Amy J. Randall-McSorley, EdD, MMC
Author
Morning Peace
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald December, 2024)
When I open the back door, I’m greeted by the promise of day though the sky is still dark, and the air is winter cold and silent. The morning is filled with brief solitude while my husband and our rescue dogs, Rusty and Harry, sleep.
And I wonder if our dogs remember their lives from before. The wondering is familiar, like an old song you can’t get out of your head, a record stuck on the turntable that plays over and over. I scratch the needle across the vinyl because the truth is that I don’t really want to know. I don’t want to know if they remember, and if they do remember, I don’t want to know what they remember. I ache for what they might have been through, and I grieve for the dogs who shared their lives with me before these two came along to rescue my broken heart. Losing a dog hurts too much, but never loving again would hurt even more.
I don’t have to work today, and I still am ill with a winter cold that somehow found its way to clutch its wretched claws into me despite all my attempts to protect my immuno-compromised state of being. I pass on any semblance of breakfast and instead make my way to my big old chair in the living room and curl up in the blankets waiting for me.
I turn on the little fairy tree with branches lit in tiny white specks of magic. A tree that was probably meant for the Holidays, but I keep on the table by my chair year-round. It matches my melancholy mood. The furnace kicks on and I’m a little overwhelmed by the comfort it brings, remembering the times when I nearly had no roof over my head and no bread in the cupboard let alone a furnace to warm me.
No sooner am I wrapped in my blankets with my feet up when Rusty, our Jack Russell mix who spent a mysterious amount of time on the streets and a known stint at a local dog shelter before moving into our home, appears at my feet. He’s particular about how I spread the blanket for his space, but once I get it right, he gently joins me. He stretches out and lays his head on my legs. I feel his warmth and my heart melts when he lets out a long sigh.
Yeah, it’s like that, isn’t it Rusty? We come through a lot but what matters most is this moment. This space in time when the air is winter cold, and the mind and body are weary, but the heart is warm and at peace.
Finding Gratitude in Expected and Unexpected Places
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald November, 2024)
The wind suddenly stole summer and set us deep into autumn. The warm days picked us up, swiftly breezed through the pages of the calendar and dropped us at Thanksgiving’s doorstep. While I look forward to the day that Gary and I will spend quietly together filling our tummies with delicious food and filling the house with the songs of laughter and love, I’m not quite ready to open that door yet - the one that begins the Holiday season. It’s not that I do not cherish the Holidays, it’s more that I do not want the days to fly by the way they do. I want time to slow down. But it won’t. It’s up to me to embrace the minutes, days, weeks and years – use my gratitude as a means to create the illusion of time slowing down.
Gratitude can be found in unexpected places.
I’m grateful for people who have been mean to me because they provide affirmations of who I am, but more importantly, who I am not.
I’m grateful for the days I feel unwell, and my chest is tight with prickly pain, because it makes those moments where there is no pain all the sweeter and it’s a reminder of how strong I am and what I have, and can, survive.
I’m grateful for the years I spent cold, for they make me keenly aware of how warm and dry my feet are when I walk in the rain or snow with no holes in my shoes. Remembering the days when I fought hunger brings me to tears when I fill my cupboards with groceries. And those hard times help me to understand the ways I can help others who are where I once was.
Gratitude, of course, can also be found in the expected places. I’m grateful to those who run into the fire literally and figuratively to help those who are in trouble.
I’m grateful to my sister. While there may be many miles and state lines between us, I feel her right here beside me.
I’m grateful to my husband, Gary, who knows all my faults and loves me just the same.
I’m grateful for the way God whispers in my ear and places His hand on my back.
I am grateful for dogs. I am honored by the love I have been privileged to give to “creatures great and small” as veterinarian James Herriot called them. And I am overwhelmed by the love I receive, and have received, in return. Who rescued who?
And so, as I reflect on all that I am grateful for, I find myself wishing that time might slow down a little for all of us this Thanksgiving season so we can wrap ourselves in a warm blanket of gratitude and find blessings in unexpected and expected places.
Rock, Paper, Scissors, Love & Hate
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald November, 2024)
Lately, when I have had a few minutes to rest at night, I will take a moment for mindfulness or just to escape in some manner. It is on those escapes that I sometimes find myself watching reels on Facebook. Filter on, I scroll past videos that will break my heart and move to the ones that serve only to make me smile. No thinking, just smiling.
Oftentimes these short videos are of other motorcycle riders, and I am amused to see bikes pull up to other bikes or to cars and a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors ensues. A game generating a distraction from the cruel things in the world and uniting strangers who become kids again.
Rock smashes scissors, and scissors cut paper. But paper is not always the victim because paper can smolder rock. So, in cyclic fashion there are winners and losers; but in this game, no one is hurt. And no matter the outcome, simple joy takes over and rules the moment.
What if we add other elements to the game: love and hate? The former always the winner and the latter only included for the sake of recognizing its existence and ill intentions.
We have all been fed extra servings of love and hate lately with all the political advertisements and conversations, right? But the big game of winners and losers comes to a final round this week as our country brings the election season to an end and all votes are cast.
But what then? What happens after every voice is counted and the results are revealed? Will the rock smash the scissors or will the paper smolder the rock? Will love or hate prevail?
While I have been dedicated to the purpose of the Commuter Column centering around life minus the political side of things, I will skirt that with this issue just to say, no matter the election outcomes, there will be winners and losers. But, in a way, aren’t we all winners? Our love of our country and for issues and people we believe in fueled our motivation to exercise our right to vote. Even though our checking boxes doesn’t mean that we get what we asked for, the point is we got to check those boxes. Our voices were heard.
When it is all said and done, we can walk up and stand next to each other. Rock, paper, scissors, love, hate. If we always choose love, we will always be winners, finding ways to live together no matter how heavy that rock is, how sharp those scissors are, how big that piece of paper is, or the outcome of the election.
Autumn Ride
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald October, 2024)
It is as though we are riding through a dream. The air has a chill that messages winter is near. But I am warmed by my Michelin-man layered gear, my heated seats and handlebars. Windshield is up and face shield is down. My body is snuggly like I just imbibed a comfy cup of cocoa. And my heart is quiet, long moments absent of the pain normally felt throughout the day due to this pesky flare-up of heart conditions. My breaths are long and deep, a lovely new feeling for me.
Music pours from my bike’s speakers accompanying the quiet purr of the motor. The road is winding, intertwining woods and fields. There are moments when the lovely, rich red bike in front of me brings the leaves of matching color, as well as those of orange and yellow, to scatter and dance in the air. I pass through them just in time to join in a choreography of seasons passing the torch and I am overwhelmed with the knowing of my blessings.
I glide along with no worries about where I am and where the next turn might be because our new, and already dear, friend, Chuck, is leading the way. I’m content and trusting and grateful for knowing him. My husband, Gary, rides behind me on his golden Goldwing. I ride between bikes donning the colors of autumn, while mine is the deep green of summer.
Chuck leads us along his favorite roads and takes us to a place rich in his heart and full of history. We park our bikes along the country road and slowly walk a path where he shares stories of which I always want more. And then we top a hill where we gaze out across the landscape overflowing with a vivid display of hills and woods in varying stages of seasonal transition. In front of us, the corn husks which have completed their evolution from a lively green to a burnt beige, rustle in the light wind the way corn will do – as if whispering secrets. We step into the woods, a clearing so perfect you can feel God’s voice in your ear and warm hand on your heart. “All is well. All is well.” And I know that this will be one of those memory making moments that will linger with me for all the roads and miles to come.
In his song, “Breakers Roar,” Sturgill Simpson sings “Oh, and everything's not what it seems. This life is but a dream. Shatter illusions that hold your spirit down. Open up your heart and you'll find love all around. Oh, breathing and moving. Oh, healing and soothing”
I feel the peaceful song trickling through my veins and I know that while one could argue this is but a day, only a compilation of moments, I know that it is more than that. It is a dream extending into reality and enveloping me in its healing and spirit-lifting embrace. It is a power I will call upon whenever the days ahead may become cold and difficult.
Filling the Empty Spaces Left by Hurricane Helene
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald October, 2024)
Imagine a set of concrete steps that lead to nowhere. The porch railings are covered in mud. One would never know that Bobby, in his favorite striped t-shirt and red ball cap, once used them as a slide to speed the journey from front door to front yard. And now, the front yard seems to have disappeared.
The tire swing is gone too. The one that Penny loved to fly on, back and forth, back and forth, singing nursery rhymes, yellow curls bouncing in the wind. A rescue worker found the tire miles up the road having no idea of the treasure he had found.
The diner where Harry proposed to Margeret is but a memory now. Nothing left but presumably the foundation; although one will never know for sure until the muck is cleared away. Up the road, the tavern with the best jukebox this side of the world is a pile of rubble, the coin-operated music machine is missing in action.
As you walk through your own home, take a moment to look at the trinkets on your dresser. A photo of a best friend or loved one. A book that you love. In your kitchen maybe there’s a large blue plate that your great-grandmother used for serving the Thanksgiving turkey. On your bathroom sink, there might be a ring you took off so it wouldn’t come free while you washed your hands - somehow you forgot to put the ring back on. In your closet there may be a favorite warm sweater or pair of running shoes. They are just things, sure, but our homes are filled with “just things” that all together create the surroundings, the space we come home to each night to rest from the day and find peace. Imagine not having that anymore. You leave one day and return to find everything you own is gone – the everyday things and the home that held them obliterated.
My heart is broken for the people who are victims of weather disasters, and I cannot bear the thoughts of all the animals who were slayed by storms or fire or who survived but are suffering. Animals who lived in the wild, farm animals, and those who once lived in the homes that are now piles of rubble all need our help.
The devastation from Hurricane Helene is overwhelming to consider even for those of us here in Ohio. While the storm’s wrath reached us, it did not create the swath of destruction seen elsewhere. Still, it hurts. It cuts deep. And knowing Hurricane Milton is on its way to create its own havoc, is unbearable. But we can help. And we can do so in any number of ways. To mention a few, there is Appalachian Voices (www.appvoices.org) and the American Red Cross (www.redcross.org). I would be remiss to not mention the Humane Society of the United States (www.humanesociety.org ). We knew when we donated that Gary and I could only provide a small contribution to meet the large need, but we also know that if we all step forward and do what we can, the impact will be great, and the victims of these tragedies can move toward recovery, some sense of normalcy, and healing.
September Breezes
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September, 2024)
Leaves of red, gold and yellow are floating through the air slipping back and forth until they land on the ground where, in time, they will become deep shades of brown and crunch under our feet. Waves of Goldenrod have moved into the fields celebrating September – a time for fresh starts and also a time for remembrances.
It is difficult to believe that 23 years have passed since that fateful September day when what we initially thought was a horrible accident – a plane flying into one of New York’s Twin Towers – we later realized was a terrorist attack. A second plane had struck the beautiful landmark. Terrorist tragedies were thrust upon us in Washington DC and Pennsylvania too. First responders included those we have always depended upon and those who spontaneously volunteered. They were firemen, paramedics, police, military, office workers, plane passengers, residents and more. There were those who had trained and prepared for disasters and those who had not, but none of them went to bed the night before knowing that September 11, 2001 would be the bloody and horrifying day that it would prove to be.
While September will always be remembered for this day of death, it is also a time for fresh starts. School is freshly into a new year. Minds are being filled with knowledge that will inform dreams that will turn into plans that could one day impact us all in hopeful and positive ways. Wisdom isn’t the only nutrition of the season. It is also a time for food for our bodies. Farmers are working long days and nights harvesting the products of their strategies and sweat so that we can fill our bellies.
In his song, “September Morn,” Neil Diamond sang “Stay for just a while. Stay and let me look at you. It's been so long, I hardly knew you standing in the door. Stay with me a while. I only wanna talk to you. We've traveled halfway 'round the world to find ourselves again.”
In September, I think fondly of those who are gone, I feel intense gratitude for our country’s heroes, those sung and those unsung, and I pray for those who are younger and preparing for their journeys in this world that can be both frightening and beautiful, cruel and tender.
May the breezes of September carry not only fallen leaves our way, but also nourishment that heals wounds and strengthens our hearts, minds and souls for the months and years to come.
Earth and Angel Dogs
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September, 2024)
It’s the jangle of a collar donned with metal tags when no dogs are near. It’s feeling the deep lean into my legs when I am alone in the room. It’s the enduring shadow under the maple tree, the indentation where no one sleeps any longer. It’s in the woods I look out to, like he did throughout all those warm summer days, dreaming thoughts unknown to me. But it’s not just Mosey, it’s all of them – all my angel dogs.
When I ride my motorcycle, they fly alongside me. Free in their heavenly winged angel states, I can almost see them nosing the air, breathing in an understanding of the changing leaves, the trickling streams and the gently grazing deer hidden in the trees.
The gifts my angel dogs bring me are a swirling of deep, deep grief blended with the comfort of soft love and the knowing that one day we will be together again. I call their names and the sound dances in the wind wake my bike leaves behind. “Mosey, Jasmine, Sam, Woody, Sarah, Jude, Emily and Molly.” And then I whisper to my dear, dear friend, “I love you, Lou. You have my babies, I know.”
I was touched by a quote I recently read whose author I cannot find. “It came to me that every time I lose a dog, they take a piece of my heart with them. And every time a dog comes into my life, they give me a piece of their heart. And I believe that if I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are.”
This sentiment and knowing that goodbye is not forever, that one day we will be together again, carry me through the days. I’ve tried to not fall in love again, to not let another dog steal one more piece of my heart, but to live without dogs while I walk this earth is a pain I cannot endure. And so, I love again, and I love always, and I pray that one day I will learn the lessons they teach of generosity and pure love.
If you have never known the love of a dog or have known that gift and are now alone; I urge you to give a piece of your heart again. The days are more lovely for you and for them when we share pieces of our hearts in the here and now, which in time, will become the then and forever. I encourage you to visit the Wright Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter (21253 Ringgold Southern Rd, Circleville, OH 43113 (740) 474-3741), the Circle Area Humane Society (185 Island Rd, Circleville, OH 43113 (740) 474-8690) and DASH Animal Rescue (DASHRESCUE00@gmail.com) to find the next taker and giver of your heart. You can find all three of these organizations on Facebook.
Tire Pressure, Self-Love Parallel
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August, 2024)
I asked my husband, Gary, if there was anything he would like me to write about for this issue of the Commuter Column. He responded with “tire pressure.” While it is true that he has a wicked sense of humor, it is also true that I have a highly competitive spirit and so I shall rise to the challenge.
When you think about it, and maybe stretch that thought a little, there is a parallel between tire pressure and self-love. Our range of self-love ebbs and flows with the changing tides of deflation and inflation. And the makings of those states of being are varied and sometimes mysterious.
Deflation can ride in on the wings of unkind words or actions of others. It really is something how one person’s unkindness can lasso your high spirits and hog tie them into a misery so restricting you struggle to breathe. And for some curious reason, the harsh cause for the rodeo is sometimes ourselves.
I struggle with negative self-talk. In my lifetime I have had plenty thrusted on me from others, so why am I adding to the mix? And why am I devoting precious moments to honoring those cruelties, whether from myself or others?
At the same time deflation can be generated by others or by ourselves, so too can inflation. Accepting a compliment and internalizing the kindness of others can certainly lift our psyche. And we can also be our own pump, pushing the air of positivity into our self-talk. We can do this by making our own inflation list - a list of the things we like about ourselves and compliments from others. We can fill ourselves with those comforting thoughts and then twist the valve tight into place to keep those perceptions inside.
We do need to be careful not to overinflate. Egos, like tires, need to have just the right air pressure. So, once we have captured our good energy, we can think about one thing we do not like about ourselves. One thing. And then serenity prayer that item to where it belongs. “Grant me the serenity to accept that which I cannot change and the courage to change that which I can.”
Next, and ever so delicately, we can untwist that valve and let that negative facet out. Just that one. And then once we have learned to accept it or have found our way to fix it, we can move to the next.
We can then alternate between pumping positivity in and releasing negativity out, keeping the pressure just right.
Keeping the pressure at a balance can be tricky. I have pressure monitors on my motorcycle so that with a quick glance at the app on my phone I know if I need to make any adjustments to the air. Our psyches might not have something so easy, but by staying connected with our feelings and considering the words and the sources of others, we might be able to find and maintain our self-love balance – neither blowing up nor flattening out.
Perseid Moments (Perseus is Perpetually Slaying Those Monsters
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August, 2024)
We all have our own mountains to climb. One person’s battles might be another’s speck of dust – a quick exhalation and with no sound it launches into the air and slowly wafts back and forth as it floats to the ground - seemingly non-existent because of its microscopic presence. But the truth is, whatever beasts we are slaying can seem mountainous to us in those increments of our life span where they are fixed. And to conquer them, we need to remember that sometimes just as important as war are the places in time where we find peace. Without those calming moments to reenergize our spirits we would be like that speck of dust, nearly invisible and too weak to fight.
Perseus was a monster slayer, freeing the world from the likes of Medusa, a horrifying creature with claws, wings, snakes for hair, and the power to turn people into stone with her gaze. I like to think that with a hazardous occupation such as his, Perseus recognized the importance of beauty and rest and so decided to launch the Perseid Meteor Shower for those who would benefit from its nourishment. Although I read on space.com that the scientific explanation for the meteor shower is that it is the result of planet Earth passing through the Swift-Tuttle comet’s debris, I prefer my emotional, fictional explanation.
I needed a break like that which Perseus offers because I have been stuck in a multi-day migraine while my body adjusts to a new heart medicine. So, this past weekend, in the deep of the night, I donned my shoes and coat and wandered to our back deck where I attempted to find comfort in my rocking chair. As I rocked back and forth, creak, creak, creak, creak, I looked up and saw a meteor like none I had seen before. It was wide with 3 streams of fire behind it. I watched it move across the sky and take my worries with it – fading into the deep, dark night. A moment later, another meteor with two parallel siblings raced across the same path as their chubby predecessor.
Not wanting to keep this beautiful gift to myself, I went into the house and woke my husband, Gary. And in testament to knowing I share my life with the person who is just right for me, he was out of bed in a comet’s flash, and out on the deck with me. We were delighted with a cosmic display until the rising sun made invisible to our eyes the show we knew would still go on.
If you are battling demons, I hope that you find moments to enjoy the lovely sights that surround you and that the brilliance and beauty they offer provide you with the energy you need. And no worries if you don’t have someone like my Gary to share them with. Perseus is perpetually slaying those monsters and will be meteor shower demonstrative until August 24.
Dear Summer
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald August, 2024)
Dear Summer, thank you for the cool mornings when the world begins anew. The grass glistening with dew pours drinks for the ladybugs and butterflies as they stretch their wings to begin their days in flight. The goldfinches, robins, wrens and cardinals lead their winged acquaintances in a symphony composed for your Maker, and performed for others like me who are blessed with the moment each morning to stop, if even for just a moment, to drink in the sweet sounds and sights.
Dear Summer, thank you for the midday heat, sun or rain. The temperature may be smoldering, but it is refreshing for those of us who step out to briefly visit you taking a break from earning pay while sheltered in manufactured chilled air while gazing into a blue-lit monitor display, fingers clicking across keyboards click, click, click. The scent of the grass, now warm and dried of its morning dew greets us. And if you have decided to offer a breeze, the trees joyfully sway their branches - a dance in your honor. The songs of their leaves bring memories of ocean waves. I close my eyes and I am there again. And you are there too. You are everywhere you choose to be and when you so choose.
Dear Summer, thank you for the full moon nights, the half-filled ones and those with none at all. Thank you for the meteors that splash across the deep night sky. No matter the number of these displays you bring, each one is new and splendiferous. Thank you for my favorite summer things: the songs of the crickets and treefrogs as they share a conversation I will never understand but will always love. Thank you for the call of the owls from near and then far and then near again – repetitive and yet new. And thank you too for the howls of the coyotes. They speak to my core nearly fooling my wandering spirit that I am one with them.
My Dearest Summer, these provisions you bring feed my heart and soul. It is not just that I would miss them were they not provided by you, but more that I would perish without them. The gift that keeps giving - God gave you as a gift to us, and you have so generously brought your own to share with us as well. I am relishing this time we have together and, Dear Summer, I beg you to not leave too soon. Let these days remain long and rich with your existence until I have stored enough of your offerings to keep me warm when you leave me again.
Be the One Who Runs and Falls Down
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald July, 2024)
In “If You Want to Live in Your Soul,” Rumi wrote “The soul within our individual souls / loves the one who runs and falls down / more than the one who sits and watches.”
In 2010, when I first began writing the Commuter Column, I was making the long drive from the southern edge of Pickaway County to Columbus to work. Years later, that commute changed in distance and direction. And then, over a year ago as this flare up of recurrent pericarditis with myocarditis would dictate, my commute transformed to a shuffle across the living room to my office at home as I strive to protect my immunocompromised position.
I may have temporarily slowed down in some ways, but I am still moving and falling and not settling on watching. And I have learned that the commute is less about the travel to and from work and more about the travels of life, be they of mind, body, or soul.
I had a commute that touched all of these this past weekend when I joined the U.S. Spyder Ryders Central Ohio Chapter. For those not familiar, the Can-Am Spyder is a three-wheeled motorcycle. For many, it is so much more.
My husband, Gary, our dogs and family and friends have meant everything to me during this tough time. And my motorcycle, Skye, has also played a vital role in my survival. She sails me through the wind where I leave my worries and pain behind as we traverse the hills and winding wooded roads of Pickaway, Hocking and other beautiful Ohio counties.
As a lifetime motorcyclist, Gary understands full well what I am experiencing. Sometimes we ride together, but this past weekend, I traveled with a new crowd. My ride with the Spyder Ryders of Central Ohio was my first group ride. They were a group of strangers who quickly became family. The head of the family organized and led the ride from Sunbury to Medina for a beautiful lunch and arranged for a Chapter host, or “cousin,” if you will, from that area to guide us to Brandywine Falls. On all segments of the adventure, we had a “sibling,” an experienced rider who provided coverage so the group could pull out together and then remained at the back of the pack to ensure all was well during the ride.
I knew of these roles but had never experienced them riding my own motorcycle. I also had not expected that I would have my own “coach,” who I could look over to when I had moments of uncertainty. A quick nod from him and I was good. My new family showed me respect, understanding, incredible kindness and delightful humor.
I am excited about what adventures may lie on the road ahead. I may have barriers that look like they will be around for a while, but I am not going to sit and watch. Like Rumi said, and I know for sure, my soul within my individual soul loves the me who runs and falls more than the one who gives in and sits and waits.
I hope that whatever challenges you may be facing, you are also able to surround yourself with positive forces so that you too can keep running, even if sometimes you fall or need a little help.
Until the 4th of Ever
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald July, 2024)
“You ask how much I need you. Must I explain? I need you, oh, my darling, like roses need rain.
You ask how long I'll love you. I'll tell you true - Until the twelfth of never, I'll still be loving you,” sang Johnny Mathis in the “Twelfth of Never” written by Jerry Livingston and Paul Francis Webster.
The song has been dancing around in my head lately as I have been anticipating the July 4th holiday. The fact that my current immunocompromised status renders me unable to go to any group events has focused my attention more on what the day means versus having a fish sandwich and enjoying the fireworks at the Ashville 4th of July Celebration. The truth is that, while we celebrate a day in history when our glorious country achieved its independence, the remembrance and the fight have remained alive every day since then. Instead of the “12th of Never,” it’s the “4th of Ever.”
Americans still fight for their individual rights, freedom and independence. The battles concern everything from civil rights, to having a say about our own bodies, to breaking free from addiction, to removing ourselves from the paths of bullies, to learning how to walk again, and so many, many more.
This 4th of July, I’ll miss going to one of my favorite events right here in Pickaway County. I’ll miss holding hands with Gary while we watch the display of fireworks in Ashville that are always absolutely amazing. And, yes, I will miss that fish sandwich that is always so delicious it takes extreme willpower to wait for it to cool before I take that first bite. But what will not be missing are my thoughts and prayers of appreciation that I live in a country rich with a history of fighting for what is right and where I am not alone in facing my own personal battles to protect and enhance freedom and independence.
We all have our own freedom battles. And each step of the way, every inch of progress we make is something to celebrate and cherish, now and forever.
The song continues, “I'll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom; I'll love you till the clover has lost its perfume. I'll love you till the poets run out of rhyme. Until the twelfth of never and that's a long, long time.”
And I add, I will honor and cherish freedom and independence until my last breath and my last step on this earth - “Until the 4th of Ever.”
The Love of a Dog Named Bentley
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2024)
I woke up crying this morning. It was a soft and quiet weep, unlike the sob burst from the night before when I learned of his passing – a dog I had never met.
A Facebook posting from my dear friend, Pete, painted a lovely picture of a last day spent serenely with nature and then a fine meal with his canine companion, Bentley. I never met Bentley, but I fell apart with the news of his passing. To be honest, I still cry for the dogs whose last days with me were years ago. I’ll probably cry for quite a while for this dog too.
I might not have met Bentley, but I knew a little about how he spent his days, and I know Pete. In the range of years I’ve spent on this planet, I’ve known Pete for a relatively short time. Our friendship was forging just as this recurrent pericarditis with myocarditis flare-up was sinking its claws into my being. We were set for Pete to spend an evening with Gary and me dining on a good meal and enjoying each other’s poetry, but we had to cancel when I learned I needed to isolate myself from others.
If Pete reads this, it will be the first time he learned that while our friendship has been remote, it’s a very important one to me and that, in fact, he has been my daily inspiration. Like me, Pete has been around for a while. And parallel with our lifelines are the number of devastating good-byes, but so too the bounty of joyful hellos with all the awesome spaces in between.
What I know of Pete’s spaces between has nourished my spirit of hope and my dream of healing. While I might not understand the verbiage or the images, I can appreciate the work he does to build out cars. And while not in a car and not racing like Pete, I share the love of motion when I ride my motorbike. Like my husband, Gary, Pete is a gourmet cook. The pictures Pete posts are like those you would find on the glossy pages of some national cuisine magazine. And then there are all the photos of hikes through the fields, into the woods and along the creeks and waterfalls. And so many of those with handsome Bentley.
How I have loved closing my eyes and imagining myself trailing along behind them on those winding paths. Gary and our dogs, alongside. A pack of lovers of nature.
The walk continues for the ones left behind, but it never really is a solo trek, is it? I still feel my angel dogs with me, and I know Bentley will be soaring around Pete for all the days to come. The passing of one we love is really their morphing into another presence, one we cannot see any longer, but one we know and feel. In temporary syncopation, days will come and go, months will fly by, and years will quickly pass. Their non-permanence is balanced by the inspiration of a friend and the love of a dog, both of which are everlasting.
Thank You from Australia
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2024)
In the translation of his poem “It Felt Love,” Hafiz wrote “How did the rose ever open its heart and give to this world all its beauty? / It felt the encouragement of light against its being. / Otherwise, we all remain too frightened.”
And in the poem “transform,” r.h. Sin wrote “nurse your own wounds / then turn your pain / into power / turn your heartache into wisdom.”
When I began this journey of a flareup of recurrent pericarditis (inflammation of the lining around the heart) with myocarditis (inflammation and damage of the heart muscle) one and a half years ago, I turned to YouTube videos of other patients to learn coping tips and, quite honestly, for affirmation that I was not alone. My care team at the Pericardial Diseases Center at the Cleveland Clinic is nothing short of awesome, but I also needed to connect with other patients like me.
The videos were very helpful. I “met” others who, like me, were athletic and active until suddenly they were stopped in their tracks. Their stories of treatment and recovery gave me hope, but they also made me realize that in a corner of the world of this uncommon condition, my situation was even more rare. According to WebMD, 28 out of 100,000 people develop acute pericarditis every year. And according to the American Heart Association, 15% to 30% of those are later diagnosed with recurrent pericarditis. It usually takes no more than a few months to recover from a flare-up. That is where I am a bit of an anomaly. I have been in this flare-up for 1½ years, and it looks like I may have another 1½ years of treatment. Plus, I was also diagnosed with myocarditis.
Even though I know there are not many others like me, I know they are out there. And like Sin wrote, I want to turn my pain and heartache into wisdom. And I want to use that wisdom like Hafiz wrote, as an encouraging light for others. So, I recorded my own videos of what life has been like in this flare-up and to describe some coping and treatment tactics I have adopted. Periodically, I check the stats on the videos and so I knew that a small audience had viewed them. I could only hope that I had helped at least one of them. Hope became reality the other day when a viewer sent me a message that started “Thank you from Australia.”
From here, in the southern rural side of Pickaway County, over 10,000 miles away, across land and ocean, my video touched someone in Australia.
It is like the “God Loves You” sign in a front yard on Route 22 that my husband and I rode past on our motorcycles the other day, or the penciled note in the front of an old-used poetry book that I bought at a yard sale. Any relic we leave for others could have a reach far beyond our dreams. I hope that, like me, you too can be encouraged by the light and the wisdom as both the giver and the receiver.
If you or one of your loved ones is dealing with recurrent pericarditis and are interested, here is a link to my YouTube channel: https://youtube.com/@amyrandall6679?si=eG54w2ZwdwAQP6Df . For expert information, I suggest you visit Cleveland Clinic: Every Life Deserves World Class Care.
Leaving Your Worries Behind
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2024)
I try to get outside at the end of the days heavy with challenges. I used to run and imagine my worries slipping down through my nerves, veins and clomping feet and then through the soles of my shoes to the pavement where I could leave them behind. These days with this long, but hopefully temporary, pericarditis with myocarditis flareup, I cannot run. But I can ride.
There are some particularly difficult things going on now, so, while I am always happy to go for a ride, I am even more so now. The other day, it was about an hour before sunset when I made it out to my motorcycle. The night chill was already seeping into the air when I pulled out the driveway. I always wear goggles and a full helmet. It was one of those nights where the goggles would have to do all the work because I needed my face shield up. I needed to feel the wind in my face.
I have a wonderful sound system on the bike and tend to listen to my music loudly. The deer I ride past seem to enjoy it – or at least that is one possible interpretation of how they stop and stare instead of stepping onto the road.
It was one of those nights when I really needed a mindfulness motorcycle ride, so I queued up my instrumental playlist.
Spanish guitarist, Jesse Cook’s “When Night Falls,” softly began with a slow and captivating beat. As other stringed instruments joined the guitar, the momentum increased slightly. The music wound through my being as my bike wound through the curves of the road. Above, the puffy clouds found their places in the sky preparing for the pastel luminescence the setting sun would bring.
Helen Jane Long’s “The Aviators” played next and my bike seemed to take to the air. But at some point, I knew that continuing to ride on the country roads would leave me unsated. I made my way to Route 23 and turned the volume a little louder. I needed the straightway and the higher speed, the greater impact of wind. I felt the things that cause my brain and heart to ache blowing away in the gusts. I knew they would find me again, but at least for now, I was leaving them behind.
The delicate piano notes of Helen Jane Long gave way to Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass’s “Cantina Blue,” and I imagined myself not on the southeastern Ohio route that had become immersed in darkness, but rather riding some scenic byway on a hot, sunny summer day. My destination a cantina where I would slip off my dusty boots, dine on fajitas and slowly sip a glass of chilled Moscato while staring out over the ocean and daydreaming about the horizon.
If your days are heavy and you ride, I wish for you pleasant ones like those I have been having. And if you don’t ride, I hope you find your own version of a mindfulness channel to help you leave your worries behind, even if only for one night.
In the Back of My Mind - To Stay There
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2024)
You know that feeling you get sometimes that something is not right? You either are not sure what is wrong, or you know, but don’t want to know. Three years ago this week, I had one of those moments. At first, I thought my asthma had decided to come out of hiding. Then I thought my TMJ was jealous for attention. In the back of my mind, I remembered reading about the different ways a heart attack can present itself, but I had no history of heart issues. These thoughts only played around my mind for a few minutes and then the truth was undeniable. I was having a heart attack.
Yes, three years have passed, and as math will have it, I’m also in my third subsequent flare-up of pericarditis, this time with myocarditis. I’m half-way through treatment with an expected, you guessed it, three-year total treatment plan.
One thing that I have learned during this journey is the importance of paying attention to the thoughts in the back of my mind. Thoughts carry much power. There is knowledge tucked away in our subconscious that we can easily miss because of the distractions and noises in our life. More than this, the thoughts in the back of our mind can carry stress.
We have all read that stress is bad for our health and many of us believe it. But I have never believed it as strongly as I do now. The leading cause of my heart attack, according to my cardiologist at the time, was stress. These days, there is frequently a connection between a stressful moment and a spike in chest pain. Interestingly, when I had my heart attack, I was under siege by a bully. Today, three years later, same stress – just a different bully. And whenever there is an encounter, the pain goes up.
Perhaps you have a similar story. Or your stressors could be completely different than mine. And the manifestation might not be in your heart. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you know something is not right. The thing that is wrong is not always something you can fix, but we can work on how we handle it.
That’s where I have been focusing a lot of attention. My mind does a fabulous job of coping and categorizing, logically filing away stressful dealings as if to say, “It’s fine. We’ve got this.” But my body, and especially my heart, are not having it. My heart ignores the good, embraces the bad and does the ugly. So, I am working hard to connect the dots from mind to heart – let’s all work together here. I have found several resources. In case they might be helpful to you, I’ll share them. I am using deep breathing moments on my smart watch, turning to YouTube visual imagery of places like Oregon with soothing music, reading reputable articles and books about mindfulness and wellness, riding my motorcycle while listening to music, and using the Soothing Pod app on my smart phone for meditation and sounds to help me sleep.
It’s a lot of work to fight off the demons of stress. But I am doing it because one day, I would like some of what is in the back of my mind to stay there.
1/2 Dozen Quatrains for a Three-Wheel Motorbike
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2024)
There’s time to slip in one more issue of the Commuter Column as a poem for National Poetry Month (April). How could I not write about my favorite mode of travel?
The long days can be difficult at best
Wrapped in challenges of body and mind
The scraps and brawls are of many a kind
Until it comes, the end of day at last
Jacket with liner, rainproof gloves and boots
Air pressure 20, 20, 28
Face shield and windshield debugged, a clean slate
Helmet shoved over hair braided, or loose
Into the wind flying past fields and trees
Crest over hills, and dancing with tight curves
Occasionally the avoidance swerve
From deer and worse, drivers who cannot see
I’m no legend, but I know what Young meant
As I too collide with the air I breathe
And the wind pulls my heart worn on my sleeve
The current my savior, the bike my friend
A third wheel, two-fold while on my bike
While some may scoff, others welcome us
Camaraderie and feeling of trust
Bikes are worthy whether two wheels or trike
For no matter what machine carries you
With the loud wind neath the moon or the sun
You ride because you can, because you must
To not would make your heart deeper than blue
Without Poetry, How Would We Understand These Things?
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2024)
In honor of April’s National Poetry Month, I have written this issue of the Commuter Column as a poem about poems.
Without poetry,
words would just be letters of the alphabet.
Without poetry,
there would be no mysteries of rhyme and beats.
Without poetry,
line breaks would be predictable.
There’d be no jumping off the cliff.
Hands would remain in pockets while plummeting down the coaster track.
Without poetry,
how would we feel the trill of the whippoorwill even when one is not near,
or be dampened by the brown headed cow-bird’s water droplets?
Without poetry,
how would we know which yellow wooded path to take?
Without poetry,
how would we find hidden tintinnabulations in the words, words, words, the ringing of the words;
or understand the permanence of the love for a maiden by the sea?
Without poetry,
how would we feel the warmth of a wheat field when the summer sun kisses it, when we are in winter?
Without poetry,
how would we etch the dreams of others into our minds and history books;
and feel the deep sorrow of the catalysts of those dreams?
Without poetry,
how would we know the difference between what feels like forever and what really is forever?
Without poetry,
how would we understand all these things or really anything at all?
Dogs: More than Memories
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)
One of my playlists is limited to instrumentals and one of the songs I’ve been gravitating to lately is “Only a Memory,” by Yanni. I’ve been thinking about memories that are only memories compared to those that never seem to cross over to that realm. They are real and present despite how long ago they may have surfaced.
One of those live memories is when our Labrador, Sam, who earned his wings early 2021, had first experienced being released from his leash while we were hiking. He is the only dog I have shared my life with who I could trust with that freeing and frightening privilege. Sam would always run ahead on the trail and then either come back to check on us or would turn around and wait for us to catch up. It was a “catch up” moment that became frozen in real time. It floats in my thoughts nearly every day and it greets me in my dreams. I can vividly see Sam on the dirt path ahead surrounded by the lush green summer foliage looking back at me with his big grin.
Like moments that are so much more than memories, the love we share with our canine loved ones is also lasting. Yes, it is heartbreaking when they leave us. But the love and joy we share while they are here is worth the heartache. I have learned that it will never be okay when they go. So, I have stopped fighting the desire to make it right. And I have also learned that it gets better and that, at least for me, there is no timeframe for when I can open my heart to a new four-legged friend.
This is why rescue dogs and shelters have been so important to me. Except for my first dog as an adult, all eight since she left have been rescue dogs. Sure, they come with a hidden menu of challenges, but in time, the edges soften and they learn they are safe with you so that you can truly enjoy each other’s company and share a deep and everlasting love.
Dogs who need rescued are plentiful, and for that time when they are in limbo looking for their lost home or their to-be home, they are kept safe and fed in shelters, the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter, of course, being one of them. And just like the dogs could use a helping hand, so too can our shelter. And one way that help is generously given is by our local organization, Partners for Paws, which is about to hold its famous annual fundraiser on April 20, 2024, at 6pm at AmVets on Tarlton Road in Circleville.
The fundraiser features appetizers, desserts, wine from our lovely and local winery, Manchester Hill, and silent and live auctions. I love supporting the shelter and doing so through Partners for Paws. And this event has always been one of my most favorite things to do. But because I remain immunocompromised and under treatment for a flare up of recurrent pericarditis with myocarditis, my participation in April will be limited to purchasing a ticket that will not be used and sharing these thoughts with you.
If you have never been to the event, you can call 740-420-6277 for more information. If you have room for another furry loved-one in your home, you can find the dog shelter on Facebook and at 21253 Ringgold Southern Rd. Circleville, Ohio 43113 or call them at (740) 474-3741. Both the event and adopting a dog are excellent ways to have what would otherwise be “only a memory” become richer, fuller and ever present.
Words Behind the Women
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)
According to www.history.com, “Women’s History Month is a dedicated month to reflect on the often-overlooked contributions of women to U.S. history.” In reflection, I also think about the words behind the women.
We recently witnessed a woman crossing the threshold of “women in history” by becoming the first American woman to sail solo around the world. In an interview with Inside Edition, Cole Brauer shared that there was a pivotal moment when things were not going well and her mother told her ‘You’re not stopping, like no way. We don’t stop.”
What if her mother had said something like, “Oh, it’s okay, honey. At least you tried. We are women so we can only do so much.” The whole dream could have ended there, as could have the dreams of so many other women who have been watching her trek with eager anticipation.
But then, negative words can make a positive turn too; right? A demanding “No” can be the most powerful “Yes,” a woman can hear.
Think of Kathrine Switzer who registered for the Boston Marathon in 1967 and got through because her normal practice was to use her initials. When she was discovered on the course (a woman runner for goodness’ sake!) by the race’s co-director, he attacked her; but she still finished. Unofficially, because she was not able to register with her name, Bobbi Gibb, finished the Boston marathon nearly an hour ahead of Kathrine, both proving that women have a place in endurance running.
And then there is Bessie Stringfield, who, in 1930, became the first African American woman to ride her motorcycle solo across the United States. Think about that. A woman in 1930 riding a motorcycle, let alone solo across the United States and adding to the level of potential danger, a black woman. Let’s talk about bravery!
All these women were clearly told “No,” and the power of those blockades morphed into an amplified “Yes” in their minds.
Our history is rich with “Nos” being turned into “Yeses” by determined women. Just think of the jump start that would have been afforded them if, instead of the Nos, they had begun their journey with “Yeses” or a “We don’t stop.”
And the thing is, any one of us can be the jump start - the words of support behind a woman who will one day become a woman in history. When I was a kid, my stepfather did not hesitate to teach me how to crew on our small sailboat as we spent the weekends chasing the wind and racing for trophies. I had friends support me on the street courses as I completed quite a few marathons. And I have had many enthusiastic congratulations for my purchase of my motorcycle.
I’m certainly not of the level of women in history, but between the words of encouragement I have received and because of women in history like Bessie, Kathrine, Bobbi and now, Cole, shattering barriers, women, like me can live our dreams today. Maybe we won’t all become “Women in History,” but any one of us can tune in for opportunities to be the words to inspire those who will.
Shout out and get a second, third or fourth opinion – A research gap, lag in care in women’s heart health
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2024)
This one goes out to my heart sisters – women on the road of life who warrior against diseases of the heart. I never thought I would be one of you. But on May 6, 2021, I joined your sisterhood. I survived a heart attack through a four-pronged divine intervention: 1) I felt God and my sweet angel dog, Sam, surround me, 2) I had read how heart attacks present differently for women, so I knew what was happening, 3) I was in a meeting with doctors who reacted swiftly and 4) I was rushed to Grant hospital in a matter of minutes.
I sealed my membership to the club when I began my third flare-up of pericarditis in the fall of 2022; one which I am still fighting my way through. The delay in its resolution brought myocarditis along for the ride and a complicated and long road to recovery. So, it’s not lost on me that this year the CDC has declared that it is encouraging women to “listen to their hearts and speak up for their health” in recognition of February serving as heart health month (https: wwwcdc.gov/heartdisease/American_heart_month.htm). I certainly had to be vocal before I finally got the care I needed. By the time I was heard, I became too complicated for local care and now I must make the trek to the Cleveland Clinic.
The CDC references an article by Wenger, Lloyd-Jones, Elkind, Fonarow, Warner and Alger (2022) that discusses how the most common cause of death in the United States is cardiovascular diseases. Sadly, there is a gap in research and a lag in care when it comes to women, which is even worse when you dive deeper into racial and ethnic diversity.
Another interesting article, “The Slowly Evolving Truth About Heart Disease and Women” written by Laura Williamson (https://www.heart.org/en/news/2024/02/09/the-slowly-evolving-truth-about-heart-disease-and-women) further describes the gap in research concerning women’s heart health. And hope is offered through the American Heart Association which offers a wealth of information and resources to support heart health for women and men (https://www.heart.org/en/).
It seems strange to me that, in 2024, women must fight for health care. Even stranger that the distance between health care for men and women is great, and even greater depending on the color of our skin. I’ve been fighting a tough fight that would have been even harder if I was not white. And that truly breaks my heart.
So, my sisters, all, whether you are aware of having a heart issue or not, fuel up please on the plethora of information that is becoming available – and don’t settle. If you are prescribed antacids for what you know in your gut is not a problem of your gut, shout out and get a second, third or fourth opinion. This road of life is too short as it is, let’s not let them steal even one mile from us.
The air is the only place free from prejudice"
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2024)
As someone who does not fly planes, and rarely passengers on a commercial flight for that matter, the thought of flying is something that occupies much space in my thinking. At night, I dream that I float over sleepy villages with randomly lit windows and during the day, when I ride my motorcycle, I am convinced I am flying as well. And I oftentimes think about the women who have truly flown and broke through the barrier of the glass sky. Lately I have been thinking a lot about Bessie Coleman.
I briefly wrote about Bessie before, but my thoughts are more focused today in light of celebrating Black history month.
I have been randomly reading inspiring tidbits about Bessie and how her courage and fortitude were a part of her core at a young age. I read that Bessie was born in Texas in 1892. As a daughter of sharecroppers, she spent time as a child working in the cotton fields. One source I looked at reflected that, as a young girl, Bessie vowed to become something one day. And she did, but it was not easy.
The roads to achieve our dreams are typically paved with challenges, but Bessie had extra layer upon layer given the times, that she was a woman, and that she was Black.
I read that when Bessie was only six, she had to walk four miles each day because that was the only way she could get to the segregated school she was forced to attend. She was an excellent student who loved math and reading. I think of that little girl and all that time walking to and from school – what thoughts must have swirled around in her courageous and brilliant mind? Certainly, there were thoughts of flying.
My understanding is that Bessie’s brother, John, filled her head with stories about war pilots and that was the spark that fed the fire. Just one problem Bessie faced with was that, at that time, women were not permitted to earn pilot’s licenses in the United States of America. So, Bessie traveled to France and, in 1921, she became the first African American woman to earn a pilot’s license.
Throughout her career, Bessie balanced being a hero of the sky with being a hero for equal rights. She never spoke in places where discrimination lurked, which I imagine would have been challenging in and of itself. Bessie died doing what she loved, flying. Albeit, on that fateful day, she was not piloting the plane. She was only 34 years old.
Bessie must have loved the sky and performing arial acrobatics. To combine that love with fighting discrimination and inspiring others to break through the wicked barriers of such is amazing. I read that Bessie said, “The air is the only place free from prejudices.”
And I dream of a day when that is no longer true.
January Ride - "I felt my angel dogs flying alongside me"
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2024)
It was Saturday morning. Not that it really mattered from a commuter’s perspective given that my cardiologist’s current work from home orders have brought morning drives to an abrupt stop. Still, it was Saturday, and the temperature had bumped to above 40. My pericarditis/myopericarditis was offering me a temporary window of a pain level sweetly dropped to a 4, and in matching empathy the sky was offering merely a vapor when it was evident that she was fully stoked for a hard rain.
All these windows opening at the same time. It was fate. I donned my winter “Michelin Man” appearing riding gear, checked my tires, and unhooked the battery trickle charger. My motorcycle was still dirty from the last ride, but the roads were wet and messy, promising another layer of splatter, so I limited the sponge bath to the windshield, my face shield, and the side mirrors. And then my motorbike and I were off for an adventure.
In no time, I was free from the shackles of my temporary, yet long-term, cardiac invoked limitations. I was one with the wind. It extended its icy tentacles into the hidden little nooks and crannies of my helmet and my double jackets, but I didn’t care. The chill vitaminized me. The hues of grey in the low-hanging clouds whispered mists of rain. The fields were shades of brown matching the tall hills along Route 56 just past Laurelville. So many shades of brown. But then, in that moment, what appeared muted, screamed with vibrancy. So many stories of seasons past and those to come. The space in time between winter and spring was cloaked in the invisibility of hope.
Music streamed through my bike’s speakers, “The Story,” written by Phil Hanseroth and released by Brandi Carlile.
“All of these lines across my face tell you the story of who I am. So many stories of where I've been. And how I got to where I am. But these stories don't mean anything when you've got no one to tell them to. It's true, I was made for you.”
And I felt my angel dogs flying alongside me. And I was enveloped in God’s embrace, assuring me, as He has done so many times on this journey, that all will be well. And I thought of Gary, our dogs Rusty and Harry, and a hot cup of cocoa that would be waiting for me when I returned home. And all these stories of where I’ve been and all the stories yet to come. I was made for them.
Name the Sky Our Own
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald January, 2024)
The bitter wind is howling outside my window. Inside, the furnace fiercely fights to keep pace with the frigid temperatures. It’s January in Ohio. All is as it should be as far as the chill is concerned. But all is not as it should be when you think of that one day in January – the third Monday, Martin Luther King Jr. Day. It’s not as it should be because he was taken from us too soon and so our recognition of his work falls short of what it could have been had he been able to continue his fight.
I recently read “Caged Bird,” written by poet and civil rights activist Maya Angelou.
“A free bird leaps / on the back of the wind / and floats downstream / till the current ends / and dips his wing / in the orange sun rays / and dares to claim the sky. // But a bird that stalks / down his narrow cage / can seldom see through / his bars of rage / his wings are clipped and / his feet are tied / so he opens his throat to sing.”
While I am trapped inside by the inclement weather and the incessant recurrent heart condition flare-up I am battling with, I am keenly aware that, like the free bird, I still dare to claim the sky. I believe that warmer, and pain-free days are coming, and I will once again run and bicycle. But I also know that I will do so without fear that the pale, white color of my skin will not have a negative impact on my safety.
The poem continues, “The caged bird sings / with a fearful trill / of things unknown / but longed for still / and his tune is heard / on the distant hill / for the caged bird / sings of freedom.”
The fight of Martin Luther King Jr. for a world free from discrimination, racism, inequality is a war that continues today.
And so, on this cold, grey January day, I think of Martin Luther King, Jr. and pray that one day the fight will be won and all can be free as Maya Angelou wrote in “Caged Bird”: “The free bird thinks of another breeze / and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees / and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn / and he names the sky his own.”
A New Year: Embracing the Past and Welcoming the Future
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald January, 2024)
On the desk where I write sits a cup of hot tea. My tongue anticipates the warm sips of spiced comfort coated in honey. The house is quiet. It is early Sunday morning. Gary and the dogs are still sleeping peacefully. The day awaits. Hopefully, it will come with some needed rest. I know that it will be filled with interesting conversations with Gary. And I eagerly await the sound of a squeaky blue ball and padded paws dashing through the house in playful chase.
It is New Year’s Eve. I am painfully aware of those who are no longer with us. And admittedly, I am worn out and a bit frightened by the cardiac flare-ups I have been enduring and knowing that the word “flare-up” doesn’t necessarily match the temporary timeframe the brain conjures up in response. One year down, potentially another to go.
I look out my window to the bare, and yet majestic, Maple tree where our husky-mix, Mosey, and our Labrador-mix, Sam, would always lay to nap and to gaze at the tree line down near the stream. I always imagined that they were in mindful conversation with God and philosophizing about life. The deep grief I am feeling suddenly shifts to an awareness that, while we had been gifted them to share our lives with, in turn, by rescuing them, we gave them the gifts of happiness, peacefulness, and comfort. They had good lives. It was not always easy. They certainly had their own medical battles. But just as our lives were richer because of them, so too were theirs happier because of us. The realization is soothing.
We never really know for certain what the next moment, hour, day, month, or year will bring. Sure, we have our intuitional moments and our plans; but it isn’t until the moment is upon us that we can really know for sure. An old friend may come back into our lives, a cure for whatever ails us may finally come to fruition, an old new year’s resolution may finally be achieved, a new dog may come trotting into our lives. Every moment is a memory in the making – a visit with sadness, and yet love and comfort. Each minute a fusion of waving good-bye and saying hello.
And so, we embark on another new year to be filled with met expectations and unanticipated events. A year of farewells and greetings. Experiences will wrap themselves around us, ignite our senses and touch our souls. And somewhere in the din of these encounters, I hope that we always find quiet moments like I am this morning, where we can embrace what has passed and prepare our welcome for what is to come.
Christmas Contentment
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald December, 2023)
These nights have been long. Flare ups of heart conditions bring insomnia. And, as with all things unpleasant, there are blessings riding shotgun. I’m blessed that one day I will feel better, even though it looks like it may be months from now. And yes, as odd as it may sound, I am blessed by insomnia, especially these nights of late.
Insomnia can bring gifts of peacefulness and mindfulness. Late at night our little home hums in harmony with the tintinnabulation of the front porch wind chimes. I step through the dark rooms and find my way to the kitchen. I light the small lamp so as to not disturb Gary and our dogs and I make a cup of mint tea and garnish it with honey.
I grab a warm blanket and huddle in my big, favorite chair. Sometimes I read, but this season I tend to quietly soak in the presence of our Christmas tree. Its white lights are elegant and romantic. Several generations of store-bought and handmade decorations add a flavor of playfulness. Many of the adornments remind me of those who are no longer here to share the Holidays with us. I am warmed by the company of their memories. They never really leave do they? Our loved ones are always in our hearts and minds and will remain
there until we are together again.
There is a peacefulness on dark nights kept company with a brightly lit Christmas tree that cannot be matched with any other quietude. I’m reminded of a time years ago when I realized that to be content is not to settle, but rather to feel calmly sated in your heart and your mind and to know that you are right where you should be, and to know that, while things may not be exactly the way you want them to be, they are the way God has planned.
I am warm, I have a husband who loves me and makes my life rich with happiness and delight. We have two rescue dogs who love and entertain us. We have a roof over our heads and food to eat. And we have this beautiful Christmas tree that has lived with us for over 10 years, coming back every year at this time to make things merry and bright. I am blessed with Christmas content. And I am wishing all who are reading this a wonderful Holiday season and blessings of contentment like mine.
Doggie Holiday Firsts and Lasts
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald December, 2023)
Holidays are a mix of joyful and sad moments, and crowded and alone moments, all intertwined with firsts and lasts. Even though some of the firsts and lasts are anticipated, we can never truly know what they will feel like until we are in the throes of them.
Our little Yorkiepoo, Jasmine, passed away suddenly after last Thanksgiving, and our Husky mix, Mosey, passed right after New Years. Jasmine was a surprise departure, and to some extent Mosey too. We knew it would likely be our last Christmas with him, but we thought he would stay until the trees were filled with leaves again and he could spend one more warm summer dreaming under his favorite Maple.
I knew it would be hard being without them, especially during this first Holiday season. The edge of pain is smoothed a little by our other rescues, Harry, a Chihuahua, and Rusty, a Jack Russel mix. It is Rusty’s first holiday season with us, and Harry loves him. Jasmine would have approved too, especially because of his keen television watching skills. I swear Jasmine whispers to him. Mosey would not have liked Rusty, but he would approve of the distraction and joy he has brought us and the way Rusty checks on me when I am not feeling well. Mosey may not be whispering to Rusty, but he whispers to me. As, of course, do our other dog angels.
In my heart, I know that those who are no longer with us are in a better place. I know they are free and happy in God’s Heaven. I dream about them and about the day we will all be together again. But I am not ready to join them yet and so I will move forward enduring and embracing the firsts and lasts here on Earth.
This will be our third Christmas without Sweet Sam, our Labrador, our second Christmas without Jasmine, and our first without Mosey. But this will also be Harry’s third Holiday season with us, and Rusty’s first opening of Christmas presents. While there are many dramatic changes, there are some things that will remain the same. Our home will be filled with comforting love, the warm glow of the Christmas tree lights, the joyful recognition of the reason for the season, and the anticipation of the new year around the corner. Another year of firsts and lasts.
I hope that during this Holiday season, your first and lasts are peaceful and joyful, and that if they are challenging, you have a companion to help you find your way. If by any chance you have room for a companion to share not only this Holiday season with, but all the beautiful years to come, I hope you will consider adopting someone new from the Pickaway County Wright-Poling Dog Shelter (740 -474-3741), the Circle Area Humane Society (740-474-8690) or D.A.S.H. Animal Rescue (614-655-1007). You can find them on Facebook, and they also frequently have ads in the Circleville Herald where you can see those looking for their forever homes.
Thanksgiving and Getting
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald November, 2023)
In his poem, “When Giving is All We Have,” Arizona poet laureate, Alberto Rios wrote, “We give because someone gave to us. / We give because nobody gave to us. / We give because giving has changed us. We give because giving could have changed us.”
The giving could be like when you waited in the drive-thru lane of a fast-food restaurant and the driver ahead of you paid for your meal, so you, in turn, paid for the car behind you. And the giving could be so much more. Someone took the time to help you through a difficult challenge or taught you the ropes so you could soar on your own. And, in turn, you did the same for someone else and perpetuated the circle of giving, the evolution of change, as it were.
And then there is the circle of non-giving. We give because no-one gave to us. We know the difference it could have made, so we chip away at the wall for someone else. We provide kindness for others despite the kindness that was not shown to us.
“Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,” Rios wrote.
I have been thinking about that lately – the many faces of giving. One of the faces of giving is getting. There is the comfort you get when someone gives to you, and there is also the warm, content feeling you get in your heart when you give to others.
Giving does not just travel from you to someone else, or from them to you. There is also giving to yourself. Perhaps this can be one of the most difficult gifts to give. But it is one that deserves a big box and a big bright red bow. These gifts of self-compassion can be removing something from your to-do list so you can get needed rest, speaking up for yourself, or asking someone for help. And as giving tends to be cyclic whether intentional or not, by giving to yourself and supporting your own wellness, you are more able to give to others.
Rios’s poem closes “… You gave me / What you did not have, and I gave you / What I had to give—together, we made / Something greater from the difference.”
When sharing gratitude this Thanksgiving, I hope among yours will be the full circle of the contentment from giving to others, the comfort of being the beneficiary of kindness from others, and the gift of self-compassion.
Shine On!
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald November, 2023)
My commute of late has been shuffling across the living room. One year of a flare-up of a chronic cardiac condition finally sunk its claws in so deeply they have not only penetrated my ability to do the things I love, but also my capacity to have the desire. So, I’m working from home and not able to do much after.
I aim each day to point my thoughts away from misery and toward a focus on the recognition that the one-year delay in treatment is testimony to my resilience. It also serves as a story rich in self-advocacy; but not one to be told today.
Today, the difficulty breathing curbs my appetite for spoken words. I fold a load of laundry and the pain in my chest from the exertion is odd, like something I read about in a horror novel, not something that could really and truly be happening to me. “Beep beep, Richie. We all float down here,” Stephen King’s terrifying clown mocking my weakness.
It seems like only yesterday I was running, hiking and bicycling. I remember it so keenly. I was there; right? I’m sure I was, for the dim afterglow seems to remain. I can just make out the fragile light flickering in the dark corners, weakly, but valiantly, fighting the shadows that seek to succumb it.
And I think of the Leonid Meteor Shower which arrived November 3 with a plan to linger through December 2 and to peak November 17 and 18. The shower is named for its relationship with the constellation Leo the Lion. Apparently, the peaks have paled since the November 1966 show when thousands of meteors firecracked across the sky every minute. According to EarthSky.org, in the years since “… the Lion whimpers rather than roars.”
I feel a kinship with Leo. I’m not shining so bright these days either. I may not be able to run or hike, but I can still ride my motorcycle. I can still fly through the winding roads while the red and gold leaves snow upon me. I can still feel the crisp pre-winter air through my helmet. This will do until I am back on my feet. And I will try with all my might to keep the light shining bright in my mind’s eye. Like the Leonids, I might have a bright surprise or two tucked away waiting to show itself in time.
If your light is being snuffed out like mine is, I hope that you will find time to venture out into the dark one of these November nights and take in the glory of Leo and his Leonids. And may each meteor re-illuminate the glows that we have lost and help us find our way to shine again.
There's No Peace Like Home
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald October, 2023)
When in the midst of the most difficult of times, the awareness of blessings heightens. A few days this past week were spent in a commute of a different kind – different direction, different purpose, different destination. After spending a few days up at the Cleveland Clinic, we returned home. The blessings being as simple as those. We were able to go somewhere to get the help of a specialist and we were able to come home.
The whole time I was at the Cleveland Clinic I thought about hospitals crumbled by the wars over seas. While on the road, there was no need to worry for my sweet little family. I knew they were safe. And when we returned to see our house just as we left it, I prayed for those who vacated their homes and were never able to return, or worse, those who were not able to leave their homes before the bombs struck.
Worn out from the trip and the reason for it, I unpacked my suitcase, very aware of the fact that having my own clothes to unpack is a luxury, but even more so having a washer and dryer to make them clean again. I took a hot shower fully realizing how many others do not have the benefit of water, let alone hot water, or soap.
In her poem, “Pray for Peace,” Ellen Bass wrote, “Pray to whomever you kneel down to…” and illustrated the importance of prayer for others and other things that could easily be taken for granted.
“Then pray to the bus driver who takes you to work. / On the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus…” she advised. “… To Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, pray. Bow down to terriers and shepherds and Siamese cats. Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries…”
I thought about this as I spent the day after our return home resting in my favorite big comfy chair with two dogs peacefully sharing the same space and keeping me warm. When I rose to make a cup of lavender and mint tea, I stepped out the back door and was greeted by the smells of damp grass and fallen leaves - the poetry of a cool and rainy autumn day. It was only afternoon, but the crickets and tree frogs had already begun their evening concert, perhaps realizing that soon the nights will be too cold for such performances. The scene displayed the transition of summer to autumn- green and red, full and bare trees. And I said a prayer to the One I kneel to for all who are denied a quiet moment and a peaceful home.
Adopt a Shelter Dog Month
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald October, 2023)
Imagine you finally had enough, so you took off to follow your own dreams. Or perhaps you thought you were living your dream and then something else caught your attention and somehow in the game of chase, you got lost and couldn’t find your way back home.
And then what if someone came along and scooped you up to take you to a place out of the rain. They would have had the best of intentions, and truth be told, save your life. They provide shelter from the elements and food and water. But the place is unfamiliar, frightening, and loud. You can’t really rest because of all the other rescues in rows of cages or kennels.
Maybe you pine for your family to find you, maybe they are not looking, or maybe you don’t even want to be found. And if you do want a reunion, how can that happen when you have no voice and wear no identification?
Such is the fate of 7.6 million companion animals every year who land in shelters according to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA).
Now imagine that you are one of those lucky people to adopt a dog from a shelter. Something has been missing in your life and you decide to fill the void. And once you do, when you come home at night, your day is all the better because there is a wagging tail greeting you. More than that, there is unconditional love – no matter what you look like, how grumpy you might be, or how tired, you are still their person who they love and adore. They keep you company; they cuddle you and they are masters of improving your quality of life.
You save a life and, in turn, yours is joyously flipped into a life richer than you imagined. Sure, there might be some work at first. It can take a little while for a shelter dog to recover from their previous life. They might make mistakes and leave some messes. But we aren’t perfect either, and we usually need some time to adjust to new situations in our life too.
But after the floor is cleaned up, the torn-up newspapers are swept away, and the shreds of toys mislabeled “for strong chewers” are picked up, you will both have better habits and a better life together. The life. The one you saved and the one that saved you will have years of richer, happier days.
October is National Adopt a Shelter Dog Month. What a great time to rescue a dog, so that they, in turn, can rescue you. Locally, we have three excellent places to find your companion: DASH Animal Rescue, the Circle Area Humane Society, and the Pickaway County Dog Shelter.
St. Augustine
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald September, 2023)
It was several years ago that we took the drive. And it was quite late at night when we arrived. It was pitch dark and we weren’t sure we were there, until we stepped out of the car. Greeted by the sound of the crashing ocean waves, we knew that we were. We opened the gate and climbed the few steps to the old cabin door, fumbled for the light, and we were in.
A few more trips to the car and all our gear were hauled in and strewn across the small living room floor. Then, hand in hand, we stepped out the door one more time. The full moon lit the way to the deck behind the cottage where the salty mist carried over us and the cacophony of waves meeting shore said everything.
Gary and I were only 8 months into us when we took that trip, but the magic lives with me every day.
My favorite memory is when we went to a small, local market and purchased the makings for a fine dinner. Back at the cabin, we rummaged through the kitchen to find a pot big enough to cook the crab legs, some semblance of a corkscrew and coffee cups that became our wine glasses.
Louis Armstrong streamed from the radio, and we felt the presence of those who had shared romantic evenings like ours decades before.
All lamps turned off; the little cabin glowed in dancing candlelight. The flames flickered in the breeze floating in from the windows we had opened so that Louis could accompany the sound of the waves with the honeyed, brassy tones of his trumpet.
We had not been together even a year, but we knew we belonged together. And the sweet evening served as confirmation.
Here we are, October 2023, celebrating nine years of marriage, ten years since that night in St. Augustine. And this man who I have only known for 10 years is in my heart as though he has always been there. We have held each other when we lost loved ones. We supported each other through our own battles. And all the while, those promises serenaded by Louis Armstrong’s “A Kiss to Build a Dream On,” that moonlit night 10 years ago in St. Augustine have held true.
Missing
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald September, 2023)
On some phone, there is an unanswered text. At some dining room table, there is an empty chair. A passenger seat is empty. A radio is left silent. A dog waits at the door. Somewhere someone is missing. Not just one somewhere, but many. And not just one someone, but over 700,000 – and not just this year, but every year.
According to the World Health Organization, more than 700,000 people die of suicide every year. There are less than half that many people, about 326,000 living in Pickaway, Ross, Fairfield and Fayette counties combined. With the counties spreading out over 2,111 square miles, that is how far you would travel and find no one at home. So just think of the distance you would travel void of any living being if all 700,000 lives lost were in Ohio.
And every life lost is a domino downslide of hearts broken and families shattered.
But to the ones who chose to take their life, it most likely didn’t feel that way. They probably felt all alone. They may have felt unloved. They might have felt that the ultimate departure was the only road to travel.
And the reasons that brought them to those thoughts are varied. The wickedness that can bring someone to no longer want to live can come in a plethora of shapes and sizes. Anything from abuse, bullying, addiction, self-worth, body image, social media. The list goes on and on and on.
Suicide doesn’t always call ahead and warn of its impending arrival. Sometimes it sneaks in with hints perhaps so subtle they float away in the air, dancing on the very breeze that will one day carry only memories.
Whether we know it or not, we matter to someone. We all do. Sometimes, we have just not met the person we will matter to yet. How very worthwhile it is to wait around for that someday when that someone will arrive. And whether we are aware of it or not, we all have purpose. The signs are everywhere. A smile on someone’s face when we walk in the room. A thank you from a stranger. And whether we believe or not, our Higher Power is always with us. We feel like we have been abandoned, but just like Mary Stevenson’s poem, “Footprints in the Sand,” when there is only one set of footprints, it is because our Father is carrying us.
And we do not need to carry someone to save a life. Did you know that people who are considering suicide can feel a sense of relief just by having someone ask them how they are doing and showing that they care? This, and other important information is shared by 988lifeline.org. Additionally, resources are available at https://www.bethe1to.com/
September, National Suicide Prevention month, and always, let us pay attention, be kind, and offer another way to those who truly feel they cannot go on one more step. Let us love one another and help to ensure those text messages are answered, those seats at the table are filled, the dogs are not left waiting at the door and the hearts and families remain whole.
If you are having thoughts of suicide, please call the suicide and crisis lifeline at 988.
Empathy
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)
The wind brings the leaves to dance. The scars from the last tornado are hidden behind the lush foliage in all its summer splendor. No one would know what trauma occurred one dark and stormy night. No one would know that the middle is missing from the grand maple tree outside my window.
How’s one to know what scars we carry - hidden by neck scarves, long-sleeved shirts, forced smiles and any other costumes we dream up?
One never knows when kidding with another saying something like “I swear I’m not stalking you,” that the person they are speaking to was once stalked. Or someone says “Now, don’t have a heart attack,” not realizing that the person across the table was healing from that very same thing.
While we might not intend to stir up remembrances of trauma, we should recognize the possibility of their existence. We can pay attention to the signs: a faded smile, a wince, a turn of the head, a forced laugh – any of these could be a sign that our words struck a painful chord for someone whose spirit is still dampened by distress.
Misha Collins’s poem “Downpour,” goes “’Time flies,” an old friend told me today. / But maybe time slips through God’s fingers, / Runs down His arms and legs, / And pools on the ground at His feet,/ each moment evaporating, / Condensing and falling back / To us as rain, / And the whole time, we think things like, ‘poor me,’ / When instead / We could turn our bodies outdoors, / Feel the warm rain on our skin, / And watch the skies / Open for all of us.”
It is well-documented that positivity encourages healing and happiness. It might feel like a façade, but if we practice happiness long enough, we can become happy. The contentedness can wrap itself so neatly around our thoughts and feelings it becomes so deeply embedded that we almost forget. That is until one day when there is an unfortunate reminder. Someone says something, a trigger for the flood of memories to return.
On any day we can be the trigger or the target.
Practicing empathy will help dilute the opportunities for us to be the trigger. We can try to understand the thoughts and feelings of those we converse with. We can pay attention to those signs, verbal and non, that might be clues. We can open ourselves to walk in the rain with the target.
And when we are the target, we need to intentionally be kind to ourselves, whether that means letting the trigger know the harm their words inflicted, walking away, or finding someone safe to talk to. That someone who will take that walk with us and “feel the warm rain… and watch the skies open for all of us.”
National Dog Month - Companions for Life
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)
In the translation of his poem, “The Gift,” Hafiz wrote “Our union is like this: You feel cold, so I reach for a blanket to cover our shivering feet. A hunger comes into your body, so I run to my garden and start digging potatoes… You ache with loneliness one night so much you weep, and I say, ‘Here’s a rope, tie it around me, Hafiz will be your companion for life.’”
It’s like that with dogs too, isn’t it? We may keep them warm and feed them, but what they give us in return is unfathomably beautiful, and for life.
Like thunder, dogs storm into our lives. Expected or not, they arrive. They take over our homes, our lives, our thoughts and take permanent residence in our hearts. They look at us in that way they have, head tilted, eyes that peer through to our souls. And before we say it, they seem to nod, “I know.” And we know that our lives will never be the same.
It's amazing how a living being can be so pure. Any meanness of spirit only accrued because of the cruelty of others. Despite that cruelty, their capacity to love unconditionally is deeply seated and will shine through.
If you have shared your life with a dog, then you know of that which I write. And if you have not, then I am sad knowing that which you have missed.
Tears still frequent my thoughts and my heart as I long for another day with the dogs who have crossed the rainbow bridge. While their celestial spirits float around me, I long to cuddle them and feel their soft fur on my cheek.
The melancholia is diluted by the rebellious, joyful play of the next generation of rescues, Harry and Rusty, who now occupy our home. I strive to be in the moment, to enjoy today. But it is hard.
For quite a while, I have harbored concern about growing older. I fear the future state of my being. And I fear the inevitable day when I will “shuffle off this mortal coil” as William Shakespeare said.
But lately, new thoughts have started to permeate the dreading. I realize that God does not want me to grieve yesterday and fear tomorrow. I am to enjoy the playful ways of our new rescues today and know that even though one day, they too will cross the bridge, so will I. And when I do, the reunion will overflow with joy.
I’m not saying I am packed and ready, but I am saying that I am learning to lessen my fear of the final days through the knowing that the more time I spend here on earth, the more dogs I can share my mortal life with and so the bigger the family will be that I will spend my eternity with.
August is National Dog month. If you do not share your life with a dog, it’s the perfect time to start. And if you do, but you have room for more, it’s the perfect time to add a new family member. I see the ads in the Circleville Herald for DASH Animal Rescue and the Circle Area Humane Society, and I watch the posts of these two amazing organizations and of our Pickaway County Dog Shelter on Facebook. So many dogs just waiting for one of us to show up, leash in hand, and rather than rope, heartstrings, to formalize the tie and be “companions for life”, as Hafiz wrote.
Our Stories
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald August, 2023)
The days flitter by like the sunshine dancing through the trees casting elusive reflections of light and shadow upon the fresh cut grass below. On June 10 of this year, I passed my motorcycle knowledge test and purchased my bike. Forty-eight days later I surpassed 1,000 miles on my odometer, and on the 49th day I passed my skills test and became fully endorsed. My mode of commuting has changed since the inception of the Commuter Column, but the premise has not.
I have been honored to write to you since 2010, and it is a privilege I do not take lightly. I’ve skirted politics, which is not always easy for me. I have borne my soul, which is even harder – writing when the tears deny my eyes the vision of my keyboard. I’ve written of times when my heart was broken and when it was filled with joy. I’ve written nonsense and I’ve shared deep thoughts. And I’ve always stayed true to my purpose which has been to, at the very least, entertain you for a moment or two, and at the best provide words of comfort and hopefully close the distance between us and confirm that none of us is alone.
There is something soothing and healing that comes with knowing you are not alone – that another shares the same journey phase as you.
I sit in my favorite room in our quiet home, writing to you. I write to those of you readers who I have met, some I will never meet, some who I have shared dinner with and some I’ve shared hugs and tears with. As I write, outside my window the old maple tree stands strong defying any missing artifacts of its state of being before the tornado tore out its middle. We are resilient and our stories are ever unfolding.
There is a song by Ocie Elliot called “Miles are Wide,” that goes “…The miles are wide, but we’re not walking them alone. We’ll make our time, like we have nowhere else to roam and hold the line. But sometimes we may let it go. And we’ll define what we have always known. And the scenes here, that show started long ago. Like a story developing slow and the love just grows.”
And so, another issue of the Commuter Column lands in our beloved Circleville Herald. Another expression of thoughts and a moment to thank you for passing the time with me. May the summer ease things down a little for you, fill your heart with sunshine and may our stories develop slowly unlike the flittering reflections of the summer sun’s rays through the fully donned trees.
Not Even the "Skye" is the Limit
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald July, 2023)
Years ago, when my Dalmatian, Emily, passed away, I slumped into a grief-stricken stupor. In an effort to lift myself from the fog, I found myself on a motorcycle ride. I was a passenger then and I remember feeling nothing while we glided along with the wind – nothing until suddenly I felt Emily flying along beside me. Her presence was too intense to be denied and I felt her “telling” me that now she could always be with me, even on bike rides, because now she could fly. Her thoughts filled my heart with comfort that we would always love and be together, just in a different way now that she was in her new form.
The dream has recurred since its inception; however, a month or two ago it melded with another dream. The newer dream was of me looking through the motorcycle windshield as I could hear the motor humming and feel the wind sweep around me. I was keenly aware that flying alongside me were Emily and all the other amazing canine companions who have shared their lives with me.
I had been planning to fulfil a lifelong desire of getting my license and owning my own bike. And I was dreaming as though the bucket list had already received that checkmark. And in that dream, I knew that the name of my bike would be Skye, the Scottish name meaning light and breezy nature. The name seemed the perfect way to describe the feeling of having my dog angels flying around me. What I didn’t know was that the bike I dreamed of would be the bike I would buy, and that bike was already named Skye – formally Sea-to-Sky.
One Saturday last month, I took, and passed, the motorcycle knowledge test at the BMV. Immediately thereafter, my husband, Gary, and I made our way to Ask Powersports in Lancaster, Ohio. We were immediately greeted by someone who was not a motorcycle salesperson, but rather a filler of dreams. In my true fashion, I asked many questions about the Can-Am Spyder RT Limited to fill the gap left by the research I had performed online. Once all inquiries were addressed, a test ride ensued, financing was figured, and the bike became mine. And I will never forget that final moment when Gary and I were ready to take my bike home. The look on the faces of David and Ed who had helped us through the experience was not that of a successful sale being made, but rather genuine happiness that a dream had been met.
And so, since that day, Skye has been my mode of commuting. Any excuse for a ride, I am taking. Should you see us sailing by one day, I’m confident that, if you look closely, you just might also be able to make out the fluttering wings of all my heavenly, furry companions. Once you set your imagination and your dreams free, not even the “Skye” is the limit.
Be Still and Sip
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald July, 2023)
“The world’s just spinning a little too fast. If things don’t slow down soon, we might not last. So just for a moment, let’s be still.” The lyrics from “Let’s Be Still,” sung by The Head and the Heart have been weaving through my thoughts lately – the lyrics and the name of the band.
The connection between what we experience, and what we think and feel to how the body responds is mysterious, but it does not have to be elusive.
Two years ago, with no previous indicators, I had a heart attack at work. I later learned from my cardiologist that the cause was most likely stress. I had been practicing mindfulness and had all the stressors of my life neatly filed away in all the proper folders of my mind. The problem was that I had not wired my body to properly process the content of those folders. So, my heart went rogue.
I promised myself I would do a better job of practicing mindfulness, really focusing on the “full,” but as resolutions will go, my focus waned.
This past week, I had a wonderful conversation with my physical therapist at OSU who is helping me prepare for a semi-minor surgery this fall. She reminded me of the lesson I learned two years ago but added a layer to the learning. I’m having tension issues throughout my body which, in addition to PT, can be lessened with mindfulness. There it is again.
But how do we find time for mindfulness? I have been trying to set aside a specific schedule for practicing it, but I have now learned that you can also incorporate it into your daily routine through breaks or microbreaks.
I recently purchased a motorcycle and have been riding it to work. My new mode of commuting encourages me to take those long, deep breaths. I can feel the rest of my body respond with lessened muscle tension. When I get to work, I’m trying to stand up and walk around every hour or so and just relax.
The opportunities for short breaks are all around us. We can make them for ourselves, or we can even find places where they are made for us.
One local haven where they are made for us is Manchester Hill Winery located on Tarlton Road, Circleville. Years ago, I met Nicole McGrath, owner, and general manager of the winery. I was immediately impressed with her thoughtfulness, intelligence, and artfulness. But I had no idea that I would run into her again later and learn that among her areas of expertise is the art of wine making. I actually came upon this because Manchester Hill Winery is a key player in the wine tasting fundraisers held by Partners for Paws to support the Pickaway County Dog Shelter. We all know that dogs can be good for our hearts, but wine can be too.
There have been several articles published by the likes of Web MD, the Cleveland Clinic, the NIH National Library of Medicine and more that suggest that wine, consumed lightly to moderately, might be beneficial to the heart. When Gary and I visited Manchester Hill earlier this year, the delightful glass of wine, tasty nibblings, live music and getting to see Nicole again made for a perfect break. It was one evening, but that short break left me feeling like I had taken a mini vacation. I felt the tension leave my mind and my body. We plan to go again, step away from the spinning world, take in the ambience and “just be still.”
To learn more about Manchester Hill, visit them on Facebook or www.manchesterhill.com. Also good for the heart, you can learn more about Partners for Paws and the Pickaway County Dog Shelter on Facebook.
Sarah Strong
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2023)
Strength is an awesome and complicated thing. We recognize it in others and are sometimes surprised when they see it in us. It’s physical, but it’s also mental. It’s a voice that speaks to our core and a feeling that lives in our heart.
Recently Gary and I had dinner with a young woman, Sarah, and her lovely partner, Laura. It was a reunion for Gary, as Sarah and he had known each other years ago. During dinner, Sarah shared a little about her life since she and Gary had last seen each other. Her story is heartbreaking and inspiring all intertwined. It is also for another time perhaps. Except for to share something about Sarah’s strength. I heard it in her story that night, and I was witness to it over this past weekend.
Sarah participated in the PSKC Gauntlet XIII on June 17, and Gary and I traveled down to Portsmouth to watch her. Gary with his ever-present camera in hand, me with my wide-eyed expectation that I was about to be wowed. Neither of us were disappointed. The gauntlet is an event where teams of four endure a variety of seemingly impossible grueling physical challenges. Most of these were feats that I could not have done even one of, let alone complete a full set. But it wasn’t just the physical strength that blew me away, it was also the power and determination of the mind.
I saw the fatigue in Sarah’s face and occasionally heard the loud exhale as she performed yet another Herculean task. Over and over. The inner voice that encouraged her to keep going was matched by the undeniably powerful encouragement from her teammates, Ricky, Jen and Tom, and of course, from her adoring partner, Laura. And the magic in the air was wrapped in bursts of encouragement from members of other teams as well. A competition that, from where I stood, was like no other – not only because of its physical brutality, but in juxtaposition, because of the genuine camaraderie that stretched across teams.
Sarah is lean and mighty. She has had to be a fighter to survive. Her determination and mental fortitude, self-taught. Her physical mastery honed under the wing of PSKC CrossFit (https://pskcstrong.com/), whose owner, Dale, organized the Gauntlet. It was abundantly clear at the event that PSKC is not just a place to learn and practice the strategy of physical health and strength, but also to find quality of life – to thrive.
To travel from surviving to flourishing is something awesome indeed. I am in awe of Sarah’s fortitude, and those like her who keep on fighting, take one more step, and then another toward something better.
Maybe I don’t know what it is like to endure and rise from the battles Sarah has fought, and I’ll never be able to compete in the Gauntlet like she did, but by her sharing her story and inviting Gary and me to watch her compete, I have gained renewed hope and courage. Moving forward, I will navigate through my own version of a gauntlet with determination to be “Sarah Strong.”
June Nights
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald June, 2023)
These June nights, poplars, black walnuts, maple, and evergreen trees cast long moon shadows that stretch across our little piece of land. Off to the east and the west a conversation is exchanged between two Barred Owls. “Who, who, who cooks for you?” A few celestial bodies with the power to outshine the full moon, do. Crickets and treefrogs hidden in the woods sing my heart to rest. Off in the distance, the cry of the coyote.
Ever so quietly, so as to not disturb the magic, Gary and I gently rock in our chairs on the back deck and bear witness to the night. Enchanted by the occasional flickering choreography of lightning bugs, we whisper to each other “I love you.”
June marks the beginning of summer, and the nocturnal phenomena of warmer weather have wasted no time in appearing. Yes, the mornings are lovely, and sunny days are fulfilling, but it is the night that really speaks to me. The waxing and waning of the moon, the meteor displays, and the sounds of the night fill my heart – matched by the love I feel for Gary. And I realize that, even though we found each other late in life and have both traversed through many a difficult time, our challenges are nothing compared to those of others who found their forever love and were punished for doing so.
I was born a girl and I identify with being female. Gary was born a boy and identifies with being male. As a male and female who met, fell in love, and married, we did not face the difficulties that others face for the simple reason they are not living their lives the way some members of society believe they should.
While conflict dates much further back in history than 1969, it was on a June night that year that the police raid of the Stonewall Inn located in Manhattan New York resulted in a multi-day riot. That turbulent time is the catalyst for June becoming Pride month and a special time to celebrate the positive influence the LGBTQ+ community has on the world.
As we celebrate PRIDE month in June, I am hopeful that society will continue the movement toward inclusion and equity so that the magic of love, and the enchantment of a warm summer night can be more easily, and more freely, enjoyed by all of us, no matter who we identify as, or who we have fallen in love with.
Soldiers - The Rest of Their Stories
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2023)
Memorial Day is upon us. That beautiful, long weekend spent jovially with friends and family. The sound of laughter wafts through the air intermingling with the aroma of barbeque, the warmth of a sunny day matches the happiness in our hearts, and for those of us who spend the time more quietly, the peacefulness brings respite. But there is something else in our hearts and minds during this holiday. Blended with the cheerful moments spent with those who are with us are the bittersweet memories of those who are not.
We are the ones behind every soldier who is no longer here. And behind each of those soldiers are not only family and friends, but a way of life and a way of being that may or may not have had anything to do with serving.
My stepfather loved being a barber and making his customers laugh while he groomed them for whatever the days ahead would bring. My husband’s brother loved motorcycles. My cousin loved to craft model airplanes. My grandfather always had a transistor radio tucked in his pocket so he could listen to the game. And lately, I have been thinking of another veteran who was a painter - James Sargent.
I was not related to James. I met him when I was managing the ArtsaRound Gallery at Berger Hospital. I’m unsure whether the gallery still exists, but it was a magical part of my job. When I met James, I was impressed with his beautiful paintings and the story of how he designed the Pickaway County flag. And more than this, I was touched by his kindness.
During the month that James had his art on display at the Gallery, he gave me an oil painting, “Hay for Winter,” which has hung in my home ever since. I frequently gaze into the painting and get lost in the details of the hay, the wooden barn, the tall grass waving in the wind, and the clouded sky. And I remember the generosity of the painter and I think about all the things we don’t always know about soldiers.
James served in the National Guard, but he was also a husband, father, and grandfather. I will always regret that I didn’t take more time to look him up after his exhibit. I am sure that my life would have been richer if I had. At the same time I know it is too late to get to know him better because James has passed away, I also know that I will never stop feeling touched by this man who was a soldier, a family man and a painter.
This Memorial Day, I hope that you will enjoy rest and celebratory time with family and friends, and I also hope that you will see and appreciate the whole of the soldiers in your life. Remember, they not only bravely protected our country, they were also mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, barbers, bikers, sports fans, painters and more.
It's All Right
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald May, 2023)
There’s time during the quiet mornings as I sip my coffee when my thoughts drift through the kitchen, past the bedroom where Gary and our rescues, Harry and Rusty, sleep, and out the door to the road. A commute of a different sort commences as I visit memories and marvel at the time that has passed. How can it be today, today? What happened to yesterday and the day before? They passed swiftly. Each one having teased me with faux promises of time standing still. I believed the lie every day. With a swiftness difficult to comprehend, the sun sets, the moon rises, a new dawn arrives, and I find myself sipping my morning coffee pondering the passing of time again.
It’s not all right, all the hurtful things that have happened. And yet, the painful times make the pleasant ones all the sweeter. And so, with no other sound but the birds slowly waking outside and serenading the sun’s anticipated arrival, I whisper a prayer of gratitude.
The commute of life is filled with twists, turns, dead ends and collisions. But it is also filled with scenery that inspires the mind to imagine what could be and begs the poet to write of what once was. And the realization dawns on me that all that was not right back then not only makes the pleasant times sweeter, those challenging times have also taken me to this moment today where, although the wicked memories linger in the shadows, it’s still all right.
In his song, “And It’s Still Alright,” Nathaniel Rateliff sings, “They say you learn a lot out there, how to scorch and burn. Gonna have to bury your friends, then you’ll find it gets worse. Standing out on the ledge with no way to get down. You start praying for wings to grow.”
And it’s kind of like that, isn’t it? Somehow, as though with wings, we fly over and past the minutes, hours and days until another year has passed. We can rise above all that was not all right, the years spent scratching and clawing just to survive. The years drenched in fear and sadness. Rateliff sings “Say, the glass is clear, but all this fear starts a-leaving a mark.”
And so, in the quiet of the morning, I sip my coffee and I think, yes, I bear the mark of all that was not right. And with determined mindfulness, I whisper, “all those bumps, near misses and crashes on the commute of life were worth it. This destination is more than all right.”
The Commuter's Companions
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2023)
Scooting into the last few days of National Poetry month, I have decided to convert the Commuter Column to a poem format once more. I chose to write this one with a rhyme scheme comprised of AABB alternating with CDCD, EEFF, GHGH, and so on with each line having10 beats, or decasyllable. The poem was inspired by a place on my commute to work where, even when I am not thinking about them, my dogs who have passed on seem to surround me and fill me with love, bright light, a little heartbreak and hope.
The Commuter’s Companion
There are places beyond this narrow road,
Where my heart and mind are begging to go,
Past the fields, beyond the hills, to the trees,
To the place where your name floats on the breeze.
On the journey from here to there, the where
You now reside without me by your side
Seems unreal. I feel you here in the air.
You’re far away and yet I feel you nigh.
For the love of a dog is eternal,
And the joy and blessings are more than all
I could ever dream to know and to hold,
But too soon the years passed and you grew old.
Whatever the path ahead may lead to,
No matter how trivial it may seem,
Or how full of light or deep dark and blue,
It is the path toward you, I believe.
For the bond we share is one all too rare,
Except for the human and canine pair.
These days, when I feel I can take no more,
You float through my heart like you did before.
Whatever curve the road ahead might bring,
Be it stormy weather or a light rain,
My heart will be renewed just like in spring,
For your memories sing my heart’s refrains.
I would be remiss if I did not close the sentiments of this column by encouraging you to rescue a shelter dog should you have room for more love in your home. Yes, when a dog passes it can be overwhelming. But there is a strange relief in knowing that you do not need to try to make it okay, because it never will be. And there is also an awesome joy in knowing that it will get easier and that there is another special someone waiting for you.
The commute to the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter is short, but the love you will find there is eternal. You can find the shelter at 21253 Ringgold Southern Rd, Circleville, OH and call them at (740) 474-3741.
This issue of the column was written in honor of our rescues Rusty and Harry and in loving memory of Mosey, Jasmine, Sam, Woody, Sara, Jude, Emily and Molly.
For the Dogs of Pickaway County
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald April, 2023)
With April being National Poetry Month as well as when Partners for Paws holds its Pause for a Cause Wine Tasting Event to support the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter, I am dedicating this issue of the Commuter Column to both. For fun, I have decided to write a Viator. For those not familiar, this is a form of poetry where the first line becomes the second line in the next stanza, the third line in the third stanza and so on until that line is the last line of the poem. This means the number of lines in a stanza must equal the number of stanzas. It also means that first line has a pretty important job to do.
Other than the aforementioned rules, there are none about beats or even about a rhyming pattern. Because, like Partners for Paws and the Pickaway County Dog Shelter, I like a good challenge, I have given myself some rules to follow. I have chosen five stanzas, so five lines in each, each line with 10 beats except for the last line, and an alternating rhyming pattern.
For the Dogs of Pickaway County
Life is richer with a dog companion.
When your heart is drawn, quartered, left for dead,
And all happiness seems to have passed on,
Left you with nothing but darkness and dread,
By a dog’s side is the place you belong.
The clouds may come, bring stormy wind and rain.
Life is richer with a dog companion,
Who will share their rainbow, until the day,
With angel wings they take flight to heaven.
But the years spent with them are worth the pain,
Of the vacancy felt when they move on.
They gift us with love, with play, and laughter.
Life is richer with a dog companion.
A dog’s deep love lasts for ever after,
And brings us sun where before there was none.
In turn, for those of us who walk on two,
We are honored and graced with saving one,
Or if we can’t, then support those who do.
Life is richer with a dog companion,
And even sweeter when shared with a few.
For what does it mean to be a human,
If not to be kind to those with no voice,
Who were left scared, alone, and abandoned?
It wasn’t theirs to make, but is our choice,
Because life is richer with a dog companion.
AMVETS doors will open at 5:30pm on April 22 for the Pause for a Cause Wine Tasting Event to benefit the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter.
Said the Woman to the Cow
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2023)
“It's amazing how you can speak right to my heart. Without saying a word, you can light up the dark,” begins the song “When you Say Nothing at All.” The lyrics, written by Paul Overstreet and Don Schlitz and best known to me when sung by Alison Krauss, come to mind when my husband, Gary, and I talk about our relationships with animals and how they share much with us without even saying a word. The conversation could be construed as one-sided, but we all know that is not true. I have felt it, I have seen it and so I believe it – no further evidentiary criteria needed.
On a recent morning commute, one of the fields I passed was typical in the sense that the grass was mostly muted brown with subtle signs of spring green tufting through. What was different was the lonely cow. One lone cow. She suddenly stopped grazing and made her way, quite quickly from my perspective of how a cow moves, to the side of the pasture where fence paralleled narrow road. Simultaneously, a car turned up the road and drove up until the two met. The car window rolled down; the driver came in to view. I was far enough away I cannot claim for sure but have settled with comfort in the belief it was a woman. And I have no idea what she was saying, but the cow seemed happy to see her and I like to believe was nodding in agreement. When the conversation ended, the car headed up the road and the cow moved in like direction. Maybe words were one-sided, but the conversation clearly was not.
I’m reminded of the moments I have with our rescued dogs, Harry and Rusty. We are a fairly new pack, but the love is already strong. I tell them every day. They show it without saying a word, but rather a wag of the tail or a comforting snuggle. And I think of all the times, far too many, when I have shared the final moments with the dogs who have graced my life. Those last tears, those last words of love may have been one-sided, but the sentiment was clearly not. And the non-verbal love they gave me before their passing surrounds me still, no matter how many days, months or years may pass. Unlike the moon, it never wanes.
The song goes, “You say it best when you say nothing at all.” The power of words is one thing, but the power of no words is something altogether. “It’s Herculean and enduring,” I believe said the woman to the cow.
Women in History: From First to First
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald March, 2023)
When Elizabeth Blackwell (1821 – 1910) became the first woman in the United States to earn an MD degree in 1849, did she wonder what the future would hold for other women in medicine who would follow? One of those women would be Antonia Novello (1944 - ) who, in 1990, became the first woman to serve as the United States Surgeon General.
And what about Krystyna Chojnowska-Liskiewicz (1936 – 2021) when, in 1978, she became the first woman to sail solo around the world? How excited would she be to know that 44 years later, in 2022, Admiral Linda Fagan would take the helm of the United States Coast Guard and become the first woman to lead any branch of the U.S. Armed Forces?
When Victoria Woodhull (1838-1927) became the first woman to run for the office of the President of the United States in 1870, did she know that some 120 years later her dream would still be fighting strong and seeking fulfillment? Did she think “women’s rights” would still be a controversy? Maybe not. But as Alice Cary (1820-1871) wrote in her poem “Nobility,” “Through envy, through malice, through hating, / Against the world, early and late, / No jot of our courage abating – our part is work and to wait.”
And so, after almost a century and a quarter of working and waiting, in 2021, Kamala Harris became the first woman to be inaugurated as the Vice President of the United States.
And when Harriet Quimby (1875-1912) became the first woman in the United States to receive a pilot certificate in 1911, did she know that the following year, her dangerous dream would claim her, and she would perish doing that which she loved? Did she think about how many other women after her would courageously face the risks so they could soar through the air and beyond? Women like Sally Ride (1951-2012) who became the first American woman in space in 1983. Sally continued to follow her passion until she passed away in 2012, one-hundred years after Harriet Quimby flew her last flight.
And let’s not forget aviator Amelia Earhart (1897 -?) who was the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean in 1932. Earhart said, “Women should do for themselves what men have already done, occasionally what men have not done, thereby establishing themselves as persons and perhaps encouraging other women toward greater independence of thought and action.”
In March, as we celebrate women in history, Earhart’s words ring loud. So many women’s firsts have begat other women’s firsts and so on and so on. It is a dance of sorts, a choreography of the two steps forward one step back variety. Sometimes it may seem like the music has stopped playing, but the dance will never end. And one day the walls will tumble, the ceilings will shatter, “first” achievements will become daily celebrations and the conversation will change from who was the first woman, to who was the last and who is the current in an everlasting stream of dream achievements.
Where Lamb Meets Lion
(As written for, and published in the Circleville Herald February, 2023)
They say that March either comes in like a lamb and out like a lion or traverses in opposite pattern. Celebrating the anniversary of my birth in the first few days of the month, I would say that I am following the former path. My early years spent in lamb fashion were a necessity, as I imagine is the case for many children born into a home thick with alcoholism, neglect and abuse. I transferred my being into a stuffed animal, a lamb no less. Whenever bad things would happen, I would hold up my fuzzy friend and in a little girl’s attempt at ventriloquism I would say “but I’m just a lamb.” When I grew tall enough, I would then run outside to clumsily scramble up my favorite pear tree.
I’m not certain of the moment when the lion began seeping into my heart and mind. At some point the idea became a corpuscle that has surged through the veins of the commuter column for over a decade with occasional bursts through the derma. The notion is that we should always “be surprised” by the ill behaviors of others. As long as we are surprised, we have not come to identify the hostilities as acceptable.
Even though the “lamb” me has become the courageous “lion” me, I still hold that little girl close in my heart never wanting to stray too far away. That little girl who sought refuge in the prolific pear tree and huddled amid its branches dining on the sweet fruit away from the fiery fray of the house behind it is still in my heart.
Rumi wrote “There is a path from me to you that I am constantly looking for, so I try to keep clear and still as water does with the moon.” The “lamb” me sprinted to the “lion” me and now I am trying to step back, just a little, to my former self. I’m looking to quiet the noise that swirls through my lion mind and inch back towards the stillness the “lamb” me embraced knowing that, with God’s grace, all will be well.
It's tricky, of course, finding that sweet spot where lamb meets lion, gentleness meets courage, acceptance meets repellence – that place in the middle where bullying is blocked, but with such quiet subtlety that the bully doesn’t really know what happened. They are oblivious to the fact that one can be both the innocent, mild-mannered lamb and the wise and courageous lion.
Poets in Black History
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)
Poets in Black History
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)
When I opened my favorite collections of poetry today, I found that the Black poets I was looking for were not well represented in them. And I thought how it parallels life itself. I’ve earned bachelor’s, master’s and doctorate degrees and I’m still learning things I should have known for years. Things like how the color of your skin necessitates additional considerations before you go for a run besides what clothes match the weather and which shoes are best for the distance and terrain. You must also prepare for a possible encounter that might mean you never come home again. And just like there are hidden possible outcomes for a casual run, there can be hidden meanings in poetry.
Countee Cullen (1903 -1946) wrote “The Unknown Color” and it goes like this: “I’ve often heard my mother say, / When great winds blew across the day, / And, cuddled close and out of sight, / The young pigs squealed with sudden fright / Like something speared or javelined, / ‘Poor little pigs, they see the wind.” Chills traveled my spine when I read this thinking of all the horribly wretched things that wind carried with it.
Beyond the hidden meanings, there is a wealth of boldly direct works of Black poets, like Robert Hayden’s (1913-1980) poem “Frederick Douglas,” where Hayden wrote “When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful / and terrible thing, needful to man as air, / usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all, /when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole, / reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more / than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians: / this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro / beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world / where none is lonely, none hunted, alien, / this man, superb in love and logic, this man / shall be remembered. Oh, not with statues’ rhetoric, / not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone, / but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives / fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.”
That poem was written in 1947 about an abolitionist who lived from 1818 to 1895. Although the names, places and situations may have changed, there is too much of the fight that remains, too great a need for words bold like those of Hayden.
But there is hope and resilience. Lucille Clifton (1936-2010) wrote of these in her poem, “Won’t You Celebrate with Me”: “won't you celebrate with me / what I have shaped into / a kind of life? I had no model. / born in Babylon / both nonwhite and woman / what did i see to be except myself? / I made it up / here on this bridge between / starshine and clay, / my one hand holding tight / my other hand; come celebrate / with me that everyday / something has tried to kill me / and has failed.”
This experience of wanting to only share the work of Black poets with you today has inspired me to look more deeply for inclusivity in my explorations, to be open to the hidden meanings that might be revealed to me and to not lose hope, but rather remain resilient. And I will also remain awakened to look for, and act upon, opportunities that arise, no matter how small, like sharing this column with you, to support a movement toward a better world, a world where hidden meanings and worries are of the past.
A Sprig of Rosemary, a Drop of Rain – We are Never Truly Gone
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)
A Sprig of Rosemary, a Drop of Rain – We are Never Truly Gone
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February, 2023)
In ‘Breaking into the Backcountry,” Steve Edwards wrote, “I love these mornings. No alarm clock… just the slow and steady coming-to-consciousness brought on by an almost imperceptibly lightening sky… The day getting started. Possibilities. Down in the meadow a few deer browse in the long grass… From the surrounding forest comes a variety of birdsong…”
Like a petal in the wind, I am lost and without a sense of wholeness when I’ve not had time for the peace and quiet of nature. Time spent gazing at the woods where fantasies dance in the twinkling of the sun as it glances off the branches of maple, walnut, sycamore, and pine. I dream of Edward’s journey – a triad of writing, nature, and solitude which, coming full circle, was awarded to him when he won a writing contest. Seven months residing in the Oregon backcountry alone except for the trees, deer, bear, wind, and rain to serve as his muses.
When describing a hot afternoon river swim, Edward’s thoughts strayed to all the places that touched, and were touched by, that river and he closed his thoughts with “and at the same time to think of nothing at all. To just swim, enjoy the water and the sunlight.”
Edwards stated “… one of the paradoxes of being a writer: one’s desire to fully inhabit one’s life crashes like a wave against the desire to memorialize that life.”
For writers there’s a coveted, secret formula for balancing the mind’s presence in the moment with the hand’s simultaneous orchestration with pen on paper. We want to capture the moment, desperately seeking the proper colors and hues to paint an everlasting memory for ourselves and for others. Timeless tranquility, sweet surrender, and grace and gratitude found in the subtleties of our surroundings.
“Every day something beautiful and small,” Edward’s wrote. “The way the grooves of ponderosa pine smell like cream soda. The way rosemary… crushed between my fingers evokes eternity… If I am dead and you are reading this, pick a sprig of rosemary, crush it, stand alone under a rising moon. I am not gone.”
I’m reminded of the words from “The Highwayman” written by Jimmy Webb and sung by the Highwaymen, a group comprised of Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, and Willie Nelson. “…and when I reach the other side, I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can. Perhaps I may become a highwayman again, or I may simply be a single drop of rain. But I will remain. And I'll be back again.”
We go on, a drop of rain, a speck of dust in the wind, a sprig of rosemary, or perhaps inked thoughts housed on pages yellowing with time. We hear the words “appreciate every day as though our last,” and we think we are heeding the wisdom until one day someone or something is gone, and we realize we could have slowed down a little more before it was too late.
As Edward’s reclusive days in Oregon were coming to an end he reflected, “Like a bear devouring every last morsel in preparation for a long, cold winter, I take my nourishment from what will soon be gone, what I’ll remove myself from. I take it on faith that the richness of these days will sustain me in the world I’ll return to.”
May we all dine on the feast before us each day, the sun and moon, trees and streams, the fields and hills, and the moments spent with loved ones or alone with nature and our thoughts. And may the nourishment inspire us to leave something behind so we are never truly gone.
For Mosey: I Will Wait
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)
For Mosey: I Will Wait
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)
I will wait until we are together again. Days, weeks, months, and years will go by, as they do. The raw and biting pain in my heart will be smoothed by the passing of time, as will happen. And I will wait.
And during that waiting, I will learn to love again. One day I will laugh when I visit the memories we shared. Memories that flatten me now as I frantically fight to deny the reality that the day I knew would come has.
Moses came into my life on a warm and sunny September morning. Not quite 24 hours after my sweetheart husky, Sara, passed I heard her and God speaking to me and telling me to hurry out to my car and drive on a specific road here in Pickaway County. I have learned to listen to the messages that come to me this way and so I did. And there I found him. He was just a puppy.
Mosey was 13 ½ when he passed, and he was my companion for all but the first 6 weeks of his life. He taught me to be selective about who I love and that when I do give my heart, to give it completely. He taught me to sit perfectly still for long moments and gaze into the woods while listening to the wind in the trees and the trickling stream and to ponder the lessons they offered.
And he taught me how to hug, I mean really hug. Mosey’s hugs were so strong I can still feel his head deeply pressed into my belly and I can almost hear those accompanying puppy grunts he never grew too old to offer.
Mosey taught me that it isn’t about the object, the favored blue ball, but rather it is about all the joyful memories that the ball brings. Gifts so rich that at times one only need sit next to the toy and the warm memories will float outside the rubber padding and swirl around. How many times I found him sitting next to his ball. Today I do the same while reminiscing and I feel his presence as he cuddles my wounded heart.
Mosey’s passing is unbearable. The quiet and emptiness he leaves behind is overwhelming. But just like he suddenly showed up one sunny day to teach me how to love again, I know that I will love the next rescue who comes along. I whisper, “I will always love you, Moses.” And so, the wait ensues.
Written with gratitude to Dr. Crystal Hammond. Once again, she has seen us through the most difficult of times. Because of her compassionate, professional, and expert care, Moses lived a long and comfortable life.
Life, Love and Hope in A New Year
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)
Life, Love and Hope in A New Year
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, January, 2023)
We toasted in the new year outside in the dark wrapped in the stillness of the dense fog. The moon shone brightly through the bare branches of a tall maple and wrapped us in its grace. The maple’s strength evident through its scars - the branches severed in a random pattern from tornadoes and storms that failed to fell the tree. It doesn’t get any deeper than that.
Inside Mosey was resting and I was painfully aware this would be our last holiday season together. It doesn’t get any sadder than that.
The feeling of hope that the moon and the maple offered blended with the melancholia of the passing of another year and the recognition of the finalization of good-byes. I admit, I tried to find balance in sips of sweet champagne.
The new year will bring new things, some meant to drink in and others meant to test our survival skills and fortitude. Some people welcome this time of year as a fresh start. Hopeful new year resolutions please their hearts. I’ve never been much of an annual resolutioner, but rather more a daily one. Every day I try a little harder, grow a little smarter and love a little deeper. It’s that last one that will get you, right?
My husband, Gary, says that dogs cannot talk because they know too much, and we humans would not be able to handle what they could teach us. Still, they do teach us, don’t they? They teach us to embrace each day, play hard, to never lose hope and that, when the time comes, there will be peace with death because the ultimate destination is the greatest gift of all. But above all these, they teach us to love completely.
My daily resolution that came to me in that quiet moment while the new year dipped its toes in the foggy moonlit night was that I would forgive myself for all the times I have stepped away from people, who, unlike dogs, can be cruel; that I would come closer to peace with the knowledge that our dogs are never going to live long enough; have a stronger focus on hope like that which the moon and the maple offer, and embrace the days like my dogs have taught me to do. Because a life worth living is one filled with love; and a love worth having is one that is returned, and a hope worth holding is one for the best; and life, love and hope are all the richer because of the years we share with our dogs.
‘Tis the Season: What Love Can Do
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2022)
‘Tis the Season: What Love Can Do
(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, December, 2022)
“It's coming on Christmas. They're cutting down trees. They're putting up reindeer and singing songs of joy and peace. Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on,” Joni Mitchell’s lyrics to her song, River,” permeate my mood one moment juxtaposed by John Coltrane’s romantic and hopeful “My Favorite Things” the next.
The Holiday season is like that, isn’t it? We are worn out and yet we find time to rest. We melancholically reminisce about those no longer with us while we joyfully laugh with those who remain. And we feel like we are still a kid at the same time the face in the mirror reveals the number of Christmases that have passed. The Holiday Seasons drift past our window like the snowflakes that dance in the winter wind, each one different from the last. Emotions twist, pull and push in a tornadic arrhythmia drowning us in laughter one moment and in tears the next.
The key to survival is love. Love is the key to unlock the door to the better place others seek, but also that place we are pining for ourselves.
In his song, “What Love Can Do,” Bruce Springsteen sings, “Darling we can't stop this train when it comes crashing through; but let me show you what love can do. Let me show you what love can do.”
During this time of year, and always, our love can do much. We can change the life of a dog at the Pickaway County Dog Shelter who longs for a home. We can donate our time or money to help feed the hungry, support finding cures for fatal illnesses, or share our love in many other ways. Showing love to others can not only change someone’s day but can also change the trajectory of someone’s life. It can even change our own.
There is happiness to be found by loving others and also by loving ourselves; although I think it is easier to do the former than the latter.
If we listen to our heart, it will tell us how to love ourselves. We can sip self-love in subtle ways like allowing ourselves a quiet moment with a good book and a hot cup of tea. We can put the hectic “To Do” list on pause and instead lay on the floor and cuddle dogs. And most importantly, we can rewrite our self-talk from harming words to healing ones.
In his poem, “A Beautiful Walk Inside You,” Rumi wrote “… love answers, the thorns are inside you. Be silent and pull what hurts out of your loving’s foot. Then you will see gardens and secluded rose bowers, and they will all be inside you.”
And so, Dear Readers, my Holiday wish is that this season and in the New Year, we will not only love others, but also ourselves. Together, let us give and feel the power of what love can do.
Christmastime - Old and New
Christmastime - Old and New