a sad farewell

CURRY
July 6, 1995 - August 31, 2008

Curry. A big gentle soul. Has left this world as we know it. He is gone. Dead. Asleep. What do you even call it? I don't know what to do with myself. Wandering. Unable to settle down or think of anything except him. It has been a good day. A sad day. He went peacefully. I feel numb. Curry. Beautiful old dog. I already miss you so much my heart is breaking.

A gentle kind doctor gave him the injection a few minutes before 7:00 p.m. My best friend was gone in less than a minute--less than 30 seconds even. Quick & peaceful. Bill, Janey and I all petting him and holding him until the last breath. He was ready to go.

Time to go and now he is gone. No more to lie beside my bed. To greet me when I return home. To miss me when I am gone. It is my turn to miss him, but he will not return. We have said our final farewells. He is at peace. I believe that. I see him running & romping through fields of green. Sniffing & smelling. Whole & pure. His legs healthy & strong. Bounding across the open space. Snow. Water. Chasing geese and taking flight. The smile is on his face, tail fully wagging...not the meager thump thump of recent days.

Brave until the end. Making it up a full flight of stairs as little as a week ago. Coming to sleep beside me. Not knowing what to do with his aging body that responded in unfamiliar ways or responded not at all. His appetite was good until the end although I did not buy more dog food this week even though he was almost out. I knew. We all knew. He knew the time was here.

Dog is God spelled backwards. How do you say good-bye to someone who has shown you the face of God--been the face of God--on a daily basis for 13 years? Faithful. Non-judgmental. Always glad to see me. Protecting & guarding me. Loving me. Playing with me. Sharing hours of joy as we walked miles and miles together. Digging in the garden. Watching movies. Bounding through the snow. Taking road trips and raising kids. Putting up with costumes & baby strollers. Show 'n tell at school.

A puppy your whole life. Always the greeting committee. Always the well-mannered gentleman. Always the love. I will miss you, old man. Yellow dog. Best old boy. Curry dog. You have been beside me through thick and thin. Waiting through long dark nights. Laughing in the best of times. Faithful always. The most consistent presence in the last 13 years.

I love you, Curry. I will miss you forever.

calling to me

The following post was written yesterday after hastily pulling over to the side of the road. Very little editing has been done, so please bear with me. Some things just need to be recorded.

“I keep calling to you my baby blue, my baby blue.” --John Hiatt*

The sense of my father being with me this week is near overwhelming. Daddy died more than 30 years ago and while I still hold him dearly in my heart, he does not often enter into my daily thoughts—at least to the extent I am now experiencing. Driving down Hwy 101 near the Umpqua Lighthouse, I have had to pull over as there are tears streaming down my face for no apparent reason. The flow started while listening to John Hiatt’s song, “Baby Blue” which just showed up on my I-Pod song shuffle. None of this makes any sense right now, but the connection to my long-deceased father is undeniable for me.

The recent ‘sense of my father’ began three days ago when my friend in Tiburon reminded me that he had promised to look up some Naval records for my dad. I quickly e-mailed my sister who is the current keeper of the family records and asked for the submarine information of Daddy. She put her fingers on the info immediately and responded to me quickly. Lo and behold that very day was our father’s birthday. Coincidence? I think not.

Today as I drove along the highway, I came across the Oregon Dunes that I did not realize even existed. There upon the sand were several dune buggies and I was immediately transported back to the days when I learned to drive and I used to go to the river bottom with Daddy and play in our dune buggy. I found myself wanting to rent an ATV and tool across the sands like I did a zillion years ago. My father was clearly present with me.

As I continued my route, I began to think about my last few days of driving. I am driving in a little VW convertible which is a newer version of the car I drove when I was 16 (a car I 'shared' with my dad.) I again am reminded of my father and that his final occupation in life was as a long distance truck driver. His blood runs through my veins. Yesterday I came to the conclusion that I really don’t like to make little stops here and there. I like to get in the car and GO. Yesterday I drove for several miles with my jacket on because I was not at a place where I wanted to stop and pull over. It reminds me of the years we drove back and forth between Oklahoma City and San Diego where my father’s family lived. Very few stops along that route!

Ah, San Diego. I realize now that the calling from my father began before his birth date on August 20. This road trip was originally conceived as a time to visit with my brother. Looking at a map, I found that San Diego is equidistance between Seattle and Bellville Texas where my brother lives. Curious that this place where my family lived before I was born (when my father was in the Navy) would be the place where I ‘coincidentally’ hoped to reconnect with my brother. Alas, he was unable to accept the invitation and thus the baby road trip was born.

Needless to say (for me at least), my father has been speaking to my subconscious for quite some time. I wonder what he is trying to say? I wonder what I shall learn from this? The sea calls to me. My father was a sailor. The road calls to me. He was a truck driver. “Baby Blue” calls to me. I was his “baby.” I am a grown woman now, but I am still his little girl. He died nearly 33 years ago on September 12, 1975. He would have been 89 years old last Wednesday.

*just a little aside…when I went to research these lyrics this morning, the first thing that popped up was john hiatt’s birthdate. August 20. btw—my father’s name is John. ☺

pondering...

Oh, I really want to write a post today and tell you all that has been muddling around in my brain these days, but I feel a bit rushed with a soccer tournament in an hour and weekend company on the way. Alas, this post is more a reminder to myself so I will come back to these thoughts soon. So here are a few:

• the relationship between being rooted and dancing
• considering what it looks like to explore God outside of traditional Christian boundaries
• the intention of the heart. what happens when we seek God wholeheartedly?
• listening to the “niggles” of our gut
• what does the “narrow path” really mean?
• what if God is love, period?
• the both/and of life. paradox.

I hope you will choose to think alongside me. Cheers!

exhausting inauthenticity

The most exhausting thing you can do is to be inauthentic.

--Anne Morrow Lindburgh

Earlier today while looking for something else, I ran across the above quote. In my haste, I popped it into a post so as not to forget it or lose its source as I have been known to do. In the meantime, Tess in her infinite wisdom came along with a comment of her own which stirred me to think even more deeply about the exhaustion of inauthenticity.

Regular readers may have noticed that I have been away from the blog for several days and prior to that my posts (while very meaningful to me) were not from my own pen. Oddly enough it is not that I have not been writing. In fact, I have been quite prolific in my journals and my life continues to be one grand adventure after another. (Others might or might not agree with the "grandness" but then it's all in how you look at things, isn't it?)

So, what does all of this have to do with inauthenticity? Well, for some reason, I have been censoring myself and I am becoming more and more agitated by it. I am bursting at the seams with thoughts, emotions and feelings galore, but I keep putting a lid on them. And for those of you who read here often or know me personally, well... you know that is just not like me!! Thus comes the exhaustion. It is exhausting holding back all of this emotion!!

I have been searching out other ways to exhaust the emotion and have found some very fine ways indeed. Dynamic meditation. NIA. Walking. Talking. But, I have come to realize that nothing satisfies quite like putting pen to paper and then transposing it onto this blog where others can muse and ponder and possibly relate to what I have written. I have discovered that writing from the heart is a huge part of my authenticity.

So, now I feel a little better because I have at least written about holding back, but the holding back is still there. So, where is the balance between being too candid and risking living in inauthenticity? Joy is me. Grand adventures are me. Writing is me. Honesty is me. Compassion is me. Censorship & inauthenticity are not me!

So, do you ever experience those feelings of censorship? Where does inauthenticity enter your life? Do you hold back to try and avoid misinterpretation or judgment even when it comes from an authentic place? I would love to hear what you have to say!

Drifting

I have been in an odd place in regard to writing and living these days. It has been hard to pinpoint what is going on or even what to name it. I have not been motivated to post anything or really even write in my journal and last night I realized that I had not even considered visiting my favorite bloggers yesterday even though I spent some time dinking around on the computer. It was not until this morning when I read this post at Mind Sieve that the word came to me for my current state. I am “drifting.” It is something slightly different, I believe, than that to which Sunrise Sister refers which is more akin to being 'adrift.'

When I use this word, drifting, it does not feel like a moving away from anything (although I have been away from my ‘normal’ routine). It feels more like a liminal space—something in between. I was first aware of this space a few weeks ago when I had opportunity to spend several uninterrupted hours alone in nature. I had a “job” to do which was to listen to my surroundings. I took my journal along with a good book, but as I lay there in nature I found that I had no desire whatsoever to open my journal and record the amazing things happening around me. Lying there with bees buzzing, grass blowing and clouds gently swaying in the sky everything was absolutely perfect. I did not need to do anything else.

And so, that feeling has stayed with me for several weeks now. I have thought I was experiencing writer’s block. I have wondered if it is exhaustion or mere laziness, but I realize now that words like liminal and drifting seem to pop out at me when I hear or read them. It is a gentle shift. A slight rocking motion like the wind moving a hammock with an island breeze. I feel cared for and caressed even though I am not following my usual routine of morning reading and writing. God’s presence is abundant even (perhaps especially) without the need to record my impressions on the page.

Hmmmmm. I believe I have written all that is in me for now. Time to drift ☺!