therapy, he'd ask to take my picture. At the time, I'd thought it was an unusual request, but agreed to it. He'd sent me the photograph a few weeks later in the mail. Perhaps this was the beginning of his next career as a photographer, I don't know. I still have that picture, stored away, and occasionally take it out to remember who I was then. Tom wanted that for me, then, and now to see who I am. With so much gratitude, Tom. Thank you!
Questions answered in a Publishing course I am taking at Bay Path University through their MFA Creative Nonfiction Writing program.
1.) What does being "accomplished" mean to you? As a writer, having confidence in my voice on the page and seeing that what I have written is both truthful and artful helps me feel accomplished. I also lean toward the word “accomplishing” vs. “accomplished,” the former suggesting that my writer’s life is on a trajectory, moving toward a place where truth and art are intersecting and electric. Reading my own work, and saying, “hey, that’s good writing, I felt some sparks there, some life,” also brings a sense of accomplishment. 2.) In what ways have you become more "accomplished" during the course of this program? The feedback I’ve received from instructors and other peers in the program has deeply impacted my belief in myself as a writer. The act of writing in each course has created a body of work that keeps evolving, and hopefully, keeps getting more refined. Importantly, the experience of seeing and of being seen in the truths that we each share through our writing has nourished and fortified my identity as a writer. 3.) Is there a connection between being an "accomplished" writer and being a published writer? I don’t think so for me, at least not yet. Perhaps down the road as I gain confidence in my voice will I consider the connection between being accomplished and being published as having significance. For now, I’m happy to focus on my craft. Though, I can say I recently had a piece published, which has boosted my confidence as a writer. 4.) Is there a difference between being "successful" and "accomplished" as a writer? I think that being successful and accomplished are at this point in my writing life interchangeable. I feel successful/accomplished when I’ve writing a piece that has moments that sing. I don’t necessarily expect the entire piece to create sparks, at least not yet, but if there are moments that do, I’m content with that. Here we are. Father flanked on each side by his twin sons. All are around the same age, perhaps eight or nine. My father's image taken from a formal family portrait, a big day for each of them, dressed in their Sunday best, posing for the picture. From what I know, they were poor, which makes the intention of the photograph even more significant. My brother and I pose for our annual school pictures, perhaps the third grade, wearing identical red short-sleeve shirts, the part of our hair a difference to help others tell us apart. Paul's handsome face exudes kindness, his eyes soft, he offers a genuine smile for the camera. I look a little less settled, my eyes wide with anticipation, my smile more posed. What are we thinking on this day, early in the school year with Mrs. Lorenz our teacher, who lets us jump ahead in the Phonics Readers, nurturing our excitement for reading and story telling? Dad's young mug exudes an abundance of confidence for his age; his mother, always adoring, stands behind him, cheering him on. My father could do no wrong in her eyes. What freedom that understanding must have provided to him, knowing that whatever he did with and in his life, his mother always had has back. Even when he drank and drank and drank, she still loved him.
This is Mary V. She is a cashier at my local grocery store where she has worked for 27 years. I first met Mary about fifteen years ago, like many other customers, unloading my grocery cart at her checkout aisle. From our first interaction, Mary was warm and friendly, perhaps commenting on some good decision I'd made in a food purchase. Over time, during these few minutes where she ran my items through the payment system, accumulating dozens of blinking beeps, we became friends. Each week, like any good friend, our check-in begins with a mutual hug across the food conveyer belt, with each of us offering a "you've made my day" spoken into each other's ear. Mary is a skilled communicator, all-the-while scanning my food items, we chat about our lives. In some ways, it doesn't matter what we talk about, though Mary is always sure to ask about Dasher, about Mike, how work is going. What matters is that in these tender moments, we genuinely care about each other's lives. What for many of us is only a business transaction has turned into a valued and meaningful encounter between two people. Mary is the real deal. We now exchange birthday and other holiday cards (she even remembers Michael's birthday), and recently brought me back a souvenir from a visit with her sister in Florida. Every week after I pay for my groceries, we offer another mutual hug, and each whisper "I love you" as we embrace across the aisle. It's a testament to our genuine fondness for each other. She has made my day. The mutual respect and kindness we express with each other carries me through the day, creating a lightness in my being.
I recently joined M.A.M.A.S. on the Move after a friend from North Carolina reached out, looking for drivers to transport rescued animals to new homes in Maine near where I live. Animal rescue's trajectory in the Eastern U.S. is almost always North. This is Annie. We're in Yarmouth, Maine, very near her forever home at the Peace Ridge Sanctuary in Brooks, Maine. Annie's had a long couple of days, beginning her travels yesterday morning at 5 a.m. in Bamberg, South Carolina, and patiently moving from one crate to the next about every hour along the route. When I met her in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, after an already long day, she was sweet and friendly, wagging her tail to greet me. I'm told that Annie is 12, and from the looks of her aging body, has been used as a puppy mill for many years, producing dozens of beagle pups. Despite the abuse our species has incurred on her existence. she offers grace to each human she encounters. These loving and forgiving sentient beings have so much to teach their human handlers.
Dasher is anxious this morning, staying close, sticky like glue. It's windy, this first September day; fall is not far behind. The air is verbose, rustling early fall leaves, spinning them up and into the atmosphere, cyclone-like. The wind's exuberance causes a psychic turbulence for our sweet girl, and being close to me seems to calm her in measurable ways. On the left, she is Velcro vigilant, all-the ready to dive under a blanket should that terrible wind provoke her any further. After a few minutes of petting her and cooing in her ear, she settles down, and I nudge her away just a bit so I might more easily breathe. We stay like this through a mid-morning nap, both resting our eyes and minds.
My twin brother Paul and I are standing in front of our mom's car, a hard-top convertible. The battered photo's edge reads "FEB 64" which would make us just over three, though the picture was probably taken in fall, making us under three, given the sun and shadow, short sleeves and naked ground. I think Paul is on the left, though I'm not completely sure of this assertion (maybe my mother will know if I ask her). We are dressed neatly, in the same dark navy corduroy pants and powder blue cotton shirts. I am scratching my neck; perhaps from a bug bite. Or maybe I just want the picture moment to be over with. Paul looks steadily into the camera, his stance confident and sure. I'm a bit more tentative. It's difficult to see, but we are holding hands. A tender gesture that tells me every think I need to know about this moment. We have each other in the torrent that is our young lives. The photographer captures both the car and the boys, perhaps unsure of which to choose. The photograph is torn and tattered, the car showing signs of rust and wear, and parked in front of our Aunt Irene's ramshackle home at Wells beach where we lived until we were five. Today, the house still stands, and sometimes I want to stop and ask the owners if I can take a look around to see if anything stirs, ghosts from my early life that might reflect some flicker of who I've become. Transition from summer to fall. It's always hard. Today on my walk through the neighborhood with Dasher, I come across a small turtle, no bigger than a boy's fist, smashed to bits on the road's edge. He's long gone, cracked pieces of shell cover what was once tiny organs, a young turtle's life. This past spring, I helped another much larger turtle across the road at this exact spot; she perhaps is experiencing her own grief at the brutal nature of life, her offspring flattened by a car tire. Then, a few hundred yards ahead lies another small turtle, crushed and composting into the road's detritus. My eyes well up. Dasher makes a quick olfactory inspection of the crumbling carnage and moves on. We continue our walk, transitioning from summer into fall, death behind us. Now, back at home, she is asleep on my lap. Homeostasis.
I'm here with our rescue pup Dasher. She's sweet and loyal and loves to cuddle. We've been a family, she, my partner Michael, and me, since April, 2015 - over seven years. At the time, I had done some animal transport rescue, and realized how much I wanted my own pup. Michael had raised dogs with his former partner, and was reluctant to to again take on dog ownership. After some discussion, we compromised on fostering. We met a volunteer with Lucky Pup Rescue from Kennebunk, Maine, who conducted a home visit to be sure we'd be suitable foster parents for animals who often needed TLC. She also wanted to make sure we had a fenced-in backyard for the our future foster to run and play. We do. Our only criteria was that we wanted to foster a small dog.
Dasher came off the long transport truck in Kittery, Maine where we life, here little body shaking from head to tail's tip. I took her into my arms and held on tight. Two weeks into our foster, we got a call from the folks at Lucy Put who said they had someone who wanted to adopt her. After a brief conversation, we realized we could not let her go, and decided to adopt her. The rescue had named her Sally, which didn't seem to fit her personality. We landed on Dasher, because she was quick on her feet and reminded us of a small deer, sans the white spots. We later learned that this experience of foster-to-adopter is quite common, and that "foster failure" was the term we had now earned. Fair enough. |
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March 2023
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