One by One …

April 30, 2025
by Nancy Emeral
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Awareness / The Human Condition

It was one of those mornings when everything just seemed to be falling into place … The sun was shining, the coffee was just right, I had on my favorite jeans, my slice of bread came out of our finicky toaster perfectly, and the dogs went through their morning routine without a glitch. With list in hand (I’m big on list making) I set out for town to run errands.

Even on the streets of Spokane everything was going my way. I hit green lights, check-out lines magically opened up, and before I knew it all items on my list were checked off. Quite agreeable in every way except for one annoying little problem … My too long hair kept falling around my face getting stuck in my glasses, and caught in my mouth. 

Unruly hair is a small thing to be sure, but irritating none-the-less. A fly in the ointment of my lovely morning. Then it hit me. I have been tolerating this hair aggravation for a while now, putting up with it until, like this particular morning, it had become unbearable. This is a familiar pattern. I’ve been here before and if my history holds true when exhausted of forbearance I might perhaps act rashly … Oftentimes with varying degrees of success in eliminating the annoyance. Sometimes I’ve made things worse. 

In general I don’t pay much attention to hair. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s on my head as long as it’s well behaved. I’m willing to wash and comb it out, the sum total of my preening. All is good as long as I can pull it through the hole in the back of my ball cap or tuck it behind my ears. Beyond that I just don’t care, until it becomes a nuisance which it was on that day.

This aversion to fussing over my hair most likely comes from my early elementary school days when in general I looked like a scarecrow. Mom wasn’t much for grooming and left to my own devices I had hair sticking out at all angles from my self inflicted pony tail, and bangs that angled down on one side of my head. I wasn’t terribly skilled with scissors. Add the large space that was then between my two front teeth and the look was complete … total scarecrow.

The truth was that it simply didn’t matter to me then anymore than it does now. I had better things to do like create imaginary worlds in a hidden corner of our Chicago area backyard. What good would tidy hair be when involved in important mud, stick, stone, branches and water construction? 

I haven’t changed all that much. I’m still creating with stone, found objects, and now words and paint. I get so deep into dreamy possibilities I push aside irritations as long as I can until they scream at me as my hair did the other day in the car. 

My last errand was the pet store to get yet another harness for my growing Pyrenees puppy, Moose, who at 5 months old just weighed in at 63 lbs. He’s a big boy. All done with shopping and ready to go home another clump of sadistic hair blew in my face. That did it. 

Suddenly I remembered a walk-in hair salon just a few stores down from the pet store. I made a deal with myself. If I walked in and could get in to get a cut right away I’d do it. Sure enough, the gods were smiling on me and no one was waiting. The receptionist led me to a chair and said she’d get the stylist from the back.

As in most salons in my limited experience the stylists here were on the young side, well groomed with perfect make-up and fashionable hair-cuts. Then my stylist came out … She was a bit older, on the chunky side, fairly disheveled and nails so long I didn’t see how she could hold scissors. Her hair looked a bit greasy and was tied up in a knot on the top of her head so tightly it looked like she might not be able to shut her eyes.

Even though I’m not that particular about hair, I feared I’d end up with the same look as my 8 year old scarecrow days … And I could do that at home. Stay or bolt? I swallowed hard and stayed.

Turned out that Jen was a veteran stylist, had been doing hair for 38 years. Up close I saw that her hair was wet, not greasy. She was pleasant, competent and, as I found out while talking with her, pretty worn out. She was in the middle of packing up and moving, without, I imagine, a lot of extra time on her hands. Jen gave me a terrific cut and some pointers on gardening and canning. The next time I need a a hair-cut I’ll make sure I get one from her.

On the drive home I felt truly ashamed. I had judged a person based solely on a glance at her physical appearance. The instant I saw her I concluded she was incompetent, unkempt and the very last person I’d want even touching any part of me. Yes, she was a bit overly casual, probably due to the stress of moving. Regardless, she wasn’t unclean as I had, in a blink, decided she was. I was wrong, so wrong.

I don’t suppose it’s possible to eliminate snap judgments. I do think it’s possible to pause, step back from my instantaneous assessments made without sufficient information … To question my thinking. If ever there was a time to reign in hasty, unsubstantiated judgments that time is now.

I believe thoughts matter. They travel unseen through the world like radio waves and I don’t want to add to the pervasive negativity and insanity in the news, on school campuses, and on the street. The good news is that I have access to the health of my mind. I have a choice to be a positive influence. Even if it seems like a small thing in the face of what look like insurmountable challenges, imagine if one by one we turned toward compassion and generosity of spirit … A groundswell of goodwill working toward a better future for all. Perhaps you think I’m a dreamer … 

“Imagine there's no heaven

It's easy if you try

No hell below us

Above us, only sky

Imagine all the people

Livin' for today … Ah

Imagine there's no countries

It isn't hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for

And no religion, too

Imagine all the people

Livin' life in peace … You

You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope someday you'll join us

And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions

I wonder if you can

No need for greed or hunger

A brotherhood of man

Imagine all the people

Sharing all the world … You

You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope someday you'll join us

And the world will live as one”

“Imagine” by John Lennon

From Afar …

March 20, 2025
by Nancy Emeral
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perspective / Self-Care

Through a twist of fate an adventurous news anchor, Bradley Jackson, is recruited to do a live broadcast aboard a sub-orbital flight around Earth. After escaping Earth’s gravity she, and the other two passengers playfully float through the capsule, all enjoying the exhilarating liberation of weightlessness. 

Bradley is no stranger to human conflict. She has witnessed firsthand and reported on some of the worst of humanity. Seeing the whole of Earth from the vast expanse outside her window she is captivated, and a rare softness crosses her face as she relates her experience to the people on the planet. “After two years of the pandemic and now a war in Ukraine, it’s incredible to look down and see how connected we all are.”

The scene is from the third season of Apple TV’s, “The Morning Show,” portraying vividly how a change of perspective can make a meaningful difference. 

It’s been a habit of mine, when I get bogged down with ground level hardships, that I imagine I’m sitting on the Moon. Sometimes I feel like the entirety of humanity is in pain, or causing harm as though all of us have lost our moral compass. For a different point of view I go for a walk in the woods and when, at times the turmoil is too intense I moon-sit.

I picture myself perched on a moon rock surrounded by total silence. In that frigid, barren landscape nothing of the ‘stuff’ of daily life is present to distract my focus. In complete isolation what do I see? How do I feel gazing upon the blue planet of my origin? … Our planet is one whole entity and it is breathtaking. 

Before me a stunningly beautiful orb in elegant proximity to the sun hangs in space. I see glowing, crystalline blue oceans and vibrant green lands. The deserts are a warm relief against the cerulean seas. All this under swirls of marshmallow white clouds. I begin to have that same smile and star struck look on my face as Bradley had while spellbound by the unified, undivided Earth, far from the dissonance of ground level problems. This is why I came, to get a different perspective.

Another way I shift my attention from the in-my-face chaos lies in one of the attributes I understand is given to eagles in Native American culture … The eagle symbolizes taking the long view. While riding the currents high in the sky this powerful raptor sees with perfect clarity up to a mile away. 

Being gravity bound it only makes sense that in the main our collective vision is limited to the push and pull of ground level maneuvering; the economy, who’s in power, disease, hunger, war, human rights, poverty, education … The list goes on. It’s different when I’m riding on the back of a magnificent bird. Strong wingbeats free me from the pull that holds me to the ground, and carry me into the heights. The wind whips around my face, clears my senses and I have a chance to see as the eagle sees. I get a change of perspective.

I need that shift in my thinking to cope with the fragmented, chopped up political maneuvering and the damage done to the planet by human incursion. I need to take the long view when confronted with rain forest demolition, melting icebergs, polluted oceans, over-population, animal extinctions, and agricultural chemistry … Only a few of the consequences of our short sightedness.

Our ineptitude and lack of respect for our mother planet has negatively impacted the once pristine eco-systems. Voices threaten doom right around the corner. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s mainly our lives that are in danger if we keep misbehaving. To quote George Carlin, “The planet will shake us off like a bad case of fleas … ” Certainly correction is needed and I doubt we will be the ones to do it. 

People, stars, and planets move through space at different speeds. What is a lifetime for us is merely a cosmic wink. Even trees whisper this truth to listening ears … Weathering all long before we are born and continuing on after we are gone. If the Earth is cast into another ice age, or wiped out by nuclear warheads there is reason to believe that over geologic time life will regenerate. It will find a way to flourish once again, our bones nourishing the growth of a re-awakening planet. 

I understand that Earth has existed for 4.5 billion years. My puny human brain can’t really grasp that amount of time. 4.5 billion is beyond my comprehension. Yet, the immensity of that number seeps into my soul bringing with it a sense of quiet peace. Our goldilocks planet will most likely reconcile the horror of human created damage in cosmic time. 

In light of that far reaching perspective I’m content to be an infinitesimally small dot making my gravity-bound way through life. When I can see clearly I am at peace trusting the ultimate fate of humankind and this blue planet to the formidable forces in the universe. In the meantime I will do all I can to have a positive impact on my world, however small that impact may be.

When I do get mired down in the difficulties of the day, I remind myself that a better perspective is possible. I will listen to the trees, soar on the wings of a mighty raptor, or perch on a rock in the barren lunar landscape with a breathtaking view … And, there’s plenty of room for others, perhaps I’ll meet you there.

Emptiness …

March 4, 2025
by Nancy Emeral
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Abstract Art / Mystical Connection

My limbs were virtually immobile, arms and legs sticking straight out. I was bound in a stiff, puffy suit cartwheeling through the vastness of space and unable to stop, slow down or course correct. The chilling unearthly silence of an infinite void surrounded me, a black empty sea. My only points of reference, the twinkling white lights going in and out of my vision. I tumbled around and around to what would eventually, surely be my undoing.

“Ouch!” I cried as I was washing the breakfast dishes. The water I had been running in the sink had become unbearably hot and yanked me back from my daydream. 

Outside my kitchen window the view opens up to a broad valley that climbs up the foothills of Mt. Spokane. On this day in late February the mountain is covered with the same pristine snow that lies on all I see … A perfect, clean white canvas simply begging to be embellished with some colorful dreams.

I often find myself mesmerized by this view and not surprised at all that on this particular morning I fancied myself hopelessly lost in space. That’s precisely how I feel. 

I’m the kind of person who routinely wakes up grounded in the day ahead and ready to get to it. I rarely have to wonder what I will be doing. A sense of purpose and mission is so deeply rooted in me that on those infrequent occasions when I wake up feeling out of touch with myself I’m lost and confused. This feeling often leads to a dark despair not, I imagine, unlike tumbling through space, alone, into nothingness … A frightening amnesia and I don’t like it.

On these atypical days I tend to scrabble around looking for a way out of this personal vacancy. I’m like a thousand mice running through a maze for the cheese in the middle. I can’t sit still. I can’t relax or accomplish anything except getting more and more worked up.

Seeing the state I was in my husband, Dan said, “Have you thought about letting go of your resistance?” Of course I hadn’t. I’m up to my eyeballs in resistance, fighting this invisible enemy with all my might and only succeeding in digging a deeper hole just as black and lonely as floating around in space. Letting go of resistance? … OK, I’ll try. Yoda sneaks in and whispers, “There is no try, only do.” Sometimes I really don’t like that little green guy.

Only do. Let go. Sounds so easy. At least for me, it’s not. 

The only thing I felt capable of was going for a walk … my go-to solution for almost everything. Somewhere, while trudging through powder snow that reached above the top of my high boots a bit of awareness crept into my frazzled mind … I’m in a vacuum. Nature abhors a vacuum, and apparently so do I.

A while back a dear friend commissioned me to create two paintings for him. He gave me a general idea of what he was interested in, where he’d like the paintings to hang, and provided me with 4 pieces of music to get me started. I was immediately taken with one, “Smooth,” by Santana. The connection was strong and the painting, “7 Inches from the Midday Sun,” almost jumped onto the canvas. The second painting, not at all.

Months went by and the energy didn’t show up. I kept listening to the 4 songs on repeat and nothing, no connection. I had this lovely large canvas all ready to go and no juice. It seemed that the harder I pushed the more the elusive muse moved away. Exhausted of the struggle I conceded. Perhaps I really only had one painting for him. Without consciously trying, I had let go. 

Time passed and I found myself itching to paint. Gone was the pressure to make something happen within the guidelines of the commission. Instead, a simple, basic desire began to emerge and I thought, “Why am I waiting? I have a canvas. I have paint … so paint!”

It’s been my habit to find a piece of music that matches the energy I’m wanting to put on canvas. I was being drawn to a certain tone, something mournful. I knew I had landed on the right song when tears ran down my cheeks listening to Jackson Browne’s acoustic version of. “Sky Blue and Black.” The ‘juice’ I had been lacking while trying to make something happen was flowing effortlessly and I went to my studio.

Hours later open pots of blue, black, white, silver, and violet paint, rags, water bottles, brushes, forks, scrapers, plates littered the tables in my studio. I had black smears on my face from paint-covered hands. (It’s not my style to be tidy when immersed in creative work.) Exhausted, I went inside and cleaned up.

I’m in such a state while painting that I need to go back the day after to actually see what I did. I was pleased that what landed on the canvas is precisely what had been rumbling around in me. I photographed “The Dark Side of the Moon” and sent the image off to my friend, intending only to show him my latest work. To my great surprise he loved it, wanted it and said he was, “Really happy!”

Exhausting that creative energy led me to where all this started, staring off into the valley beyond my kitchen window daydreaming that I was tumbling around in the abyss of space … which led me to a walk in the woods. 

There, in the presence of nature’s cathedral I began to piece together that I was indeed empty. The feeling as though I had been tumbling around in the vacuum of space was appropriate. The place inside of me that was, over months, holding a space for the ‘juice’ to flow onto the canvas was gone. That space had become a void, not unlike my cosmic daydream.

If it is true that nature does abhor a vacuum, why wouldn’t I? It only follows that the emptying of oneself leaves a hollow. Perhaps that’s the very same phenomenon as the depression often following the birth of a child … a living being is gone and leaves a lonely place inside a woman. 

I’m delighted that “The Dark Side of the Moon” hit the mark I had not even been shooting for. All that transpired around this painting has me thinking about resistance … my opposition to the vacuum I felt, however appropriate, after emptying myself onto the canvas. 

More subtlety perhaps, the dogged push to make something happen with that particular set of music. It could have become clear to me that I was barking up the wrong tree if I had not became ‘welded’ to the way something had to happen. I was resisting accepting what was right before me. 

Sometimes it’s difficult for me to know when to push through barriers and when to step back. When that confusion moves in I need a change of perspective. It can be something as simple as an activity that reliably makes me feel better. For me it’s a walk in the woods, but I’m sure it could be other things for other people … 

Maybe doing the thing that feeds the soul will allow the mind to relax even just enough to still anxiety and let a shaft of light shine through the darkness. Perhaps then a person could step away from battling whatever torment happens to be threatening them … Realize that something missing is gone, is no more, and make peace with the emptiness.

A section from “The Dark Side of the Moon,” to see the full painting https://innerlandscapes.blog/featured-art-piece/

Love really is a 4 letter word …

February 11, 2025
by Nancy Emeral
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Dogs / Follow Your Heart / Mortality

Well, it’s official … our household has gone to the dogs. To two puppies actually, Moose & Maya. These little fur balls with sugar sweet faces and fluffy soft white fur (when they’re not smeared with poop) have turned out to be terrorists in disguise.  

The M&M’s teethe on everything they can fit in their mouths and generally rip it to shreds, pee copious amounts of urine frequently, howl when they want attention (which is any time they are awake), throw up in the car, and give no warning whatsoever when they are about to drop hot, smelly piles of puppy poop. 

Have you noticed that when you say you want something, or decide to make a serious life change it’s all roses for about 2 minutes? After that it would seem the universe throws a little smile in your direction and says, “Oh really?”

Moose, at only 9 weeks old has outgrown his second puppy harness by adding about 6 lbs. to his stocky little frame since we brought him home. He’s already pretty strong and displays the willful personality of a Great Pyrenees. Early training and socialization is an absolute must for these pups … and, for me as well! I keep a careful eye for any clues to indicate he has to pee so I can take him outside. I actually feel like I’m the one who’s being potty trained.

About a week ago I was intuiting that the pups were going to bond more to each other than to us. That was confirmed by our Veterinarian, and as a result Maya lives next door with our daughter. The pups have plenty of play time together outside and then are taken back to their respective homes. 

All this is to say that my desire for these two puppies has led to life-altering changes. For example, a couple of days ago I awoke to a poop and pee disaster in Moose’s kennel. When I say disaster, I mean it. It looked like a four year old had had an espresso, been given a pot of brown tempera paint, a bucket of water, and was told to, “Have fun!” You get the picture.

After a roll of paper towels, and a damp mop I could finally see bottom. All this while Moose was romping around my feet and chasing the mop. Then I went to work getting the poop out of his soft fur with warm water and a rag. He didn’t like that and I believe it was that moment I had a fleeting thought, “You know, it’s not too late to re-home the little guy, if I can ever get him clean!”

It was a fleeting moment, yet the thought raised it’s sly little head throughout the day. Especially when he howled every time my grown dog Zoe walked by his kennel. Oh, did I mention that we now have a full on 6 foot tall ‘Lucky Dog’ 4×8 kennel in our relatively small home? That’s right. Moose’s large outdoor kennel is now occupying the very heart of our home. “Oh really?”

I didn’t seriously consider re-homing Moose. I’m already in love, and love is a four letter word. A word that I’ve always had a hard time defining. What is it? I know what the poets and wisdom books say, yet love to me is still as intangible as the early morning fog that hovers like a fluffy blanket over the valley just outside my front porch.

I can speak more to what love isn’t … it isn’t giving up, it isn’t fickle, deceitful, and it isn’t a feeling. Sure, the feelings may get us to the doorway, but emotion won’t hang in through the hard times. If you love, truly love, there are always hard times. Always obstacles that grab hold of your deepest inadequacies and fears. If you make it through all of that, then come the unavoidable losses.

I know these giant breed dogs have a relatively short life span. Up to now I’ve had dogs that live well into their teens. I’ve liked that assurance. Knowing that the deep loss I will surely feel when they die is many years away. I can’t say exactly why at this time I’m willing to forego that assurance, accept the probable, and be grateful for the time we have. 

I suppose it’s only human to avoid sadness. To want the fluffy puppy and not the poop. To want the house, car, boat, vacation without the work it takes to afford and maintain them. Yet, deep down I think we all know that just isn’t how life works. I wonder if the good stuff would feel so good if it came to us without effort? 

Maybe human life demands a yin-yang of joy and pain to manifest an authentic experience. Perhaps this ever moving dynamic actually promotes aliveness and should we rise to the challenge, propels us toward a mysterious bliss. Were we welded to only one orientation or the other, a kind of deadness would be spawned. All movement would cease, and stymied without motion, vitality would die.  

C.S. Lewis said, “The pain now is part of the joy then. That’s the deal.” I’ll try to keep that in mind knowing the inevitable farewell to come one day.

Moose in a rare calm moment …

Sudoku changed my life …

January 15, 2025
by Nancy Emeral
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Dogs / Follow Your Heart

I’m going to blame it on Sudoku. For some reason that I cannot understand two of my kids are obsessed with these puzzles. I look at all those numbers and instantly break out in hives. Not them however, my mystifying offspring vie for the daily Sudoku in our newspaper, cynically placed in the want ads just under ‘Pets’ … Wicked.

So it happened that at breakfast while working out the days puzzle my son casually mentioned an ad for Great Pyrenees crossed with Saint Bernard pups deviously placed directly above his Sudoku. “Aw, what cute pups,” he said. Unable to catch myself in time, I glanced at the picture. Is there a 12 step group for those of us hopelessly addicted to cute furry canines?

It’s a known fact to me and anyone else who knows me that I am utterly helpless around dogs, especially puppies. Good lord, I simply can’t, not, take one home. That is the very reason I avoid all shelters and pickup trucks by the side of the road with a hand printed sign saying, “Puppies for sale!” 

If I stop and peek into the box housing the pups I’m done for, helplessly drawn into the vortex of a puppy loving tornado just by looking. My strategy has been to avert my eyes and steer the car away, far, far, away. But, this particular early morning I was groggy and hadn’t even had my coffee yet. I was caught off guard … and I looked at the ad. 

The very next day Dan and I went to the breeder. That was a week ago and now Moose and Maya (yes, you read it right, not just one puppy, but two) are wrestling in the puppy pen occupying a good portion of our living room and throwing our household into total chaos. Was it entrapment? Probably not. 

Aside from the evil Sudoku puzzle I’m going to blame the two little terrors in my living room on my husband Dan. On the way home with only Maya in tow he was so moved by her howling despair at being yanked away from her puppy pile that he pulled over to the side of the road and said, “This is heartbreaking. I think we should either return her or go back and get one of her litter mates so she’s not alone.”

When I first saw the ad in the paper and contacted the breeders they texted pictures and videos of the pups. All cute  of course and little Maya’s sweet, adorable face grabbed my attention. I had it in my mind that she was the one. However, when I was face to face with all those furry squirmies vying for attention I couldn’t take my eyes off the only male pup, Moose. But I was so influenced by my earlier thinking that I chose Maya without even considering Moose or any of the other pups.

Upon reflection I’m curious how many times I get it in my head to do something and leave little or no space for new information. In this circumstance, I had a bad case of tunnel vision and pressed on without even realizing I was blocking any possibility for a change of plans only because I previously decided on a particular course of action. I bound myself to my earlier decision.

I’m beginning to think I should be suspicious when I don’t leave room for a change in thinking, and not exactly sure how to catch myself in the act. One clue could be that I have to ‘press’ to get something done, stubbornness instead of appropriate tenacity. Another might be making a practice of questioning ‘snap’ decisions? 

When driving away from the breeders with only Maya in tow and Dan opened up the possibility to go back and get Moose along with Maya, it took me a mere 10 seconds to say, “Turn the car around … “ As we drove back to the breeders to get Moose I declared my carefully thought out rationale, “If you can’t do something crazy when you’re 74, when are you gonna do it?” Crazy indeed.

In my defense it hadn’t occurred to get TWO giant breed puppies until Dan’s comment freed up my thinking. I could blame this impetus act on him, or perhaps the newspaper, those villainous journalists placing the picture of the pups next to the daily Sudoku … or better yet, my son for even drawing attention to the ad. No doubt he’s the original culprit. But the truth is, it’s all me. 

It might sound like I‘m having buyers remorse. Actually, I’m not. Just keenly aware of how stark raving mad it is to add a whole new heap of work into my already packed-full daily life. If I’m being really honest I have a not-always-functioning sense of limitation coupled with a strong connection to heart’s desire and a whopper of a driving need for challenge … oops!

Am I following desire into ruin or into delight? My only saving grace is that I’m willing to do what it takes to have what my heart demands and it doesn’t hurt to have a pretty good grasp on my life situation including resources, environment, and availability. Hopefully all of that points to a positive outcome. However … 

Am I nervous? You bet I am. There are moments I’m also a little terrified, questioning my ability to do right by the pups. I believe all living things animal and vegetable deserve a good healthy life … especially dogs. I take their well-being seriously and I don’t think worrying that I’ll mess up these two gorgeous beasts will do any good. Surely that angst is at the very least a waste of energy, although the voice of anxiety speaks louder at times than the voice of trust. 

I can’t say for certain what Rilke meant when he wrote, “It is they, the monsters, that hold the surplus strength which is indispensable to those that must surpass themselves.” For me, the monsters house this persistent haunting sense of unworthiness and inadequacy that I awaken by choosing to respond to my heart and take big risks. Face to face with my demons claiming that I don’t deserve the air I breathe. That is a terrifying place to be …

If the poet is right, I won’t be able to ‘tame’ my fears, they will always show up. But at some point I might be able to co-exist with them, without terror and perhaps even catalyze the energy held hostage there. 

For now I’m going to hold one of these big puff balls while they’ll still fit on my lap. I’ll run my hands through that soft fur, look into those pleading eyes and get a whiff of sweet puppy breath while those sharp little teeth try to teethe on my fingers. Then in a flash, all will be right with my world.

All that the rest forget in order to make their life possible, 
we are always bent on discovering, on magnifying even;  
it is we who are the real awakeners of our monsters, 
to which we are not hostile enough to become their conquerors; 
for in a certain sense we are at one with them;  
it is they, the monsters, that hold the surplus strength 
which is indispensable to those that must surpass themselves.  
Unless one assigns to the act of victory a mysterious and far deeper meaning, 
it is not for us to consider ourselves the tamers of our internal lions.  
But suddenly we feel ourselves walking beside them, as in a Triumph, 
without being able to remember the exact moment when
 this inconceivable reconciliation took place 
(bridge barely curved that connects the terrible with the tender. . .)

Rainer Maria Rilke

 

Looking for Christmas …

December 20, 2024
by Nancy Emeral
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Self-Care

The sky is gray, temperatures are hovering in the lower 30’s, icy drizzle comes and goes and not a snowflake in sight. This is not the deal I made with Spokane 9 years ago when we moved from the eternally damp bone chilling winters of the Washington coast to the Inland Northwest, the land of sunny skies and snowy white winters. Not this year, and not last year. 

Since the beginning of December I could be found digging out every strand of little white lights collected over years. I’ve dusted off the boxes housing holiday decorations that haven’t seen the light of day for a very long time and now are finding their way into our home. My daughter remarked that our living room was starting to resemble a ski lodge in a Hallmark holiday movie. Fine, I’ll take it.

As one who spends a lot of time outdoors, the constant dampness and gray skies chill me to my bone and threaten to pull a shroud of melancholy over my mood. All my well-lit, sparkly Christmas preparations are an attempt to lift my spirits above the gloom outside … the thing I can do nothing about.

I’m a bit nervous: what if just as I made the major move from the Puget Sound area where I had lived for 35 years (leaving a place that held a significant amount of my adult history) I am late. I fear those snowy white, cold winters I hungered for while on the coast have disappeared. Instead, damp, dismal skies have followed me here. I’m afraid things have changed in my little paradise.

One thing I know for sure and can say with full confidence is that everything, always, will change. I will change, our world will change… the good news and the challenging news.

As much as I’d like to weld certain features, like youthful joints, near perfect memory, non-rising healthy ocean waters, robust bird populations, and vast wild land, the evolving nature of life forbids it. Change, regeneration, dynamic movement is what propels life here on earth and beyond. There’s no stopping it.

Like a chipmunk or a ground squirrel I find myself burrowing into my cocoon of little white lights this December and I suspect it’s more than the weather. Like others around the country fatigued by a ridiculously polarized election, and barraged by daily news headlines spouting fear and dissonance, I am taking a break. 

I am confident conscience will win out in the new year and I’ll once again read the paper and The Week (my personal favorite) to remain informed, but not now. Now I am taking a hiatus from the frantic flyer ads in the mailbox, the political texts, the discouraging headlines, and the daily shopping ads showing up in my email.

I am closing the world out, just for a while, giving myself a break to revive my flagging spirits. Shutting the door on what seems to me to be a lot of insanity threatening to overtake my joy like the gray clouds above. Similarly, I am closing the recently installed gate at the end of the lane into our farm that boasts two signs … “Please leave Packages in Tub,” and “No Soliciting, See Dog for Details.”

Looking to the new year I believe my social contact ‘vacation’ will serve me well. There are big changes ahead both for our country and our world. I suspect we will have some growing pains and can only hope that each and every one of us will take good care of ourselves in order to be an agent of change in the days to come. 

Hang some lights, make some cookies (or, find a good bakery) curl up with a dog under a fuzzy blanket and watch a corny Christmas movie … find just the right gifts, no matter how small, for the people you love and more importantly tell them how much they mean to you … carry meal bars and bottles of water in your car for the homeless you encounter on the street, give a stranger your place in line, whisper a prayer in the woods or your place of worship for good will for ALL humankind and creatures alike … and no matter the social or physical weather, have a Merry Christmas!

It Creeps in like the Tide …

November 26, 2024
by Nancy Emeral
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Living Authentically

The acrid smell of diesel fuel stung my nose, jarring me awake. I was cold beyond shivering, bound in some kind of tight suit, confused and feeling nothing. I was numb, a block of stone covered in snow. 

Then I noticed the crystalline sky above the mounds of puffy clouds in shades of bluish gray. The stars were bright, beautiful and I sighed in relief. It was over. “If this is the end of my life, it isn’t so bad “… my parting thought as I was once again enveloped in darkness. 

Bright lights burned the back of my eyelids. I gingerly opened them to see my icy cold fingers clinging to the metal bars next to a toilet. I was in a hospital.

“She’s in there peeing,” I heard a woman say. She was standing in the doorway. A nurse. “Blood.” That was all I could get out before the little strength that remained in my limbs began to give way. I started to fall. 

Alarmed voices filled the small room while hands kept me upright as my legs were flailing in a pool of slippery blood puddling at my feet. I was giving way, fading from this life. Then the quiet darkness moved in again. Nothing but a dreamless, cold sleep. Midnight, November … 35 years ago … 

The next few days found me lying in a bed in that same hospital with tubes connected to my arms, coming in and out of consciousness. I had miscarried, and had been bleeding out. A caring friend had dialed 911 to have me air lifted to the hospital, since the only way into town from my country home involved a bridge that had fallen into the raging waters of a major river. 

November, month of pilgrims, pumpkins, turkey and gravy. The beginning of the holiday season. A time for giving thanks, celebrating loved ones and life. November is also a month that haunts me, hunts me down every year. At the end of the first week this year I foolishly thought, “Hey, I’m doing great … maybe it’ll pass me by.” Not a chance. 

Week two and there it was … inescapable as the tide, a darkness creeps into my usually optimistic nature. I’ve tried every trick I can think of to circumvent this black cloud that hovers over my world, and it hasn’t worked so far. How many times have I asked, “Why? What’s the point of reliving the darkest days of my life?” And, moreover, “How is it possible that for thirty … five … years this deep sadness visits me right on time, no matter how good my life is?”

Upon reflection I’ve come to believe that the only way through the deep depression always connected to these memories is to surrender, embrace the relentless darkness of something that completely changed my life … took me to ground zero and shook me to my very core. A harsh harbinger of opportunity to create an authentic life … one that fit the real me and not the ‘me’ I had been trying to be.

Through no malicious intent by myself or anyone else for that matter, I had dug myself into a situation that was draining the life from me. Metaphorically mirrored in my life blood spilling out on the floor. 

I guess I’m supposed to remember, really remember, the cost of living inauthentically. The price to be paid is literally, my life. Perhaps not as dramatic but just as relevant, isn’t that the price everyone of us will pay if we aren’t living our real selves? 

For me it took nearly giving my life to find myself. I had to uncover and work through layers of pretense and self-protection that still pop up from time to time. Erich Fromm said, “Man’s main task in life is to give birth to himself.”* And anyone who has given birth knows it’s no picnic. 

35 years ago began an arduous self-exploration that continues to touch me deeply every November. I remember feeling at that time as though I had a cess pool inside of me that required me to fill one cup at a time, climb a mountain and only then, at the top, could I spill it out. It took years of filling, climbing, spilling until I finally touched bottom.

I may have thought that the difficulty surrounding those memories had been completely resolved, it hasn’t. I wonder if it comes to me every year like clockwork to remind me what it cost to continually renew my commitment to an authentic life.

We are going through a time of deep unrest, division, and fear for the days ahead. There are whispers of civil war, an unholy thought. I wonder if we need to ‘bleed’ out in order to create a culture of acceptance, thoughtfulness, a wholesome place for our children, and their children to come. 

I only hope we are willing to do the hard work of filling the cup, climbing the mountain, and releasing the hatred and fear until we find a better way. 

*Fromm’s use of male pronouns to reference all humankind reflects the now outdated practice of his day. 

A Moment …

October 29, 2024
by Nancy Emeral
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Mystical Connection

Everything about the morning had been ordinary. As usual I was walking my dog Zoe down a well worn path through the woods when unexpectedly, on a small rise next to a sturdy ponderosa pines we were met with a gusty breeze. I stopped. It was as if Mickey Mouse, the sorcerer’s apprentice in Fantasia, his long sleeves falling down around him, frantically waving his master’s magic wand, was conjuring up a whirlwind of the pieces of my life … 

Unruly hair blew back from my face, while the blustery wind brushed away everything mundane. In a heartbeat I felt my senses quicken and suddenly everything changed: chirping nuthatches became an orchestra performing on a stage of swaying grasses and whispering leaves. I breathed anew like a babe and could actually smell the green. Unwilling to move from where I was standing, I swear I felt the pulse of the living earth beneath my feet.

It was only a moment, a brief snapshot from the feature length film of my life. I suddenly became aware that every turn I’d taken, every decision I’d made, every dream I’d hoped for, every heartbreaking sorrow I’d endured, every desperate whispered prayer I’d uttered in solitude drew together. In that instant I knew every beat of my heart had led me to the very place I was standing. It was extraordinary and completely ordinary. Commonplace all at once.

It seemed as if nothing had happened, for it hadn’t, really. It was simply a typical morning activity. Something I’d done countless times before. Yet, I had an unexpected happiness, kind of like the feeling I get when I come home from being away and my big beautiful Zoe greets me with happy whimpers … 

I wonder if some of the most significant insights in life wash over us gently, so understated that perhaps they might even go unnoticed. Then without knowing why, we feel better about our lives. Things make sense. Perhaps it’s a human inclination to expect fireworks, or at least a drum roll to accompany extraordinary moments. Maybe that happens. The opposite might also be true … that remarkable awareness blooms quietly and sweetly like jasmine letting loose of it’s fragrant secrets in the light of the moon.

A few miles from where I live there is a thriving community of farmers called the Greenbluff Growers. They host an Octoberfest. As leaves show off their brilliant colors you drive through twisting roads over rolling hills to arrive at a number of orchards and farms boasting sugary ripe apples, fat orange pumpkins, and mountains of squash. Hot cider and warm pumpkin donuts are a must while bumping along on a hayride as well as taking on the traditional 5 acre corn maze.

This maze, like life, is serious. It’s possible to get fairly disoriented and there’s no map, Siri or Alexa to help you out. Navigating the maze is a matter of trial and error, memory, and mostly, keeping your cool. The surfers on the North shore of Hawaii are known to say, “Cool head, main thing.” Probably good advice when you’re up against enormous swells threatening to engulf you or when you are surrounded by a sea of dense corn stalks. Panic and you go down the same corn row time after time finding only dead ends.

I couldn’t hazard a guess at how many times I’ve felt up against something like one of those dead ends. How many times I’ve made the same mistake and wondering if I’d ever learn. Absolutely sure that I’d, once again made a complete mess of my life; all my faults and inadequacies pounding down on my head like a hammer drill. 

How is it possible that on an ordinary day all my failures and mishaps add up to a moment when, in the woods walking my dog, I am given a glance behind the veil. A chance to see that all the pieces have actually fallen together perfectly. A beautiful, tailor made life sewn together with the rags, and frayed threads of my too often poor judgment. I can’t explain it.

I can’t make sense of my good fortune, I can only be grateful. I can do all I am able to with all that I am to pour back into this crazy world as much goodness as possible. Along the way I’ve adopted my credit union’s tag line, “Do Good, Feel Good.” You know what? It works. 

The wind died down and without warning my glimpse behind the veil evaporated like a fragile morning mist in the rising sun. In true doggie fashion Zoe had been captivated by a clump of dried grass on the side of the trail while I was touched by magic. Undoubtedly some creature ran through the woods in the dark of night and brushed it’s furry coat on the grass leaving an intoxicating scent. Finished with her investigation, my keen companion looked up at me with those soulful eyes issuing a wordless plea to get going. After all, we were on a walk, and it was just an ordinary day.

Follow their lead …

September 18, 2024
by Nancy Emeral
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Dogs

“All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn’t a dog.”    Charles M. Schulz

I woke up and there she was at my bedside, my 80 pound genetic mash-up of a dog. Her round brown eyes reaching out, pleading for a morning adventure. “Get up, let’s go for a walk. There’s so much to smell from the night.” 

She, Zoe, patiently waited while I had a cup of coffee then renewed her request with exaggerated tail wagging and body wiggling as soon as I began putting on my boots. Now fully dressed with leash in hand and treats in my pocket I pulled out the harness. 

Zoe hates the harness and begins to do her evasion dance circling the kitchen island and voicing a little complaint. “Do I have to wear that thing? I want to run free,” she says to me. 

“I know Zoe. I understand. Had I done a better job teaching you to stay close and not run off you might not need that harness. It’s my fault and I’m sorry, but you have to wear it.” She accepts my confession and concedes to wear her minimalist harness.

Zoe and I go for a walk through our little woods where countless footfalls have carved out trails on our rocky, unruly hillside farm. While she sniffs slender blades of grass with the rapt attention of a surgeon in the operating room, I take the moments to enjoy the promise of a new day. 

I’ve learned a lot from my dog. She is fully in the moment whether she’s waiting on me patiently, gathering information from footprints on the trail, or chasing a ball through the orchard. She lives ‘now’ and brings her full self to whatever is happening. Oh, to be that present. 

Granted, Zoe doesn’t have to pay the bills, wash her bed, clean up after herself or haul her big bag of food home from the store. That’s my job. Clearly we have different roles to play and she gives herself fully to our partnership.

Is it just me, or is there a groundswell of deep attachment to and regard for our pets, and most notably, dogs. I’ve had more than a few conversations with complete strangers that directly point to a frustration with people and a growing admiration for canines. One example was a with a Costco pharmacist. 

“Hi, I’m here to pick up a a prescription for my dog Beau.” (He’s my other dog.) The pharmacist returned with a familiar white bag and while the transaction was taking place we talked. “What kind of dog is Beau?” she asked. “He’s a fairly rotund dachshund, going on 17 years old. He’s deaf, almost blind, and has the very worst breath on the planet. But, I love him.” She laughed, “I understand. I’ve had my share of older dogs. They’re the best.” I smiled and she continued, “I think I like dogs more than most people!” I countered, “Only most?” We shared a good laugh and I went back to my shopping.

That wasn’t a one-off. I’ve had similar casual exchanges with grocery clerks, bank tellers, and baristas. While these tongue-in-cheek, humorous conversations are mostly good fun, I wonder if they may reveal something deeper. Some snowballing discontent, unrest and frustration with humanity. You feel it too, don’t you?

Of course there are generous wonderful people doing good things for humanity, and often in obscurity. I’m fortunate to know quite a few. Still, you can’t pick up a newspaper, periodical, or listen to the news or a podcast without getting the message that, at the very least, a little of our humanity is unravelling. What is it about our dogs that we hunger for in our human counterparts? 

Dogs are Accepting … Zoe doesn’t evaluate another’s worth by their bank account, clothes, or the color of their skin. She doesn’t even seem to notice if I’m having a bad hair day or I’m grumpy. She bypasses the superficial and loves from her core. 

Dogs are Amazingly Empathetic … Zoe is acutely tuned in to emotions. She has a remarkable ability to sense another’s pain. When I am hurting she immediately comes and presses up against my side to give me solace. Her silent, steady presence radiates an extraordinary amount of comfort in that wordless place where true sorrow lives.

Dogs are Indefatigably Playful … She is instantly up for a game anytime I want to play, especially that blaster that makes the big boom when it launches the tennis ball. She reminds me to lighten up and I’m fairly certain she’d agree with Oscar Wilde, “Life is much too important to be taken seriously.”

Dogs are Authentically Themselves … What you see is what you get. They are straight arrows, completely disinterested in being duplicitous. 

Dogs are the Epitome of Patience …  Zoe sits calmly, waits and watches while I labor to put on my boots for our morning walk. When I have to leave her at home while running errands for hours she greets me with tail wagging and happy whimpers. Those big brown eyes don’t scold, they look at me with delighted adoration and say, “I’m so glad you’re back.” Nothing and no one is as patient as a dog. If you have a dog, you know what I mean. 

Dogs are the Embodiment of Presence … She is fully alive and living into every breath with every cell in her body. She reminds me that life is short, by any measure … don’t go complacent and miss the show. 

Dogs are Unfailing Guardians … Zoe’s there for me; whatever I need, whenever I need it. She will lay down her very life for the ones she loves. She will do it without deliberation, concern for herself, or size of the adversary. If her loved one is threatened she becomes fierce to the death. She will never back down.

I have a card from Trader Joe’s that reads, “Be the person your dog thinks you are.” Good advice.

Zoe …

There’s always a pony …

August 29, 2024
by Nancy Emeral
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Family & Legacy / Optimism

The 8 am departure for our journey to my mom’s lake house in northern Wisconsin had passed. We finally pulled out of her suburban Chicago driveway hours later but just in time for an Egg McMuffin at the McDonald’s only a couple of blocks from her house. The muffin plus a hash brown patty were the very last cards I had available to play in order to persuade her to get in the car. I had exhausted my store of reasoning, demanding, cajoling, and it came down to bribery. Fine, I’ll take it. 

At the time Mom was in her mid-nineties and had begun suffering overtly from dementia. In the preceding years she was the master of concealment. One can only hide so much for so long. Her small, deteriorating house was her foothold on reality and she clung to it with the tenacity of a badger hound. Unless one knew how much joy she’d derive from being ‘at the lake,’ one might think me cruel for pulling her away.

The morning of departure, to avoid leaving, she packed and unpacked a motley assortment of clothes at least four times. Mom’s closet was full of lovely clean t-shirts and shorts, sweaters and jackets that she refused to wear. She insisted instead on stained t-shirts with holes in unfortunate places. Today’s choice was a bright pink v-neck riddled with bleached-out splotches. In the end it didn’t matter. As we drove away from the McDonalds drive-up window she had already soiled the front of it with hash brown grease and ketchup. To convince Mom to change her shirt was out of the question.

The 6 hour drive always turned into 9 hours when Mom was riding shotgun. We had to stop at every ‘interesting’ place like the gas station with the enormous 10 foot tall black and white concrete holstein cow whose sole purpose was to get suckers like us off the road and into their store. Mom wandered the aisles amazed at such exotic items like Zagnut bars and toilet bowl cleaner. 

Shortly after the cow we saw another McDonalds and pulled in. This time for a hot fudge sundae for her to wear. Even though these stops were tedious it was a respite of sorts from the same questions Mom asked me over and over for hours. “How far do we have to go? How long have we been gone? Where are we now? How many miles to the cottage? Where’s my wallet? Do I have my checkbook? Did I lock the front door?” My favorite, “Did you turn off the iron?” First of all, who irons anymore, and certainly not my mother. That deadly device magically disappeared along with the connection to the gas stove, and any other potentially incendiary pieces of equipment. So many ways to set a fire 

Occasionally when she ceased asking questions Mom would get a somewhat dreamy look on her face and drift into a surreal soliloquy. One rather lengthy musing centered on cloud highways that in future days would be traversed by  “special cars.” She was eerily convincing, looking up into the sky while waving her hands through the sunlight streaming down from her open window. “You see, the highways would move around with the wind,” more hand waving toward the heavens, “so when you drove them you would have to be careful and look down a lot so you wouldn’t end up far away from where you wanted to go.” She settled back in her seat for a few minutes with a perfectly satisfied look on her face. She knew what the future held.

When I went to throw out the plastic cup from her sundae at the next stop Mom wouldn’t let it go, clinging to it with a death grip repeating a litany I’d heard since childhood. “This could be useful.”

Both of my parents were first-generation Americans, born of Eastern European immigrants. Both were young adults during WWII. They lived through many fearful days, and a substantial amount of deprivation. They were grateful for the opportunity to work hard, and even more thankful for the little they had. Along the way, they, and I suspect an entire host of others influenced by the hardships of the times, learned to hang on to all material goods. No stranger to this philosophy was another of that generation, the mother of a friend of my husband. She was known to have a box in the garage neatly labelled, “Bits of string too short to keep.” The box was full.

I have carried on the ‘this could be useful’ tradition as if it were burned into my brain. And, come to think of it, it probably was. I learned well to, as my mother would say while leaning in and grimly staring into my eyes as if the Gettysburg address or the 10 commandments were about to proceed from her mouth, “Waste not, want not.” My mom had a way of screwing up her face into a pinched Grinch-like expression. She was scary, but the message came through and my current stacks of sturdy cardboard boxes and plastic containers back up my claim. They could be useful!

Messages from the past, delivered by the gods and goddesses, demons and torturers of our tender years. They stick. I can laugh about ‘this could be useful’ for the simple reason that I live in a time of recycling. Other messages are harder to shake. 

My mom was no Mary Poppins. The nasty witch in Hansel and Gretel comes to mind. Along with the Grinch face came the finger waggling inches from my nose. I was told, “Stop talking crazy about the things you see.” Moving in closer came the clincher, “The men in the white coats are going to come and take you away.” I was terrified. Of course I believed every word. I was a kid. I internalized that there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I needed to keep quiet, hide, and never let anyone into my world. However, the ‘craziness’ continued in my private cocoon. I had a hearty friendship with my invisible friend Navi. I just never talked about her anymore. Effectively silenced … Messages. 

Decades roll by. Lots of experience and therapy, all coming to the same conclusion. Mom was right. I am a little bit out of my mind as, I suspect, all imaginative, creative people are. We are the dreamers. We are painters of the unseen. We are the night listeners. We are the singers of songs and tellers of tales. We are what gives value to all the truly insane machinations of the lords and rulers of this world. We bring the ragged, the beautiful, the untold and deeply hidden into this wildly magnificent life. 

After the exasperating trip in the car we finally made it to the lake. Then came another full day of unpacking and moving her clothes from drawer to drawer to orient herself in her surroundings. After that she settled into as happy a place as my mom could find. I saw her relax and laugh as she pulled up a sunfish or a perch which had been tempted by a long dangly worm she had me snare on the hook at end of her line. For a brief time the doors of her tortured cage opened. All too soon the heavy metal door would slam shut locking her away once again in a prison of fearful confusion. 

Our trip was one of the last times Mom made it to the lake. She had some lucid moments when the clouds cleared and she truly remembered who I was and the events of her early life. I listened. We laughed. We drank some wine and ate Italian beef sandwiches at The House of Dogs. We sat on the dock and she threw a line in, “Just in case the big one comes by.” We raked up some leaves, listened to the loons, and had morning coffee at her little kitchen table. 

What followed was the inevitable sale of her home, a room in a nursing home, and a bout with covid making visitation impossible. I got a call from the nurse at the home who kindly let me say my good-byes to Mom the night she passed. All I could say was, “I love you mom, and it’s OK, you can sleep now.”

Mom went out kicking, screaming, resisting and fighting her decline; behaviors she had practiced over a lifetime of dissatisfaction. As a young mother she terrorized me. As an elder she tormented her care givers, and even dangerously locked one in her basement. Mom battled with my sister while she was kindly removing her from her home before it fell down around her. In the main she left this life as she had lived it … discontented resistance. 

However, Mom did soften a bit with grandchildren. Those innocent eyes must have penetrated the deteriorating walls of her internal fortifications. We even found a place of peace in what had been a challenging relationship. There were many times when I asked myself, “Why do I care?” My only answer was, “because she’s my mom.” In that space of acceptance between us, however brief, and however long it took to get there, something deep inside of me went quiet. Not silenced, but stilled. 

I think it is true that in difficulty there is something valuable to be found, a gift of sorts though it may not be easy to uncover. I believe the silencing in my early years turned my energies inward and sprouted seeds of imagination and creativity that might not have germinated had I been less afraid. 

There is a story of two children; one optimist, one pessimist. Both were given shovels and left in rooms filled with horse manure. One child complained, pouted, got angry and threw down the shovel. The other child started digging while saying, “With all this poop there’s gotta be a pony in here somewhere!”

In Death as in Life

I painted In Death as in Life while reflecting on the ragged history with my mom and messages left behind. Black and white lines as distinct as life and death, yet they intertwine.