Weekly Photo Challenge: Fleeting

June 13 2013 baker beach

5 a.m., June 13, 2013, Baker Beach.  The moment suspended between yesterday and today, past and future, then and now,  known and unknown.  In its stillness, all things are possible.

fleet·ing:  /ˈflētiNG/ Adjective – Lasting for a very short time: “hoping to get a fleeting glimpse”.  Synonyms – transient – transitory – fugitive – ephemeral – passing

Weekly Photo Challenge: Fleeting

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I will never write about addiction.

clay mother sea of cortez

I will never write about addiction, even though I should. I do not visit its hard landscape easily.  I lived there once.  It consumed me.    The Addict dragged me to its jagged edge and left me there screaming as he plunged into its heart.   When I am forced to describe addiction to others, I use spare language.  I do not embellish.  There are no colors or smells or quirky characters we  met along the way.   There are nouns and verbs.  They are black and they are white.   This is very unusual for me.  When I am forced to remember addiction, however, it is vivid.  Like a slide show set too fast in HD.  Each lurid frame stands out, in Technicolor, then clicks to the next.  Continue reading

All dogs go to heaven. An ode to the very best of dogs.

“All dogs go to heaven.”  A friend told me this last night.  She is not a dog person, but I think she meant it.  Today I hope she is right.  In a few hours we will escort our big red friend of 14 years into the beyond.  His hour is near.  I listened to his deep breathing all night.  It was unhurried and content to meet what comes next, same as it ever was.

ImageI tried to match both his breath and his contentment.  Now it is morning.  As the birds came alive in the canopy of trees outside our window, Ranger grew restless, drank water, and then emptied his bladder beside the bed.  My husband gently gathered him up and carried him outside.  He rests at  my side  while I write, on my grandmothers Persian rug which he prefers to the expensive pet boutique bed we bought for his old hips.  His breath is still even.   He is not suffering, but he has dropped dramatically since our last trip down the path to the lake Monday.  It was a routine walk for us.  No swim, but all the familiar steps and smells we’ve worn together over the 12 years we’ve lived in this ‘hood.  By yesterday he was weaving like a drunk.  It is his time, my husband called my office to warn me.

Ranger reflects the family who has grown up with him: big personality and big counter surfer.  Santa Claus brought him 13 Christmas Eves ago.  There no military dignity or great outdoors tradition behind the name “Ranger.”  We had young boys.  “Ranger” is simply and unfortunately short for “Power Ranger.”

There were always headlines with Ranger.  As recently as last month he got out one night during a family birthday.  In the chaos, we did not notice him missing until early the next morning.  Ranger spent the night trapped in a koi pond.  He had apparently tumbled in and patiently waited, up to his neck in green slime and fat carp, for us to rescue him.  His hips were too old to make the leap out.  A year ago on Memorial Day he took himself on a walk down to the lake where he was found by a runner who took him home.  We located him several hours later via the miracle of Craigslist, but not before he’d enjoyed a nice brunch and a sunbath on a deck with several young couples.  It was never a surprise when the phone rang and we heard a neighbor say,  “I just saw Ranger head down to Sandy’s pool AGAIN.”

For most of his life he was a lean 75 lb. package of muscle.  And he stood very tall and proud until the day he could not stand any more (yesterday).  It is not  sentimentality to say he had the good looks of a Hollywood leading man and those looks scarcely faded.  He was good natured to most, but very protective of us, especially of Betty, the small black lab who came home with us 5 years ago.   I have never had a better, more true running partner than Ranger.  A well meaning newly-graduated vet once advised me that it wasn’t fair to run so far and often with a dog as large as Ranger.  But Ranger didn’t think it was fair to leave him at home.  There were many miles along the lake; there were many more miles on sidewalks and roads.  But the  most memorable miles were in the winter in the shadow of Mt. Rainier.  After my shoulder surgery, when I had to miss the first half of a ski season, Mark and the boys would dump Ranger and me ten miles up a snowy Forest Service road before they left for the lifts.  Alone in the woods, seeing only the occasional kook living off the grid with his shotguns in a rusty trailer, Ranger and I would run our way back to the cabin.  The story of his first encounter with a mother elk is family legend.  It was a stand-off in the end, but Ranger came close to having his forehead branded by her hoof and never tried that again.

Having a dog like Ranger brought out the gentleness in our sons.  Those words sound like a cliche, but sometimes cliches work because they are true.  Ranger was a very accessible dog, though never an unconditional lover.  He was never a lap dog.  But our sons gave to him and he loved back.  He was their first freedom – at the end of a leash, he walked them around the block.  He was their first responsibility – at the end of the school day, he awaited.

Ranger is not perfect.  Unlike other dogs, for instance, he  is not unfailingly loyal.  When Betty was young they took off into the woods along the White River.  He quickly abandoned Betty, who could not keep up.  In fact, he left her baying pitifully in the middle of a patch of trees where I located her by her cries ten minutes later.  He came home sweaty and foul and deliriously happy with himself two hours after that.

In addition to disappearing whenever he wanted to, did I mention that he never met a garbage can he didn’t fall in love with – or couldn’t open?  Or that Mark claims he was never truly housebroken? Or that I am actually allergic to dogs, even Ranger?  Or that one year during Christmas dinner he ate a lot of the new Legos and we were never sure whether he passed them all  through his digestive tract or not because during that holiday season we were too busy and mostly  too grossed out to check?

 Maybe all those miles on trails and road created a bond between me and the old boy – or more likely because I was the only reliable food source.  In recent years, once everyone was in for the night, he slept close by my side of the bed, always trotting downstairs beside me and reporting to the espresso machine in the morning, but sleeping protectively beside me if I wasn’t the first to rise.  One of his most endearing qualities developed when the boys became teenagers with later-night social lives.  He would lie on the landing where he could he could hear the sound of their cars rolling home and see all of our bedroom doors.  Once everyone was tucked in bed, he would sink into his place on the floor beside me.

We once had a dog named Nakiska, who went chasing rainbows over a swollen waterfall one Easter morning in the North Cascades.  We never saw him again.  “He was the best of dogs, he was the worst of dogs.  G#damn ‘im, g#bless him,” Mark exclaimed over and over in our grief.  We won’t say that about Ranger.  About Ranger we  can only say that in our lives filled with dogs, he has  been the very best..

the 20 minute post

DSCN5322 It is the best time of the day to write. Inside the house heaves rhythmically with sleeping pets and people and its own 90-year-old creaks and cracks. The coffee is strong and black. The screen is white and bright. Outside the street sleeps and the lake licks the beach. At this hour time is suspended.

It is the end of another dramatic week for the world. Trust and innocence suffered new blows. Here, we stood vigil with good people everywhere and held our breath and hearts as we watched it unfold on too many screens at once, it seemed. Meanwhile, in the inner circle of our daily lives, it was business as usual: crowded and hurried and scattered. But this week, next to all of those other screens, “business as usual” took on a sweeter meaning.

Last week I wrote my personal menu of excuses not to write. By Saturday, to kickstart my posts, I came up with the idea of the 20 minute post. 1, 2, 3 …20, POST. That was 7 days ago! And still no post! Certainly I have 20 minutes before lunch packing, law practicing, and life scrambling to spill a corner of my heart onto the keyboard?

It is kind of like taking a deep breath before starting the day. And I just did it. Well, I just did it in 37 minutes, including the time it took to heat up the espresso machine + let the dogs out. 🙂

these things i ♥

DSC_0724friendships that last a life time  (even if they are new)

motherhood

pie

the Gulf Coast of Alabama

a July birthday

5000+ years of yoga teachers

thank you notes

black coffee

good grammar

men who love their wives

laundry dried outside

lunch

the sun

powder days

grandmothers

pineapple

the architecture of the olive tree

cities

most birds

all teenagers

front porches

Canadian roots

lacrosse

my children’s stories and dreams

running

words

in-laws

the sound the back door makes Continue reading

Hustling on the Bridge Between Today and Adulthood – summer 2012 – a flashback

English: Ryan Jergensen bare footing on Lake B...

English: Ryan Jergensen bare footing on Lake Berryessa in 2006. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am the mother of a boy who loves summer. I get it. We live in an emerald city surrounded by water and mountains. But good weather comes late, if at all, and when it does it is a golden reward for surviving the rest of the year and makes us forget the trials we endured for the reward.

The boy is now 17 years old and heading into his senior year of high school. Before this summer began, he said to me dreamily one day “what i love about summer is being on the lake or beside the lake, hanging with my boys.” One of my favorite summer photographs is of the lot of them lined up on a dock in their bright swimsuits in the early evening July light. 15 year old limbs and bravado everywhere. The confidence that the summer belonged to them and always would hung in the air. I remember that summer. Mountains of damp towels, sleeping in tangled combinations here and elsewhere. It was before they could drive.

But that is not this summer. Senior year is like a train barreling toward us on the tracks ahead. And he is being recruited for a college sport. There are three teams, one-on-one work outs with coaches, a trainer. And he is criss-crossing the country in a series of airplanes playing in “showcases”. He and his best friend have emptied their bank accounts and taken on investors to start a business: they are ice cream men. There are sober conversations between them across our kitchen island about insurance, routes, sources, and how to keep a circa 1979 U.S. Mail truck cum ice cream wagon on the road.

I wish someone had told me this last summer. I miss the damp towels.