This, Dear Readers, is not my usual blog entry. I do not have any thrilling announcements or anecdotes to write about. I do, however, have a quote that I would like to share:
“We chose to love each other every single day.”
-Violet Bridgerton, Bridgerton, Season 1: After the Rain
I heard these words while watching the last episode of the original Netflix series, Bridgerton. In this particular scene, Lady Violet Bridgerton is explaining to her newly-wed daughter how her own marriage had worked. Violet’s words immediately resonated with me.
Her advice, when summarized, is seemingly simple yet so profound. “Choose love, every day” is both a credo and an insightful edict.
To choose love, as a response, as an action, is so very important! The exciting part about it is that we have the capability to do so every day, in every situation.
Choose to respond with love in your personal relationships—whether romantic, familial, platonic, and even when taking care of yourself.
Choose loving-kindness when interacting with the outside world—whether on the phone with a telemarketer, on the internet, or in-person when venturing safely out in public.
Choose love as the emotion that permeates your heart, your life, your world.
Love—and to love—is a gift. A superpower. A chosen perspective put into motion.
How should I start the last blog entry of 2020? Maybe, I should begin by telling you that Alderaan and I are upstairs in my office? He’s in my lap, peeved that I took over the computer chair—which he whole-heartedly believes is his. Or, maybe by noting the weather? Writing something about how it rained Christmas day, but today, the day after the holiday, there are miniscule snowflakes drifting earthward?
Should I admit to having the post-holiday blues? Because I do.
Christmas, in our house, was warm and happy. Due to our competing work schedules, I don’t often have the opportunity to spend an entire day with my husband. The fact that we were able to spend Christmas Day together was wonderful. Magical. Fun.
Our boys woke me up at 4:12am, not because of the allure of Christmas presents, but because there was a stiff competition as to who was going to cuddle Mommy. Alderaan, having slept on my pillow all night, immediately became unhappy when Berkley made an early morning appearance. In fact, Alderaan lost his composure completely when Berkley had the audacity to jump on the bed, spread out beside Mommy, and then put his head on Mom’s chest.
Alderaan jumped off the bed, landing loudly on the floor, and stormed out the bedroom door. He came back though, moving silently through the shadows, and managing to climb atop the bedside shelving unit without being detected. From there, he started swiping knick-knacks onto the floor.
Nothing was broken…but it’s impossible to go back to sleep when you’re worried that a picture frame might be the next thing to be knocked down.
The entire household was up after that—Christmas lights and music were turned on. Dishes were washed and the furbabies were fed. Stockings were unpacked, and my husband and I were blessed by the sight of our furry children enjoying their presents—bones, a mega-sized tennis ball, and a cat toy that resembles a flattened mouse:
Still getting used to seeing it on the floor….
These weren’t the only presents given out. Twenty-minutes away, my parents and brother were unwrapping the gifts that we had chosen for them.
I have made a tradition of hand-painting Christmas ornaments. In past years, these typically consisted of pre-made wood or ceramic shapes that I would add acrylic color to. This year—for reasons that even I don’t know—I chose to paint scenes on wood slices. It’s a time-consuming process that my carpel tunnel resents. The results, however, far outweigh the cost. The ability to share how much I love and appreciate someone through art, is absolutely worth it.
I painted a family of snowmen for my mom and a masked polar bear for my brother. Although I personalized these ornaments in subtle ways, neither of these designs were 100% mine. Pinterest is an artist’s treasure trove (if you don’t have an account, I highly recommend getting one)!
Initially, I had planned to paint a woodland scene for my father, the woodcutter. I sketched a few ideas on loose-leaf paper, but it didn’t ‘fit’. I needed to paint something more personal, something with meaning. I soon found myself trolling my brother’s Facebook pictures, searching for photos of our father’s barn.
The barn he sketched for me…
I tear up whenever I think about this barn. You see, Dear Readers, this is the barn that my father designed in 2010 while I was lying in an ICU bed. I was thankfully unconscious for most of my ICU stay, but I can remember my Dad sitting in the chair beside my bed, sketching in a little black notebook.
He talked to me about this barn of paper and pencil lead.
The dream of it somehow infiltrated the darkness—because there was so much darkness during those days. I have never felt more alone than when I was unconscious in that hospital bed, heavily sedated, relying on machines to keep me alive. To keep me here.
I know…2010 should feel like a decade ago…but when you have Post-traumatic Stress Disorder…it was yesterday.
To see that dream-barn come to fruition—that’s hope manifested, Dear Readers. That’s the reminder that all things are possible through love and faith. It’s why I cried while painting this ornament:
It pains me that I didn’t get to see my dad’s reaction when he read the back of it:
Because, you know, stupid, but necessary, COVID-restrictions/guidelines.
Love, at times, can feel so good and yet so overwhelming. It is in these instances that it produces both gratitude and grief. I feel this same mixture of emotions when I listen to Christmas Eve sermons or to faith-based songs like Jars of Clay’s “Bethlehem Town”.
I feel it, too, as tears slip down my cheeks while writing this entry—and Alderaan comes to my rescue, curling up in my lap.
Thank you for joining me here today, Dear Readers. I hope, if you encounter the post-holiday blues, that happy memories fill your heart with warmth. I hope that a temperamental cat comes along to cheer you up. I hope we don’t have to wait until Christmas 2021 to say “I love you”, “you’re a blessing to me”, and “it helped”. Sending prayers, love and light your way.
If I was still a college student, and enrolled in an anthropology course, I would draft a project proposal focusing on the history and evolution of outdoor Christmas decorations in Northern New York.
Such a research project would certainly require interviewing subjects from various generations. Just think about it – when you, Dear Reader, were a child, what kind of outdoor decorations did your grandparents display? What did your parents adorn their front yard with?
I can remember a red, wooden sleigh that my dad made. It was “pulled” by eight wooden reindeer, their bodies consisting of portly, bark-covered centers. The reindeer were attached to the sleigh by a string of beautiful lights. Each bulb resembled an intricate flower. Pink. Green. Yellow. Blue.
These were the lights of my early childhood.
My parents also decorated the front yard with a set of wooden carolers that my maternal grandfather had cut-out and a maternal aunt had hand-painted. They would stand in front of a split-rail fence, songbooks open and a blonde, wooden dog watching them. If it had been real, that dog’s tail would have been wagging.
Joy.
There’s something about outdoor Christmas lights that brings me joy. I am in awe of those displays in which a single strand of lights is loosely wrapped around the bare arms of a deciduous tree. The lights inevitably look as though they were haphazardly thrown on the tree, but once there, they’re magical, dancing, floating lights in the early morning before the sun rises. At night, they’re laughter and hope piercing the darkness.
One little light.
But, back to the lawn decorations. My paternal grandparents would put out plastic figurines—Santa Claus and, later, the whole nativity. My father built the creche for these lighted, plastic figures.
More hope. More love.
As time has gone by, I see fewer and fewer of these plastic lawn ornaments. They’ve been replaced, it seems, by blow-up decorations. It certainly is a transition, an evolution of sorts, from one decorating style to another.
I must admit, however, that I LOVE the blow-up Minions. I’m a fan of Minions—watching those movies got me through some tough times. As a bald cancer patient, I gravitated toward these bald, yellow creatures. Their hijinks made me laugh, smile. Even when my heart and my body felt like breaking, I could watch the Minions (and other children’s movies) and feel okay.
Wood. Plastic. Blow-up lawn ornaments.
What’s on your front lawn, Dear Readers?
Although our front lawn is bare, our front porch is decorated with mini lights and a pallet tree that my dad made for me. Yes, my dad can build a lot of things! Indoors, we can bask in the glow of our Fraser Fir Christmas tree as well as our natural gas fireplace.
That tree, green boughs augmented with silver garland and multi-colored lights, is also heavy with ornaments of all kinds. Beautiful, thoughtful ones that my mother crafted for us as well as many that are store-bought.
All of these decorations, all of this light, create a festive atmosphere that the fur babies seem to enjoy. Aldeeran, the king of the upstairs, enjoys viewing the decor from a warm spot on the mantle. Berkley has been spotted lying underneath the tree while scanning the backyard for wild bunnies. Luna, after playing with her plethora of neon-yellow tennis balls, often curls up on the couch, brown eyes lingering on the Christmas tree.
This is my Merry. This is my Bright. It’s not my reason for celebrating the season—my heart of hearts is not occupied by LED lights, but by the birth of Jesus Christ. STILL, that hypothetical research project would be a window into others’ traditions and versions of “holiday cheer”. So, if you’re a student or simply an inquisitive mind with some extra time, go for it. Do the research. In exchange for the idea, I want to read your paper.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here. You are a blessing to me. I am sending prayers, love and light your way.
Last weekend, my husband, a dear friend and myself went to my cousin’s farm to pick out a steer to fill our freezer. No worries, Dear Vegan & Vegetarian friends—I won’t go into greater detail than this. To be honest, I’m not even sure that I actually saw the bovine that my husband and friend picked; I was too busy trying to make friends with my cousin’s horse and German Shepherds!
So, yes, I was distracted by the dogs beside me as well as a treasured memory of a fellow elementary/middle/high school student’s German Shepherds. We rode the same school bus home, and when she was dropped off at the end of her driveway, two, rather large German Shepherds would weave through the evergreens in her front yard—just to reach her, their girl. It’s quite possible that I’ve shared this memory in a previous blog post, but my favorite recollection of these canines comes from a wintery afternoon, in which their dark coats were illuminated by falling snowflakes.
Such beauty.
Such devotion.
Such a blessing to observe.
My cousin’s shepherds aren’t nearly as big as the dogs occupying my memories, but they each had a doggie grin and a wagging tail. I asked my cousin where he had gotten his dogs from. The answer? From individuals that couldn’t care for them any longer. Although they hadn’t come from shelters, they were rescues—like our Berkley!
Berkley, as I write this entry, is lying at my feet. Luna is nearby as well. Thanksgiving, for our pups, wasn’t this placid. It was, shall I say, ‘competitive’?
Before we left my cousin’s farm, he gave us four cow bones. We, in turn, gave both Luna and Berkley a bone that day. My husband and I set aside the two remaining bones for a special occasion. Thanksgiving Day seemed like the perfect, special occasion.
Before I reveal how this treat was received, I should perhaps inform you that Berkley LOVED the first bone that he was given. In fact, he was quite protective of it, even burying it outside when he had had enough of it!
I don’t support digging holes in the backyard, but it was the cutest thing watching Berkley stash his beloved bone in the hole underneath the grill and covering it up with loose soil. When he was finished his ‘dirty’ work, Berkley’s black-and-white marbled paws were covered with a patina of cocoa-colored soil.
On Thanksgiving Day, however, the pup’s roles changed. Luna became the guardian of the bones, retrieving Berkley’s buried bone and bringing it inside. She went straight to the kennel with it, dropping the dirt-covered bone with a loud bang (most likely to announce her find). Berkley was a bit shocked by this, but recovered quickly when we removed the ‘special-occasion” bones from the freezer.
His brown eyes glowed, his white-tipped tail wagged. Berkley was so enamored with his new bone that he didn’t even walk his daddy to the back gate (an everyday ritual that both dogs keep whenever their father goes to work). Alas! His new bone needed to be gnawed on and watched.
Luna, content with her “found” bone, scurried out of the kennel and underneath the stairs to chew on it. We placed a fresh bone at the opening of her hidey-hole, so she wouldn’t feel left out. Gotta keep it fair!
Luna and the ‘found’, dirt-covered bone….
Unfortunately, Dear Readers, Berkley lowered his guard later in the afternoon.
While I separated pumpkin seeds from stringy, pumpkin innards in the kitchen, Berkley lost his bone underneath the recliner. Luna, still hiding under the stairs, was working on the old bone, but growled at Berkley whenever he came too close to her new one. It was this—her growl, that drew me into the living room. Berkley was circling the recliner, head down, dark eyes worried.
I wasn’t sure, at first, what he wanted. Luna is usually the one that loses toys and treats underneath the recliner (and she does it on purpose, too, as a game). It didn’t make sense to me that Berkley would have stuffed his bone under the chair, but the sad look on his face prompted me to lean the recliner forward anyways.
Unaccustomed to moving furniture, Berkley hesitated to retrieve his bone. Luna, a cunning and quick coonhound mix, swooped in and stole it.
I should preface this next part by saying that I love my girl, but goodness she’s talented at taunting her brother! Not only did she steal his new bone, when the pair went outside, she brought it out with her. It seemed to disappear….
Then, the next time that they ventured outdoors, Luna carried another bone out with her. This one seemed to disappear as well….
There was only one bone left in the house and our shrewd girl spirited it off to her hidey-hole.
This—observing our pups with their ‘special-occasion’ bones—was my Thanksgiving.
It was certainly not the holiday I was used to! I was physically alone—no family, no friends (thanks COVID restrictions), but I was so busy roasting pumpkin seeds and trying to establish puppy peace, that I didn’t have a chance to feel lonely.
Text messages from friends, and a phone call from my mother-in-law, kept me smiling.
Plus, whenever my heart started to yearn for company, I called my mom. At least four times! I kept her as busy as Luna was keeping me (mother like daughter?). In any case, the ability to pick up the phone and talk to my mom, was a blessing.
The dogs, despite their lack of sharing, were a blessing.
Alderaan, purring loudly beside me while I studied Norwegian, was a blessing, too.
So, yes, I was physically without my family and my husband on Thanksgiving Day, but I wasn’t really alone. Love and gratitude are everywhere—we simply have to keep an open heart and mind, and they become easier to recognize.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here, today. I hope you had a wonderful holiday filled with laughter and love! Sending prayers and light your way.
The sunrise this morning was breathtaking—and divided between the front yard and the backyard, as the weather so often is. The sky glowed Jack-o-lantern orange in the back, where Luna and Berkley play. Across the road, over the frosty field that Sneaky the cat used to haunt, it was a gentle rose.
The garage’s skylight sparkled, silver.
I can’t say, with any certainty, that winter weather is on its way. Just last week, we hit 68 degrees Fahrenheit! The week before, many local schools had morning delays.
This is life, I guess. Unpredictable. Uncontrollable. And absolutely beautiful.
A dear friend, for Christmas 2019, gifted us a coffee table calendar. Each day features the picture of a dog and an inspirational quote. Sometimes, the dogs aren’t exactly “pretty” and the quotes aren’t exactly “thought-provoking”. However, I have found joy in seeing what each new day will bring. The picture of a poodle? A pug? A retriever? Will the quote be by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow? Helen Keller? Ralph Waldo Emerson?
Each day has been a surprise, and, yes, as a hoarder, I have held onto the pages that have resonated with me!
Recently, a chocolate lab with its bubble-gum-pink tongue sticking out, shared the page with this timely quote by Anatole France:
The truth is that life is delicious, horrible, charming, frightful, sweet, bitter, and that is everything.
It really is “everything”. Life is a coin with two sides. As we so often hear, we don’t know love until we’ve been heartbroken. We don’t know what happiness is, until we’ve been brought low.
So many of us feel low right now.
I am delighted by the solutions that the people around me have concocted.
Melancholy? Bring on the magic of Christmas!
Need some light? String up those holiday strands, across the front porch and roofline (we never took ours down; let’s hope they still work)!
Need something corny and sweet? Try a Christmas-themed movie.
I was recently introduced to a Netflix original series entitled, Dash and Lily. I’m only one episode in, but I can’t wait to watch #2! Thus far, the series has been surprisingly cerebral and yet soaked in city lights and holiday traditions.
Caroling? It’s got that—and it’s got me singing Christmas hymns and carols whenever I wash the dishes (which seems to be a never-ending task). BTW – anyone know all the words to “Frosty the Snowman”? I’ve somehow forgotten them….
Is it just me, or does this snowman look a little worried?
AND—this might be the best part of Dash and Lily for me—much of it seems to revolve around a bookstore! There’s simply no way that I, a book worm, can walk away from a rom-com set among bookshelves.
*dreamy sigh*
It seems, in our COVID-infected world, that heralding Christmas cheer, light and generosity into our daily lives may be a salve for the sadness. A tincture for the terrible fear. A compress for the confusion.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. I can’t express how much you mean to me. Light up your world—with white lights, multi-color lights, blinking lights (if you must). Sing carols and children’s songs while scrubbing the silverware. Relax with a holiday film or show. It’s not rushing the season; it’s self-care.
So much has happened over the past two weeks! Most of it has been downright beautiful, deserving to be photographed, but alas, this writer did not stop to snap any shots. This blog entry, then, will be an exercise in both imagination and prose. Think of it as a pictureless scrapbook.
Can you, Dear Readers, ‘see’ what I saw?
Hidden Treasure
“Come and see what we found!” My husband’s voice was full of excitement.
He had spent the morning in the garage with his best friend, organizing the first floor. Similar to most garages, ours was cluttered with tools, garden supplies and other items that simply don’t belong in the house.
Although a small space—so small, in fact, that only a compact car can fit in it—our garage holds secrets.
We inherited a woodstove, brown with rust, as well as a hip-high, once white, farmhouse-style cabinet. It’s black, wrought iron hinges and handles whisper of another life—a life spent in a warm kitchen where such charming hardware can be cared for and admired. If it weren’t for the drawers of curled, yellow newspaper and an overabundance of “chocolate sprinkles”, I would gladly rehabilitate the cabinet and give it the home it deserves. But…you know… “chocolate sprinkles”.
Crawlspaces underneath stairs tend to be spooky with cobwebs and dust motes—and ours had all of these things—but it also harbored another woodstove!
Hidden behind a metal cabinet, my husband and his friend uncovered a replica Jotul 118 woodstove.
It was love at first sight (for me, anyways).
The replica, albeit quite rusty, features a wrought iron tableau on both of its longer sides. This tableau, in carefully crafted images, is essentially my cultural heritage. There are two lumberjacks wielding a double-handled saw. Their horse waits nearby as they undergo the slow work of felling a pine tree. A small log cabin, bordered by a deciduous tree, seems to be a fox’s intended destination. Behind the lumberjacks stands a grand moose and his family. My heart, like the birds in the wrought-iron tableau, soared with appreciation for this artwork, for this glimpse into the past. My past.
I am, after all, the woodcutter’s daughter.
The White Mountains are Ablaze
Wednesday of last week included a trip to Boston for another transplant follow-up. I drove the first leg of the journey, through Vermont and New Hampshire, with my brother riding shotgun. He did the ‘city’ driving (thank goodness!). We listened to comedy sketches, belly-laughing, until we caught sight of the White Mountains.
New Hampshire’s peaks were ablaze with scarlet, orange and gold! Set against a nearly cloudless azure-colored sky, the Autumn foliage was utterly breathtaking.
Breathe in the spectacular change of seasons, welcome the harvest and its fruits.
My harvest? After years of doing everything I have been told to do by my physicians, I am now on a “we’ll see you in a year” schedule with Boston. It’s a bittersweet victory. I’ve come to respect and love my transplant doctors, depending on them to keep me safe and healthy. It’s like graduating from high school or college—you’ve been waiting and working for this accomplishment—and, when it arrives, you’re not quite sure how to feel.
You’re going to miss the way things were. Even though traveling four-and-a-half hours there and back is tedious, those rides were often filled with singing and important conversations (like when and where to get married). Still, the excellent blood counts and the taste of freedom, is thrilling. It’s the end of a chapter, closing with a late-night ferry ride on glasslike waters and silver stars illuminating the nearly impenetrable darkness of the sky.
Rainy Days
My windshield, in need of a thorough scrub, was speckled with water droplets. Despite the heated seats and my fleece-lined stockings, I was freezing…and, stuck in the school’s parking lot. I had just finished interviewing at a local school district and was blocked in, actually, by a gathering of buttercup-yellow school buses (‘cheese boxes’, as an older cousin called them, when we were growing up).
While I waited for the buses’ departure, I spied a pair of deer across the road. They were grazing underneath an apple tree, undisturbed by their proximity to a house or to the line of buses. Maybe it was my dirty windshield, but the deer seemed framed by a thin mist, much like using a vignette in Adobe Light Room (the program I use when editing pictures).
Enchanting.
Mesmerizing.
Serene.
These were the words that filled my mind.
Frosty (And, Not the Snowman)
The sun rose slowly yesterday morning, as it does these days, revealing not a green lawn but a silver-white one. The garage roof looked as though it had an inch of snow on it! Fallen leaves glittered in the first true rays of sunshine. Luna and Berkley’s breath, visible as wispy clouds, filled the silence. Even the newly arrived winter birds were still.
This—this heavy frost—was and is a promise of the winter to come.
“Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.” – Albert Einstein.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for taking this adventure with me. I hope you could “see” New Hampshire’s colorful mountains and our frosty lawn. Sending prayers, love and light your way.
October has arrived and, with it, morning skies that are as inky and dark as the contents of a broken pen. My raised garden bed is almost entirely devoid of the color green; save for the kale that is somehow making a comeback?
There are other garden chores to attend to. This past week I transplanted my single lavender shoot. Locating a spot in the yard that offered both full sun and well-aerated soil was not an easy task. Additionally, I dug up my Gladiolus callianthus bulbs. They’re currently drying in the garage, before I pack them away for the winter.
Away.
Away like the geese migrating overhead through gray, cloudy skies.
Away like Riley, our foster dog, returning to his rightful owner.
As revealed in a previous entry (Please see, “Fare-Thee-Well”, posted 9/7/2020), I was not 100% on board with the idea of fostering a dog. Taking care of three dogs, at once, sounded impossible.
Little did I know, I would fall head-over-heels for this foster dog.
He became part of our family.
All of our fur babies came with names. Their names “fit” just fine, but, as a writer, I needed to insert some creativity into the situation. Thus, they now each have middle names.
Alderaan Birkir (an Icelandic schnaps that I ‘discovered’ while conducting research for a piece of fiction).
Luna Petunia (because it sort of rhymes?).
Berkley Fergus (I’m not responsible for this one, but he is most definitely a ‘Fergus’).
Middle names are especially important in our bed-time ritual in which I say to each fur-baby, “Goodnight, [insert fur-baby’s name]. I love you. Have sweet puppy dreams tonight.” Or, in Alderaan’s case, “Goodnight, Alderaan Birkir. I love you. Have sweet feline dreams”. I cannot take credit for this ritual; the idea for this bed-time practice came from a Facebook post shared, a few years ago, by The Joshua Fund Dog Rescue.
Similar to how we thrive when we feel loved, our fur-babies need to be reminded of how important they are, too. We may not speak the same language, but I believe that kind words and a warm tone convey the message.
When Riley moved in, I continued our bed-time practice, but I didn’t like leaving him out. He deserved to have sweet puppy dreams, too!
The goodnight formula, though, required a middle name. Did Riley have one? I had no idea…and I didn’t ask…but he needed one…so I gave him one.
Turns out, I needed help selecting one. During a wonderful FaceTime chat with a dear friend, I sought assistance with the quest for the ‘perfect’ middle name. My friend asked me if I had learned any names while studying Norwegian. I had…but none of them seemed to fit.
Riley Marius.
Riley Jens.
Riley Einar.
Nope. Nope. And nope. None of them were good enough my foster dog.
Still, as an aficionado of Norwegian, I kept searching. Had any other names appeared during my language lessons on DuoLingo? No, but I decided to give him this one: Bjørnen. In Norwegian, Bjørnen means “the bear”. If Riley is a bear, he’s a teddy bear! His presence has been such a comfort—helping me through the loss of my grandfather.
At ten years old, Riley is a gentleman. He seems to know exactly when I need a hug; he’ll walk over to me, tail wagging and mouth open in a canine grin, and wait for me to bend down and wrap my arms around his shoulders.
Tail wagging & canine grin
He is almost always my security blanket at night (except for evenings wherein he falls asleep in his own bed).
An active senior, Riley is quite playful:
He’s the shadow at my side whenever I walk down the cement path in our backyard.
I have always wanted a dog that walked beside me, without a leash. When I was a kid, I imagined that that dog would be a German Shephard. Riley isn’t a Shephard, nor is he my dog, and it will hurt to give him back to his true owner. Yet, it’s where he belongs, and I know he has a loving and safe home there.
To paraphrase what another dear friend said about this reality: he will be taking a piece of your heart when he leaves.
It’s true. I will miss my Bjørnen.
I refuse, however, to let tears dilute the beauty of the incredible month that I have experienced with Riley. I will treasure everything that he has taught me/reminded me of: patience, kindness, caring, love…and self-care—especially regarding sleep!
I am grateful for this dog…which is why I tell him, when Luna and Berkley aren’t listening, that he has been a blessing to me.
Riley’s presence, and his imminent absence, is, to me, the embodiment of Beth and Matt Redman’s praise song, “Blessed Be Your Name”:
…God you give and take away
Oh, you give and take away
[But] My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name…
I, of course, do not have any rights to these lyrics. I can and will say, however, that this is one of the most powerful worship songs that I have ever had the opportunity to hear, sing, and apply to my own life. The upbeat melody is encouraging and invigorating.
What was I given? A senior dog to love and care for—something, Dear Readers, that 2010 me, after my first cancer experience, apparently had on her bucket list:
#17. Adopt Old Dogs.
Interesting how that item manifested, right?
There can be no doubt that I will miss my Bjørnen. It is, nevertheless, my hope that Luna and Berkley will assume some of his characteristics as they age.
May they be happy.
May they be healthy.
May they, at age 10, still drag around toys to play “fetch” and “tug of war” with.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. I hope you have the opportunity to experience the love of a senior dog and how comforting s/he can be. Sending prayers, love and light your way.
With Love & Gratitude,
Laura
Update: Riley and his fur-ever family were reunited yesterday, Monday October 5th, 2020. He was so happy to see them! His wagging tail and canine grin made me smile. It was a heart-warming sight. I am so grateful to have had Riley Bjørnen in my life.
I thought—because today, September 21st, 2020, is the third anniversary of my bone marrow transplant—that I could simply write something quick about survivorship and gratitude.
Turns out, I was wrong.
In general, I utilize avoidance to cope with my medical history. I tune it out. Shove it down deep within where I can’t see it, can’t feel it, until days like today draw it up out of the water, chain link by chain link. My medical history is an anchor, holding me in place, preventing forward motion, stunting my growth.
It’s also quite possible that this coping mechanism is the reason why I resented the term “re-birthday” when I first read it. Until recently, I referred to the anniversary of my transplant as my “birthday”. I had heard other recipients in my area use the expression, but, then, after joining a national bone marrow transplant group on Facebook, I realized that the term most often used was, “re-birthday”.
My dislike for the term was so intense, in fact, that it prodded me to do some digging, some self-reflection regarding my own survivorship—things I don’t do often because of the trauma they could unearth. Still, I needed to know why I was having such a reaction. Why couldn’t I swap ‘birthday’ with ‘re-birthday’? What, honestly, was the big deal?
Finally, after days of self-investigation, I realized that I had a problem with ‘re-birthday’ because it requires the acknowledgement of a ‘re-birth’.
Re-birth.
The image that comes to my mind when I hear that word is that of a golden phoenix. Not the character from X-Men or even Dumbledore’s pet phoenix in the Harry Potter series. A phoenix, as I have always understood the myth, is a bird-like creature that rises from its own ashes.
It has to die to be reborn.
On September 21st, 2017, Laura Perras died.
Her faulty immune system—and her blood—was replaced. Gone forever. What she had been, simply disappeared.
It was in this moment, when my donor’s graft took hold that I should have risen from the ashes. I should have found a way to live, daily, with positivity and gratitude. I should have had the courage to build a new, fulfilling life.
Instead, Dear Readers, I cowered.
I cowered to the immensity of it all—to the pain of transplant, to the long-term side-effects that continually pop up, to the fear of being something other than complacent.
As one of my former therapists once said to me, ‘you can’t be the only one struggling to come back’.
It feels that way, though—lonely—when I’m online and I see fellow transplant recipients at their re-birthday parties. They’re all smiles. Laughing. Seemingly happy.
In writing this entry, Dear Readers, I have been forced to confront some of my demons—the fears, the feelings, the pain that I’m really good at ignoring. The result? I don’t want to live like this anymore.
I’m tired of worrying. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of shrinking away from what I could be.
In my quest for truth, for the definition of ‘rebirth’ even, I visited Thesaurus.com (https://www.thesaurus.com/browse/rebirth). There, I found more than synonyms; I found a roadmap to my own overdue rebirth.
Comeback – For me, this word conjures scenes from the movie, The Mighty Ducks, wherein Gordon Bombay (an attorney sentenced to do community service as a result of a DWI) rediscovers his love for hockey, for the ice, through teaching a group of kids how to play the sport.
Comeback. Come back home…to yourself.
Recovery – Upon hearing this word, I can’t help but envision the cover of a workbook that I was given during cancer experience #1. Carrots. Greens. You know, a rainbow of foods on your plate. Proper nutrition, while a significant component of healing, is not the only aspect that needs to be addressed. Mental Health. Physical Health. Emotional Health. Rest. Self-care. It is these last two building blocks that I seem to trip over on a regular basis. As such, that’s where my focus needs to be.
Rehabilitation – There are so many kinds of rehabilitation therapies! Occupational therapy, when I was in it, was a gift. I am forever grateful for the therapist that worked with me. She restored some of my confidence. Even though my brain had been to Hell and back, she showed me that not only could I learn new information, I could retain and apply it, too.
Physical therapy, well, I’m still working on this one. I can say, though, that I am loving my new rehabilitation plan—a personal, modified yoga practice! I’m stretching and balancing in ways that the tumor of 2017 stole from me. Every session is one step closer to feeling comfortable in my body, to feeling at home, to trusting it.
Then, there’s wildlife rehabilitation. You may question, what in the world are you talking about, Laura? I ask you, Dear Readers, to imagine a phoenix with a wounded wing. The joy of flight, of sailing across the sky, has been taken from her. She must patiently wait for her wing to heal before she can regain her joie de vivre.
I am not a phoenix; yet, in my own waiting, I have lost sight of the sky. There are so many days wherein joy itself seems like a distant memory, a distant goal. Thus, when I recognize it in the photographs of fellow transplant recipients celebrating their re-birthdays, it’s foreign to me. I grow jealous. This, then, is a challenge to rise up to. I will find joy, I will feel it every day, and I will share it.
Revival – As I have shared in previous blog entries, I am undergoing a spiritual revival. I have been reading the Word of God and praying on a daily basis. Revival, though, is prompting me to go deeper. I need to connect with a faith community. To volunteer. To spend more time doing what I’ve been called to do—write Christian fiction.
Reawakening – Now, let’s say that our phoenix has put the work and time in. She’s gone through all of the rehabilitation programs that she possibly can. She’s rediscovered joy. She’s pursuing her life’s calling. What then? Does she unfold her wings, feeling the wind playfully ruffle her feathers? Does she take to the skies? What does she do with this newfound freedom?
This is a reawakening, after all.
Our phoenix remembers what it feels like to soar, to be independent, functional. As a healed and happy being, our phoenix decides to embrace the term, ‘re-birthday’. She decides to thank God for being alive, instead of falling into despair, whenever another long-term side-effect of cancer treatment and/or transplant surfaces. She reaches out to her donor, checking in to see how life is treating her. She uses the words, ‘I love you’ in nearly every encounter with friends and family. She recommits herself to the (temporarily abandoned) art of gratitude journaling.
Our phoenix chooses this new life.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. This truly was a difficult post to write…but, in the end, it has been enlightening. Choose self-care. Joy. Try to trust your wings. I am sending prayers, love and light your way.
Luna and Berkley are snoring—a comforting melody for this writer. Why? Because I’m not sure how this entry is going to work out. There have been so many moments this summer that have been absolute treasures…but to share them all in one blog post…is going to require faith, patience, and self-compassion. Writing THIS will be a challenge.
Fasten your seat-belts. This might get bumpy.
It’s probably best to start indoors—in the office, actually, where Alderaan spends the afternoons sleeping in my desk chair. There’s a towel covering that seat now; he has sharp claws capable of puncturing faux-leather and he sheds like it’s going out of style. Despite the punctures and the hair, this little guy holds my heart in his paw.
Earlier in the season, he went to the veterinarian’s office for an annual check-up and his distemper shot. I had suspected that Aldie might be experiencing dental issues. He was leaving pieces of hard food, outside of his dish. They were half-chewed, half-moons. As my writing companion, he had no problem weaving around my laptop, but he did so with atrocious-smelling breath (no offense buddy).
My suspicions were confirmed after his check-up, when the vet said that Alderaan was in great health, except for having “severe” dental decay. As someone that had to have a dental evaluation prior to bone marrow transplant (because bad teeth can be a gateway for infection), I knew that I had to schedule this procedure for my beloved Aldie.
The result? He’s a kitten again!
He’s been playing with his toys, dragging them around. Alderaan has been more vocal—especially when he thinks dinner should be served. He is a gray streak racing alongside the second floor’s banisters.
He even raised a paw at Luna when she got in his face one morning (something he has never done before).
Although he has transformed into a spitfire, Alderaan still makes time for his more sedentary, favorite activities, like sitting in the kitchen window while I wash the dishes.
He spotted something interesting….
Luna and Berkley, too, are experiencing a renaissance of sorts.
Perhaps their new-found energy has its roots in their puppy play dates with Finnegan (read “Berkley Turns Three”, dated 7/27/2020, to meet our friend, Finnegan), but this 2 and 3-year-old are experiencing the zoomies again! Every night, around 5pm, they start racing around the house, playing rough and showing off their rather impressive canine teeth.
The zoomies are exhausting!
It’s all fun and games to them; to me, witnessing this vivacity is inspiring, and hopeful—maybe, someday, I’ll get some of my pre-transplant energy back?
I find inspiration in other places as well—specifically the great outdoors.
Prior to this year’s garden, I had the thumb of impending plant death. It has been both a surprise and a gift to actually grow vegetables and flowers!
As a child, I picked flowers. As an adult, I like to take pictures of them. I hope I never set this joy aside.
The Outdoor Art Club also gives me joy. Earlier in August, we visited St. Patrick’s Oratory and Mother Cabrini’s Shrine in Peru, NY.
I got lost on the way there, of course, but getting lost is half the adventure!
The oratory’s grounds were verdant—offering everything from fruit trees to yes, more flowers:
It wasn’t just the flowers that caught my attention. There was a walking trail through the woods, encouraging contemplation via a variety of spiritual icons:
The shrine, open to the outdoor air, was the perfect blend of nature and sanctuary.
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To the left of Mother Cabrini’s shrine was a small, well-maintained field with the stations of the cross.
To the right of Mother Cabrini’s shrine, and sprawling behind the oratory, was a cemetery. Little known fact (or maybe it’s known) about me, is that I LOVE cemeteries. Funerary art is fascinating! The gravity and sanctity of a cemetery plot reminds me of just how fleeting life is and how very important it is to love and to live while we’re here.
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Love, it seems, is the key to everything. How we act. How we speak. How we spend our time. Alderaan wasn’t in the kitchen window when I observed a robin feeding a youngster. I thought this scene was a bit odd, since this ‘youngster’ had functional wings, two legs and a beak that could clearly open. Its feathers were still marked with white spots, though, and this—this vulnerability reminded me of a passage I recently read in Deuteronomy 32:10-11.
In a desert land he found him,
in a barren and howling waste.
He shielded him and cared for him;
he guarded him as the apple of his eye,
like an eagle that stirs up its nest
and hovers over its young,
that spreads its wings to catch them
And carries them aloft.
– As written in the New International Version of the Holy Bible
This is God’s great love…and, yet, I can see it reflected in that mother robin’s dark eyes, too.
The summer seems to be passing us by. Crickets are chirping all day and all night now. There are red leaves on the lawn and in the little trees surrounding our porch.
There is a sadness in this. I try to remind myself that, as the garden starts to wilt, “everything has its season”. This is natural. This is life.
I deadhead my flowers, now, and tuck them away in the office to air-dry.
Later, when September arrives, I will savor a mug of hot apple cider and plan next summer’s garden.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. I hope the transition of seasons gives you time to reflect, smile with joy, and build future plans. Sending prayers, love and light your way.
We left home in the early afternoon, when the sun was high in the sky, and a touch too warm for a leather jacket and jeans. It was an adventure, though, and any degree of discomfort was worth enduring.
The motorcycle purred as we chose to take the back roads to Lake Placid instead of the usual route via the interstate.
The back roads—some damaged by winters’ frost heaves—were bumpy, curvy and framed by a beautiful array of wild flowers. Queen Anne’s Lace, Thistle and Black-eyed Susan’s were just a few of the fragrant blooms on display.
There were stands of elegant white birch, moss and ferns growing up alongside their trunks.
Passing through one sleepy hamlet, I noticed that many of the driveways had a chair positioned at the end of them. The chairs—an assortment of plastic, wooden, wicker—seemed to be in decent shape; no broken legs or frayed cushions. They clearly weren’t set by the roadside for garbage pickup and disposal. Neither did they serve a decorative purpose as none of them were festooned with containers of summer flowers.
It was a curious pattern…one that I still wonder about…and may or may not use in a piece of fiction someday!
In busier locales, the sidewalks teamed with young families and roaming teenagers. Swimmers and beach towels dotted winding river banks.
We came to an abrupt stop for two, white geese, waddling across the road.
As we drove deeper into the Adirondack Park, we were enveloped by the fresh scent of pine trees.
Arriving in Lake Placid, we parked in the lot directly across from our destination: Emma’s Lake Placed Creamery. The line of prospective patrons flowed out of the parlor’s door and out onto the sidewalk. Hungry and overheated, we decided to have a late lunch. We found the perfect place to eat—Generations Tap & Grill—a ‘hop-skip-and-a-jump’ away from the creamery.
Once seated on the restaurant’s spacious porch, we ordered the “Firetower”—a handmade Bavarian pretzel of epic proportions (accompanied by two dipping sauces) as well as a club sandwich that was so generous that we had to share it. Coupled with an IPA for the hubby and a cider for myself, our late lunch gave us all the sustenance that we needed to continue exploring the home of the 1980 Winter Olympics.
Our first stop was the Alpine Mall. I instantly fell in love with the shop, ‘Vision of Tibet’! Lured in by a rack of silk and cotton dresses, I soon found myself immersed in the beauty and rich culture of the Himalayas. There was jewelry and additional clothing items, but the items that spoke to us the most were the handcrafted singing bowls and the prayer flags strung from the boutique’s opposite walls and augmenting the ceiling. A tapestry, with an embroidered quote from the Dali Lama, caught our attention as well. It described the purpose of life—a good life—and it rang true.
Leaving the Alpine Mall, we took a sharp right and tacked ourselves onto the end of Emma’s line. Once again, the queue stretched from the creamery’s threshold to the sidewalk. The sun was shining brightly still, heating the cement underneath our feet, and making the promise of cold ice cream all the more irresistible.
Except, that, by the time we reached the door, the number of tasty (and creative options) were almost overwhelming! Hard ice cream, soft serve, milkshakes, Sundaes, Bubble tea, gelato, ice cream cake, edible cookie dough, cookie sandwiches, smoothies—and, then, the Crazy Shakes.
Knowing that it could be years before I made my way back to Lake Placid, I decided to take a leap of faith and let my sweet tooth make this difficult decision.
I chose the Cookies &Cream Crazy Shake—and it was crazy delicious!
The shake itself, an incredible blend of vanilla ice cream and Oreo cookies, would have been enough to fulfill my sugar cravings. But the shake’s creators hadn’t stopped there. Oh, no—not only were there actual cookie chunks in the shake—it was topped off with a tower of Oreo cookie sandwiches (with vanilla ice cream centers rolled in rainbow sprinkles!).
It was a work of art that elicited so many smiles:
Crossing the street, to the parking lot where the motorcycle was, we sat down beside the lot’s sign and began to feast on our own chilly treats.
“Where’d you get that?” A passerby asked me. “I think I need one.”
I was amused by how one, sugary, flawlessly constructed shake could draw out such joy—not only my own, but that of all those who glimpsed it.
The drawback of this masterpiece? I’m a messy eater to begin with, and, in the afternoon heat, my shake melted too quickly. I had grabbed a handful of napkins while in the creamery, but I wasn’t prepared for this:
I was so covered in cookie crumbs, that I needed help putting my mask back on—all so I could dive back into Emma’s for more napkins. Such a feat should have been complicated by the line of customers, but my cookie-covered hands seemed to grant me easy (and quick) passage.
To say I was ‘full’ after devouring the shake would be a lie. I was beyond full—full of ice cream, happiness, joy. Climbing back onto the motorcycle was no simple task in such a state, but a little girl, standing beside her father saying, “I want to watch the motorcycle”, somehow bolstered my resolve.
Girls can ride motorcycles, too.
We ended our trip at Donnelly’s Ice Cream in Saranac Lake. Donnelly’s is a well-known favorite for those of us who are native to the North Country. The little shop makes one flavor of ice cream a day. Once the stand sells out, that’s that. Shop closed. Fortunately, we made it before the ice cream was gone!
An arranged meeting, we joined a good friend in Donnelly’s parking lot. After we each enjoyed an extremely thick, creamy strawberry-vanilla twist, we took the back roads home.
Photo taken by our friend, Gordon, on a back road in Onchiota, NY
Thank you, Dear Readers, once again for continuing this journey with me. I do hope, that the next time that you go adventuring, you choose to take the less known roads. Sending prayers, love and light your way.
With Love & Gratitude,
Laura
Resources for the Curious:
To learn more about Donnelly’s Ice Cream, visit them on Facebook.
Vision of Tibet can also be found on Facebook, specifically @LPVisionoftibet
Of Pieridae & Perras 
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