Do Over.

vizsla-dog-zen

When he was a puppy, he slept curled at my feet, under the covers.  The arch of my foot would caress his tailbone. As the night passed to early morning, he would inch up to my knees, still under the covers.

I would turn to my side and set my knee on his back, my leg rising and falling with his breathing.

Eight years later, he’s done with his breakfast. He jumps up on the bed, nudging his nose on the blanket, signaling it’s time to lift the covers. He turns in a tight circle once, and then again, and then falls. He shifts so he is parallel to me, with his back to my belly and his tail at my feet. No longer a puppy, his 70 pounds leans in.

I turn to my side and set my knee on his back, my leg rises and falls with his breathing.

I slide my hand under the cover and touch his silky ears, and pull him in tighter.

He stirs.

No, I can’t buy this on Amazon or find this on the Tube or in a Book.

No, I can’t feel this in any other Moment.


Note:

The Present


Stick with this to the end…

21° F. Winds from NW @ 17 MPH. Today’s Plans?

golden-retriever


Source: Couch day with puppy (via “looking on the bright side“)

 

Happy Belated Birthday

zeke-vizsla-sleeping-dog-pet-adorable

I’m on the couch reading, or quasi-reading and surfing – flicking through May Sartons’ journals in The House By the Sea and Knausgaard’s essay in The New York Times Magazine on The Terrible Beauty of Brain Surgery.

Yet, I’m wrapped by the beat of something bigger. Sun beams pour through the windows, warming, and then disappear with cloud cover.  The bird feeder hangs on a cast iron hook and swings ever-so-gently to and fro in the northerly breeze which gusts to rattle the windows.  And Knausgaard from his essay,  “I didn’t understand the words, but the sound of them filled the air with mournfulness and humility. Man is small, life is large, is what he heard in the ring of that voice.”

Then there’s Zeke, napping, after his six-mile morning walk, drawing Sarton’s short breaths, in a ‘rhythm, a kind of fugue poetry.’

The couch, books by world class writers, a sleeping dog leaning in and a morning free of all commitments – Oh, the bliss of Saturday mornings… [Read more…]

T.G.I.F.: It’s been a long week

dog-herder-sheep-TGIF-Friday-T.G.I.F.


Source: mennyfox55

Saturday Morning

dog-pet-sleep-nap-saturday-adorable

Maybe
it’s like the elders say:
‘Ajurtnarmat.’
Nothing to be done.”

~ Tagak Curley, “The Nation


Sources: Photo by mennyfox55. Quote – Schonwieder

Saturday Morning

I want to believe that
even though the world’s edges have become harder,
I maybe be able to find a warm, soft place in it.

~ Stewart Lewis, You Have Seven Messages


Quote: Quotes From Books

T.G.I.F.: It’s been a long week (Carry me home)

T.G.I.F.-puppy-cute-adorable-tired


Source: themetapicture

 

May it all bring you joy, says this opposing, unwanted, huge opportunity

 black-lab-nose-dog-pet-cute

Everything is proof of it—this forced gift of existence—even the tired face of a small-town bus driver in the early morning; it speaks of longing, the endless patience you have when scrutinizing good fortune that has unexpectedly dropped into your lap. And what does life offer in return… the quiet hum inside the bus where you can warm up, a change from the frozen and bleak winter landscape… What does it offer in return? A kiss goodbye from your wife before you head out, and the mildly bitter taste of coffee with cream? The early morning fog and a dead moose on the side of a road? Like an Indian who gets glass beads in exchange for gold, you trade the suffering of existence in return for the smell of baking bread. The feel of a dog’s wet nose against your hand. The look in your children’s eyes. A bird feeder. May it all bring you joy, says this opposing, unwanted, huge opportunity—Life.

~ Inga Ābele, High Tide


Credits: Quotes – the distance between two doors. Photo: AdamsBullDozer with The nose knows (via hundegalskap)

It was unbearably joyful.

hand-fingers-grab

It’s Friday night.

The windows are open.

The indefatigable crickets perform a single note concerto in a continuous loop. Gentle gusts of wind rattle the blinds and signal autumn, the chill taking a soft bite of the humidity. Zeke lies the path of the breeze of the oscillating fan, and snores.

I’m awake.
The Body spent.
The Mind and its chatter, ever-present – Working.

In a hunt for a sleeping aid, I flip on SiriusXM Radio and pan through selections.

BBC World Service kicks off a segment on World War Two titled The Leningrad Symphony.  I never cared much for History in school, and in life which accounts for a penchant for repeating mistakes. The moderator, with her soothing British accent, drew me in. [Read more…]

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