The Point

In addition to raising kids, working with animal patients, walking the dogs, and all the details there within, over the past couple of years I've been writing a book about the ways my old dog Molly taught me about life. Sounds trite, I know, but even as a plain old black lab mix dog, Molly was anything but trite and what she taught me, while nothing new, was basic, honest, and true.
Got my first ever rejection letter today after putting out what's known in the publishing world as a "query" letter. This is where you attempt to describe your concept, your book, your market, your curriculum vitae, in a page and hope that a literary agent will take interest. I knew rejection was inevitable along the route, and that it would hit me hard, that's the kind of take things personally person I am.
Raised from childhood to be a hard, no-nonsense worker and to eschew frivolous pursuits - and writing a story about my dog would certainly qualify as frivolous under the old rules - I have spent a lot of my life with my nose to the grindstone. So when I felt pulled to write the story of Molly's and my journey, it was not without skepticism about the value of spending my time in that way. But through it all, I felt the push and pull of what I like to think of as Molly's spirit, laughing good-naturedly at me from wherever in the heck dogs go when they die, spurring me on.
Still I find the old voices chattering inside my head, asking me why bother with Molly's story? Why bore people with Nicholai? What's the point of it all?
Nicholai is snoring on the couch beside me. As I'm berating myself for aimless self-indulgence, he lifts his head and turns abruptly toward me. He paws at me like he so often does when I'm upset. For a moment, I release my critical nature, stroking his head and giving him a big smooch. This is the point.
The point is long shadows in the morning sunlight on a perfect February day, frost on each individual blade of grass requiring licking off, sunshine, chickens, compost, and garden creating an uninterrupted circle, and a really dear old friend, sittin' in the green grass, just being.