December 19 – “Say ‘I love  you’ to yourself and mean it.”

 

The Calendar of Care was created by the minister of my faith community, who shared it with the congregation on the first day of December with the reminder that December can be a hectic time, both joyful and sad, filled with expectation, some realistic, some not, and that we, all of us, need to take good care of ourselves during this month.

I recognized that I do many of the daily suggestions routinely, others from time to time, and others not nearly often enough.

Overall, I’ve enjoyed the daily challenges:

• Notice something beautiful and pay close attention to it.
• Make a date with someone you’ve been meaning to spend time with.
• Stop at least twice today and just breathe deeply.
• Reflect for a moment on your greatest joy.
• Write down three things for which you feel grateful.

But “Say I love you to yourself and mean it”? I had a feeling that this one would be tough.

I waited to give it a try until my daily Reiki self-healing practice. With my hands lightly on my chest, I began to think the words, but hesitated. My intellect kicked in, allowing me to tell myself that I’m a good person, an often kind person, a generous person, a compassionate person more often than not. I could list these traits, but could not for the life of me take that leap into love.

I continued with my hands-on self-healing. When I had finished, I insisted that I say the words aloud: “I love you, Pam.”

Ugh. Who knew it would be this hard? Overcome with emotion, a feeling of unworthiness, I grabbed a warm blanket and took a nap.

 

Our nation is grieving. The latest massacre. Twenty-six people gunned down in the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart. Babies.

Our babies massacred every day, across our beloved country, in cities and suburbs and rural towns.

 

I open my Reiki classes with a welcome that ends with these words:

The world is in great need of healing. Let us begin with ourselves.

We, all of us, know that the road to healing is love, that love is the only way forward. There are those who are so twisted with anger and fear that they have lost sight of this truth, but in their hearts, they know it, too.

We are all children of the Divine. All of us: two-legged, four-legged, winged, scaled. We need to recognize the Divine in each other. This is not easy in a culture that preaches division. It takes practice, but it can be done. Healing is possible. When we recognize the Divine in each other, we can take action as a community to protect each other, support each other, care for each other.

I wasn’t able to comfortably say “I love you” to myself today, to recognize the Divine light that is me, partly because I haven’t heard it said to me enough in my life, especially as a child, when it mattered most. I imagine I am not alone in this.

I am going to practice. I am going to try to say “I love you” to others more often. Maybe this will help to heal a broken place in someone else, help others to see the Divine light that is them. Maybe it will help me to recognize the Divine light in myself as well.

Ha! My mind is already giving me a list of reasons why this is not a good idea. But I am going to try it anyway.

 

I hope you will be moved to share your thoughts.

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Many years ago, when I was in my twenties and living in San Francisco, holiday meals were always at Denise’s. Fifteen or 20 of us would pile into her apartment with appetizers and side dishes and wine and sweets–or, if we couldn’t afford it, just our hungry selves– to accompany whatever gorgeous main dish she had prepared. None of us, including Denise, were from California. All of us had made the pilgrimage to the West Coast, has left families back East. Holidays could have been a lonely time. But because of her generosity and joyful light, they never were.

 

On holidays, Denise, who was no older than the rest of us, was our Earth Mother. She created a space for us to enjoy some of the best holidays I ever had—before or since. I remember sitting in her kitchen eating Ritz crackers and cream cheese (something my organic-eating self would never have eaten at home, but loving every single mouthful of) while she cooked and told stories and laughed. Denise was from Guatemala, had had a tough childhood, had lived in grinding poverty, but it was some time before she shared that with me, and I would have never guessed.

 

My beautiful white dog, Shambalah, was always invited. She was the only four-legged who was. Denise lived by the park where I walked Shambalah, and on weekends we would sometimes stop in to visit with Denise, who would always coo and fuss over Shambalah for minutes before looking up with her brilliant smile and asking me how I was. Once, only once, I stopped by Denise’s without Shambalah. I never made that mistake again.

 

We were friends in the days before Facebook, before the Internet, before personal computers. I moved from San Francisco, to New Mexico, to New Jersey, and finally back home to Chicago. Somewhere on that trip back home, I lost my address book. I lost all of my school buddies, all of my work buddies. I lost everyone. Including Denise.

 

I think of Denise from time to time, especially at holidays. Much of my young, and even not-so-young, adult life was spent in turmoil, in sadness, in depression. Holidays could be a dark time. And so I thank Denise for the beautiful memories, for her kindness, her generosity. And I thank her for showing all of us, for showing me, the true meaning of the holidays, the true meaning of family.

 

I am a happy person now, but I know many are not. Many are lonely and afraid, hungry, ill, homeless. This holiday season, and throughout the year, I will do my best to share the little piece of Denise that will always live in my heart.

 

 

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Thanksgiving is still a few weeks away, but today, on the suggestion of a dear friend, I got a head start. I began a gratitude list.

As I do my daily Reiki self-healing, I recite the five precepts, often pausing at the third—“Just for today, I will give thanks for my many blessings”—and listing the people, things, and circumstances I am thankful for: good health, a roof over my head, my beautiful animal companions, my vibrant and loving faith community.

But creating a list, sitting in the barn with my horses and a note pad and just writing, writing, writing, was a new experience. As the list grew, the smile in my heart grew.

Last week was brutal. The loss of daylight coupled with the low, low, low barometric pressure that accompanied Sandy (yes, even here in the Midwest), the connection to the fear and grief so many were experiencing hundreds of miles away on the East Coast,  plus the resurgence of a few personal demons I thought I had shown the door made for a week scarred by tears and even, at times, an empty sense of despair.

But here I was writing a list of things I am grateful for, and the list just kept growing, item after item after item: a safe barn; my horses, Tara and Fuersti; my beloved dog, Elika; my generous mother who has helped me through some troubled times; my sister, Dian; my Reiki teacher, Diane Stammer, who passed some years ago; high school and college friends I have reunited with on Facebook (Maria and Sammie and David and Teri); my writing classes; a barn full of hay; avocados in winter; the right to vote; healthy food; my computer; the Internet.

And I even dared to be grateful for the positive qualities that make me, me: my questioning mind; my creativity; my resourcefulness; my ability to forgive; my ability to hear.

Old friends, new friends, cell phones, the glorious diversity of nature, good music, good books, the spirit world, black beans and rice.

 

Just a fraction of what I wrote sitting on a bench in the barn, the night air chilled, the sweet breath of my horses, the promise of another day.

 

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Sitting in the passenger seat of my neighbor’s truck as it crawled down the road, hazard lights flashing, I was starting to hyperventilate. The barn door had blown open in the fierce wind, and my two horses, Tara and Fuersti, had run the length of the barn aisle and out the front door. I called to them, but they didn’t stop. As they headed for the neighbor’s yard, I grabbed my phone, a halter and lead rope.

 

They didn’t stop in the neighbors’ yard. They took off across an adjoining corn field that had just been harvested, nothing left but pale yellow stubble. An endless field, acre upon acre upon acre bordering a busy road. It was dusk; very soon it would be dark.

 

They disappeared. Vanished. I simply could not see them, had no idea where they had gone. I dialed 911, got a recorded message that my call could not go through as dialed. What?

 

I ran to the neighbors’ house, knocked on the patio door. Carolyn was washing dinner dishes, just finishing up, and she smiled and opened the back door. We had only met once before. I live in town; these are my horses’ neighbors. And my horses have only lived here for a few months.

 

“My horses got out,” I said, breathless.” I don’t know where they are. I can’t get 911 on my phone. They could be headed for the road.” My terror was so thick, I couldn’t even feel the fear. It was reduced to a piercing thought: They could be killed on that road.

 

Carolyn handed me her home phone, and I dialed 911. The operator connected me to the Sheriff’s department. I said, “My horses are out; they could be headed for McGuire Road.”

 

A busy road at rush hour.  And even when it isn’t so busy, the speed limit is 55. Traffic speeds by at 60. Easy.

 

The operator said, annoyed, “I don’t know what we can do for you.” I wanted to reach through the phone and slap sense into her frozen brain. I said, “What you can do is send an officer out here to help me find them. They could be on McGuire Road!” What was wrong with this woman? What on earth was wrong with her? Did she not understand that not only were my horses at risk but that a human could die in a collision with a 1200-pound animal?

 

Carolyn’s husband, Ron, grabbed his coat and said he would drive me around in his truck, help me find them. Carolyn stood sentry in the driveway the two properties share. Before we got into the truck, Ron and I walked to the edge of their yard and looked into the corn field, in the direction Fuersti and Tara had run. There was still a little bit of light, not much. We didn’t see them.

 

And so we drove slowly, slowly up and down the busy road, my mind tripping over itself. What if they are on the road? What if they’ve already been hit? What if they just kept running? “They could be anywhere,” I said, field after field after empty field.

 

We pulled into a neighbor’s yard, and I ran to the door, knocked. The woman peered through the glass, didn’t want to open the door—did I look that scary?—but she finally did. She had horses, said she would check out back and see if mine were hanging out there. I gave her my cell number, asked her to call if she saw them.

 

I jumped back in the truck, and Ron and I drove back down the driveway to McGuire Road, spotted the Sheriff’s police car and pulled up next to it, its searchlight piercing the darkening fields. I told the officer they were my horses we were looking for. She seemed bored. She said she had my number. A minute or so later, she was gone.

 

“These horses are my life,” I said. Ron nodded.

 

We circled back to our shared driveway. Carolyn had not seen them. We headed back onto the road. I didn’t know what do to. I did not know what to do. I started to hyperventilate.

 

Then I caught myself. I said to Ron, “You know, I’m an animal communicator.” Had it slipped my mind? Had I forgotten who I was?

 

Oh? he said. I sensed he didn’t know what to make of that.

 

I calmed my breath, my heart. I found my still center. “Fuersti,” I said, “where are you?”

 

He said, “Oh, we’re not far.” And then he showed me where they were.

 

I said to Ron, “They didn’t cross the road. They’re not far.” I pointed. “They’re over there.”

 

He pulled onto a dirt road that ran through the corn field adjacent to his house. As soon as we pulled in, I saw Tara and Fuersti in the headlights.

 

They were jazzed up from the wind and the run, full of adrenaline— but I was finally able to get a rope around Tara’s neck and begin to walk her out of the field. Fuersti followed. It was completely dark now. Ron kindly led me back across the field, through his yard, and to the barn and then held Tara in the front yard while I got a rope for Fuersti. Then he led Tara inside, waited until they were both safely in the arena, the gate latched.

 

I offered him a ride back to his truck, but he said, “No, stay with your horses; I’m fine.” I threw my arms around him. “Thank you. Thank you. You are the best neighbors I have ever had.”

 

Tara and Fuersti looked at me impatiently, like, OK, we’re here now, so where’s our food? As though nothing had happened. Nothing.

 

“Jerk,” I said to Fuersti, the instigator. Tara would never have done this on her own.

 

“You’re a jerk, Fuersti,” I said, my heart swelling with relief, with love.

 

Not 10 minutes latter, as they were munching their dinner in the arena and I had finished spreading their nighttime hay in the paddock, a cold rain began to fall. It was pitch black now. No moon, no stars. Dark and cold and wet. And we, all of us, were safe.

 

 

 

I have fixed the latch, so the barn door can’t blow open again.

 

I brought flowers to my beautiful neighbors.

 

And I will try my best to remember this: Enveloped in a cloud of fear, I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, could barely breathe. But when I found that still, quiet place inside of me, I knew exactly where to go.

 

 

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A few days ago a former Reiki student, a beautiful, loving woman who is devoted to the well-being of animals in distress, a woman who I am now honored to call friend, sent me a link to an incredibly moving video: In Memory of Ol’ Boy.

Ol’ Boy was a stray dog who had lived on the streets his whole life. He was found, ill and in pain, on the last day of his life.

The care that he received—not veterinary care, which he also received—but loving care, was exquisite in its tender mercy. Especially moving was the ritual treatment of his body after his passing.

 

I was so pleased that the services of a communicator had been used and Ol Boy’s wishes followed without question.

In my many years as a communicator, I have learned that the animals have strong opinions about whether they are ready to leave and whether they need assistance. But we need to ask them. And we need to listen to their response.

 

To me, this gorgeous video is not only about the mercy extended to one dying animal, but raises questions about the ways we can extend mercy to others in our daily lives. Just watching it softened my heart and helped me to walk more softly through the day.

Here’s the link:

http://www.godvine.com/Lonely-Old-Dog-Has-His-Dying-Wish-Come-True-To-Be-Loved–1943.html

 

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A quiet evening in the barn, the air cool, the wind soft in the trees outside the door, I watch with delight as my two horses, Tara and her brother Fuersti, groom each other after dinner.

 

Fuersti has begun the ritual, as he most often does, approaching his sister and nibbling on her withers. She positions herself so she can nibble back. Eventually, they stand head to tail, nibbling each other’s hips, flanks.

 

 

My horses were born outside and have lived outside their whole lives, with free-choice hay, only coming into stalls to eat twice a day. But at the barn we moved to a few months ago, I don’t even bring them into stalls. I just invite them into the arena, lay down two tarps and place their feed dishes on those. It took a few weeks of close monitoring, but now they leave each other’s food alone, each sticking to her or his own space, only coming together after their meal.

 

While they have groomed each other for much, if not all, of their lives, the after-meal ritual is new. And I am both honored and delighted to witness it.

 

Make no mistake, while there is tenderness here, there are also teeth, and great concentration. While I have never before interrupted them, on this evening, I approach Fuersti to give him a sizeable glob of food he has dropped. This is a horse who loves his food, who will do just about anything for food. Yet, when I hold my hand out to share the leftovers, he does not even look. He is in another place, gently and intensely tending to his sister’s flank.

 

 

Some years ago, when Tara and Fuersti were very young, before they were “mine,” when they were living with their mothers on a small farm that I watched over for a couple of years, I went into the barn late one night to get hay to spread in the paddock and to check on everyone. The horses could freely walk in and out of one end of the barn. Tara’s mother, Kinsale, was there, napping. I greeted her, reached over the gate to rub her head, and then joined her on the other side, scratching her withers and back. Tara soon joined us, and then Willie, Fuersti’s mom.

 

So here we were, the four female inhabitants of the farm, in a circle, grooming each other. I was scratching and gently rubbing Kinsale, who was grooming Tara, who was grooming Willie. I explained to Willie that I didn’t really want her teeth on me, so she turned and groomed Tara as well.

 

After a few calm and beautiful minutes, Fuersti, suddenly realizing he was alone outside, came charging into the barn. He never walked in those days; he was always in rapid motion, something akin to a hurricane.

 

“What are we doing?” he seemed to say. “Oh, we’re grooming?” and then, not wanting to be left out, launched himself into the circle and begin biting—hard—on his mother, which resulted in him getting bitten back, the circle completely falling apart, and me quickly moving myself to the other side of the gate while they worked things out.

 

Ah, Fuersti.

 

 

Watching him now makes my heart sing. He is so tender, so kind. His sister has put up with so much nonsense from him over the years, it is a joy to see her cared for in this way.

 

The sun is setting, the arena is darkening. I open the gate, and they go out, begin munching hay against the backdrop of the pink sky. A few birds call out on their way home for the night. A coyote howls. My heart is full.

 

 

For a moment, I wonder how life would be if humans routinely shared their own after-meal ritual of tenderness.

 

 

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I shared distance Reiki sessions weekly for several months with Sid, a beautiful standard Schnauzer who was infected with cancer. During our first session, he had told me what his human had already sensed: that he did not want surgery.

 

His human and I agreed that the Reiki sessions were keeping him comfortable. His spirits were good, as was his appetite. He was at peace.

 

One evening after sharing a session with Sid, I sensed that I was being asked to lie down. And so I got out of my chair and lay on the floor.

 

Immediately, I felt Sid’s presence on my left side.

 

And then, on my right side, I felt the presence of my beloved Shambalah, my Earth-mother dog, who had passed several years earlier.

 

Both creatures placed their noses on my heart. I had been under a great deal of stress for several months, but all of that dissolved, flowed out of me. I was loved; I was floating; I was at peace.

 

 

 

Mondays this summer, I have been assisting with cookouts for homeless persons in my county, persons forced to sleep in their cars or in the woods or fields because the rotating shelters are closed for the summer. I have attended five or six times now, and while I am not required to attend each week, I look forward to it. I do not experience our time together as “helping the homeless” but as lunch with friends.

 

I have been moved by the strength and courage and dignity of the people I have met. They have lost just about everything, but they stand tall, greet us with open faces and hearts, and freely express their gratitude for the meals we share.

 

I have been particularly moved by one woman’s story. In 2008, she lost her job as an executive assistant at a chemical company that manufactured ingredients for paint. The company had suffered crippling losses due to the burst housing bubble and the decline in the auto industry. A large number of employees at her company were laid off.

 

She had unemployment for awhile; she had her savings. When it was all gone, she left her apartment. She told me that she hadn’t yet been asked to leave, but she was out of money, and there was no job in sight, so she just left.

 

I asked her what she did with her belongings. She said she donated them to the St. Vincent DePaul resale shop, a charity. She gave everything away.

 

Now, she is living in her car.

 

She applies for jobs almost daily. She is tired; her rail-thin body says she doesn’t get enough to eat. But her heart is filled with love for those around her and with gratitude for what she has. “Thank you,” she says, “for this meal. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

 

As we load up our cars to leave, the thank you’s come from all directions, the smiles, the hands raised in good-bye. See you next week. Take care. Be well.

 

No matter what is going on in my life, what stresses or hardships, I always leave this Monday cookout with an open heart.

 

I have learned, both from two-leggeds and four-leggeds, that gratefully receiving can be as important, as life-affirming, and as healing as giving.

 

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I know that animals have a connection to the Divine because over the years the animals in my life have changed me: They have been my teachers, my healers, my guides; they have forced me to grow as a spiritual being.

 

I know because when I was 19 and lost, a white dog was left on my doorstep, a dog whose light shone so brightly, it burned a hole in my heart and saved me.

 

I know because 20 years later, a horse came to me in my sleep and set me on a new path, a horse I didn’t meet in the flesh for three years, who then turned me upside down, emptied me out and said, “You were headed over there; we are going this way, now.”

 

He brought me to my work with animals, assisted me with healings and with classes, and continues to do so, years after his passing from this world.

 

I know because 11 years ago, another white dog came into my life, told me she was mine, that she would teach me about my “wild nature.” When I resisted—because she was, after all, a little, white dog, she said, “You want a big, quiet dog.”

 

“Yes”, I said.

 

Her reply? “What will a big, quiet dog teach you about your wild nature?”

 

This little dog, Elika, is the beat of my heart. She assists me with my classes—or maybe it’s me who does the assisting. She has taught me to laugh more freely, to find joy in the ordinary, to play with wild abandon.

 

 

 

About 10 years ago, a woman called me for help with her cat, who had been urinating on the woman’s possessions—not her husband’s, only hers. The problem had become so severe—the cat had recently destroyed a shearling coat the woman’s husband had bought her for Christmas—that the woman was seriously considering relinquishing the cat to a shelter.

 

When I asked the cat about her behavior, she became indignant. She said that the woman had been treating her like a pet. She said that she was not a pet; she had come into the woman’s life as a guide and teacher. But the woman wasn’t listening. The cat was trying everything she could to get the woman’s attention.

 

I shared this with the woman, and shared ways of opening her heart so that she could hear what her cat was saying. Two weeks later, the woman called me back. She said she’d been sitting on the couch with her cat every evening, listening. She was deeply moved by this experience. She didn’t share with me what they said to each other, but the peeing on her belongings had stopped.

 

 

 

Leroy, a beautiful but severely underweight Belgian draft horse, was rescued by a woman in Connecticut. He had been an Amish work horse, worked until he was just about used up, and then sent to a feedlot—the first stop on the way to the slaughterhouse.

 

At his new home, he stood immobile, completely turned in on himself. He refused to eat or drink or join the small herd. He would not allow the woman, who had rescued many horses and knew what she was doing, to touch him.

 

When I shared my Reiki hands with Leroy, I was almost overcome by the density of his grief. He had given up. He was all alone, lost.

 

When I spoke with him, I apologized for the way he had been treated. I promised him that he would never, ever have to work again, that this was his forever home, that he was safe, that he was loved.

 

But by the end of the session, he had completely given up his grief; he had allowed himself to let go of all of the abuse he had suffered in the past. He allowed himself to step into the light of the present. His human caregiver was able to touch his shoulder. He ate. He joined the herd.

 

Leroy only lived for nine months more. One morning, he simply died. I will never forget him. He taught me how easy, how incredibly easy it is to walk away from pain and not look back.

 

 

 

After my beloved Nikos died, the horse who awakened me one night and led me to this work, I didn’t work for several months. I was devastated and needed to heal before I could assist others.

 

The first horse I worked with, Mikey, was living with my friend and hoof trimmer, Erika. She had rescued Mikey the day after I had to put my Nikos down. Ownership of Mikey had been in dispute in a divorce case, and the judge had ordered the horse put down. Nikos, at about the time of  his death, told Erika to rescue Mikey.

 

So several months after Nikos’ death, standing in Erika’s barn, I began to work with Mikey’s body and to explain what I was doing. But very quickly, I found I was unable to speak. My words felt like wet clay in my mouth; I was speaking in slow motion. I remember a brightness above Mikey’s head. When I found my voice again, and looked at Mikey, my work was done. His neck, which had been pencil thin from muscle tension, had released and was full and strong. The tension in his back was gone. And his coat, which had been a dull brown, was now brightened with red.

 

“What happened?” I said.

 

Erika answered, “Nikos was here.”

 

 

 

One summer afternoon, when I was still living in Chicago, I took a walk to the lake. As I sat on the rocks, I noticed a creature swimming in circles just off the shore. I dismissed it as a duck, but there are no ducks in Lake Michigan. I soon realized it was an injured seagull, its broken wing dragging behind him. I could not bear the thought of him dying alone, and so I spoke with him and asked him to follow me to the beach about half a mile away, the beach where I knew a flock of seagulls lived.

 

He followed me—he in the water, me on the rocks along the shore—staying a few feet behind me. There were obstacles along the way that I helped him to navigate. When I got too far ahead, I would sit and wait for him to catch up. He would pull up beside me, face me, treading water. Then we would continue, and he would drop behind me again.

 

It took us close to an hour to reach the beach. When we got there, he ran up on shore, his wing dragging. My instinct was to move towards him, but he ran me off. I spoke with a young lifeguard who was going off shift in a few minutes, and who promised to ask his boss what to do. I knew that by the time I got home, researched who to call, called, and got someone out there, the chances of evening finding the bird were slim. He was a kind young man. I trusted that he would do the right thing.

 

That night, as I sat at my computer, writing, I felt a strong presence in the room, a presence demanding that I get up from my desk, go into the living room, sit on my couch, and lay my Reiki hands on his body. It was the seagull, Sydney.

 

I shared a treatment. And he left.

 

The next night, at the same time, he came again. And I shared my Reiki hands again.

 

The third night, at the same time, he came again. This time, instead of just leaving when he had received what he’d come for, I saw him spread his wings and flap them with great power. Then he was gone. I knew that I would not see him again.

 

Up until that moment, I had been a person who struggled with needing answers to questions that could not be answered. But Sydney changed that for me. I didn’t know if his wing had mended or if he had died. I didn’t know if he had died days before. I would never know what happened to him. But I knew that he was healed.

 

 

 

I know that animals have a connection to the Divine because the things they teach us, share with us, have nothing to do with money or power or prestige or even recognition. The things they teach us

 

Compassion

Patience

Loyalty

Courage

Forgiveness

Respect

Joy

Gratitude

 

 

these are all faces of the Divine. The animals teach us that they are reflections of the Divine. And, if we listen, they teach us that we are, too.

 

I hope you will be moved to share your thoughts.

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Chorioptic mange, from mites, the kind that jump species. The goats gave it to the horses, who gave it to me. The vet didn’t believe the horses had mites; he insisted they had a bug allergy. This didn’t make sense to me since the goats had the same symptoms, and now my head was starting to itch.

 

Three hundred, thirty-five dollars later, and a call to a specialist, he had to concede that the culprits were mites. I treated the horses; the goat owner treated the goats. The next day, the insides of my arms erupted in red blisters.

 

During this same couple of weeks, I was dealing with a woman whose barn I was supposed to be moving into weeks ago. It’s a sweet place, with a large indoor arena and, if I ever get there, I’ll have the place all to myself. But I can’t move in until fence repairs are done, and for weeks she hasn’t moved forward on them.

 

Each week, I called to check on the progress and listened to her say that she hadn’t called about the fence posts yet. She was too busy. There was a dog show to get ready for. A friend was coming to visit. Her car broke down. Her life was a wreck. My stomach in knots, I offered to do it for her. I called around, found the best price. She said her guy would be out last Sunday to do the work. He didn’t show.

 

He was supposed to show today. He did. The posts had been delivered. Everything was ready to go. He walked around a couple of minutes and then announced that he can’t do it. The ground is too hard. He needs machinery. Well, yes. We are in a drought. Six weeks ago, the ground was fine. Now it’s like cement.

 

I was supposed to move my horses yesterday. I have three bales of hay in the barn where they currently live. I have cancelled a hay delivery to the new barn twice.

 

I have spent the past two weeks searching for another place.

 

I wore the insecticide cream for 15 hours, as directed. The mites should be dead. But the once-blistered patches burn like fire.

 

Today, we of the Unitarian Universalist Congregation in Woodstock, IL, said goodbye to our interim minister. The Rev. Jennifer Slade is one of the most loving, compassionate, intelligent, powerful women I have ever met. She touched my heart in ways that I will never forget. My heart aches to see her leave.

 

I came home and took a long nap. When I woke up, there were still tears. My beloved dog, Elika, licked them away, washed my whole face, laid her little head across my neck.

 

We took a short walk, because the heat is too intense for our normally long one. When we got back, I began to make calls.

 

Tomorrow, I will make a big tossed salad and take it to the weekly cookout for homeless persons that my congregation has organized. We will eat and talk and laugh; we will listen to music and play with the children. I will give thanks that I have a place to live, that I have the opportunity, if only for a few hours, to make someone’s life a little brighter.

 

 

 

 

I hope you will be moved to share your thoughts.

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