Petey went to rest today.

Petey came to live with me 12 or so years ago.  Over time he became my best friend.  A willing confidant, an extraordinary travel companion, an adventure wingdog, and a bedwarmer in the wintertime.  He was willing, eager, to do whatever I wanted to do.  He would listen for hours on end as I told jokes, pontificated, sang or groused.  Whatever was for dinner was just fine with him.  Whatever was on TV was just fine with him.  Wherever we went in the car was hooray! with him.  Whoever we wanted to see or talk with was the best person in the world and just who he wanted to see.  You couldn't ask for a better best friend.  Petey.  God love him, I surely did.  

Last Tuesday night when I got home, I found him paralyzed in both hind legs.  What's up with that?  Legs all limp, no push back or tone to the muscles, willy out and not modestly going back in, struggling to use his front legs to will himself upright and not succeeding.  I dozed on the sofa with him instead of going up to bed.  In the morning we were on our way to the vet before the vet even opened his doors.  

The vet suggested that his age (14 years at least) might have something to do with it, and showed us X-rays of the lack of space between his vertebrae and how the discs were squeezed in several places, impacting the spinal cord.  Petey got a shot of anti inflammatory, and pain killer, and they sent us home with seven oral doses of the same combo, take one a day and let's reassess.  Okay.  We went home.

All the rest of Wednesday and also Wednesday night, Petey slept, refused food, would not drink water. I medicine droppered water into him 10 cc at a time for many times.  Not gonna get dehydrated on my watch.  Thursday, Petey and I hung out on the sofa, watched TV, talked it all over, adult-splained it to Sammy.  Petey began to drink from a bowl held under his nose, and ate two scrambled eggs as I fed him from a spoon.  Friday Petey slept, struggled to stand up but had no movement or strength from his legs.  He ate dinner of real dog food, and drank a lot from his bowl, which I still needed to hold, he wasn't able to stand to it.  He struggled again to get to his feet.  No response from his back legs.  He panted and whined.  Using only his front feet, he tried and tried to stand.  No motion from the back end.  He panted and he cried.  He cried all evening Friday, so I gave him his meds for Saturday, hoping that the pain killer would ease him.  It did, a little, but he woke in the night crying and woke in the morning crying.  

I would have taken care of him forever, carrying him, cleaning up the messes, feeding him, whatever.  Just to keep him around.  For conversation, for mutual silent happiness, for love.  But I could not take care of him crying, because that meant he was in pain.  And I could not tolerate him being in pain.  

So, Saturday, that was this morning, we went to the doctor again.  And I held Petey in my lap and the doctor gave him shots, and I held him as he eased away, and I held him while the doctor listened for a heartbeat, and I held him after the heartbeat went away.  Then I gave him to the assistant, paid my bill (not much considering the magnitude of what had been done) and I got in my car and left.

The Sammy Limits

When Sammy came here, he had been living on the streets.  That's his only known history.  He was picked up in Loehmann's Plaza parking lot by a couple who, not being able to keep him themselves, dropped him off at the Humane Society.  Providentially, this was the same institution to which Petey and I had applied for a doggie sister.  I wanted another Yorkie, Petey wanted a girl, neither of us cared about her age, we just wanted another four-legged family member.  

Four months later, I fielded a phone call, "Mrs. Reily, we have your dog."   "I'll be there in 20 minutes."  I abandoned my grocery cart mid-aisle, sprinted to my car, and headed north to the rescue.

They dropped a matted, skinny blond with drooping ears into my lap.  He was all bones and dreadlocks.  Rasta puppy.  We looked at each other and he licked my nose.  Some shots, a bath and a shave later, we reassessed.  Six pounds of bones and pure rascal. I was head over heels in love.  Petey was unsure.  Tentative approaching, sniffy and assessing.  We had dinner, appreciated the difference between indoors and outdoors for hygiene purposes, watched some TV, and went upstairs to bed.  Sammy galloped up the stairs, smelled his way around the bedroom, jumped up on the bed, burrowed under the covers, wrapped himself around my feet and slept. 

We all slept well.  The trouble started in the morning.  Petey and I went normally down the stairs.  Sammy stayed at the top looking apprehensive.  He wanted to come down and be with us, for sure, but all his wanting could not overcome the down-ness of the stairs.  It took a lot of training bits, small kibble nuggets, a lot of coaxing, a little bit of demonstrating, (Petey was very good at the demonstrating part), a little juducious front-paw-handling on my part.  Repeat for each step until something clicked and Sammy, with a tentative lump-a-lump-a gait, walked his own self down the stairs.. Triumphant day.

Cut to a couple of years later.  Petey is still my best friend, Sammy still owns my heart.  I decide the stairs would be much better off without the 70's brown shag carpet, just letting the underlying oak shine out.  I pulled the carpet off the bottom two steps, washed my hands and called it a day.  

Bedtime comes, Sammy starts his takeoff run in the living room and gallops, gathering speed, about 25 feet to the stairs, he turns a sharp corner and begins to ascend.  Well ascending was the plan.  His feet found no traction on the now naked riser and he slammed into the far wall.    A surprise.  He was in easy reach of the still carpeted third stair, put out a paw, pulled himself up and continued his customary mad run.

The next night the same scene, gallop, turn and leap, and crash into the wall.  The third night he tiptoed up to the stairs and sat at the bottom whimpering.  I scooped him up and carried him to bed.  By this time, Sammy was no longer a six pound dog, and I am not a willing enabler.

We tried a lot of tries and tricks to get Sammy up the first two steps on his own, but he was so certain he could not do it, given the bareness of the boards, that he refused to initiate the process.  Food bits didn't work, nor toys. Leaving him to his own devices and going to bed without him only led to pitiful whining followed by really loud barks.  Sammy was stuck in his "I can't".

So I lifted him over the uncarpeted stairs for many days and weeks.  He developed a stance, back feet on the ground, front feet on the bottom stair.  Bounce and yip until I came to lift.  Then instead of lifting I just gave him a push on his butt.  That was all he needed; he bounded up the stairs.  He still had it,  ability to climb stairs, eagerness to climb stairs.  He was just convinced he couldn't climb stairs.  He "recognized" his limits.

And I continued to push his butt up the first two steps.  Then I would just pat his butt and he climbed.  One day I was slow in turning out the lights and gathering my book and music and he just surprised himself by allowing his bouncing-in-wait stance to carry him up without the butt pat.  Yay!  So I was deliberately slow the next night as well.  Self-start!  After that, if he's still at the bottom when I get there, he gets a light pat, but he owns the move now and he knows it.

Sammy had set his own limit.  Sammy had said his own, "I can't".  Sammy had "known" it was impossible.  Sammy limits = those chains with which a person binds his own self. Sammy limits = those nails a person uses to nail his own shoes to the floor.

I have needed to sit with myself now and check out what Sammy limits I have set for myself.  What lack of freedom is false and self-imposed?  What have I bought whole cloth about myself that isn't true, except that I believe it, and that would cease to be a limit as soon as I recognize its falsehood?  And by what method will I recognize its falsehood?  Interesting ponder.

And I think I need to resume pulling the carpet on the stairs.

My Animal Totems

My animal totems are elephants, owls, bears and snakes.

Elephants have been my favorite animals since I was a baby, when my mother's uncle brought me back from India a small carved wooden elephant. Nelly, Nelly t'nelephant.  I cut my teeth on her.  This same uncle, who was in Burma before the war, sent me a book about elephants working the teak logging in Burma, and " Elephant Bill" who took care of all of them and their mahouts.  

(I met an elephant in person once at South Beach Park at a gathering; she had crusty, flaking skin and even though she snotted on my shoe (pink, fabric, Mary Jane), she was definitely communicating with me, on the order of -get me out of here-I want to go home-real home, home home, not where I live now-I am so miserable. I am so unhappy.  You love me. I don't trust you. You won't take me home, will you?)

Elephants are hard workers, devoted, with wicked senses of humor, very intelligent, and comfort loving.  I aspire to elephant. 

(On another side note, one time in the Pacific Northwest, I can't remember if it was Seattle or Portland, there was a smallish white whale, a Beluga, in a tank. There were glass walls underwater so I could see in. She was going around and around. When I was standing on top she circled near the surface keeping her eye on me.  When I went down the stairs to see through the underwater walls she circled under and kept an eye on me through the underwater window.  I opened myself up to her and heard her.  She said, let me out, oh let me out, oh let me out, let me out, over and over again, around and around the tank. My heart breaks remembering.

Animals should not be captive.)

Owls are wise and beautiful. Soft and fierce. Deadly and comical. I aspire to wisdom, to beauty, softness and fierceness.  I aspire to owl.

Bears are big; no one messes with mama bear. Bears are nurturing. Bears are womanly.  Bears have the very best sense of belonging.  I aspire to bear. 

Snake is more mystical than physical.  Snake is a totem I received from ISH at Guidelines. Snake owns her power. She is all spine, fire flow and divine. She is not the do-er.  She is not the thinker.  She is pure force and forward motion. She yearns to connect with the Most High.  

(A fiercely vocal cluster of parrots is flying overhead as I write this.)

Four Yellow Plates Consciousness

I'm going to re-post this entry because it has become an up-front focus for me this year. Maybe I'll have enough moxie to carry a narrative through the process as it unfolds this year. Meanwhile, enjoy this post.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Four Yellow Plates Consciousness

Poppy died yesterday. Poppy was my best friend's father. I sat by his bedside for hours on end, watching him breathe, holding his hand, loving him. And thinking thoughts that roved across all my experience and touched on a whole encyclopedia's worth of subjects. My thinking always returned from these travels to alight on the subject of mortality.

Poppy is dying. I am alive. Friend Veronica is pregnant. A baby begins. This baby will be born and live and die and look, the cycle. I am (probably) more than halfway through my allotted cycle. Sitting with Poppy, I bring out the magnifying glass to examine my cycle.

I will see my life's total by looking at current events, situations, challenges, and triumphs. Whew! This is SO appropriate a pensee for the last week of this year, the last week of this decade.

Twice a year, at the turn of the year and roughly six months after, on my birthday, I do what I call Janus work. Janus was the Roman god of the gateway. He had two faces, one in front and one in back, so that while guarding the gates, he could see who was coming and who was leaving. The Janus work looks back, looks around and then looks forward.

Looking back consists solely of counting wins, triumphs, and times I did it right. Love to do that. Looking around attempts to be honest, to see clearly and to banish ostrich tendencies. The ostrich is a very powerful gene in my family. We try very hard not to see those things that are difficult to look at. I will take a moment to describe what looking forward consists of in Janus work, and then I will return to the present and take a look around.

Looking forward has a two-pronged approach. First, someone once asked Mark Twain (I think it was), who was a very prolific writer, how he managed to turn out such a volume of work. His method was to write a minimum of 1,000 words a day. A thousand words is approximately three handwritten pages. A year's worth of handwritten pages could complete a novel. Just keep plugging away. Have a daily must, a daily minimum, and things get done. I have a list of daily musts, only five of them, which comprise my thousand word equivalent. Each year I review, refine, add to, and edit out this list. It serves me.

Second, I craft some focuses (foci?) for the year. These are not resolutions; they are very like a journey. Setting out from Miami, the most basic directions to Boise, for instance, call for going north. Further refinements on reaching the Georgia border, would change the basic heading to northwest. In the beginning I don't need the street by street (although the Garmin thinks I do), but as I get farther down the road, the specifics of each highway, beltway, etc., become more important.

This particluar rant is going to be about my first focus for 2010, "FOCUS ON - Four Yellow Plates Consciousness." My first direction for this focus needs to be a definition of what FYPC means to me. I heard a story about a Buddhist woman who was perfectly happy and satisfied with her four yellow plates.

Come to a full stop.

In the Depression my mother worked in Macy's fine china department. She had no money, was paid little, but developed an exquisite sense of value in china. And she yearned for, almost lusted after, fine china. Over the years, with a more abundant pocketbook and opportunity to travel, she acquired some truly lovely china. Four yellow plates? Satisfied? Happy with? Uh uh. Don't think this didn't rub off on me.

And I have this acquisition syndrome in areas other than plates; books, music tapes and CDs, furniture, craft supplies, textiles, linens and fabrics, and above all, information. My lust for information is magnified by having been born with a Gemini sun. All Geminis could well have the middle name, "Curiosity". Curiosity is my driving force. I want to know everything.

I read (or skim) up to 10 books a week (thank you, Miami-Dade Public Library). I watch 60 Minutes, 20/20, Dateline, Animal Planet, Discovery Channel, Keith Olberman, Rachel Maddow, Food TV, etc., etc. I prowl Wikipedia and Google and Bing. I read approximately 20 magazines a month. Sheesh! And because I am now the oldest I have ever been and am experiencing "senior moments" of forgetfulness regularly, I cut articles and stow them away in files and piles lest I forget.

No wonder the notion of a pairing a Four Yellow Plates Consciousness with a feeling of satisfaction has brought me to a screeching halt.

Would I be satisfied with four? Of anything? No. Could I pursue a "satisfied with four" consciousness? Hmmm. I could nibble around the edges. What form would "nibble around the edges" take?

That is a Focus for this year. Let me start with examining what lares and penates exist. Then assessing each one (plate, paint brush, piece of paper) for its satisfaction-producing keepability. Third, assign each kept item a permanent place in my house (we know this from all the self-help books on organization). Keep, give, toss, etc. Fourth, Look deeply at my process while step three is going on. My emotional burden will weigh in for every decision. Understanding my emotionals thingie will allow me to tweak my responses, perhaps to re-form them in the general direction of satisfaction with four. I have no quantitative goal here. I don't need to get down to , say, three shelves of books, or two file drawers, or a service fo eight and no more. I do need to find a satisfying qualitative goal. Again, returning to the self-help books (do read Julia Morgenstern on this), do I love it? Does it make me happy? Does it fit who I am now, or does it dredge up a personage I was in the past. Etc.

On this blog, I intend to document my year of working towards a Four Yellow Plates Consciousness, paring down my posessions and my emotional burden at the same time. The end product? Satisfaction.

After Monroe

I'm in Indiana on my way home from Gateway Voyage, a week-long experience/class in consciousness given by the Monroe Institute.  (www.monroeinstitute.org). 

     I learned a lot!

All of it seemed new, probably because I've actually grown since I first took it. (Not just aged, actually grown.)

My presenting question and reason for going to Gateway was, "What do I want to be when I grow up?"

It's been answered. In short, a Fairy Godmother. In long, Fairy-Godmother-hood is still in its infancy. I have a lot to learn, a lot of skills to develop, a long way to go. But the seeds have been planted. The initiation has been initiated. I need to be, know, and have a lot more than currently is in my backpack. 

So what?

I've got a long life ahead of me. And I can't imagine I would enjoy anything else more. 

Things I need to develop/begin to use now are: (1) learn how to recognize what I need to do; (2) pull together the knowledge and skills to get it done; (3) get myself funded in body energy, in mental energy, in spiritual and emotional energy, and even, when its called for, in wallet energy.  Spiritual, emotional, mental and physical energy are much more in demand in the Fairy Godmother profession than wallet energy. 

Here is what a Fairy Godmother does for and with you:

     Facilitates your gifts. 

     Illuminates your path. 

     Assists you in overcoming your obstacles. 

Ask me a question. 

Northern terminus

There was a bit of excitement at the motel last night. I heard a woman screaming, "Call the police, call the ambulance.". Lights out, I peeked through the window. Saw them carrying a man to put him in a minivan. I asked, "Do you need any help?". A boy said, "Medical, medical.". I called 911 and handed the phone to the boy.  He explained everything to the operator.   The ambulance came and gurneyed the man away. A bug had bitten him; he had swelled up like a beach toy. They all got in the minivan and followed the ambulance. This morning I knocked next door to check on them. There he was, deflated to normal and glad to be alive. I got hugged by six people at once, none of whom came up to my shoulder height.  Gulliver in Lilliput.

Just north of Lafayette, we drove past a windmill, then two, then more.  The further we went, the more windmills. Windmills to the farthest horizon. The sky was cloudy, lots of mist and these windmills, slowly slowly turning, white, barely visible in the mist. Happiness, my big happiness. I gave up trying to count them ten miles ago. 

Looking for comfort

I cut the top off my thumb today. I think it was on my razor but I don't remember. I went through one wad of toilet paper and three bandages before the bleeding stopped. I was not thinking clearly this morning until the coffee kicked in. 

I went to the store for bandaids. Going into a store plus needing comfort I was surprised to find myself thinking of paper. Paper is my new comfort purchase. How very much comfort I can squeeze out of a wad of office supplies. 

It used to be that I comforted myself with food. I still would except for my restricting wheat. But now almost all comforting food is either toxic, or fattening or both. So reaching for comfort now I fixate on note pads. Walking into Walgreens this morning for band-aids, I didn't think (treat) candy bar, I didn't think (treat) Cheetos. I thought (treat) spiral bound. 

My friend, TH, worries about the trees. Paper use equals trees down, trees processed.  When I get that office supply gleam in my eye, TH worries about the trees.  I honor him in that. 

I need a new source of comfort; retail therapy comfort. Kindle books? I already have an obscene number of unread books on my Kindle. Real books?  Same tree problem, same kind of unread problem. We've covered food, toxic and/or fattening. Clothes? Shoes? Not my bag. 

Ok, there's real comfort in art supplies. Or how about fabric, floss and heart-shaped buttons?

Deserves exploration.