I told a friend last night that Maria and I would be going to Albany this morning, and she said, “Oh, no, are you okay?” It’s not me this time, but Maris. She has some ear issues, and we’re going to a walk-in clinic. Nothing serious. I’ll be home later. I saw a beautiful Robin on the fence and got a photo. Zip saw him, too, but he didn’t get this bird. It’s my turn to drive and do some sketches.
Beautiful day.
Saw a robin.
So did Zip; the Robin flew away. I saved two chipmunks yesterday.
It’s painful to see how bitterly divided the country seems, but it has also inspired me to see if the Wildflowers I love to photograph can be mixed up with the more staid and rigid cut flowers. I’m discovering that they each get along quite well with one another, which gives me hope and inspiration. They do get along.
Flowers are a palette in some ways; each reflects on the other.
There is something epical about this flower.
The wildflowers are…well, wild, the cut flowers are disciplined and know their place.
Soul of a flower.
Heart of a flower.
Shy flower.
Joan Chittister, one of my favorite spiritual guides and authors, writes in her book Between The Dark And The Daylight that a part of the soul stirs at night, in the dark and soundless times of day, when our defenses are down. Our daylight distractions no longer protect us from ourselves in the dark.
I know what she means. I’ve felt this almost all of my life. What we gloss over in light and distraction in the light emerges like mud in a sinkhole in the night. Since I started sleeping and wedding my bed, the night has held horror for me. So many hours of starting up in seeking and praying for the sun to rise while the details of life smother the pain.
In the still of the night, when I am powerless to push it aside, these questions emerge from the dark muck of what Chittister calls our “inner underworld.” My inner underworld is rich and powerful.
There are so many questions at night and so few answers. It’s not a time for solutions or resolutions but for the demons of the dark to dance in my heart and poke at my soul.
A friend once told me that these questions of the inner underworld don’t call for details or data, as the doctors are so fond of, but instead call for the contemplation of possibility, the very foundation of hope. I suppose that’s what the spiritual path is ultimately about. Who am I really, and who do I want to be? Really.
How can we explain these demons that dance in our very being? How could I deal with them and come to peace in the dark?
The answer was inside me, as usual, not outside.
The extraordinary truth behind spirituality lies in the awareness of discovering the true spirit within me, not the harsh exercises of self-hatred, fear, and self-denial. It’s not what others think of me; it’s what I think of me. Some peopel call it accepting a God; I call it accepting myself; that’s the spiritual payoff for me. I am a good man, working to be a better one.
Looking up at the ceiling now, I see all kinds of things, from darkness to light. I don’t fear it, I don’t hate it, it just is.
The answer for me was in almost daily instruction in self-knowledge, confronting the paradoxes and tensions in my own life, not hiding from them, running from them, or denying them. The inner underworld talks to me at night, and only when I begin listening to it can I begin to understand how to see the richness of life, not the sorrows of the dark. After all, the inner world is my oldest friend; it has sat with me every night.
For me, nothing was scarier than denying the reality of my disintegrating life. Once I knew who I wanted to be, I could finally be it. It’s free, and I have all the power to do it or not.
The message was clear to me, and slowly but steadily—go inward and face the truth—the space between the darkness and the light became shorter and less painful daily. I am learning to embrace my darkness, face it, and welcome it to my heart and soul. I stopped fighting it and accepted life’s paradoxes. I studied and embraced the wisdom of the seekers through the ages.
Let the night sing its song so that the soul grows, expands, centers, and becomes what it was meant to be and exists only as it was meant to be: the radiant soul.
My darkness is different now. I wait for it like an old friend with something to tell me, and I listen. I learn something new about myself every night.
It may seem unusual to some, but I’ve come to appreciate our dogs’ and other animals’ adaptability and resilience. When I go away for short visits, as happened this week, I don’t fuss over saying goodbye, hug and kiss them, or reassure them that I will return.
I leave when our farm sitter arrives; they are always delighted to see her, a testament to their ability to adjust and thrive in different environments, especially with people who provide for their needs, play with them, and give them treats.
I know many people disagree, but I believe separation anxiety is generally a human disorder transposed onto dogs because separation is disbursing to people. Many people are messaging me asking how I did after our first separation.
I don’t see the difference between going out to dinner and going away for a few days.
One of the most pressing issues in our modern relationship with dogs and cats is the tendency to anthropomorphize them.
I see this as a form of benign and socially acceptable abuse, a self-serving emotional norm that we often glorify. We forget that they are not us, but they are adept at manipulating and reflecting our emotional excesses.
That’s why they sleep in bed with us, and squirrels don’t.
Someone from Minnesota bought me a T-shirt with a photo of a cat and the letters “I Love My Daddy.” I don’t even want it in the house. If my daughter ever sent me a shirt like that, I might be ill, and she would undoubtedly be, and I might even wear it, but probably not. I am not Zip’s daddy.
I realize that few animal lovers—vets and honest trainers who know better and say so if asked—believe this, and that is their right. I’ve written about this often, and I usually get many messages explaining why their dogs and cats are different, and I am wrong. I never assume I am always right; I try to be honest. And I doubt I’ve persuaded anyone.
Cats are also subject to human emotionalizing, as I am learning almost every day from the often bizarre messages I get about Zip.
Because urban dwellers can’t imagine sleeping outdoors in the winter, they assume it is cruel for outdoor cats to do the same, even with heated beds. It’s a good thing they were not alive 200 years ago.
That is more about people’s ignorance and distance from animals than humans’ cruelty.
When I leave for a trip or vacation, there is no fuss; when I return, there is no rejoicing; it’s just life, like going to the supermarket. They don’t seem to notice if I don’t make a big deal out of it.
I leave and then return, just another day. I don’t need to put remote cameras on them so I can make baby noises from a thousand miles away and spy on our farm sitter, and believe me, I am no hardass or tough guy.
Vacations are about getting away for me, not taking life along with me.
My dogs didn’t need to go and see Stowe, Vermont, and I could live without them for a few days.
The animals are curious about who will feed them; they aren’t worried I won’t return. There is no drama about our leaving. Since our farm sitter has fed them often, they don’t seem worried about my leaving.
There is no evidence they even know what our going away means.
Perhaps this is the reason I have never experienced separation anxiety or damage to the house with any of my dogs when I return. I don’t believe in it, even though half a million dogs are on anxiety medication, something unknown through the thousands of years that dogs and people have shared lives. It’s a good rush for pharmaceutical companies.
The emotionalizing of animals skyrockets in our tense and disconnected time.
Bud and Fate are crated at night when we are gone, as both can be excitable. Zinnia, who has never been visibly excited about anything, can sleep wherever she wants.
Dogs are our mirrors; often, they reflect our fears and neuroses, and we, in turn, dump our poop onto them. We are an intensely neurotic species, almost certainly the most neurotic on the planet. We are needy and insecure about love.
My rule is simple: dogs and cats love whoever feeds them.
Zip popped out to see us when I got home and almost instantly went off after a chipmunk. I went into the house. This morning, I got the brush out. He loves being brushed, and we reunited after a good brushing session. Life goes on with me or without me, and vice versa.
I admit I was happy to see Zip when I got home. But I like the freedom of movement when I am away and the dogs are not around. I like sleeping late. I can use a break, and so can they, I believe. I love sleeping late.
Next Tuesday, Zip and I are going to the vet for a pre-scheduled check-up.
I’ll share the news; he looks significant to us now.
Recently, I got an odd message from someone claiming to be a vet tech telling me that Zip’s teeth were damaged (this, I think, from a photo of him yawning in his wicker chair). As is often the case with amateur diagnosticians on social media, this is just more digital bullshit.
No professional medical person, dog or human, would diagnose anyone or any stranger, animal or human, by looking only at a computer image. In many states, it’s illegal to do that. I might want to move to one of them.
I never take medical advice online from strangers about me or the animals. Ignorance kills. The vet tech messenger is a fake, as was evident.
Zip has all of his teeth and eats so much outside he isn’t eating the food we have been giving him anymore.
I hope Zip remembers our afternoon get-togethers. I will miss those and will resume them today.
Our farm caretaker said Zip slept in her lap the minute she sat outside. That’s my boy.
Once his routine was disrupted, he may have moved on to something better in the afternoon, like a mouse or mole. We’ll see.
