It’s odd, how sometimes, memories that we haven’t entertained in decades, suddenly flare, with vivacity, in our minds. For instance, this Girl Scout song has been playing (on repeat) in my head:
Make new friends, but keep the old:
One is silver, and the other gold.
A circle is round, it has no end.
That’s how long I want to be your friend.
I was in elementary school when I learned this song! I was a Brownie! Still, many years later, the song rings true.
As an introvert, making new friends is a bit of a challenge. I have found that friendship is not something that can be forced; it’s found. The seeds of friendship are planted in the most unlikely of places. During a college internship in Canada. In a cancer clinic. At a boyfriend’s friend’s wedding. Behind a store counter.
Then, of course, there are the old friends—the ones that have been with you since elementary school. The friendships that were created in the chaos of a Middle/High School cafeteria. And, then, when you felt lost and alone, there was the tribe that adopted you in college.
I am grateful for all of these marvelous, wonderful people. Even if we don’t speak on a regular basis, even if years fly by before we get to see each other again, these are my friends—and they are worth so much more than silver and gold.
Unrelated to the Girl Scouts, is an adage that states, “friends come and go”. This is true as well. We change. We are not stagnant water. Our personalities and preferences evolve. The goals we may have wanted to achieve last year, might not even be on our to-do list today. AND THAT’S OKAY.
Some of our friends will be able to grow with us; others, sadly, won’t. AND THAT’S OKAY, TOO. It hurts, of course, but we will always have the memories, warm in our hearts.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for visiting today. I hope you each have a tribe of your own to turn to for comfort, encouragement, and laughter. We all need light in our lives.
As you know, Dear Readers, our fur family has grown. Everyone in the house is excited about Berkley’s arrival—everyone, that is, except for Alderaan. He has some reservations about this new “brother”.
Alderaan was in the middle of a cat-nap when Berkley moved in. He was slow to wake up, and when he did, it took him a couple of hours to realize that there were two canines in his house. When he did make this discovery, this was the look that we all received:
Berkley, as described in his online bio, is afraid of cats. That fear extends even to Alderaan—who is petite, weighing in at about 11-lbs. Berkley doesn’t bark or growl at Aldie, but neither does he get closer than a yard to him.
If, for instance, Berkley is standing on the back porch waiting to come inside, and he catches a glimpse of Alderaan through the sliding, glass door, his desire to come indoors dissipates. He won’t budge. There is nothing that can entice him to come inside—not treats, not even the promise of receiving all of the tummy rubs in the world.
What Berkley doesn’t know, though, is that Alderaan has no desire to fraternize with a dog. He’s lived with Luna for over a year; he’s grown weary of being sniffed. He’d much rather sit on the mantel, where no doggo can reach him.
Prior to Berkley’s arrival, Alderaan would cuddle with me at night. Even though I’d wake up congested and itchy (cat allergy), it was completely worth it. Alderaan would sleep on my stomach, or my legs—which helped me stay put (despite the fact that PTSD wanted me to move).
Berkley tries to help me with my PTSD, too. After waking up gasping one night, Berkley licked my cheek as if trying to calm me.
So, what can I do about my two boys? They both want to cuddle. They both help me—but it seems as though they don’t want to share the same air.
Berkley has been oscillating between Team Mommy and Team Daddy (because, yes, it is a competition). On the days that he’s a mama’s boy, he’ll race upstairs as soon as I change into my pajamas. Berkley is faster than I am; if he reaches the bedroom before I do, he steals my pillows. Once he’s sleeping on those pillows, it’s over. He’s like a rock and can’t be persuaded to move.
A couple of nights ago, when Seth was working overnight and Berkley had stolen my pillows, I slept on my husband’s side of the bed. I was almost asleep when a little, gray face popped up beside mine. Alderaan had his hind legs on the floor and was stretching upwards, no doubt trying to surmise what the new dog was doing.
Berkley was asleep.
I encouraged Aldie to come up, but he wouldn’t. While whispering to Alderaan, Berkley awoke. He looked at me, at Alderaan, and then he ran out of the room. He came back twice, and ran away twice. After observing this, Aldie had had enough of the drama. He left the room, too.
As a double-agent, Berkley has taken to wandering at night—especially if Daddy is home. Alderaan does not trust that the dog’s absence is permanent and will not come into the bedroom (unless he wants to hide under the bed and/or demand an early breakfast).
Alderaan is still my writing companion, though, and whenever I am at the kitchen table tapping away on my keyboard, he jumps up into my lap. In fact, he watched me write this blog entry. He was purring…so I think he approves of it.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. It truly lights up my world. Please continue sending prayers, love and light.
A couple of weeks ago, a dear friend found Berkley’s bio online. She shared it with us; everything we read about this young pup matched up with what we needed to complement our fur family. Berkley was reportedly a snuggle-bug. Calm. Sweet-natured. We knew, immediately, that he was the perfect fur baby for us. There was no choice. We needed to bring him home.
Berkley was originally in Texas, fostered by individuals volunteering for the Great Divide Animal Rescue (an incredible non-profit organization). We submitted an application—to adopt him—and we were approved!
Thus, on Saturday, July 27th, we drove 4.5-hours to Connecticut to pick up our newest fur baby. It was worth every minute and mile. How did Berkley find his way north? In the back of a tractor trailer, operated by another wonderful non-profit organization, Rescue Road Trips.
The tractor trailer arrived shortly after we did; we watched, standing beside other fur parents-to-be, as rescue dog after rescue dog was unloaded. It was magical and inspiring knowing that so many lives had been saved from imminent euthanization. The dogs celebrated as they stepped out of the trailer. There were happy barks. Wagging tails. Small dogs, big dogs. So many personalities!
Although I had seen Berkley’s profile picture online, I will admit to being afraid that I wouldn’t recognize him. It didn’t really matter, though, because he recognized us. One of the rescue’s volunteers led him over to us, and he immediately started kissing on us and wagging his tail.
Berkley is a Labrador Retriever and German Shorthair Pointer mix. His coat is ebony, but if the sunlight hits his fur just right, you can see red highlights. He has dappled paws as well as a dappled tummy (he loves tummy rubs!). The tip of his tail is white. He’s adorable and behaves exactly as his online profile described.
He’s also a mama’s boy. For this surprise, I am so, so grateful. I haven’t been anyone’s person since our family dog, Nissa and, then, later, my cat Wallace, passed away. Much of my heart will always belong to them, but Berkley’s presence will undoubtedly help stitch the wound up.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here. I appreciate all of your prayers, love and light. Your good energy does have an impact! Do you remember that dental exam I was feeling anxious about? The results: No new cavities. No root canal needed. Inflammation of the gums due to radiation, yes, but overall, my dentist was pleased at how well I had taken care of my mouth. Prior to transplant in 2017, I had to have a dental exam in which three teeth were marked as eventually requiring crowns. One of those teeth broke in January, and was subsequently crowned. Now, it’s time to take care of one of the others.
What can you write about after sharing a moment as joyous and as monumental as your wedding day? I can’t match that. I’m not even going to try. I was, however, recently reminded that the” little things” in life are as significant as the “big things”.
The small things often teach us important lessons.
I heard—or read—at some point in my life, that if you talk to your houseplants, it will help them grow. I’m not good with plants; my thumb is not green. Curious, though, I decided to talk to the potted tomato plant on our porch.
Would it work? Would whispering words of encouragement to my little plant help it grow?
Whenever I water it, I tell my tomato plant that it can grow tall. I tell it that it can sink it’s roots deep.
Thus far, my tomato plant has lived well-beyond the average lifespan of most of the plants that have been left in my care. Not only is it taller, it now sports several yellow flowers!
On a darker note, I don’t like ants.
I squish them, and then flush them down the toilet.
Why do I go to such extremes to get rid of them? Because, like talking to plants, at some point in my life, I heard that ants will come back for their deceased. I had my doubts about this as well, but, then, I observed this:
Yes. This blurry picture is of a rather large, black ant—trying to carry the crumpled body of another ant home. These insects, which I abhor, have a code. A code of honor. They come back for their fallen.
These little things—plants demonstrating the power of words, ants exhibiting determination to care for each other—albeit it for only a second, it takes my breath away.
Caring for each other matters.
We have the power to do such good in this world! And, if we follow Mother Nature’s cues, we might just become better people.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. Please continue to send prayers, love, and light. We’ve only started trying to put Humpty-Dumpty (that’s me) back together again.
I promised, Dear Readers, that I would share a longer, and happier, post this week.
As many of you already know, my fiancé and I were married on Sunday, June 9th, 2019 at Ausable Brewing Company (we were the first couple to get married at the brewery). My fiancé and I had been engaged for 2.5 years—and we had wanted to get married sooner—but, you know, cancer. And, transplant. And, timing.
Then, while on the road to an appointment in Boston, we started talking, once again, about getting married. We brainstormed venues, photographers, and ways to work around my unpredictable immune system. The conversation was an exciting rush, volleying ideas back and forth. There was this moment, when we both knew, that getting married was finally possible.
Our mothers helped make this dream come true. My mother and my Maid of Honor helped me pick out my wedding dress—which my mom paid for. She helped me get dressed, pinning my flower crown and veil to my hair. My mother-in-law purchased the perfect card box for our wedding and helped decorate the brewery’s pavilion the morning of the ceremony.
We wanted a small wedding for several reasons—one of which was my immune system. My immune system is almost 21-months old now, but I am not completely vaccinated. It was a risk to have a wedding. Every hug, every handshake, although offered in friendship, could result in illness.
I was, as I am sure you can imagine, nervous about mingling with our guests. True, the gathering consisted of immediate family and close friends that would never endanger me, but I felt nauseous anyways. I kept having this recurring fear of contracting the chicken pox (because, yes, I’m not vaccinated against that yet).
My feelings of anxiety settled a bit, when Pachelbel’s Cannon in D Major started to play. I watched my lovely Maid of Honor and the Best Man weave their way through the brewery’s pavilion, joining our guests behind an old barn. I was up next. My father led me down that same path, kissing my check when we reached our Officiant, Steph.
One look at my fiancé, and happiness bubbled up inside of me. The fear dissipated and the next thing I knew, I was doing what every new bride does: I was following the directions of our wonderful photographer, Julie (owner of JMRowe Photography). Below is a small sample of her amazing work:
My husband and I danced to Ruelle’s “I Get to Love You”, for our first dance. These pictures were captured by either our friend, Jamie, or our sister, Kate (not sure who took which picture – but am so thankful that they were shared!).
Photos courtesy of Jamie and/or Kate
Photos courtesy of Jamie and/or Kate
After dancing, I welcomed as many of our guests as I could. I gave hugs, shook hands. I was taken aback by all of the compliments that I received. Gorgeous. Beautiful. Stunning. Were they truly talking about me? I rarely feel beautiful…or comfortable in my own skin. Treatment has left me with so many scars, both visible and invisible. How could I be ‘stunning’?
Our wedding was nontraditional. As such, we hadn’t planned on doing any of the traditional dances (i.e. father-daughter, mother-son). It was a happy surprise, then, to have a dance with my dad. My brother, in charge of the music, played “I Loved Her First” by Heartland. I should preface this by saying that I have always been a Daddy’s girl. I nearly started ugly-crying halfway through the song. I had put this loving, kind man through so much—almost dying on him at least twice—and, yet, there we were. I was alive—and so, so grateful to have the opportunity to dance with my dad.
“You’ll always be my pumpkin,” he said when the dance ended.
Our wedding was not only the beginning of our marriage; it was also an enormous leap toward normalcy, toward healing.
The next day, while lying in the MRI machine, I began to review everything that had happened at our wedding. I had been so joyful. I had felt so loved, so blessed. Tears of gratitude began to slide down my cheeks.
I have waited a long time to be happy, to feel okay about myself, to feel hopeful. No more waiting, Dear Readers. Life is too short. As my oncologist told me after my scans, “we did a lot of terrible things to you. Now it’s time to put Laura back together again”.
Let the real work begin.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here, for your patience, and for your prayers. You have been a well-spring of support. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Well, Dear Readers, it appears that I’m finally going to post an entry about a holiday on the actual holiday. This is rare. Maybe even ground-breaking (for my blog).
I have, over the years, found that most blog posts originate from questions. Today’s first question is a rather common one: what is the difference between Veterans Day and Memorial Day?
Veterans Day – a day to remember those men and women who have served in the armed services. We, in the U.S.A., observe Veterans Day on November 11th.
Memorial Day – a day to remember all those who have died in battle, while serving in the armed services.
I spent some time reading up on Memorial Day—mostly because it triggered pleasant memories from my childhood. Every Memorial Day weekend, while at church, an elderly couple (whom I was quite fond of) would distribute red, paper poppies to everyone in the congregation. We were supposed to wear these poppies, in remembrance of the fallen.
My next question (which I consulted the interwebs about) was: how do we honor our war-dead?
According to my findings, we can raise the American Flag (some sources say to raise it only to half-mast).
One source suggested attending a parade—preferably one in which current military personnel are involved.
My internet research also directed me to a poem written by John McCrae, a Canadian soldier and surgeon. Written in the early 1900’s, McCrae’s poem is entitled, In Flanders Fields. I’m not sure why I wasn’t introduced to this poem earlier in life…but I do recommend it. It is beautiful, heartbreaking, and so powerful that it is deafening. It is life and death. Loss and victory. It is, essentially, why Memorial Day exists.
I don’t have paper poppies to wear today.
I might not need them, though, as the research I did for this post has been both a lesson and a reminder that will stay with me. We can’t forget our fallen heroes. We can’t let this day pass without thinking about them and their sacrifices.
These wishes for a “Happy Easter” are either a day late (if one celebrates Easter Sunday) or right on time for those that celebrate Easter Monday.
Either way, Dear Readers, I hope you were/are able to celebrate Easter in the way that best suits you—whether that was attending an early morning church service and singing hymns (i.e. “Christ the Lord is Risen Today”), or hiding plastic Easter eggs in your backyard for your kids to find. Maybe you and your family celebrate with a delicious Easter dinner.
Or, maybe, the holiday is a time of reflection—to note all of the little ways in which spring has influenced our surroundings—and to ponder renewal, regrowth, resurrection. Maybe it’s finding the first daffodil or crocus brave enough to push through the earth. Maybe it’s sitting on your porch, eating jelly beans, and listening to birdsong.
Whatever you chose to do, I hope it filled your heart with joy and excitement for spring. I hope it motivated you to be a good steward today, Earth Day. I hope that that happiness stays with you throughout the week.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here. Please keep the prayers, love and light coming. I am having my port surgically removed this coming week. Please pray that the procedure goes smoothly, that I heal quickly, and that I don’t remember any of it!
We all have our own eccentricities. We have habits that we can’t remember when, or why, they started. In fact, our quirks may be so embedded in our day-to-day lives that we can’t even recognize them anymore.
One of my quirks (which I am aware of only because it involves conscious decision-making) is to pick my coffee cup each morning, not by how much coffee it will hold, but by what it says. For instance, I pick this coffee cup when I need to feel stability, positive energy, and/or need to smile.
“Live. Laugh. Love.” It’s the recipe for happiness. And, who doesn’t want to have a happy day?
You may remember this coffee mug from a previous post. Yes, I drink from this cup when I’m writing—and particularly when characters have some bad karma coming their way. I invest a lot of time and energy into crafting my fictional characters; it hurts to injure and/or kill them. Sometimes, though, the plot requires suffering. As a writer, I do what I have to do.
Similar to some of my characters, and the unfortunate events that befall them, I, too, need healing. It is at this moment, that I reach for this handmade coffee cup:
Made by Healing Touch Pottery, the stone embedded in this cup’s handle is believed to encourage healing. My body, mind, and soul need a lot of that.
And, let’s not forget the mugs that make me giggle:
As some of you know, I became a Harry Potter fan later than the rest of my cohort. I was in my late twenties when I finally sat down to read the second book of the series. From there, I couldn’t stop reading. For a time, I read non-stop, until there was nothing left to read. Fortunately, it’s a series that is easy to revisit.
You may not know this about me, but I have very little confidence. My self-esteem has flat-lined over the past few years. I don’t feel strong or brave, so, having a coffee mug that tells me, “I’m Fucking Magical”, gives me a much-needed boost. It makes me believe that I might accomplish good—or maybe even great things—during my day. It buoys my spirits, energizes me, and makes me feel special.
Of course, there are some mornings, wherein I just need love:
This mug helps me on the mornings when I feel as though my tank is empty, as though there’s nothing left of me to give or share. I take a sip of coffee from this cup, and, somehow, I feel loved and capable of sharing love with others.
I believe, Dear Readers, that love—to be cared for deeply by someone or something (i.e. a pet)—is as essential as food and water. So, too, is being kind and caring toward others.
As always, thank you so much for your prayers, love, and light. You have carried me through so much and I am so, so grateful for your presence here.
Some of you may remember my posts in the spring/summer of 2018, regarding the Robin that would sit on our windowsill, looking in on us.
I’m not certain if it was this Robin—or another Robin—that nested in our porch rafters, but the family has returned:
I see them, almost daily, in our backyard. They haven’t reclaimed their nest yet, but I think that will come with time. After all, as the English proverb says, “Birds of a feather flock together”.
Although there is some question as to whether or not the European Starlings ever left for the winter months, they, too, are often in the backyard now. Starlings are a bit like shape-shifters, donning white spots in the winter, and jet-colored feathers in the summer. I do hope, though, that they don’t decide to nest in our chimney again; they’re truly a noisy bunch.
We’ve also had surprise visitors, including several Mourning Doves. They are beautiful, graceful birds. I admire their song—even if it is sorrowful, even if it’s a tune that sounds like a question, “who, who, who”.
Finally, we have spotted a pair of Cardinals in the trees. They’re bright, cheerful. I understand that many people believe that Cardinals are sent by deceased loved ones as messengers. There’s something comforting about that belief. I’m not sure who’s sending these messengers to us, or why they are, but I think the message must be, “I love you”.
I learned, while preparing this post, that birds are extremely difficult to photograph! If you have any photography advice regarding birds, please feel free to share it in the comment section.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for continuing to encourage my writing habit. Please continue to send prayers, light and love. I’m still tapering my anti-rejection medication…and I can’t even begin to describe how happy I will be when I am finally taken off of it!
I wanted an older dog. I wanted an old soul that was house-trained, had good manners, and was slow-moving. Why? Because, in April of 2018, I was still slow-moving. The tumor in my spine (although radiated into oblivion) and the drop foot that I had developed while in the hospital, had left me unsteady on my feet. I couldn’t imagine taking an energetic pup for a walk.
In this, though, I firmly believe: we’re not always given what we think we want. We’re given what we need.
As is written in the Holy Bible: New International Version, in the book of Jeremiah 29:11: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
So, no, a puppy was not part of my plan. She was part of a bigger plan.
I needed a copper-colored puppy.
I needed someone to walk on a regular basis. I needed someone to challenge my pace. I needed a baby to feed and cuddle. I needed Luna.
Was it all cuddles and neat obedience tricks? Absolutely not. She tested my patience like no one ever has. She chewed up countless shirts and yoga pants (while I was wearing them). She destroyed all of her plush toys—even the ones that claimed to be “indestructible”.
Despite these growing pains, she has become a reliable and comforting presence.
She’s my little guardian—letting me know when there’s a stranger in the yard (i.e. UPS) or strange creatures (i.e. wild turkeys)
She’s my therapy when I’m anxious. One touch of her super-soft fur, and the world feels right again.
She’s my Netflix binge-buddy—curling up beside me on the couch, watching superheroes save the world, documentaries on Vikings, or whatever else I might happen to be obsessed with.
I cannot believe how much—and how fast—she has grown up! Born as a member of a “surprise liter”, on an April 1st that was both Easter and April Fool’s Day, she is truly special. I often wonder, “where has my baby girl gone”? She’s still here, just taller and weighing in at 55-60 pounds. Her bark has changed, too. It’s louder, it’s part howl, and it frightens wild turkeys away.
She has a big, beautiful heart.
Happy 1st Birthday, Luna! Daddy and I love you to the moon and back.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your continued prayers, love and light. Your encouragement sustains me.