BarbaraBeardsley.com

It is Fall. A year has passed since I started writing this blog, and many things have changed. When I started, it was with the idea that I would discipline myself to write on a regular basis, in preparation for Something. I was not sure what Something was, but I knew I needed to be prepared.

As it turned out, Something was my first novel. I began thinking I might write a short story, and, well…things happened. So, that being said, I now look  back on the time spent writing as a joyous and productive time; a cathartic and spiritual time that I thoroughly enjoyed. So much so, in fact, that I am in preparation for writing another novel. Things happened.

During the past year several important beings in my inner circle have passed away. The losses are, of course, immeasurable. And with each loss there is a transformation; we are not the same as we were, and apparently, we are meant to be ever-changing. For each of you who reads this, there are probably losses you have endured  in the past year; and you have changed, too.

The Seasons are perhaps nowhere more dramatically evident than in New England. Autumn, brief as it is, shouts out with glorious color and vibrancy as her leaves dazzle us with their audacity, and then fall to earth and fade into obscurity. Covered under the Snows and Ice of Winter, their death nurtures the soil and prepares it for Spring and new Life. Summer bestows warmth and bright laughing days before she recedes into the inevitability of Autumn, again. Joni Mitchell wrote:” And the Seasons, they go ’round and ’round, the Painted Ponies go up and down, we’re captive on the carousel of Time”. So we are. Captives riding this carousel on the whirling planet Earth.

So what do we do with the changes? Fear them? Embrace them? Deny them? All of the above? I guess by the time you reach 65 years old, you know that we have no real choice but to accept them. These transformations are a part of the carousel ride, and we grow and evolve into the final products that we become through the changes.

I struggle, as do many of us, with Change. Never cared for it. I am a big fan of HOLDING ON to just about everything. It’s tough to LET GO. But, having been forced to do so, I am trying to find a way to accept it. Fighting against Change really hasn’t worked too well for me.

So, for today, I will look out my window at the bright red color trying to overtake the green on my Maple tree. I will realize, once again, that I am not in charge of the Universe (don’t you hate when that happens?). I will sigh, and let go of Summer. I will welcome Autumn for her brief and spectacular visit. And I will be a different Me tomorrow than I am today.

It’s funny, but I can remember the perfection of the sky that day. Most days in Southwest Florida have a similar quality; they seem to run into one another without much distinction: they are almost always sunny and bright. But this day, because of what it would bring forth, is etched in my memory. The sky was brilliantly blue and clear: an excellent September morning with no clouds on the horizon.

I drove over the Sanibel Causeway bridge into Fort Myers, heading for the local Real Estate licensing board’s office. Having passed the Florida  exam, I would now get fingerprinted and sign the documents to legally become a Realtor.

As I waited in the office for my paperwork to be completed, I heard a woman start talking excitedly from the room beyond the waiting area. She had spoken to her husband on the phone and he had told her that a small plane had hit one of the Twin Towers. The first thing that came to my mind was that someone who had just gotten a pilot’s license had veered off course and slammed into the building by accident. As the seconds passed, someone turned on a television in the office and the information started coming in that would confirm the awful truth that this was no accident.

What happened next seems, in retrospect, to have happened in slow motion. I partially digested the information that we were under some sort of attack, and could only think of getting home to the Island as quickly as possible to pick up my daughter from school. She was in the second grade. I called the school and, since I was a regular volunteer parent, was asked to come in and help.

I raced back to the Island and stopped at my home, where I encountered the two young men who were working on my pool. They were listening to their portable radio on the back of their truck. I invited them in to watch what was unfolding on the television for a couple minutes; we watched in silent shock together.

Then I went to the Sanibel School, and was told that for today, no one would discuss what had happened. The Principal and Staff had decided this was a subject for parents to handle as they wished, and kids could stay for the day or go home.If they stayed, there would be no mention or discussion of what was becoming something too frightful to imagine further. We adults looked each other in the eyes, but tried to seem as normal as we could to the kids. There was plenty of fear in those eyes, but everyone pulled it together when they walked into a classroom. No discussion. Stay focused. Put on a happy face.

I don’t know how we got through the next four hours, but we did. When school let out, we went home and I discussed the terrible day with my daughter. We talked about it, and its after effects, for many days. Eventually things in the second grade overtook the horror, and the kids returned to what would be their new normal.

America changed significantly that day. We all know how, and we all know why. The morning hours before the planes hit the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and another plane crashed in a field in Pennsylvania, were the last hours of our ignorance and innocence. Most of us were ignorant of the evil that claimed those 3,000 plus lives. And most of us were innocent enough to have thought such a thing couldn’t happen to us in our homeland. Now we know better. Now we have been informed of how much the terrorists hate us, and to what lengths they will go to kill us and ruin our way of life.

I liked the early part of that September morning. There were no clouds on the horizon, and the sky was so blue.

 

A few days ago we went for a ride into the hills of Western Maine to see a cabin that we were considering renting for a vacation next Summer. When we arrived, the owner met us at the property to show us around the beach, wooded acreage, and three cabins nestled into a private cove.

As we got out of the car and walked toward the sandy stretch in the photograph above, we immediately noticed the quiet. There were no other sounds but ours. Then, as if on cue, a Loon started its cry from about fifty yards out in the lake. It called to us a few times, bobbed down into the water, resurfaced and moved on. It struck me that I could hear this loon so clearly because of the lack of any other sounds. Remarkable.

Now, my cherished avenue is very quiet; we are lucky to live on a dead-end street in  an undisturbed neighborhood. But this is different; this is a natural world away from the rest, frequented only by gentle spirits who appreciate the tranquil woods and calm waters.

There are lots of trees, small natural gardens, and only a few signs of Mankind: three cottages built of Cedar logs, a fire pit, and several wooden picnic tables. There is also a small shed next to a stack of canoes, kayaks, and rowboats. No motors. Noiseless water travel.

None of this is news to many of you who have sought a vacation in the woods, backpacked in the wilderness, or lived far from civilization. I have trekked on the John Muir trail at somewhere over 13,000 feet, hiked up the Russian River in Alaska, and camped near Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies. So, I know this in not a new concept. Having said that, I was so taken by this wooded glen and this pristine pond, that it made me reflect anew on what Nature holds. There are the intoxicating scents of the woods, the welcoming quality of the clean air, and the incredible softness of the pond’s water.

I walked into one of the cedar cabins with its knotty-pine walls, and was immediately transported back to my grandparents’ country home in New Hampshire. The smell of pine everywhere and the clear air sent me soaring to Ball Hill in Milford, where I spent most of my childhood holidays. I remembered how it felt to be living among the trees, priming the ancient pump, and gathering sticks for the fireplace. I loved it there.

The absolute stillness caught me off guard. We are so accustomed to all the noise of the twenty-first century, that we have become inured to it. Telephones, cars, appliances, construction, traffic, sirens, machinery, buses, television, computers…..and my personal favorite…..wait for it………LOUD PEOPLE!!!! This place is literally off the grid; there are none of the previously mentioned annoyances.

We will be spending a week here on vacation next year. I will be out of touch with, as Joni Mitchell wrote, “the breakdown of this century”. I am sure that I will be writing about many new topics, and I am already creating a list of adjectives: hushed, still, restful, unfettered, sleepy, peaceful………

 

 

 

 

As Summer nears its end in New England,  I always think of the wonderful Michel Legrand song,”Windmills of Your Mind”, whose lyrics were written by  Alan and Marilyn Bergman: “Why did Summer go so quickly, was it something that you said?”.

We who live in the Northeast have a different relationship with this Season than those who live in warm climates.It is somehow at once a passionate love affair, and yet a hesitant relationship; we are the  tentative lovers of the sunshine and warmth it brings, always fearful of it abandoning us to the cold, harsh Winter we know is ahead. We are afraid to love it too much. We are afraid to miss one moment of its attention. We are afraid of wasting the precious days, knowing the regret we will soon feel if we do.

It’s complicated; but it wasn’t always this way. When I was a child, as I was in the photo above, Summer was a magical, carefree time that stretched out before me with no limits. When the sun rose early and stayed late, there was so much time to play. Ride your bike. Swim in your plastic pool. Go to the lake. Have a picnic in the yard. Pick Strawberries. Pick Blueberries. Jump waves in the Ocean. Play hide and seek with your cousins. Watch fireflies light up the nights.It was an unending series of opportunities for fun. School, heavy coats, boots, mittens,  and staying inside was all forgotten; Summer was going to last almost forever.

Now that I am a Senior Citizen (yikes!) it seems that time literally flies by. Everyone over a certain age is sure of that, and most mention it with regularity. Summer has a particularly fleeting quality now. Autumn usually glides by swiftly, too. Winter seems to hold on with its heels dug in; it never leaves us quickly enough. Spring drags its feet as it inches toward warmth each year.

When, at long last, we find Summer mornings again-glorious and radiant-we  welcome them with open arms,  yet still fearing to  hold on too tight. Those who live in warm climates take for granted the warmth and sunshine; they are confident that they can waste the day, because tomorrow they will get another one just like today. They are married to the warmth, and it will not leave them so easily.

We in the North must be on our toes. We are the ones so easily seduced by Summer; the ones who revel in her charms, and then are inevitably tossed aside. We must never count on her for too long. But, like a love that we may have been lucky enough to have found in the past, we should cherish each moment. Savor it. Breathe it in. Devour it. Carpe Diem.

All good things must come to an end. Don’t you hate when that happens?

 

Last week there was a day designated as “Sister’s Day”. I started thinking about the relationship between Sisters, and how I grew up always wishing I had one. I felt somehow slighted by not having that special connection that I saw in female siblings, and it was a wish that I cultivated in my heart.

Then there came that wonderful day in June of 1971, when I arrived in Los Angeles to meet my future in-laws for the first time. There she was: my Sister-in-law, sixteen-year-old Judy. (The picture above shows us that week, bonding as newly minted sisters-to-be.) She was smart, funny, beautiful, and kind. Having two brothers, she had always wanted a Sister, too. We were meant for each other.

I loved Judy from the first moment we met, and my affection for her has increased steadily over the past forty-five years. She has been family to me always, even though my marriage to her brother did not last too long. She has provided me with so much joy by marrying a fabulous man, my Brother-in-law Matt, whom I also adore. She has further enriched my life by allowing me to be an Aunt to my incredible niece, Tova, and my spectacular nephew, Jared. Although we live a Continent apart, and rarely see one another, I have always felt connected to my little baby Sister, and her wonderful family. Love does that.

As I pursued this line of Sister thinking, I realized that many of my close female friends are like Sisters to me. They have taken me into their hearts and homes,  have been in my corner through all my travails,  and have rooted me on to my successes. I could not ask for more from a genetically related Sister.

When I need a reality check for my behavior, or have to bitch about the number of morons I have recently encountered,  there is Donna Deluxe. She is the astute  and incisive psychoanalyst for whose constant services I have not had to pay. She knows all my stories and gets all my inside jokes. Close as any Sister could be.

If I have a moral question, or wonder if I am headed the wrong way, or need to talk about being a single Mom to a daughter, there is Gail. My brilliant, successful Maid of Honor, and College pal. We’ve travelled somewhat parallel paths, and always pick up the conversation where we last left off. Sisters, for sure.

When I need to reminisce and laugh about the foibles of my youth, there is Cynthia. She, who put up with me as a College roommate for several years, knows me very well. My snoring. My obsessiveness. My heartbreaks. Talented, creative, smart, consistent, and steady: this is a Sister who has shared so much with me, and continues to encourage all my efforts.

I realize I have other Sisters for other reasons and seasons. Cate is always there as a shrewd common sense touchstone. Marg is there for making sure I don’t take myself too seriously. Marianne is loving and kind, and always excited about my new ideas. Judy C. is there for thoughtful, pragmatic advice, and to make sure I see both sides of the issues. Lisette is there to carefully review the facts and make a plan of attack. Kim is there to inspire my inward search and heal me with her wisdom. All these clever, intelligent, and compassionate Women help me by being great listeners and giving of their time and energy.

So, I got really lucky. Fate didn’t give me just one or two Sisters: I have a Sisterhood. They support me, restore me, share with me, and set me straight. They know who I am, and accept my flaws, neuroses, and crazy schemes. Love does that.

What’s Cool? I have been wondering about this topic for a while. The current culture of immediate gratification and acceptable mediocrity in SO many areas makes it hard for me to find something/someone who is actually Cool.

A few decades ago, before the Internet, Smart Phones, and Tweeting, there was, obviously, such a different delivery system of information and imagery. Books, live performances, films shown in Movie Theaters, and Television brought us our celebrities. The difference back then was that in order to really be famous, you actually had to have some recognizable talent, skill, or training, and then you had to excel at it to rise above others in your chosen field. Not so much today.

But this is not about bashing the Trumps and Kardashians and Lady Gagas of the world; that would take more paragraphs than I  have time for now. This is about COOL. What defines it? Who has that elusive quality?

Above is a photo of the Actor, Steve McQueen. In my opinion, and that of many others, he embodied COOL. He walked it, talked it, laughed it, and performed it. Whether he was riding a motorcycle to escape Nazis in “The Great Escape”, or romancing Insurance Investigator Faye Dunaway in “The Thomas Crown Affair”, Steve McQueen was undeniably COOL. I have seen almost all of his movies several times, and there is hardly anyone who can compare to his level of nuanced “I’m-so-relaxed-in-this-situation-I-could-almost- nap”COOL.

So, who else had it? Frank, Sammy, and Dean had it. Gene Kelly had it. Lauren Bacall and Bogie both had it, as did  Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn. Johnny Carson exuded it.Paul Newman was VERY COOL, and his good friend, Robert Redford still is.

In the world of political figures, I think JFK was an example of COOL. Nixon, not so much. I think Joe Biden and his pal, Barack, are pretty cool dudes. They don’t seem to come unglued easily, and they keep their sense of humor. Tough stuff these days.

One of my friends suggested that George Clooney is COOL. Yeah, I like George and his commitment to use his celebrity to bring awareness to important causes. And being arm candy for Amal makes him even cooler.

When I was in high school and college, it was the 1960’s. We got to listen to and dissect the words of Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, The Beatles, The Stones, and so many other musical poets. What were they saying? What did those lyrics mean? What were the references? We felt COOL if we understood the artist’s intention; it was like being allowed to sit at the COOL table.

Clothing had a significance then, too. It was COOL to wear bell bottoms, wire-rimmed glasses, army jackets,  Frye or Flagg Brothers boots, Peace T shirts, beads, and head bands.Remember going to the local Army-Navy store to shop for COOL?

I have tried hard to come up with people who are COOL today. Here is my list: Malala Yousefzai, Lin-Manuel Miranda,  Morgan Freeman, Michelle Obama, Meryl Streep, Jane Fonda, and my favorite Weatherman-Al Roker. Different styles, and different reasons, but they all qualify.

It’s not important. It’s not life altering. It’s probably very subjective. What we value, and how hip we wish we were, determine our choices, I guess.

Put on some tie-dye and let your freak flag fly today. Cool.

 

 

There has been such a succession of news cycles with astounding violence and terror in the past couple years. It’s enough to make a former Journalism major and news junkie stop watching and listening just to get through the day. I find myself, overly empathic being that I am, stunned, shocked, revolted, disgusted, and terrified lately. This repetitive overload of horror leads me to wonder how we go forward each day without seriously spinning out of control and giving up all hope of ever leading “normal” lives again. Some of us cannot, and some of us will not. Some of us will slip into deepening depression, hide from the world,  and self-medicate more with our drugs of choice. Conversely, some of us will find the way to seek beauty, creativity, and love in everything we can, as a counterbalance for the awful and negative that predominates the headlines.

I have been wondering why I am able to avoid madness and Keep Hope Alive. Perhaps one of the reasons is the way I was raised, and the people who raised me. I don’t know if it is Nature (my DNA) or Nurture (my parents), but something has sustained me and continues to keep me moving forward.

My Father, Bronson David Beardsley, was a complicated, intelligent, neurotic, and hilarious human being. Did I hear someone say something about the apple not falling far? Anyway, from my earliest memories, I can recall him being there in the Dad way. He taught me to swim, to ice skate, to be cautious, and to follow through. He told a million jokes, and I learned how to entertain. He played his records on the Hi-Fi, and sang along with Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and  Sammy Davis, Jr., and I fell in love with Music. He encouraged me to play piano, and I  learned to play. He helped me learn to read by reading to me, and I devoured books before I attended the First Grade. We used to watch the Huntley-Brinkley report together in the 1960’s, and I became aware that being informed was important, and being able to discuss politics, world news events, and cultural events,  was required. At bedtime, we often did a special greeting to one another; since my Dad’s middle name was David, he became Brinkley, and I was Huntley. “Good Night, Chet”, he would say from his bedroom on the other side of my wall;”Good Night, David”, I would reply.

I always knew that my Dad would have my back. As I grew up, and we had many differences of opinion, I still,somewhere in the recesses of my mind, believed that when push came to shove, he would show up for me.

I remember being a Freshman at Boston University, and having a gum infection. I was given penicillin at the Infirmary, and was alone in my dorm room for a few days. I started breaking out in a rash that itched like I was tied to an anthill.  Raised welts started to completely cover my body, until I looked like I had some new version of Elephantiasis. I phoned home. When I described what was going on, my Father said”I’ll be right there”.  Now, Portland, Maine is about a two hour drive from Boston if you encounter  smooth sailing, no construction, and no traffic jams of any sort. My Dad arrived at my room in  about 90 minutes. He whisked my now enormous puffy body into his car, and drove back  (at top speed) directly to our Doctor’s office in South Portland. Dr. Paul Rieger diagnosed me immediately with a severe allergic reaction and I was treated with the proper antidote. I recovered at home in a couple days.

During my College years, the differences were more visible. I was as staunchly Left Wing as he was Republican. I was protesting the war that his President was waging. I was a vegetarian from the age of 19, and he was a carnivore. I joined Greenpeace, Amnesty International, the Sierra Club, the World Wildlife Fund, and lots of other ecological organizations. Dad was in the local Kiwanis, the Shriners, and involved in teaching and coaching hockey. Ideologically, we went our separate ways as I became an adult.

When I married and moved to San Francisco, Dad and Mom came to visit. Two decades later when I married for the second time, and moved to Homer, Alaska, Dad came to visit.When I became a professional singer and performed in local bands in Portland, Dad came to gigs. When I opened several gift shops and made my living as a retailer, Dad came to check out my shops. He might have disagreed with all my choices, personal and professional, but he did show up to see what I was doing, and to have a basis on which to form his opinions.

My Father had strong convictions and he was usually immoveable. Right or wrong, you knew where he stood. Here are several things I  learned from him that have been very important to me over the years: 1. Your Word is your Bond.2. You better be able to support yourself in this world, as it might be that no one else will. 3. Having good friends is essential. 4. Clean up your messes. 5. Give something back to the community.

Dad found it hard to express sentiment and emotion. Like most men of his generation, those things were frowned upon and mostly suppressed. But, in the end he was able to always tell me he loved me and was proud of me.

These days I think that all those lessons I learned from my Father long ago taught me some other things. I learned that much was expected of me, and that was all right. I learned that having strong beliefs and knowing yourself well could propel you forward. I learned, too, that someone having your back gives you a kind of self-esteem that not everyone owns.

I’m not sure, but I think the influence of these ingrained precepts helps me every day. The instruction from a tough-love Yankee Father made me strong, independent, and confident.

So, Dad, you were right. You were right about me not going to Woodstock. I cried and despised you for not allowing me to go with my friends, but you were right. I would have hated the rain, the mud, and no bathrooms! And you were right when I cried about a young man who dumped me after a three month love affair; you said “Flash in the pan, huh?”, and I thought you were unfeeling and heartless. But, you were right again. I was infatuated, and it would never have worked.

The photograph above was taken in late Summer, 1970. I was 19 years old, and had just returned from my first trip to California, tanned and exuberant. We were sitting on my Dad’s cabin cruiser boat after a day on the ocean. That was a good day.

If you were here tonight, we would watch the evening news together, and you would shake your head at the mess in which we find ourselves today. But we would have an intelligent discussion about all of it, and find a joke in it somewhere.

“Good Night, David.”

 

 

I met Rick Cohen in Russian class at Boston University in September of 1968. He was funny, terribly intelligent, and always willing to help others. I liked him immediately.

As we got to know each other, Rick introduced me and my roommate, Cynthia, to a large group of his friends; he was a local kid from Winthrop, and he knew his way around the City. Through Rick, we were invited to parties at Harvard, to hang out at his apartment, and  to take the occasional road trip.

Above is a  June, 1969 photo of Rick and another of our friends, Tom Pannesi, loading beer into the car on the way to Pennsylvania. We were making a trip to the Poconos, where Cynthia’s family had a Summer home, to visit for a few days. We had stopped in New York for lunch and, apparently, to stock up on liquid refreshments. I remember it was a scorching hot Summer day, and the part of the New York Thruway we travelled was bumper to bumper traffic. We had no air conditioner in the car, so we were pretty hot and thirsty by the time we reached a restaurant. After burgers, and a pitcher of beer consumed quickly, things started looking up. With windows rolled down, we headed back to the highway on a side road above the Thruway. After several minutes, Tom and I looked at the road below and realized what was happening. We both shouted” Rick, we’re going the wrong way!” Rick laughed, and shouted back “Yeah, but we’re making great time!”. I laughed until my sides hurt.

During the following year there was a lot of turmoil on campus. Those of us who were protesting the Viet Nam War were involved in marches, rallies, and strikes. Through all of this time, Rick was my solid g0-to person for information, support, and to check where I stood on issues. He and I were always aligned in our politics and sympathies. We marched, protested, and worked together on what we believed was critically important. When nothing made sense, we had to talk it out and find our ground ; if we were to go forward with what we saw as our essential conscience intact, we had to find Reason. Rick was always a source of Reason and stability. His mind was that sharp, and his sensibilities that strong.

In the Spring of 1970,  Rick and I, along with 120 others, were living in the “Strike Dorm” after Kent State’s tragic events. It was a grueling, exhausting time, and we decided to take a break. We needed a couple days away from all the intense negotiations, information overload, and general chaos of the dorm. With five or six others, we headed for Portland to visit my family for a couple days; we thought hanging out by the ocean would clear our heads and soothe our spirits enough to enable us to continue the work we were doing.

We had barely arrived when a close friend of mine, Mike Schwartz, came to see me. He was involved on his campus with efforts to pull together some timely response to the strike events, and asked us to come and speak to a group of U. Maine students. I remember Rick looking at me with a grin, and reading his mind. Of course  we would go. Of course we would speak to them. I don’t remember what we said; I don’t know if we helped them or made a difference. All I remember is the kind of commitment that Rick had, and the generosity of his spirit.

The following Winter, Rick and I became flat mates in a three bedroom apartment with another female friend, Leni Goldman. We used to joke about our names on the small metal mailbox in the front of the building: Cohen, Goldman, and Beardsley. We thought it sounded like a law firm. The apartment was typical of the student ghetto area, complete with broken appliances and more cock roaches than you could ever count. But Rick was a good roommate; he was responsible, helpful , and tolerant. There were many nights filled with great music (Rick had a passion for Jeff Beck and the  Airplane), laughter, lots of friends, and food.

I got married the following year, moved to California, and eventually lost contact with Rick. I found him, decades later, with the help of the Internet. He was writing and working in Washington when I called him. We chatted for a while, and caught up with the larger details of lives that have been distanced by time and space. He seemed deeply involved with his work and generally happy with his life. I was glad to know things had gone well for my old pal, and that he remained the highly principled and intensely committed man he had always been.

I just found out that Rick passed away last Fall. The flood of memories was somewhat overwhelming, as I continued to think of those long ago days. I know that sometimes nostalgia plays a part in our perceptions of our youthful trials and tribulations. I know that sometimes we can romanticize times, places, and people when we look back. But I know this: Rick Cohen was a man who stood up for his beliefs, and never backed down. He was a good friend. Rick was someone you wanted in your corner. I was lucky he was in mine.

Two of the loveliest words in the English language: Summer Morning.

When I awoke this morning the sun was shining, and there was a slight breeze from the West. Teddy and I ventured out early, before the heat of the day set in, and went for our walk around the neighborhood. It is a quiet place, since our street is a dead end one, and there is little traffic during even normal working hours. When we go for a walk, we rarely encounter any people, and that is the way we like it.

We do, however, meet and greet other neighbors. Just down the hill next to the stream we find the Mallard family: all seven of the babies we have been watching grow this Spring are relaxing on the bank of Messalonskee Stream. Mom, Dad, Aunts, and Uncles  are there enjoying the peace of this morning, and watching the young ones.

Several squirrels dash across the street ahead of us. They are as busy early in the day as they are later; there seems to be no rest for our bushy-tailed friends. Teddy acknowledges them and moves on.

I am acutely aware of the morning air. As I inhale it deeply, I can feel its coolness filling me, and it is refreshing and comforting. There is no humidity or smog or smoke or dust: I am so fortunate to be breathing this air as I walk.

The sun is just starting to warm things up. Flowers are tilting their heads and leaves are turning skyward with the help of the breeze. Teddy is sniffing every blade of grass, every dandelion, every pebble he finds. There is so much information for dogs to read in the bits of nature we take for granted. For them,( with their sense of smell that is reportedly 500 times more powerful than our noses) this is the Sunday New York Times. Teddy is an avid reader!

There is a lot of noise and drama and dysfunction and hatred and anger and sadness and greed and terror in this world. But, this morning, for Teddy and me, there is just the cornflower blue sky, the gentle breeze, and the calm of the stream as it rolls along. We are very, very lucky to have this Summer Morning.

Sorrow is a peculiar thing. It comes and goes. It recedes from your consciousness long enough for you to believe it has packed its lonely bags and left town. Then, on a bright Summery morning, you open a door, and there it is again: full force, barging into your life with all its baggage.

Perhaps not all humans know the sadness I feel now. Perhaps only those who have ever loved a dog, another animal, or a human being know the sadness of losing the loved one. Maybe there are people who have never loved anyone. But those people are the saddest of all, because it means they have never experienced true joy, either. Dr. C.M. Parkes once said:” The pain of Grief is as much a part of life as the joy of love; it is perhaps the price we pay for love; the cost of commitment.”

Today I am grieving. I miss my Dog. I want to see Misha walking around the back yard that I see from my desk. The empty yard that holds nothing for me.

I want to smell his fur as I burrow my face in it. I want to rub his velvet-soft ears. I want to get a quick appreciative lick on the face. I want to “high five” him and feel his huge paw press into my hand as he awaits a biscuit.

I received a phone call from the Animal Hospital. They informed me that Misha’s ashes are ready to be picked up. So, I will go and bring home the container. The earthly remains of my sweet Boy.

Sorrow is individual. Some people hide it in a  closet. Some people lock it up and pretend it isn’t there. As it bangs and yells and struggles to get out, they put larger ear plugs in and bigger blinders on. They won’t allow it entrance. Some people try to ignore it forever.And some people welcome it into their parlor, give it sustenance, and unpack its bags. They allow it to stay as long as it wants. However it is treated, Sorrow almost always finds a way into the minds and hearts it seeks.

Sorrow has found me. I am caught in its terrible embrace. It is a most unwelcome guest, and I know that I am responsible for sending out the invitation long ago. The commitment  of loving put the stamp on that invitation. I have no choice but to be the hostess until its awful stay is over. Sorrow is a peculiar thing.