BETWIXT AND BETWEEN

Leaving for the airport to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family, I fell over a baby gate (being used as a doggie gate) and landed full-force on the gate, crunching the side of my right foot. It did not occur to me that staying home was an option. I wrapped an ice pack around my foot, donned it with an old stretched-out sock, and called ahead for wheelchair transport.


I had no awareness of being in shock but found an odd comfort in being wheeled around the airports not having to figure out schedules, gates, or being pressured by time. Athough I was initially put on the wrong plane, I was discovered before it took off and wheeled to the correct one in plenty of time to start my trip without further complications.

Sleeping, my usual way to pass time on long-distance flights was out of the question. My attention was only on being a conduit for the pain messages being sent back and forth between my foot and my brain.
After a long day of traveling and maneuvering through two airports, I finally reached my destination. Grabbing my suitcase off the carousal I carefully inched my way to the passenger pickup location outside. My sister was circling the airport awaiting my call. It was her “special sister look” when she saw my foot that brought me back to reality.

At midnight I was gowned and posing for X-rays at the local Emergency Room. The night staff was friendly and laid back. When I returned to cubical #16, my sister was pouring over pictures of my nurse’s latest trip.
We were quickly shown the X-rays that graphically exposed the fifth metatarsal broken in 3 places with a floating fragment. My sister’s spontaneous response said it all, “Yew, it looks like a chicken bone!” Her comment made me both squirm and laugh.

I finally realized how my mind and body had slipped into shock. The suspension between reality and somewhere else was protecting me from everything until I could deal with it. Consciousness lingered just below the surface. One part of me seemed to be there, another seemed to be watching and another seemed to be turning it’s back to what was happening—all at the same time.

They put a splint on my foot, I was given crutches and a prescription for Tylenol with Codeine and we were sent home. We arrived at my sister’s about 4:30 am.

After a fitful night of dozing and waking up many times, I awoke with a vivid dream fragment: I was floating aimlessly in the gentle waves of a beautiful, warm, turquoise ocean. A peaceful sand beach was within view and each wave brought me in closer and closer. On the beach was a weathered wooden marker with a word written on it vertically. From my position I could not quite make out what it said. As I got closer I could read it clearly. It said LIMINALITY.

Now the funny thing is, when I was packing for this trip the night before I left home, my mind had been milling around thoughts of my life now being at a crossroads. In following my thought process, one of the things that came into focus was the concept of liminalitiy. During my mid-life crisis years I had found the description of liminality useful in helping me understand my experiences during that rocky time. Following my impulse to look up liminality again, I began to do a little research on the computer. The results were fascinating. I had copied some to read on the trip.

I was happy when I woke up with the dream fragment that my intuition was being validated and I was on the right track to discovering what my unconscious wanted me to see. I couldn’t help but wonder if breaking my foot and the crossroads I was feeling in my life now were connected? Clearly, I was being encouraged and guided to take a closer look at liminality. I hoped I would find helpful information there. I pulled the papers from my backpack and began to read.

Liminality, according to Wickipedia, came from the Latin word limen, meaning “a threshold” involving a change to a person. (I wondered if they had inadvertently left out the part about the baby gate?)
“The liminal state is characterized by ambiguity, openness and indeterminacy. One’s state of identity dissolves to some extent, bringing about disorientation. Liminality is a period of transition where normal limits to thought, self-understanding and behavior are relaxed. This situation, which can lead to a new perspective, occurs in three stages. In the first stage there is a separation from the usual. The second or “liminal stage” is a period of “betwixt and between”. It feels like you are “neither here nor there”. This is the distinctive characteristic of liminality. In the third stage, known as the “postliminal stage”, new perspectives about oneself are realized, integrated, and the emergence of self as a new person ensues.”

Laying on the couch with my foot elevated in a drugged and pained stupor, I allowed my mind to loosen its grip a little. Instantly I began to sink into my liminal experience. Passing through the place of between-ness felt uncomfortable, unstable, disorienting and somewhat dangerous at first. I realized my mind was chasing after my emotions to keep them from holding onto the perception of control.

I shut my eyes and tried to pull from my memory all the things that had happened in the last twenty-four hours that fit under the liminality umbrella. I was quite surprised at the number of things that popped into my mind.

Falling through a threshold over a gate could perhaps be considered the epitome of liminality. The wounding itself turned my world up side down and separated me from my usual routine.

Being in shock was a definite liminal state when mind and body shut down so pain and trauma could help with the coping.

Traveling is a liminal activity because of moving from one place to another. Airports are liminal places because people pass through them and do not live there.

Going to the Emergency Room gave me the impression of being in an in-between surreal world.

Midnight marks the time between night and day.

My sister single-handedly creating all of our family’s traditional holiday recipes made me aware of the importance of the time aspect of liminality. Death, from my reading, was the first reference to the concept of liminality. Changing from body to spirit and moving on to another world is the quintessential liminal experience. Bringing tradition forward from those family members who have passed on was a liminal gift my sister gave all of us. (I must add, the dinner was spectacular and put us all in a blissful liminal zone!)

Being with my sister has always lured me into a familiar child-body memory of safety and not being alone in an unstable world. The liminal comfort of this familiar place has never been duplicated in my life and is something I know I can draw on when I’m scared.

I ate a warm, just-out-of-the-oven orange bowknot roll and tried to bring myself back into the moment. I grabbed my crutches and stood up, lost my balance and, tucking myself into a small ball, rolled to the floor in what seemed like slow motion. From that perspective the world looked totally disoriented.

I had to get honest with myself. I was hurt and I didn’t want it to be happening. Helplessness, which I had been trying to deny in an attempt to hang onto my dignity and denial, was going to have to change through acceptance of my predicament. Being dependent and not feeling in control was like slipping into unknown and unwanted territory. There was no doubt about it; I was definitely “betwixt and between”.

There was a fierce struggle going on inside. Identity with my external life as it had been, was fighting with accepting life as it is. The crossroads seemed to be all about the struggle. The paths of the crossroads, though, appeared equally neutral and intriguing in all directions. It looked as though no matter which way I chose to go would be perfectly fine. It was the unknown that was keeping me immobile. The struggle to know what to do, was keeping me stranded. Not trusting myself to make a decision was causing my distress.

My life had been suspended and I knew I had to give in, or I was going to give up. After all, my life had certainly in the past offered me a multitude of opportunities to learn about trusting, patience and letting go.
Practicing being in-between helped me begin to surrender and accept the truth about what was happening. Using and appreciating the walker and wheelchair my nephew had rented was a gigantic symbolic breakthrough. Transforming the unknown, stranded, terrifying inner feelings into accepting the situation as it was got me moving again, even though the going was slow.

As I relaxed into my liminal space, lessons of the soul began to pour into my awareness. I could actually feel how close they were to my consciousness as my usual way of life had shifted aside and made an open portal. I remembered how the in-between times in the past had been fruitful for my spiritual growth when the perceived important external restraints had been removed.

Then I remembered a conversation with a wise, deep-thinking friend many years ago. She had shared with me her theory about how the soul develops. She believed that life presents the lessons we need to learn. Depending on our awareness, readiness and willingness to grow, we do the best we can with what is presented. If our soul needs us to learn more, we are presented with the same lesson in a plethora of ways again and again.

If, after many times, we do not fully understand the lesson on the mental and emotional level, it manifests in our physical body. When the lesson manifests in the body it is nearly impossible to ignore, deny, refuse, not feel, or miss. The disorienting pain catapults us into liminal space and forces us to consider the experience as an important life lesson from the soul.

In hopes that the liminal situation I am in has the chance of bringing major transformation as is purported, I have made the decision to receptively hang out in this in-between place without a fight. Perhaps with the motivation to “get back on my feet” combined with a stronger acceptance to live peaceful in liminality, I will be fortunate enough to master the lesson that all my defenses, character, identity, behaviors and actions up until now has obscured.

I am going home in a few days. Keeping my broken foot elevated high, I am discovering the freedom liminality offers. It is actually becoming quite a comfortable place in which to live. In truth, it is becoming a new way to “be”. Who could have imagined falling through a threshold while at a crossroads would teach me so much?

My Favorite Place To Be

My Aunt Leonie loved me. She was actually my Great Aunt, my grandmother’s oldest sister, and she was GREAT! It may not seem extraordinary to be loved by an aunt, but when I was growing up, she was the only person in my world whose relationship with me was based simply on love.

Relationships with everyone else were bound tightly with ideas of who I was and was not supposed to be, how I was to act, expectations, rules and unspoken conditions. Like other children who grew up in complicated environments, I thought my family was just the same as everyone’s. I developed ways to cope with my situation without realizing the challenges I was unknowingly enduring.

When I was with my Aunt Leonie, however, I could abandon my defenses and relax into who I truly was. I felt safe, nurtured, inspired, excited, and happy. Confusion about myself disappeared. No matter how many other children were around, there was no jealousy or competition. Aunt Leonie was an infinite abundance of purity and kindness and enveloped each of us with bountiful warmth and caring.

From my earliest memories she seemed very old. Her eyes were sapphire blue and sparkled like stars. When she smiled her entire face lit up. She had a large lump from a hernia on her side and she covered it with a flowered dress and sometimes an apron. She had white hair which she wore pinned up on her head. Sometimes when I was at her house she would let it down to wash it. It hung way below her waist and she would lean over the kitchen sink and pour a mysterious blue liquid over it. She would let me watch the entire process without explaining anything. I never felt the need to ask about it.

To this day I don’t exactly understand why my Aunt Leonie was excluded from large family gatherings. I knew intuitively that it was not a subject that should be brought up with anyone. The subject hovered in the family like a stampeding elephant. Once I overheard someone say that my grandmother was angry with her sister because, as children, Leonie was older but smaller and frail and my grandmother had to wear Leonie’s hand-me-down shoes. That explanation did not help my child-sadness or dismay at having my favorite person home alone right across the street as if she didn’t exist.

One noticeable contrast between my house and hers was how people talked with each other. At Aunt Leonie’s house it was like the volume had been turned down low on the radio. Voices were never raised. There didn’t seem to be a need for that. The words that were spoken were always kind, supportive and encouraging. We laughed a lot at her house and talked about our feelings.

I felt I belonged there. Aunt Leonie's house was at the end of a dead-end street one house away from mine. I was allowed to wander back and forth between our houses as early as I can remember. Her enormous yellow house became my refuge, although I didn’t recognize it as such at the time.

One of my earliest memories was running through the sprinkler in her freshly clipped lawn. I was wearing just my shorts, having spontaneously discarded my shirt for a more complete experience. The sun was shining brightly, and big puffy clouds were floating in the enormous blue sky. I was free. Suddenly, I was grabbed up by the back of my shorts and carried firmly under the strong arm of my father like a football all the way home. I was told in no uncertain terms I would never betray my womanhood by not wearing a shirt in public EVER AGAIN. I wanted to run away from home right then and live at Aunt Leonie’s. I thought it would probably be okay, as long as I packed plenty of shirts.

Aunt Leonie’s stepdaughter, Flossy, lived with her. They had a huge porch swing on the South side of their house that seemed to be the place to go for a gentle breeze. There were no railings behind the swing so it would fly out into space and take my breath away. Aunt Leonie, Flossy and I would swing for hours, me in the middle, singing songs that we all knew and even some that we made up.

Aunt Leonie loved to bake. She had a little stool for me to stand on which made me just the right height for helping. She would spread all the ingredients out before me. She taught me how to sift flour, skim off cream, measure lard, and form leftover pie dough into animal shapes that we would sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon. I could hardly wait for them to come out of the oven so that we could eat them.

No matter what we were doing at Aunt Leonie’s house, when the cuckoo clock announced the hour, we would race into the sitting room and watch the little German man and woman and their duck come out to take turns ringing the bell. We would squeal with delight and laugh right out loud at the whimsical folly. Every hour we were taken by surprise and thrilled, as if each cuckoo was our first.

Aunt Leonie had an enormous antique oak oval table in her country kitchen. Kids would flock to her house in the cold times of the year to play solitaire. We would play for hours. Instead of playing against each other, we would play in such a way that in order to win, we each had to get rid of all our cards. It was an amazing experience of working together, finding peaceful and encouraging solutions, and having an important place in a group. We worked together and we all won. Putting puzzles together were also a favorite winter activity.

One of Aunt Leonie’s virtues was the ability to be in the moment. We spent many afternoons sitting on wooden crates in her driveway with a small pail of water right by our sides. We would carefully choose little rocks that seemed drab and uninteresting, plunk them into the bucket and gently begin to scrub. When we would pull them out and hold them up, the sparkles that had been hiding inside would burst out, glistening and dancing in the sun’s rays. I was convinced that we were working magic. Those moments were so full and perfect; there was no possibility of being anything but completely absorbed. I didn’t miss a thing.

One of our favorite things to do at Aunt Leonie’s happened every year in the fall. Lots of kids would flock there after school like geese knowing it was time to fly south. When we arrived, a bushel basket of Granny Smith apples sat in the middle of the oval table surrounded by pairing knives. Now, I am sure if our parents knew about this they would have been horrified. We would take an apple and start slowly and carefully peeling the skin into long snakelike ribbons. As we developed our skill, the spirals from one apple would continue on into the next. The challenge was to see how long you could make it before the spiral skin broke. To my knowledge, no one ever got cut.

I am certain I am the person I am today because of my Aunt Leonie. She initiated me into the world of spirit and soul, empowered me to discover myself, inspired my imagination, encouraged even my wildest dreams and allowed me to express my feelings. Aunt Leonie sowed the seeds of kindness, caring, trust, safety, living in a peaceful way, and being all I could be.

Aunt Leonie taught me, most importantly, about love and offered this comfort in so many ways. She showed me with her smile, the delightful sparkle in her eyes, how she put my ponytail in a rubber band, the way she talked with me, and how carefully she listened and listened and listened. She affectionately held me in her loving world, which gave me ground beneath my feet. My Aunt Leonie loved me and I loved my Aunt Leonie! She was my favorite place to be.

HEAVEN AND EARTH

From the time I was a small child I was fascinated with the night sky. Living out in the country in the Midwest offered me a magnificent view of the mysterious worlds beyond.

It was not unusual to hear the adults in my tiny farming community communing about the heavens. They knew that the heavens controlled the weather. Weather was their survival and it was mentioned in every conversation I ever heard as a child. Later I realized that their comments about the weather were actually outward descriptions of internal feelings. For instance, if someone felt good, they would talk about a day that was sunny. If someone was sad, rain would work its way into the conversation. They religiously planted and harvested by the moon, and consulted the predictions in the Farmers’ Almanac more frequently and reverently than any other source.

My curiosity about the night sky was further piqued by the stories my grandfather told me about the constellations of the stars. I loved discovering which ones were visible depending on the time of year it was when we were out watching. I found it interesting to imagine children in other parts of the world seeing constellations that were not in our view.

The Big Dipper felt at times like my best friend because it seemed to always be waiting for me and I always found it. I became completely attached to the North Star as a guide that would let me know where I was and show me the way home.

Without a doubt, my early bonding with the stars was an extremely important reference point for me. The stars were SO FAR AWAY! It was their influence on my feelings, my sense of self, my assurance of protection and safety and consolation whenever I needed it, that established within myself a foundation for being on the earth.

During the daytime you would find me sitting high up on a branch in a tree watching the clouds and trying to imagine where the stars were. The big fluffy cumulus clouds, prevalent in that part of the world, would slowly float by against a brilliant blue sky. Their shapes took on the forms of horses, towers, dragons, dogs and cats, and a myriad of other things. It was peaceful up there and I felt like I was part of the tree, the sky, the breeze and myself.

I started observing my house and family from up in the tree. The drama I was a part of when I was with them induced feelings of frustration, anger and being embroiled in an enormous muddle. There were so many expectations that I felt like a dog yanked up by a short leash. There were many ideas about who I was, what I was to do (and not do), and how it was to be perfectly done. There were the things I was allowed to share with those outside the family and many things I was to keep secret. (This paragraph would not have been allowed!) When I was with my family, I felt deep pain, alone, unsupported, unsafe, and not seen or heard. I had no choices, no chance to be or even know myself, and a lot of confusion from what I intuitively picked up of what the others were doing and not talking about. Living in that drama made me an extremely unhappy little girl.

More and more often I turned to the trees, the clouds and the stars for more honest feedback and comfort. One day, musing up in a tree, I realized that I was compartmentalizing my chaotic outer life and my more comfortable inner life. This was what was creating a feeling of being split in two.

That very day I began to observe myself when I was with my family from a different perspective. What I witnessed when I was around them was that I took on their anger, fear, and dysfunction as a way of protecting myself from having it targeted at me. When I took it on and expressed it, at least I had something I could do with the displaced undertow. This gave me the illusion that I had some control. I realized the feelings I was taking on were theirs. In contrast, my feelings, especially when I was in my favorite tree, were peaceful, happy and most importantly, mine. I felt better when I was away from their quagmire.

My predicament was disheartening. I had more awareness and understanding of the split between my two worlds but only questions and no answers as to how to harmoniously bring them together. I had an inside life and an outside one. I had unknowingly begun the search that put me on the path of my life journey to resolve what I later identified as core life lessons. It took many years to appreciate that it was my discomfort that gave me the motivation to have the courage to keep going even when the path got rocky. I had become a seeker.

I began to become acquainted with my inner self. When I was quiet and away from all the hubbub I could hear my own thoughts, feel my own feelings, and dream my own dreams. These emerged from my inner self and came to me whenever I listened. The first thing I had to do was to separate the entanglement of the two worlds so that I could experience and discover my own true self. From that early age on my life has been about trying to establish a strong connection with my inner self and integrate my day-to-day outer life with the soothing, creative inner source that I experience as connected to everything.

Through the years the Universe did its part helping me create just the right complicated situations and people to learn these life lessons and explore and discover my personal core beliefs. Life was no longer just a big soap opera happening to me from the outside. I began to see how I created the same story over and over again. As the lessons spiraled back again time after time, I realized that even though the people and situations were the same while looking different, my response was same. Oh, no! The common denominator was me! There was nowhere to turn but inside to find out how I was creating these reoccurring patterns.

I began to grow my inner life. I sought out wise friends and drew inspiring therapists to guide me. Books jumped out at me in bookstores and shed light on my queries. I explored the beliefs of different religious traditions, spiritual practices, poetry, psychology, mythology, and nature. The more I learned the less I felt like I knew. My curiosity drove me onward and I began to feel more confident and comfortable with my life.

Every day seemed like an amazing unfolding of myself. Synchronistic happenings in my outer world began to mirror my newly emerging inner life. People and opportunities, aligned with my more expansive sense of self, were drawn to me like a magnet. The meaning of the awareness I had realized while up in the trees as a child was becoming more clear. I liked it. My life was emerging according to my own creation, not haphazardly happening to me. I was astonished to experience my outer life working together so harmoniously with my inner life and authentic self. I was finding joy in both worlds as they imperceptibly began merging into one. The length and breadth of Heaven and Earth was integrating into a seamless whole.

Today, my connection to the stars, clouds, sky and my inner self are present in every moment I am creating, and plays an integral part of my life. My relationship with Spirit and the fond memories from childhood are now mine, both in the quiet times and the busy ones.

The next time there is a starry starry night or a big full moon, you can bet I’ll be there looking up with a smile on my face. Maybe you’ll be looking, too? We can experience the magic together.

LESSONS OF LOVE

I love my pets! The steadfast quality of these relationships shared day after day through the years has taught me more about love and compassion than anything else in my life. The gentle consistency of the steady, unconditional company makes being with my pets a continual Celebration of Life.

A friend of mine told me a story that speaks to my own experience. Parents of a little boy decided it would be best for the child if he went with them to the veterinarian to put his dog to sleep. Afterward, the boy seemed to be not as upset as his parents had anticipated. When asked about this he said, “I understand that dogs don’t live very long because they already know what people need to learn”.

When I think about it, I cannot even begin to list all the positive things pets have taught me. Under their guidance I have learned to trust, open my heart, care for and protect, cherish tenderness, and allow myself to be endlessly delighted and entertained. Loving people, while enormously educational on my life journey, has contained complications, disappointments, conditions, and ups and downs along with closeness, intimacy and happiness.

The love I share with my pets touches in me the deepest purest experience of unconditional love, without any confusion or struggle. No matter what kind of day I am having, they wait patiently, ready to connect, love and be loved. Our commitment to each other is invincible. I love them and they love me. Loving them is natural, straightforward, and simple.

I feel like an apprentice when the Universe brings me exactly the perfect dog, cat, (or person), to further assist and support whatever part of my life I need to master at that particular junction. When my mother and several other close family members were dying, a cat named Studebaker Hawk came into my life. He was a big, gentle Tom who would hang around with me until I felt comfortably attached in a safety-blanket kind of way. Just when I reached a secure level of trust, he would leave and stay away. The first time he was only gone a day. As time went on, his absences would last longer and longer. Like clockwork, at the very moment I came to terms with his not coming back--he would show up. In hindsight, I can see that he was teaching me about letting go. At the time, I experienced his lessons as inflicting more pain by amplifying my already agonizing process.

After all those people passed on I was submerged in grief. I got a Basset Hound that I named Tristum. The symbolism was clearly obvious even at the time. Tristum personified and embodied the grief that was too enormous and painful for me to carry alone. His being with me allowed me to project onto him my inner feelings of sadness and depression that I could not allow myself to feel or show. He accompanied me through some rough times.

When Tristum died, I was left alone to bear my anguish. I had to take back all of my grief projections and own my feelings. I pulled myself into a tight little cocoon. In my abandoned state I swore adamantly that "I would never have another pet". I lived this way, pet less, for almost 18 months. One afternoon I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, there stood my son (18 months old) and my niece (11 years old). They were both bundled up for winter and the joy in their big brown eyes pierced my soul. They proudly held out an 8 week old puppy to me that they had gotten from someone at the Mall. Dumbfounded, I recoiled and burst into tears. "I can't! I can't!" is all I can remember saying. Then my son, in his tiny voice tenderly said, "But Mommy, his name is Happy Dog". How could I argue with the cosmic sense of humor of the Universe? I kept the dog.

I have a much better grasp now of allowing pets help me with my life lessons than I did when I was younger. The challenge recently presented to me is how to consciously accompany my pets through illness and their passing on. Within the last 6 months, I was told that two of my three dogs were terminally ill. My world felt as if it had been turned upside down. I could not talk about it at first because grief took me too deeply inside myself. It triggered memories of all the people and pets I had lost before. My mind raced to try to remember how I had gotten through the other times I had been faced with this situation.

I remembered Elisabeth Kuebler-Ross encouraging me to practice "letting go" of little insignificant things every day as a way of dealing with bigger griefs when they occur. An important and unexpected memory about letting go popped into my mind. It had happened during a time when I was a young adult, grieving the loss of a relationship, dealing with disappointment about my dreams for the future and struggling with redefining myself without all the things in my life I had lost. One evening I heard my son, who was almost 3 at the time, go into the bathroom. Flushing the toilet, he raced out the door and ran down the stairs where the pipes were, screaming with sheer delight, “Goodbye, Goodbye”.

When I got the news that one of my dogs and shortly after the other were dying, I felt as though I could not bear the pain. Needing to reach out for support with my anguish I called a friend. I just kept asking, “What shall I do?” With great compassion he said, “Make happy memories”. It seemed almost too simple. After several weeks of being in shock, the wisdom of the words "make happy memories" turned into a full-blown unexpected spiritual experience.

I was sitting outside with my dogs. The sun was shining on us and I was lost in dark thoughts of sadness, grief and impending loss. Suddenly, I was suspended in a moment of timelessness. In that moment, there was no past or future, no fear, no loss. Everything that had ever happened in my life, everyone I had ever loved, all pain, all joy, EVERYTHING was there. All my life was occurring in that moment. I could feel everyone I had ever loved. Even those who had crossed over felt like they were there. My senses were in such a heightened state of expansion that I felt the energy of my dogs snuggling against me as if we were one.

In that moment, I realized that loss had provided me over and over with the experience of separation. This experience made me see the world from the perspective of constantly being disconnected from others and things in my life without any choice or control. The feelings of angst, fear and despair that came from the illusion of being disconnected, kept me from being connected with my soul self and made me forget who I truly am. In this expanded moment of remembering and reconnecting with myself, the illusion of separation dissolved and was replaced with an awareness of Oneness.

In that moment I felt a new respect for death and loss. They have provided me with core spiritual lessons and given me the opportunity to remember and reconnect with myself. Reconnecting allows me to know what is really important in my life. Feeling connected with my pets was a safe way to form strong attachments. Loving them and the experience of separation (or fear of it) that ensued was my life lesson. Finding the meaning of the experience has shown me the way back to loving myself. Actually, it has expanded my love of everything and everyone. Life is vulnerable and precious. Being in every moment in Oneness enlivens the witnessing of being present and creates gratitude, deeper meaning and joy. That is what produces happy memories.

Ever since that day when "the moment" changed my life, the relationship with my dogs has grown sweeter. I feel more relaxed and open and have more appreciation for our love. I have new and heartfelt respect for myself and how much and how well I love. There is a certain peace in my life now.

In the experience of Oneness, I know the death of my dogs cannot possibly separate our souls.
When their time comes, I know I will not really loose them or their love. That is simply not something that can ever be taken away. Even though I know I will miss their physical presence and our day-to-day rituals, now I imagine them running joyfully through Meadowland with Hobbit, Little Dog, Tristum, Studebaker Hawk, Rose Hips, Mitzy, Happy Dog, Picalily and all the other animal loves of my life. Thinking about that makes me smile. I love the mysteries of life. I love loving. I love my pets.

GREEN GENES

My maternal grandmother loved her gardens. By the time I was 9 years old her peony, rose and iris gardens, vegetable gardens and orchards not only caught my attention, but drew me into a deep fascination and new way of being in touch with cycles and process. I am only now beginning to understand…

The first awareness I had of Grandma’s magical world occurred in April 1959. She was a brittle and cantankerous woman with practically everybody. I was scared of her. For some reason, that day, I stopped by her house. I was out on my Huffy seeking adventures that the safe little Kansas town made possible.

I could tell Grandma was home because I could see laundry flying on the clothesline against the blue spring sky filled with big white fluffy clouds. I parked my bike by a series of buckets that lined the garage. Later I found out that the buckets were there to catch rainwater for her plants.

She wasn’t in the kitchen. When I yelled out, “Grandma”, she called up from the basement and told me to come down. I had never been in the basement at my grandparent’s house before. I felt the dark dampness and a significant drop in temperature as I descended the stairs. I remember swallowing hard and feeling a tightening that was taking over my tummy.

She was bent in two, leaning over hundreds of tiny pots and trays of dark, rich dirt. “Watcha doin’?” was all I could get out. She twisted around in her cotton-print dress and snorted her reply, “planting.” It wasn’t a friendly “planting” but I assuaged my desire to run back up the stairs by reassuring myself that my mother and aunts had grown up to be adults with this woman and probably, I would too.

Then out of the darkness, she extended her hand toward me. Her body was still bent over with her head down. She didn’t look up. Some tiny seeds dropped into my trembling hand. I had received my initiation into her world. I’m not sure if anyone else in my family ever got to enter her gardening universe, but I know the lessons I learned in her domain turned my life upside down.

It took us hours that day, and several others, to plant all those seeds and place the pots carefully on little shelves she had built in front of the windows around the dank, stone basement. We worked in silence, which felt to my nine-year-old self like an ancient, sacred ritual. I followed her lead and because she offered no words or direction that told me what to do or how to do it, I became adept at watching.

Every day I found myself descending those stairs to be with my new master and her plants. Sometimes she would run her hands over the tops of the little green shoots and talk right out loud to them. She would tell them that they were wonderful. Beautiful. She said things to those plants that apparently never occurred to her to say to her own children, or grandchildren.

When school let out for the summer, I found that I wanted to go to Grandma’s as soon as I got up every morning. I didn’t try to explain this impulse to anyone, because I didn’t understand why it felt so important to me. There was just no place else I wanted to be.

One morning I arrived to find my grandmother outside, leaning over a flowerbed surrounded by all our little pots. She didn’t look up when I came into view but handed me a funny-shaped metal tool with a worn, wooden handle. I got down on my knees beside her and began to imitate what she was doing.

We transplanted the sprouts into the ground all morning. At five minutes to noon, she suddenly stood up straight and literally ran into the house. I followed her, a bit bewildered and perplexed. She pulled off her sweaty, dirt-covered frock and slipped into a clean, starched dress. This, she covered with a full apron with hand-embroidered flowers on the pocket. I wondered if handy-work was her wintertime garden, and if I would be old enough this winter to learn how embroider flowers on my clothes?

She stirred the soup that began bubbling on the stove. She took cold cuts and cheese out of the refrigerator and placed them with quick precision onto a turquoise plate. Beside the meat she put a pile of carefully counted pieces of thick, white, spongy Wonder Bread. She was moving so quickly around the kitchen that I slid under the table to keep out of the way.

Just as the teakettle whistled and the coco clock struck noon, my grandfather walked through the door. He sat down at the table without a word and began to make a sandwich. Grandma served him with grace in silent, slow motion. It was as if she had been in the kitchen, suspended in the same position he’d left her when he departed for work at eight. It was as though we hadn’t been outside digging in the warm earth all morning.

At five minutes to one, our secret intact, we both watched my grandfather pull out of the driveway. Before the back end of Grandpa’s Chrysler was even out of sight, the dirty clothes were back on and Grandma had her hands in the earth again.

These gardening years lasted until I grew up and went away to live my bigger, more complicated life. It’s funny how every winter I find myself looking to embroidery my feelings and stories into flowers on clothes or towels. When spring comes, just like the bulbs poised underneath the last snow, I feel something awaken in me. The old magic flows through me, and I can’t wait to get my hands into the dirt. I watch the flowers in my own gardens break through the earth, bud, blossom, and fall away. What wonderful gifts my grandmother shared with me! Feeling the cycles of life, and learning to tend life with love fills me with sheer delight, day after day, season after season, year after year.