The Bodhi Tree

Some Thoughts about Worrying

2010-08-29T13:26:00.000-04:00

"Any time anyone complains of worry, anxiety, depression, fear, hatred, jealousy -- whatever it is -- let him sit back and analyze the cause. If he is really sincere, he will find out that he wanted something for himself. Selfish desire causes all the problems. Do things for the sake of others, not for yourself. That is the simple and practical way to find peace."

Daily meditation for August 19, from "The Golden Present: Daily Inspirational Readings," by Sri Swami Satchidananda (a cherished and much-consulted gift my friend Christine)

"Worry is the fear we manufacture -- it is not authentic. If you choose to worry about something, have at it, but do so knowing it's a choice."

From "The Gift of Fear," by Gavin de Becker (a book recommended by my friend Karen C., which I recently read while at the beach)

I am a life-long worrier. I've been worrying about one thing or another for about as long as I can remember. As I've gotten older, my worrying habit has escalated at times to outright anxiety with an alarming frequency.

The starkest, most troubling manifestation of my worry-turned-anxiety occurred this past June and July, before and during the House-Senate conference on the financial regulatory reform bill. Each chamber's bill was nearly 2000 pages (in legislative text format -- shorter if formatted as a normal Word document), and the conference through which the chambers arrived at identical text lasted about two weeks. I'm convinced that this broke all previous conference committee speed records (by comparison, the last conference on major financial legislation, which involved a much, much shorter bill, took about 3 months).

Needless to say, the staff of the House Financial Services Committee, a group to which I belong, was more than a little busy. I am a perfectionist who prides myself in turning out very precise, well-crafted legal work, and although I wound up doing what I think was a respectable job during the conference, I literally had multiple panic attacks in the course of so doing. And I am someone who previously doubted the existence of panic attacks, so I don't make that claim lightly. Once the conference concluded, I had nightmares for a month about mistakes that I might have made. They started out eerily real -- some of them were barely distinguishable from reality, so much so that I would consult the final conference report first thing the next morning to make sure that I hadn't made the dreamed-about mistake -- and then got more and more outlandish as I started to let the stress of the conference slip away.

After my conference-induced anxiety started to abate, I starting working myself into an almost-as-pitched frenzy about a series of other things -- my health (there were times that I almost seriously convinced myself that I had at least 5 terminal illnesses at any given point), my dog (did his diarrhea mean he was dying?), the house (the water in the basement and a couple handfuls of deteriorating foundation bricks were a sign that the house was going to collapse around me at any moment), etc. I could keep going, but you get the idea. This was pretty bad worrying, even for an accomplished pro such as myself.

To help with this, and some other chronic conditions that I'm tired of having, I finally took the advice of the mighty Reya and sought the help of the person to whom she affectionately refers as "the Sufi acupuncturist." He is as wonderful as Reya describes. In addition to performing acupuncture, he started me on a Chinese herbal tea, which, among other things, has heightened my awareness of what I am doing and why. About the time I started seeing the Sufi acupuncturist, I stumbled across the two quotes at the beginning of this post, which really focused my heightened sense of self-observation on the roots of worry, and how to free myself from them.

I think that de Becker is clearly correct that worrying is a choice, but it is a choice I have made for so long that I didn't previously, or easily, recognize it as such. I took for granted that worrying was an inherent part of who I am. Plus, worrying is a choice that can perniciously reinforce itself. I worried, almost inevitably things turned out just fine, and instead of concluding that the worrying was meaningless and created needless suffering, I instead concluded that things turned out OK because I worried, which then became a really great argument to keep worrying about anything that might be important.

I also think that Swami Satchidananda is correct that worrying, anxiety, and other such conditions are rooted in wanting something for oneself. I think that my particular selfish desire is to be as close as humanly possible to perfect. It's as if I equate the absence of perfection with utter failure, which is the worst thing I can imagine. I therefore live in constant fear of, pardon my language, fucking up, especially when it comes to my work product (I formerly attached this kind of importance to my grades in school). Intellectually I know that we all make mistakes, and that almost none of our errors, individually or collectively, are of the civilization-ending variety. However, I think that I want to have the distinction of at least making a lot fewer errors than most, and I want others to recognize and praise that trait. I hadn't exactly thought of it this way before -- although once I paused to reflect upon it, it suddenly seemed pretty obvious -- but my selfish desire is apparently to have my self-worth validated by the outside world on the basis that I am, if not absolutely perfect, at least a lot better than most. So I worry, excessively, about the consequences of making mistakes, because making mistakes undermines the false premise on which I base my sense of self (those Chinese herbs really are something for clarifying the mind, aren't they?).

So, thinking about worrying and anxiety has been a very interesting and useful process for me, but the real test will be what I choose to do with my newly-found insights. I literally do not know what it feels like to not worry, but I have a feeling that I'm soon going to find out. . . .

Three Little Birds

2010-08-05T00:06:00.000-04:00

We have had some mockingbird activity in the bush beside our front door/stoop for a few weeks now. Over the weekend, my fiance and his son discovered a nest in the bush, and within the nest were three baby mockingbirds. This absolutely thrilled me! I viewed it as a good omen, partly because I think it is an honor when a member of the animal kingdom chooses to make its home and raise its young in such close proximity to one's own abode, and partly because it provided a linkage between my life and one of my favorite Bob Marley songs, "Three Little Birds." The chorus of that song -- "don't worry about a thing, because every little thing is gonna be alright" -- contains words that I really should take to heart a lot more often than I do.

Today, I discovered that the three little birds were not in their nest. However, the adult birds are still taking food (and maybe also building materials?) into the bush, and I thought that I still heard the voices of the babies emanating from within the bush. Is it possible that the parent birds moved the baby birds to a different, bigger nest? I know nothing about birds or how they raise their young, but I am hoping for the best. I'm hoping that my three little birds are OK, and that every little thing is gonna be alright for them, too.

You'll Never Walk Alone

2010-02-20T23:51:00.001-05:00

Fall, All of a Sudden

2009-08-31T21:02:00.000-04:00

Last year, at around this time, I had felt the coming of fall in early August and then waited on pins and needles for the autumn to settle in for good amid recurring lapses of hot of humid. Not this year. After a cool spring and summer, punctuated by about 3 weeks of blistering heat and humidity, fall, all of a sudden, is upon us. I really do think that perhaps it's here for real. All week it's supposed to be in the low to mid 70s during the day and the low 60s or high 50s or night. The leaves are rustling, the spirits in the dog walking graveyard are stirring, the air is clear and crisp, and the earth is cooling. Fall, all of an abrupt sudden, is upon us. Welcome, as always, my favorite season.

Death is a Form of Healing

2009-08-15T10:57:00.001-04:00

In previous posts, I have written about a family member who was seriously ill. That family member was my fiance's 21-year old daughther, Helen, who sadly lost her battle with leukemia on Friday, June 26, at 1:51 p.m. This was the latest, and saddest, of many deaths -- human and animal -- that have occurred within my circle this year. 2009 has somehow turned into the year of death. I will say, though, that this year has forever changed the way that I think about death.

My personal view of the universe is that death is inevitable for all that lives, and that everything that dies comes back around again in another form, so paradoxically souls don't ever really die, they just continually evolve. That's been my belief for a while, and that belief remains not only intact but also stronger than ever in light of recent events. When viewed through this lens, death is less scary and tragic than most people tend to see it, although it doesn't necessarily make things less painful when it's someone you love, or ultimately yourself, who's doing the dying. The things that I recently added to my view of death are these: that death is a form a healing, and that to be with someone when they die is one of life's highest honors and holds its own kind of beauty.

Right before Helen's leukemia returned and the doctors said there was no hope, she had been through a lengthy and life-threatening lung illness. She was hooked to a ventilator through a trach tube, and she weighed all of about 70 pounds. As a Iwatched her fight her lung troubles, I remember thinking, "I want to her to find peace, in whatever form that may take." Maybe because I equate peace with health, it occurred to me that death could be viewed as a form of healing. When no other means of healing proves up to the challenge, death provides body and soul with much-sought relief. Moreover, death is just one step on our soul's journey to find ultimate peace, so it can be viewed as healing in a cosmic, as well as an immediate, sense.

We found out on Monday, June 22, that Helen's leukemia had returned, and that peace to her would, indeed, come through death, likely within a matter of days, or at most weeks. This was a hard punch to the gut, because the previous month the doctors said that the stem cell transplant had worked and that almost all her bone marrow was the donor's, plus she was finally out of the woods on the lung ailment. Helen was alert and fully appreciated her situation, and although she could not talk because of her trach tube she could write, mouth words, and use sign language. We all had time with her that last week to say what needed to be said. Although it was difficult to watch one so young and so brave face her mortality, that last week with Helen was precious, sacred time.

Helen deteriorated rapidly after being moved from Johns Hopkins to the ICU of a hospital in her home town, according to her wish to die as close to home as possible (home care and even hospice care were out of the question due to the graveness of her condition). When the palliative care team suggested that the time to disconnect the ventilator had come on Friday morning, the whole family let Helen go willingly and lovingly, and we were all there with her when her soul finally passed away. Even through the grief and tears, it was a beautiful, powerful moment -- by far the most sacred moment I have yet experienced. I was incredibly honored to know Helen in life (and will write about how wonderful she was in a later post), and I was equally honored to be present when she departed this life.

I will say, as a final observation, that of everyone affected by Helen's death, she was the strongest and the most serene during that last week. By miles. I hope that for her death really was a form of healing, and that wherever she is now she has peace.

Photograph of Adrianne and Jacob at Congressional Cemetery, by Stewart Harris

Full Circle

2009-04-18T21:35:00.003-04:00

Today I had a full circle moment.

I love Rainer Maria Rilke, whom I discovered as a result of reading The Gold Puppy. The Rilke poem that started it all for me just happened to turn up in a book about religion that I'm reading at the moment. It still made me cry. The poem is this:

Gott spricht zu jedem nur, eh er ihn macht

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
Then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
Go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like flame
And make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

--Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy.

The Entertainer

2009-03-27T22:20:00.001-04:00

Tonight I left work relatively early (meaning 7:30 p.m.) and took the shepherds for a walk in their favorite dog-walking graveyard. On the drive back to the house I was channel surfing on XM and found myself actually stopping to listen to what was on channel 28 (which usually has elevator music). I flipped away, registered what I had been hearing, and then flipped back to listen to this--

This is beautiful guitar music, if you ask me. Chet Atkins could really play, and in a way that would have made J.S. Bach proud (in the sense that Chet could make one instrument sound like three or four). He's so good that I even forgive him for the truly awful '70s shirt. Listening to this put me in a mind of someone I loved who could match Chet Atkins even when he (my friend, that is) was having a bad day. Sammy, this one's for you.

15 Minutes of Fame

2009-03-20T22:38:00.002-04:00

(photo by Steven Crowley, NY Times)

This morning at the dog park I heard through the doggy grapevine that one of my dog-walking buddies claimied to have seen me in the paper. "Clearly he has mistaken me for someone else," I thought. Then when I arrived at work I saw the photo above. As fate would have it, I am the little bespectacled person beside Barney Frank at the center of the huddle in this photograph, which appeared "above the fold" on the front page of today's print edition of the New York Times. For the record, I am not a member of Congress, and we were not discussing tax law (despite claims to the contrary in the caption to this photo).

There also is a close-up of yours truly with Chairman Frank in the back pages of an article appearing in today's Washington Post. I don't think it's online anywhere (at least anywhere convenient), but those of you who get the print edition should check it out.

I suppose I should say for the sake of full disclosure that I had not even been introduced to Bah-ney when these photos were taken (a picture may be worth a thousand words, but sometimes it can still be wildly misleading).

Jeez, all of this after only two weeks on the job (but more about that in a later post).

Good News, at Last

2009-03-02T14:49:00.000-05:00

January and February were a very challenging for me, as I said goodbye to my first pet as an adult and our beloved vet within mere days of one another, feeling that I lost them both far sooner than was fair.

However, this past week, things began to look up in what I sincerely hope will be the start of a more positive trend. Last Tuesday, as I was getting ready to pick up Arthur's ashes from the vet's office (more about that in a later post), I got a call from the House Financial Services Committee saying that the staff director wanted to see me in person. It turns out that the reason she wanted to see me was to offer me a job. No one has ever offered me a job in person before, so I was very impressed and honored to receive this particular offer in that way. All the terms were right for me, so I accepted on the spot.

Some background will help put in perspective just how important this development is. Before I was a semi-retired Blogger, I was a bank regulatory lawyer for 11 years, most of which I spent at the Federal Reserve Board interpreting and writing banking regulations on a wide variety of topics. Although "the Fed" was an amazing place and I had a wonderful experience there, by 2007 I was feeling bored and restless. Late 2007 seemed like an opportune time for me to take a break from the work force altogether to recharge my batteries and focus on other things besides work for a change, and I was incredibly fortunate to be able to afford to make that choice.

When I left my job, I knew that I cared about banking law, but at the time I did not realize how much. In 2008, when the financial services sector started to go through turbulent times, it was very difficult for me to be on the sidelines because I thought that I really had some pretty good ideas, both about how to control the immediate crisis and about how to restructure things to make them run more smoothly, efficiently, and fairly going forward. During this time, I realized that I really do care very deeply about getting the right answer to the financial industry's problems, both at a broader policy level and when it comes to the details.

Congress now is in the position of looking at the entire financial services regulatory regime with an eye toward improving it overall for the longer term, so as I thought about my job hunt I focused there and interviewed with both the House Financial Services Committee and the Senate Banking Committee. Although I could make a lot more money at a law firm (if and when the firms go into hiring mode again), in terms of influencing bank regulatory policy there is no better place right now than Capitol Hill. This is an historic moment for Congress to do some real good in the world, and I am truly honored and humbled at the same time that I will have a chance to participate in that process. It should be an absolutely fascinating place to work for at least the next several years. I can honestly say that I have never been as excited about, or as thankful for, a job before in my 38 years.

This next phase of my working life begins next Monday, March 9. I'm not sure when or how often I'll have time to blog again after that, but we shall see.

Best Blog Thinker

2009-02-25T10:02:00.000-05:00

The wise and wonderful Val recently bestowed on me the Best Blog Thinker Award. In the words of the creator of the award--

"This award acknowledges the values that every Blogger displays in their effort to transmit cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values with each message they write. Awards like this have been created with the intention of promoting community among Bloggers. It`s a way to show appreciation and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web."

Wow - what an honor! Especially coming from Val, who has one of the best blogs going. I in turn would like to pass this award along to four others, as follows:

Merle Wayne Sneed, who often makes me laugh with his tales of Hooterville, sometimes makes me cry with his sad but tender tales of childhood, and always make me think.

Barry of An Explorer's View of Life, who tells stories of both the fiction and non-fiction varieties with such poignancy, lyricism, charm, and ease.

Willow of Life at Willow Manor, who enriches the blogosphere with thoughtful prose that is interwoven with lovely paintings, photographs, poetry, and music.

Aileen of Infinite Connections, who discusses a wide variety of topics with a wonderful combination of fearlessness, keen analysis, and good humor.

I of course would have chosen Val, Reya, and Geli, but they already have received the award from others.

Amazing Grace

2009-02-21T15:03:00.000-05:00

For me the past two weeks have been a time of great sorrow, and when confronted with sorrow I usually turn to music. Listening to Jessye Norman is a treat on any day, but listening to her sing Amazing Grace when you're ailing is hard to beat.

In Memory of Julie Giles

2009-02-19T12:54:00.000-05:00

The phone rang as I was making lunch this past Saturday, and I could see from the caller ID that it was my vet's office. I wasn't awaiting any test results or anything, so I was a bit perplexed as I answered. At the other end of the line was the vet clinic's senior veterinary technician who had worked with my long-time vet, Dr. Julie Giles, for many years.

I could tell as soon as I heard her voice that something was very wrong, and I had a sinking feeling that I knew what. I wished that time would stand still so that I would not have to hear the dreaded news, and I had already started to cry when I heard the words, "Julie left us." I pounded my kitchen counters with my fists and wept as I learned that Dr. Giles had died at home on Wednesday, Feb. 11. At some point I collected myself enough to say that I was so very sorry to hear this news and would be keeping the entire vet clinic staff in my thoughts over the coming weeks and months. My fiance had come into the kitchen as soon as he realized that I was distraught, and as I hung up I just collapsed into his arms, not believing that what I heard was true but at the same time knowing all too well that it was.

It might sound odd to react in such a way to the death of one's vet, but Julie Giles was no ordinary vet. I completely and immediately adored her from the very first time Arthur and I saw her at DuPont Vet Clinic in 1998, although I didn't immediately know why. As I got to know Dr. Giles better over the next 11 years as my pet ranks grew to 7 and as she opened and ran Union Vet Clinic on Capitol Hill, I began to feel a real bond with her. Early in our relationship, Julie and I discovered that we were from the same part of North Carolina, so we always had a hometown connection. But even more than that, Dr. Giles impressed me time and again with her intellect, intuition, effusiveness, sense of humor, free-flowing laughter, and profound kindness. And of course she was a damn fine vet. She kept many of my friends' pets alive well beyond their average life expectancies, and on more than one occasion she successfully diagnosed and treated conditions that other vets had missed. When Dr. Giles learned several years ago that she had multiple sclerosis, she greeted that news with courage, strength, and poise, thus deepening my admiration for her all the more.

Although my relationship with Julie Giles was strictly that of client-to-vet, I nonetheless could say without hesitation that I truly loved her, much as I would have loved a cool older sister had I been blessed to have one. Today's post over at The Gold Puppy deals with the mysteries of how human beings can bring out the best and worst in one another, and while reading that post I realized that part of why I loved Julie Giles so much was because whenever I was in her presence I could not help but feel happier and uplifted. It literally was impossible for me to be in the same room with her and not smile. She brought out the happy and fun sides of my personality that usually live well beneath the surface, and for that I will always be thankful to her.

I have spent enough hours in Union Vet Clinic and in conversation with other pet owners over the years to know that I am far from alone in my adoration of Dr. Giles. There are legions of pet owners on Capitol Hill who trusted their pets' care to Dr. Giles, had great affection for her as a person, and found themselves leaving her office happier than when they arrived. As the Capitol Hill neighborhood over the last week gradually learned of Dr. Giles's death, a sense of loss and grief descended on the entire community.

Julie Giles was a great light in the world during her time in it, and she will be deeply missed and mourned by those whose lives she touched. Although she will continue to live in the hearts and memories of those of us who knew her, the world will never be quite the same without the woman herself in it. I hope that you at last have found peace, dear Julie. We all shall miss you.

Some Thoughts about Death and Grief

2009-02-13T12:01:00.000-05:00

As my regular readers already know, Arthur the cat was diagnosed with incurable cancer last Thursday. By this Monday, it was clear that the medications intended to keep him out of pain were not working. After watching him decline steadily each day after his grim diagnosis, I knew that euthanizing him was unambiguously the right thing to do. When J and I took Arthur to the vet on Monday afternoon, I felt that we all three were ready for Arthur's suffering to end. I also felt that the knowledge that we were doing what was best would somehow make it easy to carry out our decision.

Well, it was not easy. I stayed with Arthur while the vet administered the drugs, first Valium to calm him a bit and then an overdose of anesthesia to permanently end his pain. I gave him one last kiss on the head, thanked him for 11 fine years, and wished him well on his journey while the vet did her thing, and by the time she finished the second injection he was gone. She checked with the stethoscope to make sure, but I knew he was gone. It is hard to explain how or why, but I was aware of the exact moment of his death. I just knew.

Although I have had a couple of experiences with pets and humans who clearly were in the process of dying, this was the first time that I was present at the moment when a soul actually crossed over. It was such a strange sensation to be in the presence of a creature who was alive one second and dead the next. After the vet hugged me and left the room, I finally allowed myself to cry freely as I kept uncontrollably stroking Arthur's body, which looked so much smaller without his animating spirit there any more. I wondered if his soul was still hanging around and watching from above, and maybe understanding the full depth of my love for him.

My grief for Arthur began the instant I knew he was gone, and it has not yet stopped. Although it seems silly in retrospect, I was somehow thinking that I would get to skip the grieving process because I knew that Arthur's death was for the best, but it does not work that way, does it? I found myself totally unable to intellectualize my way out of feeling depressed. One of the best things I did for myself this week -- on Tuesday morning when I woke up and realized that I was a hopeless wreck, all for the love of a dead cat -- was to stop trying to feel any differently and just be with the grief for a while. I know that these feelings will pass, as do all people, things, thoughts, and emotions, but while they want to be here I will not try to suppress them or make them go away.

I know I've said this more than once before, but I think that we humans really do ourselves a great disservice when we fear and seek to avoid death and when we try to escape from or otherwise deny the more difficult and painful human emotions that can be associated with it. It is an inescapable truth that everything that lives will one day die. In my experience at least, it also is an inescapable truth that suppressed emotions don't really go away, but rather in their unresolved states keep finding new and creative ways to torment us. In what must be the greatest of all paradoxes, it is in seeking to avoid death and pain that we bring ourselves greater pain and prevent ourselves from living fully while we are here.

It seems to me that acknowledging death and difficult emotions as an integral part of our human experience is a more honest and ultimately more peaceful approach to them, so I am going to grieve for Arthur the cat until I'm all grieved out. Right now I still miss my kitty, sometimes so much that I cry, but I know that it is OK (actually better than OK) to feel this way. Thank you, Arthur -- you taught me a lot, both in life and in death.

Rest in Peace

2009-02-09T17:01:00.000-05:00

Arthur Threatt

October 6, 1997-February 9, 2009

My kitty

Arthur

2009-02-06T11:17:00.000-05:00

I wind up posting about my doggies a lot, but today's post is devoted to one of my five cats (no, I am not a crazy cat lady - five cats is what happens when two cat lovers combine households).

This picture is of me with Arthur, who is the first pet that I acquired after I starting living on my own. I'll never forget the night in January 1998 when one of my law school pals called me and said, "Hey, do you want a cute 3-month-old black kitten? I have one sitting on my lap right now who needs a home." My friend and her housemates on Capitol Hill had taken in a mama cat who had given birth to five kittens, and this one was the last to need a home. I'd been wanting a cat of my own for a while - I'd been living on my own without one for five years - and it was right around my birthday, so figured that there was no harm in at least going to look at my friend's kitten. But before I did that, I went to PetSmart to get a cat carrier, kitten food (wet and dry), food and water bowls, a litter box, kitty litter, and a scoop - not that I had already made up my mind or anything. . . .

I lived downtown at the time, so I drove up to Capitol Hill on an icy night to look at the little black kitty, and he stole my heart immediately. His mama cat, Ebony, clearly was not pleased when she realized that I was taking her last baby, so my glee was mixed with guilt as I left my friend's home and drove toward my own. When I finally got back to my apartment and saw this little bundle of shiny black-coated, kitteny joy romping around my apartment, I forgot the guilt and experienced unadulterated happiness. I called my mother to tell her I'd actually gone through with the adoption, and we discussed some potential names. I wanted a real boy name but not something on the top-10 baby names list. At some point my mother said, "What about Arthur?" "Hmmm. Arthur. That's pretty good," I said, at which point the little kitty looked at me. So I stuck with Arthur as his name. (Although I didn't know it at the time, this was the beginning of an "old Jewish man" naming theme for all of my subsequent pets).

Arthur was sweet as a kitten but he also was hell on wheels. He climbed the draperies from top to bottom, shredded the couch, and for a while liked to pounce all over me when I slept. Luckily, for us both, I let him live through kittenhood and he turned into a pretty mellow young cat, but as he got older he decided he didn't really like any humans other than me. All guests to my apartment, and later my house when I moved to Arthur's home turf of Capitol Hill, received a mandatory "Arthur warning" upon entering. "He will come up to you and rub against your leg like you're his best friend, but no matter how strong the temptation DO NOT PET HIM!!! As soon as you reach your arm toward him HE WILL SHRED YOU!!!" Most people quite sensibly gave him a wide berth after a warning like that, but some of my hard-core cat loving friends just could not help themselves. The most notable of these was my friend HSA, who actively invited Arthur to shred her and took to calling him "the shiny wicked guy." "Shiny and wicked" was a description that stuck (it sounded better than Darth Vader, which was what I tended to call him when he got in one of his moods), and I still describe him as such today. He is one handsome shiny black dude, even though he can still be wicked at times.

I think that Mr. Shiny and Wicked probably delayed J's decision to move in with me, in part out of fear for his own safety and in part out of fear of what might happen to his two cats. I promised J that all the cats eventually would work things out just fine, although there probably would be a period of fur-flying and weird yowling sounds, and I argued strenuously that J would be safe if he became The Food Guy. The cats integrated far more quickly and peaceably than my fondest hopes, and after a few weeks of being The Food Guy, J no longer walked half way around a room to avoid Arthur. After a few months of being The Food Guy, J actually made friends with Arthur. But Arthur continued to have dominion over all the other cats, and the dogs, too, for that matter. OK, I admit it, Arthur is the alpha-creature of the entire house, even the humans, although he lets us keep our blood in our own veins because he realizes that we are his devoted servants.

Arthur is now nearly 11.5, and J and I have noticed that he has been slowing down a bit over the past couple months. Two weeks ago he was leaving us evidence of pretty bad urinary tract distress, so we took him to the vet and got meds for that. Although Arthur stopped leaving the evidence after he finished the meds, this Tuesday and Wednesday a.m. he didn't eat much and he walked around our house extremely slowly looking like he was stoned. I was worried that he had a UT blockage and so took him to our usual vet first thing on Wednesday a.m. on an emergency basis. He was not blocked, but an x-dray showed fluid in his abdominal cavity, which was evidence of a much bigger kind of problem. We spent half the day yesterday at South Paws Veterinary Referral Center (a very impressive place) seeing an internal medicine specialist to try to find out what was going on.

It turns out that Arthur has cancerous tumors throughout his entire abdominal cavity, including in his bladder (which explains why he was leaving us all the scary UT evidence). It obviously is too late for a cure or even a life-prolonging treatment, so we are giving him prednisone and subcutaneous fluids to see if that will at least bring him some comfort for whatever time he naturally has left. The vet said that some cats do really well with this kind of palliative care and get a few more quality months, while for others it does not work at all. J and I now are in the unenviable position of monitoring Arthur carefully to determine when enough is enough -- although I will miss Arthur terribly when he goes, I don't want him to suffer needlessly for even one minute for the sole point of delaying my own grief.

This morning Arthur ate fairly well and moved around OK - slowly, but without any evidence of pain - and he seems to be hanging out comfortably with the other cats. He's staked out one of the dining room chairs as his safe spot, and Thomas, who was my second cat and is Arthur's best cat pal, will not leave Arthur's side and has taken up residence in the adjacent chair. The other cats, and even the dogs, are hanging around the dining room a lot, too. They all know. In fact, I think that Jacob the dog has known for a while -- he and Arthur have traditionally been neutral toward one another, but about six weeks ago Jacob started going up to Arthur on a daily basis to sniff and lick him. I thought it was sweet, but a bit odd, when I first observed it, but in retrospect I think that was Jacob's way of acknowledging Arthur's condition and starting to take care of him.

Now we're all taking special care of Mr. Arthur and will continue to do so for as long as we can keep him comfortable, and we are preparing ourselves for the inevitable day when that will no longer be possible. Last year, as I watched several of my friends lose their beloved pets, I thought to myself how lucky I was that my oldest cat was only 11 and should have lots more time. Shows you what I knew. These last three days have been a stark reminder for me of how unpredictable and tenuous life is and of how little I really control. I suppose that if there is a bright side to this situation, perhaps it is receiving a reminder of some of life's inevitable truths.

New Look

2009-01-26T13:53:00.001-05:00

(Sunrise over the Atlantic -- Duck, NC -- August 2008)

I couldn't figure out what to write about today -- I have too many thoughts rattling around in my mind right now to focus on and write about only one. So, instead of regaling you with my philosophical prowess, I instead am changing the look of my blog for the first time since I started blogging last fall. Comments of course are welcome, as always.

Fanfare for the Common Man

2009-01-23T12:07:00.000-05:00

As the week of pomp and official celebration winds down and the day-to-day work that will be required to heal and improve our nation begins, this musical composition seems particularly significant and inspiring to me. Perhaps it will resonate with you, too.

The Journey Ahead

2009-01-21T13:22:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, for the first time in my 38-year-old life, someone who I believe to be worthy of the office in all respects became President of the United States. As a group, Americans time and again have displayed an almost uncanny inability to choose a decent president, but I honestly believe that we got this one right.

Although I have been an Obama fan for some time now, my confidence that he is the right person to be our president at this moment in history grew even stronger as I listened to his inaugural address. The first thing that he did as president was to tell the American people, gently but firmly, that we need to grow up. And he is right about that.

His version of "growing up" would involve each of us doing many things that may well have become unfamiliar -- things like choosing cooperation, both in our political landscape and our daily lives, instead of continually dividing ourselves out of fear, anger, and pride; choosing to seek enduring solutions to our personal and collective challenges, instead of searching for the fast yet fleeting "quick fix" that ultimately fixes nothing; choosing the true strength that comes from recognizing, and doing, what is right and just, instead of the pseudo-strength that comes from answering every challenge with arms and hubris; choosing to believe that our preservation and prosperity depend on the preservation and prosperity of others, instead of believing that only we matter in a zero-sum game; and choosing an overall attitude of goodness and hope, instead of maintaining a mindset in which bitterness and cynicism are the norm.

I think that Americans, individually and collectively, basically are good people who want to do good things. However, I think that we somehow have equated goodness with weakness in our collective mindset, and as a result we have adopted a kick-ass, me-first, us-versus-them attitude to convince ourselves and others (but mostly ourselves) of our strength. Our 44th president was telling us yesterday, I think much to our collective relief, that our goodness-equals-weakness premise is a wrongheaded one. He was telling us that we can be, and if we hope to remain a great country indeed we must be, good and strong simultaneously. That's what I think he ultimately means when he talks about "responsibility."

Yesterday, President Obama offered to guide this nation on a journey to discover, or maybe simply uncover, our greatest selves. Having finally elected someone who is willing and able to undertake this task, hopefully we will have the good sense to go along with him for the ride.

What's the Opposite of Christmas in July?

2009-01-12T09:32:00.000-05:00

(I'm on vacation!)

So, what is the opposite of Christmas in July? Why, a beach vacation in January, of course! I've been wanting to post these pictures of Jacob the "golden shepherd" and Amos the smooth collie mix for some time, but I only recently got electronic access to them. For those of you who, like me, are trying to find ways to endure the cold, I hope that these will warm you up. All photos were taken by my fiance J, who has a way with a camera, during our trip to the Outer Banks last August.

(Wave? What wave?)

BBFE-JWP ("best butt fluff ever-John Wayne Pose")

(I am happy)

(Very, very happy!)

(Hey, do you think they'd let me drive that dune buggy? Collies are excellent drivers!)

(Little Amos and the great big sea)

(I caught a sand crab. What did you catch?)

(We're not up to anything; we swear!)

(Ha ha -- you guys fell for that? Of course we were up to something!)

(Wow, that girl lab sure is pretty! And look at how she swims!)

(The answer to your question yes -- I am always this good looking)

(See, really, I am -- even with sand on my nose)

(Wow - what a fun day!)

Amos and Jacob say that they had an excellent time at the beach, and they hope that you had fun looking at their pictures.

An Interview with the Manor Lady

2009-01-11T12:23:00.001-05:00

("Watching the Flock," by Allan Houser)

Recently, Willow of Life at Willow Manor posted her interview with Steph of The Incurable Insomniac and offered in turn to interview those of her bloggy friends who were game. I volunteered for an interview, and Willow sent me five interview questions, which I answer below. If you would like for me to interview you, please follow the instructions at the end of the post.

1. What is your most marked characteristic? Inquisitiveness -- and I mean that in the generally-interested-and-curious sense, not in the prying-where-I-have-no business sense. I am intellectually curious about a wide range of topics, and when I have a question relating to one of those topics I must know the answer. I simply must. I am a seeker of truth. Questioning, analyzing, and learning are what make me tick.

2. What living person would you most like to meet, and why? I would most like to meet the Dalai Lama. A large part of my curiosity is focused on spiritual matters, and the Dalai Lama seems to me to be the most spiritual, reasonable, understanding, humble, and, well, inquisitive, of all those who are labeled "spiritual leaders" these days. I think that his brand of inquisitiveness is much purer than my own, though; by that I mean that ego and a propensity to judge others harshly do not appear to enter into his calculations, as they unfortunately sometimes do with mine. I can think of no one with whom I could have a more interesting and enjoyable spiritual discussion than with the Dalai Lama, and I also am curious about what it feels like to be in the same space with him. My guess is that he exudes a peaceful calm and an unshakable strength all at once, and I would love to find out if that hunch is correct (there's that inquisitive thing again)!

3. Apart from your loved ones, what is your most treasured possession? The sculpture that I use in my profile photo, which appears in a larger version at the top of this post. I had never heard of Allan Houser, who was an Apache Indian and famous sculptor, before I accompanied J when he went on a business trip to Santa Fe last year (our best trip together so far). However, when I walked into the Allan Houser Gallery in downtown Santa Fe and saw the distinctive style of the sculptures displayed there, I instantly realized that I had previously seen Houser's work in art museums in DC and NYC. I was drawn to "Watching the Flock" immediately -- the shepherd looked so wise and peaceful and content, and his dog looked just like my dog Amos -- but it was waaaaay outside my price range. The only sculpture I could reasonably afford was an abstract sculpture of an owl that fit very neatly inside the palm of my hand, but even that was pushing the budget. I left the gallery empty-handed, but I couldn't stop thinking about what I had seen there. The day before we returned home, I convinced J to go back to the gallery, at which point I fully intended to purchase the owl. But that serene shepherd and his dog kept calling my name. J could see that I was getting weak. So could the saleslady, who offered a reduced price that was still far more than I "should" have had any business spending. At that point, J, who is know for his parsimony, looked at me and said, "If you actually buy that, I will not sit beside you on the plane on the way home." But I thought to myself, and eventually said aloud, "This is art, this piece is asking me to give it a home (it has one of my dogs in it, for heaven's sake!), and if I don't do just that I know in my bones that I will regret it for a long time to come." So, I bought the shepherd and his dog, and J nearly shocked the life out of me when he decided to buy the owl in a show of art-appreciating solidarity. Watching the Flock therefore is an important, symbolic possession to me for many reasons. I have never once regretted the splurge.

4. What is your motto? Generally speaking, I find life far too complicated to be summed up in a motto-esque kind of way, so consequently I have never had a personal motto. When it comes to mottos more generally, the only one that's ever really moved me much is the motto of the Moravian Church in which I was raised -- "In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; and in all things, love." I like this motto because it encapsulates what I believe to be a sound philosophy not only for approaching religion but also for approaching life more generally. Seems to me that the world would be a better place if more people put that kind of philosophy into practice.

5. Before blogging, what, if any, was your main mode of personal expression? The work in progress known as my house. I've spent many an hour choosing paint colors, painting, renovating the bathrooms and kitchen (or more accurately overseeing renovations done by others pursuant to my specifications), choosing and placing furniture, and finding the perfect spot for each of the various works of art that has chosen me over the years. When J moved in, I got to integrate the possessions of two people with very different taste, which was challenging but fun. Although I've always loved to write, almost all of my writing prior to blogging was job-related. I wrote new regulations, amended existing regulations, drafted Federal Register notices for all those amendments, and wrote lots of legal memoranda. Although I enjoyed most of this writing, I thought of it as more of an expression of my analytical side rather than my creative side. Blogging has been a real blessing to me, because it has given me a creative outlet that involves using my beloved written word. For that, I must thank my dear friend over at The Gold Puppy for convincing me to venture into the blogosphere. I know it took a while. I'm so glad that you were persistent!

In conclusion, many thanks to Willow for sending me these questions. It has been a pleasure to answer them. Now, if any of you out there would like for me to interview you, just follow these instructions (remembering to send me your e-mail address if I don't already have it or if it is not listed on your Blogger profile page), and I will be happy to oblige:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. (I get to pick the
questions).

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview
someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask
them five questions.

Check Out My New Bookshelf

2009-01-08T11:32:00.001-05:00

I have noticed during my first few months in the blogosphere that many of my fellow bloggers have bookshelves that display their current reading lists or random books from their libraries. Today, even though I am notorious for being a Luddite, I decided to attempt adding a bookshelf to my little blog. Lo and behold it worked! So, please feel free to scroll down past my blog roll and check out my new bookshelf, which contains a mixture of books I am currently reading, books I have recently read, and some of my all-time favorites. I still have not figured out how to make my bookshelf look exactly the way I'd like, but hopefully I will solve that problem in the very near future. In the meantime, browse a little and let me know what you think. Happy reading!

Quote of the Day

2009-01-06T14:14:00.001-05:00

(Original columns of the U.S. Capitol, now displayed at the National Arboretum, Washington, D.C.)

The management of my neighborhood gym each day posts a "quote of the day" above each of the water fountains. I've been reading these quotes several times a week for several years, and they range from kinda sorta OK to breathtaking. Here's the quote that hung above the water fountains this morning:

"It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society."
-- Jiddu Krishnamurti

I wonder if he is talking about--

a society in which money and power are valued more than the nourishment of mind, body, and spirit;

a society in which most people look outside themselves instead of within for validation and fulfillment;

a society in which, in pursuit of money, power, and validation, people deprive themselves of sleep and eat "convenience" foods loaded with hydrogenated fat, high-fructose corn syrup, and sodium (which constitute the bulk of the average inventory of an average grocery store);

a society in which technology has gotten so good and become so pervasive that everybody wants everything now and few people know how to prioritize or, perish the thought, set limits concerning what they can or intend to do;

a society in which, on the one hand, acceptable "entertainment" consists heavily of stories that glorify crime and graphic violence, usually involving guns, and on the other hand people wonder why crime is such a problem in real life;

a society that kills people for the most serious crimes, even though by its own laws killing is forbidden and its process for assigning guilt is admittedly imperfect;

a society in which, in the name of God, people divide themselves into groups that frequently insult, and sometimes even physically harm, one another;

a society in which many people have forgotten that mind, body, and spirit are connected; doctors tend to treat the part instead of the whole, the symptom instead of the root; and people always seem to be ailing with something;

a society in which many people will do almost anything to numb or otherwise mask any sensation or emotion that is not labeled "happiness" (take a look at the size of the pain-killer aisle at the drug store and/or the lack of unoccupied seats at your favorite bar if you don't believe me);

a society in which humans have polluted the earth, perhaps irreparably in the short term (i.e., a period that is easily conceivable by humans, as opposed to a period relative to the overall age of the earth) so that most of us can go anywhere we want, whenever we want, and do whatever we want once we get there;

a society in which we view all the items above as signs of "progress," even though people are suffering and dying from things like cancer and heart disease at much higher rates than in the past, and in which we now are susceptible to all manner of diseases that weren't observed at all 100 years ago;

a society in which so many people, both rich and poor, are bereft of spirit and overall health?

Does that kind of society sound familiar to anyone out there?

It is possible that the ongoing financial troubles, especially if they worsen, will more deeply entrench the kind of society described above, as people find ways to lay blame for their misfortunes and commit themselves to regaining all the money and possessions they have lost. On the other hand, it is possible that a long economic recession, or possibly even depression, will bring the members of such a society back to themselves, so that they see more clearly what is true, important, and good, both for themselves and their fellow citizens. If the economic downturn does the latter, it will have done us all a great service, in my opinion.

Regardless of one's personal financial condition or the overall fate of the US and world economies over the coming months and years, one always is free to choose which, if any, of the "sick" societal norms one wishes to believe and follow. Choice is a powerful thing, and it always is available. Always. How many things can you say that about? Go forth and choose wisely, my blog friends.

Some Dogs Will Do Anything for More Cookies

2009-01-04T14:56:00.000-05:00

J's brother and sister-in-law and their dog, Sassie Sue, are fond of baking and decorating dog cookies to send to our dogs, Jacob and Amos. Last night, J discovered that our boys apparently will stop at nothing, even if it includes temporarily fraternizing with a cat, to coax our relatives who bake into sending more cookies their way.

Amos and Jacob apparently took, and added captions to, the two photos below. They then sent these photos to "Santa T" (aka J's brother) in an e-mail in which Amos pleaded for help and more home-baked cookies.

Although I find this behavior to be shameless in the extreme, I must admit that it is not bad work for a couple of creatures who lack opposable thumbs. I take this as further evidence that herding dogs really are the smartest dogs.

(Jacob pretending to be held hostage by Lincoln)

(Amos wearing the most pitiful look I've seen since the day I chose him at the animal shelter)

A New Year's Resolution to Keep

2009-01-01T13:26:00.000-05:00

(Jefferson Building, Library of Congress)

I always have had trouble with New Year's resolutions. They always seem to involve doing something painful -- either giving up something pleasurable, like food (or some subset thereof) or wine, or committing to do something that one hates, like jog even though one has rickety knees. Most traditional resolutions also seem to involve setting up some kind of rule that one intends to follow rigidly. Although I think that rules have their place -- I am a lawyer, after all (and a Capricorn!) -- I also think that the resolution-type rules usually involve trying to impose rigidity where flexibility would be better suited.

Resolutions like those described above are not -- at least not for me -- easily sustainable over the long term. In fact, they seem downright destined for failure from the get-go. I think that I have known this for a pretty long while now, at least subconsciously, which probably is why I gave up the typical New Year's resolution charade many years ago. Most New Years Days in recent memory, I have found myself resolving not to make any resolutions. But that seems defeatist in a different kind of way, doesn't it? Surely, there must be a better way.

I've been thinking for a while now about what that better way might be. Since Christmas, that topic has constantly consumed my thoughts. Here is what I decided: this year, my resolution is to cultivate the principle of mindfulness when it comes to my thoughts and behaviors. I am going to identify ingrained thought patterns (including but not limited to things like "this is just how I am" and "I can't do that") and examine them for their truth or lack thereof. When I sit down to eat and drink and when I go out to exercise, I am not going to give myself hard-and-fast rules or weight loss goals of any sort; instead, I am going to ask my body what it really needs and wants at the moment. When I am about to speak or act in a way that directly affects another sentient being, I am first going to ask myself whether my intended words or actions comport with how, when I am at my kindest and most patient, I think that other beings ideally should be treated. My intention is to take the information that is gleaned from paying attention in this manner and use it to make more positive, compassionate choices concerning my thoughts and behaviors.

To me, putting this kind of truth-seeking and positive mindset into more regular use makes a lot more sense than "resolving" to lose 15 pounds by giving up wine and carbs and jogging with bad knees. But that's just me. . . .

A Merry Christmas, Indeed

2008-12-29T11:08:00.000-05:00

I historically have thought of Christmas as a time of angst and tension -- as something to be gotten through rather than enjoyed. However, in keeping with my relatively recent commitment to renounce struggle as a way of life, I decided that this year would be different. "The holidays don't actually have to suck; this year I'm choosing to see them as good and fun," I told myself. And I meant it. And it worked!

Last Thursday was spent cooking for and spending time with most of my somewhat unorthodox, but completely lovely, family circle: my fiance's three children, my fiance, his ex-wife, her boyfriend, and his mother. It was just the eight of us, and I think that a good time was had by all. My parents and brother were in NC for the holiday, and I missed them very much (this is only the second Christmas that we have not spent together), but I had a nice chat with all of them and felt that we were together in spirit.

This Christmas for me was about thanksgiving more than anything; in fact, my urge to say "thank you" to the powers that be was even stronger on Christmas Day than it was on Thanksgiving. One of our family members who had been in the hospital for several weeks was released the Tuesday before Christmas and was able to join the family celebration on Christmas Day. This was, for all of us I believe, the very best Christmas present imaginable. The oldest one of our ranks had been through a serious illness earlier in the year, but she made a recovery and was in fine form on Christmas Day, which was another wonderful blessing.

It may sound trite, but there really is no greater gift than having your loved ones alive and well and spending a very happy and convivial day together with them, is there? Gifts purchased at the mall or over the Internet, while good in their own way, pale in comparison to having a good time with people you love.

Thank you, thank you, for letting us have such a wonderful Christmas this year. May all the joy and well-being of that day remain with us as we head into 2009.

O, Helga Natt

2008-12-24T10:26:00.000-05:00

As those who know me well can attest, I'm neither a Father/Son/Holy Ghost believer nor a fan of the schlocky Christmas music that all the restaurants and retail stores insist on playing from Halloween to New Years. I also am not a big fan of the tenor voice and generally would much prefer to hear a good bass-baritone. However, this version of "O, Holy Night," sung in Swedish by the late Swedish tenor Jussi Bjorling, is a piece of Christmas music to which I can happily listen over and over again. Hearing this particular version of this lovely tune makes me think that maybe there is something holy about this night after all, although I might disagree with my Christian friends about the source of that divine nature. Even if you're not a fan of Christmas, Christmas music, or operatic voices, I suggest that you give this one a boy scout try. Merry Christmas to all my blog friends!

P.S. The last time that I posted a Jussi Bjorling song, I didn't blog again for a month. This time, however, I plan to return to the blogosphere in a few days!

'Tis the Season

2008-12-19T09:42:00.000-05:00

As promised, here are some pictures of our Christmas decorations.

(Almost the whole tree)

(The whole tree)

(Crystal star)

(Another crystal star)

(Three favorites)

(An ornament from my grandmother)

(Yet another crystal star and a blue glass ornament from LR)

(A Purple Heart, of a different sort)

(A blurry view from across the street)

(A clear view from across the street - check

out Jacob's glowing eyeballs in the upper left)

(A very blurry view from across the street -

artistic, don't you think?)

(Lincoln the cat, who needed to take a nap after "reading"

Black's Law Dictionary)

Roof Update

2008-12-16T11:35:00.000-05:00

After finishing my last post, I called three roofers and left messages. P, who owns a small roofing company in my neighborhood, called me back within half an hour, was at my house about 10 minutes after we spoke, and had the leaky spot (as well as a couple other spots that looked sketchy) patched up about 15 minutes after that. Today it rained, and the patch seems to be holding.

One interesting thing that P said was that the leaky spot looked like a recent and deliberately made hole. I say that this is interesting because a kind of bizarre handyman who's doing work for some of my neighbors offered to clean my gutters the week before the leak made itself known. He seemed a little off to me, but he was working for two of my neighbors and his fee seemed pretty cheap, so I told him to go ahead with the gutters and also asked him to assess the overall condition of the roof while he was up there. He said that I needed $7,000 worth of roof work, which he said that he would be happy to do for $3500. He said that I needed the work to be done immediately or "water was gonna come bustin' through." He tried to pressure me into hiring him on the spot by lowering his price to $2500 and repeating his dire prediction, but I said no, that I needed to get some other opinions and estimates before I shelled out that kind of dough. He said that roofers were not trustworthy and did not know what they were doing and then lowered his price to $2000. Needless to say, my initial instinct about this guy kept getting stronger, and I was beginning to regret even the gutter transaction.

Well, the next time it rained, the water indeed came "bustin' through" what P said was a small hole that appeared to be deliberately made with something about the size of the blunt end of a nail. Hmmmm. J and I, who both are conspiracy theorists at heart, had been wondering to ourselves, as we rigged our bucket solution, if the bizarre gutter cleaner perhaps had taken steps to ensure that water did in fact bust through. P's statement makes us think that maybe our conspiracy theory was not so far off base after all. One day, maybe, I will learn to trust my gut and not hire people who seem shady, even if they do offer to clean the gutters for cheap.

P did agree with the shady guy that I need quite a bit of routine maintenance on my old flat tin roof (scraping and painting, plus one gutter needs to be either repaired or replaced), but I will have to wait for a 2- or 3-day stretch of weather that is both dry and above 40 degrees F for that. That probably won't be until spring, which is fine because it gives me some time to get a couple more estimates (although I really liked the guy who came out last week). P guarantees his patches in the mean time. I should mention that P's estimate for the maintenance work just arrived, and it is less than the shady guy's lowest bid.

OK, enough talk about leaking roofs and conspiracy theories. Next up: pictures of the house, which we finally decorated for Christmas this weekend.

Listening to the Rhythm of the Falling Rain. . .in a Whole New Way!

2008-12-12T11:12:00.000-05:00

I love rain. I especially love sitting in my upstairs den and listening to the rain hit the skylight and echo in the chimney as I sit by a nice warm fire, ideally with J and the dogs nearby. That is exactly what I was doing last night when, from my perch on the couch with Amos the dog, I started to hear yet another rhythmic sound. It didn't take long for the origin of this new sound to occur to me.

"Uh oh," I said to J, who was finally getting around to writing a new post for his blog.

"What do you mean, 'uh oh?,'" J replied.

"I mean this," said I, as I pointed to the ceiling, which looked like this. . .

. . . except that last night there was water dripping through the seam that had just opened up (toward the bottom of the photograph, between the water stain and the attic hatch). The water hitting the marble-top table just underneath that seam was the new rhythm of the falling rain that I had just discerned, much to my disappointment.

J and I, both being resourceful individuals, quickly located and brought upstairs a ladder and a bucket, and J was able to place the bucket under the leak, which luckily was reachable through our small attic space. Our solution looked like this:

Eventually the drip through the den ceiling subsided, as J and I enjoyed the rest of our evening by the fire secure in the knowledge that we had done everything within our power at 9:30 p.m. on a Thursday to contain the leak. Eventually we went to bed, listening to the non-stop pouring rain and hoping that our little blue bucket would be large enough to contain the overnight leakage.

Seeing my attic for the first time in many years inspired quite an exciting dream last night. I dreamt that, unbeknownst to me, I had a whole top story consisting of two bedrooms, a bathroom, and small kitchenette area. To top that all off, there was a door at the back of the third story that opened outdoors onto a staircase leading to a grassy backyard, complete with a garage! The newly found elements of my property were in pretty rough shape, and there was a squatter living in the attic who I had to toss, gently but firmly. (And to think -- all this time I thought that all that bustling I continually hear overhead was just squirrels!) Just as I was contemplating big plans for my newly-discovered third story (can you say mega master suite?) and reveling in the fact that I had a decent-sized yard with off-street parking (in real life, of course, I have neither), I awoke to the sound of Lincoln the cat throwing up on the bedroom floor.

After we (in this case really meaning J) had dealt with the cat mess, J and I were thrilled to discover that the bucket indeed had provided sufficient damage control overnight. However, I must confess that I was crestfallen to find that the attic still looked like this. . .

. . . instead of the spacious fixer-upper of my dreams. I pretty much figured it would still just be the same old meager attic that I had seen the night before, but you can't blame a girl for checking to make sure, can you?

Now I'm off to call an assortment of Capitol Hill roofers. Wish me luck, and sunny skies, until some roofer can find time to show up and hopefully provide a better fix than the blue bucket.

Thank you and Farewell to the Sock Puppet Woman

2008-12-10T15:38:00.000-05:00

Today I said thank you and farewell to the Sock Puppet Woman.

A convergence of several events and revelations over the last two days got me worked up into an incredible snit on this topic, which in turn brought me back what I believe to be some universal truths, which in turn brought me to a place of peace. The whole story is a long one, even by my standards, and a couple parts of it would risk revealing the SPW's true identity. I therefore cannot in good faith tell all (it is at moments like these that I wish I had chosen to blog anonymously -- sigh, sigh), but I will tell some.

The part of this story that allowed all the other important pieces (including all the insights contained in the comments on my initial SPW post) to click together and present a solution was my walk around the cemetery this morning with one of my favorite dog-walking Bodhisattvas. She reminded me of some things that I have believed for a while now, namely that all human beings are connected to one another (whether or not we like or recognize it, we are all one), and the peskiest bugaboos that we have with one another present us with the most powerful opportunities to learn and heal. "When you think of this person, hold her dearly in your heart, knowing that you are essentially the same, and say 'thank you, Precious Teacher,'" said the wise and wonderful Xine. That, combined with my long-standing suspicion that a large part of why I have trouble with the SPW is because she reminds me a great deal of myself in certain respects, somehow allowed all that venom that had been gnawing away my solar plexus to drift away. I felt incredibly light and at peace as feelings of compassion for a fellow human being who is worthy of happiness and respect filled the space that the venom had just left.

When I got home from the dog-walking cemetery, I reached out to this particular Precious Teacher as a person instead of a sock puppet. It is possible that this action may pave the way for a new and genuine friendship -- wouldn't *that* be something -- depending on if and how she responds. I think it is entirely possible that I could learn as much from this person, as a person, as I learned from her in her guise as the SPW, and I also think that perhaps she could learn a thing or two from me. Regardless of the response I get (or lack thereof), just knowing that I am able now to reach out to this person with a kind and open heart makes me feel a whole lot better.

So, thank you and farewell Sock Puppet Woman; hello Precious Teacher and, I hope, Friend. Although I don't know what on earth I'm going to do with all the time and energy that this recent development frees up! Maybe I'll finally get back to work on that novel. . . . (: )

Rest in Peace

2008-12-08T10:54:00.000-05:00

(Congressional Cemetery at Dawn -- 12/07/08)

I went back to the Mexican/Salvadoran restaurant last night, and the waiters told me that the man who collapsed on Saturday night had died. The cops stopped by the restaurant later Saturday night to inform the wait staff of this outcome and interview them for details. Apparently no one knows who the guy is yet. Whoever he is, or was, may he rest in peace -- it sounds as if his life was a hard one, and his exit certainly wasn't pretty.

When I was in the restaurant last night, I reflected back on the experience of Saturday night and some interesting things came to mind. The first has to do with the book I am currently reading, Many Lives, Many Masters, by Brian Weiss. One friend loaned me this book a while ago after a discussion we had at the dog-walking graveyard about reincarnation, and another friend's theory that the Sock Puppet Woman situation has to do with past-life karma inspired me to read it. The book is about an Ivy League psychiatrist (he makes a point of flaunting his "certified smart" credentials to deflect those would tend to dismiss his story as completely crazy) who decided as a last-ditch attempt to hypnotize a patient who had not improved despite 18 months of traditional therapy -- he hoped that during the hypnosis he could regress her back to her childhood and uncover some traumatic event(s) that would shed light on her current problems. Over time, Weiss concluded that when his patient was hypnotized she not only remembered her childhood in this life but also remembered past lives. At first he was very skeptical about the past-life thing (he is a serious Ivy League doctor and scientist, remember!), but after several regressions in which the woman produced very intricate details concerning times and places about which she consciously knew nothing, Dr. Weiss started to give some credence to the past-life idea. Anyway, just before the man collapsed on Saturday night, I was reading the part of Weiss's book in which he described how his patient's hypnotic memories of "passing over" into the spiritual state between her human lifetimes were virtually identical to the typical description of a near-death experience -- floating above the dying body, ceasing to feel the physical pain of death, and approaching a white light, e.g. I thought it was interesting, maybe even a little spooky, that I was reading about that topic literally minutes before seeing someone closely approach his death.

Another thing that I thought was interesting (this will be shorter than the last point, I promise) was that almost immediately after the paramedics carried the man out to the ambulance and the wait staff cleared away all the mess associated with the man's collapse and the efforts to resuscitate him, other customers started to stream steadily through the door, just like any other Saturday night. This I found interesting on two fronts: (1) it was such a clear example of how life, as they say, indeed does go on when souls leave its plane, and (2) it made me think that I was the only non-wait staff (or family-member-of-wait staff) customer during the traumatic episode for a reason, because by the time I left the place was pretty busy.

In conclusion, I would like to say a big "thank you" to all of you who have commented on the last two posts, both of which deal with uncomfortable situations -- your insights and support have been very helpful -- and I also would like to clarify how I feel about the relationship between the Sock Puppet Woman and watching the man die. A couple of you yesterday opined that the tenuousness of life was precisely why the SPW should be viewed as important for all the lessons and insights that she offers, rather than "silly," which was the word that I used when contrasting the two situations. I actually agree with that point and think that "silly" was an unfortunate choice of adjective on my part. What I meant to convey was the sense that the SPW, although of deep importance to me here in this life for the reasons the two commenters identified, is, like everything else in this life, an impermanent phenomenon. Even if reincarnation really is how it works and my situation with Ellie indeed is a karmic thing, that karma either will be resolved in this life or get carried over in some form to the next. But this iteration of it that resides within my current being is just as ephemeral as everything else. So, it would have been more accurate for me to have said yesterday that watching a guy die brought home to me that the SPW situation is, like life itself, not solid. Or something like that.

Life and Death

2008-12-07T10:36:00.002-05:00

(Sunrise over Congressional Cemetery -- 12/07/08)

Last night I had an early dinner at one of my favorite Capitol Hill restaurants. Just as I was finishing my food, another diner starting spitting up and struggling for breath. Shortly thereafter, he was unconscious. The wait staff thought that he was choking, so they simultaneously called 911 and began the Heimlich maneuver. I put one comforting hand on the man's back and another on the shoulder of E, the restaurant owner -- I've known E for years and could tell that he was trying hard not to panic.

The Heimlich attempts were to no avail, but the DC Fire Department paramedics arrived within about 2 minutes of the 911 call. They hooked the guy up to a heart monitor and began to go to work on him right away. He had a faint pulse and his breaths were coming very few and far between. The paramedics first checked his throat for blockages, and apparently he wasn't choking after all. The wait staff and some of their family members, who were dining at the restaurant and who had been keeping the man company, said that the man pointed to his head and was trying to say something but couldn't before he became unconscious. They said that he had arrived at the restaurant drunk and ordered a rum and coke (the wait staff provided coke with no rum) and steak. Apparently the man once frequented all the Mexican/Salvadoran restaurants on the Hill and always arrived alone and already intoxicated and had a history of not paying -- all the other restaurants now refused to serve him. Despite his familiarity to the wait staff, no one knew his name, and he didn't have any formal ID -- just a collection of business cards and handwritten notes.

The man's story was pieced together by the waiters and their family members while the paramedics were cutting the guy's clothes off, hooking him up to the monitor, and performing CPR on him. I have to say, I was impressed by the paramedics -- I had never seen them in action before, and it was something. The whole time I kept trying to send positive energy and calming thoughts to the man, and E and I stood together with our arms around each other's shoulders for emotional support. I was the only non-family member dining at the restaurant at that point, although I've been going there so long that I think they all kind of think of me as family by now -- everyone was holding onto someone else with one arm and clutching his or her own chest with the other. It was really difficult to stand there and watch someone who was going to die without some serious medical intervention.

The paramedics were keeping the man alive, but he was not getting any better, and his heart rate became scarily low whenever they weren't pounding on his chest. After what seemed like forever but was probably only about 4 minutes, the paramedics put the man on a stretcher and took him to an area hospital. E said that he would check on the man today and give me a call, but so far I have heard nothing. I will post again once I get word.

I think that I always appreciate how tenuous our human lives are -- they are impermanent, very brief in the grand scheme of time, and can be whisked away in a moment, sometimes with no warning whatsoever -- but events like last night (which is the first time I've been present for an emergency medical call) put that into an even starker perspective. Last night also has made me think about how silly my obsession with the Sock Puppet Woman is by contrast.

(Amos & Jacob among the tombstones at dawn -- 12/07/08)

The Sock Puppet Woman . . . or not?

2008-12-06T13:20:00.004-05:00

This is one of those posts in which I am going to show one of my less noble (OK, totally ignoble) sides and in the process may well ruin anything in the way of a good opinion that any of you out there might have of me. I'm going ahead and publishing on this topic anyway, though, in the hopes that some of you who don't lose all respect for me by the end of the post might be able to shed some light on this situation.

Did you ever really hate someone's guts? I mean really, viscerally, on a cellular level just flat-out despise them? I feel that way about one person, and the feeling has been eating at me. I've talked to two friends about this state of affairs recently, and both of them wound up laughing hysterically as I described my feelings. Apparently the thought of me harboring this kind of animosity toward another human being is very funny. Or maybe it was the repeated claw-bearing gestures and meowing and hissing sounds that accompanied my description. But I digress. . . .

Funny or not, it is highly unusual for me to feel such deep dislike for another person. Normally I genuinely like people. There are a few folks whom I find mildly annoying at first blush, but I'm almost always able to find redeeming qualities in them and focus on those instead. After a while, I come to really like these people and can't remember why they ever annoyed me in the first place. Then there are a few people whom I kinda sorta don't like, but I figure they must have redeeming qualities, too, even if I can't see them, so I let the dislike go and if I must deal with these folks I am able to do so kindly. But there's this one person who I continue to despise with an intensity that is almost scary, especially in light of the fact that this person has done absolutely nothing to harm me and at this point I don't even have occasion to see her any more.

For a long while now I have been trying to uncover what is at the root of this venom, with the hope that understanding the reason for this unprecedented negativity will allow me to find some peaceful resolution, which I genuinely, almost desperately, desire to do. I know that this hatred lurking within myself harms me a lot, I don't want to hate this person (or any other person, for that matter), and intellectually I can come up with all kinds of techniques that should allow me to change my emotional response. Yet despite all this rational knowledge, I cannot, or more accurately as yet have not, let this animosity go.

This person, I'll call her Ellie for convenience, is someone whom I knew from a previous job. I didn't really know her that well, but our paths crossed from time to time. My first memory of her is of observing her getting coffee with her supervisor in the cafeteria on a fairly regular basis. The first time I saw her, before I even heard her speak or had any inkling of her personality, I had a very strong "I don't like her" reaction. Then I heard her sucking up to her boss, which deeply reinforced this initial reaction. Brown-nosing is one of the traits that I like least in humankind, so this first set of cafeteria observations did not leave me favorably disposed. Later, after being in several meetings with Ellie and interacting with her socially on a couple of occasions, I concluded that her success at her job was due largely to her brown-nosing efforts (along with what I will concede are a good memory, excellent organizational skills, and a professed "passion" for her subject matter), because whatever intellect inhabits her skull is a not a very sophisticated one. Sucking up occasionally is bad enough, but relying on that tactic to climb the corporate ladder, and succeeding, is one of those things that drives me absolutely crazy. Especially when, as in Ellie's case, I have genuine affection and respect for the person who is chiefly responsible for the promoting -- that part of the whole dynamic tends to make the rub here even stronger.

As offensive as sucking up is, I don't think that's at the root of my intense dislike, for several reason. First of all, the initial pang of dislike preceded the observation that Ellie is a suck-up. In addition, I know many other people who suck up to the management, but I am nonetheless able to be quite fond of almost all of them despite that; if I'm totally honest with myself, I know that I have had moments of sucking up, too (not proud to admit that, but as long as I'm baring my soul here I figured why hold back?). Last but not least, I understand that people get promoted and/or get high performance ratings all the time based in whole or in part on sucking up instead of true merit -- people who are undeserving according to my standards rise to the top with alarming frequency (look at George W. Bush, for crying out loud!), and although I admittedly don't like that fact, I also don't let that particular form of injustice eat me up inside or otherwise keep me awake at night.

So, if it's not the fact that Ellie has her lips all over the asses of those higher than her in the food chain at work that disposes me to dislike her, what on earth is it? She is cute, but so am I, so I don't think it's that. Her boss clearly has a good opinion of her, but her boss also has an equally high opinion of me, so I don't think it's that. I think that Ellie might have outperformed me at a meeting once (although others have disagreed with me on that point), but that kind of thing happens to the best of us, especially those of us who hold ourselves to impossibly high standards, so I don't think it's that. She is successful at her job, but according to most ways in which people measure success where she works I was even more successful, so I don't think it's that.

I saw a totally wonderful pastoral counselor for around a year, during which the Ellie situation eventually presented itself as one of my more difficult issues. "This woman," my counselor said, "is a sock puppet." Meaning that for some reason I need to have a nemesis character in my life and, probably for all her brown-nosing combined with all the reasons discussed in the previous paragraph, Ellie makes a really convenient choice. However, this past year for me has been about giving up struggle as a way of life, and I can tell you that at this point I don't want a nemesis. Honestly, I don't. I'd pay good money to get rid of this one and never have another.

I am ashamed of myself for still having these feelings toward Ellie, and I would like to get through them so that I could at a minimum feel neutral toward her, and maybe even in time come to genuinely like her. Toward that end, I have tried to work through, one by one, all the more deeply-seated psychological reasons that Ellie might be a sock puppet so that I could burn the sock, so speak -- maybe she and I have similar emotional wounds and I use her as an alter-ego to beat up so that I don't ostensibly flog myself; maybe she reminds me of things I see in myself but don't like; maybe she perpetuates the (wrong-headed) notion, which I learned in childhood and believed for a long time, that I need a competitor in every aspect of my life; etc., etc., etc. Although I have successfully used this kind of rational enquiry to get to the root of other issues that troubled me, it has been to no avail with Ellie, the Sock Puppet Woman. Which has got me to thinking that maybe she's not a sock puppet after all -- maybe there actually is a reasonable basis for my negative feelings, even if I haven't identified it yet.

When she finally stopped laughing and crying at the same time, the friend to whom I relayed my situation yesterday said, "Wow, there's a lot of bad past-life karma at work there! A lot!" (For the record, I think that my friend's laughter was great, because it helped to defuse my highly-charged negativity and also because it somehow confirmed for me that this kind of behavior is indeed so out of character as to be laughable, i.e., I am not really a bad person at heart. Laughter really is the best medicine sometimes.) I tend to like this explanation a lot, because it does seem to provide an underlying reason for what seems like such a bizarre and irrational reaction.

My regular readers are a source of great wisdom and insight, and y'all have helped me a lot in the past (especially when I was having all those crazy dreams). If any of you managed to read all the way to the end of this post and are still speaking to me, I would love to hear your theories about why I feel this emotion and what I can do to reach a place of peace.

OK, enough. It's time to go have my Saturday margarita lunch.

What the heck is a "meme," anyway?

2008-12-05T10:49:00.000-05:00

Since I started blogging, I have been intrigued by the many memes floating around in the blogosphere. As almost all of us surely know by now, in the blogging venue a meme is a set a questions that one blogger answers and then passes along to one or more other bloggers in the hopes that they will answer and forward those same questions, too.

Ever since memes came onto my radar screen, so to speak, I have been fascinated by the word itself. In my opinion it is a weird-looking and weird-sounding word, and before I started blogging I had neither heard it used orally nor laid eyes on it. I have often found myself wondering if maybe it is some kind of made up blog word. Today I finally decided to break down and satisfy my curiosity once and for all.

It turns out that meme is a legitimate English word that is being used appropriately in the blogosphere to label the forwarded questionnaires that we all seem to be doing. The definition, according to the New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, is as follows: "meme n. An element of a culture or system of behavior that may be considered to be passed from one individual to another by non-genetic means, esp. imitation."

So there you have it. Although, with my luck, I probably am the last person in the blogosphere to figure this out!

Bookshelf meme

2008-12-04T10:01:00.004-05:00

The wonderful Val has tagged me for this fun meme. Here are the rules: Choose a (a) Fiction book (b) Autobiography (c) Non-fiction book, and (d) A fourth book of your choice from any genre. Explain why the books are essential reads in no more than 30 words per book.

(a) Fiction: His Dark Materials, a trilogy by Philip Pullman. Dante meets Blake meets Milton meets science fiction/fantasy. A story of love, deep conflicts and questions of spirituality and religion that span parallel worlds, doing the right thing versus doing the easy thing, and, ultimately, the triumph of the good and honorable over the bad and ugly. And the prose is absolutely mesmerizing. Wow!

(b) Autobiography: I have trouble with autobiography as a genre. Even the autobiographies that I like (such as Eat, Pray, Love) are far from must-reads. For this category, I choose instead William Faulkner's "Address upon Receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature," which contains some great autobiographicial insight as Faulkner explains why truly great literature is of profound importance to mankind.

(c) Non-fiction: The Western Canon, by Harold Bloom, which explores why having a "canon" of literature is a good thing and what characterizes books worthy of a place there. An index contains a comprehensive list of canonical works from all time periods. This book rekindled my childhood passion for reading, just when I thought adulthood had stolen it. Thank you, Mr. Bloom.

(d) As those who read my blog with any regularity already know, I am a huge fan of Rainer Maria Rilke's Book of Hours - Love Poems to God. The beauty of these poems defies description. Their simple yet glorious, elegant phrases contain universal wisdom and incredible insight into the human condition.

OK, so I blew the 30-word limit, but for me this was pithy! The only person I'm inclined to tag is the author of The Gold Puppy, who is always reading something interesting and who is responsible for introducing me to my beloved Mr. Rilke.

Mumbai

2008-11-30T11:51:00.000-05:00

When I returned from the dog park this morning, I looked around the house and thought, "Man, I need to clean this place from top to bottom and do about five loads of laundry." Then I was hit by an even stronger compulsion to spend some time with Rainer Maria Rilke's Book of Hours, his "love poems to God." I hadn't really been contemplating the devastating events in Mumbai until I got to this, which I offer today as food for thought --

Ich lese es hearus aus deinem Wort

I read it here in your very word,
in the story of the gestures
with which your hands cupped themselves
around our becoming -- limiting, warm.

You said live out loud, and die you said lightly,
and over and over again you said be.

But before the first death came murder.
A fracture broke across the rings you'd ripened.
A screaming shattered the voices

that had just come together to speak you,
to make of you a bridge
over the chasm of everything.

And what they have stammered ever since
are fragments
of your ancient name.

(From the Penguin 100th Anniversary Edition of Rilke's Book of Hours -- Love Poems to God, translated from the German by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)

Beauty is Always Available

2008-11-03T14:39:00.001-05:00

I had a rough weekend and am having a rough beginning of this week, emotionally speaking. Instead of going into the details of why that is the case, which I think would be a form of fruitless dwelling on my sorrows, I instead have decided to post this audio clip.

It is a recording of baritone Robert Merrill and tenor Jussi Bjorling singing a duet from Bizet's "The Pearl Fishers." The first time I heard this duet, I had no idea what these guys were singing about (still don't in fact, although I will be looking that up later today), but I nonetheless instantly got the chills and found myself quietly crying by the time the song ended. That's the power of opera at its greatest.

Pure beauty, this is. When I listen to these two men singing, I am reminded that one always can make a choice to focus on the beautiful instead of the ugly, the good instead of the bad, the calm instead of the inflamed. That is an important reminder for me personally as I work through some difficult issues. I think it also is an important reminder for all of my fellow Americans as we embark upon whichever new course we collectively choose for ourselves tomorrow.

I've Been Tagged!

2008-10-31T10:23:00.002-04:00

Barbara tagged me for the "Seven Random Facts" meme.

Here are the official rules:

1. Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
4. Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

So, here goes.

1. I am unusually good at remembering names. Whenever anyone at my dog park wants to know who anyone else is, they always ask me. I invariably know the first and last names of the object of enquiry, as well as their dog's name. I don't know if this is a natural skill or a product of training. Once, when I was at a leadership camp during high school, one of the stupid bonding games we played was gathering in a huge circle -- starting with our instructor, each person had to say his or her own name and go backwards around the circle and repeat the names of everyone who had gone before. I was almost at the end of a circle of about 50 people and I could not bear to make a mistake (not that I'm a perfectionist or anything), so I got all the other 45 names correct as I went back around to our leader. Everyone clapped for me when I finished. I don't know if that experience revealed a talent that already was there or was responsible for creating said talent. Either way, I now rarely forget a name.

2. I love to cook, and I believe that an important part of preparing food is being mindful during each step of the process. For example, I use different cutting boards for different types of foods, and I wash my knife and the cutting board in between cutting different types of food. I also think happy thoughts while I prepare ingredients and cook them, and I envision sending good energy into the dish. I'm convinced that all of this ritual makes the food taste better.

3. Even though my college days are long gone, I am still a total Cameron Crazy at heart. For all you non-hoops people out there, that means that I am a Duke basketball fan of the most avid variety. When I was at Duke, students got into games at Cameron Indoor Stadium on a first-come, first-served basis. This always involved a long line and frequently involved camping out in front of Cameron, sometimes for 2-3 weeks. My sophomore year, I was in charge of student crowd control in front of Cameron, which was no easy task, especially when I had to oversee the monitoring of "tent city" for weeks at a time in addition to the game-day line. In return for taking on this pain-in-ass task, I got to sit at mid-court about three rows back at all the home games. By the time all the kids who would fit finally were packed into the stadium, I would always think that I was too exhausted to stay for the game. But as soon as I entered the building the intense Cameron energy would revive me and I would stay and cheer with the best of them. It is a very special (and hot!) place.

4. I love old English cars. I inherited the old-English-car disease from my father, who taught me to drive a stick shift in his 1960-something TR 3 and gave me a 1974 MGB GT when I turned 16. I drove that car for 15 years before I finally broke down and got a "real car" (i.e., something with power steering, power windows, air conditioning, and windshield wipers that actually worked when it rained, and that could be started on cool and/or rainy days without resorting to a manual choke). I really think that if a person can drive an old English car, he or she can drive anything. If I ever strike it rich, I will buy two mint-condition Jaguar E-types (in my opinion, the most beautiful cars ever built) -- one for me; one for Daddy.

5. I have a deep appreciation for architecture, and the first thing I do when I visit a new place is simply wander around looking at all the buildings. My favorite building of all time is the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress, and I consider myself incredibly lucky to live within walking distance of it. It is simply gorgeous, inside and out, and all the beautiful decorations relate to areas of knowledge. I always go to the main reading room when I need inspiration, and it never fails to provide some. I also love Washington, D.C.'s Union Station (also within walking distance). Although it is an active train station and shopping mall (complete with movie theatre), it has an incredibly peaceful and tranquil energy about it. When I was in law school at Georgetown, I would always go to Union Station, which is just a few blocks from the law center, when I needed to calm down. Thank you Daniel Burnham for designing such a wonderful building, and thank you Daniel Patrick Moynihan and Elizabeth Dole for bringing it back to life (Congress nearly bulldozed it in 1981).

6. I visited Santa Fe, New Mexico for the first time earlier this year (my first trip to any part of the American southwest) and was stunned to find myself feeling more at home there than I do in my home state of North Carolina. That's really saying something, because I love North Carolina from the eastern-most shore of its Outer Banks all the way to the western-most point of its mountains (or "hills," as my grandfather used to call them). But there is something about the energy, light, and spaciousness of the Santa Fe area of NM that feels just perfectly, exquisitely right to me. I can hardly wait to go back.

7. Thus far in life, I have had only two speeds -- "total workaholic" and "off." This past year has been my first real experiment with being in the off-mode for an extended period of time. Although it has been wonderful to have an opportunity to pause and reflect and take myself away from the pressures of the DC rat race, I think that, on balance, I do better when I have a job to keep me occupied. When I return to work, which I hope will be by the first of the year at the latest, I would like to try to find more of a middle ground, where I'm a workaholic at work but feel comfortable leaving my work in the workplace and coming home to relax. I know that this is possible because, like just about everything else in this life, it is a choice. I'm looking forward to the opportunity to put that choice into practice.

Well, that's it for my seven fun facts. More than you wanted to know, I'm sure. I think that most of my blog friends already have participated in this or a similar meme, so I can't come up with seven people to tag. I will, however, tag Jeff (who is always a good sport) and also my blog friends across the pond, Virtual Voyage and SJW. Play along only if you want.

A Time of Strange Dreams

2008-10-28T12:11:00.002-04:00

I have been having very long, vivid, and strange dreams lately. The one last night was a real doozy.

At the beginning, I was scaling a rock wall, without any kind of harness, with a couple of men -- one was a famous movie actor, the other was the owner of a small business in my neighborhood. At one point, I would have fallen to my death if it hadn't been for the two guys' help. We all made it down OK, and then I realized that I had left my keys in a restaurant located on the fourth floor of a nearby building. The guys sent me scaling up the wall of the building, this time with a harness, so that I could climb through the restaurant's window to retrieve my keys, which I did successfully.

Flash forward to being outdoors looking at two spider webs woven between blades of grass, one right next to the other. They had collected the morning dew and glistened beautifully as the sunlight hit them. (I saw tiny webs like this in the grass as I walked my dogs this past Sunday morning, but the ones in my dream were much bigger.)

Fast forward to another restaurant, this time located high upon a hilltop with an expansive outdoor seating area that could be accessed only by climbing an almost impossibly tall ladder. Someone, I think J, held the ladder for me, and once I reached the last rung I discovered there was a bar stool perched rather precariously on top and that the restaurant's deck was about 50 feet away. There were two other ladders next to mine, and the people on those ladders had climbed atop their respective crowning bar stools. They told me that the point was not to get to the restaurant but rather to stand on top of the stool; they also told me that getting on top of the stool was not as scary as it looked, and that I would not lose my balance. Now, I am not all that comfortable with heights in the first instance, so just making it up the ladder was difficult for me, and I was scared to death at the thought of standing atop that bar stool with nothing to hold onto. Yet somehow, with my neighbors' coaxing, I managed to climb atop that stool -- it felt great once I did it, and oh my, what an amazing view!

Flash forward to going back to look at the beautiful spider webs again.

Flash forward to showing a friend my new crystal pendant, which contained within it a tiny glowing spider web, complete with a tiny living spider at the center.

Here's my first cut at what all this means: Yesterday I had an interview for a legal job that will, if I take it, involve absolutely crazy hours and will leave me little if any time for puttering along on my slow-going novel. The novel is already pretty fully-formed in my head, and I actually would like to finish committing it to paper some day, so the thought of not having time to write pains me. This is a not a particularly rational reaction, because in theory I now could be working on my book all day while I'm unemployed; however, most days I choose to devote my time to other things instead. Even so, I equate a decision to take this new job with a decision to give up on the book. I think that all the spider stuff in the dream symbolizes writing (thank you Tam, for that insight), and that all the height-scaling has to do with obstacles to success and also with fear. The fear is not only the fear of failure, as symbolized by the rock climbing near-fall, but also the fear of success, as symbolized by being afraid to climb atop the stool that symbolized success once I reached it. Maybe the "key" I recovered in the dream is the thing that will unlock my ability to see my novel to a successful conclusion, regardless of whether I take this job or not; maybe that key is the belief that success with my writing is just as available as failure, if I am willing to put aside my fear and really believe in myself for a change - if I can maybe even believe that there really is nothing to fear - and if I am willing to accept the help of others along the way as I did in both the climbs in my dream.

I came up with this theory as soon as I awoke, and a quick consultation of the dream dictionary to which Willow pointed me last month (when I posted about my animal dreams) confirmed my initial instincts. If anyone else out there has thoughts or alternate theories, I would, as always, be pleased to hear them.

Experimental Cooking - Dream Soup

2008-10-26T15:15:00.000-04:00

One night last week, I had a dream that I was making a soup with carrots and cabbage. On the one hand, this was a pleasant dream because I absolutely adore cabbage; on the other hand, this was a vexing dream, because I started the soup with carrots, cabbage, and stock but for some reason could not decipher the rest of the recipe. Hmmph! Damned dream, teasing me like that!

I thought about this dream for a couple days and decided that I would make a cabbage soup concoction of some sort this weekend. Then yesterday I woke up with symptoms of a bladder infection (I've been steadily improving ever since), which caused me to consult various holistic healing sources about nutrients that might help ease those symptoms until the doctor's office opened on Monday. Some of the recommended foods were celery and winter squash. Could those be the magic missing ingredients I needed to complete my dream soup? I decided to experiment and find out.

Miraculously, my experimental concoction turned out so well that I thought I'd follow the lead of some of my fellow bloggers and post a photo and the recipe. I tend to cook by feel, especially when I'm making up something based on a dream, so what I'm posting below is more of a guideline than a strict recipe. If anyone out there is brave enough to try it, let me know how it turns out and if you like it.

Adrianne's Dream Soup

- 2-3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

- 2 carrots, peeled and diced

- 2 celery stalks, diced

- 1 small-to-medium butternut squash, peeled and cut into approx. 1-inch dice

- 1/3 of a large head of cabbage, roughly chopped

- 4 to 6 cups homemade vegetable stock or other homemade stock (if you cheat and use store-bought stock, please don't tell me!)

- ground turmeric, to taste (I added it a pinch at a time until I thought things looked and tasted right, so I'm not really sure how much I used in total -- my best guess is 1/4 to 1/2 tsp.)

- ground coriander, to taste (my best guess on this one is about 1 to 2 tsps.)

- ground allspice, to taste (I used enough to add interest and complexity to the overall dish without imparting an affirmative allspice flavor -- around 4 or 5 twists of the grinder)

- salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

Heat the olive oil in a soup pot over medium heat. Add the carrots and celery and saute for 2-3 minutes. Add the diced squash and saute 2-3 minutes more. Add the stock and bring the mixture to a boil. Turn down the heat and gently simmer, partially covered, until the squash is slightly tender but not yet cooked through, about 5-10 minutes. Add the cabbage and spices and bring back to a simmer. Continue simmering until both the squash and the cabbage reach the desired level of tenderness. As the soup simmers, adjust the amount of stock as needed to achieve desired consistency. When the soup is done, taste for spices and adjust them to your liking. Serve hot with warm, crusty bread.

P.S. This soup is even better the next day -- the spices mingled nicely overnight.

Fire

2008-10-23T19:06:00.000-04:00

Now that things have finally cooled off here, 'tis the season to sit by the fire.

Our house is a little chilly during the day and really chilly at night, but we have not broken down and turned the heat on yet. Evening fires in the cozy den provide just the right amount of warmth after dinner. I always have good intentions to "read by the fire," but once I get the fire going all I can manage to do is sit and gaze at it.

I have been mesmerized by fire all my life, and my fascination seems only to grow over time. If it is true that we have past lives, I think that one of mine was during the period when fire was first discovered.

I do so love a fire.

Achooo!

2008-10-21T10:03:00.000-04:00

I fell off the blogdar for the past week for a variety of reasons, mostly because I was wiped out by weed and mold allergies. My fellow allergy sufferers and I agree that the fall allergens have been particularly ferocious here in DC lately.

Although I've had fall allergies for as long as I can remember, usually they have been quite mild. Most years I'll sneeze a bit, but I won't feel bad enough to resort to antihistamines. Last week and weekend, by contrast, I was still experiencing a wide range of symptoms despite faithfully taking zyrtec each day. One day things got so bad that I took benadryl in between zyrtec doses. At that point, I decided that it was time to figure out where my epinephrine-pen was, just in case (epinephrine is used to treat cases of anaphylaxis, which is an extreme allergic reaction that potentially is fatal). Yikes!

My experience seems to be about on par with others who have weed and mold allergies. One of my dog park friends was having so many allergic symptoms that he lost his voice for three days late last week. Another friend was sneezing and coughing so badly that at first she thought she had a cold. Yet another friend is still suffering despite taking oral meds and shots. So, it's not just me -- I think that there is something different going on out there in the air this year. I sincerely hope that whatever made things so unbearable recently is not indicative of a new trend!

At this point, I am happy to report that I am feeling much better. The offending agent(s) seem(s) finally to have subsided. I'm breathing a lot easier and have returned to my usual energy level. Now that I'm feeling like me again, I hope to be posting more regularly. It was weird being away for a week.

A Long Weekend Spent Appreciating Nature

2008-10-14T12:31:00.001-04:00

After a weekend spent rescuing our front yard and our neighbor's tree box, what did J and I do yesterday? We went to the National Arboretum and wandered around marveling at nature and taking pictures for at least two hours. The fall colors are just now beginning to emerge in the DC area, but despite still being very green the arboretum was gorgeous, as always.

The arboretum was hosting its annual orchid show and as a consequence had tons of visitors, which rarely happens. The orchids, which were judged and awarded ribbons the previous day, were on display in an exhibit room. I wish that you all could have smelled, as well as seen, that room. The orchids were exquisite, like a kind of very fine living art work, and they had one of most intoxicating smells I've ever experienced. I could only stand being amid the orchids for about 5 minutes before the sights and especially the smells put me into sensory overload, but it was an amazing experience while it lasted.

In addition to the wonders of the plant world, the clouds yesterday were so spectacularly beautiful as to defy all description. It was as if all the known cloud types, plus a few new ones, were present all at once. Watching the clouds move yesterday convinced me that the angels and the other spirits are up to something. In contrast to all the mess that's going on here below, I sense that the goings one up above are all good. Maybe the spirits in the clouds will send much-needed rain to my blogging friends in Africa. I have included a couple of cloud photos in this post, but for even better examples of what the DC sky had to offer yesterday, check out J's blog and also a friend's blog.

(Clouds of all kinds)

(Clouds billowing like smoke and flames)

(Clouds flowing like a river)

(Angels in the air)

(Tree or wishbone - you decide)

(Busy bee)

(Mossy fallen tree trunk, side view)

(Mossy fallen tree trunk, top view)

(Delicate web)

(Sea of green)

(Fallen leaves on fallen tree)

(Conifers)

(First fall color)

Gardening Pics

2008-10-13T04:46:00.000-04:00

Here's some pictorial evidence that J and I really did spend most of the weekend gardening. I meant to post these yesterday but was having some technical difficulty adding and moving pictures. Better late than never, I suppose!

("Velvet faces")

(Decorative cabbage, which the guy at the nursery had to

coax me to buy, but which I now actually kinda like)

(Green moss, chosen and planted by J earlier this year)

(Goldilocks, which we're hoping will take over a portion

of our front bed)

(Blooming gerbera daisy, which was a gift from a friend,

with hosta bloom in foreground)

(Very leggy, and thus far underutilized, herbs - tending them
yesterday has renewed my commitment to use them so they

don't get so out of control)

(The tree box's new look -- I wish we'd taken "before" pics,

because the change is really dramatic (the liriope is planted

too close together, but we had lots to offload))

(Aerial view of front bed, with more divided liriope, again

planted too close together -- hey, if anyone in the DC area

needs some liriope, let me know!)

(Aerial view of hosta bed (they're also planted too close

together, for the same reason as the liriope))

(Close-up view of front bed -- goldilocks and pansies)

(The bed nearest the house, with new snapdragons and

pansies for color, and new phlox that we hope will spread

all the way across the front edge and spill over the brick border)

To Feel the Earth

2008-10-12T14:02:00.004-04:00

(Favorite gardening clogs)

My house came with a very small, and initially very blank, front garden. For the last eight years, the task of planting things in my small garden space and watching them grow has given me a great amount of pleasure. A couple months after I moved into my house, my parents brought me hostas and liriope from their garden in NC. At first I thought that the plants looked puny and were planted way too far apart, but in eight years they have spread and filled in so much that this fall they desperately needed to be divided. Gardening is a great teacher of patience that way.

Normally I plant twice a year -- once in the spring and once in the fall -- and make a reasonable effort to tend to things as they grow throughout the year, but this year my fiance took over the spring planting and the summer tending. As a consequence, when I took to the garden with trowel in hand yesterday morning, it had been almost a year since I had probed the earth. Yesterday we divided some huge clumps of my parents' liriope and transplanted them into a tree box in front of my neighbor's house. That was our good deed for the gardening season, because the tree box was completely infested with four-foot tall weeds before we tackled it. Today, we moved some existing plants around our own yard and planted some new perennials -- coral bells, creeping phlox, and goldilocks -- and some annual color -- pansies and snapdragons. Now we get to sit our aching bones down and admire our handiwork.

I didn't realize it until I got to digging yesterday, but I think that I had been in serious gardening withdrawal. I must be one of those people who needs to dig in the earth and tend to plants in order to feel good. Once, when I was talking on the phone with my mother a few years ago right after one of my planting sprees, she spontaneously asked me if I had been gardening. "How could you possibly have known that?," I asked her in amazement. "I could tell by the lilt in your voice," she replied. I think that right now I probably have that lilt back.

Connections

2008-10-09T15:30:00.001-04:00

This fall has been a remarkable time of connection for me. I am not sure if it is a product of the season (i.e., if fall is a time of connection and I simply have never noticed that before), or if it is a product of my time of life (i.e., if I've lived a sufficient number of years that I've had time to develop, and sever, some deep connections that I've now had long enough to miss and am seeking to renew ), or if it is simply a coincidence.

Whatever the cause, I feel that "connection" is the word of the day for me.

There are two people whom I've known for much of my life but with whom I have not routinely associated in a long while, and we are now in the process of establishing a new kind of connection that builds upon our history without attempting to relive the past (as if that were possible) or lay blame for the previous loss of connection.

There's also a sense of deepening connection with several people who have been squarely present recently but who are opening up to me, and I to them, in a qualitatively different way.

Then there are all my new blogging friends whom I've "met," so to speak, over the last three months. There are several of you whom I feel I have known for a long, long time, maybe even over many lifetimes, and I think it's such a blessing that we have found each other through this wonderful blogging process (special note to MWS - I'm guessing that you don't believe in past lives, but no matter - I nonetheless am so grateful to have met you in the blogosphere here in the year 2008 and feel a special kinship with you. I luv you, man!).

Then there's the connection that's inherent in commenting on others' blogs and receiving comments on my blog. The blogosphere has been a fascinating place lately, as people raise and discuss "big topics" (God, self, human nature, philosophy, art) and relish the conversation, even if that means agreeing to disagree about aspects of those topics in a civilized way.

These all are different forms of connecting, which is something I think we humans have a propensity to want to do. Wonderful alliances are being made these day, my blogging kin. Enjoy them. Enjoy them to the fullest.

Is There Any Such Thing As an Inappropriate Prayer?

2008-10-08T12:37:00.004-04:00

As I discussed at some length in a previous post, I see God not as a separate entity that created us and decides which of us go to heaven and hell, but rather as an eternal consciousness that permeates all things. The thing I have been wondering about for the last few days is whether or not it is OK to ask God for help in a formal, prayerful kind of way.

Last week I was telling a friend about how there are a couple areas in my life right now on which I could really use some guiding wisdom. "Why don't you pray about it?," she quickly responded. My first reaction to this idea was, "Ask God for something? For myself? Eeeeeekkkk! That's just not appropriate. That might even be downright irreverent. God is not a slot machine that exists to entertain and fulfill all my wishes!" I frequently thank God for the world around me and the people in it, both friend and foe, and I also wish that God will do nice those for all those folks, but asking God to do something for me somehow seemed selfish and therefore off limits.

My friend and I had a spirited talk about whether or not there were inappropriate topics for prayer. Her view, in a nutshell, is that it is OK to say anything to or ask anything from God, as long as one is sincere in what one says. I continued to bristle at that notion, but my reaction really got me to thinking about why that was the case, and about whether I might (gasp!) be misguided in my view.

I concluded that my qualms about what is or is not an appropriate topic for prayer had to do with two things --(1) the Judeo-Christian view of God with which I was raised but in which I no longer believe and (2) my view of myself.

On the first issue - the kind of divinity that I now envision is not the kind of presence that might judge me harshly or punish me for anything that I might think or say. However, the God that's described in the Bible might, in one of his wrathful moments, give me some demerits if my request rubbed him the wrong way. He might even send me to hell. This thought raised the following questions - If my view of God has evolved from the Biblical version of God and into something that is more like an all-loving, all-knowing, non-judgmental force, then why would I still envision the Biblical God as the receiver of my request? And why would I leap to the conclusion that asking such a God for help would be grounds for a harsh judgment in the first place?

The answer to these questions ties into the second issue - which is that, man, I must be feeling pretty insecure and unworthy these days if I'm afraid to level with God about where I am and what I need. Like I could hide that from an omniscient presence anyway. When cast in that light, I view my reticence to ask God for help, especially when I believe that I really need said help, as evidence that there's still part of me that is afraid to just be who I am in the world and that instead seeks to censor myself to say only "correct" and "pleasing" things so that I will receive approval rather than rejection.

Since thinking all the above thoughts, I've been doing two things. I've been repeating to myself that it is OK to be who I am in this moment and to express openly and honestly what I think and feel. It is. Really, it is! God, along with many mortals, sees me for who I really am anyway, no matter how much I try to finesse my words and actions in order to increase the likelihood of acceptance in the face of potential rejection. I've also been repeating to myself that the divine thankfully doesn't abide by my self-imposed rules about right and wrong, appropriate and inappropriate, worthy and unworthy. Regardless of what comes out of my mouth in the form of a prayerful request, God will carry on just fine, and so will I.

Today, with an open and honest heart, I am going to send up a request for the guidance that I feel I need, and I will do so without any reservations. While I'm at it, I'm going to say a special thank you for the friend who prompted me to think about this issue and see things differently.

Squirrel Season

2008-10-05T12:06:00.000-04:00

(Jacob Threatt, Squirrel Hunter - it's hard to believe that

such an innocent-looking shepherd has such a vicious side)

Hunters have deer season and turkey season. Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck have duck season and wabbit season. Here in Washington, D.C., we have squirrel season. There is a very interesting article in today's Washington Post about how squirrels were once nonexistent in our nation's capital, but the inhabitants of the city missed the little critters and actually went out of their way to import some. For reasons that soon will become clear, I think that my dog Jacob may have been one of these squirrel importers in a previous life.

The squirrels here are exceptionally active in September and October as they bustle about collecting their winter stashes. During this time, when my dogs are off leash at Congressional Cemetery, I can count on them to chase squirrels for an entire hour without stopping. I walk about 2 to 3 miles, and they probably run at least 10 in their constant pursuit of the eastern grey. This phenomenon has prompted me to compose a goofy dog song about the squirrel hunting antics of my dog Jacob. It's set to the tune of Danny Boy and goes something like this-

Oh, Jakie Boy, the squirrels the squirrels are calling

From tree to tree, all through the cem-uh-ter-y

The summer's gone, and all the acorns fallen

'Tis you, 'tis you, must chase and they must flee

Oh run ye fast, my golden squirrel crusader

Capturing squirrels upon the ground before they know

That they're about to go and meet their maker

Oh Jakie Boy, my Jakie Boy, oh what a show

The cemetery squirrels are never safe while my Jakie Boy is around, and today he captured and killed his first squirrel of the season. I didn't witness the moment of capture because I was gabbing with my friends K and S. It wasn't until I heard another dog owner screaming in horror as her dog and Jacob took turns parading around with the dead squirrel that I took note. Many thanks to S for slyly tricking Jacob into dropping his felled prey - without S's assistance I would probably still be in the graveyard politely asking Jacob to "drop it." As for the poor squirrel - sorry that you had such a tough exit, buddy, and hope that you will have a better go of it your next time around. In the meantime may you rest in peace.

P.S. This likely will be my last pet post for a while. I've been doing a lot of thinking this weekend and plan to return to more philosophical topics for a while.

Question of the Day

2008-10-03T11:19:00.000-04:00

QUESTION: Why is it that this morning a large shepherd. . .

(Amos, the smooth-coated collie mix, with his woe-is-me look)

and an even larger shepherd. . .

(Jacob, the Belgian tervuren mix, with his I-have-no-idea-

how-I-even-fit-here look)

have denied their proud wolf heritage by curling up cat-style into silly floral-print chairs that clearly are far too small to contain all their canine fierceness?

ANSWER:

(Lincoln, with his don't-even-try-to-move-me look)

Of course it is because Lincoln the Cat Dog has beaten them to the still-warm bed and made himself a cozy nest out of the unmade covers.

BUT WAIT. . .

(Triumphant dogs, comfortable at last!)

Take that, you interloping cat! The shepherds stage a coup and reclaim their bed. Looks as if Lincoln still has a way to go before he makes pack leader.

A Novel Moment

2008-09-30T10:22:00.000-04:00

The beautiful weather and light today surprisingly have inspired me to share this scene from my slowly-emerging novel, which is set in the 1870s (or thereabouts).

* * *

Jacob Struggles with Adelaide’s Death

In keeping with his usual and somewhat rigid pattern of time and place, Jacob Werner is sitting in the leather chair behind the massive mahogany desk that occupies the northwest portion of his office. His wife insisted on dressing the office windows with dark, heavy draperies, but each morning Jacob pulls these shrouds back as far as he can so that the room is flooded with natural light throughout the day. This freely flowing light both makes his lawyerly tasks much easier and affords him more than a little aesthetic pleasure. In the late afternoon, when most of his work is done, Jacob normally relaxes into the sumptuous cushions of his chair, ankle crossed over thigh, hand cradling chin, eyes narrowed and lips curled upward with pleasure – what Adelaide always called his musing pose. Once situated, Jacob takes a few moments to appreciate the simple yet surpassing beauty of the office that is his sanctuary, and he savors the spectacular view from its unusually large windows. Jacob particularly loves these late-afternoon moments during the perfection of mid-September, when the oppressive heat of summer is gone but the full crispness of fall has not yet arrived and when the quality of the light is at its most indescribably beautiful.

On this particular mid-September day, the sun slants through the naked window nearest Jacob’s desk to produce a glorious symphony of light and shadow as it plays off the many books, stacks of paper, statues, artifact collections, and other precious things that make this room so beautiful and dear to its occupant. However, today this unique display of light, which normally would please Jacob so, passes completely unnoticed by him as he slumps with his aching head pressed against the chair’s generous wing. Since his wife left his office a half hour ago, all he can manage to do is stare at the crystal inkwell and pen holder on his desk – the only gift that Adelaide ever gave him.

What pleasure Margaret had taken in bringing him the news. “Well, Jacob, our Adelaide finally has succumbed. She just didn’t have the strength left to fight the consumption any longer, poor dear.” Her words ostensibly showed affection for the departed, and the hint of a smile that played on her lips after she spoke would be interpreted by almost anyone else as a stiff-lipped attempt to mask sorrow for Adelaide’s death. But Jacob knew the inner workings of his wife’s mind and how those inner workings manifested themselves outwardly, so he knew better.

Jacob held up his hand in protest as she approached the window to draw the curtains to block the path of the sun that, for her, was such an intrusion. “Leave me in peace, Margaret,” Jacob dismissed his wife wearily, as he rose to stop the simple wooden mantel clock and adjust the hands to what he understood to be the moment of Adelaide’s death.

After his wife nodded curtly and brushed hastily by him to honor this request, Jacob returned to the refuge of his chair. Although Adelaide’s death had been expected for some time, Jacob found that he nonetheless was unprepared to face the finality associated with its occurrence. The light that he loved most in the world had departed, and Jacob would now begin the long and arduous process of adjusting to a world left in a substantially darker condition. So it was that Jacob passed this beautiful September afternoon grasping for some insight about what to do next, for some trick of the mind that might possibly assuage his sorrow, if only for the briefest time.

* * *

The Beauty of Impromptu Meetings

2008-09-28T14:38:00.000-04:00

Last night my fiance and I went for pho at our favorite Vietnamese hangout, and we saw some of our favorite friends from the dog-walking cemetery, K and her husband S. We joined them for dinner and had a wonderful time. The funny thing is, K and I have been trying to set up a formal coffee date for the past month but we haven't quite been able work things out. Yet we have seen each other randomly in the Vietnamese place and hooked up for an impromptu dinner twice in the past month. Sometimes, the best encounters can't be planned - they just serendipitously happen. I love impromptu meetings.

Time, Light, and Leaves

2008-09-26T10:24:00.001-04:00

Backyard Leaves -- 9/25/2008

After teasing us to varying degrees for the last several weeks, fall is now with us in earnest. I've been keeping a close eye on my next-door neighbors' tree, which hangs over my back deck and which I can see from the upstairs den window as I sit at the computer. Its slender green leaves are taking on a bit of fluorescence and a few already have begun to turn yellow. For the last two days, these lovely leaves have been making a wonderful rustling sound as a persistent fall breeze stirs them. Soon they will fall onto my deck in a blanket of yellow.

The morning light is arriving perceptibly later these days, too, which means that I am rising later. Most of the 7 a.m. dog-walking crowd at Congressional Cemetery is long gone by the time I arrive at the gate with Jacob and Amos. Although part of me misses my fellow dog-walkers, a bigger part enjoys the experience of walking alone in the cool morning air with only my two dogs and the spirits of the departed to keep me company. Call me crazy, but it does seem to me that the graveyard spirits, which are at peace for most of the year, make their presence known in the fall. Sometimes I imagine that they, rather than the wind, are responsible for the rustling of the cemetery's trees.

The waning light, cool air, changing leaves, and livening spirits all are beautiful reminders that time is marching on, as it always does, and that things never stay the same from one moment to the next. With a plummeting economy and an important election hanging in the balance, it is an especially apt time to reflect on these truths.

The Cat Dog, Part Two

2008-09-25T11:05:00.001-04:00

As requested, here is a photo of Lincoln the Cat Dog with his shepherd friends, all napping together peacefully in the messy den. That's Amos on the left and Jacob in the middle. It is not uncommon to have Jacob as the intermediary in this bunch. Amos is still a little frightened of the strange gray feline who embedded a claw casing in his curious snout and still tries to eat his dog kibble, so Amos looks to Jacob as a buffer whenever possible. Jacob is still the pack leader, but he won't be for long if Lincoln has his way. This is a smart cat we have on our hands here. I don't know if anyone else noticed, but Lincoln left a comment on the previous post. Not bad for a creature without opposable thumbs. Not bad at all!

The Cat Dog

2008-09-23T14:06:00.000-04:00

We have seven furry critters residing in our house -- two dogs, four cats, and Lincoln, pictured here, who is our "cat dog."

Lincoln looks like a cat and meows like a cat, but we think he's really a dog in what is either a very clever or very dangerous disguise. He plays with the dogs, naps with the dogs, tries to eat the dogs' food, and howls after the dogs when J takes them for their nighttime walk. He even sits on command in return for a small taste of dog kibble. The only time that Lincoln associates with the other cats is when I dole out cat food or when he needs to use the litter box. The rest of the time, you can pretty much bet that he is hangin' out with the shepherds, Jacob and Amos.

To further solidify Lincoln's claim to dogdom, J got him a kitty harness-and-leash combo and is toying with the idea of taking him on the nighttime dog walks. I'm largely in favor of this plan because, if successful, it would spare me from having to listen to Lincoln howl for 20 minutes every night. However, Lincoln is a gray cat, and we are a bit concerned that the other dogs in the neighborhood might mistake him for a squirrel and try to go after him. Jacob and Amos made that mistake -- once. Lincoln quickly and fearlessly let the dogs know that cat-chasing was not acceptable, and then he decided to make friends. Now we think that he is trying to work his way up to pack leader. Although Jacob and Amos still don't know what to make of this somewhat unorthodox arrangement, it has become a constant source of amusement for J and me.

Simple Pleasures

2008-09-22T10:37:00.000-04:00

I spent this weekend doing very ordinary, but very gratifying, things.

On Saturday morning I made vegetable stock, which I then used to make tomato-garlic soup for my stepdaughter. There was something so wonderful about making soup for someone I love on a crisp fall morning. I then delivered the soup to Johns Hopkins hospital, which involved a very lovely drive along the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. The weather was beautiful, the traffic was light, and I got a chance to listen to some great tunes (Eva Cassidy and Chuck Brown, followed by Annie Lennox). When I arrived at the hospital, I was pleased to find H in good spirits. She seems to be adjusting to the new hospital and taking her treatment in stride. We had a brief but very pleasant visit, and then I had another good drive down the parkway. The rest of the day was spent running errands, followed by a wonderful dinner with my fiance at one of our favorite restaurants. We hadn't been there in a while, and the wait staff treated us especially well.

On Sunday, my fiance and I walked down to the shops at Union Station. I needed to pick up contact lenses and have new lenses put into two old pairs of glasses that I am recycling. While we waited for the glasses, I bought some new shoes (something that I do about once every 18 months), and then we went for coffee. We also spent some time browsing in the book store, which is something we both love to do. It was a nice, rather lazy, trip to the mall. I had been putting off the optician and shoe errands for about a month, but having J for company transformed the dreaded errands into a fun afternoon. Afterward J went up to Johns Hopkins to visit his daughter and I had some time alone to read and do sudoku (I confess to being totally addicted).

All in all, it was an uneventful yet really good weekend. I'm not sure if I'm generally acquiring a new appreciation for the little things in life or if my powers of appreciation are just particularly heightened right now because the energizing fall weather is finally arriving. Probably it's a bit of each. Whatever the cause, it feels good being able to get so much satisfaction out of the ordinary little things that make up most of life's moments.

Thankful

2008-09-19T12:41:00.001-04:00

My stepdaughter starts a new and promising leukemia treatment today, and her outlook toward her situation is beginning to brighten (she's not technically my stepdaughter yet, but I don't let the absence of a wedding ring stop me from thinking of her as such).

The dogs are both doing well and have perked up in the crisp weather that's now visiting the DC area a little more frequently. They are happier than ever - 'tis the season for chasing squirrels, and their squirrel-hunting antics are highly entertaining, both for them and for all who watch them.

The sky is blue with some very interesting clouds floating about (it's a great day for all your cloud spotters!), the air is comfortably cool, and the quality of the light is spectacular, especially in the morning.

The smile that came to my face yesterday as I read some humorous blogs was the first real smile I'd cracked in a while, and it has stayed with me. I'm now sitting in my favorite chair, which doesn't happen much because it's also the favorite chair of Jacob the Dog. As I feel a lovely breeze waft through the window beside me, I rest easily in the satisfaction of knowing that all my needs are met.

In this moment, I am thankful - simply but genuinely thankful.

The Magic of Cleaning

2008-09-18T17:02:00.003-04:00

I spent most of this beautiful Thursday cleaning the house from top to bottom, doing laundry, changing linens, and washing dishes. Now the house is all bright, sparkly, clean, and fresh, and I am reaping the benefits of a good day's work. I also am feeling a great deal brighter myself. It's as if the act of clearing all of the dust and dirt out of the house also has cleared all the cobwebs and other mental obstructions out of my head. Amazing how that works sometimes!

I want to say a special thank you to everyone who has commented on yesterday's post. Each comment has provided a unique and important insight about how to decipher the phenomenon of being haunted by animals in distress, particularly dogs. I thought that I had developed a full explanation earlier this afternoon, but a new comment just arrived that has provided yet another line of enquiry that I need to pursue and add to my analytical mix. I do believe that I will find a satisfying answer, though, and that belief alone already makes me feel a lot better. Thanks again to all who helped -- when I come up with The Answer, I'll let you know what it is!

The Animals

2008-09-17T13:07:00.001-04:00

There is something going on between the animals and me, something that I want to understand but don't. It was held in check for a while, but now it's returned with a bit of a vengeance. I thought that perhaps by explaining the situation in writing I could reach some kind of conclusion about it and find some kind of solace. More likely than not I will just sound like a complete nut, but I am desperate so here goes.

Late last year and earlier this year, I was tormented by dreams about animals, particularly dogs. In my dreams, the animals were injured, frightened, or dying. In the early dreams I was powerless to help them, but in the later dreams I found myself being able to provide some amount of assistance. In one dream a caravan of vehicles with animals had wrecked on I-395 in DC, and wounded and frightened animals were all over the place. I was able to rescue either a sheep or a rabbit, I can't remember which, but I felt bad because I wanted to rescue more but couldn't. In another dream I reunited some lost dogs with their owners, but in that same dream I also flushed my own dogs down a giant toilet and watched them come out, safe and sound, on the other side of a river in the middle of a campground. Weird!

While these dreams were occurring, I also was having some real-life animal experiences that were very disturbing. I was driving east down I-40/I-85 through Burlington, NC during rush hour one morning, returning from a visit to my parents. The road is 4 or 5 lanes in each direction at that point, separated by a barrier in the median, and there is a wide left-hand break-down lane. I was in the far left-hand lane and saw a beautiful but very frightened shepherd mix trotting in the break-down lane to my left. He was trotting against the direction of oncoming traffic, and I experienced a sharp jolt of adrenaline as I realized that I was seeing a live animal on the interstate and locked eyes with him for the briefest of moments. I told him not to panic and not to cross the road before it was clear. I drove for about another mile before I decided to turn around and go back for the dog. I went back at least two miles past where I'd seen him before turning around again to retrace my east-bound path. I'm still not sure how I was planning to accomplish an interstate rescue without spooking the already-scared dog or getting creamed myself, or both, but I felt a compelling need to at least try to find this dog again. However, I didn't see any sign of the shepherd, dead or alive, on or near the road, so I tried to tell myself that he'd made it across the traffic lanes safely and now would be in a position to find help from someone else.

About 60 miles later during this same trip, after the road had narrowed to two lanes, I saw two puppies approaching the highway. This time I didn't hesitate and stopped as quickly as I could (not easy when you're doing 75 mph), but the puppies ignored my call and crossed safely to the other side of the road. I didn't worry about the puppies so much because they looked as if they were out having fun, and they were together, but the vision of my frightened shepherd friend haunted me for a long time. I had dreams at night about him, and I frequently found myself pondering why he was in the road in the first place and wondering what ever happened to him. I was frustrated at not having concrete answers to those questions, but eventually I worked through the list of possibilities and got comfortable with the idea that no matter which (if any) of my possible scenarios was correct, whatever in fact happened was the right thing.

The NC-to-DC trip was followed by several short trips to take my dogs sheep-herding in northwest Virginia, during which I saw an extraordinary number of dead dear in the road. Not just one or two per trip, as one might expect, but lots. They were nearly everywhere I looked. Each one of them grabbed a heart string and held on for days.

These animal dreams and experiences subsided for a bit, but now that particular wound feels as if it has been reopened. I finished a book called The Story of Edgar Sawtelle a couple days ago. It is an exceptionally well-crafted book. It's essentially Hamlet set on a Wisconsin dog-breeding farm in the 1950s/1960s. The author amazingly manages to make the old Hamlet story different and fresh, I think largely because of the dog angle (this book features the best inside-the-dog's-mind view I've gotten since reading Jack London). It's Hamlet, so of course it's tragic, but for me the usual tragedy of Hamlet was compounded because there were dogs that experienced adverse conditions and died prematurely under especially heartbreaking circumstances. The main character is a 14-year old boy, and midway through the book the dog that is his soul mate dies -- essentially she commits suicide -- just as the boy, who has run away from home, is returning because he can't stand being separated from her any longer. Although the dog's soul visits the boy later in the book and they resolve their unfinished business, I have been upset about this scene since I read it. I just cannot seem to let it go.

As I was in the midst of reading this book, I saw my friend H's dog, who clearly is dying. Dying at age 14 under the careful watch of someone who loves him and will not let him suffer needlessly, but clearly dying nonetheless. I gave the dog some reiki the first time I saw him in his weakened state, and now he slowly seeks me out whenever we are in the dog park at the same time. I have not been able to let that vision go, either.

To top all this off, I was reading one of my favorite blogs yesterday, and the most recent post involved a dying antelope. He was chasing girls one day and then dying the next because there was a food shortage and he resorted to eating a poisonous vine. The post was absolutely beautiful. However, when considered in combination with my reaction to The Story of Edgar Sawtelle and my friend's dying dog, the story of the dying antelope left no doubt that my animal angst has returned in full force.

What is it with the animals and me? From earliest memory I have always been especially tender-hearted when it comes to animals and deeply troubled by their troubles. It's difficult to admit and I'm not sure what this says about me as person, but I frequently am more unsettled by stories of animal distress than of human distress. My ability to cope with animal strife and death has never been good, but I feel that, unlike most of my troublesome issues, this one is getting worse over time instead of better. And I really would like to know why. Am I indulging in (over-)sentimentality? Am I trying to feel emotions on behalf of these creatures and take on their strife and, if so, is there any way in which this might possibly benefit them or me? Are the animals symbolic of me, or of someone I love, and if so what's the best interpretation of the symbolism? I acknowledge that sickness and death are part of life and my conscious mind says that I am OK with that reality, but maybe the animals are telling me that deep down I really am not yet at peace with those ideas? Am I needlessly giving meaning to things that I should just let be? Am I merely being silly?

If anyone out there has any theories that might shed light on this subject I would be pleased to hear them (even if they are not particularly flattering to yours truly), because I am at a total loss.

What Will We Do if Things Get Really Bad?

2008-09-16T11:58:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I joked about withdrawing my life savings and putting it under the mattress. Although I made that comment tongue-in-cheek (or at least mostly tongue-in-cheek), it started me to thinking about how we Americans would respond if things got really bad. And by "really bad" I mean Great Depression bad, not just giving-up-some-of-our-toys bad.

My grandparents lived through the Great Depression. They were poor before it started and became even poorer. My grandmother, who in her later years could solve the Rubik's Cube and the Rubik's Revenge without any hints, couldn't go to high school because she had to work to help support her family. My grandfather had abandoned school for work after the sixth grade. They both worked and saved and invested and worked and saved and invested until finally, when they were in their 60s, they decided it was safe to retire.

My grandparents died comfortably well off, and I think that by many standards they probably were considered rich. In spite of their greatly improved financial position, they lived frugally their entire lives. My grandmother let me make the creamed potatoes for Sunday dinner, and one day, as I ran out of margarine and went to grab a new tub, I watched my grandmother get at least another tablespoon of margarine out of the "empty" tub that I was about to discard. Then there was my grandfather, who continued to wear shoes that appeared to have been purchased during the Great Depression well into the '70s and '80s, and who continued to wear his shirts long after they started springing holes. Sometimes I was embarrassed to go in public with him because he looked so raggedy. When I'd suggest that he might want to go shop for new duds, he would reply that the old ones suited him just fine. My grandparents raised their own fruits and vegetables in the spring and summer, and my grandmother canned what we couldn't immediately consume so that we'd have it during the fall and winter. Nothing ever went to waste. Ever. "Those who waste will come to want," my grandmother was fond of saying. She and my grandfather both knew from experience what it was to want for the basics, and they didn't plan to be doing that again any time soon.

My formative years, the good ol' Reagan '80s, stood in stark contrast to my grandparents' childhood and early adult experiences. In the '80s, the government ran exploding deficits and encouraged the citizenry to spend, spend, spend, even if that meant that all of us went into debt, too. "Buy now, pay later" was the prevailing societal "wisdom" when I was forming my views of money and its place in life. The "pay later" part always seemed to me like an afterthought, as long as I was able to get my hands on all the stuff that the glitzy advertisements succeeded in convincing me that I could not live without. No wonder my grandparents, who never had a debt except their mortgage and hardly ever bought anything besides food and sundries, looked so out of place to me.

Going from a childhood of poverty to an adulthood of financial security is one thing, but most of us in my generation would, were the financial situation to worsen, be going in the opposite direction. Although I don't particularly want to be poor, I am genuinely interested in what we, as an affluent, even downright extravagant society, would do if plunged into a state of widespread poverty. It obviously would be a huge shock, but it might well force us to get our priorities straight as a society and that, I think, actually would do a lot of us some good.

In a recent comment on another blog, a good friend of mine observed that we like money because we equate financial security with personal security. I think that was certainly true of my grandparents, who spent a lifetime clinging to what money they had, even when that amount became considerable and they could have afforded to let some go -- they didn't buy stuff to compensate for the stuff they lacked during the Great Depression, but it was important to their sense of security to have the ability, the money, to buy stuff if the need ever arose. I think that equating money with security also is at the core of our society's current focus on rampant consumerism, which tells us that the more buying power we have and use, the better off and more powerful we are.

The problem with this, of course, is that financial security does not, indeed cannot, provide the kinds of personal security that so many people seek from it. Money can't keep you from getting sick, it can't make people like you, it can't keep you out of conflict, it can't keep you out of harm's way, and it sure as hell can't keep you alive forever. Money doesn't ultimately stop any of the things that we fear most in life -- at best it can keep the bad stuff at bay a while longer (e.g., it can buy superior health care to increase the odds of health and longevity), and at worst it can makes some of the things we fear more likely (e.g., the more stuff we have the more there is to fight over, and the better equipped we are to conduct our fights).

I personally think that a better strategy would be to make peace with life's unalterable ebb and flow, and our place in it, instead of engaging in a misguided attempt to try to shield ourselves from the inevitable with material wealth. Although I'm not advocating that everyone go off and build a hut on Walden Pond and live off nuts and berries, I do think that living much more simply, whether by choice or necessity -- or at least cultivating the awareness that it is possible to live much more simply -- increases our ability to distinguish what is real from what is window dressing.

If and when our wealth diminishes in a significant way, will we spoiled Americans be able to see the reality, and therefore the beauty, of what is left? Will we be able to see that true security comes not from money or what it buys but rather from accepting that things are ever-changing and that we are vulnerable to certain things no matter what we do or have? Or will we just keep chasing after the almighty dollar and eagerly embrace the boom times when they return, as they surely someday will? A downturn in the economy may or may not cause folks to shift their attitudes and priorities toward the role of money, but as long as times remain affluent my bet is that most Americans will not voluntarily consider such a shift.

Maybe my grandmother was more right than she knew -- or maybe she was wise enough to know already just how right she was -- when she used the adage that "those who waste will come to want." And maybe, just maybe, having that adage come to fruition wouldn't be such a bad thing. Whatever happens, I am very thankful to have had the example that she and my grandfather set for how to live simply yet also live well.

Financial Meltdown

2008-09-15T09:48:00.000-04:00

Lehman is filing for bankruptcy, AIG is restructuring in an attempt to avoid a similar fate, and Bank of America is buying Merrill Lynch. What a day on Wall Street!

As a consumer, I am trying to resist the urge to withdraw all the money I have and shove it under my mattress before things get even worse, because I believe it is likely that they could.

As a bank regulatory lawyer who cares deeply about financial regulation and policy, I think that the current financial mess should spur a major overhaul in the regulatory regime for depository institutions and other financial institutions, and I would love nothing more than to have some kind of an impact, even if only a small one, on how things get restructured.

I need to go back to work. Soon.

Welcome, All Black Boxers!

2008-09-14T10:52:00.000-04:00

I discovered the Black Box yesterday and immediately became riveted to it. My fiance already has expressed worry about my compulsion to the press the "decide" button. It's a good thing that "Black Box Anonymous" doesn't exist (at least not yet!), or I think my fiance would be dragging me off to meetings. And this within 24 hours of discovering the Black Box!

It is heaps of fun, though. I'm particularly intrigued by the consistent patterns emerging in the results that the Black Box produces. With only one possible exception, all of the "mystery blogs" to which I've been directed (and there have been many!) are penned by people who have a deep appreciation for the written word -- everyone is a professional writer, an aspiring writer, or has a "favorite book" list that is a mile long. Also interesting is that almost all the blogs I've discovered through the Black Box are written by Brits, and the remainder are written by women who live in Africa and who have a real talent for painting with words. On top of that, it appears that several of the bloggers I've discovered through the Black Box were commenting on one another's blogs even before the Black Box made waves. Wow! I think I've found some new "blog kin!"

For those of you who got here by way of the Black Box, welcome, I'm glad you're here! My blog is less than month old and I could use some more readers! If you have the time and inclination, by all means let me know that you stopped by.

Ahhh...the Sun!

2008-09-13T12:42:00.000-04:00

The last few days in Washington, D.C. have featured blank, gray skies with virtually no color variation, moderate temperatures, and stagnant, unmoving air. A good friend of mine characterizes days like this as "non-days," which I think is a brilliant description.

My moods coincided perfectly with these past few bleak and depressing non-days. During them, I found myself overcome with grief from multiple sources: a family member learned for certain that her leukemia was no longer in remission and that she will soon be undergoing a bone marrow transplant; I learned that my friend's dog, who is nearly 14, is quickly dying of an illness that came upon him suddenly; and this week included the anniversary of September 11, which, as a Washingtonian who has many friends in New York City, is always a difficult time for me. In my grief-laden state, I felt indifferent about pretty much everything.

The only real bright spot for me this week was that yesterday I saw my all-time favorite massage therapist, who over the course of the last couple years has become a dear friend. She is a very astute observer of both people and weather, and she has a healing touch that never ceases to amaze me. While I received a massage from her, I felt the week's grief releasing its grip on my body, mind, and spirit. As we parted ways it started to rain. My friend looked skyward and said, "the weather explains everything."

The rain picked up quickly and I got soaked on the way home, but that was fine by me -- at least something was actually happening on the meteorological front for a change, and it seemed fitting that the skies were experiencing their form of release just as I was experiencing my own. Plus, I felt that what little remained of my grief was being washed away by the afternoon shower.

I've been reflecting on my friend's statement about the power of the weather since we parted company, and I think that she is correct -- the weather really does explain a great deal. Today the sun is showing its lovely face for the first time in several days, and all aspects of the world seem brighter along with the weather. People are smiling while they run their Saturday errands; Eastern Market is full of a bustling joy; the wildlife, which hunkered down a bit during the bleak period, has resumed normal activity with what seems to be gratitude; and my fiance just put on a lively jazz CD that is cheering everyone in our house. With the sun, my feelings of grief and indifference have been replaced by feelings of hopefulness and keen interest.

Thank you, beautiful sun, for coming back to see us -- having missed you in myriad ways while you were gone, I am all the more grateful to you today.

A Poem

2008-09-12T10:17:00.000-04:00

I was skimming through Rainer Maria Rilke's Book of Hours this morning and found myself drawn to the following poem. These verses, which Rilke wrote in 1903, describe with stunning precision the world as I know it today.

The cities only care for what is theirs
and uproot all that's in their path.
They crush the creatures like hollow sticks
and burn up nations like kindling.

Their people serve the culture of the day,
losing all balance and moderation,
calling their aimlessness progress,
driving recklessly where they once drove slow,
and with all that metal and glass
making such a racket.

It's as if they were under a spell:
they can no longer be themselves.
Money keeps growing, takes all their strength,
and empties them like a scouring wind,
while they wait for wine and poisonous passions
to spur them to fruitless occupations.

Many Levels of Heartbreak

2008-09-11T09:23:00.014-04:00

The events of September 11, 2001, as they occurred, were an example of heartbreak writ large. It's not every day that terrorists attack Americans on our own soil, killing and injuring large numbers of us and destroying important symbols of our society in the process. Some day I will write a blog post about how I spent that day, but for now let's just suffice it to say that, as someone who lived in Washington, D.C., I will never forget the sheer terror that I felt when I asked myself where I reasonably could go that was safe and found the honest answer to be, "nowhere." September 11, 2001, was the first, and thusfar only, time that I have felt panic and resignation simultaneously, and it was a heartbreaking combination. Even greater heartbreak ensued as I learned about people who I knew whose lives had been taken or who had lost loved ones.

Although September 11, 2001, came and went like all days do and took its immediate pain with it, it left more subtle levels of heartbreak in its aftermath, some of which continue even to this day. I think that life changed for all Americans on that ill-fated day, but those of us who were in DC and most especially NYC at the time of the attacks bear a special burden. When I hear my former colleagues at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York describe their experiences being at the Reserve Bank in lower Manhattan on September 11, 2001, and the days immediately following, and when I think about how many of those people lost numerous family members and friends, I begin to appreciate just how lucky I was. Nevertheless, I know that September 11, 2001, still did affect me profoundly, albeit in much less apparent ways.

In the period immediately following September 11, 2001, I would sit in the living room of my Capitol Hill row house, my thoughts consumed with the awareness that my home was vulnerable to attack and the angst of not knowing when or in what form the next attack might be. Whenever I heard a fighter jet or more often a helicopter fly over my house or office, I would wonder if DC were under attack and my heart would race. My fear, insecurity, and anxiety were ever-present, and there were some times when I thought that my body might collapse under their weight. I chronically felt like this, although to a steadily lessening degree, for at least two years. I am not a mental health professional, but I wonder if perhaps this was some kind of post-traumatic stress reaction. Thankfully, that impending sense of doom that followed me so closely for so long is now gone, or at least mostly gone. There still is a moment every once in a great while when I get a flash of that old visceral, heart-sickening feeling, but I now thankfully am able immediately to restore a sense of balance to my heart and mind.

There is one sense, though, in which September 11, 2001, will always be with me. This probably will sound weird, but to me one of the most disconcerting things about September 11, 2001, was that it was, at least from a weather perspective, a day of surpassing beauty. Cloudless blue sky; clear, dry air; temperature in the 70s; gentle breeze rustling the leaves; that especially beautiful quality of light that occurs only in September. I couldn't have produced a more beautiful day if I'd had the power. That the world as I knew it fell apart and changed forever in the face of such natural beauty was at the time, and remains, nothing short of incomprehensible to me. Whenever the world now produces what I consider to be perfect weather, I enjoy it to a point, but then I find myself haunted by the specter of how such awful things once occurred against a similarly lovely backdrop. "September 11, 2001, was a lot like this," I find myself saying on all the loveliest days of the year. Each "perfect day" candidate becomes it own kind of anniversary of September 11, 2001, even more so than the actual anniversary in many cases. For me there are no more truly "perfect days," because any day that might otherwise qualify brings with it the difficult memories of September 11, 2001. This is a dull and subtle kind of heartbreak, but sometimes I think it is the most painful of all because I know that I will have it for as long as I have a memory.

For all that I experienced on September 11, 2001, and for all the emotions that the memory of that day brings up, I know that I am profoundly lucky. I know that my version of 9/11 heartbreak pales in comparison to that of countless others. To all who suffered and who continue to suffer the effects of September 11, 2001, you have my deepest sympathy. I share in your heartbreak on this, the 7th anniversary of the event, and I will continue to share in your heartbreak for all time.

Eat, Pray, Love

2008-09-09T11:25:00.000-04:00

Yesterday afternoon, I finished Elizabeth Gilbert's book, Eat, Pray, Love. This book was recommended to me highly by a friend earlier this year and had been on my reading list for a while. A couple weeks ago, another friend mentioned in her blog how she disliked the book and found the author narcissistic. This led to a flurry of comments on the blog post, with the commenters divided squarely into "love it" and "hate it" camps. After seeing this exchange, I immediately moved the book to the top of my reading list.

I count myself in the love it camp. Of the three memoirs that I have read this year (The Glass Castle and The Spiral Staircase being the other two), I liked Eat, Pray, Love by far the best. I think there are several reasons for this. First of all, I identified with the author. She was a person who seemingly "had it all" at a young age yet found herself deeply depressed. I also suffered a major depression in my late 20s when I supposedly had it all, so I related immediately. I can see how people who don't have first-hand experience with depression might find the author "spoiled" or "a whiner" for not being satisfied with all her money and success and her fancy house, but as someone who has lacked serotonin for a prolonged period of time I could totally understand how she felt.

I also deeply appreciated how the author could assess herself and the people and situations around her with balance, honesty, and good humor. This stands in marked contrast to the other memoirs I have read recently. The author of The Glass Castle painted her crazy-as-a-loon, child-abusing parents as "brilliant" and "artistic" and she painted herself as even more brilliant and artistic, as evidenced by the "fact" that she rose above her chaotic childhood and found success in New York City without anyone else's help. Now that struck me as narcissistic! The author of The Spiral Staircase tells a more complex story and does so with what usually is a pleasing, philosophical voice, but even she paints the characters in her life as one-sided and tends to blame all her misfortunes on other people while giving herself all the credit for her success. Elizabeth Gilbert's willingness to give equal time to her frailties and her good points without being either self-pitying or self-aggrandizing, and her willingness to see the other people in her life as equally multi-faceted, provided a breath of fresh air by comparison.

The Glass Castle and The Spiral Staircase both tended to have an "I was there, now I'm here, and I am so great for rising above my past" feel about them, while Eat, Pray, Love struck me as being more about the journey itself and what the author learns along the way than about the starting and ending points. Elizabeth Gilbert is not just telling you where she wound up and describing for posterity how she got there so much as she is asking you to come along and share the ride with her. The reader not only hears about Gilbert's experiences but also is invited to think about how what Gilbert learned through those experiences might inform the reader's own journey. She has some wonderful insights and provides some real nuggets of wisdom along the way. I therefore thought that there was a universal focus in this book that was lacking in the other memoirs I have read, which really have been all about the authors.

In conclusion, I thought that Eat, Pray, Love was a very good book, especially for a memoir (which, as you no doubt have discerned, is a genre with which I struggle). I feel uplifted for having read it. I am looking forward to reading Gilbert's upcoming book, which will tell about her life after she returned from Indonesia. I will be especially interested to see if the wild success of Eat, Pray, Love has gone to her head, or if instead she will be able to retain the grounded perspective and delightful voice that made Eat, Pray, Love such a pleasure to read.

Sweet Sorrow

2008-09-08T10:28:00.001-04:00

I have friends from the dog-walking cemetery who just moved to Vienna, Austria. I have known C and J for only about 8 months, but I totally fell in love with them and their dog Barney during that time. I know that we will keep in touch, and maybe even visit each other at some point over the next year or two, but it will not be the same as seeing them almost every day. I miss them already. I also don't know how my younger dog Amos is going to take their departure, because he and Barney not only look just alike but also are the best of wrestling and running buds. Peas in a pod, those two. I wonder if dogs miss each other in the same way that we do?

The way in which I miss my friends right now involves a combination of two sets of emotions that seem to be occurring equally strongly all at once. I find myself deeply saddened at the prospect of not seeing my friends and Barney on a daily basis -- they brought such a bright, happy light to the cemetery dog-walking community, and their departure leaves a hole in the fabric of that community. But this woe-is-me reaction is accompanied by a feeling of great happiness for my friends. The move to Vienna comes because of a wonderful new job for J, and I have no doubt that both he and C will relish living in one of Europe's most beautiful and culturally rich cities. This is such a great opportunity for them both, and I am so glad that they had the courage and sense of adventure to seize it. Plus, their presence in Vienna -- which is one of my favorite cities -- gives me an added incentive to go there.

I think that Shakespeare got it right, as usual, when he said that parting is such sweet sorrow. The sweetness of new possibilities brought about by a parting is mixed with the sorrow inherent in being separated from someone dear. At the moment I am letting both the sweetness and the sorrow do their thing inside of me, trying to make my peace with both these emotions so that I will be free to move on to the next thing that comes up. And I also am wishing that C's and Barney's first day in Vienna (they should have arrived this morning) will be a splendid one.

A Kind of Prayer

2008-09-07T12:32:00.000-04:00

Say what you will about Mother Nature, but she is always fair when it comes to this one thing: when she pommels you with a major tropical storm one day, she immediately follows up with a crystal-clear blue sky, bright sunshine, low humidity, and a gentle breeze the next. The Washington, D.C. area currently is experiencing a particularly glorious day-after-the-storm. There is absolutely nothing about this day not to like.

But you know what? Although it interfered slightly with my ability to be outdoors, I actually liked yesterday's stormy aspect quite a bit, too. I found it very comforting to know that the rain was watering the crops and replenishing the water table, and in so doing making human life in this part of the world possible. Remembering the vital role of the rain and watching it, mostly from the safety of my home, put me in a very relaxed and contemplative mood.

As I walked my dogs in the crisp, cool morning air earlier today, I thought about the contrasting styles of beauty that yesterday and today offer. Appreciating whatever is happening in nature at the moment is something that I find myself doing on a regular basis these days, and my powers of appreciation are heightened when I am outside walking. Even after walking my dogs for over an hour in the morning, I often will go for another long walk in the National Arboretum so that I can get a better feel for what nature is doing at the moment.

When I focus on nature in this manner, I always am saying "thank you" to the universe for the current state of the world. Sometimes I also am looking for a more balanced way to exist in the world as I find it -- my walks provide a wonderful opportunity to release anger, to calm restlessness, to assuage sadness, to sort through confusion, to revel in happiness, to appreciate a moment of peace, to share uncontainable joy, and to cultivate thoughts of love. Through my observances of nature, I become acutely aware of the divine without, the divine within, and the inextricable links between them. I begin to glimpse the sublime oneness of people and things that I normally would view as separate and distinct, and I wish only good things for this collective union and all its constituent parts. This is the manner in which I pray, and the more often I do it the more I begin to think of life as one continuous prayer.

What Makes Us Human

2008-09-05T21:11:00.001-04:00

There's someone in my life, someone whom I love dearly, who is very sick. When her illness first emerged last year, I so wanted to be positive for her sake and also to assuage my own discomfort, so I donned a fake, pasted-on happy face and talked of positive attitudes and keeping spirits up and so on. I felt like such a fraud the whole time I did this. What a relief it was when her illness went into remission -- what a just reward for enduring such a grueling course of chemotherapy. And how convenient for me, that I could pack away all that repressed ickiness I had felt deep down but never fully acknowledged.

Yesterday I learned that the symptoms of my loved one's illness have returned, and now I feel horrible. I feel sad and angry on behalf of the person who is sick because, by all the standards that I can conceive for judging such things, her situation just flat out isn't fair. I also feel sad and angry on behalf of her parents and siblings, who are all wonderful people and who each suffers in his or her own way because of this illness that is not theirs to bear yet that cannot but help to affect them all. In addition, I feel sad and angry for myself, because I am frustratingly powerless to make this young and vibrant person as well as I believe she deserves to be, as I so earnestly want her to be.

I now know from experience that trying to deny all these difficult emotions, as unpleasant as they may be, is not a wise path. Despite my most valiant efforts last year to suppress them, the uncomfortable emotions didn't ever really go away -- they just found new and creative (and usually not very productive) ways to rise to the surface and force me to acknowledge them. I reflected on last year's emotional repressions at great length today as I thought about the possible future journey that lies ahead if the tests next week confirm what we all suspect.

It now is clear to me that emotions do not stand for being suppressed, greeted with shame, or otherwise overlooked. Our emotions are one of the things that make us human, and we should feel them -- we need to feel them, and when we ignore or deny them we do so at our peril. After having that thought, I explicitly said to all that complex and intertwined stuff otherwise known as my emotions, "Bring it on!" From now on, I intend to feel each and every emotion that enters my heart or crosses my brow, and to feel it fully. The good ones, the bad ones, the ones that make me so uncomfortable I want to move to Timbuktu just to get away -- bring them all on. I can handle them.

I can handle all these crazy emotions, and here's why: All emotions are by their nature fleeting. We feel good today, we feel bad tomorrow, we feel kinda-sorta OK the day after that, and so the cycle goes. Actually bringing ourselves to feel all these fleeting and ever-changing emotions is how we know we're alive. I think we get ourselves in trouble, though, when we don't let a fleeting thing do its thing and flee. The trick, in my view, is to feel each emotion that arises for all it's worth, but then when its worth is expended to let it go. The trick, in other words, is to not get stuck.

This is what I want to say to my family, and to myself, right now: Tough times may well be ahead, but don't be afraid of your emotions and for god's sake don't deny them. Your emotions are what make you human, so embrace them. Embrace each one of them for whatever time it seems to serve a useful purpose, and then let it go so that you can feel the next thing just as fully. Because there will be a next thing. There always is.

A Few of My Favorite Things

2008-09-04T12:02:00.000-04:00

It is taking quite an effort on my part not to use this space to vent my reactions to Sarah Palin's debut speech and the Giuliani tirade that preceded it. Instead, I decided to make a list of a few of my favorite things in life, the vast majority of which, I realized with a combination of relief and gratitude, would survive a McCain/Palin administration. Here goes, in no particular order --

- My fiance, especially his keen mind, good looks, and goofy sense of humor
- My parents and brother
- Jacob and Amos the dogs and all the endearing and funny things they do to make me smile
- The wonderful, small-town feel of my Capitol Hill neighborhood, and the many friends I've made while living there
- My home state of North Carolina, particularly the beaches, the mountains, and the beautiful green smell that permeates the air of the Piedmont region in between
- Congressional Cemetery
- The National Arboretum
- Really great massages
- Reading books, especially outdoors on a beautiful day while dining al fresco
- The voices of Cecilia Bartoli, Kiri te Kanawa, Samuel Ramey, and Thomas Quasthoff
- The music of Beethoven and Bach
- Lazy Sundays
- Cooking, especially for people I love
- Going on long walks
- Feeling that I am making a positive difference in the world
- The afternoon light in my upstairs den as the sun hits the skylight
- Taking good vacations
- Living in a place where I can feel the full measure of all four seasons
- The English language and all its many, beautiful nuances
- Having a strong sense of familial and regional history
- Magnolia trees
- Lilacs
- The buttercups that blanket the cemetery in the spring
- The silence of snow
- Figs, in part because they are delicious, but mostly because they remind me of my grandmother
- Ideas and the free exchange thereof
- Wine
- The Lebanese Taverna
- The British Virgin Islands
- Living simply
- Contemplating the ocean and soaking in its healing waves
- Sitting by the fire on fall and winter days
- Crossword puzzles and sudoku
- Collecting art as I'm moved by it
- Going to museums, especially on a rainy day
- Santa Fe
- Doing work that I feel is important and doing it well
- The Constitution of the United States
- Watching Duke basketball
- Being on a sailboat
- Eastern Market
- Tomatoes
- Having choices (although sometimes I have so many that I get overwhelmed!)
- Being a Luddite in a techno-crazy world
- The Library of Congress
- Chanel perfumes, especially No. 19 and Bois des Isles, which smells the way I think heaven must
- Coffee, especially in France and Italy
- Architecture
- Sunrises and sunsets
- Sitting behind the fish pond in the Duke Gardens
- The feeling of knowing that I am truly loved

I probably could keep going all day, but my food-and-drink entries above have made me hungry so I'm going to stop writing now and go eat. And I'll do so feeling a whole lot better than I did before I made this list!

A Woman and Her House

2008-09-03T13:05:00.001-04:00

I bought my little row house on Capitol Hill in March of 2000 on somewhat of a whim. I had run out of space for bookcases in my tiny 1-bedroom rental in the Penn Quarter, so I decided to check out the Hill as a possible place to upgrade to something bigger. I figured that I had a decent shot of actually affording a house somewhere in that area (those were the days!), and I liked the fact that Capitol Hill was within walking distance of the National Mall and reasonable commuting distance to work. I was not in a mood to buy at that time, just to check out what the area had to offer with an eye toward buying in a year or two.

On a bone-chilling rainy Sunday in February 2000, a friend and I had brunch at Jaleo (an excellent bribe to enlist someone to go on a house-hunting mission!) and then drove up Capitol Hill with our list of open houses in hand. After spending a day trudging through one house after the other, I loved the feel of the neighborhood, particularly around Eastern Market, but all of the houses we’d seen were kind of blah – too small, too in need of work, too modern an interior for a Victorian-era building, too unappealing a layout, and so on. Just as we were headed to the car to go back downtown, my friend spotted a sign for an open house that wasn’t on our list but that was, conveniently, right around the corner from where we were parked. I reluctantly agreed to give it a look – I was cold, tired, grumpy, and ready to go home, but I figured that checking out one more place wouldn’t do any harm.

When I walked into the house that I now call home, I knew within about 15 seconds that it was “my house.” I immediately loved everything about it – it had been updated but all the charming Victorian details had been left intact, and it had a wonderful flow and a very comfortable vibration about it. As I climbed to the second floor, I saw a cozy den through the banister rails – it had once been the middle bedroom and narrow upstairs hallway, but a previous owner had removed the hallway wall so that there now was an open space in the middle of the second floor overlooking the staircase. This room featured a wood-burning fireplace flanked by built-in bookcases and a sunny window seat, and it was lit by a skylight above the stairwell. When I saw that room, I decided that I absolutely had to buy this house. I already was envisioning where to put all my things, which I knew would look just perfect in a Victorian house. A rapid succession of calls to The Bank of Mom and Dad, a realtor I knew from the Penn Quarter, and a mortgage lender immediately ensued. After stumbling upon this marvelous little house serendipitously on a Sunday, I participated in a 3-way bidding war the immediately following Tuesday and emerged victorious. I settled one month later, on the Ides of March.

Wow! Me, a home owner at the age of 29! Remembering how I felt when I turned the key in the door of my new home for the first time still gives me chills. This was my dream house, and my dream had actually come true. Man was I ever lucky! The movers weren’t scheduled to come until the day after settlement, but I was so excited that I moved the kitchen and bathroom stuff (there wasn’t much of it) over myself on settlement day, and Arthur the cat and I slept on the window seat that first night. At least I attempted to sleep, which was difficult in the face of Arthur’s endless serenade of sounds that were part meow, part howl. He didn’t settle down until the next day when all of our stuff arrived, and then he was fine until a couple months later when I decided that more space was an excuse to get him a new cat.

After a honeymoon period of a couple months, I found myself cataloging the flaws of the house. The wallpaper in the kitchen had to go, I wanted the walls to be a different color, the floors needed refinishing, the molding looked like it had about 20 coats of paint on it, the 100-year old windows rattled when they were closed and had to be propped open because they had no sash cords, there was lots of noise because of the buses and fire trucks zooming by, the deck was in need of repair, and the list continued. Whenever I fixed one thing I’d immediately notice at least two other things, so my home improvement list just kept getting longer no matter how much time and money went toward repairs. Now I knew why my parents and countless others called their houses “money pits!”

I found during the first few years that, as much as I really loved the house, I did not appreciate all its beauty and good attributes because I was so focused on what was “wrong.” I got so frustrated by all the perceived flaws of my home that I spent most of my non-working hours finding ways to stay out of it. Looking back on it, I see that this attitude toward my home in many ways mirrored my attitude toward myself during those years. I had long tended to focus on my own flaws to the exclusion of my good traits, and I always felt a need to stay in motion, to keep ahead of what I might find if I dared to be still for a moment.

These days, as I have relaxed into accepting myself as I am, I concurrently have been spending much more time at home. I now find myself really savoring all the good things about the house – things that I never fully appreciated before – and I marvel at how numerous those good things are. I see the lovely wall colors, the growing art collection, the updated kitchen in which cooking is such a pleasure, the lovely wonkiness of the original glass windows, and the furnishings that remain both pretty and comfortable despite the damage from cat claws. Although I still have something in the way of a to-do list, at this point I tend to see the items on it as things that will lend character and charm to the house until such time as they are addressed, which in many cases may well be never. So be it. Such is the beauty of an old house.

The newfound ability to pause, and to be comfortable with exactly where things are during that pause instead of grasping for something more or different, has blessed me with numerous benefits, not the least of which is the ability to appreciate the true loveliness of my home sweet home.

Who Am I, Really?

2008-09-02T15:35:00.003-04:00

I recently have started having conversations geared toward finding myself a job sometime between now and the beginning of next year. There have not been any formal interviews yet – I’ve simply been testing the waters to get a feel for where I might have the best chance of cutting a deal to my liking (which, by the way, would involve policy-centered work in the bank regulatory field, enough money to pay the bills, no more than 3 days per week, and a reasonable assurance that the part-time aspect of the arrangement would be honored – if anybody out there is reading this and has any ideas, please let me know!).

In anticipation that the real employment negotiations will start taking place soon, this morning I dusted off my résumé. What a flurry of thoughts and emotions that brought to the surface! There was a time, as recently as last year, when I more or less defined myself by reference to my résumé, my job title, and my annual job performance ratings. Looking at my résumé today was a stark reminder of those days and how miserable I felt during them -- always looking to my job for fulfillment, always looking to my academic and job accomplishments to validate my self-worth, always competing to be better than those around me and better than I was last year, always feeling that no matter how well I did it was not good enough, always ticked off when someone else did better or got promoted faster (especially if that someone went to crappy schools and/or wasn’t, in my view, of above-average intelligence). Sheesh, what a draining way to live! No wonder I needed a year off!

At this time last year, when I was weighing the decision of whether or not to take a year off of work, one thing that I remember vaguely wondering in passing was, “Who will I be if I’m not a lawyer at the Federal Reserve Board anymore?” Answering this question certainly was not on my list of conscious reasons to quit my job and take a year off, but I think that in many respects it may have been my real reason for doing so. The part of me that really knows stuff knew that this question needed answering, and that there was only one set of circumstances under which I would bring myself to answer it. I needed to be in a place where I no longer had a job title that I could use as a substitute for a sense of self and where the list of academic and professional achievements that I was substituting for self-worth became completely irrelevant. I needed to throw away the psychological crutches on which I had so long depended to see what would be left standing without them. I have always liked a challenge, and boy did I get one!

Doing away with the conditions that nurtured my particular brand of the “I am what I do” belief resulted initially in a fair amount of self-pity and self-doubt. However, seeing what is left standing without the old crutches has been more than worth that early discomfort. What is left standing is a human being who knows that her true self cannot be pinned down and neatly labeled and is OK with that reality. What is left standing is a human being who knows that trying to convince herself of her worth by amassing external achievements is completely beside the point because self-worth comes from within. What is left standing is a human being who realizes that trying to assert her superiority over other human beings also is completely beside the point because in the end we are all just people who are born and die and who are essentially the same while we live. What is left standing is one human being among billions who knows that we are all in this soup called life together and that we need to honor one another, not compete against one another, if we are to have any hope of satisfaction, individually or collectively.

Today, after a year of reflecting on many topics, including my own sense of being, I looked at my résumé with new eyes. Today, for the first time, I did not look at that piece of paper and think, “This represents who I am.” Instead I thought, “This describes how I’ve chosen to spend my time.” This shift in perspective is, in my book, further evidence that the benefits of taking a year off were more than worth the costs.

It's Labor Day?

2008-09-01T11:13:00.003-04:00

For the last nine years, I was a lawyer at the Federal Reserve Board and a total slave to the federal holiday schedule. I typically would start looking forward to Labor Day weekend no later than July 5. Labor Day kicks off that wonderful 5-month period during which there are one or two federal holidays a month. It also features hands-down the best weather of any federal holiday and does not involve either cooking for a crowd or going over to someone else's house to be part of a crowd (a real bonus for the introverts among us). I think it would be safe to say that Labor Day always has been my favorite federal holiday. I even like Labor Day better than Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, which falls around my birthday and frequently got me a long birthday weekend.

In light of my enduring fondness for Labor Day, something very strange happened this year. I did not even realize Labor Day was coming until last Friday, when I just happened to hear someone mention it on the radio. If it hadn't been for that, I probably would not have known about Labor Day until this morning, when I no doubt would have been caught wondering aloud why my significant other was not going to work. What a difference a year and a non-working perspective make! I guess that's to be expected, given the purpose and title of the holiday.

Now that I finally am with the program, I would like to wish everyone, workers and non-workers alike, a happy Labor Day. It is a beautiful September day out there -- at least in the DC metro area -- and I hope that folks will make the most of it.

The Graveyard

2008-08-31T14:46:00.004-04:00

Like many dog owners who live on Capitol Hill and don’t have much of a yard, I walk my dogs in Congressional Cemetery, an historic graveyard in southeast DC that dates back to 1807 (go to http://www.congressionalcemetery.org/ for more information). Walking dogs in a graveyard sounds strange at first, but it makes sense once you actually see it. In return for dog-walking privileges, each dog walker pays a yearly fee, and the dog-walking money funds the cemetery’s considerable ground maintenance bill. In addition, many dog walkers volunteer to help with various grounds-keeping and administrative projects at the cemetery, and some dog walkers have helped the cemetery procure major funding from other sources. The routine presence of people and dogs on the grounds transforms the graveyard into a wonderfully alive space, and most of the dog walkers find themselves falling in love with history and ambiance of the burial ground. In the view of most people involved, allowing dogs in the graveyard turns out to be a win-win situation (see http://www.cemeterydogs.org/ for more about dogs at Congressional Cemetery).

Some folks on the cemetery’s board disagree with the established dog-walking program, I think because they view the presence of dogs as disrespectful to those interred and fear that having a critical mass of dogs on the grounds will transform what should be a somber burial ground into nothing more than a dog park that happens to have head stones. My view, however, is that if these anti-dog folks would just talk to the dog walkers, or maybe even better yet actually visit the cemetery during peak dog-walking hours, they would find out that the dog-walking program doesn’t turn Congressional Cemetery into a dog park but rather enhances it as a cemetery.

Although some burials still occur at Congressional Cemetery, most of the graves are old, forgotten by descendants, and rarely visited. The dog walkers basically serve as equal-opportunity visitors for all of those interred at the cemetery. We pay attention to the grave sites, wonder about the lives of the people whose graves we notice, and continually point graves out to one another. Even after walking there for years, people find themselves noticing new things all the time. Many of us, including me, could give you a comprehensive tour of the graves that are considered historically noteworthy, but we also could give you the saddest stories tour, the funny names tour, the I’m-really-perplexed by this family plot tour, and the list goes on. How many graveyards in this country can boast a whole legion of people each of whom visits daily (some of us multiple times daily) and in the process forms on ongoing and attentive relationship with the entire place and all of its inhabitants? Certainly having 50 or 60 happy dogs frolicking around the 33-acre grounds on a given morning or evening is a small price for that kind of stewardship. Plus the dogs really brighten things up, and most of the non-dog-walking visitors seem genuinely delighted by their presence.

I probably never would have discovered Congressional Cemetery, and I certainly would not have made walking there a daily habit, if it had not been for my dogs. As it has turned out, though, I have walked in Congressional Cemetery twice a day virtually every day for the last 5 years, and it has become one of the most important places in my life. First of all, the place is beautiful. It is like a wonderful mirror that not only reflects but also intensifies the particular beauty and ambiance of each season. The stillness and chill of winter, the rebirth and teeming energy of spring, the heat and sultriness of summer, and the crispness and rustling of fall – it always seems to me that each season is at its quintessential best in that graveyard. I also love the feeling of ever-present peace that seems to hover over Congressional Cemetery. Regardless of the season, there seems always to be a sense of tranquility in the place that nothing can shake. I consistently have found that, no matter how foul my initial mood, the tranquility of the graveyard somehow rubs off on me and I always leave more at peace than when I arrived. And then there’s the whole bit about how walking in a graveyard every day can inspire one to confront the “big questions” – is there a god, is there an afterlife, can there be one without the other, why am I here, what is my purpose, how can I make peace with the fact that no matter what I do I will die, etc., etc. My daily walks in Congressional Cemetery certainly prompted me to spend considerable time thinking about all these questions. On top of all this, walking in the final resting place of many people who were critical to the forming of our nation and its capital city has given me quite a history lesson. Last but not least, I have made a lot of wonderful friends while walking dogs among the tombstones.

I’m sure that, without Congressional Cemetery, I eventually would have found other places and ways to appreciate the full measure of all the seasons, to get an instant shot of tranquility, to contemplate life and death, to learn more about our nation’s history, and to make friends. However, I can think of no other place where I would have gotten all these benefits so strongly and so routinely, and I can certainly think of no other place where I would have found all these things simultaneously. If someone had told me 6 years ago that I would spend an average of two hours a day walking dogs in a graveyard and that those would frequently be the best two hours of my day, I would have thought they were crazy. But that’s how it’s turned out, and I am so very pleased that it did.

I love Congressional Cemetery. Sometimes I think that maybe, although I didn’t know it at the time, part of the reason I was drawn to live in Washington was in order to get to know and so richly benefit from this wonderful, special place.

Love Is a Wonderful Thing

2008-08-30T21:06:00.004-04:00

I was a perennially single person for most of the first 35 years of my life, until I met the person who is now my fiancé. As the two-year anniversary of our first date approaches, I have been thinking a lot about our relationship and how it has evolved. I am constantly amazed at how different our experience has been from what the storybooks and the movies would have us believe constitutes romance, and I am even more struck by how much better our real-life romance has been than that fairy tale version.

In the fairy tale version, we only see the good parts, which usually are at the beginning when everyone is still euphoric and the hormones are running high. Although the early euphoric moments have their place, they are relatively unencumbered by that mixture of all the good and bad stuff that we typically call “real life.” A deep and enduring partnership cannot be made of euphoric moments alone because it needs time, and the challenges brought by time, to develop and find its richness.

Goodness knows my fiancé and I have had our challenges. I always had this idea in my head that I was an independent woman who was “meant to be alone,” so the fact that we even made it past the three-month mark was a real milestone. In persevering through life together these past two years, we have learned each others’ insecurities and foibles (and believe me, we each have our share!), and we also have trudged together through at least three things that squarely qualify as “major life changes.”

That my fiancé and I are still together sometimes strikes me as miraculous, because there are so many times during the last two years when it would have been very easy to give up. I particularly think that it would have been easy for him to give up, because at moments I have been just a hair’s breadth from completely unbearable. Yet we have managed through all our difficult moments to forge a stronger bond and make a wonderful life together. I think this is because we genuinely respect and listen to one another, we give one another opportunities to grow, we bring out the best in one another, and we are committed to staying together in a way that feels good to us both. Plus, at the end of a long day, when we relax into being ourselves, we find that it is simply and pleasingly good to be together. After 13 years of living happily alone and thinking that I would never share space with anyone again, I now cannot imagine being without this wonderful person who has willingly signed up to navigate the crazy waters of life with me.

It really is a splendid thing to love and to be loved in return, and it just keeps getting better all the time. That’s the part that the fairy tales don’t tell you about. Thank you, J, for staying with me. I love you and I hope that we are together for a long, long time to come.

How Much Can a Personality Change?

2008-08-29T09:24:00.002-04:00

I was thinking this morning about how much my outlook toward life has evolved over the last year. I feel calmer, more patient, less judgmental of myself and others, more accepting and less controlling when interacting with the people and experiences in my life, and just generally more at ease with the world and myself. I also have more energy and a greater capacity for social activities than previously. I've had dinner or lunch plans just about every day for the past week, and not only did I honor each and every one of those engagements, but I also did not feel wiped out by them. This is highly unusual, because typically if I have a dinner date for even one night, I need at least a two- or three-day recovery period during which I stay home and read books. Thinking about how differently I'm going through my life these days made me wonder if maybe my entire personality is changing, so I spent the morning pondering this topic and doing some "research."

Last year at about this time I took a personality type test based on the Myers-Briggs personality type theory. The instrument that I took pronounced me an INFJ (introverted, intuitive, feeling, judging) personality type. I identified with this label immediately. When I read the INFJ description, which was titled "Counselor-Idealist," I found myself continually nodding "yes" and saying "that describes me perfectly." INFJs are purportedly the rarest of the 16 Myers-Briggs types, and that also really resonated with me because I feel like such a misfit so much of the time. I recognize that personality typing tools are just one of many methods for assessing personalities, and also that all such tools have their limits. However, I nonetheless felt that this particular test had nailed me pretty accurately, and I also understood myself and the people around me a bit better after having read about Myers-Briggs personality typing more generally.

This morning I found myself curious to see whether all the changes I've made during my "Year of Healing" (which is what I like to call my time away from the workforce), were enough to alter my Myers-Briggs result. I mean, am I still an introvert if I can go out 5 nights out of 6 and actually feel really good afterward? Am I still an intuitive-judger if I am more detached, open, and compassionate and less rigid in my conclusions? I just took the same version of the Myers-Briggs type test that I took last year, and I got the same result as before. Not only am I still an INFJ, the "strength measures" associated with each of the four letters remained almost exactly the same.

I was only partially surprised by today's result, because I feel that on some fundamental level I basically am the same person as ever. At the same time, however, there are many ways in which I think and feel much differently than I have in the past, and I strongly suspect that some of the people who know me would report that they perceive significant differences, too. I therefore still found myself wondering if, in spite of the consistent Myers-Briggs results, there were some sense in which my personality actually had changed over the last year.

I guess that the question of whether and how much a personality can change ultimately boils down to what "personality" really is, anyway. The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary that I typically consult on such matters has a lengthy definition, one part of which is, "The assemblage of qualities or characteristics which makes a person a distinctive individual; the (esp. notable or appealing) distinctive character of a person." But what does that definition really mean, anyway, and how much of whatever fits that definition is hard-wired into us vs. subject to changes of our own making? These are the kinds of questions that I could puzzle over for hours and still not have satisfying answers. At the moment, however, it seems to me that maybe the answer is something like this:

Maybe there's some core in each of us that deals with how we take in and process information and what we do to find energy (this is what I think the Myers-Briggs test measures), and that core has been there for so long that we probably won't, and maybe even can't, change it. However, even if our basic processes remain the same, we can let those processes take us to new and different places all the time if we choose. We can be "the same" in terms of wiring, but we have a wide range of choice when it comes to using that wiring to eradicate and cultivate various traits and thought patterns. Maybe that is why my personality type, at least as measured by Myers-Briggs, will not ever really change, but my experience of the world, and my comfort level in it, hopefully will continue to deepen and broaden over time.

Itching

2008-08-27T09:49:00.004-04:00

Last night I had a heck of time falling asleep because I kept itching. One place would itch, so I'd scratch it. That itch would be extinguished, but another would immediately pop up somewhere else. This process repeated itself over and over and over again, leaving me a little more forlorn each time. Have you ever had this problem? Very frustrating, yes?

The first thing I always think when this happens is that there are bugs crawling all over me, but a quick check invariably reveals that there are in fact no bugs in the bed, or on me. There may be a tiny amount of dirt, which is not surprising considering how many pets are liable to hop up on the bed from time to time (in fact I'm always surprised that the pet dirt situation is not a lot worse than it is), but even that is not enough to cause a problem of this magnitude.

So if there's no immediately obvious physical stimulus, why I am itching like there's no tomorrow? I can't go to sleep in this condition, so I decide that I might as well spend my time productively. I search for the cause of my predicament, in the hopes that in finding the cause I will also see the cure. Here's what I come up with -- I itch because I'm impatient, because I want to control something or know something, and whatever it is that I want is eluding me right at this moment.

It occurs to me that there are probably at least two reasons I am itching on this particular night. My friends with whom I just had dinner are moving to Vienna soon (Austria, not northern Virginia, thankfully). The selfish part of me is sad to see them go and wishes that they had more time in DC, while the part of me that wants their lives to be hassle-free wishes that they were already settled into their new home without having to go through all this moving-and-flying business that they are about to embark upon. I want two competing things, neither of which is available in the wee hours of this Wednesday morning. I itch for resolution. In addition, I have just started job hunting, and although I know there are several places that would be happy to have me, I don't know if any of them will be willing to take me on my preferred terms. Usually I am OK with the fact that my career is up in the air, but occasionally I panic. I itch for certainty.

It is about 2:30 a.m. when I finally figure out that I am itching not because anything is physically wrong, but rather because I am being particularly, stubbornly insistent that things be other than as they are right now in this moment. I know, both theoretically and from experience, that this is a losing battle, but I am unsure how exactly to quell this mental turmoil so that this annoying itching will cease and I can get some much-needed sleep. Then, miraculously, I am saved by the Beatles. I am not really a Beatles fan (sacrilege, I know), but in my itchiness the opening lyrics of a Beatles song that I do happen to like quite a lot present themselves as the solution--

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to to me
Speaking words of wisdom,
Let it be.

Let it be. That is exactly, exactly what I need to do! Let my friends' journeys evolve as they will, let my job situation sort itself out in due course, stop trying to control the world, stop even wishing that I could control the world, stop even worrying about this blasted itching. Just let it be. I didn't ever see Mother Mary last night, but I did heed her particular words of wisdom, and it turns out that they are a remarkable cure for insomniac itching. I strongly suspect that they are a cure for many other types of self-imposed suffering as well.

Does Politics Really Matter?

2008-08-26T11:48:00.005-04:00

When I was younger, I thought that politics -- and by "politics" I mean the Democrat/Republican dance by which our country supposedly is governed -- really mattered. I voraciously read The Washington Post, tuned into the MacNeil/Lehrer News Hour every night, and watched all the politico talking head shows on Sunday morning. I did this in the hopes of understanding all that was going on in our nation's capital and what those goings-on meant for the rest of us, because I was convinced that it was all so important.

When I moved to Washington in 1993, disillusionment with the political process set in very quickly. After seeing the goings-on in this town from a much closer vantage point, I soon concluded that most of what was happening in Washington had very little direct impact on the ordinary American. The president, the senators, and the congressmen seemed to be more like little kids who had divided into teams on the playground to throw things at each other than responsible statesmen concerned with governing our country reasonably. The conservatives kept getting more conservative, the liberals kept getting more liberal, and the fights between them kept getting more ridiculous. Let them do what they want, I thought -- life will go on just about the same as it would've anyway for most of the rest of us. After reaching that conclusion, I tuned out politics for a long, long time.

With the 2008 presidential election rapidly approaching, I find that I have changed my mind on the importance of politics yet again. I still think that much of the time the output of the political machine isn't important, or is important only at the margins, in shaping the course of our lives. However, I think that there are times when politics does matter; and when it matters, it matters A LOT!!! Our current president, for example, has done a miraculously good job of gutting our civil liberties, turning what had been a brightening fiscal situation on its head, and getting us into a completely unnecessary war that has encouraged anti-American constituencies around the world to hate us even more actively than they did before. Idiocy, incompetence, and hubris are never good in isolation, and having all those traits combined in a president who actually succeeds in pushing his policy agenda has proved disastrous. As much as it pains me to say it, George W. Bush has made a difference, and it has not been a good one.

As I sit here today, I am hoping really hard that our next president will be Barack Obama, and that he will succeed at counteracting the damage done by Bush. Americans have so much goodness as a people -- on the whole, people in this country tend to be generous, caring, fun-loving, and freedom-loving. The negative and divisive policies of the Bush administration unfortunately have leveraged some of our less-appealing national traits at the expense of these good qualities. Our country is so ready for an administration that makes room for concepts like peace, hope, liberty, generosity, and respect. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we had a president who inspired us all, Democrat and Republican alike, to embrace what is good about ourselves and our heritage again; if we had a president who could help us collectively to be our best selves? I am hoping that Obama will do just that. I am hoping, in short, that Obama will make a difference.

The Pursuit of Happiness

2008-08-25T08:35:00.005-04:00

Do you ever notice how so many people in this country are preoccupied with the concept of happiness? People spend tons of money on therapists and self-help books in an attempt to find the key to happiness for themselves. And how many times have you heard a parent say of his or her child, "I don't care what little Elmer does with his life, as long as he's happy." (Well, maybe not Elmer, because no one really names their kid Elmer nowadays, but you get the point.) I suppose all this focus on happiness shouldn't come as any big surprise, though, in light of the fact that the Declaration of Independence names "the pursuit of happiness" among our inalienable rights as American citizens.

The thing that has struck me a lot lately is that, in the United States as of the year 2008, we seem to have taken the "pursuit" part of this particular inalienable right more seriously than the "happiness" part. I get the distinct feeling that, for many people, "trying to be happy" has become more important than actually being happy. If you claim that you are happy but you admit that you have not spent some time and effort trying to achieve happiness, people in this country will tend to doubt your veracity.

I chased after happiness for many years, like it was some elusive animal that I had to hunt down and trap all by myself if I wanted to have it. Then one day I stopped chasing, not so much because I thought chasing was a bad approach as because I just got too darned tired to keep going. In a moment of particular weariness, I told whatever key-to-happiness theory was rattling around in my brain at the time to please hush. At first I felt like a failed pursuer of happiness, but what happened next was amazing. When I stopped trying to be happy, I realized that the potential for happiness had been there all along, but I had been too busy reading self-help books to see it. When I stopped trying to be happy, I actually was able to be happy. I now am convinced that it really is that easy -- happiness is available at any time, and you can choose it or not, as you wish.

If simply choosing to be happy works so much more effectively than running around in circles trying to find happiness somewhere outside yourself, then why don't more people follow that route? Certainly there are several major industries that spend a lot of time, money, and energy trying to convince us that we can't really find happiness unless we buy their books, products, and services, which purportedly contain all the answers. But the underlying question is why, as a society, do we believe them when they tell us that?

Those of us who comprise American society seem to be plagued by the idea that we as individuals are not really OK as we are; instead, we seem to think that we first need to acquire some thing or some experience that we currently lack, or otherwise somehow adjust ourselves, as a prerequisite to being OK. Now combine that with the prevalent American belief that all the things that are worth having, including all the things that we believe we need for making-ourselves-OK purposes, are not freely available but rather must be earned through some amount of work. Now layer on top of all that the American tendency to want whatever it is that we want right now, which causes us to try out anything that is billed as a short-cut. And we are willing to try multiple short-cuts until we find the short-cut that works. With all these parts of our collective psyche going at the same time, it really is no wonder that as a country we pursue happiness in the particular way that we do, trying to earn happiness by testing out one magic-bullet theory after the other so that maybe, if we try, just hard enough, we can find the key to the happiness puzzle and declare ourselves happy and fixed.

What a pitiful lot we are sometimes, pursuing something that is there all along and that becomes more elusive the more we insist on working for it. I wonder if there will ever be a time when, as a society, we will internalize the notion that some of the best things in life really are free and there for the taking, and that we deserve them without having to somehow change ourselves first.

Some Thoughts about Spirituality on a Sunday Morning

2008-08-24T09:24:00.006-04:00

I have referred to Buddhism and concepts associated with Buddhism several times in this blog (including the title), which has caused a couple of early readers to ask me if I am a Buddhist. The answer is no. When it comes to religion I don't fall into any defined category. I do, however, think a lot about religion and spirituality and read widely on those topics. I guess you could say that I am seeker of truth who is open to good ideas about religion and spirituality regardless of their origin.

The first religion to which I was exposed was Christianity. My parents raised me as a Moravian, which is a fairly liberal Protestant denomination (although technically speaking I think it really is pre-Protestant -- check out www.moravian.org for details). The Moravian Church's motto is "In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; and in all things, love," which seems to me to be a pretty good philosophy, both for a religion and more broadly speaking. I particularly like the Moravians' emphasis of love in all things, and I wish that people, including myself, would take up that invitation more regularly. I also like the Moravians' focus on personal liberty, which led them to do things like found a women's college in the 1700s; Salem College, located in my home town of Winston-Salem, N.C., is the oldest educational institution for women in the United States.

Probably because the Moravian tradition allows for so much free thinking, I found myself questioning what I understood to be the essentials espoused by the Moravian Church (the whole Father, Son and Holy Ghost business) from the time I was in junior high school. I went through high school in a bit of a spiritual muddle -- I wasn't really subscribing to the fundamentals of Christianity, but I didn't know much about what else was available. Then college offered the opportunity to learn about other religious traditions in a systematic way, and this began to shed some light on my spiritual puzzle. Although I haven't done any formal study of religion since college, opportunities for spiritual and religious growth have presented themselves routinely, sometimes in the strangest of places, and I have been trying to make the most of those opporunities as they arise.

Walking my dogs in a graveyard every day has been an amazing eye-opener in that regard. Spending a lot of time looking at tombstones, many of which mark graves of people who died much younger than I am now, really got me to thinking about "the meaning of it all" -- is there a God or other divine presence; is there an afterlife; can there be one without the other, etc., etc., etc. Of course I didn't ever find scientifically acceptable answers, but I did get comfortable with the fact that I could never have that kind of an answer to those types of questions. For me that was a big step, and I found myself worrying a lot less after I took it.

Spiritual awareness also has come to me through reading. I randomly picked up a book about Buddhism earlier this summer and found myself drawn to what I believe to be some of the fundamental principles of that tradition, such as the ideas that everything is impermanent and that nothing in life is certain except change. These strike me as basic truths, the acceptance of which is beginning to allow for a much more unfettered and meaningful existence in the here-and-now.

I also was recently struck by a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke. A friend of mine posted on her blog a poem from The Book of Hours, which is Rilke's collection of "love poems to God." I kept re-reading that poem and thinking "maybe, the next time I read this thing, I will not get chills and start to tear up." Never happened. I mentioned this to my friend who promptly loaned me the book, which I started reading last night. The sheer and seemingly effortless beauty of these poems defies description, and the chills and teary eyes just keep on comin' as I progress further into the collection. I get a similar feeling to this when listening to my favorite pieces of music by Beethoven and Bach, which also possess a beauty that is beyond words and never fail to evoke an emotional response.

Nowadays, when I walk in the graveyard or the arboretum, when I read Rilke, and when I listen to those pieces by Beethoven and Bach, I can't help but feel that there is some kind of divinity (which is why I probably will never be a Buddhist). What I sense is not the type of formal creator/divinity who hands down commandments and decides who goes to heaven and hell, as described in the Bible, but rather some kind of higher awareness that is simply and constantly there. I have no idea how to label it and I know that I cannot begin to understand its nature or methods. I do know, though, that I acutely feel its presence, both "out there" in the heavens and also in all aspects of the world around me, including each blade of grass and each person I encounter. So that is where I am spirtually at this moment -- I see divinity all around, its presence gladdens me, and I am comfortable simply pausing to tell it hello without demanding anything more from it. I don't know if that counts as "religion," but I'm pretty sure that it involves some kind of faith.

The Anticipation of Fall

2008-08-22T11:12:00.001-04:00

For the past week or so, a hint of fall has been in the air. The daylight hours, although slowly dwindling, have still been summery and warm, but the nights and especially the mornings have had that particular crispness that I always associate with brightly-colored leaves, cooking soup, sitting by the fire, and reading really good books. The squirrels sense the shift, too, and already have started bustling around to collect their winter stashes (much to the delight of Jacob, my squirrel-hunting dog, as this greatly improves his odds for a successful catch). I've noticed this week that people around me have started buzzing about these and all the other little changes they observe as we march toward the autumn. It is so interesting who notices what -- some folks focus on light and temperature, others on the activity of animals and insects, others on changes in plant life, and still others on the general shift in energy that they have been feeling. The true connoisseurs of fall notice all these things and more.

I truly delight in all the little signs that fall is drawing near, and the group exchange of observations on that topic warms my heart. For me the fall is the most energizing and exhilarating of the seasons; everything is just better in the fall -- my senses are heightened (and they have so much to take in), my mind is unusually clear, and my body is grateful for relief from the summer heat. Although I welcome the arrival of each season in its due course, fall is the only one that I eagerly anticipate, and my anticipation begins at the exact moment that I get that first whiff of seasonal change.

In my anticipation this year, I have been reflecting on how the fall, in addition to being a time of transition for the earth, also has been a time of great personal transition for me over the years. Last year I quit my job in September and got engaged three days later. My fiance and I started dating the September before that. In the fall of 2004 I finished a major regulation-writing campaign at work, which was the most rewarding, but also the most draining, project I have ever completed. This fall could well mark another personal transition, as I start looking to re-enter the workforce after a very interesting year-long break.

There is one sense in which this fall will be different from all its predecessors, though. In the past, I welcomed transition on the one hand but feared the unknown elements it brought with it on the other. I spent a lot of my energy tilting at windmills in an attempt to know the unknowable and control the uncontrollable. One of the best parts of my year away from the rat race is that it has largely cured me of my desire for certainty and all the needless fears that such a desire can tend to produce. Believe me, that alone far outweighs the loss in income! This year, for the first time ever, I will be able to greet the fall, and whatever changes it may bring with it, with an open mind, an open heart, and a healthy dose of curiosity that is not diminished by fear. No matter what actually comes to pass, I have a feeling that this may just be my best fall yet!

The Art of Equanimity

2008-08-21T13:02:00.004-04:00

"Equanimity -- n. 1. Fairness, impartiality, equity. 2. Tranquility of mind or temper; composure; resignation, acceptance of fate." Source: The New Oxford English Dictionary.

I just spent the last three hours carefully crafting a post on the art of equanimity, only to erase it after accidentally hitting the space bar immediately after selecting all. How is that for an opportunity to practice said art?!?

Instead of trying to recreate the original (and lengthy) post, I will simply say that I have been inspired, primarily by some Buddhist reading I've been doing lately, to start practicing the art of equanimity on a more consistent basis. This involves neither clinging to nor fleeing from situations, things, or people (including myself), but instead just accepting things as they are. Another way to say this is that I now endeavor to see what's real, as opposed to projecting a storyline of my own making onto the things I encounter. It is amazing how differently things look when I can manage to see them before my preconceived notions and other imaginings enter the picture.

One thing that has been particularly interesting for me is to take an honest look at the instances in which equanimity eludes me, which it still regularly does, and try to figure out why. I have concluded that most of my non-equanimous moments are attributable to some sort of fear that usually can be traced back to the fear of death, which I'm thinking may well be the root of all fear. When one fears the fact that one's existence will someday cease, one tends to view all things through the totally biased filter of the all-important me. Or maybe it is the other way around -- maybe people fear death because they are so me-centric to begin with. Either way, when a person is laboring under that mindset, the ability to be equanimous pretty much goes out the window.

I realized today for the first time, when I looked up equanimity in the dictionary, that resignation and acceptance of fate are parts of the definition. At first that threw me a bit, because I always tend to focus on the parts of the definition that deal with tranquility, composure, and impartiality. But today, through all of the rambling I did on my original attempt at a post, I realized how important resignation and acceptance of fate really are to the concept of equanimity as a whole. After all, it would be pretty difficult for someone to achieve tranquility, composure, and impartiality on anything approaching a consistent basis if they had not fully accepted the inevitable and undeniable truth that they are not the center of the universe and that, indeed, their time in the universe is fleeting at best.

Wow -- it all comes together. Maybe this blogging business actually will be a source of greater clarity, after all!

The Love of Dogs -- the Story of Jacob & Amos

2008-08-20T08:44:00.011-04:00

I grew up always having cats, and for the first 31 years of my life I staunchly identified myself as a "cat person." The urge to adopt a dog inexplicably occurred in late 2002, and I started visiting the dog adoption section of the Washington, D.C. Animal Shelter web site (http://www.washhumane.org/) in January 2003, right around the time I turned 32. It was kind of a whimsical thing at first -- a lunchtime distraction from my job, which was going through a boring phase -- but then I saw an adorable 4-month old shepherd mix named Santana. After seeing his huge ears, golden fur with black snout, and wise brown eyes, I knew I had to go meet him (plus I also wanted to meet whoever was naming these shelter dogs).

I'll never forget the first time I saw Santana in person. He was near the end of a long corridor of dog kennels, and getting to him involved going through a heart-breaking gauntlet. It seemed that every single dog in the NY Avenue animal shelter was barking at me as I progressed down the aisle, each pleading for me to choose it. When I got to Santana's cage, his kennel mate, a chow mix, immediately greeted me with the same desperate excitement of all the other dogs I had just passed. After mollifying the chow mix, I at last turned my attention to Santana, who in contrast to all his shelter mates had waited patiently and silently for me to come to him. He was now sitting calmly, gazing directly into my eyes in an unspoken communion of intelligent beast with intelligent beast. There was no doubt that he was asking to be adopted as well, but his was a quieter method which, in its confident and assured subtlety, managed to speak to me more powerfully than the incessant barking of all the other dogs combined. As I experienced seeing Santana’s golden beauty, feeling his calm but strong and happy energy, and looking into his disarmingly wise eyes for the first time, I fell completely and totally in love.

As I walked my new puppy out of the shelter a few days later, I turned to him and said, "Come on Jacob, let's go home!" He clearly needed a new name if he was going to fit in with the resident cats (Arthur, Thomas, and Leonard), but I'm still not quite sure where "Jacob" came from. He looked at me as I said it, though, as if signalling his approval of the moniker, so Jacob became his name.

Having a puppy was quite an adventure, seeing as I had never had a dog of any age before. I enlisted the help of a dog walker about 3 days after joining the dog-owning ranks (so much for my plan of going home at lunch every day to walk the pup), and I got a dog trainer not too long after that. Jacob grew from an adorable but naughty puppy into an amazingly beautiful and well-behaved dog. Man, is he handsome! -- I think he's a Belgian tervuren (I had never heard of it, either) mixed with a golden retriever, and he has the best of each breed. He is gentle, friendly, smart as a whip, and very protective of his people and his home. Although he has a stubborn streak that drove me crazy during puppyhood, now that he's grown many people share my assessment that he is "the perfect dog." This is evidenced by the fact that there's a long waiting list of people who would love to take him off my hands, so it's not just me talking here.

At first I was hoping that Jacob and the cats would become best buddies -- you know, take naps together, playfully tease ease other, share toys, etc. Two years after Jacob joined the menagerie, things were peaceful between the species but not particularly friendly, and I thought that Jacob needed more suitable company. I started thinking about getting a second dog in the summer of 2005, and this time it was Gennaro who gave me the "hi, Mom" look from his photo on the shelter web site (clearly the shelter's naming committee had not improved in the two years since I met Santana). He was another handsome shepherd, about 1o months old, and he had this pitiful look about him that just totally sucked me in. I tracked his progress on the shelter web site for about a month before I finally broke down and went to see him, thinking that his days were numbered.

He was cute as the dickens -- a smooth-coated collie or sheltie crossed with some other breed that gave him speckles on his white snout and legs. He was a little aloof when we went out into the dog run at the shelter together. I think that he was more excited about being outside than he was at the prospect of seeing yet another human, because I don't think his luck with humans had been too good up to this point. Gennaro was scheduled to go to a foster home the next day and his foster person apparently had a permanent adopter lined up, so my chances didn't look good. I had a feeling about this dog, though, and I didn't lose hope.

Two weeks later the phone rang -- the foster dad wanted to know if I was still interested because the adopter had backed out. So Jacob and I went to Dogs by Day, the doggy daycare on 14th Street, to meet Gennaro. I was getting this dog for Jacob, so I of course could not proceed without his input. After a few tentative sniffs and circles, the barrier between these two dogs broke and they played like the best of friends. When I sat down for a minute as I watched them chase and wrestle, Gennaro came over, sat beside me, and put his head in my lap. At that point it was all over but the renaming!

I went to pick up Amos, as I decided to call him, the very next day. My habit was to take Jacob to Congressional Cemetery twice a day for a large amount of off-leash exercise (don't worry -- this cemetery, unlike any other that I know of, has an organized dog-walking program), and I threw Amos into the world of off-leash graveyard walks immediately. I suspect, based on what I witnessed that day, that Amos had never been off-leash in an open area before. I will never forget seeing his eyes light up, about 10 seconds after he got out of the car, when he figured out that he was free to run. After this moment of recognition he bolted off to chase Jacob, who was leading by example and already an acre away, and didn't slow down the entire time we were there. I don't think I've ever seen a dog so happy, before or since, as he was during that first day of running, and he was crestfallen when I finally managed to catch him and leash him up. Don't worry Amos, I told him, we're coming back again tomorrow, and every day after that -- you're free to run all the time now!

At first Jacob was quick to bring Amos back when he strayed too far or for too long. After a while, Jacob stopped retrieving Amos, but he would discipline Amos on occasions when Amos did not come back promptly after I called. I already knew that Jacob was a great dog, but having a younger pack mate was bringing out a side of his personality that I had never seen. Amos's personality took a while to come out fully -- he revealed himself slowly but steadily over a period of about a year. At first he was shy and on his Sunday-best behavior -- I think it took him a long time to realize that this was his "forever home" and he could relax. I knew he was feeling at home the day I discovered that he had shredded my favorite dictionary to smithereens while I was at work. I am a serious word nerd (which explains why I have, or at least had, a "favorite dictionary," in case you thought that sounded odd), and it turns out that Amos is a big reader, too. After the dictionary, he "read" the Divine Comedy and Midnight's Children before I Amos-proofed my extensive book collection. He cracks me up everyday, this clever and funny little dog. Now that I know him better, in retrospect I sometimes wish that I had named him Slick.

Having dogs for the last 5 years has been one of the most rewarding, heart-warming experiences of my life. I can't imagine what my life would be like without dogs, particularly without these two dogs. When I think of what it means to be truly happy, I think of Jacob and Amos running toward me with their mouths open and curled into doggy smiles, the beautiful way they each smell when I bury my nose in their fur, the way Jacob looks so stunning when his golden fur is backlit, the way Amos has a special look that means he is up to something and I am soon going to get a good laugh, the way Jacob looks so wise and smart as he makes sure all his friends at the dog park are comporting themselves properly, the way Amos is so deeply tuned into human emotions, the way Jacob will shamelessly roll over for a belly rub as soon as he will look at you (and he won't get up until you deliver the goods!), the way Amos burrows into the bed and makes cow sounds in the morning as he wakes up my fiance. I obviously could go on and on (and on).

All this is a long way of explaining how a certified cat lady came to be a dog person. Although I felt like a dog person from the time Jacob was a puppy, I knew for sure that I was a dog person when I got them a car (a Honda Element, which they can get as doggy as they want -- thank you Daddy and Mother) in the fall of 2005. I still love my cats -- my fiance and I have 5 cats between us -- but my love for the dogs is something altogether different. They are my friends, companions, protectors, therapists, and constant entertainers. It is amazing how much of human emotion they understand, and how they always seem to know just what to do to make things better (except, of course, when what they do is roll in unspeakable things at the dog park, necessitating an emergency trip to the groomer).

I savor my time with these dogs. Each and every day I acknowledge how precious they are and thank the universe for blessing me with them. I grieved as two dogs in my neighborhood died earlier this summer (one at a ripe old age, another of acute illness at age 4), and another friend of mine recently has spoken candidly, and quite beautifully, about the decline of her geriatric dog. This reminds me that there will be a time when my dogs will cease to be. There was a time when such thoughts caused me great anxiety, and I lived in fear rather than enjoyment. However, now that I am more accepting of the impermanence of all things, thoughts of my dogs' inevitable demise, and indeed my own, make me feel more thankful than ever for the precious present, and I can greet each and every moment that we have together with joy and mindfulness. Fully inhabiting the present (which really is all any of us can do anyway) is especially satisfying on a beautiful day like today -- it seems that perfect September weather has come to our nation's capital a month early this year, resulting in an abundance of good dog-frolicking weather. Speaking of which, what am I still doing in front of a computer screen? It's time to go outside for a walk. Woof!

Starting down a new path

2008-08-19T11:49:00.005-04:00

A good friend has been encouraging me to start a blog. Right now I am stuck at home with nothing much to do while the brick pointers shore up the back wall of my house, so today seemed like a really good time to call my friend's bluff! My hope is that blogging with some level of frequency will help me to clarify my thoughts and become a more enlightened sort of person along the way. I'm thinking of blogging as a sort of cyberspace version of sitting under the bodhi tree, which explains the name I chose for this blog.

One thing I've been thinking about lately is the role that choice plays in our lives, and how so often we don't realize a choice for what it is. Over the last couple years, I've been examining some of my long-standing habits of thought, such as wanting to maintain the illusion that I have control, my tendency to always have a nemesis of some sort, and my penchant for craving certainty about just about everything. I developed these habits from such a tender age and practiced them for so long that for many years I simply accepted them as "the way things are," or "the way I am," and never even considered that there might be a different way to go through life. What a revelation it was that I actually had choices when it came to what I thought about, and how I reacted to, the world and all the people in it! What an even grander revelation it was that making different choices could increase my sense of peace and well-being by leaps and bounds!

Realizing that some "fundamental" parts of my personality were really only choices that I had been making, unconsciously but quite consistently, opened my mind to the idea that there were a lot more things out there that really were a matter of choice. It now seems to me that so many things that people take for granted really involve some kind of choice, whether it be conscious or unconscious, personal or collective. I now have taken to wondering about what the limits of choice are, if any. Choice is such a powerful thing that is available so many times each day, yet so many people seem to cruise along in default mode so much of the time. Maybe the real limit on choice is that people routinely simply don't see that they are making one, let alone see that they could be making it differently.