“Watch Atticus!”

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THE LULU CHRONICLES

Meet Atticus Cleveland, the Houdini of Labradoodles. Atticus lives with me on a lovely three- acre plot with a pond and about a hundred trees. A dog’s dream, right? But where is this canine’s Promise Land? It’s the next field over smeared in fertilizer. He has bitten through rope, leash and steel cables to get to this smelly field of liquid cow dung. Rolling on his back and burying his head into the mushy goo is what he lives for. It’s an obsession, a calling.

Last summer my son installed an invisible fence around most of the acreage. I wanted my brilliant hound to be able to run free without fear of being run over by the mailman or getting lost in a hostile world. I love him this much. How does he repay me? He figured out how to rub up against the garage, a tree stump or anything else handy to unlatch his collar, his jail keeper. The collar carries the transmitter that beeps wildly if he gets too close to the perimeter of the fence. If he ignores the beeps, there is a price to pay. However, I’ve lost count how many times now I’ve had to walk around these three acres to find that stupid collar. The dog is nothing if not persistent. He is relentless when it comes to his passion. There is no ditch deep enough or voltage high enough to keep him from the call of rich, smelly earth.

I envy him.

I encounter roadblocks to my dreams and quit. Not Atticus. I get disheartened when things don’t go my way and feel defeated. Not Atticus. I want to crawl back into bed, pull the covers up and moan when someone or something puts the skids under my plans, But not Atticus. He sees the roadblock and figures out how to circumvent it. He feels the backward tug of limitations and chews his way through them. You put him in a box and he’ll kick the sides out.

My life is extremely difficult right now. Nobody would want to walk in my shoes. I couldn’t trade lives with anyone, even if I paid them. People feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for me. My life is full of limits, boundaries and obstacles. A collar is around my neck and threatens to knock the curl right out of my tail if I get too close to freedom. I yelp for help and all it gets me is a tighter collar.

What to do? “Watch  Atticus,” a quiet inner voice prods. I look for him. He’s not in the yard. I spy the collar lying on the ground by the evergreens, blinking at me, mocking me. I call for my dog, clap my hands, as is our way, and he finally comes running, ears flapping, paws caked in what I desperately hope is just mud and he leaps onto the deck and sits at my feet. He smells like rich, gooey, fertilized God-given earth. This boy knows how it’s done.

Later,

deb

thank you...

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 THE LULU CHRONICLES

Dear Ones,

 I just want to take some time to thank you, my readers and friends, for sticking with me. I know the things I’ve been writing about for the past year or so aren’t ‘feel good’ pieces. They are raw, uncensored, and about as truthful as I can stand to be. I am a woman trying not only to survive the loss of her husband of forty-two years, but also a woman who is determined to give this tremendous loss, its due. It means something. It’s a land full of discovery, a place where pain cleanses and welds the heart and makes it stronger, better, more prepared to continue on. So, thank you for listening, responding with kind words, and for your prayers. I have treasured and cherished you more than you know.

Unfortunately, I find this foreign country expanding with surprising twists and valleys. Today, I fed my dad two of his meals. As he sat up in his bed, holding my hand, I guess I could have been anybody. But it is my hope that he knew it was I, his daughter. Alzheimer’s is a horribly cruel disease and as my dad slowly fades from us I am once again experiencing this End of Life stuff. I am painfully aware that it is not done with me yet. So, I figure I still must have lots to learn about love, forgiveness, tenderness, sacrifice, and sorrow and probably a whole slew of other life lessons that the holy ground of the deathbed has to teach.

End of Life stuff. Wow! Who knew how excruciatingly rich and holy loss could be? I certainly didn’t. I wish it on no one, yet never have I felt as ‘chosen’ or ‘favored’ as I have in this last year. It is not anything someone looks forward to or envies another who experiences it. However, those of us who have lost loved ones or who are in the process of losing someone they love, a brotherhood and sisterhood forms. The secret handshake is revealed. A nod or look communicates to another volumes that one who hasn’t lost doesn’t quite get. A ‘knowing’ happens and this knowing brings you within an angel’s breath of God himself.

Of course, that’s not a given. If you don’t believe in God, or know God, or trust God, or like God, or respect God, of course loss will be a totally different experience for you. I know nothing about that. Sorry, I can’t help you.

I choose God. I choose Him not out of weakness or fear or desperation. I choose Him out of awe. He is the only explanation that makes sense while still being a mystery. The soft wisps of a newborn’s head. The heart that does not become bitter. The sight of a lion in the wild. The migration of a bird. The sun. The moon. The stars. The crippled hands that still reach out. A broken heart that heals. The last breath. God comes so close at times you can almost smell Him.

I think I smelled Him this afternoon in my dad’s room. I have so much to learn about being a Created Being and what I am suppose to do with that. Loss is just one teacher. There are others. And, we all sit at their feet eventually. It’s the way of God.

So, thank you for allowing me to ramble and stumble upon what I need to do, say, and be, to survive and hopefully, thrive in the years to come. You have been the soft grass under my feet and the shade tree over my head. Thank you.

~ deb