my neighbor

My little neighbor's name is William, but his hair is longish and combed nicely; sweeping across his forehead. I assumed that he was a little girl and was confused when he said that his name was William. Walking into the house I asked Amy "Is that little girl's name really William?" Instead of switching my gender assumption - oh, a little boy with long hair - I thought "that's odd that a little girl would have William as a name."

Calvin and Hobbes

One year for Christmas my siblings and I decided to get a Calvin & Hobbes book for my father. But instead of wrapping it and putting it under the tree we secretly read it in bed - throwing it under the pillow when he came in to say goodnight. When he finally received it, it was already well-worn and chuckled over, having made the rounds among his loving children.

Another year for Christmas my dad put a big, heavy present on my lap. I opened it up and didn't know what to say; I was astonished at seeing the "Complete Calvin & Hobbes" sitting there. My dream had come true! What had I done to merit such a wonderful gift? And how can I take care of this with so many siblings - oh wait? It's a family gift? For all of us? ahhh. well I am sure that we will all truly enjoy it...

Today I received my own Calvin & Hobbes book - "It's a Magical World" - which contains the latter years of the strip. And it's my own, my very own. Given to me by Natasha for no other reason than that she loves me.

On compassion

Perhaps watching a dog slowly die from old age isn't that much different than watching a human being die.

Without getting into a discussion on the nature of personhood and the differences between humans and animals, and without getting into arguments concerning the wishes of the dying or the unending pain they may feel, you can find a fundamental similarity in the fact that we all die - all organic beings. Our bodies stop working, and if it's from old age, they often do so in a slow and perhaps painful manner. Maybe it can be more painful or uncomfortable for those watching than for the one doing the dying.

Our dog is dying. We've had her for 14 years, as I figure it and for the past few we've seen her get slower and stiffer. Dad would give her ibuprofen for her arthritis. Now she's deaf, but she can still see, and often lies under the porch or in an out-of-the-way spot.

At one point there were a lot of flies bothering her, especially on her ears. I think that they could sense her dying more than we could.

I talked to my mom about putting our dog to sleep. She said she just couldn't do it. She wouldn't be able to do it. To take it out behind the house and pull the trigger. She can't do it. She does her best to make the dog comfortable but wants to let her die on her own.

My mother has watched a lot of people die. She works in a nursing home, where the medical smells mixes with the knowledge that people don't go there to get better; they go there to die. She's thought a lot about it.

I believe that there's a lot of compassion involved in taking care of a person - or an animal - when death is right around the corner. It seems easier to actively end their misery by whatever means. It's often called compassionate to do that. But what I've been realizing as I watch our dog die is that it takes a certain quality to be around a dying being and to let death come on it's own without hurrying or helping it along. And I think that that quality is worth nurturing, despite how difficult it is.

So our dog lies by the dryer and I do my laundry and smell the sick smell and rub her head from time to time. She doesn't appear to be in pain but just lies there.

open spaces

we drove up from the center of Zacatecas to the Texas/Mexico border yesterday. As the road became wider and the land more open, I felt my soul open up. I hadn't realized how much I had missed the clouds and the wide sky and the green-gold grass on the sides of the highway. I wished that I hadn't already purchased plane tickets but could instead rent a car and keep on driving. I'd drive right through the great plains, through Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, and the Dakotas. what a way to go home. I'd see the seasons rewind, from the harvests already in progress in the south to the still growing and green oceans near my house. I could merge onto Route 281 and stay on it, jumping off right before Canada. Driving 70+ mph, watching the land unroll before me, letting the memories come back, listening and thinking and praying. That's how I'd like to go home.

We're still sitting here, waiting, on the tip of Texas. My flight doesn't leave until tomorrow but we wanted to leave time in case of traveling troubles. I'm not used to the water-saturated, super-heated air and I feel lethargic and annoyed outside. Now a tropical storm is rolling in and the rain comes in gusts and cools the air.

hot chocolate

I love hot chocolate. I grew up with it, putting mugs of 2% milk in the microwave and heaping spoonfuls of Nestle Quik powder into the steaminess. It is a decided comfort item for me, as the small amounts of caffeine won't keep me awake but the warm liquid soothes and calms. On those evenings in high school when I made my own dinner you could often see a mug of hot chocolate and a plate with eggs and bacon and toast beside my homework. That's still one of my culinary favorites.

In college I tried to like the sludge that came out of those cocoa machines and I tried to like the SwissMiss packets added to hot water. But nothing compares to hot, almost scalding, creamy milk - so hot so that the chocolate blends in with a particular rich flavor and so that you have to drink it slowly. Made on the stove also increases the restfulness of the event; slowly stirring so the milk won't burn, thinking about the day, winding down.

I remember when we got our new microwave and I put the milk in, surprised when it came out after four minutes all frothy and boiling over. I'd never paid any attention to microwave strength before but suddenly it became imperative to find the perfect amount of time to get the temperature just right.

I've tried putting in mint or cinnamon, but the perennial favorite continues to be just plain hot chocolate. So rich.

--Please remember this if you ever invite me over to spend the night.

March

I grew up in North Dakota, where the month of March is still tightly gripped in Winter. And yet it's not the same as January or February; the days are getting longer and there's a certain quality on the wind. It's almost like a kiss. A soft, gentle, kiss from Spring even as Winter continues to rule over the northern plains.

I took the kiss on the wind as a promise, that something was about to change, and I began to love March.

So all through high school, which others around me continued as in the midst of winter, I had a secret friendship with the wind and the air and the sun in March. I would read favorite authors and re-read favorite books. I would take long walks in the growing evenings. I liked celebrating the little holidays of the First Day of Spring and St. Patrick's Day. March became my favorite month.

In college, I began to celebrate Lent, and as Ash Wednesday almost always falls in February, and Easter almost always in April, March was almost always caught completely in Lent. And I was caught up in legalistically denying myself. I also missed the so-slow, ever-so-slow turning over of winter to spring. The change was quicker, somehow, in Chicago, and tulips were sometimes already peaking the beginnings of their green leaves through by the end of March.

Now I've moved to Mexico, where there is no early spring and where March is completely buried under Lenten rituals in this Catholic country.

So I find that for the last few years, I miss early Spring. I miss the awakening joy. I miss home.

Faith Indiana Jones Style

I'm struggling - currently, though it's always an ongoing struggle for me - with trusting God. I feel that he's calling me to do something, but instead of being still and quiet and humble and a willing servant, I don't want to do it, and I'm trying to rationalize or justify going ahead with my own plan.

There are moments when I say I will obey, but I'm astounded to realize that I'm still not trusting, even in those moments of surrender. I'm not quiet or still or humble. I'm rearranging my plans in my head, trying to think how it will work, what I have to do. I still want to be in control. I say I will obey God, but I don't want to trust him completely.

Indiana Jones was able to garner enough faith/courage/desperation to step out onto the invisible plank over the deep abyss, but once he got to the other side, he threw dust and pebbles over it so he would be able to see it when he came back that way. The irony of that moment has never left me, and I think of it sometimes in relation to myself. Maybe I'll take a little first step, but after that I'm sprinkling dust and pebbles so that I'll be sure to know my path, to plan my path.