When the tail stops wagging

Today, as this post is being published, our dog, the irrepressible Jackson, is being put down. Perhaps dementia was triggering his increased aggression–we don’t know. Our trainer assures us that this is the right way to go; our old dog will be fine and it’s better to let him go now then wait for (another) bite.  But no way does this make it easy, especially when most of the time Jackson was adorable. Despite the fact that he was “only” a foster dog, and we had him for “only” six months, the pain of letting him go keeps ricocheting unmercifully, through my body.

Love is love. Jackson will be better off. My husband and I are a mess.

I write because once again I am overflowing with empathy for those who have suffered loss, in any form.

I recognize the first steps in healing: stay away from platitudes (even “that it’s for his good)”, feel the pain, and keep moving. Keep my eyes up, stay present, don’t think too much, and find something, anything, that looks beautiful or feels comforting. I’ll share pictures below.

One thing I’m discovering is that our bodies are masterful at holding pain and trauma when we can’t deal with them. I’m grateful for this–there are times when we need to soldier on, delay dealing with grief, help others, or just get work done. But as much as I can, I want to give my body a little ease, offering times and safe spaces when it can let down, ungird itself from emotional protection, and soften. Maybe I’ll walk slowly, dance, or have a good sob. I figure that’s better than letting my rage fly out at the next inept customer service representative.

This loss, like the others I’ve experienced this year, can teach me to better support others through their losses and bad news. (For that reason, I’d really love to know what works best for you.)

Here’s what my experience has taught me so far:

When the loss is new, the grief acute, or the bad news is fresh: what I need most are friends who can just be present, almost without words or offering only an “I get it.” Being present is helpful at any stage of grief. Hugs are always good, but please don’t mind if I turn away. Sometimes I can’t deal with the pain.

When I’ve taken one step away from the acute pain, I appreciate the friends who can offer condolences and share their experiences–as long as what they offer is empathy, nor sympathy, and they don’t automatically assume that their experiences are the same as mine.

Later, as the grief settles a bit I can appreciate friends who offer thoughts about how to keep going or what to do. (Like please tell me how to find another Springer Spaniel NOW.) One caveat: be cautious with advice, which, unfortunately, can be a way of not being able to “be with” someone else’s pain.

Finally, there is longer-term support. I recently learned that a close family member has cancer–so I’ll be learning to give this form of support. I’m not the queen of cooking meals (not even for me) or baking cookies. Yet, I know that help with the ordinary matters of life: food, rides, visits, or help in the garden can be appreciated, especially when custom-tailored to the needs and desires of the person experiencing grief, or encountering a health crisis, as a patient or caretaker.

Today, in my grief, I move a small step at a time, trying to live in my senses rather than in my mind. A sweep of lavender. The smell of a rugosa rose. The crunch of fresh lettuce. The nuzzle of a horse on my neck. The beauty of a mushroom.

Rather than writing more, I’ll send a few images that have cheered me from the farm.

New crop of luscious lavender

Fragrant rugosa roses

A load of lettuce

Breakfast for my champion

A woodland convention


Tell me what helps you. I really want to learn.


When you’re feeling climate despair, give nature a face

I’m feeling pretty despairing about climate change these days. The idea that people in high places dispute the science behind what’s happening to our environment seems unconscionable. Barbaric. But then a lot of things seem that way to me these days.

I recently interviewed storyteller and mythologist Michael Meade for my podcast. He talked about how truth and beauty are important as we work for change. I asked him, “Where’s the beauty in the environmental movement?” It’s been feeling so heavy.

Five days later, I found my answer in the backyard:  my trees.

When I feel bleak and despairing about change, it’s often because I’ve become overwhelmed. I’ve lost my relationship to the particular. I’ve generalized and started painting with only one color – gray. I’ve objectified my relationship to the world. In Martin Buber’s famous words: I’ve shifted from I-thou to I-it.

In the face of such grim news about the environment, I’d forgotten the love.

Buber wrote a lot about trees. Here’s a snippet.

“I consider a tree. I can look on it as a picture: stiff column in a shock of light, or splash of green shot with the delicate blue and silver of the background. I can perceive it as movement: flowing veins on clinging, pressing pith, suck of the roots, breathing of the leaves, ceaseless commerce with earth and air—and the obscure growth itself…

When my husband and I moved to the island where we live, I found myself with an acre plus of lawn staring at me. Even though we had beautiful madrona, cedar, and doug fir in the background, the lawn looked so boring. Fortunately for me, many people in Seattle on small city lots were putting their trees “up for adoption,” when the trees needed to be taken out in favor of a vegetable garden. I adopted many and promised each a good home.

I adopted a weeping cherry, a colorful katsura, mature vine maples, Japanese maples, two redwoods in five-gallon pots, and more. Each came with a story and the affection and past intention of the owner. The redwoods we adopted had been bought to honor a deceased dachshund. They now stand 30 feet tall.  Each time I pass them, I think about the dachshund.

Then there’s Harriet, the only tree that came with a name.

Harriet is a copper beech, grown from seed by a Master Gardener living on a small city lot near Seattle. How, on the hottest day of the year, we rescued Harriet after she broke through her oak barrel, is another story, as is how I planted her in the wrong place twice. My friend Beth carefully broke the news to me: copper beeches get BIG.  Harriet had to be transplanted a third time. I apologized profusely as she was carefully moved to her new (I promised, it would be permanent) home where she’d have plenty of room to spread.

Harriet was never an “it” or “just a tree.” She was a friend. Yep, I loved her. Her survival meant a lot to me.

Today, she flourishes at twenty-feet tall and she’s one of the reasons I’d hate to leave our land.

My trees come with stories. I steward their growth. When a storm breaks a major limb on maple, or a dang raccoon climbs up and breaks the leader (main branch) of a plum tree, I take it personally.

My trees give nature a face.

As I feel despair about our environment, they comfort me, inviting me to not give up.

You don’t have to live in a rural area to have a relationship with trees. Living in Manhatten, I was nurtured by the trees of Central Park.

Maybe your most intimate connection with nature is not with trees. Maybe it’s with chipmunks, or sea otters, abalone, or sea urchins, coral or moss or sword ferns–the part of nature that you hold personally dear.

When I listen to my trees, I don’t turn my back on science. Listening to the “spirit of our trees” has awakened a curiosity about science that I never had when I thought science was just statistics, facts, and formulas to memorize, woven together into mechanistic concepts.

Today, scientists and “tree huggers” work together. Team earth needs us all.

The environment isn’t just a problem–it’s a living world.

It needs a face.

Scientist and Native American storyteller Robin Wall Kimmerer names the objects that surround her.

In indigenous ways of knowing, all beings are recognized as non-human persons, and all have their own names. It is a sign of respect to call a being by its name, and a sign of disrespect to ignore it. Words and names are the ways we humans build relationships, not only with each other, but also with plants….

Intimate connection allows recognition in an all-too-often anonymous world… Intimacy gives us a different way of seeing.

The trees welcome that intimacy.  Their faces remind me to not give up or lose hope about addressing climate change.

Harriet expects nothing less from me.


Spring for a Pause

If you want proof of the complexity of the world, come visit my garden, a mélange of good and evil, light and dark, what I want and what I don’t, all asking for my care.

If you have a garden, you know what I mean.

Some say weeds are just plants in the wrong place. In my case, in a lot of wrong places. Weeds are usually the invasive plants that want to take over the flower bed (those dang baby ornamental onions I planted), or consume the woods (lamium). At least, I’ve been spared plants that want to take over the world (kudzu).

In my losing battle to eradicate the invaders, I gather strength by feasting my eyes on what is so beautiful–the Japanese maples leafing out, the rhododendrons in flower, and the peonies about to bloom. Is beauty more precious when you know it can’t last?.

While I head out to weed, here are a few recent posts you might have missed.

Finding Your Inner Porpoise was a facetious look at purpose sprinkled with an ounce of truth

When Paris Burns: Finding the seeds of resilience was a response to the tragic burning of the Notre Dame Cathedral, with hats off to those who find their resilience in tragedy, like my friend Jane who lost all to the volcano on Hawaii last year.

Imagination is my friend, hopefully yours, too, and in this post  I offered several quotes with Images of Imagination to spark yours.

The battle is on to distract your attention, and the odds are increasingly against us. In How to keep your attention in an age of distraction, I shared a few ideas to help you keep yours.

So many choices.

So many weeds.

Here’s to Spring!

When Paris Burns: Finding the seeds of resilience

Last Monday, as I stumbled past my husband on my way to bed, he looked up from reading on his Ipad and announced, “I have bad news.”

What now, I wondered. Isn’t constant bad news the new norm?

“Notre Dame is burning, and there’s been a lot of damage. The spire has fallen.”

I feel gut-punched. I love Paris, and Notre Dame for me has been at its center. My heart ricochets with the loss. I struggle for breath.

As the Washington Post would write the next day: “The fall of Notre Dame is a body blow to Paris and all it represents.” I feel the hit as well, joining others around the world.

Last summer, I stood on the plaza in front of Notre Dame, watching an interminably long line of tourists roast in the sun while snaking slowly towards the Cathedral. No sense standing in that line, I thought. Better to savor the memories of visits, years ago, when I could enter Notre Dame easily, without a crowd.

I’d sit by myself on dreary winter days when I wanted to feel uplifted by the soaring height of its arched ceilings, the light streaming through the stained glass, or the occasional music rising from the organ. I found myself drawn inward, into reverence, while I sat in the dark pews, obscured by the dim light, smelling the scent of prayer candles and incense. Notre Dame filled me with a sense of mystery and awe.

And now it’s been grievously wounded.


There was always another side to Notre Dame, balancing its solemnity.

Perched high on its outside walls lived a strange set of characters: the gargoyles. Part monstrous, part whimsical, they delighted the tourists who climbed long flights of stairs to gain a closer view of their grotesque forms.

Early gargoyles guarded the temples in ancient Egypt, protecting them from the vengeful god Seth. Later gargoyles were incorporated into architecture as rainspouts, to keep water from running down an edifice. Gargoyle comes from the French word “gargouille” meaning “throat” or “gullet,” referring to the channel through which water could pour.

Over time, they began to be designed as ornaments and relieved of their water-carrying duties. Notre Dame has both water-carrying gargoyles and famous ones that are “off-duty,” and might be more properly called “chimera.”

The purpose of their grotesque faces isn’t entirely clear. Some say gargoyles were meant to warn the population about the presence of evil; others say that gargoyles were placed to protect a sacred space from evil.

I think they’re meant to show how the divine and the profane are entwined. Even on top of one of the world’s most beautiful religious structures, little monsters sit enjoying the view.

Which leads me back to the business of finding the resilience within devastating loss.

Losing all to the volcano

Last year, I watched in horror as a fissure on the island of Hawaii sent lava flows barreling towards the house of my friend, Jane Howard. I saw pictures online of her neighbor’s home in flames, as a relentless stream of lava crept closer to Jane’s. Her entire community, Leilani Estates, was destroyed, her house covered by 45 feet of lava.

She lost almost everything.

Jane is one of the most upbeat, creative people I know, and she survived, with support from friends around the world. I can only imagine the treasures that she must have lost. In interviewing her recently for my Vital Presence podcast, Jane spoke about how she considers it a blessing to have lightened her load of belongings. Memories of trauma still live within her; new earthquakes can set off memories of the quakes that opened up the earth last year. That taste of trauma has given Jane empathy for the aftershocks her students still carry within them–and the understanding to help others find their resilience.

When asked what advice she would give to those hit by major tragedies, she says, “Go easy on yourself.”

The resilience will be there; kindness will help you find it.

Losing the Possibility of Life

At the same time I heard about Paris,  I happened to be reading a book by a writer who received a diagnosis of ALS, the nasty and degenerative Lou Gehrig’s Disease. It comes with no cure. Philip Simmons lived nine years post-diagnosis, long enough to write Learning to Fall: The Blessings of an Imperfect Life. In this gorgeous, very human, uplifting series of reflections on living in the face of loss, Simmons writes about family, the quirkiness of his community, and offers his thoughts on faith. Contemplating his impending death appears to have magnified his relationship to life. In his words:

“We deal most fruitfully with loss by accepting the fact that we will one day lose everything. When we learn to fall, we learn that only by letting go our grip on all that we ordinarily find most precious—our achievements, our plans, our loved ones, our very selves—can we find, ultimately, the most profound freedom. In the act of letting go of our lives, we return more fully to them.”

His openness to life increased, even as the number of days left to him decreased. The light within loss

I can’t pretend that loss is fun or make it cheery because of a so-called silver lining. Losing what you most love hurts. ALS sucks.

Darkness and light travel together, and loss can carry within it seeds for new life. Following a devastating forest fire in the summer, seeds will germinate, and by the next spring, plants will start to grow in the charred ground. Life continues.

  • The burning of Notre Dame caused irreparable loss–and will awaken many to see how much they care for this iconic structure.
  • Lava consumed a home–and a woman built her capacity to help others while her community banded together to help her.
  • A man received a death sentence from ALS and received the gift of presence in life.

Resilience does not make everything right again. Resilience shows us the life that lives within loss.

I hope that the gargoyles of Notre Dame survived. Let them remind us that loss and gifts, light and shadow, monsters and saints can live together.

Let them watch over the rebuilding so new beauty can arise from the rubble.



A midwinter’s night pause


My article for the winter issue of 3rd Act Magazine is out: “A New Leash on Life: Fostering senior dogs” – and it’s a topic that is VERY close to my heart. If you want an “all natural,” almost sure-fire way to beat depression, I highly recommend fostering or adopting an older dog. Sure, they won’t be around forever, but in the meantime, you’ll receive so much love.

We’ve started fostering-round-two after having to put down our first foster, Riley, in October. Our new foster dog, the irrepressible and still somewhat rotund, Jackson, knows that part of his job is to heal our broken hearts.

Sure adopting a dog (or ferret, cat, or puppy) may not change the world, but if it can put a smile on your face and love in your heart, it might change you.

What does it mean to take real accountability for your life, not just for you, but for your place in the world, and for how your family has impacted others? These days, when few political figures seem to want to take responsibility for the world’s woes, I found an amazing example of accountability in this TED talk with the mother of the infamous Columbine shooter. She inspired me by how she learned to stand tall after tragedy knocked her low.


For Valentine’s Day, I apologized to Marie Kondo for my skepticism around her principles of tidying. Choosing to keep what brings your joy may be a good mantra for life, and I find that the more I explore the idea, the more is revealed, Call it “Beyond clutter.”



In our new foray into dog training, I’m learning about the clicker training approach. It is so positive and specific I thought it might be used with humans. I didn’t find out there was a book on that subject until my friend, reader and horse trainer, Kyra Gautesen, lent me her book, I love learning from readers!

Create a daily oasis with ordinary rituals

“We humans remember trauma better than pleasure, it’s the way we’re built, so ritual helps to inject the significance of this moment into us. “   Lorene Cary

Every year as December fades into January, I celebrate. My rituals, whether a gathering on New Year’s Eve, a few hours of reflection on New Year’s Day or eating black-eyed peas for good luck, help assure me that 2018 is firmly gone and I can start fresh in 2019. Life is offering me a new canvas with colorful, fresh paint waiting for me to begin.

I’m grateful for the cycles of life that let us start again with new endings and beginnings.

Sitting on my couch last Monday morning, I watched the sun coming up (a rare treat) and reflected on how magnificent it is that sleep allows us to let go every night and wake up to a new day.

Yesterday’s anxiety doesn’t need to poison today.

Continuing to reflect, I noticed that all of life is full of endings and beginnings: winter melting into spring, weekends fading into weekdays, the end of adolescence opening into the beginning of adulthood.

No wonder that people throughout the ages have used rituals to mark the passage of time and highlight important transitions. Festivals mark the seasons, celebrations mark important events (like religious and civic holidays), and private gatherings mark transitions such as births, deaths, graduations, retirements, and marriages. In some cultures, one’s coming of age is marked by the launching of a heroic quest.

The need for ordinary rituals

Large or widely celebrated rituals help bind a culture together, but ordinary rituals offer us small oases of sanity throughout our days. Prayers at the dinner table, whether religious or not, give us a moment to pause and find gratitude. A glass of wine or a trip to the gym may be the ritual that marks the end of our workday. An evening ritual can help us wind down and set the stage for our dreams.

Small rituals can make our days more mindful by adding a pause, a moment of reflection, a touch of magic, and an opportunity to feel in touch with ourselves or a spirit that feels bigger than ourselves.

We can create a ritual by identifying a repeating pattern in our life, perhaps a daily activity that feels meaningful to us, and then claiming it as a ritual, giving it some extra attention and mindfulness. We add a little extra beauty to our lives.

In an era of constant change and turmoil, ritualizing these patterns can add a sense of stability and comfort to our lives. They can help us adjust our attitudes, reconnect to a sense of purpose, or reinforce our better selves.

Apoorva Bhide, a commentator on the Quora website, called rituals “rafts of meaning in a world that systematically… lacks it.” [expletive deleted.]

Setting up a morning ritual

Every morning we wake up, often around the same time, and undertake a series of activities. Morning routines are everyday rituals we create to wake us up, prepare the day, remind us of what is good about who we are, and set us on track to create.

Many writers use a morning ritual to prepare, mentally and physically, for the shock of facing a blank page when they sit down to write.

You can use a morning ritual to focus, tune up your attitude, or think about your day.

An example:

There’s nothing exotic about my morning routine. I:

  • wake up and stumble into the kitchen for a cup of tea.
  • sink into the couch and stare into the blackness of night or a dawning sun.
  • search for words of inspiration from Richard Rohr, Krista Tippett or Maria Popova in my email. (Always risky because I may also find to-dos.)
  • meditate sometimes–hopefully more in 2019.
  • write three pages. I use the website 750 words to inspire me to write at least 750 words. I write anything from shopping lists to reflections on life or ideas for my blog. This writing is key to my ritual.
  • get dressed.
  • feed the horses. Often, I’ll muck their paddock. Mucking, even in the cold rain, counts as another form of contemplation.
  • return to the house, eat breakfast and start my workday.

Sometimes I resist this routine on the days I don’t feel like going out in dark sleet to feed the horses. But this routine is what says “home” to me whenever when I’m away on vacation. Then, I even miss mucking.

Any set of regular activities that mean something to you can become a ritual, especially when you reinforce them with joy and attention.

Other people’s rituals

If you’re curious about the rituals and routines used by some great artists, scientists, writers, poets, and mathematicians, check out Daily Rituals: How Artists Work.

You can adapt any of these rituals that might work for you, although I suggest staying away from some of the more destructive ones: drinking, drugs or too many doughnuts.

Designing everyday rituals

Here are a few of my criteria. My rituals have to be:

  • Satisfying and. hopefully, yummy. I want to feel more creative, connected and alive as a result.
  • Easy to remember and easy to repeat. Do-able. If they’re too complicated, they won’t happen.
  • Meaningful and uplifting.

Your rituals don’t have to be:

  • Practiced or understood by others. Athletes and performers often have private rituals that can seem downright goofy or superstitious. But who cares as long as it works for them! Baseball pitcher Wendell Turk always chewed four pieces of licorice before he pitched. You figure.
  • Religious or serious. Your ritual can be small, quiet or boisterous. No temple bells or incense required. As I think about it, five minutes of laughter yoga (deep belly laughing) is a ritual that could add vitality to my day.

Rituals are about practicing patterns that increase our aliveness and attentiveness, not a way of forcing us into habits that can turn us into drones.

Crafting our rafts of meaning

Author Lorene Cary, addressing the graduates of Swarthmore College at their graduation ritual said:

“We humans remember trauma better than pleasure, it’s the way we’re built, so ritual helps to inject the significance of this moment into us. We rush, rush, rush, and then we slooooow down time. We make this boring. [referring to graduation] It’s not a mistake, it’s meant to be. We assemble. We say certain words.
…. Ritual rough ups the smooth surface of memory so that existence can snag.”

Let’s build rituals that help us remember what is good.

You could create rituals for the beginning of the end of your day or work week. Maybe you want a practice of creating special meals at special times. Maybe your ritual will be an oasis in the middle of the day (aka a nap) or a Sabbath each week.

If rituals are rafts of meaning in a sea of chaos, then let’s design ones that we can enjoy.

What would make your everyday life richer? I’d love to hear.


We want to help you thrive–join us!

Want to thrive creatively in these crazy times? Find purpose in a path or practice that’s right for you? Have fun, while living your OWN best story? (And receive a free e-book to inspire.)

You have Successfully Subscribed!