Category Archives: therapeutic photography

For the Duration

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As much fun as they bring their humans, dogs themselves endure a lot of boredom.  And as much as your dog clearly loves you, don’t kid yourself:  she would, indeed, love you ten times more if you would never stop throwing that ball until one of you is dead, and both of you know which one that would be.   Still, we feel no qualms about raising their hopes with our tail-revving voices and euphoria inducing ear scratchings and mystifying pockets that might, oh please oh please, just might be filled with liver and peanut butter.

This time, though, I feel as fraudulent as the Wizard of Oz, my black bag full of tricks too shamefully superficial to help the really Brave and Meek one get back her very Self.  This time, Glinda ain’t coming.  Nothing will be the same again for Katey, stuck here in Kansas with all of us who have lost something we can never get back, and can make nothing from that loss except accommodation.

She is more beautiful than ever, I think.

The Wee Hours

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The fentanyl patch affixed to Katey’s shaved pink rump ran out of juice in the dark of Sunday morning, less than 24 hours into her first day home.  (Fentanyl is one of the most potent opioids ever invented; I learned all about it on “Burn Notice,” when Michael cons a heroin dealer into using it to boost the value of his inventory.  Try and keep up, people.)

If you have never heard a dog you love crying, then let me assure you, it is an experience you never want.  Ever.  Craig and his mom endured the haunting sound of aches for which there are no words, from 2 a.m. until 5 a.m., as Katey searched for a way to get away from the pain, rising on three legs, only to lie down, then stand again, over and over.  Finally, the vet on call increased the dose of another opiate she was discharged with, but by then her humans were beyond sleep. 

Katey was her usual pettable self when I arrived, alerting her radar ears at the clink of cereal bowls and rustle of bread wrappers from the kitchen;  she knows food when she hears it.  Whatever lingers from the restless painful phantoms that visited before dawn is not more powerful, in her present moment, than chicken thighs in broth followed by cuddles.

Craig will recover, too, although he could be forgiven if it takes something stronger than chicken thighs.

Work After Work

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I’ve been trying not to write this post for a while, but I just keep writing it, so here it is.

This is quite a lonely time for me, but the problem is not the time I spend alone.  Rather, the time I feel alone surrounded by others, is the loneliest.  More or less every week, lately, I have come up short in my people skills, disappointing people who let me know with unexpected vehemence, or observing from the periphery as others enjoy a level of easy, casual connection which both stuns and excludes me – connections which I seem to break and ruin by my very effort to participate.  I try to be a grown-up about it, but I am only human;  I can’t help wondering where my blind spot is or if I have a kick-me sign taped to my back.

These concerns have been my companions as long as I can remember.  (The story of me getting expelled from pre-school is true;  too unruly even at 3.)  It’s strange.  I’m a pretty sensitive soul, much concerned with demonstrating kindness and alertness towards the feelings of others; somehow this trait has made me harder to be around rather than the life of the party.    Maybe misinterpreted by some,  maybe unwelcome by others – certainly I am the last person to ask what accounts for the dynamic.  All I know is, just like lady cramps, it is not all in my head.

Even if I could, I don’t think I would “un-be” whatever it is that causes the grief; but I’ve lived a pretty long time without much of a survival strategy for coping with the repercussions.  That gift has finally come in to my life through the lens, some thing I can do each day and see a mark, a change, a reality which needed me to be there to occur.  I fully accept Steve Pressfield’s stipulation that the fruits of our labor are not ours, that credit for our work goes to the Muse.  But  I think it is a joint custody; she shares her pleasure at our willingness to open the door, and to listen when she whispers her strange stories and urgent secrets in our ears.

And so being actually alone becomes being present.  And being present becomes filled with roses and light for a few minutes before sunset, beside the window in my room, where I can see and know whatever work today was meant for.

It’s Mother’s Day

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A Poem for Mother’s Day Titled Oh, Honey, B.

Thee offered me a rose, and free;
The rose was offered, thee to me,
But scorned it me
So harsh to thee,
Blinded so, with Me
Not Thee;
And now, I cry.

Forgive me, Thee
I know what it was sent to be;
But you are gone.

Forgive me, Thee.
I know now
what was meant,
and see.

And You, and you
are Rose and Free.
Forgive me, Thee.
Forgive me, Me.

Looking Up

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Walking under the branches of this tree today reminded me how seldom I look up at the underneath of things, now that I am all grown up.  It was so cozy and wondrous, and soothing, to see the world from below for a while, and have something taller than me taking care of all that tall people stuff.

I felt the need for some shelter today.  This is where I found it.

A Prayer for Brenna Meany (and a very long post, indeed)

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After finishing my morning due diligence yesterday, filling my etsy store with chotchkes (not latkes), I found myself anxiously avoiding the decision of what to do with my afternoon.  Since I have so many competing aspirations (if not inspirations), the pressure to make the right decision is often uncomfortable enough to drive me to paralysis.  “What to do? What to do?”

Cleverly, I thought, “Oh, I will have a meditation break and investigate this a little,” and plopped me down on the $1 shabby rose needlepoint foot-stool which serves as my meditation bench.  And there, dear friends, I proceeded to tumble very close to the edge of the Cliffs of What The Hell?  For it turned out that this superficially modest sense of uncertainty was a secret tunnel to the Lair of a Very Large Dragon, who guards my anxiety about earning a living.  Recently, I’d thought he and I were better friends, but he must have gotten a new fuel delivery yesterday, because the blast of fear and judgement he sent my way singed my new mindful-super-hero cape. Just in the nick of time, I heard myself say, “Brenna, open your eyes.”  And here I was, back in my own Backyard.

Where did the dragon fuel come from?  The book I’ve been reading was, I think, making me too vulnerable; so I’ve put it away and I’ll stick with my other practices.  We don’t have to be super brave to win; outwitting depression and anxiety is a long con, after all.  The main virtue is to stay in the game. One practice in this book, though, did unhinge me in just the right way, and my heart dictated these words to me this morning, in safety, encapsulating what I needed to know.  I hope I can remember it all:

letting go of suffering, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of fear, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of judgement, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of separation, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of aversion, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of knowing, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of attachment, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of the future, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of the past, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of security, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of my schedule, I allow kindness to emerge;
letting go of letting go, I allow kindness to emerge.

If one is feeling more positively minded, one could also say:

trusting in happiness, i allow kindness to emerge;
trusting in peace, i allow kindness to emerge;
trusting in oneness, i allow kindness to emerge;
trusting in patience, i allow kindness to emerge;
trusting in the present moment, i allow kindness to emerge;
trusting in clear seeing, i allow kindness to emerge;
trusting in clear listening, i allow kindness to emerge;
trusting in lovingkindness, i allow kindness to emerge
trusting in trust, i allow kindness to emerge.

Normally, I don’t like praying because it validates the concept of a withholding Universe that seems implausible to me.  The Universe is certainly unfair and unjust, but withholding?  That’s for human beings.  Hence, I am not asking, I am telling. Why should we have to beg for qualities such as trust, patience, clear seeing, lovingkindness, which are free for the taking?

And so, this morning, I decided that I can,  and I will.

Squid Pro Quo

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One thing mindfulness meditation practice has done is made the doings in my brain more obvious.  Not that the contents of my thoughts have ever been that subtle:  “Pay attention to MEEEEE!”  “I’m HUNGRY!!!!”  “GIMME that!”

But this morning, my awareness sneaked up and caught a thought red-handed:  the thought that if I work on making really lovely pictures, even excellent pictures, my blog will become better known.  Because, you know, “Pay attention to MEEEEE!”

All my girls who create for a living (and you know who you are and what it takes), you recognize this perilous thought, a thought that adds tentacles of expectation and worthiness to what can only be accomplished by turning away from everything except the inner light.  You have followed this enchanting seducer yourselves, blindly, unconsciously, 10,000 times, just like me, not even realizing you were hypnotized.  It makes so much sense:  if you do excellent work, you will be rewarded.  But these rules don’t apply here.  Why not?  They just don’t.

Having walked in on this thought having its way with my brain (in flagrante baby), there is nothing much to do except keep working, and be very, very brave.  Because beyond that thought lies a field (it might even be Rumi’s field), outside the realm of reward and justification, where there is no reason to turn my eye toward my life; and there is no telling what wonders I might see there.

Ok, Baby, Sleep Tight

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It’s past my bedtime;  here is a song from Daddy to help you sleep.  I’ll write you more tomorrow!

Down by the station, early in the morning,
See the little pufferbillies standing in a row.
See the station master turn the little handle –
Puff! Puff! Choo! Choo!
Off they go!

A Guitar is a Responsiblity

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(This guitarron belonged to a friend; it wasn’t Marv’s.)

The latches snap back, click, click.  The lid hinges open, and the bouquet of rosewood, mahogany, steel and silk escapes the velvet lined crypt.  There she is, sleeping.  Not time for music yet, but there are other sounds:  a shrill, clattering twang like no other sound on earth, as old wire strings are removed and new ones replace them; the wooden body percusses dully as it slides around the bed, rests on the knees of black trousers, is handled in any way necessary, like something precious but intimate.

In a few minutes, other latches will snap open, and the smell of lard will fill the air as scrub, scrub, scrub soft bristles buff black leather boots to a perfect shine. But now, it is time to tune the guitar and let the strings know who will be in charge of them tonight.  UP the pitch slides, and then DOWN, to just the place where it must be, just as it has almost every night of your life, since before you were 14 and  “musician” was already your way through.

Slip the tortoise shell pick, translucent and impervious, between the thumb and index finger.   And then suddenly bursts out – so much sound.