Baby Teeth

Toby has lost most of his baby teeth by now. I've watched his mouth grow and stretch over the last months, and along with that have watched his little puppy teeth be pushed out by big dog teeth meant to provide him sustenance and protection for the next decade or so. As near as I can tell, he has four baby teeth left. His canines. The fangs. The Dracula teeth.

Sometime during his fourth week of life, according to what I've read, 28 little teeth more or less simultaneously appeared in his mouth. During his fourth month the permanent teeth began to  push the babies out. He will have 42 big dog teeth when the process is finished. 

I've wondered about the fact that these four needle sharp weapons of defense are the last to leave Toby's puppy mouth as it becomes dog mouth. As long as they are in place, his mouth is a dangerous place to be in or even near. Once they're gone, even with more and bigger teeth, his mouth will be a place where a hand or a kitten or a dead bird might rest safely without fear of any more harm than a thorough saliva bath.

This is a being who has  not had serious need of defending himself in his short life. Yet he came equipped with fangs that mean business even when he's playing. I have a scar on the palm of my hand that appears to be here to stay. He was playing ferociously one morning. My hand went the wrong direction, the tooth just happened to be there, and I was instantly punctured. Blood flowed. I cursed. He was sorry. 

That was an accident. If he had intended harm, it would have been much worse.

He came to me with those four particular teeth. He came with built-in protection that works pretty much without his conscious intent, and that protection is staying with him to the last of his puppyhood. 

I wonder if my baby canines will be leaving soon. Those internal sharp points that protect me still from those who would do me harm. Never mind that the little girls whose protection they are,  who were so deeply wounded and in need of defense, have long since been comforted, nurtured, and healed. Never mind that the adults who inflicted the wounds have long since lost their power over those babies, and in fact have long since lost any power they once held.  Never mind that my adult being longs for a soft mouth that delivers only love and kindness and truth.

My adult being longs to be a safe place for tender hands, babies and soft hearts

I seem to have lost all my other baby teeth. The tiny milk teeth that helped me keep a grip on whatever might sustain me. The grinding baby molars that broke life into pieces I could swallow. Only the sharp, pointy, front-and-cornered canines remain. These are the teeth that draw blood if needed, shred flesh, puncture enemies. If I have no enemies, it seems time to let them go. This most powerful defense has served me well, but there are new teeth pushing hard to take their place. 

As I check Toby's mouth each morning, in part so he'll be used to my hands there, in part looking for loose teeth, I push against each of the four tiny needle sharp canines. I can see the adult teeth just beginning to bulge behind them. Any day now, I'll have them in hand. 

Toby Training

This week is the three month mark of Toby's occupation of our home and lives. Much has changed.

The back yard has an interesting variety of holes dug at random intervals. Toby is rock hunting. He loves rocks. Chews on them. Flings them. Leaves them on the porch (where I step on them if I'm not watching out). I've found a few broken rocks on his lounge. No broken teeth so far.

My hour long full-out walks in the park are now hour long start and stop  and start and stop - "Toby, stop PULLING!" - and start and stop hops to the camp below our house. Toby loves walks. He turns into a sled dog, snorkeler (going for rocks in the river), ambulance going to an emergency with no care for the tether trying to guide him. I have not yet found the bottom of his pool of energy. 

Toby loves the cats. He loves when they rub up against him and seems to think it's funny when they hiss, growl and scratch him when he gets out of control with his displays of affection. Toby chases the cats, no matter how much trouble he gets into when he does. He has been told he'll be given away if he hurts a cat.  I'm pretty sure I mean that, but he doesn't believe me. Although he doesn't vocalize it, his face says, "You worry too much, Mom. I'd never hurt one. It's just a game we play - me and the cats."

About a month ago, he started waking up at the crack of doom again. Walt started getting up and putting him outside and going back to bed. Just as an experiment, we left him out one night. He slept through the night and has slept out every night since. He sleeps on the lounge that was a wedding present from Walt's grandma. The crate sits unused in a corner of the patio. 

Morning wake up is still the best time with him. He comes in excited and lovey and we spend a long time on the floor cuddling and softly wrestling. He loves being brushed, especially if I let him chew/suck on my robe. I adore his swirls and curls and fairy tale soft fur. I admire his still angelic ears. I explore his mouth for lost baby teeth and new dog teeth and I rub his gums. I drum his Buddha belly and nuzzle the soft places of his face. My days start happy.

He's not supposed to be in our bird feeder area. Has been chased out, growled at, put in time out for being there from his first days here. Now when we look out the window and see him sitting under the feeders in the wooden wheelbarrow Walt built for me we say, "Look, isn't he cute?!" I don't really miss the Nandina he ate and he's leaving the Potentilla alone, so it seems a fair compromise. Besides, the birds aren't complaining, and the cats can't hunt them if Toby's in the middle of the area.

Hundreds of dollars worth of toys are strewn everywhere - outside, upstairs, in his room. His toy of choice is always, without exception, whatever Costco box is available. The big chunky ones that once held Craisins or frozen chicken breasts or Tillamook cheese. He growls at them, attacks them, chews them into smaller chunks which he devours. He drags them through the kitchen and dining room, trophies of pride and canine triumph. His second favorite toy is whatever chunk of wood he can find in the back yard. Some days the patio looks like a sawmill floor.

When I come home at the end of the day, the first thing I look for as I pull into the driveway is his sweet, happy, eager face peeking through the fence. He waits semi-patiently for me to change, then turns himself inside out when I go to him on the patio. That joy is hot oil rubbed onto sore muscles by gifted hands.

I don't remember being taken over quite in the same way with our other dogs. I thought I had more control, was more in charge, had more influence. I'm not entirely sure if Toby's that much different, or if it's me. I am sure that pleasure is the goal. Not utter obedience. Toby's happy with that.

Catherine Creek

As we drive east into the Columbia River Gorge, the wind scours the sky clear of late winter clouds. By the time we get to Catherine Creek the wind has gentled considerably, apparently enjoying a job well done. The sky is a poem of blue stretched from horizon to horizon.

The strip that serves as a parking lot is full. An encouraging sign. I've been worried that we're too early for the wildflowers that are the reason we've driven two hours on a Saturday afternoon. It's Walt's birthday and he's chosen this place for the maiden voyage of his new camera. It's also our first hike of the year. The day is primed for joy.

The first thing I see are tufts of purple bells sprinkled in the rocky field that is the trailhead. The field guide is a frustration because there's not just one flower with purple bells and my impatience to know now makes the pages stick together. I decide I'll figure it out later and head for the bathroom. On the way back a woman asks me if I know whether the purple flowers are called Widow Grass. I reluctantly admit that I don't know, and rush back to my field guide.

Widow Grass. She was right, and I feel somehow as though I've been given a gift. 

Walt and I set out on the trail. We walk side by side. He's focused on getting used to the new weight of his camera gear. I'm scouting perfect shots and  new flowers. 

"Look, Honey! Look at the way this clump of Widow Grass (now that I know its name, I can't say it enough) nests in the grass."

Usually on these hikes, Walt will reluctantly stop and humor my latest discovery ("Honey, look at this cool fungus!") with a mild acknowledgment of the wonder I'm experiencing. Today he's looking with different eyes. He has a new macro lens to go with his new digital SLR camera.  He has a new appreciation for up close and little miracles of nature.

I can't remember at what point on the hike that I realize that he's being exactly the man I've been in despair of ever seeing again. He's focused, intent, engaged. He's fully present. He's fun to be with.

It might have been  his willingness to shoot, at my request, the Crater Lake blue of the sky through the puzzle of oak branches overhead. It might have been when he turned his cap bill backward in that sexy bad-boy way so it didn't keep bumping the camera. It might have been when he got down on his belly to get a better shot of  Yellow Bells framed perfectly against scales of gray bark.

It might just have been how purely happy he was.

The trail at Catherine Creek winds and climbs through an old homestead. Even though there is little left of the farm, pioneer ghosts and dreams hover over the scrub oak and rock landscape. There is magic here. Every flower we see today is new to me. Gifts from the soul of the place. I collect the names in my heart while Walt documents their existence with his camera.

 Grass Widow.  Yellow Bells. Oaks Toothwort. Desert Parsley, pink and yellow. Smooth Prairie Star.  Western Saxifrage. Gold Stars.

I  feel hope and eternity in these names. 

The trail loops back toward the road along a rocky ridge where the wind, apparently rested, plays with our footing on the rough ground. It's hard to decide whether we're invigorated or intimidated by its power. We walk quietly in the buffet and buzz of the wind, a lovely connected silence full of life and love. Our heads are mostly down so that the wind and rocks don't have their way with us.

I become aware of a single melodic note floating on the air. A bird call that I haven't heard before. I stop and look up in time to see a male Western Bluebird, sky on top - rusty earth below, perched on a bush just close enough for me to be certain what I'm seeing. He sends out another perfect note. His mate, all earth and no sky, responds from another bush slightly farther away from us. They both fly as Walt tries to get closer for a shot, but I don't care.

 In the currency of my naturalist life, a new bird is worth a whole book full of new flowers.

In the currency of my life as a wife, this day overflows with riches that I will be counting for the remainder of my days. Happy Birthday, Walt. Thank you for giving me the present of your full presence on this day. Thank you for giving me the present of renewed hope. Thank you for allowing me to love you.

Pictures by Walt Shucka

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.