Walk with Dogs: Fear In The Wilderness

I am terrified.

Standing on a precipice, my toes clench its lip. My throat closes. My breath strains. Vision begins to blur as thoughts scream:

What if you fall?
What if people throw rocks and laugh as you descend?
What if flying in grace is a lie?

It is these times I walk away. Close the blank page and check twitter, facebook, pinterest, instagram, and in complete desperation; clean a toilet.

Yet, my feet find themselves again on that edge. If my journey of experience, strength and hope isn’t shared; then there was no purpose to the experience. No seeds of encouragement can scatter into other wounded hearts. Others may never be introduced to the deep and abiding Divine Love. The thought of wounded souls trapped in a Try Hard Faith drops me to my knees.

A Still Small Voice calls.

The terror begins with my Family of Origin. When we were called back to this Central Valley town, I understood the cost. My own Wilderness in a land of Egypt where much of myself could never be free. The Parentals and, for a time, three sisters live here- I am the oldest of four girls.

Parentals are still very active in ministry: Mom is a talented organist and Dad works within their church, with the disabled and veterans.

The relationship with sisters Two and Four is strained. In a town where “family” is the norm, the nature of our relational acquaintance makes people uncomfortable. Often I will meet people who know them. My guard goes up because my first concern is their reputation. Their integrity.

I have a working relationship with sister Three. They often call her the Black Sheep because of her fall from grace. We both wrestle with attending church. Both of us avoid knowing people in our community because of the relational overlap.

So…

In this third tour of deployment in the Wilderness, I’ve warily vetted friendships. Conversations are carefully measured out. Each word is weighed when spoken in public. It is with protective armor on that I run errands, have lunch with a girlfriend or simply walk around the neighborhood.

It is with all this weight that I stand on the precipice of a deep healing. My heart bursts with the hope of Divine Love’s grace. In secret I began a journey of walking away from that Try Hard faith. With dancing Divine Love revealed what Identity in Christ really means. Over tear stained long distance phone calls with a Soul Sister, we worked out how to love,  stay married and mother.

It is these and many more stories I long to tell. Today is the day. Here is the place where I can sow the seeds of Experience, Strength and hope. I lean over the abyss, allowing the wind to sweep my face. My breath catches and I let myself go.

I am still filled with doubts:

Will I fall?
Or
Will I fly?

Here begins a series of my Escape from Wonderland.

The Art of Falling

A week ago I fell.

A complete and total face plant walking Watson. My fantastic Audrey sunglasses scratched. Both knees scraped and bruised. My right shoulder still complains when I lay on it.

And… What happened in that fraction in of a second revealed a complete freedom.

On 8mm film, when I was 3 years old, flickers an odd little thing which is the perfect picture of my basic personality.

I run as fast as I can.

I stop.

Step warily over a garden hose.

Then continue running.

I remember at 5, learning to ride without training wheels. I was a two wheeling success for three days. Then my Grandparents came over. They wanted to see me ride my bike.

Proud, and feeling quite invincible, I pushed away.

Began pedaling down the sidewalk.

I was great riding in a straight line, but the bike decided to turn. I hung onto the bike as we both found the rosebush at the end of the apartment row.

I refused to ride my bike for the rest of the summer.

I. Hate. Falling.

Then I had boys. They jumped. They climbed. They fell. Ase was cautious and I realized very quickly he looked to me for bravery. I had to lead by example.

These were our mantras:

Being brave is being afraid and doing it anyway.

If you fall-point your toes. (Patrick Swayze’s Mom told him that.)

Then we moved to Mammoth. Counting Mutant worked for the resort which of course meant Ase and Zany learned how to ski.  Here they were, wanting to hurl themselves down an ice covered mountain on waxed wood pieces.

 

I was the parent.

I needed to set the example.

I needed to get my ass on a chair lift and learn how to ski. In throwing myself upon the mercy of gravity a truth emerged from the ski/snowboarding culture: falling is an art form. All falls are braggable accomplishments, because it means you tried.

Life happened and we moved into the Central Valley. The boys, now with sister in tow, decided dance would be their new passion. I would watch through the window of their classes, or in the audience during rehearsals. Beautiful, graceful dancers flowing across the stage would fall on their face. They would bounce up like a rubber ball, smile firmly in place and continue. It reminded me of what my Mom used to tell me when performing a musical piece: “If you make a mistake, keep playing. Don’t pause. Don’t start over. Just keep going because the audience won’t know you made a mistake. You are the only one who knows the music.”

I have listened to people the last week, express concern, sorrow, regret and warnings to be careful in the future. Each interaction leaves me a bit befuddled. I fell and it was spectacular. It was the rare person who could revel in the beauty of my wounds. Who could celebrate with me that I was alright in the grand scheme of things.

 

And I realized today:

Falling is not the worst thing that could happen. 

I bounced back up.

Smile on my face.

Bravely facing the next moment.

Never afraid to fall again.

Walk with Dogs- Laughter

I had a plan for my day.

I was going to put away Christmas and decorate the house for the New Year. I am ready to see pretty white sparkly things.

Little did I know.

First order of business was to walk the dogs. At the driveway, we passed a dad and his three children all of them were enjoying Christmas gifts, a scooter and bikes. With Watson on my left and Daisy on my right, we left them behind and found our rhythm.

A quarter of the way around, I lost in thought saw the daughter coming my way. Her golden curls dancing in the breeze under her safety helmet. With musical synchronization her foot touched the ground as her pink scooter whizzed by me.

Watson, the friendly Basset Hound wanted to say, “Hello.”

He stepped in front of me. I, each hand occupied with a leash, picked up my right to push him back. He stepped forward.

THEN

Did you know asphalt has a flavor? It is a mix of old coffee grounds, burnt barbeque ribs and dirt. I drew my hands up from my sides and pushed myself upright. My glasses felt funny. I saw stars.

Watson sat there looking at me very confused.

The tears began quickly followed by the jokes. I hurt and wanted to cry, but the funny bone took over. Soon I was losing the ability to see out of my right eye. My sunglasses were bent.

Of course I laughed and cried all the way home while this rolling dialogue carried me forward:

Watson wanted to say hello to a little girl on a scooter.

One way to feel young again at 45 is to fall on your face in front of a little girl riding a scooter wearing a safety helmet.

Do I need a safety helmet now to walk the dogs?

I never bruise. It would just be my luck that something this fantastic would not leave a mark.

I walked in the house, ready to break down. Zany-playing with his new rifle sized Nerf blaster- jumped back in horrified shock as I handed him Watson’s leash.

“You need to walk him two more miles.”

“Uh… okay.”

Thoughts in his mind:

How did Mom mess up her make-up so soon… OHhhh. She doesn’t have make-up on.

How long will it be before she makes a joke out of this?

I handed GirlyK my phone. Her lips pursed to hold her stomach in. I said the only logical thing in this age of social media,

“Quick take my picture.”

 

“Uh… okay.”

Thoughts in her mind:

How did Mom get an easter egg under her eyebrow?

Both scurried away as I grabbed a bag of frozen peas and sat down. Thousands of ice knives thrust themselves into my head with pulsating waves. Screaming obscenities at the Counting Mutant because he says ice makes everything feel better. And then I laughed because I felt young with skinned knees. Watson wanted to be friendly. I can check “get a black eye” off my bucket list. I have peas on my face. The right side of my smile looks a little like Joker’s.

Laughter makes life worth living.

Walk with Dogs: The Story of a Dog

He was a Christmas puppy, kept secret at a sister’s house until Santa could place him under their tree.

They lived in a house that The Counting Mutant grew up in. The Mutant’s Father had two boys. His Mother had two boys. They got married and had him. All told, five boys. This family of boys moved into a newish house of three bedrooms. It did not take long before the Father decided to make the house fit his family. Plans drawn, boys helped and grew up in that house. At the neighborhood swimming pool, life long friendships were forged. Four older brothers grew up and left the nest.

That left a Dad, a Mom and a boy.

Not needing a house to fit five boys, the parents decided to move into a house that fit their family. The house was sold to another family.

That family grew up in that molded house. Those Parents moved and one Son stayed to fill it with his own family. This man’s wife was my sister’s friend.

That Christmas puppy was a Dachshund. Not a toy, or a mini, but a Standard sized Dachshund. His natural instincts were strong. Bred to hunt badgers in their den, the breed is tenacious, intelligent, sensitive and funny.

This puppy lived in a house a Father built. That The Counting Mutant spent his childhood in.

All of his natural behaviors-living in a house in a family filled with toddlers-became too much to handle. The family asked my sister if she would like him. She said yes. This Dachshund puppy, now a year old dog, joined two Australian Shepherds. This adventurous pack of three romped, went on long walks. The Shepherds would return to the call of their master like good herding dogs. The Dachshund focused on the hunt and not hearing his master’s call, would track his prey until found, then wait. The Dachshund would jump on beds and snuggle little ones, guarding their dreams.

And in another house filled with toddlers, the Dachshund didn’t fit. He didn’t take correction well. Was hard to control on long walks and struggled with house training. It was time for him to find a new home.

We had just said goodbye to a Labrador we fostered for a few years while another sister was in the armed forces. Our quiet house missed a snuggle buddy. We happily accepted this quirky Dachshund and called him Roscoe.

This Dachshund who spent puppy years in a house The Counting Mutant grew up in. They were soul mates.

Built like a mini Schwarzenegger, Roscoe would bounce up and down the stairs. Leap the recliner in a single bound. Happily snuggle with a book reader. He loved to sing “Happy Birthday.” The daily mile or two walk was the highpoint of his day. Older kids in our house made the house training issues a simple fix.

 All of this jumping had a price. Dachshunds are prone to back problems because they are structured as a regularly sized dog on itty bitty legs. Chiropractic added two years to his life. At age 11 it was a hernia that pushed him over the edge.

Head sagging, and asking to go home, Roscoe’s walk became his chore instead of a joy. Sleeping more and playing less became his routine. Last night for a final Happy Birthday chorus we learned he couldn't even do that. On the first note, his song became howls of pain and we all knew: it was time to say goodbye. Keeping him would be selfish.

This morning we said goodbye to our friend. The Counting Mutant said goodbye to a common history and memory. We are relieved he is at peace and bouncing somewhere in wild, open fields. Hunting to his heart’s content and pleasing his Master.

Walk with Dogs- Virtuous Sleep

I am reluctant to fall asleep at night. Cultural Christianity teaches Proverbs 31 as a Godly Woman litmus test.  According to King Lemuel’s Mother, a wife of noble character never sleeps. As a result, we women show up to church or Bible Study with perfect hair, make-up flawless, wearing fashionable yet modest clothes. A smile on our face and a twinkle in our eye we project flawless contentment.

We. Are. All. Liars.

Photo taken by loneangel

The Virtuous Woman starts out the day with the best of intentions. Shegets up while it is still dark for a Quiet Time of scripture and prayer. Family stirs and breakfast is cooked with a smile as ordered in Proverbs 31:15. She begins checking off the Virtuous Woman boxes.

The business of the day: house, work, kids, husband’s needs, community. The sun sets with the dawn of reality.  Over a sink full of dinner dishes, she pants with exhaustion.

Toys and clutter fill the living room. Laundry covers the bed, overwhelmed she musters her last bit of strength. In a sweet siren voice she sounds the call for bedtime.  

Kids’ shenanigans are the final strike. Pushed beyond her limit, her image of perfection slips away and she turns into a drill sergeant harpy. 

There is no fun in Mudville.

With the kids are tucked in she turns on her overdrive. The day is not over until she falls asleep. There is still time to complete the missed household chores while husband sleeps. When he wakes up, he will be amazed. She will hear the praises of her husband just like Proverbs 31 says. Dinner dishes neatly placed in the dishwasher. A whirlwind pick up in the living room. Fueled by a feeling of victory she walks through the bedroom door to attack the laundry monster. 

Photo taken by Alvimann

Husband is laying in repose upon the laundry. The dulcet sounds of a show waft from the laptop.

Does she wake him? Does she ask him for help?

No.

A deep sense of failure, with a chaser of shame, sets in as each piece of laundry is brought into submission, Husband’s comfy bed shifts. He awakens. Unaware of her Virtuous Woman burden, he turns off the computer.

“That can be finished tomorrow. Come to bed.” He moves to push the rest of the laundry onto the floor.

That wife looks into the eyes of her lover.

A Virtuous Woman demand rings in her ears:  “She sees that her business affairs go well;her lamp stays lit at night.”

Her defeated reply, “You go ahead. I’ll be there as soon as I finish this.”

Proverbs 31 has been twisted into a burden of legalism. Within this Cultural Christianity application there is no room for grace, love or laughter. God does give us tasks to keep us occupied; but they are never to become a litmus test of worth. Ecclesiastes tells us that we are to eat, drink and enjoy the good that results from those tasks; it is a gift from God. Part of that good is rest and sleep. The Psalmist says that unless God is our center focus, we get up early and put off going to bed in vain, for God “provides for his beloved, even when they sleep.”  

Photo taken by hotblack

When I trust in divine rest, my soul is renewed. I am no longer weary; God clothes me with strength and dignity. I am able to be patient in the face of a determined child. My arms are strengthened for the day's tasks. I have energy to serve my won family along with attending Divine Appointments that interrupt my plans. I am able to laugh at the days to come.

Walk With Dogs- Sweating Freedom

Exercise has always been difficult for me. Anorexia was a beautiful escape from the skin I lived in. Anyone could touch me and it never hurt. I was safe. I could simply live in my head and use my body as a vessel to get from point A to point B. We had a perfect balance; I fed it exactly what it needed to survive and it would move my brain. A process that began 25 years ago came to a beautiful conclusion this past Lent.

Through posts by Elizabeth Esther and Mary DeMuth I was able to create a strong narrative for exercising and easily eating well. My body does not belong to me, it belongs to God and I am charged with its stewardship. In caring for myself- loving myself- I learn to more effectively  love others. Since Easter, a new ease and simplicity came to eating well. Exercise was timidly fun, feeling my muscles strain and work still caused a bit of anxiety, but it wasn't overwhelming. I wrestle with Fibromyalgia as well, so exercise is difficult. Finding the sweet spot between too much and just enough is difficult. An article about working out for six minutes a day then slowly increasing as the body adjusts gave me a great how. Yet, I still struggled with a clear, focused reason why. Then on Friday Dwayne Johnson aka: The Rock tweeted this:

Training for me becomes my daily "anchor". Personal daily challenge. Me vs Me. Then the rest of the work day is cake;) #RockTalk @azntatboy
— Dwayne Johnson (@TheRock) April 26, 2013

Light bulbs exploded in my head. The last few chains of shame dropped away. Meeting myself in the morning to capture the beautiful fluffy body I live in. To take thoughts that imprison me and put them into Holy Spirit's control. Then Divine Love can continue to heal and regenerate me. Today's Walk With The Dogs was pure sweaty, exhausting Joy.