Search Results for: I Saw An Angel Last Night

The ability of the human being to want more, to expand or change their lives, to be better, to create things is, to me, one of the things that often suggests the existence of a God.  Where else could this drive come from?

No dog or cat or chicken can decide to choose a better life, or choose to change his or her life. Only human beings can imagine that.

Why did Gandhi set out to free India?  Or Martin Luther King march through the South? Why did Mother Teresa wash the feet of lepers? Or Michelangelo stare at his chapel for years?

Why did Picasso or Van Gogh have to make art?  Or Gabriel Garcia Marquez write such wonderful books? Why did Jesus Christ choose to fight for the needy when it was so dangerous and lonely?

For that matter, and I am not comparing myself to any of those people above, why am I so drawn to working with the elderly at the Mansion or the refugee children at Bishop Maginn. I can’t say I know for sure, but I believe it is the Creative Spark described in the Kabbalah.

I’ve struggled with the idea of God, but the Creative Spark is the divine for me, I think, in a way that is God for me. Creativity – my writing and photography – is faith for me, perhaps that is why I dislike being told what to write. It isn’t that I am right, it’s that I am free.

This spark takes me out of myself and into the wider world in a powerful way.

What I saw in Maria – I remember it so vividly – was this spark, this yearning to come out of herself and fulfill her destiny. I also saw her bravery and determination in taking so many risks to pursue it. She was absolutely determined, as was I, to fill her life with meaning.

No other animal has this powerful desire to step outside of themselves and create a better world or capture the light and the color and meaning of life.

It is their imaginations that made human beings so exceptional, and it is their failure to imagine that make them so dangerous and self-destructive. This is why museums exist – they are the Temples and Churches and Mosques of creativity.

When people abandon the Creative Spark or let others persuade them to abandon it, says Joseph Campbell, then they lead a substitute life. Or, as T.S. Eliot suggested, they can become hollow men (and women.) I know what that feels like, it is so  easy to become frightened or disillusioned.

God said in the Kabbalah that he gave the Creative Spark only to human beings, and he warned people that the only thing they had to fear from him was failing to use or honor it.

Donkeys are happy to be fed and safe.  The can’t imagine more, so they don’t want more. Maria and I both wanted more out of our lives, and we have fought every day for that.

I sensed this drive in Maria when we first met, and this was one of the reasons I fell in love with her. She said I was the first person in her life to tell her creativity was sacred, important, wonderful. She sure doesn’t need to be told that now.

Last night, I saw her sitting in the living room embroidering another President Trump quote for the Tiny Pricks Project, the artistic resistance online, artists from all over the country choose their favorite quotes from the president in fabric and posting them on the Internet.

The site is seeking to make a creative and artistic record of the Trump era. They call it the “Material Record” of Trump’s Presidency.” Last night, she was embroidering one of his most famous recent quotes, this one to the President of Ukraine: “I would like you to do us a favor, though...”

The President doesn’t seem to pay much attention to artists, I’ve never seen him tweet against them, but I think he would do well to take them more seriously. Throughout history, art has turned intensely political and quite powerful.

Maria has already stitched six quotes on the site, and she has done a strong response to them. It’s right up her alley, a non-violent, non-argumentative creative statement of her beliefs.

I have always believed the Creative Spark is in all of us, and sometimes, as a teacher, I am lucky enough to light it in others. Mostly, it is what drives me and gives my life both love and purpose.

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Whenever I come into the Mansion, I usually run into Alice.

She was very diligent about using her walker, she walked the hallways back and forth, all day and much of the night. She always attended my readings, my meditation classes.

Lately, she seemed to be walking in circles. I think of Alice often today, she is gone, “disappeared,” as I call it. I think of her sitting with Maria, holding her hands. I think of her dancing with me, and asking me to escort her across streets and around the Mansion.

I knew she was getting weak and frail and confused, and I hadn’t seen her for a week or so. I knew what had happened. I can tell by now. I used to flit in and out of assisted care facilities, hiding behind a dog. I know the Mansion very differently.

Yesterday, I finally worked myself up to ask an aide what I already knew: “Is Alice gone?”

The aide knows me well. I never ask about medical or other personal details, I keep my boundaries, and so do they. But she nodded.

“Nursing home?” I asked. She nodded again. I don’t know where Alice went or why, and I won’t ask any more about it. And no one will tell me unless there’s some reason I need to know.

It would have been so easy to be sucked into an emotional vortex over the inevitable and continuous sickness, death, and disappearance.

Both are common in an assisted care facility.

I keep to my place; it’s the best way for me to be helpful.

The Mansion is an assisted care facility, not a nursing home, and residents go elsewhere if they need special care or are sick and dying.  It is not a place where people can die, which is sad, because so many of the residents consider it their home and would prefer to end their lives there.

State and federal laws do not permit the Mansion to offer nursing care.

It is the hardest part of my volunteer work, this vanishing. People disappear, and I never see them go or get to say goodbye. I sometimes know if and when they die, but not always.

The good volunteer is seen and felt but not heard. I’ve worked hard to earn the trust of the staff, and one reason is that I don’t ask about things I’m not entitled to know. Letting go of someone you’ve been trying to help care for over time is complex.

I have sweet memories of Alice.  So does Maria, Alice, loved to sit with her on a sofa and hold hands and talk, and lately, hold hands.  She was always in the Activity Room when I came in to read.

Alice was especially sweet and shy, but she did have a devilish streak in her, I saw it when she came on our annual boat ride on Lake George. I danced with her and saw her laugh and smile in a way I had not seen before.

She went out onto the deck in a strong wind with me and told me stories of her husband, how the two of them loved to go on boat rides.  I could see her face change as those memories came rushing back.

We joked about “dating,” and whenever she needs to cross a street or a helping hand, I would offer her my arm, and we would walk together. I told her she was my official girlfriend when there was an appropriate occasion. She loved that joke.

As Alice grew feeble and confused, I knew it was only a matter of time before she would need more care than the Mansion can or is permitted to offer.

I must be honest; I am never shocked when someone at the Mansion disappears. Usually, the mind or the body begins to let go, and they need more care than the aides can provide. I called this “when the lights go out” in a piece that I wrote, and some people got quite upset at the thought of their mothers letting go like that.

But it isn’t a conscious or unexpected transformation, the body and soul are getting ready to leave the world. I thought Alice was close, the last time I saw her. The aides, of course, knew long before I did. They go through this all the time. They are much more emotionally engaged than I am.

It’s hard work.

Whenever I saw Alice, she would smile at me and ask, “where is your wife?” Maria seemed especially drawn to her, and if she were with me, she and Alice would find a place to sit.

If Maria was not available, I would do, although we didn’t hold hands. She still thought of me as a boyfriend.

I think my most potent memory of gentle and sweet Alice was on that big boat on Lake George, her hair blown straight up by the wind, her body swaying to the loud but awful music playing on the boat’s band. For a few minutes, she was transported back in time, and I could see the beauty and joy in her face.

The ride on the water seemed to bring her back to a life she had left behind.

I often ended up guiding Alice back to her room when she got lost or drifted too close to the outside door.

She always had a broad smile for me, as if we both shared a joke about the meaning of life. Perhaps we did. She seemed to grasp the irony of being in a place like the Mansion; she was always ready to smile and laugh.

Alice was thin and frail, she always needed warm pajamas and shoes, and I kept getting her new and soft sneakers. I don’t think she ever did quite get my name,  or Maria’s, but she knew Red and always had some kind words for him.

Alice was accepting; I never heard her complain or show anger or irritation.  She was very interested in the few meditation classes she took; she closed her eyes and seemed to settle quickly. She never once said what she was thinking or feeling in meditation, that was her generation.

I keep a boundary in mind at the Mansion because there is only one outcome for relationships at the Mansion: they will inevitably end. That’s how people like me burn out, and I won’t let that happen here.

The dogs help me because there is often something between me and then. The dogs draw attention away from me and protect me from too much intimacy. Red seemed to grasp that he always got between the residents and me.

Still, I can’t say it doesn’t hurt or leave me feeling empty sometimes.

I have no idea where you are, Alice, or even if you are alive for sure. Your smile, even just a few weeks ago in this photo, never quit on you. I’m glad I got to take your portrait. How do I say goodbye to you?

Thanks to those of you who wrote her letters.

She loved it when I read the letters to her. She is a beautiful spirit, an angel in her own right, and wherever she is or goes, or is, I wish her the most peaceful and beautiful journey.

I sit in my office in the late afternoon, fighting back some tears, the late sun streaming through the windows, there is an emptiness around me that seems vast and dark. For the first time in memory, I am writing without Red sitting at my feet quietly, lying beside me so faithfully.

Sometimes, silence is the loudest noise we ever hear. My heart feels heavy as if it will drop right through me and onto the carpet. I feel weak, disoriented. Stunned, as if I were knocked about the head.

Red died before around noon Friday, we just couldn’t bear to see him suffering any longer. When I looked through the viewfinder of the camera this morning, I saw an exhausted Red, stoic but struggling to even stand.

That Red was already gone.

It was time. He was ready.

You can see it in those once powerful and blazing eyes. He was just hanging on.

I can’t thank Dr. Suzanna Fariello and her staff – Nicole and Cassandra – for working so hard to make Red comfortable this past year or so, and for dealing with his death is so gentle and sensitive away.

Dr. Fariello’s tears were pouring down on the floor as she knelt down to give him the sedative and medicine that killed him quickly and peacefully. A good vet is the most precious thing. She always listened to Red, she always listened to me.

Maria was almost supernatural in the way she grabbed a shovel and pitchfork and dug a four-foot grave filled with large rocks in less than an hour. Her strength and passion surprise me, again and again.

In the last photo I took of Red below, I did not see the dog I have lived with these past seven years. He was already gone.

When I think of a dog like Red, I see an animal that entered my life for a purpose, he was a dog, but more than just a dog.

He came to help guide me and lead me to higher ground – to hospice work, the Mansion, the refugees. He helped me to do good and to learn how to love doing good because Red could go anywhere, be anywhere, see anyone. Because of him, so could I.

Red was all about trust and love. I trusted him completely, to do anything, to go anyway. It is difficult for me to even articulate how much that meant to me in this work.

But I will certainly try. Red belonged to many people, and I promised to share his sickness and death openly and honestly. I will keep that promise.

In the hundreds if not thousands of visits we made together, Red was never turned away, refused, or disappointed.

He never made a mistake, frightened or hurt a soul, ignored someone in need, or failed to grasp my meaning and intuition. He never barked, jumped, or startled.

He was an anchor, a rock, everywhere he went. My friend Sue Suliverstein says she believes with her heart and soul that Red was not just in words but in reality, an angel who was sent her to do his work. I was a part of his work. I believe dogs like Red do that, I think Sue might well be right.

Red helped to make my transformation from a struggling wreck to a grounded human being who finally understood what my purpose was, what his calling was. He was my witness, my companion, my good spirit. He radiated good, and it reflected off of him.

I could not have done this work I do without Red, he opened every door and brought light to every darkness.

Red gave me confidence and strength to change my life and get to higher ground. He knew where I was going before I did, and never left my side.

He was with me in the car, in my study, in the farmhouse, in the fields. I never once raised my voice to Red or was even angered by him. He just offered himself to me and others in the purest way.

He was the dog I wanted, the dog I needed.

He was just my dog, pure and simple.

I’ll write more about him later, but I am happy to see he went out with a Red-like flourish, drawing enough money to buy some Ipads for the teachers at Bishop Maginn High School. People were grateful for the chance to honor Red. I was proud of him, to the very end. It was a fitting end, the last gift, the last act, helping people.

Red died peacefully, we brought him back with us to the farm and Maria did the most amazing job of digging a beautiful grave near the Pole Barn close to the sheep. Red can torment Liam for years to come, and I can talk to him and see him every day.

I went to the Mansion in the afternoon. I wanted to tell the residents directly that Red had gone. They were all gathered in the Great Room when I came in, I asked the musician if I could make an announcement. I told them that Red had died, peacefully and calmly, and I said I wanted to thank them for loving him and welcoming him into their lives.

There was a lot of anguish in some of their faces, Peggie and Sylvie and Wayne took it especially hard.

My heart is broken, I feel as if my soul has emptied out, and there is a void all around me that I don’t quite know how to fill. I don’t control that, I know this space will fill up of its own accord. I accept life and I respect life and death.

I am not stunned by it, nor will I be devoured by it.

This is grieving, I’ve seen it many times in my life, for people, for dogs. Grieving is a process, and it has its own path and will. No one can make you feel better or save you from it. You just have to know there is another side.

I knew it was coming and was well prepared, but I’ve seen it enough to know there really is no preparation, it’s like a giant wave that just to break over me and my life. Tonight, the healing begins.

Like other crazy people, I get to recover every day.

Maria and I are heading out to a beautiful spot on the Battenkill River where we will sit and hold hands and just be. Maria told me on my birthday that I had loved her into being, and I was touched by that, and today, we will love one another into healing.

I am struck once more by Fate, who has spent almost all of her life with Red, and Bud, who adores Red and protects him. Neither seems to have noticed his absence, their spirits are high, their appetites strong, they are playful and alert,  there are no signs of depression or disorientation.

I have yet to ever see one of my dogs grieve for another.

Dogs become what we need them to become, we are so eager to put our thoughts and emotions into their heads. Left alone, they show us who they are.

I want to post some more photos I took of Red’s gravesite and a bit about my life with him. But that’s for later.  Time to be with me. Thanks for loving Red and sharing his story with me.

This photo, taken by Maria in the parking lot of a Burger King outside of Brattleboro, Vt., was the first picture of Bud taken after he got off of that giant tractor trailer truck, loaded with rescue dogs from the deep south.

We brought a crate to put Bud in for the 90 minute drive, but I decided to put him in my lap where he sat without moving for the entire journey. I had the sense we did some bonding on that drive, he just lay his head down and looked out the window, he never moved.

I remember turning to Maria and saying, “this is a dog with a broke spirit. I hope we can bring him back.” Bud’s head looked enormous on top of his very thin body. He had just finished months of heartworm and other treatments. He was just a wreck.

Bud had been in that truck for more than 24 hours, and I can only imagine how draining that journey must have been for a dog. All of the other dogs came bounding off the truck, tails wagging, eager and happy to meet their new people.

Bud had to be dragged down the ramp by leash, he was shaking all over and wouldn’t look directly at us. I picked him up and carried him to the car – he was still shaking, he seemed to accept what was happening to him but expecting nothing good from it.

My heart sinks looking at this photo, there was no spark in his eyes, just a weary resignation, a kind of surrender to life. I wondered if we hadn’t gotten in over our heads. Could we really bring this dog to life?

I had really never known or had a dog who seemed so spent, so broken. The border collies are all so spirited and enthusiastic. How would this little guy far on the farm?

Over the next weeks and months, I was able to piece together more of what had happened to him. He had been abandoned in a small metal pen out of doors in the South Arkansas woods, his pen was exposed to the sun and the weather, his penmates died of exposure.

Worried neighbors called Friends Of Homeless Animals and they came and bought Bud for $150. Under the loving care of Carol Johnson, an angel, he needed and received months of treatment for heartworm, exposure and malnutrition. His care cost more than $1,000 I was happy to pay.

I came across the photo of Bud on his arrival last night and I knew I had to write about it.

Bud was the saddest dog I have ever known when I met him that day.  He seemed to have given up. It is a great joy to see this feisty and spirited creature take command of our farm, he clearly sees it as his now. His spirit has come back, and then some.

When I saw the picture I picked him and held him for a while. Long journey, Bud, welcome  home. Bud is as happy as a dog can be here, we call him the Little King.

I think I need to look at this photo every time I yell at him for chasing chickens or eating poop.

This photo, “Storyteller,” is for sale, $125.

I took the first photos in my life about a decade ago shortly after Maria and I met. Photography transformed me, it helped me see the world in a completely different way. When we became friends, Maria was the first  person in he world who encouraged me to keep taking pictures.

My book editor sneered at the photos, he said they were hallmark cards, and that I should stick to writing. Maria’s support became the template for the encouragement for one another that has so marked our relationship and love for each other.

Now, photography is an essential and nearly equal part of my own creativity, it supports the writing, and the story telling, and both support the photography. Pictures never lie.

I remember that every picture I took was a message to Maria, a  love letter, she called me every night to urge me on and praise my work, which was often very primitive and dour. It very much reflected the darkness and confusion in my soul at the time.

When people around me told me not to bother, she told me to keep going. She saw something deep inside of me that needed and wanted to come out.

My love for her infuses every photograph I take and brings emotion and feeling to my images. I didn’t sell my photos for years because it would be too expensive for most people, I am figuring out how to do it. I want to say my photos are free, they are not copyrighted or wallmarked. feel free to use them as screensavers or in any other way you wish. I see them as angels heading out into the world.

I have been experimenting with photographs, light and composition and lens, every day for years,  and I have begun to figure out how to sell them – the most inexpensive way with the best quality paper and ink and one of the best professional printers anywhere.

I’ll never sell a ton of expensive photos, but I am starting to sell my landscapes, and it feels good and affirming. I will continue to work to be better.

I print only to order and skip the expensive frames.

I believe $125 for fine art photographs is the lowest possible price. The prints are shipped in tough tubes and it takes about two weeks for a photo to get to the buyer.  Last night, I got a number of messages asking if this photograph was for sale, and so it is. It costs $125 plus $6 shipping.

“Storyteller” will be up on Maria’s Etsy Shop Wednesday morning (it is 3 a.m., she is sleeping). The print, called “Storyteller,”  will be 8.5 x 12.5, it’s a Fine Art Print, Hahnemuhle Photo Rag, 100 per cent cotton acid free paper, archival ink, signed and unframed.

You can see it and purchase it on Maria’s Etsy Shop Wednesday morning, or if you prefer, you can pay by check, contact Maria at [email protected]. Thanks for your support and interest.