Slow

Fast, fast, fast seems to be the American way. Whether it's food or cars or minutes of fame, we have developed a taste in our culture for big and speedy. This tendency lives strong in me, nurtured by a family culture of being in a hurry. When I eat with other people, I am embarrassed at the swiftness with which I clear my plate. When I hike with others, I often outstrip their speed and have come to value those who are quick-of-foot for walking companions. No matter how little I have to do, I find myself rushing through a list of tasks, as if the quickness with which I finish them is some measure of my worth.

Currently I am called to slowness by the recurrent struggle to keep my retina attached and thereby keep my vision. Attuned to speed, I've been finding the healing process irritating. Doctor's orders are to spend most of my time lying down and to refrain from exercise and heavy activity (lifting, digging in the garden, and so on), but I have places to go and things to do. My intellect can understand the need to slow down but my cells chafe at actually doing it.

In Montana, both at my sister's house and at my mom's, mountain trails lurk just outside the back door, seducing me to experience the joy of wild places. At my sister's the trail is closed to hikers allowing resident herds of elk a lower winter grazing area. At my mom's the trails are part of a city park open year around, and I cannot elude their siren call.

To hike a mountain trail in the snow and not raise one's heart rate and respiration much, one must be able to take a leisurely pace. While speed is sometimes of objective value, at other times it clearly is not. I have learned to value slow food and eschew its faster cousin, finding deepest satisfaction in eating what we have grown and prepared at home over food-like products we can procure through drive-up windows, even though a lot more short term effort is required.

I could not say no to the beauty of snowy mountain trails or the enthusiasm of canine companions about racing through sparkling powder. Charged with pacing myself, I took measured steps up the hill while dogs romped through drifts stalking deer or searching for perfect sticks. Frequently, I slowed my steps or stopped altogether. With no roses to smell, I was delighted instead by a heady pine scent, church spires rising between the evergreens, cool crisp air, and moments available to do nothing but appreciate it.

Life has been unarguably difficult these past few years and yet, still beautiful almost to a fault. With my endearing, eager, spirited pitbull girls – my Live Dogs Walking – I will continue the journey I began with my beloved Nicholai. Making the time and the moments in every day to see and feel and hear and be grateful for the magnificence of life.

One day at a time.

Slowly.

Live Dogs Walking

Walks with my dog Nicholai – my Dead Dog Walking – were a thing of beauty. The looming end of our time together due to his lymphoma pressed on each day, squeezing meaning from every moment. Beauty had always been there, mindfulness always a possibility, but often I tended to race through the days of my life toward some unknown destination, missing the simple goodness right in front of me.

The sensation of a finely tuned focus felt familiar from the months after I was diagnosed with cancer in 1995. Life's distractions fell from view and the acute blueness of an autumn sky or the exquisite gold of a leaf floating to the ground on a fall breeze gained my full attention. My office still needed to be tended, bills paid, meals fixed. But under the threat of impending demise, I allowed my appreciation to linger on the multitude of plain joys gracing every day, waiting only for me to notice. Time passed, it became clear that my demise was indeed not imminent, and the tendency to hurry through a day's activities in pursuit of an elusive new and improved future seduced me again. When my beloved dog was diagnosed with cancer and predicted to live only a few months, the precious nature of each day's simple pleasures came to the foreground another time.

Now Nicholai is dead and my touchstone to the temporal nature of our existence is gone. I find it terribly difficult to slow down and appreciate life's many gifts without the threat of death hanging over my head. Walking the pitbull duo – while enjoyable – falls often into the category of chore instead of sacred opportunity. Both they and I need exercise so we walk and, check, another item crossed off the to-do list. I'm on to the next item.

No day is ever guaranteed but the day in front of us; still it seems that innumerable walks, hikes, and adventures await me, Izzy, and Kelley. Thus, I allow my attention to wander, hurrying once again through miracles of drenching rain or crystal blue skies. Izzy barks maniacally for my attention and Kelley stares me down, quivering with the anticipation of a thrown ball and daring me to forget my to-do lists and just play.

My challenge over the coming months will be to come fully to the present. Though my dogs are young, their ability to live in the present is one of the greatest gifts they bring to me. So, even though Izzy and Kelley's moments don't seem stolen right out of the grim reaper's hand and thus somehow more precious, I hope to allow their passionate focus on "now" to seep into my very veins.

So, it's time for wool socks and hiking shoes, warm shirt and hat. The trail is calling.

Montana Christmas Eve

Last spring, I had the mixed pleasure of making three trips to Montana to see my sister. Mixed because while Montana is a beautiful place replete with hiking trails and I love my sister, she had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and I would have preferred to be visiting under other circumstances. For those trips, my buddy Nicholai accompanied me.

Back in Montana now, I retrace steps I took with Nicholai the last time we were here. Mr. Pickle stayed pretty much glued to my side and we hiked and walked together as I shared in numerous blog posts. But even when I went to the bathroom, Nicholai followed me there, camping out on the rug while I showered. I'll never know if he perceived the approach of the grim reaper and vulnerability drove him to my side, or if he simply chose closeness to his primary person out of preference, much as I chose closeness to my primary dog-friend. Perhaps he knew as well as I our time together was finite and wanted the most out of our relationship.

These Montana steps are the last ones waiting to be experienced for the first time without Nicholai. Our trips here together during the mountain spring were laden with poignant moments. Both Joan and I watched Nicholai make the most of every day while we contemplated the ravages of cancer. Nicholai's robustness so many months after his predicted demise infused weary humans with hope and a sense of empowerment. Along with Nicholai, we chowed down anti-oxidant packed veggies and hiked relentlessly, soaking up the song of the hills until our souls were filled.

Staring down the potential loss of Nicholai, I wondered what life would be like without him. I didn't know how I would proceed without a daily dose of my contemplative companion.

This morning I rose to a cold Christmas Eve day – sky, hills, and horizon all blue and white. While my sister ran with Kelley, I (still on activity restriction after eye surgery) walked with Izzy who was decked out in a red fleece jacket. A cold white moon hung in the wintery sky and a biting wind whipped around my face. I proceeded with one foot in front of the other.

I wish Nicholai was still here to enjoy life with me. But, no matter what happens, I find each day delivers at least one moment of beauty.

 

 

Commitment

After more than nine months writing daily posts, neglecting the blog these past two months leaves me feeling vaguely irresponsible. Nicholai was my touchstone, my daily walking meditation; without his presence I find myself sucked into the swirling vortex of a busy life. I miss the solid ground provided by paying attention with my big black dog. Perhaps now, off work due to another eye surgery, I will find quiet time for reflection during the dark days of winter.

When last I checked in here, we were in the midst of a struggle with our female pitbull dogs. Nicholai died, leaving a hole in the canine chain of command. Seven year old Isabella should have ascended gracefully to the position of Queen Dog and young Kelley should have acquiesced with gracious deference. Instead, Isabella swirled into hyperactive mode, barking insanely about each of the day's activities. She barked to induce us to get up in the morning, to open the door, to serve biscuits before breakfast, to go to the park, to throw a ball, to feed her bites of our meals. Often, it seemed, she just barked on general principle. With ears laid back, Kelley crept surreptitiously onto laps where she watched Izzy spin in circles making her demands. When Isabella's high-pitched frenetic barking became too much to bear, Kelley lit into her canine 'sister' with teeth and claws blazing. After three of these episodes where neither of the girls gave an ounce of ground and blood was drawn, I felt a sense of dread. Pitbull fanciers recommend just one dog of each gender to a household. A bit cockily perhaps, we had presumed we could mandate a peaceful existence between the girls despite any genetic whispers to the contrary lingering in their DNA.

We struck out in search of solutions that would allow us to keep both dogs. Some changes were simple – taking each dog on her own walk for instance. Requiring a little self-control from Izzy – while not simple, per se – was straightforward. We insisted (sometimes with a water filled squirt bottle in hand) that Izzy sit without barking before we opened the door, handed out biscuits, or tossed a ball. Izzy's eyes were wide and she trembled with the effort of containing her manic energy, but she did it.

Our veterinarian prescribed a Chinese herbal formula to pacify Isabella's wild physiology and a pheromone dispenser still metes out molecules of a chemical substance normally produced by dogs to send a calming signal to other animals in the area. These measures garnered a tentative accord between the girls. Still, we felt on edge and wondered when the next melee would occur.

I contacted a specialist in dog training and behavior who connected me with an animal communicator. Skeptical at best about the merits of animal communication (who does it, with what training, certification, or credentials, and how in the heck does it really work?), I felt we had nothing to lose.

According to the communicator, Isabella sees herself as separate from any canine pack hierarchy; she does not wish to be an 'alpha' dog. Izzy is just a girl who wants to have fun, and when the fun is over, she wants a warm lap to snuggle on without competition. No surprise there. The communicator told us Kelley felt uncertain about her place in our family. Nicholai's sudden departure left her uneasy; she didn't know what role she was to fulfill – was it Guard dog, playmate, or little sister? Was she meant to bark at visitors, to keep Izzy in line, or to protect the perimeter? We chatted for a while about roles and expectations then the communicator suddenly said, "Kelley doesn't know if you want to keep her."

I don't know if an animal communicator really talks to animals at all; perhaps if skillful, she simply pulls insights and feelings from the person she communicates with – in this case, me. But I chuckled in spite of myself. The communicator certainly hit on a truth about me. I found Kelley one fateful morning at Kelley Point Park and brought her home without thinking. Since then, we just kept her day after day without making a real decision; it took months for us to simply get her spayed. In a way, she'd been on unspoken probation all this time.

When I hung up the phone, I sat by Kelley. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and I pictured the day she crept carefully across the parking lot toward me, just tossed out by her previous people. "I have loved you since that moment," I telegraphed to her with all my attention. I told her what a good dog she is and how much I value her. "I want you to stay forever. But to do that, you must find peace with Izzy."

Something is working: Izzy curtails – just barely – her frenzied behavior, perhaps she's helped by the herbs she takes or the pheromone signals. Kelley demonstrates numerous acts of gracious deference at the same time relaxing into her role as the much loved baby of the family. The girls are living side by side in peaceful harmony.

I don't know if the animal communicator nailed it for the dogs, but she sure nailed it for commitment-phobic me. Perhaps Kelley can relax now that she knows she's home for good. Without plan "B" which entails getting rid of Kelley, I am free to focus, not on if things work, but how they work. And for the first time since she moved in with us, both Kelley and I are free to love each other with abandon.

That may be the key to the peaceful kingdom.