Thoughts on Kindness

There are times when the insensitivities of others crush us to the core. Hurt as children and as adults, sometimes horrifically beyond imagination, we have become intolerant. We often forget that those who hurt us are themselves hurting. Even if we understand this, understanding is not enough to erase the memory of pain. How then do we emerge from our small prisons of pain to come back to kindness once again? Two ways: We wake up or we continue to suffer.

What happened to kindness, to the inherent generosity of spirit? It was once the first offering until we learned to suppress it, moderate it, save it up and carefully give it out to those we felt deserved it. Not to those who were unkind. Never.

If we want a kinder world, we have to be kinder to others first, without motive. Even small acts of kindness can have profound effects. I like to think that when I save a drowning bee from the swimming pool that I have saved the world. It takes fewer units of energy to be kind than to be hateful, jealous, or cruel.

The best thing about kindness is it changes us, from the inside out. We learn to forgive, even if we can’t forget, because we are being kind to ourselves. By simply being kind the whole would changes. It’s true.

Dog Fight

Today at 6 am, Ruby and I went to the Big Dog Park. It’s really a baseball diamond, but the elementary school lets us use it before and after school hours. It is our daily routine to go there most evenings, just before sunset. The dog park is our church. It is a holy place, complete with a congregation of harmonious and well-matched humans and dogs. God is with us and we are with God. No one ever asks for a donation and everyone brings their own chairs.

I came to quickly learn that God only went to the dog park in the evening. I know this for a fact, because this morning God was not there. It is entirely possible that God was just taking a day of rest. After all, it is Sunday and resting is in the Bible as something that's important to do. God was on hol-i-day.

As we approached the park, strange dogs began to bark as strange dogs will do when an intruder appears on the scene. Ruby began to bark too. “Woof, woof.” “Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof!” We made our way into the dug out, opening the first gate, still one gate separating us from the strange new dogs. Upon opening the gate, the dogs rushed at once toward Ruby like red-bellied piranha swarming around fresh meat. Ruby, being super smart, turned her head to the side, then to the other side. She did not look one single dog in the eye, avoiding all contact. She took not a step forward, but remained solidly in place. I shooed the dogs back, stepped out of the dug out on into the park and summoned Ruby to come. She followed. Big mistake. Owner stupid. Dog smart. More barking. One dog attacked and grabbed her by the neck, pinning her down. The others jumped in as well; they were a pack Ruby was not part of. My 15 pound Min Pin under the weight of at least 3 large dogs! It did not sound good. It did not look good. I immediately grabbed the neck of the dog at Ruby’s throat and pulled him off, allthewhile screaming at the others. I was finally able to free her. The owners came strolling up to see what had happened, yelling at their dogs, apologies in hand. “Our dogs have never been aggressive before.”

Ruby tried to be brave, to be tough. Those who know her know she’s a pit bull in a little dog body but bluff can only take you so far in life. Assessing her for damage, I lifted her up in the air, the strange dogs still champing on the bit. I expected blood and gaping wounds, or maybe even a dead dog. Instead, she was alive and miraculously uninjured save a little fur removed.

I guess God wasn’t taking the day off after all.

Death Does Not Become Us

When I was young only old people died; babies and children didn’t die. At least that’s what I believed. Parakeets died, and sometimes our beloved pets died. That was really hard. The death of people seemed so surreal, maybe because of the way we depersonalized it, but when my dog died, it was the most real thing that had ever happened to me.

The day Lady was run over was the first day I really understood the finality of death and the depths sadness could reach. I was maybe 9 years old at the time. Prior to getting Lady, our miniature beagle, all we were allowed were goldfish, mice, rats, and an occasional bird, usually a finch or canary. They were okay, but you couldn’t snuggle up to them like you could a dog. Dogs listen, dogs care, dogs love you. They’re also really cute, particularly when you love them. And dogs are always happy to see you. I never could tell if my fish was happy to see me, its beady black eyes had the same steeled-glass stare 24/7. Plus, fish don’t have eyelids, which means they can’t wink at you, or even blink at you. Come to think of it, mice and rats don’t have eyelids either. Birds have eyelids, don’t they?

I remember the day Perry died. Perry was the parakeet of my best friend, Midge. His cage was in the laundry room, and we had to pass by him every time we went outside to play or swim in the pool. He was green and ordinary, and if memory serves me correctly, he could talk. Not much, but a little. One day we found Perry-the-Parakeet dead at the bottom of his cage. Right around that time, both of us had decided to become Episcopalians. Midge led the way and I followed right behind. St. Alban’s, in West LA, was where we were initiated into the mysteries of Christendom. We loved everything about it. It had just the right amount of ritual, incense, pomp and circumstance without going overboard. We needed God right about then for who knows what might have become of us without divine intervention. We had taken grand delight in hiding in the room beneath the stairs whereupon we would undress our Ken and Barbie dolls and make them do forbidden things, things our parents would have cringed at, not to speak of the church. Being Episcopalian was not only handy, but timely. We were well equipped to do just about anything priests could do because now, we had the instruction book. The Book of Common Prayer is essentially a compendium of cliff notes for priests and priestly wannabes. It’s also for people who just want to follow along. There are varying prayers and orders of worship for all the kinds of stuff that comes up in life, funerals among them. Who better than the two of us to perform a proper ceremony for Perry? We had plenty of practice on other dead things, animals we never knew for they lived in the wild. Everyone got a proper burial if we had anything to say about it.

We prepared a coffin out of a shoebox, shrouded the lifeless little bird in silk, and laid him gently within the confines of his permanent new home. We had dug a shallow grave at the end of a garden path, had a short meeting about the ceremony and what would need to be involved. Prayers were selected and personal words of remembrance were scratched out on paper. We gathered a few friends, for a processional of two was hardly worth having. The funeral march began. It was beautiful, personal, proper, and lovely. Perry was laid in the ground, flowers atop his grave. Should we all go out like Perry.

I never saw Lady’s body after her mortal meeting with the car. What happened to it? Was it in the trunk of my father’s car? Had he dug a shallow grave by the side of the road and buried her alone, without me there? Did he drive her to the vet and leave her there? I will never know. What I do know is that after the tragic news was delivered, we were told that we’d be going out for hamburgers, as if that would make everything okay again. Though still a child, I was consumed with grief. Face flushed, lungs raw from wailing, youthful cheeks temporarily scarred from dragging my fingernails down my face in angst. I bore the visible signs of grief like a stigmata from God almighty.

What has happened to us? Why do we turn away from the continuum of life by seeing death as abhorrent? How much courage does it take to reclaim our rightful place at the side of those we love, even after they have left their earthly vessels? Why have we given dominion over the body and souls of those we hold dear to perfect strangers? Why do we sterilize death as if death itself were a plague we hope will not infect us? It is time to reclaim what has always been ours. We, as people from the beginning of time, have cared for our dead. We have bathed, clothed, perfumed, and anointed them. We carry, in our DNA, the wisdom to deliver our dead right to the doorstep of the beyond. We do so as an honor and a sacred charge. When the lineage of spirit is broken, we all suffer the pain of disconnection to one another and to life itself. Death does not become us.

My Mother Once Called Them Her Mountains

The Santa Rita mountains are not just scenic, but sacred to some. The "snow-covered" mass just north of Madera Canyon and the mine tailings on the west side of Green Valley on up toward Tucson, are daily reminders of the fact we living in mining country. We breathe the air, we drink the water; we are at effect of what happens in our immediate environment, good or bad.

Juxtaposed to the majestic beauty of the Santa Ritas is the Freeport-McMoRan Sierrita facility, tucked deeply away at the end of Duval Mine Road behind “the swimming pool of the gods.” Though touted as one of the safest mines in the United States (having earned the federal government’s prestigious ‘Sentinels of Safety’ award), I have concerns that safety, in the case of open pit mining, is a relative term. Mining companies use toxic chemicals to extract all the goodies from the earth. The EPA has estimated that hard rock mining is the #1 source of pollution in the United States, contaminating some 40% of western watersheds. To their credit, Freeport-McMoRan has provided funding to clean up the excessive sulfates in our water supply. It supplies jobs and precious metals we consumers need to live the kind of lives we have grown accustomed to. And yes, it is the final resting place for the seemingly endless supply of dirt that has offered up the best it had to give. But at what price? It seems that Arizona’s mining rights trump human rights, most essentially, the right to preserve for future generations an environment and an ecosystem that once disrupted, can never be restored.

Enter Rosemont Copper: Arizona’s next major copper mine. Heaven help us. Busy mines, I mean minds, are at work. Augusta Resources (aka the Rosemont mine folks up in Canada) is issuing 25 million in stock to fund the mining operation. No problem for Canadians, most of them will never see the damage done. I wonder why it is that those who hold the pocketbook ultimately hold the power, for better or for worse. What about our reclamation plan? Can we reclaim, a priori, that which is slated for destruction? It’s just my opinion, but giving the green light to open-pit mining in areas that draw dollars through tourism and are home to humans, endangered animals, rare insects, birds, plants and myriad other life forms is short-sighted. We need to see past the end of the stick. Our mining laws are antiquated and changing them is a slow and arduous process. Arizona’s 135 year-old law allows mining operations right next to our national parks! Why few do anything about that may be a truer indicator of just how much we care about the planet and those who live on it.

Off a Cliff

I have disappeared, off a cliff, away from view and out of touch. You’re still trying to piece together what happened, as if applied logic after the fact might heal the festering wounds. Same behavior = same results. It’s not rocket science. So, I decided it’s mighty time I flew.

Climate change. Breathing room. Baptismal waters. I need fresh eyes to see with and long for fresh eyes to see me. Yours was a subtle form of bleeding me dry, those frequent staple gun wounds to the heart finally reached critical mass. You withheld everything in your power to withhold, as if scarcity was your most cherished commodity. Making sure to deliver alternating doses of pain and love, you discovered the intermittent reinforcement schedule worked like a charm. You got yourself a prisoner.

Love blinds but also binds. So how does a blind, bound woman untie the ropes? Slowly, with intent. It’s not as if you planned it this way. I know that. We are all only working with the tools we have. We robots, manufactured by the factory of life.

Is it wrong to want to be loved in ways that nurture instead of ways that destroy? Who would have guessed that loving yourself is the first recovery? The second is not allowing another’s plea for help rope you in so tightly, you can't escape. Oh, how we’re all been hardwired to do just the opposite: Love others first. Do not self aggrandize. Be humble. Be generous to those who are in need. And while you’re at it, disappear, why don’t you?

I have disappeared, off a cliff, away from view and out of touch. I decided it’s mighty time I flew.

Blind Faith

Trust me. I’m driving across the country to see a woman I know, someone I haven’t seen in a long time.

It’s not what you think, we’re just friends. I really want to stay in touch with you while I’m there, but she lives deep in the mountains and has no phone or Internet. My cell phone doesn’t work at her house, so I’ll call during the day when I come into town. I know, I know, you might be thinking it's going to be like the last time, but I'm different now. People change. Trust me.

Wake Me Gently

Wake me gently
Let the first slip of morning
Lure me back into life
I have woken too soon
Too abruptly and long before my time
Crushed and pierced at the doorstep of life
Silence waters the ground of a dust-boned self
Blowing the past right through me

Wake me gently
Let the first slip of morning
Lure me back into life
Only then can you touch me
Can you witness the miracle

The Abandoned House

Ever since I moved to the desert, the house directly behind me has been empty. I say empty, because no one is quite certain what the status is. All indicators lead to the conclusion that the house has not been occupied for a very, very long time. So "abandoned" does this house appear, that a certain neighbor decided to cull her cacti from the property, landscaping most of her acreage for a song. These mature and well-developed cacti would have cost oodles had she paid retail. In repayment for this self-appointed favor, she left a mountain of dirt and yard debris in their place. Who would know? The house was abandoned after all.

I knew the owner lived out of state, and it was rumored that it was part of an inheritance. I also knew that a certain tree on the property was thriving. Upon inspection, I found the water hose turned to a steady drip, providing its life-sustaining water supply. Other than that, there have been no signs of life. Zip.

That the house is abandoned and neglected is apparent. The garage is collapsing, and the house is looking pitiful. There’s a huge old-fashioned satellite dish on the property, circa 1970s, and a very cool, but dilapidated birdhouse.

My neighborhood has no HOA so you can pretty much do whatever you please here with impunity. An abandoned house is no big deal, even if it is rat infested. There is no health department within 1,000 miles who would give a rat’s ass, let alone conduct an inspection and actually do anything. So, even though thoughts of doing something myself have passed through on occasion, I have acted on none of them. Of course, this leaves room for others to operate, namely the cacti-culling neighbor and Suzy.

Suzy took it upon herself to write the owner, providing photos of the house in varying stages of decomposition, pointing out that it appeared neglected, and suggested the possibility of caretaking the property for a certain rent. Along with the letter and photos was her contact info. The outraged and livid owner called her promptly to read her the riot act. He fussed and fumed and accused her of trespassing on private property (which we all had done for varying reasons). He screamed and protested that the house was not abandoned; in fact, he said he checked up on it periodically and knew the neighbors. Well, he doesn’t know me. And I’m certain he doesn’t know the cacti-culling neighbor. Any person in their right mind would have apologized and hung up as quickly as possible. Not Suzy. She let him blow off steam and to his surprise, she didn’t hang up, nor did she interrupt him. What started out as a big mistake ended up as a 3-hour conversation about animal rights, a subject dear to the hearts of both of them. The owner, a trial attorney, Ph.D., Renaissance man, and now lover and guardian of pigeons, was a lot like us. People pissed him off. Animals didn’t. Animals had gotten a shitty deal, and humans had given it to them. That’s the short version.

The house is not for sale, nor is it for rent. It is one day to become a pigeon sanctuary, even though the Sonoran Desert has no pigeons. You may find a cropping of birds in Tucson, but they were undoubtedly smuggled in from San Francisco.

I’m certain the story has just begun.

Deep Thoughts

People teach us how to generate and hold concepts about ourselves and the world around us: humans are driven to understand and explain their world. They then form a club with other like-minded folks and rally to defend their ideas, even when those ideas are seriously bizarro. They’ve even been known to kill other people who don’t think like them. Can you believe it? So popular is the philosophy of “creating your reality,” that we have become a society who megadoses on the thinking intoxicant. It’s like an endorphin we can’t get enough of. We have run amok in a quagmire of ideas, affirmations, and meditations. Hey, just check out the NY Times today and see what I mean. See: Believers Invest in the Gospel of Getting Rich.

Allow me to assist you if you feel you’ve been left behind. It’s actually quite simple. Start with an idea, a concept. Now, apply focus and intention, and lots of repetition, until your ideas about the world become your reality. Why hasn’t anyone noticed this is scary stuff? Picture this: A can of that silly string that shoots out of a small nozzle like Redi-Whip, whipped cream. Everyone gets a can of a different color and fires away. Endless streams of color – some shot out in short, festive bursts, some strewn out in long sinewy lines – all mix together, creating what starts out looking beautiful but ends up as a big fat mess, not to mention an environmental hazard. We all are walking through gobs of metaphoric silly string, awash in thoughts that seem real, thoughts that result in action without prior contemplation as to their possible results. Why is it that when over-thinking a situation, we go away to come back with an emptier, fresher perspective? Do insights arise out of emptiness, without the armor of thought? Can’t have that now, can we? If there’s no one home to claim ownership of the insight, then that becomes really scary stuff. Or does it? Can we caged birds finally sing? And perhaps even harmonize???

Here’s the bad news: any idea you have is only and idea, it will never lead to or be an absolute truth, but remain in perpetuity a relative one. Give up thinking? Impossible. But put thinking where thinking belongs. Do not take your thoughts too seriously. But if you can cash in on them, I could be totally wrong.

Kaching

Adore you, adore me back

Slip, slap, slice, splat

Where’s my change?

Check the vending machine.

I Threw a Rock into the Sky

Out from the blackness of my soul
I threw a rock into the sky
It carried everything I was and would ever be
Into and beyond the veil of the Unknown
It sits there still
I sometimes watch it come and go
Like my breath
An intimate yet distant Friend

Pterosaur pterosaur where have you been?
I’ve been holding the keys to the universe within

Dogs and Us

 

“I am as convinced as the next delusional person that my dog is a living saint.  Hey, if the next Karmapa can be foretold, then my dog can be a saint.  My dog can be enlightened and a bodhisattva, even one with a capital B.  My dog can transform the world, one person at a time.  She can also do groups.  You know, because we need to speed up the process here, folks.  How do I know my dog is a saint?  I can tell.  She looks like one. She acts like one.  She feels like one.   Therefore, she is one.  She brings out the best in just about everyone.  She shows them their true nature in a flash.  It’s sometimes too much.  I’m living with a saint.  I’m sleeping with a saint! What did I do to deserve this?  Only a saint would be smart enough to be reborn as the best looking and smartest Min Pin in the history of the world. It’s in the cards.  It’s destiny, I tell you.” 

 

 

When we turn the heart of our attention and affection toward animals and away from human beings, we are singled out as outliers, as oddballs, as people who have “issues.” But what if this turning away is in actuality a tuning in?  What if our sensitivities have become sensibilities?  What if we are actually wise? What if we now understand that we learn more from deep silence and observation than from shouting opinions and beliefs from the podium of our egocentric lives? 

 

After decades of disappointment in the human realm, many of us have simply stopped reinvesting in people.  Reinvesting in human relationships is clearly a calculated risk.  As animal behaviorist Temple Grandin points out, dogs, for instance, don’t have the capacity to be deceptive, but people do.  There’s the rub!  And it’s not a tummy rub, my friend.  Lots of women and men I know prefer to cohabitate with animals.  Animals don’t do drama.  Animals won’t stab you in the back, unless we’re talking wild, undomesticated animals with tusks.  In that case, you’re on your own.

 

Human beings long for deep communion, for deep connection. So why are people ever-ready to cut the strings of connectivity, or threatening to do so?  We are on edge. The dance of human codependence is dysfunctional because its roots are fear and manipulation.  We are mortified of being cut off, of being shunned from our  “pack.”  So deeply is this need to belong engrained in our DNA, that we literally can shut off from our true natures, turn off the cosmic channel, as it were, and tune into a set of programmed ideas and mores that insidiously become who we think ourselves to be, or worse, what others insist we become.   In human-to-human relationships, we think ourselves into (and sometimes out of) existence.  In human-to-animal relationships, we feel ourselves into existence: this is a dramatic and essential difference.  Animals care not what we think of ourselves, they respond to our energy, our being, our field, our je ne sais quoi. I’m always amazed when a dog who knows a person well sees that person on a computer monitor, say on Skype.  The image is there, the voice is there, but the dog doesn’t make the connection.  The dog has a simple brain, one might argue, unable to extrapolate that the image and the sound is in fact a real person, one that it knows and loves.   But even if it could connect the dots, what would it do with that information?  Quell its fears? Hear about what’s for dinner later and then think about it until the owner gets home?  Dogs don’t do drama and they don’t do virtual reality.

 

I argue that our relationship with our pets is not codependent but rather interdependent (yes, I know that I’ve anthropomorphized my dog into a saint…but it COULD be true).  Our lives are richer and fuller because of our love for animals, and their lives are better when we “get” them and provide, with gratitude, the simple requirements they need to have a decent life.   In this environment, this communion with animals, a connection to all of life (yes, even to humans) is re-awakened. The opposition would argue that this is too simplistic: animals can be dominated and controlled by humans, and can become whatever we want them to be---dumb slaves to do our bidding, or enlightened beings ready to assist us.  Maybe so, but which do you choose?

 

Animals paradoxically teach us how to be fully human. We have come full circle.  We are awake, in touch, and alive. The time is always now to wake up, to reconnect, to love.  If you think you’ve lost your capacity to love, think again.  Our beloved pets are gurus of compassion in disguise.  They are perfect teachers.  They will take you home.  That is, if you let them.