How Maya is Grieving

 

Maya Angelou Murphy

A number of people have asked how Maya and Jenny the Cat have been doing since Thomas left us. Both feel his absence, for sure, and I have no doubt that they sense my sadness as well. Consequently, Jenny has slept with me every night since our last day with him. I believe cats sense when humans are ill, and she interprets my sadness as a state of being unwell. (Purrl, before her, could also sense when I was physically ill or deeply sad, and she would crawl under the covers in those times and place her body against mine, purring as a mother cat would do with kittens—even though Purrl never had any of her own.)

Maya is another story altogether. Thomas, it seems, was her assumed body guard. When Thom could still go for walks, I would sometimes walk them together around the block, and Maya would actually be happy and excited on the leash. (In case you’re unaware, unless we’re hiking, Maya hates going for walks—because it’s just “too peoply” out there.) In the morning, with Thomas here, Maya would run into and through the kitchen, then tear through the living room, looking for things to play with, hopping and wagging her tail and barking if I didn’t get her breakfast ready fast enough. It was hilarious and entertaining every morning.

At the time of this writing, Thomas has been gone for two weeks and two days, and for two weeks and two days, Maya has gone right back to the safety of her bed after we come back in from the back yard. No running through the house. No hopping. No playing. She looks for him in the kitchen, and when she sees he isn’t there, she simply retreats to the den and curls up again.

This makes me very, very sad for her. She had come so far, but seems to be withdrawing again. I’m giving her extra love, of course, and simply going to sit with her often. But she has lost her rock, her anchor. (It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t realize that looking to Thomas for protection would be like Dorothy looking to the Cowardly Lion to do the same.)

As some of you know, months before I lost Thom, I had begun looking for a dog companion for Maya, a confident dog that would help her continue to recover and make her feel safe on walks, perhaps draw her out to interact with me more. And I wanted to get a new dog settled into my pack before Thomas left us, so that his passing would be easier on Maya. Alas, that did not happen. But, to that end….

<Spoiler alert: Big Announcement ahead>

On Friday, I adopted a dog. Before you go thinking that I rushed out to my nearest shelter and impulsively grabbed a sweet dog to comfort me in my grief, let me assure you it did not happen that way. Like, at all. This dog’s story—and I do know the entire back story—is so complex and complicated that names will be changed to keep the guilty from being publicly shamed, and I won’t even be able to share all of it here. But in my next post, I’ll give you an update on my new little girl, Stevie (not her original name), and I’ll tell you as much as I can. (If you want the full story after that, you’ll have to call me and be sworn to lifelong secrecy.)

For now, I can tell you this: Despite everything that has happened to her in recent weeks, Stevie is filled with joy and enthusiasm. Her tail never stops wagging. She loves everyone she meets—people, dogs (cats, I hope). She’s got sass and spirit (thus her name; that’s “Stevie” from Schitt’s Creek, not Stevie Nicks, though she would do for a namesake, too).

That’s all I know for now because she isn’t even home yet. She’s still in dog jail. I can’t pick her up until her spay surgery, and that can’t happen until Tuesday because of the holiday. Oh my dragons! Hasn’t this dog endured enough?? But wait—you don’t know that part of the story yet. More to come, but let me conclude by sharing one more thing.

You may be thinking that I’m all excited about bringing a new dog home. The truth is, I am 20% excited and 80% terrified. New situations and changes in routine are very difficult for me, to say the least. I function much better when things are the same, day after day—calm, steady, predictable. This is part of my mental health journey, and though I am aware of it, that doesn’t make new situations any easier. I know. You’re thinking, “New dog! Yay!” and I’m over here wringing my hands and worrying about whether my new girl will chase Jenny or pee on the carpeting or somehow (heaven help us) escape the yard. But I felt exactly this way when I brought Maya home. Well, no, with Maya I was 10% excited, 90% terrified. OK, maybe 5% excited. Really. Same with Thomas. And look what became of that.

So if you call to get the whole scoop on Stevie and I sound flustered, just reassure me that the sun will rise the next day, Jenny will come out from under the bed eventually, and Stevie will add another dimension of joy to this home that has been far too quiet without the tip-tapping of Thomas’s feet on the floor. Stay tuned. Here we go…. And may the New Year bring a new dimension of joy to your life as well (preferably a rescue dog, but that’s just my own bias speaking).

Celebrating Sgt. Thomas Tibbs

 

My sweet boy died on Friday. I started crying Thursday, midday, during my phone call to schedule an appointment with Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice, and didn't stop fully until.... Well, that hasn't happened yet, but at least I'm having long moments without tears. Not right now, though. Right now I'm crying.

Of course I've known for months this day was coming; his health issues were worsening, his arthritis pain becoming more and more difficult to manage. He wasn't comfortable... but he was still enjoying treats and cuddles, so he lived with discomfort, and I lived with anticipatory grief... a lot of anticipatory grief....

So I'm trying to let that go, now, and just celebrate his life. My god, the boy started out (at intake with Upland shelter) looking like this:

He was six years old, covered with mange, and starving. The shelter had him from June to January, treating his medical issues and trying to get him to engage with humans. Then I brought him home. At first, he was frightened of everything, even the cats. Except his bunny. He loved his bunny.

In the first couple of years, he spent a lot of time curled in a ball--much like Maya did when I brought her home. His recovery was very gradual.

I walked him every day, sang to him every night, and showered him with love. Finally, after five months, he wagged his tail at me. Two years in, he finally let me give him a belly rub. After I retired in 2016, he began to love other things--riding in my truck, going for hikes... and Purrl.

And of course, in recent years, Lamb Chop.

To me, he was a miracle. Ten years ago, he hated being touched, had no idea how to play with toys, and there was absolutely no joy in his life. While he never did learn how to play with toys, he did love chasing treats, and he gradually came to accept then welcome pets and ear scratches and back rubs. Oh, how he loved back rubs. And, up until his last days, his big tail wagged every day.

What a gift he was! My hiking buddy, my emotional support dog, my daily validation that love is indeed powerful. In fact, I learned more about true, unconditional love from Thomas than I have words for here. 

Thom's story is amazing, so of course I'm going to write a book about him. I started taking notes for that project last year. I will begin writing the book in early spring. I hope it honors him--and all those folks it took to get him out of the horrific situation he was in and safely into a shelter where kind volunteers never gave up on him. Bravo to them. And bravo to Thomas for overcoming so many fears. Good boy, Thom.

Friendship Circle

 

My new desk buddy

I started to say that it all began with Friendship Circle, but it didn’t. Not quite. Well, sort of.

It began when I moved to my current residence in a senior community. Ella, my neighbor, was quick to introduce herself. Having served on the city council and in various volunteer positions in her community, she was cordial and welcoming and diplomatic. Ella invited me to join her for a luncheon hosted by the Friendship Circle group here in the park. I realized too late that this was a potluck, but Ella assured me that as her guest, I wasn’t required to bring anything—actually, no one is required—and that I could consider doing so if I chose to attend again in the future, which I did.

Two of the first people I met that day were Ursula and Bob Thomas. I don’t believe I’ve ever met two kinder people in my life. Maybe. But…. Bob and Ursula are extraordinary people, warm, kind, intelligent, empathetic—and each one has a great sense of humor. While I did not continue being involved with Friendship Circle after the first few months, I have continued my friendship with the Thomases.

Bob and Ursula like to walk early in the morning, as I do, so there are times when we will see each other at 5:30a.m. (yes, it’s still dark), and we’ll stand in the road and have a chat for ten minutes or so. It was during one of these morning chats that they mentioned their daughter, Shanon, had written a picture book for children. The book, complete with cover design and illustrations, was ready for publication, but Shanon wasn’t sure which route in publishing she wanted to pursue. I offered to help her decide, and I encouraged her parents to give her my number.

When Shanon called, I knew right away we were kindred spirits. Like her parents, she is warm and kind and empathetic. She is also very generous; her sole purpose in making her book available to the public is to encourage young readers to be kind, to look for opportunities to show empathy. The book, Clara’s Scarf, is lovely and sweet (and is available on Amazon).

Fast forward several months, and there I am, looking for an illustrator for my Dragon Singer Series. The search was not going well (that may be a profound understatement), and it occurred to me to talk to Shanon about the illustrator she used for Clara’s Scarf.

And that’s how I met (via email) Allie Myers. I know I keep saying this, but it’s like Allie is reading my mind. When I explain roughly what I want on a cover, she asks, “But what are the kids’ personalities like?” And bingo—she produces a sketch that somehow depicts everything I was feeling when I wrote the scene.

I have been grateful for Allie’s amazing artistry, and for my connection to Shanon, and my continuing friendship with Ursula and Bob. (What amazing parents they must have been to produce such a talented and wonderful kid!!) Then last week Shanon happened to be in town, and Ursula called to see if the two of them could stop by. When they did, Shanon gifted me with the sweet little white dragon pictured at the top of this post. He’s my new desk companion. Friendship! What an inspiration!

May the circle be unbroken, and may it continue to expand as those within it reach out a hand to others.

Losing Maya

 

*Spoiler Alert!* I found her again. But not without significant emotional trauma….

Just over a week ago, I took my darling girl, Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, pictured above, on a hike in the Cienega Canyon Preserve. It’s a wild area out in the hills southwest of where we live, and I’ve hiked there often with her. We both love it. She gets to sniff wild creatures on the wind and in the brush, and I get to watch for hawks, deer, coyotes, and other wild creatures.

On this particular morning, we’d gone less than a mile before looking up to see a very young bobcat playing in the trail about forty yards ahead of us. At the sound of my laugh, the big kitten bounded off into the sage and sunflowers, and a moment later we crept past that spot, Maya with her nostrils flaring, me with my phone out, camera app on, hoping to see it again. No such luck. We walked on.

"Mom! What was that big kitty thing?!?"

The morning was bright and already heating up at 8:00, and the trail we had traveled in the past had become extremely overgrown, so I was just making up my mind to turn around and head home when Maya began limping. She’d picked up a sticker in her left front paw.

This presented a problem. While it is no longer much of a struggle for me to touch her feet (to check them after a hike or to clip her nails) when she’s in her crate, she is still too wary to let me touch her paws or legs while we are out hiking. We obviously couldn’t go on, though, so I made her sit, and when she was calm, I reached down to check her paw. She panicked, jumped backward, and slipped right out of her collar. Then I panicked, telling her “Maya! Wait!” a bit too sharply. But she stopped. (Good girl!) Hands shaking, I grabbed her scruff, holding it tightly with one hand as I slid the collar back on with the other. I walked her forward, and in the tussle, the sticker had apparently been dislodged, as she was walking without limping. Whew. Safe. Or so I thought.

We turned to go home.

On a previous visit to the preserve, I had dropped Maya’s leash when we were about a half mile from the trailhead, and she had done beautifully, trotting ahead at times, but always stopping when I gave her the “wait” command. On this day, when we were still three quarters of a mile out, I decided to try that training again, but instead of dropping the leash in the dirt, I unhooked it. She trotted along beside me in the trail, never going ahead, just being with me. It was glorious. Until it wasn’t.

Because we’d seen the bobcat, and because the day was warm, my gaze alternated constantly between the trail up ahead (for coyotes or critters), the trail beneath our feet (in case of rattlesnakes), and checking to make sure Maya was beside me. We’d gone a quarter mile when I looked out, looked down, looked to my side—and she was gone.

I stopped and turned. She’d taken a side path, a single-track coyote trail that led toward a steep ridge, and those crazy long legs of hers were trotting as fast as she could stride. She was already thirty yards ahead of me. Panicking again, I called her loudly: “Maya! WAIT!” To no avail.

Here’s the thing about feral dogs: You can’t chase them. In Maya’s first life, the one she spent in two successive, awful rescues, they handled her by chasing her—out of her kennel, then back in. When she sees anyone behind her on our walks, she immediately becomes anxious and strains on the leash, trying to run.

In this situation, I had to pursue her, but I knew I couldn’t run. I walked as fast as I could, repeatedly calling her. She ran up a hill so steep, I questioned whether I could get up it—but I did. I had to. As I topped the ridge, I saw her, now fifty yards ahead, still trotting. She disappeared down a slope, and all I could do was follow, hoping she didn’t leave the trail.

She didn’t. As I reached the bottom of the downhill slope, I could see her topping the next hill. On we went in that fashion, with me losing, then gaining sight of her, willing myself to breathe deep, save my oxygen and strength.

I topped a hill, and there she was, exhausted, lying in the shade under some brush.

“Maya! Wait!” I snapped. And she was off and running again.

I slowed my walk, thinking, as the sun rose higher and I realized I’d brought no water with me, I might have to follow her all the way to the far end of the preserve, which was three miles along the ridgeline—and a block from Interstate 10.

“Breathe, Kay,” I told myself. “What would Cesar Millan do?”

Well, he would adjust his energy, stay calm, and not utter a word.

I did these things, as best I could, topped another ridge—and there she was again, lying in the dirt, panting. I stood in the trail, breathing and sweating and hoping, not saying a word. Slowly she rose to her feet. I didn’t move. She walked toward me. Quietly, calmly, I said, “Maya, come,” and I turned toward home. She followed, right at my heels. After a moment, she moved beside me on the trail. Ever so slowly and gently, I reached out a hand and took her collar, stopped, and snapped on the leash.

When I knew I had her, I sank to my knees in the trail and sobbed. If she’d been lost in those hills, she would not have survived. The coyotes would have made a quick meal of her.

How I found her--without the leash, of course.

The long walk back in the hot sun, descending those steep hills on shaky legs, took an agonizingly long time. Maya was overheated and kept trying to lie down in every little bit of shade she found. I would have carried her—all thirty pounds—but on those treacherous descents, it would have been too dangerous. If I’d sprained or broken an ankle, our day would have gone from bad to really quite awfully terrible.

Friends, I believe I have learned more from the mistakes I’ve made with my dogs than all the YouTube videos and episodes of The Dog Whisperer (or Cesar’s other many shows) I’ve ever watched. How did I fail Maya? By not realizing that, while I had quickly moved on after the sticker-in-the-paw episode, she had not yet shaken it off—how I’d grabbed her, speaking sharply and holding the back of her neck. The trust of a feral dog is always tenuous. With Thomas, it still is, even after nearly ten years. Yes, we have our sweet moments when I brush him or clip his nails or simply sit and rub his belly, and he is blissfully happy. But then I might do something he sees as threatening—slap a mosquito or pick up my guitar or print out a document—and suddenly he is terrified, running through the house and seeking safety somewhere away from me.

That’s what Maya was doing, seeking a safe place to hide. Eventually, she came to see that she could run forever—or she could choose to trust me again. Boy howdy, did I get lucky this time.

Training feral dogs is not for the faint of heart or for those with little patience. The journey is often two steps forward, five steps back. The Universe gave Maya back to me. I will be much, much more careful with her in the future.

Contemplating the long walk back to the car.

How Books Are Made, Part II

 

In my previous post, I talked about the creativity that goes into the making of a book. But I didn’t talk about the practical side of bringing that creative spark into fruition (if you’ll allow the mixed metaphor there).

It’s one thing to have an idea for a book. It’s an entirely different matter to spend hours at a keyboard (or with pen or pencil and paper), day after day, week after week, month after month until that original idea has been fleshed out into a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end, hopefully containing some tension and conflict throughout, and a resolution that satisfies the reader—plus maybe, just maybe, giving readers something to “take away,” a lesson to ruminate upon or a miniscule bit of wisdom that might, in the tiniest way, influence their choices for the better. One hopes.

When I began the Dragon Singer Series, I was still teaching, so my writing time—after being away from home all day, then returning to walk an anxious, troubled dog, and feed the cats, and eat dinner, and watch the news, and maybe toss in a load of laundry—was limited. In addition to that, I began Fey Girl, the first book, in pencil, writing in a composition book that my granddaughter, Ellie, had given me. I wanted to channel my inner ten-year-old, and I remembered writing some stories in a composition book when I was that age—some of my first! And so I began.

The process was interrupted often. Given my schedule (rising at 4:00a.m. to get to the gym before work or to ride my bike to work and arrive at 6:45), I was tired by early evening. Things happened. I had house guests. I came down with pneumonia a few times. I struggled through winter depression.

Finally, in June of 2016, I retired from teaching. In that summer, I sold a house, bought a house, moved 40 miles east—and slept as often as I felt like it. Then, at long last, I joyfully returned to my writing life in earnest.

As soon as Fey Girl was finished, I began writing the second book, making steady progress and finishing it within a year. The third book took less than a year. The fourth, even less than that. While I was working on Book Two, my dear friends John and Lisa Durham introduced me to John’s niece, Annie Katz, a writer and novelist and earth mother who became my best and truest critique partner. We began exchanging projects, giving each other feedback, and engaging in long phone conversations about the best way to publish. She is all about independent publishing. Another friend believes one is not a “professional” writer until one has been published by a traditional publisher. (Well, I’ve done that, so….)

In a nutshell, here’s the difference:

A traditional publisher takes the author’s manuscript and has a team of printing experts design an interior (choosing the type of font, the type of paper—weight and color, the margin size, the spacing between lines, as so forth). Another team of experts designs the cover. (Will the title be larger than the author’s name? Yes, if it’s a first-time author, no, if the author is Stephen King. What will the balance of text-to-graphics be? What colors will work best?) While this process is happening, the publisher may decide—based on “marketability”—to change the book’s title. Or add a subtitle. Or edit—or delete—some of the content. But hey, when the book is finally ready (one to two years after acceptance), it will be released across the country simultaneously, available online but also on bookstore shelves, all at once, all on the same day.

An indie author can’t do this, since the big bookstore chains (well, I guess there’s only one left, isn’t there?) will not carry (unless asked by customers) independent authors on their shelves. Nor do indie authors have the opportunity to list their books in the lovely, slick catalogs that publishers send out to bookstores.

However—independent authors have full control over every aspect of how their books are published, from interior design to cover design, and we even determine the list price.

This is why I made the choice to publish the Dragon Singer Series independently. The more I spoke to Annie Katz and others (including my buddy, writer/actor/director/funny guy Tim Chizmar), the more reluctant I became to give up creative control. I had a vision for these books, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being told, “We’ve decided to add/subtract/edit…” or whatever a marketing department might choose for MY books. (For the purpose of brevity, I will not include all the struggles I had to this end with the publishers of my first and second books. If you’re curious, just ask in the comments below. But… boy howdy….)

Of course, in making that crucial decision to self-publish, this also means that the entire process rests in the hands of the writer (unless one chooses to outsource the work, which is possible, but also expensive).

The only thing I didn’t do was create the illustration and design for the covers. (Thank you, artist-designer Allie Myers!) Everything else—fonts, font size, paper, margins, interior design—that’s all me. And believe me, it’s not a matter of “select all” on MSWord and typing in a few choices. There is a lot to very carefully complete. Plus don’t even get me started on how the format of an “ebook” differs from the format of a paperback. Good grief!

So, yeah, even though the fourth and final book in the Dragon Singer Series was completed months ago, it has taken me quite a number of weeks to find an illustrator and work on the interior design.

Finally, though, the first book is finished, and I am so, so proud of it! Allie’s cover is beautiful, and I am satisfied that my young (and older) readers will feel comfortable with my choices for the interior design—if they’re even paying attention. Maybe they’ll just immerse themselves in the story and keep turning those pretty white pages….

Fey Girl, Book One in the Dragon Singer Series, is set to be released at 12:01a.m. on Tuesday, October 17. Please celebrate with me on that day! If you get crazy (or extraordinarily kind) and decide to read the first book, just know that Allie and I are already working hard to get the second book ready for publication. This one should be easier than the first; I kinda know what I’m doing now. Kinda….

Back cover of Fey Girl

How Books Are Made, Part I

 

"Hiccup" and "Toothless" from How to Train Your Dragon

It starts with a spark of creativity, a tiny seed of an idea that begins to take root and grow in a writer’s brain. At first, it’s easy to ignore the tender little seedling trying to find purchase in a place already teeming with ideas. Those initial ideas definitely get overshadowed by projects that have already made it from brain to keyboard (or yellow pad or sketchbook, in my case). I can pretty much guarantee that the majority of working writers have at least a dozen ideas growing in addition to the three or four projects they’re working on. I do.

Take this post, for instance. The initial idea formed about a month ago. In that time, I have jotted notes for the next blog post (and the one after that), finished and submitted three poems for publication, revised and submitted an essay for publication, worked my tail off to format a book for publication (more on that in the next post), and written countless journal pages. That’s just the physical work I’ve put in. The extra ideas that haven’t been harvested yet? They’re still growing in my brain. Some of them are really getting out of control in there….

It still amazes me to think how my published books came into being. In the 1970’s, I was teaching Lamaze childbirth classes, and my students felt the available books were too technical. I was freelancing at the time, miraculously getting published on a regular basis, and they suggested I write a book with all the information I dispensed in class, posed in less clinical terms than others had used. I gave it some thought (and growth time), and two years later my first book was published.

When I began researching, at my mother’s request, the alleged crimes of her grandmother, I knew eventually I had enough material for a pretty compelling memoir. Many years later (when Mom would finally allow it), The Tainted Legacy of Bertha Gifford came into fruition.

The Dogs Who Saved Me came about during a long summer afternoon spent organizing photographs. I had so many pictures of the various dogs I have companioned with, I realized there were enough to make an album of just dogs alone, and as I leafed through the finished project, considering all their incredible stories, I knew I wanted to record them. That book took two years to write.

This next book—the one that I am just weeks away from seeing released on Amazon—did not begin as a book idea or even a writing project. It began as a song. No. It began with a cat that looked like a dragon. Or more accurately, a dragon that looked like a cat. Here is that story:

When I moved waaaay up to a cabin in the mountains, I took two black cats with me: Old guy Boo Radley and newly adopted Sugar Plum (aka “Sug”). Sadly, in my second year on the mountain, Boo died. Where Sug had previously bonded with Boo, now she began to bond with me in earnest. And it was cold in the winter months, so she would come to the loft at night, jump on the bed, and I would hold the blanket up for her to climb under and snuggle down. Often, in the depth of darkness and quiet only a mountain retreat can offer, I would sing to her. In the beginning, I sang her “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral” and other sweet Irish songs I had learned as a child.

Then several things happened in succession. My dear friend and fellow author Michael Welker (Blockbuster Blueprint) suggested I watch the animated feature How to Train Your Dragon, mostly because he thought I’d love the soundtrack, which I did. (Loved the film, too; ya gotta love a rescued critter/underdog/unlikely love story/unlikely hero movie.) Sometime in the ensuing days, I walked into the main room of the cabin to find little Sug face to face at the French doors with an enormous black bear. Sug was standing her ground, back arched, fur and tail puffed to maximum bigness, and hissing as she bared her teeth. She looked, in that moment, for all the world like a tiny dragon. Later that night, as we hunkered down in bed, I began to hum a random tune I’d come up with. Suddenly there were words for it:

Dragon song is an old one

Sing the tale told so long

Dragon song is an old one

Old one, sing the dragon song.

At some point before this, I had attended a writers group meeting in which the guest speaker had noted, in suggesting ways to market one’s books, that the creation of a series (rather than a stand-alone novel) brings readers back looking for the next chapter in the saga. I had dismissed the idea at first. (Writing a series—keeping every detail of every character and plot point clear and correct throughout all the books—is much more challenging than writing a single, all-encompassing story.)

But that night, singing this new song to my tiny cat who apparently had the spirit of a dragon abiding within her, a seed was planted.

Hard to believe that seed began to take root over a decade ago. Well, the original idea became a book. (More on how that happened in the next post.) Originally, I had decided just three books—a compact trilogy—would do nicely. (No way would I attempt an on-going series, given all the other projects I want to tackle.) But as I worked on the second book, I realized that the four seasons had become a theme, so that now there are four books in what will be, when they are published, the Dragon Singer series. The books are written for a middle-grade audience. Which means, I suppose, that any avid reader over the age of say, eight, who loves cats and good dogs and dragons and music will probably enjoy them.

Did I mention that the first one is nearly ready for release in a matter of weeks, if not days? Watch this space!

Constants

 

It’s been six weeks since I’ve posted. I’d like to use my typical “off with the fairies” excuse—and in some ways, I think I would be justified—but really, time and creative energy have been sorely depleted.

I know some of you loyal, compassionate readers, if you follow me on Facebook, have been waiting to hear the warm, fuzzy details of my romantic relationship with “that one guy” (or, if you’re Sean Piscioneri, the guy before that guy—sorry—inside joke). Alas, the guy who began as a friend and briefly became “boyfriend” has now agreed that “friend” is the more healthy status for us. We like each other. Always have since we met 27 years ago. We just don’t… see eye to eye on some things. It’s not important what they are.

Among the critical take-aways from that brief experiment, however, is the fact that my mental health can still easily be tipped off balance under certain circumstances. This surprised me. I mean, seriously, when you get to the age of 70, and you’ve spent decades working to shore up your strategies and defenses against panic attacks, you float along through life thinking you’re safe from them. Then out of the blue a trigger is pulled—however gently—and suddenly your heart is racing and that dark shadow is just there, over your right shoulder, looming. Takes your breath away. Like, literally.

So one of my accomplishments this summer was finally—FINALLY, damn it—getting an appointment with a therapist. It took a month, from initial phone request to finally seeing someone (and by “seeing,” I mean staring at a screen image via Zoom), and I had to push hard with follow-up phone calls. But hey, the energy expended was worth it. I like my therapist. More on that in future posts, I promise—not because I really want to talk about my childhood trauma—I don’t—but because I want to do whatever I can to encourage others to seek professional help in being the best version of yourself you can be today. And tomorrow.

 

Another satisfying accomplishment of the summer was writing 31 poems in the month of August and sending them out to strangers on postcards. This was not a zany idea of my own. Rather, it was part of the annual “Poetry Postcard Fest” sponsored by Cascadia Poetic Labs, the mission statement of which states: “Empowering people to practice poetry & deepen connections to place, self & the present moment.” (Gotta love the alliteration!) The cool thing about signing up for the PPF is that you also (potentially) receive 31 postcards. So far, I’ve gotten about 20 postcards, mostly handmade and decorated with creative artwork, in addition to the poetic offerings. It definitely put some pep in my step on my daily walk to fetch the mail.

I didn’t expect to write any particularly whiz bang poetry. Just as in the year I participated in NaNoWriMo, I signed up for the PPF simply to challenge myself, to impose the discipline of working on poems in addition to my other writing. (Once upon a time, I did call myself a poet, because I have had a few poems published. But that was years ago.)

Surprisingly, though, I was quite satisfied with several of the 31 poems I wrote, and so, for the first time in decades, I think I’ll send some out, just to see what happens. Stay tuned.

As you can imagine, I needed inspiration for those poems. I also needed time alone to process pre and post panic attack, so off to the woods I went, hiking every few days with Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, who continues to let her guard down with me. Nature is an inspiration in and of itself, so I was pleased to capture some photos reflecting my awe.

And, of course, I spent time with my emotional support pals, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs and Jenny the Cat. The Dog Who Hated Being Touched has now become The Dog Who Loves to Be Loved On—brushed, petted, scratched, massaged, whatever. Whenever the world becomes “too full of weeping,” as Yeats described it, I can sit down next to Thom, give him head rubbies and ear scratches, and tell him all about it for as long as it takes for my blood pressure to drop to normal again.

 

Don’t get me started on Jenny’s antics for comic relief. This cat… oh my dragons…. If I had let her, she would have stayed outside on the patio for the duration of Tropical Storm Hilary as it blew through our town with crazy wind and sideways rain. As it was, she stayed out, curled in a corner of the blanket on the patio swing, until I finally made her come in when debris began flying around the yard. And let me tell you, she let me know how unhappy she was about having to do so. She always lets me know exactly how she’s feeling about my unilateral decisions. That’s where dogs and cats are different; dogs say “Okay!” and cats say “Who said so?”

 

Speaking of cats… and dogs… and dragons: I also spent the summer—as promised—working with artist/illustrator Allie Myers on the cover of Fey Girl, the first book in my Dragon Singer series of middle grade fantasy novels. Allie is beyond amazing—I feel at times she is somehow “seeing” what is in my head—and she has just informed me (as in, this morning!) that the front illustration for the cover is complete. And, oh my dragons, it is exactly—no, it is better than what I had imagined in my head. I will be sharing that in a separate post, along with more information about the series. Since the back cover and spine are simple, the cover should be ready in another two weeks, which means the book could be released as early as late October, early November—just in time for Christmas. Again, stay tuned. I am so, so excited about these books, and I can’t wait for all four in the series to be out in the world.

If you’re still reading, thank you. Let me sign off here with one of the poems from this month’s Fest that I particularly liked, once I was satisfied with the final draft.

 

Constants

S. Kay Murphy

I wake up moody, musing

On the problems of yesterday.

In the still-dark, I take the dogs

Out to the yard, looking up,

As always, to find my constants.

There is Taurus, stretched across

The sky, the Seven Sisters,

Whispering secrets, and proud

Orion, on his back in August,

Perpetually sighting his arrow

Nonetheless, unconcerned

For the tilt of the Earth

Today, tomorrow, or yesterday.

Nothing But Gratitude

 

On Friday I had one of those moments of profound exasperation at the absolute mindless insensitivity of some people, and (if I may state this publicly without seeming like a complete judgy wench) the idiocy of some people in the treatment of their dogs. Sigh….

I needed a few warm, fuzzy feelings to balance the negative energy, so I asked Facebook friends to post pictures of their pets. Boy howdy, did they ever. If you were one of those folks, thank you. We can never underestimate the power of seeing a cute dog or cat or horse or reindeer face (or robot—long story) to release a bit of oxytocin and calm our troubled hearts.

After perusing those pics for half an hour, I left the valley and drove to Lake Arrowhead to do a quick hike then visit my granddaughter and her baby daughter—all of which enhanced my oxytocin high.

Beyond that good stuff, I want to take a moment to thank those of you who are regular readers of my posts. I began this blog in 2009 while I was living in the wilderness of Mt. Baldy, having adventures with nature and wildlife nearly every day—while also experiencing many, many rejections of my work written for commercial purposes (and an occasional sale or two). I wanted to write about whatever I felt like writing about, with no concern for word count or market viability. So I began to blog (the first post mentioning how much I loathe the word “blog”).

At first, I had a handful of folks who were regular readers willing to skim through my somewhat provincial if not inane musings. Slowly, as the posts went out into the world—and I began to write about more pressing issues, such as race relations in the U.S. and the “Me too” movement—views of my posts increased from 30 a month to 100 a month and then close to a thousand a month, which is where the average now hovers.

But last month was a banner month. I mean, I had a lotta lotta views. The analytics on Blogger allow me to see what posts people are looking at, so I know what started the upward trend in views (a post that could be construed as political), but I was downright shocked when I saw the numbers skyrocket.

Total number of overall views for June: 9,041. These were not views of the same post; there were a number of different, er, issue-related posts being viewed. But oh my goodness, I am humbled and grateful whenever people read my words, be it 5 or 500. This number nearly floored me.

So thank you, dear Readers, for clicking that link again and again over the months or years to see what the heck I might have to write about in my rambling, parentheses-and-dash-infused style. Before you click away from the page, here’s one more silly rambling offered for your amusement:

Things to do while the oatmeal is cooking:

(Note: Of course it’s cooking—no packets here, no “instant” for me! Damn right it’s steel cut (whatever that means), organic, they-take-forever, cholesterol-lowering oatmeal for this “granola head.”)

Start a load of laundry.

Add “laundry detergent” to the grocery list.

Empty the dishwasher.

Open the door for Jenny the Cat to sashay outside and begin her day, warning her not to bring yet another mouse into the house.

Wash the dogs’ dishes and Jenny’s dish.

Wash hands thoroughly.

Stir the oatmeal.

Catch the mouse that is now scampering about the living room with Jenny merrily giving chase (without letting Jenny see you taking him... or her).

Carry the mouse outside (in an empty oatmeal can) and down the block, depositing him/her near the ravine (and thus near food, shelter, water).

Stop. Notice the sunrise as it tops Mt. San Jacinto.

Think of that one guy who always makes you smile.

Smile.

Return to the house.

Wash hands thoroughly.

Stir the oatmeal.

Encourage Jenny disingenuously to “keep looking for Mr. Mousie,” pretending it “must be here somewhere.”

Create a Facebook post documenting the number of mice Jenny has brought into the house to play with.

Walk all the way back to the bedroom to pet Sgt. Thomas Tibbs in his bed and tell him he is the best boy ever.

Walk back down the hallway to the den to pet Maya and tell her she is the best girl ever.

Wash hands thoroughly.

Stir the oatmeal.

Add walnuts.

Grab the blank page journal used for poems and jot down the lines that came to mind about that one guy while you were walking back from relocating the mouse.

Turn off the burner under the oatmeal and add raisins, dried blueberries, banana slices, cinnamon, and brown sugar.

Stop. Close your eyes. In one long inhale of this sweet-scented repast, acknowledge with gratitude the blessings of food, cat, mouse, dogs, dishwasher, washing machine, sunrises, wild spaces, warm smiles, word gifts… and that one guy.

 

The Continuing Legacy of TKAM

 

Some months ago, my dear friend, poet and author Mary Langer Thompson, sent me a copy of the book pictured above, Why To Kill a Mockingbird Matters. I am deeply indebted, as reading Tom Santopietro’s fascinating review of the writing of the novel and the making of the film reminded me once again how much I love this book.

 

Ten years old and starved for books that were slightly more advanced than the Bobbsey Twins and Little House on the Prairie series my friend Cathy had offered, I snuck into the closet where some of my older brother’s books were stored, hoping to find a science fiction or fantasy novel I could get lost in. Instead, I pulled out a tattered paperback with the picture of a bird on the cover. To Kill a Mockingbird. I was a birdwatcher. Why on earth would anyone want to kill a mockingbird?

In Harper Lee’s words, “Thus began our longest journey together.”

Reading it then, at age ten, I didn’t fully understand all the nuances of race relations. I was a young white girl living in a predominantly white community in Southern California. That particular summer was a quiet, lazy one. The fiery tumult of the Watts uprising was still a year away.

What did resonate with me the first time I read TKAM—and every time since—was the story of a girl who was as like me as she was unlike me.

Like me, Scout was a tomboy. (With my first read, I was ever-so-envious of Scout’s overalls; It would be another ten years before I finally had the buying power to purchase my first pair at age twenty. I’m nearly seventy now, and I still wear them often.)

Unlike me, Scout had a comfortable and close relationship with her father (something else I was envious of).

But what a story! Bored of a summer, Scout, Jem, and Dill spent their days imagining life inside the Radley home, in the same way my brother, sister, and I would wonder and speculate about the weird neighbors who’d moved in next door, bringing with them a live monkey that roamed freely about the house and regularly attacked and bit the girl our age who lived there.

In my initial read, the trial of Tom Robinson seemed to interrupt the flow of the book, and I didn’t understand most of it, or the chapters about the well-intentioned but clearly racist (although not to me at the time) missionary society or Scout’s very racist third-grade teacher. Happily, the novel returned to the mysterious figure of Boo Radley in its final pages.

At some point in my childhood or adolescence, I saw the movie based on the book. I have no memory of how I saw it for the first time; it must have been shown on television. But my emotional memory recalls the tenderness that Atticus extended to his young daughter.

Some years later, when my own daughter turned ten, I gave her a copy of TKAM for her birthday. It occurred to me then—since my kid would be reading it—that I should read it again, review it from an adult perspective. My, how differently—how much more heavily—the story landed on my heart. Now that I had more fully experienced the Civil Rights Movement. Now that I had been caught up in race riots at my high school. Now that I had Black friends. Now that I had children of my own, some of them racially mixed.

If I had loved the novel before, I revered it now.

So I count myself most fortunate and blessed that, nearly as soon as I began teaching high school, I was privileged to teach To Kill a Mockingbird as part of the curriculum. I taught ninth grade for 25 of the 27 years of my teaching career, with multiple sections of ninth grade in any given year. How many times now have I read aloud these words, affecting a Southern accent, “Folks call me Dill” or “Scout, let’s get us a baby” or “Hey, Boo”? I have no idea. How many times have I watched my students as they watched the big reveal of Boo Radley in the movie? I have no idea of that number, either. But I can tell you that, despite having read and seen it over a hundred times now, that scene—whether in the book or in the film—still brings me to tears.

In recent years, TKAM has had its detractors. In my humble opinion, the critics who focus solely on the plot thread of Tom Robinson miss the mark of Harper Lee’s great American novel. As much as we may agonize over the stark truth of his situation, the book is not “about” Tom. It’s Scout’s story, one hundred percent. It’s a coming-of-age tale—albeit based on the harsh realities of Southern issues—of a young girl who is, initially, blissfully ignorant of the ignorance in her community. She is six and innocent as the story begins, nine when it closes, her eyes now having been opened to see some of those things that Atticus would have kept her from seeing, if only he could have.

Sixty years on—even after all those years of reading it over and over again to sweet but squirrely freshmen, even after my lofty graduate classes in Faulkner and O’Neill and the many women writers like Toni Morrison who have brilliantly shifted the landscape in modern literature—TKAM is still my favorite book. In nine years and four months, my great-granddaughter will turn ten. I know exactly what gift I will give her for that birthday.

A Cascade of Nostalgia

 

Forest Falls, named in part for a very tall, very beautiful cascading waterfall (called "Big Falls") at the east end of town, is a small village in the foothills below Mt. San Gorgonio in Southern California. I made my first sojourn there when I was in high school when a group of “Jesus freak” young people like myself car caravanned there from Riverside. I still have photos and many fond memories from that day.

A half dozen years after that first trip, I returned to Forest Falls to attend my very first writers conference at Forest Home, the beautiful conference center there. At the age of 21, I had entered a national writing contest, won third place, and the person who called to make that announcement told me, “I see that you live in Southern California. In addition to everything else you’ve won [publication in a national magazine with a readership of six million, plus books on writing AND the entire Chronicles of Narnia series, just for fun], we’d like to send you to a writers conference.”

Did those lovely folks have any idea how attending that conference would catapult me into my dream of writing and publishing? I don’t know, but it sure did.

When my children were old enough, we returned for a day of hiking, picnicking, blackberry picking—and, at the end of it, a trip to the ER for stitches after my eldest son stepped on a piece of broken glass while wading barefoot in the stream.

I can assure you, when I returned many years later with three young grandkids in tow, I made sure all of us kept our shoes on.

At some point in my adult life, I picked up a friend who was trying to decide whether or not to leave her abusive husband. I took her up to Forest Falls in my beloved VW bug. While we rock-hopped over rough terrain to get to the falls, we also attempted to navigate the equally challenging topics of “commitment” and “self-esteem.” Good talk. Good walk. But when we returned to the car—the only one at the trailhead on a weekday—we discovered it had a flat tire. In the hours previous, I had been trying to convince my friend that she was stronger than she realized. When she saw the flat, she began to wring her hands and cry. (Mind you, this was decades before the convenience of cell phones.) She was not reassured when I told her not to worry, we would, together, fix the flat ourselves. But we did, handily. At some point, a young man with a six-pack of beer pulled into the parking area on a motorcycle. He took a seat under a tree and watched us do the work—and I was grateful that he never offered to help, just sat and downed his beer, one after another. Because when we triumphantly finished and climbed into the car to leave, my friend told me how empowered she felt. Booyah.

In the past, the trip to Forest Falls required some planning, as it was some distance from where I lived. Moving to Calimesa, however, put me much closer, so that now I can get up there in just over half an hour, traffic permitting.

So of course, I had to take Maya. Here’s what happened when I did:

As soon as we left the car and hit the trail, we saw the giant sign erected by the Forest Service: The area around the waterfall was “closed,” for all intents and purposes. Why? Because in order to get to the falls, you have to cross Mill Creek, and (as mentioned in my previous post), the water in the creek is running so high and so fast, it’s treacherous. Plus someone dies every year by trying to climb the falls, and I think USFS is simply tired of calling Search and Rescue to pack out another dead body. Seriously.

However—we could still walk along the creek, which we did. (Click here to see a bit of that.) Until she saw people. Too many people. There may have been a total of five or six at various points along the stream. But for her, one human (besides me) is too many. So she panicked. Where to escape?? Into the water. She headed straight into the stream and would have paddled to the far side had I not reeled her back in. (When we hike, she’s on a fifteen-foot lead, so she really did get pretty far before I wrangled her closer to shore.)

 

When I wouldn’t let her retreat, she did what I have taught her to do when she’s fearful, which is to sit down and take a breath. (Okay, I know you can’t really teach a dog to take a nice deep breath, but she sits, and I do the deep breathing.) Yep, she sat her little bottom right down in that ice-cold water. Silly dog.

 

We didn’t stay much longer; I had things to do at home. But I did stop to take pictures, and realized (shout out to all my Baldy friends!) from a certain point, you can see all the way from Forest Falls to Mt. Baldy. And yes, of course I waved when I realized that. You never know who might be waving back.