Barney

While in Colorado, I spent the majority of my time with my dear Chloe and her dear Barney. This lovely gentleman is a 10 year old pug who was rescued from a puppy mill situation. He had been studding for the entirety of his life, but had escaped his entrapments and was found running down the street. The woman who found both Barney and his mate had been fostering the ol' gent when Chloe found out about him. And now, seven months later, Chloe and Barney are in love.

Of course, it's not all sunshine and roses. Barney is old and has a lot of health problems. Chloe is young and very active. But, somehow, they make sense. Being with them reminded me of how much I love Ace and the amazing trials and growth that come from letting a dog into your life (and if I may be mushy, heart).

Before I left for Colorado, Ace and I were standing in the backyard. It was a frigid Bostonian evening, but I had wanted to give my dear boy one last chance to relieve himself and sniff around. As he was examining his favorite nooks and crannies of the backyard we share with the rest of the apartment complex,  a man chanced to walk by. Because we had just run out for a moment, Ace was off-leash and the gate was wide open.

I froze. I hoped that Ace would not see the man and tried to reposition myself between Ace and the open gate. Too late. He set off at a pace that I couldn't help but admire. I called out to the stranger, "He's a nice dog. I promise. He won't hurt you. He just doesn't like strangers."

I wanted to call after Ace, but by this point I knew it was futile. Ace is not a huge fan of the "come" command and less so when I sound upset. I rushed out the gate toward both Ace and the strange man. Still a good twenty yards away, the man responded, "Don't worry. I have dogs. It's ok."

"ACE," I yelled. "COME."

Before I could take another step, Ace dropped his tail, turned around quickly, and trotted right back to me. I was so shocked that he had responded that I didn't know what to do. I looked at the man and apologized. I looked at Ace and simply said, "Good boy. Thank you for coming back. Oh and making me look like a fool."

As we turned toward our apartment, that moment lingered with me. Actually, Ace had not made me look like a fool. There was nothing foolish about that encounter. I probably shouldn't have left the gate open, sure. If I hadn't, though, I wouldn't know now that Ace can come back. I wouldn't know that I can be that vulnerable and open to disaster and somehow the world could not fall apart. Maybe leaving the gate open was an accident, but maybe I left the gate open because I trust Ace. And, in the end, I have to trust him and myself, and the universe. Because bad things may happen or greatness may happen, but neither can possibly take place if I try to control everything. Life inherently denies anyone control. That's half the fun.

When I think of Chloe and Barney, I can't help but see the same principle in action. Despite his age or any illness, Chloe has taken Barney into her home. At first, I saw this as some benevolent act of bearing witness as a good dog fades into old age. Examined in light of my experience with Ace, though, I know that really, Chloe has embraced the uncontrollable nature of life and love (even with a dog). I admire her so much for this commitment to Barney and to allowing a dog so different from herself change her life daily. These little four-legged buddhas crawl into our lives, hog our beds, and pry open the dark recesses of our hearts, showing us how to just let go, take a risk, and trust in life.

How lucky are we?

Barney is a rather splendid co-pilot. Er, well, backseat driver.

Too cute.

He's hunting geese as if he were a spry eight year old.

Everything Will Be Okay

In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I sit in bed with my lovely dog curled up at my feet. The life we lead is not so bad. It's been an amazing spring break (filled with a whole week in Colorado for me!), but it's time to get back to the grindstone, the books, and training for the ride (donate here to help me keep motivated).

I've been up late studying--reading articles and books about sight, knowledge, and ineffability. Ace has been enjoying the finer points of a life of leisure, namely sleeping. As I try to quiet my brain to join him for morning dreams scripted by my unconscious, I cannot help but feel content.

The last few weeks have been a bit uncomfortable. After deciding not to pursue a PhD for the time being, I've been engaged in the process of disseminating this information to those I love. While the emotion has mostly been one of relief, I have also felt nervous about telling my mentors from college, including my advisor. It turns out I had myself all worked up for nothing. Everyone expressed support, love, and hope for me. To think, I could tell people I have less of an idea of what I want to "do" with my life and more confidence about how I want to "be" and that they would listen to all my hippie dippy nonsense and then encourage me? To see (and be seen!) so completely without a bunch of inner turmoil and self-flagellation is truly refreshing. As my chaplain and friend put it, "It's nice to be able to change without going through crisis."

In the wake of this proclamation, I have come down with a cold. Maybe it's a consequence of all my jet-setting, or perhaps it has to do with the changing weather, but part of me wonders if it's all connected. Perhaps I'm having what my dear qi gong teacher, Ellie, would call a qi reaction, or what I might call, my body-expurgating-some-built-up-gunk. Maybe at the same time that my head came to a revelation, my heart and body jumped on board. Or maybe it's foolish to think my head was ever the one steering, at least not these days. More likely, my heart has been at the helm all along. It just took my head a while to catch up and now my body can relax and swab the decks (to stick with the boat metaphor).

I think one of my greatest fears was letting people down by sharing the next step of my path with them without actually knowing why or what might come after. The outpouring of unadulterated support is echoed in the words of my advisor, who after a talk over lunch said to me, "My suspicion is that you'll find revelations where ever you go."

To be so loved and to have so much certainty in who I am expressed by those I admire most is humbling.   Yet, somehow, it affirms what I already know about myself: No matter what, I will be okay. My heart encompasses wide expanses that I have yet to travel, as does the world. In the years to come, I hope to explore both. And with a sidekick like this, how could I not believe that everything will be ok?

A few new paint strokes

About a year ago, after a break up, I met with my meditation teacher/friend. As I cried and mourned the loss of that relationship, she told me that sometimes freedom comes at the cost of loss. She also explained that an ending can be an opportunity for opening doors that have been closed. “In our lives, we get to paint many paintings. We just have to choose which one we want to hang in the center.”


At that time, it struck me as a poignant reminder to think of my life as more than just a relationship that was ending. Now, I am returning to this metaphor as I think about my future.

I have decided to step back from the painting I have been focusing on. The picture is not complete, but I think that it might be time to relocate this large canvass that has occupied my field of vision. I’m not discarding the work over which I have toiled; rather, it’s time to pull the painting down and place it to the side of something new.

This new canvass is not blank. I am not starting over. There are many strokes already filling the borders of this work. In fact, many of the techniques I learned from what used to hang in the center (academia) will be utilized in this new space (yet to be named). Eventually, these strokes and techniques will come together to complete another scene, another dream for my life.

Being back in Colorado has given me the chance to reflect on the questions I’ve been asking myself since the winter break over coffee and meals shared with the people I love. The long conversations with my good friends and my mentors have helped me to find the words to describe a decision that I feel was made back in December. After I graduate from HDS, I will not immediately enroll in a PhD program. At this point, I do not think I want to make my career in academia. This is not to say I have abandoned the project or that I suddenly no longer want to be a professor. I do. It’s just that I’m realizing more and more that there are things I need to do before returning to the classroom (to be 100% clear: I am not leaving my program or regretting any decisions I have made to date. Just reassessing).

Maybe I’ll be out in the “real world” (silly phrase that that is) for a year and decide that it’s time to get a PhD. Maybe I’ll get a PhD in a research field and then work with faith communities to help them strengthen relations with members. Maybe I’ll be a professor when I’m 60 at a community college in Denver. Who knows? And, I believe I don’t need to know now.

There is no blueprint dictating how I build my life. For me, living is not a fulfilling of plans already made. Instead, it is something to be lived—truly an ever changing canvass. Some days, the picture may be unclear or fuzzy, which might scary. Others, I might think I know what’s coming into focus, just to find that something entirely different fills the edges of the frame. And, should I ever find that the picture has become something I no longer enjoy, there are an infinite number of dreams to be dreamed, and plenty of paint with which to fill a new canvass.

A strange concoction called "adulthood"

Today, I did my laundry, took my taxes to the post office to mail them (and promptly left because the line was nearly out the door), made my first successful omelet, called one of my parents to wish him happy birthday (on time!), turned in a paper that was due today, and am currently working on another paper I have due on Monday. Somehow, with all that I’ve accomplished by three p.m., I still got in a walk with Ace, a cup of tea, and wrote this entry. In the strange mix of grown up tasks and infantilizing schoolwork, I can now see that this is my version of adulthood.

I know I’ve blogged about this before, but it’s amazing to realize that I’m growing up. You know the saying that a watched pot never boils? Well, I’ve been waiting for my adulthood to “boil” since I was thirteen. And as soon as I looked away, that sucker hit 212*F (if adulthood is comprised of the same material as water, which I assume it is).

I’m not sure that this is exactly what I had in mind when I was daydreaming as a little girl, but perhaps, as my dear friend Ursula put it, there is not some “real life” out there waiting to be attained by me. I cannot continually imagine a far distant future and wait until I get there to be happy. Happiness is something deeper, more everlasting than that. Or maybe there is another term like “joy”, or “contentedness.” Maybe I should ask a Buddhist.

Whatever you call it, I think I have it. Or at least some version of it. That’s not to say that I don’t still worry (about bills, about school, about Ace’s ear infections) or that I don’t experience sadness (I’m still mourning the loss of my grandfather), but its something that lies beneath that.

A strange example of this was when I was speaking with someone about the death of my grandfather and my choice to miss a week of school. She said to me, “Well, you’re an adult. You’re making the choices that seem right despite the consequences because it is your education.” And, I agree. There is something about the death of my grandfather that has aged me markedly. In a real way, it’s as if his death has forced me to look at what I’m doing with my life and to ask: Why? This is a scary feeling. To think that I’m not sure why I’m doing what I’m doing, to think that perhaps somewhere along the way I lost track of what I wanted from life, to think that maybe I missed my stop. Beneath all those flittering emotions, though, there’s a vast ocean of certainty that I am going to be ok. No. Even more. That I am continually and always will be ok.

And, maybe, this is what it means to grow up—to lose the people you love, to lose pieces of yourself, to learn how much more expansive you can be. When I was in California looking through photos for my grandfather’s slideshow at the funeral, I was struck by the diversity of shots. There were so many I’d never seen. I saw a photo of him with his parents, and found the program from his mother’s funeral, which he kept in his sock drawer so that he might see it everyday. I saw photos of him with three different wives at different stages of his life, and I saw so, so many photos of him happy. If nothing else, these photos were a testament to the great expansive sphere of his life. I was lucky to occupy a portion of it, but to know that he had so much more comes as a great comfort. So, as I grow up, I am looking to his example: To mourn those I love. To love and love again. And, to let myself touch and be touched by so many people that my grandchildren will look around at my funeral in awe of the memories each heart holds.