celtic_writer

Marg, the Marine and a Barbie Wading Pool

Ms. Marg.

You were a short-nosed Lab, one with deep-barrelled chest, spun to life on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, from a mother named Stella and a father called Gus.

You were the runt of the litter. You lived to be 13.

You hated thunderstorms. When one would arrive in Mason Neck, you would go to the bedroom closet, pull most of my clothes off the hangers to make a nest, and bury yourself in the smell of Mary, until the danger passed.

Today, there was no part of Mary that could comfort you. Despite medication, you were in pain. You visited the vet today...and went to sleep. I held you in my arms, as was always done when you needed it, and you sighed as your spirit flew away. And as I held you, your gub came to rest on the top of my foot as you went to sleep. Just like it did when you would lay under my desk while I was working, or playing scales on the guitar in the living room. You liked music.

You were smart, my dear Marg. Sweet. A happy dog. Your tail wagged, even in your sleep. I would be working in the office, and hear you slide off the couch in the living room, to walk down the hall to check on me. I would lay the side of my face on your soft black head and rub your stomach, and you would smile with your soft pink tongue.

A memory: Ken wanted water for you, so he, a big strong ex-Marine, went to the nearest Toys 'R Us and bought you a kiddie pool, one with a picture of Barbie on it, one that could be filled with water, which it was, in the corner of the yard. He was not embarrassed. At the counter he told the cashier, "This is for Margaret. She likes to swim."

And you loved it. A black pup, running across the yard, leaping into the pool's shallow depth. You would bite at the even more shallow depiction of the bottle-blond Barbie painted on the pool floor. You loved puddles and biting at water and burrowing your head against the leg of someone you loved.

So tomorrow morning Walt and I will walk to the Potomac. I will drop a Milkbone in the water. And the ripples of treat will spread in circles, a goodness to be shared with Shaman and Casey, baby Henry, and Barb, the lady who will gently scold you while fixing you something good to eat.

Creed

Back before many of us were born, there was a radio show hosted by Edward R. Murrow called This, I Believe.

The show featured both famous and common people reading essays about the principles that have guided their lives.

If you tuned in then, you would have heard Albert Einstein, or a woman from the hollers of Kentucky, recite their original thoughts into air, delivered to the eager ears of millions of radio listeners. The show has since been revitalized by National Public Radio. It is worth tuning in. There's a great essay by a fellow who believes life can be described by the marbling in a pastrami sandwich.

The last few days, I have been thinking about belief, and what it means to have a creed in one's life. What are the things I still believe at the age of 51? I've come up with a list.

I believe in dogs. These creatures are our teachers. They love us unconditionally. They are always happy to see us, no matter what. They do not judge us. They listen, and act like you are the most interesting person on the planet. They simply treat us the way we should all treat each other.

I believe in misfits. They are the hope for our society. They think for themselves, have loads of creativity, yet have never been told they are smart. They are unafraid to discover. And they don't like being told what to do. They are my students. Who they really are: my teachers.

I believe in something much bigger than I can ever be, and it is called nature. If we peer through the microscope, nothing is calm. All is chaos. And that's what fosters creativity. And that's what contributes to flow.

I believe in not knowing. Life can be a surprise, if we let it.

I believe in silence. We all need it. The unencumbered hour spent simply listening is food for the soul.

I believe in books written a very long time ago. It reminds me that many people who lived centuries back had it right in the first place.

I believe time is the most important thing we've got. It's not things and big houses and fame and all that petty nonsense. It is time, 'cause we can't get it back. Yeah, we can make more money next week, but we can't get back one millisecond of yesterday.

I believe our characters are set in stone at a very early age, and that we don't change very much. We physically grow bigger, and hopefully, we mature enough to understand that remembering childhood innocence helps us live a long time.   

I believe there are people in this life we outgrow, and it has nothing to do with loyalty. There is nothing more they can teach us or we can teach them, so we have to let each other go.

I believe you should only hang around with people who make your life better. Otherwise, it is a deplorable waste of time. You don't have to put up with the bossiness and guilt, judgement and ignorance, pride and dishonesty. You can simply say "good bye" with your silence. No other explanation is needed.

I believe in coffee. Caffeine fuels creativity.

I believe you can support yourself...emotionally, physically and financially if you just keep learning.

I believe you should live unafraid. It is never anyone else's call. It is up to you.

I believe in life...as well as death. I have held both in my arms, and know we cannot have one without the other. And one teaches us about the other.

And I know belief is tested, every day. So when that happens, I try to remember a time when I was around seven or so, sitting at the kitchen table after dinner, drawing horses on a clean, white sketch pad. My father came into the room, and sat in a chair beside me. He asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up, Mary?"

I continued to draw, and thought about the question. After a few minutes, I looked up at him, and replied, "I want to be a good person."

I did not understand then why his eyes watered up, and the reason he got up and left the room.

But now, I believe I do.

Envelope of the Heart

It is 2007, and there is a new dock down by the river.

Near sunrise this morning, the Labbies and I wandered down to walk upon it once more. Neighbor Scott and his friends have constructed a plain, sturdy place where one can sit on an edge of wood and listen to the sound of water.

Have been away for a few weeks, and it has been wonderful. It was the first Christmas in over 20 years I wasn't doing eight or more dishwasher loads in a silent house on Christmas night. Things never have to remain the same. I rented a large automobile that looked like a gangstah car, piled the Labbies and assorted gifts and stuff into its environs, and motored off the Thursday before Christmas. We ventured south to see our favorite cousins, then south again to a wooden home with fireplace near a lake. There I helped put up a fine Christmas tree in a newly-painted peach room, then ate goose with a special chef, a man who makes me laugh a tremendous amount. That was my Christmas gift. To be able to open up the envelope of the heart and drop something new inside.

And today, the gifts keep coming. This afternoon, Marg chased her tennis ball across the cold sleeping lawn for the first time in many months. She felt like retrieving. She was well enough to be herself. And she is smiling again.

Leonard Cohen wrote:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

And tomorrow at sunrise, we will walk to the dock once more, to investigate how the water has changed.

QUOTE: From Anthem. Lyrics and music by Leonard Cohen.

Damp Mysteries and Masterpieces

Niece Emma came by on this cool sunny afternoon to hang out with her old Aunt Mare.

She is a child who entertains herself.

After throwing Walt's toy Kong for him a multitude of times across the yard, she came into my office where I was working and informed me that, as a result of Walt's natural Labbie slobber, "you should wash your hands after picking up the Kong because it's very yucky."

Amen, sister. Pass the Dial soap.

Once she was again clean of hands, Emma placed the art supplies from her backpack on the kitchen table and politely asked for a cup of water. "I need that so I can paint with watercolors," she said.

You got it, kid.

So I left the artist to her work, and went down the hall to get back to programming. Soon I heard footsteps, and she was by my side with a damp masterpiece.

"This is us, Aunt Mare, having tea."

Cheez, the kid's got "The Eye."

"You have to let it dry now," she said. "If you leave it alone, it can be what it is supposed to be."

The painting was gladly accepted and placed on a flat surface so it could flatten to its final colors. Emma was off again, bounding down the stairs to the outside. I continued to work. Soon I heard her talking to someone. I walked down the hall to the top of the stairs and found her deep in conversation with Margaret on the front stoop.

"You're gonna feel so much better now, Marg," Emma told her.

Marg's had a tough time of it the last few weeks. She endured a six-hour surgery to have a fatty tumor removed from her shoulder, the procedure lengthened by the discovery of another mysterious mass inside the benign. When I took Marg back this a.m. to have the sutures removed, the vet surgeon informed me that the mystery is an aggressive cancer, and that Marg has between two to six months at most.

She spoke about oncology vet help available locally, and that chemo and radiation might help Marg live an additional 2-3 months. I listened, then simply said, "No. I'm gonna take her home."

Marg, so very happy to jump in the Bug once more, smiled with her pink tongue all the seven miles home. Walt was waiting for her. And this afternoon Emma sat with Marg on the cement stoop by the front door, and told her about school and how she is reading a book about a girl with a purple plastic purse, and how she still can't go completely across all the monkey bars on the playground, but that she would keep trying.

Ms. Barley

Walked the Labs along the river early this morning. We surprised a great blue heron, one standing stoically in shallow water, hunting breakfast. It squawked its displeasure, then flew low along the Potomac, transforming its body into flight. It is cold, but clear here.

When I returned, I received an email from my brother Fran with the sad news that the clan has lost one of its own. Her name: Barley. Her form while on this earth: Wheaten Terrier.

Years ago, when she was a pup, Ms. Barley would come to Aunt Mary's Summer Canine Camp, to play with the Labs for a week while her family went south to the beach. At that point, Barley was unaccustomed to stairs, afraid to go down the six in this split level to the freedom of the yard. Ms. Margaret, ever the teacher, took over.

Margaret ran down the stairs to the landing by the front door, turned and woofed at the nervous wigglin'-tail Barley, who whimpered at the top step. "C'mon, Barley. You can do it."

Nope. Not yet.

Margaret ran up the stairs, nudged Barley on the side of her face, as if to say, "Watch," and bounded down the steps once more. Barley cocked her head, then put her front paws on the second step.

This lesson didn't take very long, as Barley had both beauty and brains. A few more minutes of this tutorial in motion gave Barley the courage to plunge down those stairs to the joy of running around the yard with her instructor. After that, traveling up and down was no problem.

"I mourn the hole in my soul without her," my brother wrote in his letter this morning. Yes, I am reminded about that in the sound of Margaret's more-labored breathing as she walks along country roads at dawn. And how it is noticable that Walt has a few more grey hairs on his chin these days when he places his head on my leg as I sit working at the computer.

These dogs are our teachers. They show us that it is OK to bark when something isn't right, that there is nothing wrong with making a fool out of yourself when you care about someone else. That treating others well is the respectful thing to do. And that loyalty never, ever goes out of fashion.

Image: Soft-coated Wheaten Terrier from The Faithful Dog

Story

There is a painting that hangs on the salmon-colored wall, above the books and guitars, in my living room.

It is called "Story."

My nephew James, who lived in my attic for a while and who is now a student at the University of New Mexico, gave it to me as a "thank you" for putting him up. It's an original painting created by a friend of his, a biker named Denver. It's called "Story" and I think it depicts what a story is, but also what life is all about. There is so much going on in it, as is true with all our experiences. I sit on the couch and look at it often, and I find something new in it every time I do.

Yes, life gets mangled sometimes, but it still has beauty. It has apples and vases and heart and fish and moon and bewilderment and stars and time. And I like the capital G in the top right-hand corner. It reminds one not to forget to be amazed.

That's what a story is. Yes, some say conflict is what makes a compelling story, and perhaps that is right. I think everyone finds what they need in a story told well, and that's why a story lives on. One can learn from art's experience.

Henry Miller wrote:

"What we all hope in reaching for a book, is to meet a man of our own heart, to experience tragedies and delights which we ourselves lack the courage to invite, to dream dreams which will render life more hallucinating, perhaps also to discover a philosophy of life which will make us more adequate in meeting the trials and ordeals which beset us. To merely add to our store of knowledge or improve our culture, whatever that may mean, seems worthless to me."

Tonight I walked two black dogs in the rain.

No dates, no curfews, no questions.

This is a remarkable life.

Cultural Explanations

On this quiet Friday when the sun shone its smiley face all day, friend Quinn McDonald, artist and creativity coach, emailed a question used to help folks jumpstart creativity cells in their brains:

Pick six items in your house. How would you explain these items to a visitor from outer space who doesn’t understand our culture. Write down your answers.

Thankful George Dubya Bush doesn't live here, I looked for six things I could explain to the Martians, should their superior brains ever make the terrible decision of landing here in the yard in Mason Neck.

1) Walt: Black Lab. Canine. Male. 7 years of age. 80 pounds. Sweet, but magna cum laude graduate of Duh University. Walt is unafraid of alien visitors, except the garbage truck and vacuum cleaner. All guests from the outer reaches of the galaxy are forewarned they will be expected to throw Walt's kong toy for him 1.8 million times before they run screaming to their space ship to zoom off at light speed to get away from such earthling madness.

2) Margaret: Black Lab. Canine. Female. 12 years of age. 90 pounds, but don't tell her I told you. She is very sensitive. Never stops wagging tail, even in sleep. If Martians land and demand, "Take me to your leader!" Margaret would smile and bulldoze her big black head against their skinny Martian legs, knock their green bodies to the ground, then proceed to smooch their bulbous heads. She would then get a drink of water and take a nap.

3) Book. A written work printed on pages bound together so one can read and learn. There are hundreds in this house, but only good literature and thought-provoking essays are allowed. All other books get thrown across the room or against the nearest wall. Any Martian visitor would have to read such small tomes as Don Quixote, The Grapes of Wrath, Moby Dick, and other works that are at least 600 pages. Just ask The Ya Ya Sisterhood Book Club of Mason Neck. They want to send me to the moon every time I get my way with a "classic" suggestion for the reading list.

4) Guitar. A stringed musical instrument played with the fingers, or a guitar pick. The sound is produced by vibrating strings, which in turn resonate the body and neck. All alien visitors will be subjected and expected to politely listen to such trad favorites as "Haul Away Joe" and "What Shall We Do With a Drunken Sailor?" and should feel encouraged to participate in the splendid caterwauling. Please make note that Walt does not like the tune "Sweet Betsy from Pike." Methinks it is the reference to "the big yeller dog," but I am not sure.

5) CDs. A small optical disk on which data such as music, text, or graphic images is digitally encoded. There are probably close to 1000 such media in this house, due to music, archived programming jobs and movies. No, Mr. and Ms. Martian, you may not borrow the following music CDs: Sons of the Pioneers (featuring Roy Rogers), The Radiators (from New Orleans), Nat King Cole, any Van Morrison, or EmmyLou/Mark Knopfler. Clapton is also off limits. You always say you will bring them back, but you never do. Light years away. A likely story.

6) Coffee. Seeds that are dried, roasted, and ground to prepare a stimulating aromatic drink. Must be served so piping hot as to scald even the most hardy Martian tongue. Please add cream of the highest fat content. No decaf allowed. Wimps. Please note that my brother-in-law Dave roasts his own coffee, and shares it with family and friends. It is the best coffee I have ever consumed. He will never reveal the method, but the roasting process starts with an air popcorn popper. You didn't hear this from me.

So, all of you out there, what's in your house? The Martians want to know.

Graphic: The Sun by Emma Mary Mankin, age 7. Used with permission, in exchange for an apple fritter.

Night Rain at Omiya

Soaked.

Water, lightning, rumbles of thundergods that loiter, swirling in circles over northern Virginia. Downtown DC is flooded. Was scheduled to go to Silver Spring MD this a.m. to teach, but there is water and mud over so many roads, and it is difficult to journey out of the woods, then on to a place called civilization. So class is rescheduled, and I sit here among the trees, in the saturated night, and write.

Margaret senses when more thunder is due. She finds me, and burrows her big black head against my leg, and she shakes and whimpers a little until I put my hand on her side to comfort her. She then lays under my desk, puts her chin on my foot, and falls asleep.

This rain reminds me of a masterpiece. It is called "Night Rain at Omiya", and it was created in 1930 by a Japanese artist named Kawase Hasui. It is a woodblock print; ink and color on paper.

I first saw it in late 2004 as part of an exhibition called Dream Worlds: Modern Japanese Prints and Paintings from the Robert O. Muller Collection at the Arthur M. Sackler Gallery in Washington, DC. All the prints were made the "old way"...cherry wood, horsehair brushes, sharp steel knives to cut intricate blocks.

Hasui was part of the Shin Hanga movement. These artists merged traditional Japanese woodblock printing techniques with European Impressionism. Standard subjects like landscapes, animals, and people were used, and particular attention was given to light and the depiction of individual moods. This collection of woodblock prints breathe.

It's a stunning piece of work. When I first encountered "Night Rain at Omiya" at the gallery, I looked at it for a very long time. I could feel others around me, competing for position to have a closer view. I stood still, and did not move. How'd that Zen dude make the rain, those beautiful reeds, that reflective water?

It continues to remind me that even when surrounded by darkness, solitude sheds a small light into the night. That it is possible to be warm and dry and happy in the silence.

Toothache and a Teenaged Bird

So I motored away from class yesterday afternoon, straight into the clutches of Dr. F. and the teeth-gritting sounds of his dental equipment.

I won't bore you with the gruesome details. When I left his office, I was sure that, later on, I was gonna feel like this:

I did what any maimed-in-the-mouth Celt would do under such circumstances. I went to the Shoppers Food Warehouse. I purchased $48.17 worth of supplies, just in case I should expire later in the evening. Heaven forbid my lifeless body should be found in a house with an empty pantry. Also stopped at the Lorton Shell to gas up the Mighty Bug with $38.54 worth of petrol. Saints save us that my expired remains should be found in a house where the small blue car in the drive had been starved, its gas gauge pointing to E.

Oh. I also chased a teenaged bird around the basement.

The condition of the homefront seemed pretty standard when I opened the front door and schlepped the groceries and a leather sack full of hernia-enducing tech books up the six stairs to the main hall. The Labbies circled around, wigglin' and wagglin' and grinning with their pink tongue smiles. "Good woman, we are happy to see you, but we have been sleeping all day like lazy lumps in the cool air, and now we are hungry, and, after a Purina repast, will require a gallop to the river so we can eat minnows."

OK.

I changed my clothes and fed them each a cup 'o dog chow. Soon the front gate was opened, and they romped out to the street towards the Potomac. They galloped and sniffed and peed and pranced like circus horses. I trudged behind. It was 96 degrees, and the novocaine was wearing off.

After our return, Walt was soon asleep on the floor at the top of the stairs of this split-level. The lad was fat, full and foolish, dreaming about chasing bunnies and duckies. I stepped over him to retrieve the mail I had left on the kitchen table, and on the way back to my office, I saw it.

A bird. Sitting between two slats of the bannister, about five inches away from Walt's dozing nose.

Not a chick, yet it wasn't fully grown, as it still had dorky-looking fuzz on its head and wings. "What are you doing there, little bird?" I asked it, like it was gonna tell me. My guess was perhaps it flew in the front door when I was schlepping in the groceries, a wrong turn while trying new wings. Or maybe it just walked in, hopped up the stairs, and didn't know where else to go. Its round eyes were large. And very scared.

Walt, brilliant watchdog, continued to slumber as I stepped over him again to get a closer look at the fledgling. It let me pet its head, and stroke its left wing.

Then Walt, still in sleep, sneezed.

The blast from the Labbie schnoz blew the little bird backwards, and it opened its wings and drifted down the space between the split-level stairs to the hard cold floor of the basement. Freak flag flying, it started squawking.

And running. Fast. Like it had sneakers on.

All around the basement. It encountered a hairball on the floor that was about the size of my head. This caused an abrupt change in direction so it could bump into a leg of a beach chair. Turning west, it squeezed itself through an open space between the spokes of the front wheel of my bike, then jumped into a nearby open box and sat in an old pot.

What to do?

Well, I knew it could fly, a little, and it could definitely run, so maybe the fat cats in the neighborhood wouldn't be able to keep up. It didn't belong in the basement, so I carefully picked up the box and gently took it out to the side yard through the cellar door.

I put the box down on the ground near the big oak tree by the driveway, and scooped Chicken Little out of the pot and placed it in the grass. It took one look at me, as if to say, "Sayounara, suckah" and ran up the side of the oak tree. Like you or I walking up a wall, wearing suction-cup shoes.

Pass the Advil, please.

Alfalfa Photo: http://www.andychristie.com/graphics/toothache.jpg

Circles

On this Saturday afternoon, the world is drenched. Water tables are down, gasoline prices continue to rise. We need the rain.

If the seasons are viewed as a circle, am sitting smack in spring's circumference. Yesterday, as I was working at my desk, Walt came by for a pet. He leaned his side against my leg, and I absentmindedly rubbed his back, as I was really paying attention to the programming code on the monitor screen. Soon I had a fistful of Black Lab fur. Ah...spring is here. The Black Labs are dropping their winter coats.

Out to the front yard we went, and I curried and brushed those two Black Lab steeds for about twenty minutes. Soon there were gobs and circles of Black Lab fur blowing gently across the green grass. Have a feeling much of it will end up intertwined with twigs in the nursery of nests now under construction in local trees.

When I was a child, and still Catholic, I thought God lived in circles, constantly turning, always going somewhere. That's how he could be in so many places at once. Just to go from wheel to wheel where he was needed most. On spring nights I would lay awake in my childhood bed, house windows newly opened, and listen to the sound of something possibly important in the squeal of impatient auto rubber moving on the street outside. I figured God's presence was needed in a hurry by some sinner somewhere. Yet I also knew, somehow, that the round God could be halted. Roller skates scratching down the sidewalk can bounce through cracks, though movement can be silenced by the unexpected pebble.

Silence returns us to unity from multiplicity. From the demanding questions shouted in class, from the numbing traffic-wait, from the incessant yacking of foolishness. I wonder what happens to us all, what goes away, only to return. Is it fresher? Perhaps it just has different meaning the next time around.

Last summer at the Museum of the Rockies in Bozeman, Montana, I came upon an exhibit of the Plains Indians. They believed smoking was holy, that the circles of smoke delivered from a peace pipe gave physical form to words spoken or thought in prayer. Smoke carried messages into the sky where spiritual beings would notice them and help the people.

I suppose the creator is always recycled. From the wooden porch out behind this house, you can sit on the steps and view those nomadic stars, having so long ago burned circles of space in the dark sky from which to hang their light.