Posts Tagged ‘dogs’

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I feel the life force returning

September 21, 2013

With the cooler foggy mornings, my vows to leave hot Ojai evaporate. Still riding on the full moon energy, I follow a trail of coyote droppings and rabbit pellets into the riverbed. While Honey and Nubio snarl and charge at each other, and then run wild, I find a perfect spot for a long, deep Uttanasana, yoga’s restful Standing Forward Bend that brings the head below the level of the heart.

At first I practice with my feet embedded in gravel. After Uttanasana comes Vrkasana, Tree Pose. Outdoors in Nature is the best place for balance poses, where your eyes can sweep the landscape and then focus on a tree. Then I balance on a smooth, flat rock. Now the standing foot is more anchored and steadiness comes.

462701_10150741764309703_1020063683_oThe shapes and surfaces of Nature make the best props. I find a flat stone that has the perfect slope for placing the feet so heels are slightly up, raising the pelvis higher, and a boulder in front of me to help lengthen the spine. I begin to notice more and more coyote droppings on the stones and boulders all around, as if they had a full moon gathering here. Chico wisely sticks close to my heels.

Honey and Nubio settle down beside me. I feel the life force returning. Last night I felt a little lonely and lost so I caved in and turned to YouTube. I felt like I’d reached a new low–opening a can of organic chile beans like the proverbial bachelor who can’t cook for himself. I doctored it up with vegan olive oil spread and Gomasio sesame seed salt . . . and then turned to the screen for comfort.

I stumbled onto a Dateline episode entitled “Married to Mother.” I half expected a segment on being married to a mama’s boy . . . or a domineering mother-in-law. But as I watched the chilling true story of the greedy narcissistic nurse who gave her handsome, altruistic doctor husband a lethal injection and then set their house on fire, it soon became evident that “mother” was a typo. The real title was, “Married to Murder.”

I confess I watched three true-life episodes of unbelievable greed and cold-blooded murder where one of the spouses murdered the other. By the time it was over my life looked so sweet, I stayed up another hour gratefully washing the dishes and mopping the floor. I fell asleep on my old hippie mattress, looking through the window up at the bright full moon . . .

All this I quickly scribbled in my journal, sitting on a rock, enjoying the quiet, cool fog . . . writing yoga . . .

420152_10150741781489703_1319035889_nIt’s a new day –so far, so good!

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Recovering my joie de vivre

September 18, 2013

1255472_10151940464299703_1848862452_nLast night when I went to check on my parents, my old dad was sitting barefoot and cross-legged on the seat of his Lazy Boy chair, like a yogi. I don’t think his dark Indonesian frame can get any thinner. My mom was sitting in her usual spot near the front door, reading a new large print edition of Reader’s Digest. The house was completely silent, like a temple.

Lately, when I arrive at around dinner time, my dad greets me with, “Why don’t you come earlier?” He seems not to realize that I’m coming at the same time as always but the days are getting shorter and it’s dark sooner. About the only time he looks at the clock is when he has a doctor appointment.

I had to take a few days off from talking to my dad. On the last visit we got into the taboo subject of the family property located close to town—a property where I could have a huge fenced yard for my dogs, if my dad would allow it. About once a year I remind him that it was my years of elder care for the former property owner that was instrumental in his buying that property—and that he has helped both of my younger sisters build several houses. Every time he proclaims, “I treat all three of my daughters equally,” I keep hoping that he will do the charitable Christian thing and pave the way for me to have a little hut close to town with a big fenced yard. Instead, he now suggests that I solve my housing problems by renting a room in the Santa Paula mansion he and my youngest sister built before the market crashed. This harebrained idea so angered me that I had to take a break to recover my joie de vivre.

Like many people, my dad dismisses the drain on my finances from the never-ending responsibility of feeding, walking, grooming, and cleaning up after five animals with three words: “That’s your choice.” The implication being that there are other viable choices. Surely I can find another home for at least one of the dogs. Or return my oldest cat, Ginger, to the Humane Society. I score no points for keeping my animals floating along with me on my precarious raft. Deep inside, my dad thinks I’m too attached, sentimental, soft-hearted, and stubborn. He speculates that I’m lonely and neurotic, that I love animals more than humans, and that maybe I’m too far gone to make the more practical, logical choice.

I love my dad, but if I want to outlive him I have to get these things off my chest. And of course, the whole time I’m thinking about all this I’m surrounded by books, articles, and spiritual teachers insisting that we create our own reality and that our thoughts can change everything.

“The universe always mirrors back to us the conditions of our dreaming. So if we’re fearful that money won’t come to us, it won’t. However, if we experience abundance with what we have today, even if we don’t actually have money right now, we will have abundance and we can be sure that further riches are on their way to us. So when our life isn’t working for us, the most effective solution isn’t to change our career, spouse, exercise routine, or community, but to work on the purity of our dreaming.”

I want to tell the popular teacher who wrote this, Alberto Villoldo, PhD, that this line of magical thinking only works under favorable conditions. I’m sure many a prisoner of war, many a child slave laborer dreams of a new life . . . but their dreams are extinguished by circumstances, not for lack of mental powers.

How can any thinking person look at the state of the whole world, the millions of people living in extreme poverty, and believe this: “The universe always mirrors back to us the conditions of our dreaming. So if we’re fearful that money won’t come to us, it won’t.” Does that mean that all the people starving to death were fearful that their next meal wasn’t coming?

I question the implication that the homeless woman I saw early Sunday morning in Ventura, riding her bicycle down Main Street with two large black garbage bags dangling from the handlebars and two leashed dogs running alongside the bike, somehow brought her life situation solely on herself.  Yes, we have to take responsibility and do our best, but we don’t know the chain of events that brought her to this point in time. Maybe her son was murdered and she lost heart. Maybe she had a relative who took what was rightfully hers. I think we all have to face the fact that, no matter how pure our dreams, life can still come crashing down on us.

“We all know, deep down, that most of what we have is good fortune. No matter how hard we work, we did not earn our functioning brains or the families into which we were born. We live in cities others created for us, organized by a government and protected by a military shaped by our predecessors. Yet we still point to our accomplishments and proudly proclaim, ‘I did this!’ The well-off salve their consciences by assuring themselves that it is hard work and merit that brought them success, which also leads them to conclude that it is lack of merit that keeps others from succeeding.” —Rabbi David Wolpe

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There was a time when a trip to LA was routine, but now it feels like going to Timbuktu

August 2, 2013

There was a time when a trip to LA was routine, but now it feels like going to Timbuktu. My daughter, who flies freely out of the nest like the young bird she is, laughs at her old home bound mother who feels like she’s going to the outskirts of Africa. But the very thought of leaving the valley even for only three days makes me realize how much I love my life here.

So to fortify myself for my noontime departure, I stood waiting at 8 a.m. with another early bird customer for the doors to open at Farmer & the Cook. By 8:06 we grew impatient and I pressed my face against the glass to get a better look at the young workers bustling about inside. One finally noticed us and she opened the door–only to let it slam shut again, saying, “It’s already unlocked.” Say what? I tried turning the knob again—but from the outside it was still locked. I tapped on the glass and she let us in.

Yesterday was a watery cleansing day. Today is the opposite. I bought a savory scone, an apple date muffin, and a pumpkin seed muffin. The child in me wanted a chunk of carrot cake but I ignored her. Then the dogs and I headed for the river bed. The fog was just beginning to lift. Honey ran way up ahead, while Chico and I sat on a giant flat boulder to savor the savory scone. I gave him a crumb at a time—he never took his unblinking Chihuahua eyes off that savory scone. By the time Honey noticed what we were up to, it was almost gone.

Somehow knowing I won’t be back for three days made the early morning jaunt even sweeter. When the sun burst through I had the thought again that when my time comes to pass, I want the last thing I feel to be the sunlight on my face. The other day I had lunch with a high school friend and in the course of the conversation he mentioned how he’d recently had a heart attack. And, classic male, he ignored the symptoms. If it wasn’t for his wife’s insistence that he go get the “uncomfortable feeling” checked out, he’d likely be dead. He said something I’ve heard many people who’ve had a brush with death say. When he became aware that he might very well die, “it was no big deal.” He was surprised how calm he felt.

The dogs and I wandered a little further down the river bed and then we shared the two muffins . . . I always spoil my animals a little more before leaving town. The sun grew hotter, and we turned around. Soon I’ll be in carmageddon, hurtling 70 MPH down the noisy freeway, but the deep stillness of the river bottom, the timeless beauty of the surrounding mountains will be with me. I hope I never take for granted how lucky I am to live here in the Valley of the Moon!
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Time to get on my hands and knees and pick up the pieces

July 27, 2013

It’s hopeless! I gathered up all the dirty cat and dog dishes (including human dishes from letting Honey and Chico lick the plates) and stacked them neatly in a plastic dishwashing tub. Set the tub down on the steps by the kitchen sink, thinking I’d soak the animal dishes and scrub them last. As luck would have it, a few moments later Honey exploded with a bark that would wake the dead, knocking the tub off the steps as she bolted out the door to chase a band of raccoons. Plates and bowls flew through the air and hit the tile floor with a loud clatter, breaking into a zillion pieces . . . And now all is quiet again. She sleeps peacefully, totally oblivious. Only the two stainless steel bowls are intact.

Time to get on my hands and knees and pick up the pieces.

Honey

Honey

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“Vision isn’t in the eyes; it’s in the mind.”

July 14, 2013

As the sky grew dark, Honey started barking, running in circles, and practically pulling me out the door. I grabbed my knapsack, cell phone, and pen and notebook, and poured some Honeyrun elderberry wine into an empty bottle of Lori’s Lemonade. Honey was so wound up that she and Nubio rolled around in the dust, growling and nipping, pretend fighting, before charging out the gate.

We made our way down the trail into the dry river bed. Out in the open, the landscape was still gold—light enough for a good walk. But a few minutes later there was a single gunshot, or a firecracker explosion, and suddenly all the wild exuberance in Honey evaporated. She ran back to me and pressed her body against my leg like a frightened child.

It took a while for my brain to relax. After Honey calmed down, too, we continued walking the river bed. Before turning back, we sat on the warm stones. The ceremonial sips of wine heightened my senses. The dogs settled down, and together we sank into the pervasive silence that is always here at day’s end—a blessed break from the injustice and insanity in the world.

On the way back I caught sight of the bright, clear sliver of the moon and the white rim of the sky above the pitch-black mountains. Day slipped calmly into night, in a cosmic rhythm untouched by the day’s events.

***

This morning, after yoga, I went to see my parents. My mom was sitting alone in the front yard, wearing a pretty sun dress, a sun hat, a necklace. She was in high spirits. I know I inherited my love of nature from her. The atmosphere around the house felt extraordinarily tranquil. We sat together and watched the birds drinking from the bird bath. There were white clouds above the mountains. The temperature was just right. I heard myself say, “This feels like heaven on Earth.”

I let myself relax and sense into my mom’s world. She told me again how when she left Holland she had no idea she’d end up in a place this beautiful. I was only seven, but I recall the car ride from L.A. to Ojai. On the freeway I remember my mom shaking her head, complaining about all the cars, all the asphalt. This was 1957. It was a great relief when we arrived in rural Ojai.

After a while my mom wonders, “Where is that man that lives with me?” So I go check on my dad. He’s on the back porch, asleep on an old sofa, wrapped in a blanket. I watch to be sure he’s still breathing. The breeze ruffles his hair. I debate whether to wake him, so he knows I’m here in case he wants to go do an errand, and decide it’s better to let him sleep.

On the way back to the front yard I pick up the July issue of National Geographic to read to my mom. At first it goes well. There’s an amazing story about Daniel Kish, a man known as “Bat Man.” Blind from the age of 13 months, he explores the world—and even rides his bike—by clicking his tongue. Now, at 47, he navigates the world primarily by using echolocation, like a bat. He says, “Vision isn’t in the eyes; it’s in the mind.”

But then I turn the pages. After showing my mom a wonderful photo essay about farmers in Transylvania, I go back to look more closely at “Last Song,” a story about the slaughter of songbirds. It documents how some people eat these beautiful creatures in the same way that others eat chickens, ducks, geese, and turkeys. Three billion birds of some three hundred species—songbirds, waterbirds, raptors—migrate thousands of miles. They navigate by cues that the human mind can barely fathom: the sun, the stars, scents, landforms, the Earth’s magnetic field . . . And instead of standing in awe before these winged wonders guided by the cosmos, humans take advantage of their exhausted state after flying thousands of miles without food and use their merciless cunning to devise cruel traps to catch them.

Suddenly the world seems a very dark place. I want to cry. All at once I have to leave my parents’ tranquil cocoon. My work on the Earth plane is not yet done. And neither is yours.

Finding my balance in nature

Finding my balance in nature

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Posted in Animal Advocacy, Doga Writing Memoir, elder care, Life in Ojai, Yoga Writing Memoir | Leave a Comment »

The marsh is dry now

June 3, 2013

470591_10150741641279703_266408929_oThe marsh is dry now; the creek bed and all the secret trickles of water are no more. It was hard to extricate myself—I felt sad and guilty—but I cancelled the last lesson. I felt so tired, I had to come here to replenish myself. I had to sit still on the warm ground and stare at the waving stalks—still green, but the front row already turning yellow. I had to come here and listen to the twilight symphony.

As I sat, a flock of birds flew overhead. They swooped and darted like bats—dozens of dancing black silhouettes etched against the twilight sky. I had to come here and see the sweet yellow mustard once more, for myself, before it all dries up.

It’s Sunday night, it’s June, and here I am with Honey, Nubio, and Chico. After I let them run wild they sit still, close by. I feel their animal consciousness. I watch their heads turn side to side, ears alert. I see their eyes staring . . . whatever it is, I want to see it, too. And all the while the sky grows darker and the clouds, the mist, rolls in.

The river of life has washed me ashore here. Life is not done with me yet, and I’m not done with life. But without my nature refuge the fatigue is overwhelming. I feel ready for the long sleep. I want to be a hermit. I want to hole up and write and clear my head, but I had a wake-up call. The doctor was going to open up my young niece’s crooked spine and fuse her vertebrae. It gave me a jolt and pushed me back into the teaching game. The commercial world is pulling yoga apart. I want to hide till this phase passes, but humans need to know their bodies from the inside out. So I’ll keep teaching, even if insurance doesn’t pay for it.

Now the wind is blowing. The night is falling so sweetly. The dry marsh is full of birds—more and more birds gathering for the night. Their symphony is enchanting. As the ears open you hear them calling back and forth. We are so quiet; as the land grows still, we grow even more still. We are so silent I half expect a coyote or bear to emerge from the marsh, but the very presence of my pack keeps them at bay.

Nature is releasing her secrets. The beauty is so intense it’s a tonic for all the horrors I learned of this week. My heart is still recovering from the story of the little girl who didn’t survive her “wedding night” to the tribal chief. And the harsh truths I just learned about horse racing. Man’s cruelty and perversion knows no bounds.

On this night I stayed till all the daylight was gone. It was like death—a good death. I stayed till the night grew cold, till cold winds blew over the dark landscape and pushed me back to my nice warm nest.

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Let spring set my soul free

March 29, 2013
Honey

Honey

The thing that stops us dead in our tracks is getting sick, whether it’s mild or serious. And it turns out that the twisting and turning I’ve been feeling in my gut is food poisoning. Turns out that my friend who ate the exact same thing when we went out for lunch has had the exact same symptoms and is just bumbling along, just like me.

After two days of collapsing in bed, slipping in and out of a healing coma, and reading two books—when I finally realized that it wasn’t just going away and that I’d better gather my energy and get out in nature with Honey and Chico—I found the strength to walk the creek bed and let nature have her way with me.

Whenever I’m sick, my thoughts turn to death. I realized that if this were my last spring all I would really want to do is escape into nature. I’ve done my part, I’ve given freely of my life energy, and now I want a spring break—is that too much to ask of life?

So I went walking and walking, to places I haven’t been to in a long time. I found a secret oasis where water gurgles so sweetly I just wanted to slip away into the life of a hobo or a wandering sadhu . . .

Honey and Chico had a long drink. We sat together on a rock, water flowing all around. It fascinates me how my hyper Honey can sit so still, completely in the moment. If I could tap into her consciousness I would smell every weed, every seed, every flower, every coyote and rabbit hidden in the brush. I would hear the song of the gurgling brook, the call of every bird, every frog. I would see every small movement . . . nothing would escape my keen senses. I would leave the heavy dull human consciousness in the dust. I would feel spring rising in every vein of every leaf, and flowing in my blood. I’d feel the force of spring stronger than the earthly pull of my little human identity. I would say, “Computer, get thee behind me and let spring set my soul free.”

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Sometimes making life more difficult for yourself saves the life of another

March 1, 2013

February 27, 2013

HONEY HUGMy standards for clean have never been high, but this winter things reached an all-time low. The only thing that keeps hope alive as I survey the futility of it all is the awareness that spring is coming and soon it will be warm enough to banish all the four-leggeds to the outdoors. I’m already cooking up a plan for sleeping under the stars, to trick them into thinking that living close to nature is the new normal.
Last night, just when I thought I could finally detach from it all and escape into the alternate universe of some yoga magazines (with their nude yoginis wearing only toe “soxs” and glossy ads for Karmalicious shoes, Earth-friendly Subarus, and yoga festivals that look suspiciously like scenes out of the Pentecostal revival tents I attended in my early teens), I saw that Priscilla had thrown up into the crevices of the bottom frame of the sliding glass door. In order to slide the door closed, I had to get out of bed and start the day all over again. I also removed three ticks from Honey’s head that I only noticed when I petted her good night.

Back under the covers, I opened the current Yoga Journal to a promising article entitled “Yogic Wisdom for Decluttering Your Life.” It was all about cleaning and clearing your abode, getting rid of crap you don’t need, getting your finances under control, and, above all, managing your time.The opening paragraph said, “For true clarity of mind and heart, shine the light of awareness on your habits and clean up your life.” Well, I readily admit that I need help in that department. So I read on, and came to the part that said, “In the face of any challenge, yoga teaches you to pause and look at the source of your problems.”Well, that was easy. The sources of all my problems were sprawled on my bed, sleeping on my pillows and snoring under the covers, totally oblivious of the endless expense, wasted time, and trouble that they cause! They were to blame for the dirty floors andpaw prints on window sills, the kibble residue and stinky kitty litter, the messy clutter of leashes, dog toys, old bones, pet carriers, and piles of dirty towels (Chico pees indoors when he finds the exit blocked) . . . and the financial drain of vet bills, pet shampoo, cleaning supplies, and all those mouths to feed. 

At the end of the yogic wisdom article came this recommendation: “Ask yourself, with each decision you take, ‘Is this making my life easier or more difficult?’ ” 

I get the point. I’m all for simplifying one’s life. But it’s a good thing that those who rescued Honey from death row didn’t ask those kinds of questions. Sometimes making life more difficult for yourself saves the life of another. And, luckily, cleanliness is not next to godliness. And, sometimes clean enough is good enough!

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Stick with Honey: A Doga Writing Memoir

December 23, 2012

Four years ago, on the Friday before Christmas . . .

“Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.”
–Mark Twain

Suza_book_cover_size   The last Chapter in my dating memoir, “Fishing on Facebook: A Writing Yoga Memoir,” is entitled, “Stick with Honey.” As many of you know, Honey is the Australian Shepherd rescue dog who appears on the cover. When I told my friend Dale Hanson the truth about “Adam,” the antagonist in my memoir, she offered this simple advice, “Stick with Honey!”

Well, I have stuck with Honey, through thick and thin! Truth be told, like most other relationships, it has not always been easy. We’ve had enough adventures to fill a book. Here’s the beginning of the story:

Four years ago, on the Thursday before Christmas, I got a call from a local dog rescuer who said she heard I was looking to adopt a Queensland Heeler or Australian Shepherd. She asked if she could bring an Aussie rescue over on Friday, “Just so you can meet her.”

I thought to myself, “What a coincidence that I would get this call today.” My previous dog, Queenie, a Queensland Heeler (Australian Cattle Dog), had died exactly one year ago, on the Friday before Christmas.  003_103_8005

I tried not to take this as a sign from God!

Honey

Honey, Australian Shepherd rescue dog Photo Credit: Janeson Rayne

For a moment I hesitated. I already had plenty of other animals — four cats, two rescue pigs, and a dear mouse named Whitey. Life was so much easier without the responsibility of a dog. I knew very well that if this Aussie arrived on my doorstep it would probably be case closed.

The clever, determined rescuer softened me up by explaining how her organization goes into the animal shelter on a regular basis to save as many dogs as they can from death row. They already had as many dogs as they could handle in one trip and she almost didn’t notice this beautiful Aussie. She described how this little girl dog came up and gently licked her hand.
I imagined the other dogs desperately barking, “Save me! Save me!” while this Aussie girl wisely distinguished herself by quietly licking the rescuer’s hand.

So the next day, on the Friday night before Christmas, a truck stopped in front of my house. The back of the truck had several crates, each holding a yapping dog. The driver took out a beautiful, fluffy Aussie dog. She didn’t bark. It all happened very fast and I felt like I was adopting an unknown orphan child.

The unknown Aussie stood beside me on the street, appearing very calm. We watched the truck with barking dogs drive away. After the truck disappeared, Aussie girl looked up at me as if to assess this human being who fate had delivered her to. At that moment I think she saw right through me –she picked up that I was easy and that she had nothing to fear. She willingly followed me into the house.

What I remember from our first night together is that this Aussie, who I named Honey a few days later, not only did not chase my cats (at least not while I was looking), she licked Leo’s face. Possibly because Leo’s lips taste like cat food, but it looked like a sign of affection and scored big points in her favor.

Late that night, while we were in the kitchen, a band of raccoons that had gotten way too tame during the year that I had no dog, came looking in the cat door, to see if it was safe to come in. I noticed Honey staring intently at the door, well aware of the intruders peering in. Suddenly she let loose an explosive bark that would shatter the ear drums of the dead. That was the end of the raccoons sneaking into the kitchen and stealing cat food.

For the first few days, as is the case in most new relationships, Honey was on her sweetest, best behavior. She smiled at everyone and sat still during my yoga classes with her front paws crossed, observing my students like a flock of sheep. But gradually, as she felt more secure, the reality of her true nature emerged.

Another day I will tell more about “Sunny” Honey. She is the world’s most loyal and lovable dog, but there is good reason why friends have dubbed her, “Buffalo Girl,” “Thunder Girl,” and other nicknames that reflect her energetic, exuberant, spirit!
Happy Fourth Anniversary Honey! (Honey hopes her story inspires more humans to give a dog waiting at the shelter a forever home.)

Southern California Australian Shepherd Rescue http://www.aussierescuesocal.com/

Please spay and neuter your dogs and cats –thousands of animals are waiting on death row, hoping to be adopted before it’s too late.

HONEY HUG

Stick with Honey! Photo Credit: David E. Moody

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I can’t die yet—I just spent $2,000 at the dentist.

December 7, 2012
 

Honey

Honey

    

The other day I reached inside the mailbox, which I share with seven other people. There were Christmas cards, credit card offers, a Victoria’s Secrets catalog that has no secrets, and a gourmet gift catalog with giant walnut chocolate cookies, baklava, biscuits, and cinnamon swirl buns for those no longer watching their figure.

     On this day the only item in the mail for me was another discreet reminder from Smart Cremation that my journey in this world of pleasure and pain is coming to an end.
      I can’t die yet—I just spent $2,000 at the dentist. The root canal is fixed, my chipped front tooth is whole again. But the thought of all the work I have to do to earn that money back is exhausting. Yesterday, as I assessed my life situation, I hit a wall. I fell into that depressing place where you just want to pull the covers over your head and give up. I felt tired and close to tears. So I decided that, instead of scooping the poop out of the kitty litter and making a dent in the endless hopeless housework that comes with five four-leggeds, I would run away with Honey and Chico to the basin near Pratt Trail. We would hike and I would do yoga in my favorite panoramic spot. I still had the car that I borrowed the day before to go to the dentist, so off we went.
       Chico and Honey were yapping with joy and ready to fly out the window. As I eased the car into the dirt parking area, I caught a glimpse of a Ventura County spray truck. Seeing those workers with gloves on, once again spraying toxic weed killers up and down the side of the basin and surrounding areas, killing everything that was sprouting after the rain, my heart sank. In years past I’ve questioned them . . . they have their reasons (flood control), but their reasons make no sense to me.
       The dogs were so wild to go running that I didn’t get out to question the workers. I turned around and drove away. Later I heard from a friend who lives nearby on North Signal Street that she could smell the spray from her house. The whole scene of man still poisoning the Earth, after all we know about toxins traveling up the food chain, killing wildlife. . . all this put me further over the edge. I told myself that in other countries they’re spraying people, poisoning and killing human beings—that I’m among the lucky ones; I can walk away and find refuge somewhere else in nature.
470591_10150741641279703_266408929_o        Later the dogs and I walked the creek bed in the river bottom. I’d cancelled my Thursday night class, feeling that I had nothing to give. So I had time to drift off into the sunset, to watch the light change and sink into stillness. When I came home, my sweet daughter brought me my favorite bird seed cookie with strawberry jam in the center, fresh-made at the Farmer and the Cook. “Here, Mom,” she said, “I’m sorry you’re having such a hard day.” I felt slightly ashamed that I had dumped my troubles on her earlier in the day. Laughing, I bit into the yummy cookie, and thus my hard day dissipated.

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