The Happy Is

These walks with the dog, you must understand, carry a  unique agony. My current home is in a neighborhood filled with houses painfully beyond my means. I can only thicken my skin and blind my gaze as I loop past them several times each day with the mutt in tow. The irony is that I inhabit one of these wide-shouldered Fairfax County single-family homes. Yet even from within the quiet embrace of this neighborhood, I cannot see a clear path from where I am into a home (or a car, or an education for my son, or a suit of clothes) of a quality anything like the ones possessed by my neighbors. Living as a grown-up with one's parents is to wake up every day on the back side of the looking-glass.

I caught my attention drifting on a walk recently. That doesn't sound so bad, right? Unless your brain is well accustomed to blindsiding you, a little bit of drift is a fine idea. Unfortunately, mine is a tricky foe. I was strolling along with the pooch on a lovely spring afternoon, all budding wisteria and chirping birds. A sanitation truck roared up the street, workers hopping off to empty the bins into the gaping back. As it passed me and I waved my hello, I heard the whisper of this thought echo through my mind:

"They should throw me in the back. That's where I belong."

The thought was so fleeting, it almost disappeared before I could catch it. Indeed, even the slightest distraction, and it might have skittered into the dark corner before I ever noticed it had bared its fangs. Taking a breath, I decided not to let that one stick around. I went back home (such as it is) and began to write.

The tone: simple, clear, light. The objective: list things that make me happy.

Walking the dog. Hugging my son. Zumba on a winter morning. Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite. Naps. Growing snow peas. Singing "the green grass grew all around." Oil pastels. Reading Carolyn Hax's column. Hiking the Manassas battlefield. Grabbing that last spot of free street parking. A seat on the metro. Taking the stairs. The plants in my office. My job. My students. My boss.

The smell and sound of garlic popping in olive oil. A good, sharp knife. Setting the table. Washing the dishes. Warm laundry from the dryer. Picking apples. Steam sauna. Contra dancing. The phases of the moon. The sound of peepers. The call of the geese.

Poems by Mary Oliver, Maxine Kumin, Billy Collins. The sound of Eva Cassidy's voice. Laughing over dinner with my parents. Reading the Gettysburg Address etched on the wall of the Lincoln Memorial. Racing down the hill to the woods with my boy. Mud. Rain. Snow. Frost. Swimming nude in fresh water. Sunflowers. Weddings. Alexander Calder. Stretching on the living room floor. Cold watermelon.

Writing a letter. Finding a letter in the mailbox. Listening to Cornel West speak. Girls' night out. Stretching. Kissing. A lazy conversation with an old friend. Smiling at strangers. Learning someone's name and using it. Teaching. Writing in my journal. Saying what I am thankful for. Telling my kid what I like about him. A campfire. Eight hours of sleep. Waking up to the faint memory of a delicious dream. My skin, my skeleton, my heartbeat, my breath.

As I write this list - one that is very hard to draw to a close, by the way - something stunning occurs to me. While my sole constraint was to write what makes me happy, I listed only things that exist in my life or are right within reach. My everyday world is astoundingly full of things that bring me joy. In fact, almost everything I do makes me happy. Okay, so I'm not crazy about that one intersection I have to get  through during rush hour, and for some reason, I despise emptying the dishwasher, but just about every other mundane task brings pleasure.

What do I do with the long stretches of time each day when I am not paying attention to making this list? My tricky brain slips very quickly into fixiating on what I am trying to attain. Things beyond my grasp tempt me with the vague promise of happiness. Perhaps (the whispers tell me), the house of my own, the higher salary, the man who will take care of me, that other thing out there will make me happy. I have somehow come to believe the sense of un-ease and failure I carry around is a direct cost of not possessing something, or of not having managed to acquire a whole bunch of different somethings than the ones I have.

Isn't it fascinating, then, that I have not lincluded things I do not have on my list? If a nice townhouse, a robust college fund for Bug, and a reliable car are supposed to bring me happiness, why do they not show up on the list of things that make me happy? Because, in fact, the coveting of those things plainly makes me unhappy. The sense of joy and peace I seek exists right in the world as I inhabit it.

Certainly, I need to aim for better circumstances for my son and me. However, my momentum in that direction might be more sustainable if I conceive of the source as brimming rather than lacking. Success is not only in the attainment. Could it also be in the (ahem) attunement?

Perhaps it is not a contradiction to strive for improvement while also feeling quite satisfied with the richness of the here and now. I'll even venture to guess that the best way to fashion a full and happy life is to take notice of how the project is already well underway.

Tethered

Back in 2008, researchers in Australia published a study linking dog ownership to decreased childhood obesity. This evidence has provided an extended stay of execution for old Fenway. In the chaos of the past year, the urge to get rid of the dog has been powerful. Somehow, the mutt has surprised us all and managed to keep herself out of the pound. It may be that I have managed to hang onto my impulsiveness when it comes to her welfare.

Most of us don't need a scientific study to confirm the health benefits of having canine companions in the family unit. After all, they just have to have that walk. Rain or shine, the dogs have to go out.

On the nights when my son stays with me, I pick him up either at his dad's place or at school. By the time we fight through rush-hour traffic and tumble through the door, all either of us wants to do is collapse in a heap on the carpet and play legos until bedtime. But the dog. Oh, that dancing, delighted lump of fur. She greets us, panting and turning in circles, having waited nearly twelve hours for the singular pleasure of emptying her bladder. We don our sneakers, grab the leash and the plastic bags, and head out for a turn around the cul-de-sac.

Now that the snow has melted  and a slice of daylight remains, we are venturing almost every evening into a small patch of woods nearby. When these houses were built along the Difficult Run watershed, someone had the forethought to protect the flow of the creek. A few acres of unmarked, undeveloped green space stretch along behind the homes. Down in the leaves and budding shrubs, Fenway can bound after deer while Bug balances on logs. We all follow raccoon tracks along the banks of the creek, root around in hollow stumps, and weave our way through pricker bushes. For a good thirty minutes every evening, my kid and I follow a snuffling canine out for this enforced stretch. She keeps us moving.

This is a reason to keep the dog. But this is not the reason. When we first arrived here, the prospect of hanging on to her seemed impossible. Who would care for her when I was working? How would I fit in her shots and grooming and getting to Target to buy the gigantic bags of Beneful? Just packing a lunch and dressing my kid for school were dauting tasks. What did Fenway give our family other than one more headache? The needs of the dog seemed too much for this burdened mama to manage.

On a weekend last fall when my parents were traveling, I asked Tee for help caring for Fenway. He refused. "You know," he said to me. "I wanted to get rid of her when we moved." What he failed to mention in this exchange was that "get rid of her" meant one of two things. Either I would have to seek out a good home for her because he was too blown apart even to get up and dressed every day, or I would have to take her to the Humane Society for a near-certain euthenasia.

Tee's chilling admission brought on an odd realization. Fenway had beome my responsibilty. The noise of the dramatic weather patterns up above can deafen a person to the changes down below as the small stuff clicks into its new configurations. I have to kill the spiders now and air my own tires. Sure, the dog has, in many ways, always been my responsibility because I was the one home. But in separating from Tee, the pooch truly had become mine. Was I prepared to take her on so totally?

Of course. Fenway is not a set of dishes that can be donated to Goodwill. She is a living creature, a part of our family, a life. We adopted her well before we had our son. Bug has grown up with that dog. Through four different homes in four different time zones, the only consistent things in his world have been his mom, his dad, and that dog. For all his unknowing abuse of her, she has never once snapped at him. She has walked faithfully with us on every hike, kept us feeling secure when Tee was traveling, and been a joyous -- if skittish --  playmate.

What message would it send to my son if I simply got rid of Fenway? "Our lives are too complicated to care for a member of our family?" Or, "when the going gets tough, abandon your loved ones?" How about, "Lives are expendable? "

I would rather my child learn that we always have room in our home and our hearts (and, alas, even our full schedules) to care for members of our family. We can make time to meet our commitments to one another, even if doing so is inconvenient. Caring does not always emerge spontaneously and naturally. As Nel Noddings reminds us, an ethic of care must be cultivated, and we each must learn to listen to the voice of obligation as a sign that caring is within reach.

Attening to the needs of others is as much a habit of the mind as it is one of the heart. Like so many other practices, the rewards of care may not be immediately evident. But they exist deep in the bones of the routine itself. Every night, I walk Fenway. I walk her because she must be walked; I walk her because it is my job. No matter the sharpness of the wind or the weariness of my feet, I walk her. Yet, each night, I discover all over again where I really am. The dog's need acquaints me with the phases of the moon, the state of the foliage, the cycles of local wildlife. (Tonight, incidentally: waning, budding, peepers).

Change is inevitable. This is something that both bears remembering and bears forgetting. I must prepare myself and my son for transitions we cannot see coming but most certainly will. Also, I must nurture the home and family we inhabit in this moment as if this is the only moment we have. Because, ultimately, it is.

What Comes Next

When wishing fails
as it surely will,
speak up.
When the tongue fails,
listen well.
When the ears fail,
work up a sweat.
When the feet fail,
clean house.
When the mop fails,
sing.
When the music fails,
cook a meal.
When the flame fails,
love someone.
When the heart fails,
build a nest.
When sleep fails,
draw breath.
When breath fails. . .

Ah, right.
So easy to forget.

Breath
never fails.

Ain't No River Wide Enough

If Wellies worked for hiking, perhaps tackling Little Devils Stairs two days after torrential rains wouldn't be an idiotic idea. The quiet parking lot on the east side of Shenandoah National Park only had two cars in it at 9am on a spring-ish morning. Could that have been a clue, Watson? Perhaps hikers with half a brain (or a healthy sense of self-preservation) were covering less treacherous trails.

As for me, I had to go for it. It isn't often this mama has no kid, clear skies, and enough energy to dive into the Appalachians. But even my determination was tested by repeated crossings over a swollen river. So much for my leisurely, rejuvenating day hike. Little Devils Stairs? Aptly named. Except for the "little" part.

Just 25 yards from the trailhead, I found myself on the bank of Keyser Run without a way across. Every stone and tree used by previous hikers to manage this daunting task had either been washed away or was submerged under a foot of rushing water.  After several adjustments to my position and a stern conversation with my spine, I made to the other side. Little did I know my victory was just a warmup. Little Devil Stairs is nothing more than a snaking hike up a steep creek gorge. Every time the trail crossed the river -- and it did so more than a dozen times -- I had to stop, assess, and concoct a way across. This meant tramping up and downstream at every juncture to compare downed trees, slick boulders, and water volume.

On several occasions, the only option was a narrow limb jutting out from a root-ball on one crumbling bank and balanced on the teetering rocks near the other. I am not usually prone to vertigo, but even I had to sit down on my rear and scootch most of the way across. This ridiculous sight of this tactic is one reason I prefer hiking alone.

At one of the more upright sections of the staircase, I found myself stranded in the middle of the river. The stone I had just slid from was clattering away downstream, and the bank was still five feet away. I squatted on a slick rock with white water roaring on both sides of me. A water-heavy log bobbed nearby. It seemed my best chance. I gritted my teeth and grappled with the monstrous thing until I got a grip. I hauled the log up against the current and pushed it into a more useful position. For some strange reason, gravity chose not to punish me for that moronic feat.

It was on about the ninth crossing when she finally decided to have her giggle at my expense. My foot punched right through a rotted log. Down I tumbled into the mud and frigid wet. Fortunately, my right shin bore the brunt of the fall. I was drenched to the calves but upright, and I gotta tell you, there's nothing that kicks a person past the momentary paralysis of a fall quite like coming to rest in ice water. It also turns out that having a quart of it stored in each boot makes navigating the rest of the crossings a bit easier. Only a bit. It's still incredibly difficult to make oneself step right into white, rushing water, no matter how wet the feet already are. This gal had some words for that river. Not ones I'd want any of my loved ones to overhear.

Having not hiked in any meaningful way since abandoning the Adirondacks, I had a small learning curve to navigate. Double-blazes mean a turn ahead. It took me a few baffled meanders into tangled underbrush to remember this. As each trail turn plunged me back down the river for yet another crossing, I quickly developed an unfortunate pavlovian response to the markers.  Poor river. She's probably still blushing from the fervor of my profanity.

With my legs a-shaking and my gumption well-tested only a couple miles into the hike, I came upon yet another double blaze. After a stream of invectives, I barreled on, only to discover the turn heading up and away from the river. I have never been so happy to see a switchback in my life.

For most of the rest of the hike, I slogged happily along muddy trails in my drenched leather, smartwool, and fleece. Synthetics preserved me from both chill and blisters until the sun came out to lend a hand. It turns out that with the right socks, wet boots are rather spongy and bouyant.

At a juncture with the fire road, I decided to give those low hills the old what-for. I took the extra loop and added another 2.3 miles onto the hike. It turns out I also added three more opportunities to re-experience my earlier delight. Taking the Piney Branch loop forced me to criss-cross an even wider tributary of Keyser Run. Despite my most damning vitriol, neither ferryman nor magic carpet appeared at my feet. I just had to tramp and shimmy and wobble my way to dry ground.

Which I somehow managed to do.

Four hours, 7.8 miles,  16-odd river crossings, only 3 other humans witnessed (one was a park ranger: "What, didja swim across?").

Wild? Check.
Solitude? Check.
The bruises to prove it? Check.

Here is Now

For the moment, all is well

The boss is smiling

The train ran on time

The kid is in the company of 20 pint-sized peers

Rain is falling

The bank account contains its cushion

A friend at the gym knows my name

Sleep came

And stayed

The counselor awaits

The husband is at a conference

Improving his prospects

The slacks still fit

The calendar is full

The inbox is not

Two hawks ride a current of air

A laugh comes easily

Every reason to worry

Has drifted away

Breathe in

Breathe out

Alas, Poor Yorick

The morning after, nothing is left but the bones. The soft flesh was only paper and pulp after all. One quick conflagration, and the pretense of substance is ash.

“You used to be kind.”

Kindling and flint.

“Here’s what I hate.”

Dry twigs.

“The problem with you is. . .”

So fleeting a spark, you almost miss it. You walk on. Behind you, it catches. It is the ones who know us best of all who find the most flammable acre. They drop the match exactly there. They call it an accident.

Would you know me from my dental records? Could you identify me from the scraps of DNA? I don’t know what’s become of my tender organs. I can’t seem to find my heart.

The morning after, what remains of me arises despite the stink and grit. Small rituals are the only saving grace. Keep the practice up when you are well, and it will force you into motion when the roof caves in. Go to work, hug the kid, force the feet across the dance floor. Smooth balm on the wounds. Floss. Never mind the sudden sobbing in the bathroom stall, the hollow eyes, the ghoulish smile. Walk the skeleton across the day. It will keep your kid in shoes and shelter. It will earn you one more chance to slap some on some plaster and pray the golem to life.

Whatever you do, don’t ask the question: Was there anything on these bones to begin with? Was the best of me just paper and pretense all along?

(I wouldn’t dare let such a thought work its way into the marrow.)

Then at work, a card arrives. Strange thing, a card. Who sends these anymore? Who sends them to an office? It is from a man whose name I know, but even that is fleeting. When I have dug deep for the energy to move my creaking frame to the contra dance, this man has taken my hand and twirled the joints loose. I know very little. He is married, he works with students in some capacity. He has a fine smile and an even finer swing. I have seen him maybe two times in as many months.

And yet, despite all the night-before evidence suggesting the figure bearing my name is both broken and broke, the morning after, a card arrives from a virtual stranger.

It reads:

“There are people whom one loves and appreciates immediately and forever. Even to know they are alive in the world is quite enough."

Sometimes I do not have the courage to lift the burnt, barren edge to see the extent of the damage. But something akin to soft skin remains. If I can still feel its pulse, then it still lives. Grafting and new growth might occur yet. One inch, one breath, one touch at a time. The heart may take a little time to dig out of this rubble, but it has been seen. I have a witness.

Cool Down

To make a decent crust, you must use water
chilled with cubes of ice in flour
chilled as well. This I learned
from Judy, who serves an apple pie
as glistening as first frost
in October.

My problem is wanting to smooth it
to touch and touch
the uneven bits until they let go
and ease into the shape
they are trying to become.

All my warmth is too much.
Eager fingers change the chemistry
of the simplest ingredients.
Relentless attention makes things tough,
bound together,
impenetrable.

No room to breathe.

Judy says
you have to cut in the cold fat, the water and salt
then cover the lot and set it in the fridge
overnight.
This seems inhumane, but how would I know?
I've crafted dozens of failed attempts
and not one
a recipe worth repeating.

Put the thing on ice.
Sit on your hands,
keep all that excess heat
for your own self.

You still have a chance to roll it out
and fill it with sweetness.
But whether it melts your tongue
or is merely edible
was already decided
by what went in
well before you pierced the skin.