Letting Go of Leaving

In a conversation with my brother Mark a while ago, we were comparing those things we hold in front of ourselves as the ultimate reward. The big carrot if-onlys of our lives. The Once I Get There Everything Will Be Fine things. The final, irrefutable proofs that we've succeeded as human beings. Arrived. Healed. Finally enough.

Our oldest brother, the one in age between Mark and me, is building a boat. A Big Boat.  For years he has believed that when this boat is finished and he's living on it, all will be well. He'll have peace finally and control over his life and the accomplishment of his life's dream. He's the only one in the family who isn't concerned about how he's going to handle the disappointment when he discovers that he followed himself onto the boat.

Our youngest brother has moved a certain Camaro from house to house to house for years. It doesn't run and he can never quite afford to fix it, but he keeps saving and hoping and hauling the body and its parts with him wherever he goes. This car is a relic from a younger, freer, wilder time. A tie to a happier past that promises happiness in some uncalendared future.

When I asked Mark what his Once-I-Get-There thing was, he hesitated only a moment before declaring his career had been. He achieved the top of his career, then lost it, and so has had the rare opportunity to learn that Getting There doesn't get you what you think it will.

Even before Mark asked, I knew what my answer would be. My weight. Once I'm Thin Enough Everything Will Be Fine. Thin will bring happiness, success, peace. Never mind that I have been thin(ner) and it didn't change much besides the size of my clothes. I still saw the same person I see in the mirror when I'm not thin(ner). And if anything, the inside darkness grew as the weight fell away instead of diminishing.

This week I've realized that my Once-I-Get-There-Thing holds much less power over me than the Possibility of Leaving. Because from the age of eleven when life became inescapable hell I've believed that in order to be happy, at peace, and free, I had to leave. I didn't realize until this winter that it was in my blood, my lineage  - the leaving thing. 

I come from a long line of leavers. Pack up your bags and walk out the door leavers. Kill yourself leavers. Drink yourself to death leavers. Escape into madness leavers.

I have to leave to be happy. A simple message that plays subliminally throughout my being like an advertisement convincing me that a certain product will change my life forever.

When I left the cult, which I actually needed to do to survive, I was determined never to leave anything again. I was not going to be a perpetual quitter. I was going to prove to God that I was a serious, stable, committed adult.

And so I anchored myself. In a marriage to a man who loved me and who wanted nothing more than to be a quiet family together. In a career that shouted respectability and security. In a persona that tried hard to be proper and impeccably clean. With beautiful Golden Retrievers and multitudes of cats and hobbies my mother would have approved of.

But there has always been a longing to be somewhere else. I live with one foot out the door, ready to carry me to safety when the pain gets too bad. My favorite escape is the possibility of getting in my car and driving to freedom - away from the loneliness and pain and grief that greet me each morning like old friends. New Mexico, Maine, Canada. Fresh start. No baggage. Adrenaline high.

I know better. I've known better for a very long time. What I didn't know until yesterday was how deeply that belief has impacted my life.

I have to leave to be happy. It's a lie. But oh, what a pretty lie.

What I know also is that by hanging on to the possibility of leaving, I've managed to avoid feeling most of the pain that that eleven year old girl stuffed away so that she could survive her inescapable hell. I've managed to avoid feeling the pain and disappointments of a marriage struggling to keep up with twenty years of change. I've stayed safe (mostly) from the frustration and powerlessness of working in a rigidly sick system that has no room for creativity or spiritual growth.

Leaving, the hope of leaving and the illusion of leaving - none of them have worked. They are not going to work. I am finally willing to say goodbye to them. To thank them for keeping me safe and alive. But to release them so that I can embrace here, now, myself.

I choose to stay.

Who Do You Think You Are?

The Shame Voice is loud right now.

"Who do you think you are? Always wanting more. Always thinking about yourself. Never satisfied with what you have."

It's a time of transition and I know Shame is nervous. The Voice is always loudest and most urgent when light threatens another dark corner of Shame's lair at my core.

 Survival is not enough. My heart longs for peace, joy, love. My soul demands that I step fully into the time that is my life. Now.

"Who do you think you are? You need me. I keep you safe. I have kept you safe all these years. You chose me. Without me, anything can happen. You will be hurt. You will be lost. You will make a huge mess of things."

I push hard against the membrane of Shame's safety. A baby bird pecking its way out of the egg. Needing to break through or suffocate. The shell no longer keeping me safe, but instead threatening my very existence.

"Who do you think you are? It's too late for you. You're old, tired, burned out. Stop grasping for the impossible and be grateful for what you already have. Life would be so much easier if you would just settle."

I have wings. I want to use them to explore the sky. I want them to carry me to the sun and beyond.

I have wings, Shame. I claim these wings and the being they are meant to lift.

 I am whole woman with a whole heart. I am perfect-for-her mother with a perfect-for-me daughter. I am teacher. I am friend. I am writer bursting with stories to share. I am all of my experiences. I am my dreams. I am love. I am loved.

I inhabit a strong healthy body that is ready to be borne on my new wings to grand new adventures.

I am my feelings. Rage at my helplessness to be heard. Love for innocence and adventure and undying hope. Sadness for the pain of those I love and for my own. Joy at the sight of a bald eagle soaring overhead on a random morning. Anger at betrayal. Peace under a star-spangled full-moon sky. Fear of the unknown. Excitement of the unknown.

I am all of this, Shame, and I am none of it. I am Light seeking my own kind. You are Darkness. I am ready to take the next step away from the safety of your black cellar and the comforting lies of your non-heart. 

I am a being who will not be caged with wings that will not be clipped.

 I am flight. I am the sky. I am the sun.

Photo by House of Gary Photography

Smoke Clears

I've been having a hard time feeling God. As I grieve the loss of father and challenge my survival beliefs about being loved and lovable, I find that my picture of God has blurred from clear black and white to thick gray smoke. 

The younger parts of me hate God for abandoning them to adults who could not care for tender girls the way they needed. Those same younger parts long for a God who will tell them they are loved in a way they can believe.  How does a loving God allow children to suffer?

The present day me sits in this moment at a beautiful desk  covered with one of my favorite old floral cotton tablecloths, looking out a huge picture window onto my side yard. I see  the smudge and rust of robins shopping for lunch in the dirt. I see junkos, birds in nuns' habits, flocking busily from fir branch to fir branch. I see the bright blue sky flash of a solitary Steller's Jay. The color and the smoke challenge one another. 

I see huge old Douglas Firs that welcomed us here with open green bough arms when this place became home over fifteen years ago. I see the Big Leaf Maple that we planted from a wild seedling our first year here, stunningly beautiful in its stark winter nakedness. I see my Emma cat, born here our first summer, beautiful royal tabby and white presence, overseeing her domain.  The smoke seems to recede a bit more. 

And I see my treasured red oak. 

The oak is still very young, not even ten years old yet. She was carefully chosen and purposefully sited and lovingly planted. She marks the seasons for me, never out of leaf. First liquid Eden green, then deeper Oz emerald morphing to ruby slippers in the fall. As winter deepens her red fades to apricot - the exact shade of Toby right now.

A few winters ago we had the worst ice storm this part of the country has seen in years. I got up one morning to find the world encased in glass and the oak half its previous stature. I was sick to think that the ice had broken my beautiful tree. When the ice finally loosed its hold and we were able to go to her, we were shocked at what we found. She was doubled over, bent without breaking. Whole despite the killing blanket of ice.

Walt staked the wounded half up. Every time I was in that part of the yard, I talked to her, stroked her still baby skin, and marveled at her exuberant growth. Over time the bend that separated healthy from hurt disappeared and the tree grew out of our support. Today she stands proud, nearly twenty feet tall, anchoring that corner of the yard.

 As I look at my oak now, holding last year's leaves while the sap that will create this year's new growth moves up the trunk, there is no smoke at all. I love her more knowing what she endured and survived. I don't see her wounds. I only see her strength and resilience. And enduring beauty.

This is not a black and white picture. Neither is it unknowable behind a thick screen of smoke. This picture is the bold, blood red and tender, vulnerable green of life that will not be denied.

Something Else

Sitting on the floor with Toby this morning in our usual spot. He's playing kill the octopus. I'm a prop in his game - the retriever and fellow growler. I'm bone tired and something else. Not feeling playful at all. He's all boy right now. Rough and tumble. Flying helicopter legs. Gaping maw full of puppy teeth driven by emerging adolescent energy. 

Even his soft puppy wool is gone. There are wispy tumbleweeds of it drifting across my kitchen floor.  All that's left of his early puppyhood. His coat is smooth and sleek - the individual hairs coarse. His ears are still soft and sweet, but he won't hold still long enough for me to find comfort in them.

The sweet puppy breath is gone. His once always adoring eyes are frequently full of challenge. Greetings that were once full of inside out pleasure are more often than not manic cartoon dog attacks of insane energy. Hind legs tucked up around his ears. Front legs back by his tail. Eyes glazed with glee.

Pat asked me this week if it's harder for me to love and be loved by a man that it is for me to love and be loved by a woman. 

Yes, damn you.

Men leave. Men hurt you. Men are full of hard unreachable places.

I wanted a male puppy. Three of my four dogs in adulthood have been male. I love their mellowness, steady disposition, big lumbering affection.

I can't ever remember not wanting to be married. Wanting the security and safety  and strength I believed a husband would provide. Not realizing how much that desire was my unfathered girls desperately wanting daddy. I can't ever remember not wanting my marriage to be something else than what it is.

A week ago I heard the father who gave me life tell me to live this life. The joy and hope I felt then has become throat-closing sadness, and something else.

When I'm correcting Toby I can feel a force of energy demanding release. It's not energy his transgressions have earned or ever could earn. I refuse to give it voice. I am reluctant to give it a name.

Cupboard doors that I touch somehow slam. Hard. My shins and toes hurt from banging against door frames that are somehow in a different place than they were a week ago. I step on cat litter in the bathroom and find Sigourney Weaver's Alien suddenly desperately trying to chew its way out of my chest. 

Toby is being what he is - a pup growing into a dog. Marriage is what it is - two imperfect people sharing their journey and becoming together. My life is what it is - according to the voices of last weekend, perfect for me.

So this something else that demands voice - it is what it is. It will be heard one way or the other. I asked for the truth and can't send it back like undercooked fish at a restaurant. It has a name. Rage. It has a need. Release. It has gifts to give. It's time to find out what they are.

Feathers From a Father

I walked in the door Saturday after two nights away. It's the longest I've been away from Toby since he came to live with us six weeks ago. He did not look like the same dog I ruffled goodbye on Thursday morning. He was longer, taller, sleeker.

And I detected the definite beginnings of feathers. Wispy strings of real dog hair lining the backs of his legs. A cowlick of curl in the center of his chest. Longer thicker hair curling around his tail and finishing in a sweet piggy ringlet at the end.

Golden Retrievers are known for their feathers. The lush growth of fur that flows from their legs, cascades from deep chests and plumes from long tails is a standard of their beauty and breeding.

 Since I spent the weekend being reminded how important an impact our ancestors have on the lives we inhabit, I was drawn to look at a picture of Toby's dad, Beckham. I wanted to see the possibility of pup become dog. I wanted to remember the lineage that flows in his veins. 

Beckham comes from a long line of champions. Strong. Healthy. Gorgeous. Toby is well on the way to making his dad proud - if dog dads can be proud.

I learned something about my own father this weekend. The father I never met. The father I didn't even know existed until I was in my thirties. The father who killed himself seven years before I was told the man I thought was my father was not.

Through the loving, empathic and compassionate guidance of Ruth King I heard my father tell me he loved me and that I didn't need to give up my own life to be loved by him. I heard him tell me that he is the perfect father for me and that I am the perfect daughter for him. I felt his arms around me. I felt his love. I felt his blessings.

I come from a long line of leavers. The pain gets too much, you leave. Leave by packing bags. Leave by dying - slow or fast, depending on the level of despair. Leave into the heavy blankets of depression and madness. It's my legacy, and without knowing why,  I've believed that in order to be loved and accepted in my family- in order to belong - I could never be fully in life, fully a-live, fully not dead.

My father told me to live. My father who could not stay because the pain was too much to bear told me to live for him. My father loves me. I heard him as surely as if he had never left me. Every part of me believes him.

My father gave me feathers this weekend. Mine are of the flying into life kind. Toby's are the regal beauty kind. Maybe that's the same thing.

Photo of Beckham from Brown's Golden Delights website

Dog Wings

Toby comes flying across the yard to my come command. He's actually coming for the treat, but these days it's the behavior, not the motivation, that we care about. I've gotten as far away from him as possible before calling. Not to test him. But so that I can have longer to watch his Dumbo ears dancing in the wind of his sprint.

I am madly in love with Toby's ears.

 The day we picked him out, his ears were the third thing I saw. The first and second were his color and his size. The darkest and biggest of the litter. And his ears. Oh his ears. Hanging like angel's wings on either side of that sweet face. Two of his brother's ears could have fit into one of Toby's.

Toby loves his ears, too. He'll lie on his bed not quite awake, not quite asleep, and suck on the end of whatever ear is on the bottom. The comfort of it is so great that he lathers the tip into a slimy dripping mess before he's satisfied enough to let sleep carry him into doggy dream fields. 

I find similar comfort in his ears. To bury my face in their warm buttered toast fragrance and airy eider down softness is enough to smooth the jagged edges off most any day. Flopping them playfully up and down, back and forth, up and down again, makes me happy in an unreasoned and unfathomable way.

These ears have their own language. 

Hung softly against his face as he wakes up they say, "Good morning. I missed you. The night was long."

Hung low and long during and after correction they say, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be bad. I won't ever do it again. Please love me."

Pushed forward to frame his face in full glory they say, "I am a force to be reckoned with. Wanna play?"

Alternating soft and full glory when he sees us after we've been out of sight - no matter whether it's been a minute or hours - they shout, "I've missed you so much. I was afraid you weren't coming back. I'm so glad to see you."

Then there's the pushed back, aerodynamic look that occurs when he's tearing circles through the bird area and we're making it clear he's in for it when we catch him. Those ears are singing, "Look at me go! Isn't this fun?!"

He arrives at my feet, ears in the full glory position, bottom planted firmly on the ground, ready for the treat. I give him what he's come for, flop his ears and say, "good boy Toby-Tobe, what a good dog you are." 

Before he has a chance to finish his treat, I slip away - as far away as I can get in our yard - and call. "Toby, Come!"

My heart lifts as his Dumbo ears fly him to me again. And just as it does every time we play this game, a tiny flicker of my heart expects to see big air beneath his feet.

Tears for a Thrush

The early morning stillness is shattered by a percussive thunk against the bay window. It brings the pup onto all fours out of a sound sleep and sends the cat flying from my lap for the high protection of the counter. 

I don't need to look up from the paper to know what I'll find. Don't want to look up, but can't not. This was not a gentle ting against the glass that might result in a confused fluttering back to the bird feeders. This was too hard. Too hard to be survived. Too hard to be a siskin or junko.

My eyes rest on two small gray breast feathers clinging to the window. Backlit by the light blue promise of a sunny day. Nothing else. 

I get up reluctantly. Hoping to see nothing. Hoping against hope that whoever hit has flown. Hopeless hope.

A varied thrush twitches on the ground where she landed. Eye closed under an orange brow. Long black beak opening and closing in an almost peaceful rhythm. Tangerine and gray body heaving, struggling. Impossibly thin feet curled against the winter-dull grass. Her one exposed black and orange chevron wing spread but oddly still - the pattern strikingly beautiful.

I don't know what to do. I say I'm so sorry over and over. But I don't move. Anything I might do will only increase or prolong her suffering. And so I stand witness. I watch her body struggle to hang on to life and then gradually release life. I open my heart to share her pain. I wait with her until there is no more movement. 

As I turn away I'm surprised by the tears that tumble out of my open eyes. I wonder why I'm crying for a single winter bird when I can't cry for much larger suffering. Much greater loss.

 

My childhood suffering. The suffering of friends and family. Suffering inflicted globally, intentionally and ignorantly in the name of gods and power and right and wrong.

I move back into the day with the tears as companions. A day spent home to rest my voice which has been hoarse for the last week. I'm carried by the ebb and flow of the tears and surprised by what calls them into fresh surges. A gift from a new friend. Thoughtful words of kindness from an old friend. The sweet comfort of Toby's kisses.

The day is only half gone. My voice is stronger. The thrush's gift is received.