Bedlam Farm Blog Journal by Jon Katz

Maria doesn’t like to get a lot of presents, but the dogs do like to get a lot of presents. I got them each a neat kind of bone, some peanut butter stuffed into a roll-shaped rawhide.

When I say, “come her, dogs,” they understand they are going to get something, and they come running, focused eagerly on me. That’s the best way to get dogs to look into a camera lens.

The dogs always have the Christmas spirit.

They were very happy, and I wished Red and Fate and Bud a Merry Christmas. I brought some Alfalfa dust out to the pasture for the donkeys and the sheep, they will graze on it all day.

And I did give Maria a gift, although I didn’t call it that, I gave her a book called “Life In The Sloth Lane” by Lucy Cooke. She had two friends over yesterday, Susan and Jackie, and they devoured the book, gasping at the adorable photographs and going on their phones to pull up sloth videos.

She could not have been happier.

 

 

A close friend asked last week to speak to me, we were both busy, we agreed to talk on Sunday afternoon.

My friend – her name is Eve Marko – is a remarkable women, a writer, intellectual,  Zen teacher social activist, passionate dog lover and a loving friend.

Eve is a gifted blogger and thinker, she  has always reminded me of the great moral philosopher and author Hannah Arendt (Eichmann in Jerusalem.

This new medium is a great force for liberation, sometimes overlooked in our rush to sell things.

Her writings about life with Bernie after the stroke, and after his death, have been extraordinary and free of pity and bathos. She has flattered me by following my blog for some years and reading it closely.

She is opened up in a particular way right now. Bernie, her husband and partner in social activism for 33 years, died a few weeks ago. His stroke three years ago that took away his fierce independence and mobility. It has also prompted Eve to see life in a new way.

Eve says she has had a gripping education in vulnerability. She worries about me and my vulnerability. She called to reach out to me, to offer herself as a person  I can call in the middle of the night when the darkness comes knocking.

As a friend.

What  Eve wanted to talk to me about was her feeling that I sometimes showed great pain and vulnerability in my writing, and she worried about me at times, she wanted me to know that as I grew older, my dependence on other people would deepen, and the number of things I could do for myself would shrink.

She was offering herself as a person who wanted to help. It was so generous, I was so pleased.

She said when we talked that I seemed a complicated person, capable of experiencing great pain and  great joy.

She wasn’t sure sometimes if I was in great pain and distress or simply reflecting on my life. I told her I have often been in great pain, but I am more than content with my life than ever. Being young does not guarantee happiness.

And one thing – pain – does not preclude the other – happiness.

Eve was concerned that I might be afraid to ask for help or show my vulnerability in some way other than in my writing.

She said this would become more and more important as I grew older and was  more dependent on others, as Bernie had been.

It was a generous and compassionate concern, and I appreciated very much the idea that some one as remarkable and accomplished as Eve was offering a hand of friendship. I can see that both of us might need that.

I think we all need that, really. I think she was talking in part about aging, she said as she and I got older – we were both about the same age – we would become more dependent.

Eve and I can talk openly and honestly with one another, and I told her I view aging differently than many people, perhaps even than her. I don’t do old talk, for one thing, it is not healthy.

I have not had a severe stroke, but I see older and dependent people almost every day, and I have no blinders on about where life will eventually take me.

I am better at being old than I ever was at being young. I am happier, more in love, more creative, more productive, more engaged with the world than ever before. My blog and photography and my wife and many good doctors have guided me through these turbulent years, I am grateful to them all.

This blog has become the focal point of my writing, and I have never been this free to write, or felt so relevant and  useful, or loved writing so much. Free at last. I get paid to think, and to encourage other people to think. It’s one of the best jobs on the earth.

My most vulnerable time is not now, as I grow older, but long ago, when I was a child. I learned then that I was truly vulnerable, I didn’t need to wait to get old.

I learned it every night for years. I have never felt as safe as I now  feel in bed next to Maria.

Over the years, I have learned that showing one’s vulnerability is essential to authenticity, love, and true creativity.

An honest and useful writer can see and acknowledge the worse parts of himself, and every one of us – you as well as me – has some worse parts.  I write about them all the time and people think I must be crazy or depressed.

There is no such thing as a perfect human, only people who like to think they are.

Whenever one human being hates another, or sends another a hateful message, they are showing their vulnerability, not their strength.

Every great or even good writer shows his or her vulnerability, it does not mean they are falling apart, any more than I am, it is because the ability to show one’s vulnerability to the world opens the path to many of the good things in life.

Showing vulnerability is opening oneself up to love and trust.

It is the very essence of good and honest writing. It is the way to compassion, empathy and humility.

It is the foundation of authenticity. It is not getting old that I fear, there is nothing much I can do about that. It is lying to myself.

I don’t need to be perfect. I don’t know how to be perfect. I don’t want to be perfect. I want to accept who I am. I want other people to accept who I am.

The minute I stopped lying to myself, Maria and I found one another. The minute I showed my vulnerability my blog took off. People are sick of packaged lies.

Some people, I know, like to sneer at this or roll their eyes, but I can tell you, it has been my salvation.

I tell my writing students that writing is all about vulnerability, every piece of good writing ever shows vulnerability in one way or another. So does every great work of art, and every true leader.

I did lie to myself and to other people for many years, I could not show my vulnerability or write about because I was terrified of it, and hiding it taught me to be deceitful and to avoid the reality of my life. The opposite of vulnerability is arrogance and avoidance of feeling.

When I couldn’t be vulnerable, then my life was a lie, to myself and everyone else. And I could not find love or peace.

You can’t find love and connection in deceit.

I believe I have to acknowledge my pain gradually and continuously. My pain, I think, was and is the experience of not having what I need, emotionally, spiritually, literally. It is a place of loneliness, hiding and lovelessness.

For  you cannot love another human being if you do not open up your soul and show your vulnerability to them as well as your heart.

We are all broken, we have all fought our battles, most far worse than mine. But only the few ever share their experience of pain and brokenness. It is something most of us are taught to hide. I sure was.

In our world, especially among men, there is a dread of revealing vulnerability, is considered an indulgence or a weakness. Real men don’t show vulnerability.

It is anything but weakness. It is the very definition of strength and peace of mind. I have no secrets to keep,  I am free, my soul is light enough to fly.

This is what Maria did the other night when she performed her Belly Dance in front of an audience. She was showing her vulnerability and in so doing, opening herself up to strength and love and friendship. She saw the world in a new and different way.

I can’t ever go back to lying about myself, the ability to be vulnerable is bridge that once crossed, can never be walked back. To back is a form of death.

To be vulnerable is to trust that the grip of fear and emptiness is not the end of the journey, but the beginning. This does not mean I am living in misery or darkness, my life is full of joy, color, love, light and meaning.

Getting older  is good for me, I will savor it as best as I can for as long as I can.

Acceptance is the antithesis of fear, and fearlessness is authenticity’s first cousin. I am broken. I am fine.

Vulnerability is not about whining or lament. It is about truth.

What I learned is that it is important to share and weep over my lost and past pains so that I can leave them become free. Free to live freely in a new place without melancholy or sickness.

I told Eve I looked forward to upgrading our friendship, I would be proud to have her as a friend. I am proud to have her as a friend.

I don’t think I’ll be calling her at 3 o’clock in the morning, I am not in that kind of trouble or mired in deep depression. I’ve gone to the place of pain again and again will bring it into the light. It is who I am.

One day I will be proud and happy to leave it behind.

Oh, and Merry Christmas.

In the morning, we need to contain the sheep, to keep them from plowing into me or Maria as we carry hay out, to keep them from riling up the donkeys at their feeder and touching off a brief riot.

This morning, I looked up towards the feeder in the snow, and I saw all three dogs in a line. Red was focused on keeping the sheep still,  Bud was backing Red up, as he has been doing lately, and Fate was watching Red, waiting for the mysterious signal to start running in circles around the sheep.

This was a formidable line-up, the sheep were going nowhere. I was delighted and impressed. It’s hard for me to grasp how well Bud has fit into our world, how much he seems to love his life her, how attached he is to Fate and Red, and of course, to me and Maria.

I quite often get messages from the righteous soldiers who patrol the Internet looking for evildoers, they scold me for calling Bud a farm dog and letting him outside in the winter without a sweater or booties.

Bud is a farm dog through and through in the morning, he sneaks under the gate and greets the donkeys, then barks at the sheep, then nibbles on some animal droppings, then runs in wide circles around the pasture to get some exercise, then practices commands with me, then takes up position with Red.

Only once did I see him shiver, and that was when there was ice on the ground, and it was windy and well below zero. We let him right in the house.

Otherwise, he stays out with the border collies, if he gets chilly, he goes to the back door to be let in. We haven’t used the sweater yet, but we will at the first shiver or sign of discomfort.

I wouldn’t suggest that anyone make the mistake of thinking that a small dog like this can withstand unlimited cold or ice the way a border collie or German Shepherd or Aussie could.

The terriers have short snouts, and that means the cold air doesn’t get to warm up the way it does on long snout dogs, it goes right into the lungs and chills the dog from the inside.

Red and Fate are built for cold weather, they can sit out in the snow and wind forever. So can many of the long-snout, heavy coated dogs.

Boston Terriers have short coats and very little body fat, the cold can go right through them. Still, many are hardy and active, they love to come along and be part of things.

This doesn’t mean they are fragile furbabies who must never be allowed to explore the world in any but perfect weather.

Bud is definitely a farm dog, through and through, he loves everything about the farm, he always wants to go out, but we watch him carefully, and at the first sign of discomfort, he goes inside or we will put a sweater on him. So far, no sign we need to do that, but the worst of winter is ahead of us.

This morning, Bud sat out in the snow with Red for nearly a half-hour, and then I called him out and put him in the house. He went right to the fire with a treat, lay down and then took a nap.

We do and will keep a close eye on him.

What I wand for Bud is the same thing I wanted for Gus. I know he’s a small dog, but he isn’t made of crystal, I want to see  him a dog, period.

That doesn’t mean abandoning him to the elements, it means avoiding the kind of labeling we do with other humans and limiting his exploration, decision-making, and love of the world.

I wanted to wish everyone reading my blog or my books or following our lives on this magical farm a wonderful Christmas Eve (I’ll wish you a Merry Christmas tomorrow.) I wrote this on behalf of my wonderful dogs, who cannot speak, but who won’t mind, I think, if I speak on their behalf.

I find that once again I have three wonderful dogs.

The dog fates are good to me in some ways. They remind me of the nature of life, good and bad. They have taken many of my dogs (Orson, Rose, Lenore, Frieda)  – too many – away from me in painful and difficult ways.

They have brought me wonderful and loving dogs in surprising and unexpected ways. It balances out, for me, I guess. Life is about life and death, joy and travail, darkness and light.

Each comes with the other.

Pain and grief are unavoidable in our world, but suffering is a choice for me.

My favorite dog writer was Jack London, my favorite dog book was “Call Of The Wild,” a book that inspired my favorite of my books, The Story Of Rose: A Man And His Dog.

That book is only available as an e-book, my publisher lost interest in me around that time and wouldn’t publish it in paper. It is by far my most loved work.

I often think of my dogs when I think of one of my favorite passages in London’s book, where he describes his dog Buck:

“During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, we even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation.”

That could describe any of my dogs, especially this crew, Red, Fate, and now Bud.

My dogs are generous, they share their treats and lives with one another, none of them have ever harmed a person or an animal. They live in great enthusiasm, they love life and are up for every second of it.

Their enthusiasm and curiosity are contagious and inspiring. So is their love of people and of the world. Every morning, when I zip up my jacket, they rush to the door, eager to get to work and start the day, eager to follow me wherever I want to go.

My dogs support me and my writing, they drop to the ground whenever I turn on my computer and don’t move until I turn it off. How they know to do this is somewhat beyond me. They know me in a way most humans can’t. They accept me in a way many humans won’t.

I have no illusions about my dogs.  Unlike Buck, not a single one would rush to defend me if wolves were after me. They would be up the road and over the hill in a country second.

That does not mean they don’t love me, it means they are dogs, adaptable, evolved and intuitive. They know when to stay and they know when to go, nothing personal.

More than any of my dogs, London evoked my border collie Rose, a brave and powerful animal who arrived with me when I came to the country,  saved my life more than once and made me feel safe living on a farm with animals for the first time in my life.

If often think of Rose rushing up a hill to stand between three terrified and lost lambs and a pack of coyotes advancing down the hill in the midst of an awful storm.

I kept calling her to come back, but she would not leave the sheep, she stood her ground and stared the coyotes down, growling softly but persuasively, until they turned and ran off into the woods.

“..not only did he learn by experience,” wrote London of Buck, “but instincts long dead became alive again. The domesticated generations fell from him. In vague ways he remembered back to the  youth of the breed, to the time the wild dogs ranged in packs through the primeval forest and killed their meat as they ran it down…Thus, as token of what a puppet thing Life is the ancient song surged through him and he came into his own again..”

My dogs all remind me of what a puppet thing life is, their ups and downs and troubles and triumphs inform me and my work, comfort me and inspire me.

I think of many things on Christmas Eve, especially the spirit of the real Jesus Christ, who thought always of the poor and the helpless.

But I also think a great deal about my dogs, about how they embody the Christmas spirit in their energy and loyalty and intuition.

On their behalf, I wish you a very joyous Christmas Eve, dogs are at the heart of my work, and I thank you for our support and interest in them.

If they could speak, I know they would wish you nothing but wonderful holidays. And they would be happy and excited if that came to be.

Robinn singing “Happy Holidays”

My granddaughter Robin lives in Brooklyn, I love her and her mother, my daughter, greatly. I have not seen either of them in months, and I can’t bear to talk stupid to her on Facetime.

I’m not sure when I will see Robin next, we keep stumbling around when it comes to dates.

We will get to know one another face-to-face, or not at all.

I was talking to one friend this morning, she volunteered that some people are just not good at family.

She asked me if I was good at family, and I stuttered and stammered. Most of the time, the answer is no. But I wasn’t sure how to answer.

I gave up lying to myself – or to others – some years ago, and it gets me into  loads of trouble, but it is just me, the way I am.

I gave up trying to be somebody else.

Robin’s other grandparents live thousands of miles away, but they see her much more than I do and for longer stretches. And they love going on Facetime every week to talk with her.

My ex-wife, her grandmother, takes care of Robin one day a week and babysits when Emma and her husband travel. Once a week, I try to send Robin one of those Apple Emojis – a dog, cow, duck or dragon – she probably knows me as a strange face that talks and jiggles his eyes.

If there was a Great Grandparents Club, they would all be in it.

Another friend had coffee with me recently, and he suddenly blurted out that “I’m a terrible grandfather.” He only sees his grandson and granddaughter once a month or so, he said, they live about 90 minutes away, on the southern edge of the Adirondacks.

He never has the time to spend a lot of time with them.

He asked me, of course, how often I see my granddaughter. Ummm… I said, my life is complicated, not as much as I would like.

I thought about this a lot today. I know I am not like the other children, or the other adults. Robin is a wonderful child, and I dearly wish we lived closer, but it is hard for me to get to New York regularly. The last time we met, we had a blast.

Leaving the farm is a major undertaking, and so is navigating the cities.

I teach classes and make regular visits to the Mansion and  on my refugee aid excursions. Last month, I had six doctor’s appointments for dental work, diabetes maintenance and visits to the cardiologist and family practitioner (also two blood drawings). And I’m health!

Getting around New York City is increasingly daunting for me, the last time I did it, I had a low blood sugar episode running for the train home, which I had to board without any food.A good Samaritan loaned me half of is blueberry muffin.

I have always loved New York, but lately, the place just seems like a madhouse to me. Still, if somebody wants something badly enough, it happens. That’s the truth about it.

Taxis are insane in traffic-clogged New York, and the subways wear me down before I even get there. I’m a wreck with jangled nerves when I get home.

New York is expensive, when I go, I need to find a place to rent, there’s no room for me in Emma’s apartment.

And then, I’m not good at hanging around.

Robin is two,  and she is busy in only the way Brooklyn-raised children can be. I’m not sure what to do with myself.

It’s not easier to spend the kind of time with her that would help me to know her. And she has visited the farm with her mother once. She didn’t much like the donkeys.

Emma is a wonderful mother and  Robin is a happy, confident and fulfilled child. As many of you know, I’ve been trying to figure out my role as a grandfather ever since Robin was born, and I’m not there yet.

I better hurry before I keel over and die, which is inevitable before Robin gets to college. I hesitated to turn down the Terrible Grandfather’s Club, not many clubs have  ever invited me to join.

We have friends her in  town who pick up their grandkids at school every day, and can’t hardly wait to baby-sit them and feed them and take them places.

Is something wrong with me for not wishing to do that? I have nothing bad to anybody who loves caring for their grandchildren, it is a loving and beautiful thing. But I don’t ache to do it.

In our culture, we are often made to feel that “something is wrong with us,” when we deviate from cultural and social norms. We celebrate the individual in our national history but crush them in our political and medic life. The Corporate Nation does not permit  or allow much individuality.

I will figure out the grandfather thing, and so will Robin I suspect, and probably before me. I would be happy if nobody sent me grandparent tips or advice. This is something for Robin and me to figure out, nobody else. I am happy for your good experiences.

The point of all this is I need to accept who I am.

It’s not a question of who I love or how much, it’s a question of how  I live. It doesn’t matter what other people might do, it matters what I might do.

I was jolted when my friend (the second one) asked me if I wanted to join a “Terrible Grandfather’s” club. This jarred me, was I so bad a grandfather that there was a club I could join? Why was I being invited?

Some people my age tell me grandparents are the best thing that has ever happened to them, that it alters and defines their lives. Much as I love Robin, I do not wish to define her life, nor do I think her mother would want that either.

That grandparent thing is  sweet and uplifting, but I don’t care to turn my life over to anybody, even a grandchild, the center of my life is right her on this farm and in this town.

I have fought hard for my life and I want to keep living it, it  damn near killed me  getting here.

What I told my friend was that I didn’t think of myself as a “Terrible Grandfather,” and I hoped he would drop the label himself. We are who we are, that is as good as we can get or be. That doesn’t make us terrible, and that is not a label I would brag about.

The jury is out on my grandfathering, Robin is young and full of life I am old and not all that far from the end of my life.

What I’m not going to do is feel guilty about who I am.

The good news is that I have a daughter who would never try to make me feel guilty, she understands it is hard for me to come, just as I understand it is hard for her to come way up here dragging a two-year on the train or renting a car for the trip.

We never manipulate or guilt-trip one another. She will come when she can come.

I know Emma does want Robin to know her  grandparents, she was never close to hers.

I appreciate that she wants that very much. I will  have to figure out how to do it and handle my life.

I don’t want to be in the “Terrible Grandfathers Club,” it doesn’t seem like a healthy club to me, or one that is fun. I’m not buying into making somebody else’s kid, even my daughter’s, the centerpiece of my life. And no one is inviting me.

Emma and I have worked hard on accepting one another, and I have worked hard on accepting me. Perhaps I’ll start an Accept-Who-You Are club, we could Skype on meeting days.