Les mots justes

Last weekend a lovely woman who has come into my life said something that blew me away.  She gave me a gift out of wisdom and compassion, and I felt it slide instantly into an empty space I hadn't known was there... in my own heart.

You never know, people. You never know when a word or phrase will penetrate the surface of someone's breezy public persona and transform a moment into gold. It's human alchemy of the highest order.

There is no time like now to say good words to a friend or loved one. We all think we have forever: "Of course, when we're retired I'll let X know how he changed my life. And I'll tell Y that her decency and generosity inspired me to give to the less fortunate. I'll tell them – someday soon."

Guess what, friends. Today you could learn that X died suddenly of a heart attack. (That happened to me with a beloved great-uncle once. The long-delayed letter I sent him arrived in the Midwest a day after he died. I was ashamed and horrified to have procrastinated.) Today you could find out Y has moved to take a job 1,000 miles away and you're unlikely ever to see her again. Tonight you could sit down in the multiplex and have your head blown off by a deluded shooter wearing a gas mask.

Yes, you could. Any of us could.

So do it. Say it. It gets easier each time you share a positive thought:  "I look up to you. I admire your gift with children. Your patience and encouragement make weekdays a pleasure for your co-workers. Your volunteer work inspires me." Even something as simple as: "You are a sweet person. I'm glad I know you."

What did my friend say last week? She told me quite spontaneously, "Anne, I don't know if you realize that people are drawn to you."

Who knows if those words are true? (I'm inclined to be skeptical, thanks to my hyperactive inner critic.) The important thing wasn't the content of the remark but rather that my friend was moved to say it. Afterward, I carried the comment in my heart, like a pearl.

Thank you, M. I'll be paying that forward – now and in the days to come.

Rescued

We're in that bittersweet phase of pet ownership now -- the phase where the old dog's end times are at hand and her human family gets its heart broken each day in little ways. And then one day in the big, final way. But not quite yet.

Daisy was a TV star before we met her. She'd been the local "Pet of the Week" representing the Providence city shelter in January 2000. I missed that news show and assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that the city pound would have only the least adoptable and suitable of dogs. I'd been haunting the private animal rescue leagues in the area, looking for our first dog in eight years, with a list of specs that proved harder to meet than I'd expected: medium size, female, short fur, old enough to have been housebroken already, no older than 3.

Then, one night at the end of January, I saw a link online to the pet of the week. And there was a sweet, tricolor beagle-ish-looking dog in profile, stretching her head forward for a treat or a pat, ears back and looking winsome. The next day I went to the pound on my lunch hour. Amid runs holding large, fearsome barking dogs cowered Our Dog, the one that met all my specs. The 42-pound mutt shivered in her run, then sidled up to the chainlink fence so I could stroke her fur.

Part beagle, part pitbull, possibly small parts shepherd and boxer, Daisy was the perfect pet for our children -- people-centric, submissive in the house, lively outdoors, gentle with babies, protective of the household when we were out. I know not everyone likes dogs, "gets" dogs, or wants the work and expense of having a dog. And make no mistake, it's a lot of work and extremely expensive. Think of it as having a small, furry child with all the obligations and doctor's visits that implies. No one who isn't up for that commitment should consider adopting a dog.

But I'm a firm believer in bringing a dog or two into the household when kids are young. Children learn to be gentle with living creatures. They learn to be responsible. They always have a playmate around the house. And they get that unconditional, worshipful love that only a dog can give. Especially in adolescence, kids need that love -- love without judgment or qualification.

Both our sons in turn were Daisy's walkers and playmates. She was stuck like glue first to Andrés and then to Kevin as the years went by. Melinda, meanwhile, was Daisy's spine-scratching slave. Scritch-scritch-scritch just above the tail at the end of Daisy's back. Ahhhh, doggy bliss.

But you know what they say -- rescued pets seem to know who their savior was. Maybe I'm vain, but I believe Daisy always knew that about me. I was, and am, the one she follows from room to room. The one she looks for first when she comes down the stairs into the living room. She sees me and her ears lie back a bit, her tail wags slowly from side to side, and she visibly relaxes and comes over for a pat. (She is not a kisser. That would be Yogi, our sloppy lover of a pitbull.)

Daisy is at least 13.5 years old now; we're not sure of her exact age, but we've had her 12.5 years and she was at least 1 when we brought her home. She's had silly looking fatty tumors -- big lumps -- under her skin for several years, but they have been consistently benign. The past month or two, though, I've noticed her breathing is more labored on our walks. She appears unsteady and confused at times, and going up or down stairs, sometimes her hind legs splay out and she tumbles. She wants to romp with Yogi on the beach, but after a few springy bounds she stops and walks slowly, tongue out, panting.

One day last week as I drove home from work, Melinda called my cell to report that Daisy had been whining off and on all day. A vet visit, aspirations of cells from fatty tumors and a swollen lymph node, and a chest x-ray seemed to indicate something was amiss. More lab work -- blood tests, more analysis of lymph fluid, and today, two more x-rays -- rendered the dreaded verdict: Our lovely old dog has some form of cancer, possibly sarcoma, possibly liver.

We are not going to poke or prod or stick her any more to find out. Whatever it is, the cancer is spreading and surgery isn't a cure. We're going to keep her comfortable with medication until she tells us her time has come. We're going to love her and, probably, spoil her a bit.

Today in the car, driving to the vet for the second set of x-rays with Daisy, I cried for the first time about this. Yogi has been a goofy, wonderful distraction from his "sister's" aging. Busy with training him and integrating the two into a dog-family, I've been able to whistle past the graveyard and pretend all is fine. Now, I know it's not.

This won't be the first time Michael and I have ushered a beloved dog into the peaceful place where pain can't get them. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, Heidi, Bonnie and Kelly one by one relaxed and expired on the vet's table as we held and talked to them. It was terribly sad but also peaceful. I always say that deciding when it's time to free your pet from suffering is the hardest, most loving thing you will ever do for him or her. I truly believe it.

So I'm bracing myself, getting ready to step up again for Daisy when she is ready for that passage. It's the ultimate form of rescue, really. Only... I'll miss her so very much, dear old girl.

A mindblowing blog of staggering wisdom!

Two nights ago I woke up at 3:30 a.m. and couldn't figure out where I was. In the near-dark, everything looked different. Yikes.

Then I realized that in my sleep I had thrashed and turned and rotated until I'd done a 180 and ended up with my head at the foot of the bed. That was a first.

The next day I wondered if I had unwittingly enacted a metaphor for my life over the past two years: unfamiliar, disorienting, upside-down.

Nothing for it but to sit up, find the pillow, and put my head where it belongs. It worked that night, and it's been working -- not always as quickly as I'd like -- in life.

When the world shifts around us, we can panic and hide and scream. I've done my share of that, lord knows. Somehow, the seed of strength inside me has prevailed and kept me going. Good people have stretched out their hands to help. They have prayed and kept in touch. Others have seen in me a professional value I had begun to doubt. Since last September I've had the job to prove it.

One is never too old to learn. Here are a few things I know now.

• When someone tells you "it's not personal," it probably is.

• When someone says, "Oh, you're so lucky," pretend to agree even though you want to say, "Actually, I've earned this."

• Believe in yourself but be willing, even eager, to change and grow at any age. Channel Yoda and repeat to yourself, "Much to learn, I have."

• Wherever you go in life, when you find the good people, hold them close.

• When you come across a meany or a bully, don't give that person power over your spirit. Put on a Zen face and breathe. Hang out with the good people (see above). Another person's pathology need not become your neurosis.

• Practicing a faith is its own reward. I miss that.

• Everyone's An Expert, Part I: On the best way to train and rehabilitate rescue dogs. Can't we all just get along and save these poor animals? (Related: Beware fanatics of any sort.)

• Everyone's An Expert, Part II: On whether to put one space or two between sentences. Listen up: I trained to be that expert! I was hired to be that expert! (Breathe.)

• Pick your battles. Compromise. Make your case. Keep it strategic. Show what works best. Earn trust. Do your best. Sometimes you really do need to drink a tiny drop of the Kool-Ade to make it work. I promise: it won't kill you. Nor need it make you a sellout.

• Everywhere you go in life, and I mean everywhere, you will meet a Star Wars fan.

• A commuter marriage can be, if not a good thing, at least an OK thing. It can work. You can come to cherish your alone time. Sometimes you even think, Uh-oh. I'm getting to used to living without him. And then he walks in the door on a Friday night and you feel that ahhhh, that warm relief, that clicking together of the puzzle pieces.

• There are few things in life as uplifting as a clean CT scan, ultrasound or blood test.

• Our grandparents weren't kidding when they talked about their aches and pains.

• Laughter really is the best medicine.

• The time in life to accumulate more stuff is past. Drive right by the yard sale. Get the heck off of Etsy and eBay. Shopping is a tough habit to break, but your children will thank you someday. (Note: In my case, this is a work in progress. Sigh!)

• I've reached the age when the first thing I read in the newspaper (yes, I said newspaper, the one on real paper, dammit) is the obituaries. Not just those of people I know. Any obituary. I like imagining the different lives people have lived. My heart feels glad reading the praise and prayers of their survivors and knowing that even the quietest life matters to someone. Because love is stronger than death.

• I've missed blogging.

Sacred dance

This afternoon it was warm and windy. The bay was deep teal crowned with whitecaps as Daisy and I walked toward the public beach. There were few sunbathers or swimmers; scudding clouds and the choppy surf kept the usual crowds away.

As we neared the main part of the beach, I noticed a brace of seagulls riding the offshore winds some 25 feet aloft. They didn't need to flap their wings to stay up; they rode like kites, buoyed by the breeze, so that they appeared stationary. Just below them, a woman – not young – smiled broadly as she waved her outstretched arms toward the floating gulls. She hopped rhythmically from one foot to the other, her face tipped skyward in wonder, her dark limbs and pale-gray tunic rippling in a spontaneous dance of joy.

Oh! To be utterly in the moment like that woman; to dance in the cooling wind; to reach upward toward feathered riders in the sky. She was seeing with fresh eyes what I scarcely notice every single day here at the beach. She exulted!

So should we all. Look up, feel the wind, dance with happiness, say "hooray" for birds and for being alive, say "Amen."

Hooray! Amen.

Tanned and well-read

Tans are a health risk, yet here I am, well tanned and loving it. Mine is a gardener's tan, golden-brown except for the white spaces representing tank tops, shorts, and Crocs.

My enforced vacation from work has had an upside: being home during a summer of unusually spectacular weather, being outside where I love to be. Also, for the first time in years the house is in pretty good order – no clutter accumulating in my little home office/sunroom, which stayed buried in Stuff for most of our first four years here until I cleaned it almost to the bare walls this spring. I tidy the living room and kitchen before heading to bed every night so that when I come down each morning, I like what I see and have that feeling of ahhh that a clean, neat living space evokes.

It's mostly about feeling in control of some portions of my life. Pulling out incipient weeds that poke through the mulch is like casting demons from a holy space. Pinching sucker shoots from the crotches of my tomato plants is performing life-enhancing surgery, and I have the sweet little fruits to prove it. One of our dogs now responds to my voice commands, after months of training him to "Come," to drop that forbidden dead crab "Out!" of his mouth, to "Leave it!" when we walk by something yucky or even see another dog on the walking path, to instantly drop "Down" and stay there as I prepare food in the kitchen. I did that; I taught that sweet dog to obey.

Since May I've taught Melinda and Kevin to drive, with all the nerve-racking excursions that implies. I've done freelance work, too.

Most recently, I've decided to address some of my physical complaints by trying a low-sugar, gluten-free diet with the accent on lots of dark green vegetables, plain Greek yogurt, fish, chicken, eggs, rice crackers, and nuts. Already I've lost six pounds and cleared up my chronic IBS. Even my complexion looks better. At Dr. Crisafulli's office yesterday, my blood pressure was a lovely 130 over 74. I'm not thinking of this as a "diet" at all, no sir, because I always fail at "diets". It's a way of eating that takes into account my body's sensitivities.

Michael and I have been relaxing and having some fun together on his visits home. After 36 years of marriage, I still get that flutter when his car pulls into the driveway. I still run to kiss him when he walks in the front door. I describe him as "hot" – in the good, modern sense. Not a bad thing for two old geezers, eh?

Speaking of "old," I recently finished a novel, Emily, Alone, by a favorite writer, Stewart O'Nan. It's a sequel to his earlier book, Wish You Were Here. We catch up with Emily Maxwell, a cultured, self-reflective widow in her 70s, living alone (save for an aging dog) in the family home in Pittsburgh. Emily and the late Henry's children and grandchildren live in other parts of the country, and she has come to rely on her sister-in-law, Arlene, not only for companionship but also to give her rides – Henry's huge old boat of a car being too intimidating for Emily to attempt driving. Emily and Arlene's friends, many of them in their 80s and 90s, are dropping like flies, and attending funerals has become a staple of their social life. Over and over, mortality stares Emily in the face.

I like this book and read it quickly, which puzzles me now because not much really happens in it. It is a book about characters with only the barest of plots to move the reader along to the end. O'Nan does a remarkable job of getting into an older woman's head and heart; Emily has her quirks and stubbornness, but you end up liking her and wanting good things to happen. During the course of the book, she reviews events in her life, plans for her eventual death and the disposal of her house and belongings, and works earnestly at maintaining relationships with her difficult, recovering-alcoholic daughter Margaret and her calm, Henry-like son Kenneth.

I'm not sure this is a book for everyone, but as I plod along toward my 60th birthday this fall, I found much in it that made me nod in recognition, wince in apprehension, and stop to review the course of my own life and what it may be like 10 and 15 years from now. Certainly women of middle age and older would find it a rewarding read. I never hesitate to recommend O'Nan's work, and I can say the same now for Emily, Alone.

O'Nan's ability to write sympathetically from the viewpoint of an older female protagonist reminds me of Jon Hassler's lovely fiction series about Agatha McGee, a crisp spinster living in the fictional small town of Staggerford, Minnesota. Agatha turns out to be far more complex and interesting than her starchy Catholic persona would suggest: she takes in outcasts, travels alone to Ireland, and carries on a long-distance love affair with a man who is not what he seems. If you'd like to meet Agatha, start with Staggerford (which sets the stage in brilliant, plot-rich fashion), then read A Green Journey and finally (and least, in my opinion), Dear James.

I have quite the stack of books I'm mowing through this summer – another blessing of this interval between jobs. Reading is perhaps my oldest, most constant friend on this life journey. Thank God for writers who transcend gender and genre to take us inside everyday people's lives to remind us both of our universal human condition and of each individual's complexity and worth.

I'm trying

At the end of May, what was to have been a year-long freelance contract job ended abruptly after only three months. The news came to me not during a meeting or by telephone, but in a formal letter delivered by the USPS to our house. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. To say I was personally hurt would, alas, be true.

In addition to a monthly paycheck and the allure of the book project itself, a casualty of my second job loss in less than a year was a related ten-day trip to Russia planned for last month. I have the brand-new passport to prove it. That's me: all rubber-stamped (albeit looking like a grim Russian mobstress) and nowhere to go.

Setbacks hit me harder these days. I seem to lack the resilience I took for granted when I was younger. The job losses have been more than humbling; they have stolen my confidence and professional self-image. A nasty critic in my brain now sneers, "You're worthless! You're a fraud. A loser. No one will hire you. No one should hire you!" My heart, faltering, responds, "I know. I'm too tired for this crap."

Worse, to me, has been my increasing tendency to respond to people, to life, with undisguised cynicism. To be sarcastic and snarky.

I don't want to be that sour woman! I'm making an effort to ditch her. In the last two days I've apologized to both of our at-home kids for specific moments of verbal unkindness. I am determined to be mindful of the power of words and tone, to respect and cherish the people I love in my deeds as I do in my thoughts.

Mother Nature has done her best to help me out from under my gloomy cloud. Over the past several weeks we have had a string of near-perfect June and July summer days. My gardens have erupted with flowers, tomatoes, herbs, and shrubbery. For weeks in June the aroma of wild roses and honeysuckle drifted our way from the vacant fields across the road; I inhaled huge gulps, high on the sweetness. Small sailboats dance on Greenwich Bay, sometimes with bright spinnakers bellying before them. Yogi and I have been swimming in the bay just a short stroll down the dead-end road; he loves to fetch anything I throw for him, plowing through the small waves. After the sun sets, the evening breeze is like silk on my bare, tanned arms.

People have stepped forward, too. In the past month I've heard from some old friends, and I mean 40-years-ago old. Through our shared memories I've recalled my younger, eager self. At first the contrast with "now" was sobering, but I ended up finding hope in that earlier me.

Meanwhile, an upside of being home so much is that I've become friendlier with several of our neighbors, older women with spunk and wisdom who lift me out of my funks on a regular basis with their wit and generosity. Not least, about a month ago when I thought I was (literally) losing my mind, friends at a distance stepped up by phone and email to listen and to sympathize. Bless the goodness of people. I am lucky in my friends, including those whom I've never met but who have shared their lives with me via Internet for many, many years.


Caroline has been over several times, most recently to spend the night on July 1 when Warwick held its annual fireworks display on our beach. She is five now, a "graduate" of preschool and headed to kindergarten in the fall. Her passions are bugs, dinosaurs, and dresses – and our two dogs. When she said to me the next morning, "Nana, I love your house. I love the dogs. I love you", I felt my heart melt.

Caroline and Yogi at our beach in June.

To follow up on my last post: I'm still keeping up with the kitchen sink. Between cleaning it every night before I go to bed, and getting the kids in the habit of putting stuff in the dishwasher daily, the room looks better. Which helps me feel better.

Heavy "traffic" on our street, 4th of July weekend.

I've been networking and applying for jobs. No interviews (and one kiss-off) to date, but seeking employment is a process rather than an event. Right now I'm freelancing a bit – small projects. It's a way to use my skills and remind myself that they have value in the marketplace.

Onward!

Reboot

Yours truly, age 18-24 months.

That first step. Why is it so hard for me? Why do I balk?

And what is the first step when parts of my life feel frazzled and out of control? What one little deed will set me on course to achieve positive thoughts, healthy habits, productive work days? Help, help!

I know all about Just do it. I know about Live in the moment. I know about Don't put off til tomorrow what you can do today. I know It's time for you to grow up. But where do I start?

This can't go on, this tendency to be my own worst enemy. How many reality shows will I imminently be a candidate for? Biggest Loser. Hoarders: Buried Alive. It's Me or the Dog. Or maybe a new one about women who lose their mojo.

Here are two things I will do tonight.

1. Put dirty dishes in the dishwasher and clean the kitchen sink. (This counts as one item.)

2. Floss my teeth at bedtime.

Basic stuff. Baby steps. It's worked before.

Oh, one more:

3. Record here each night or morning what new task, and old ones, I manage to complete.

And I'm off! Dirty dishes, you're history. Expired mojo, watch your back.