Like many of you, I’m dismayed by the current political climate and the changes in the actual climate. Chronic stress, particularly at work, makes it hard to breathe. Dread fills me whenever I pick up my phone to look at the latest news alerts or when I prepare to start another shift. What terrible event awaits? The death and destruction beat has always been something I’ve been able to handle with long decades of practice, but now, I feel brittle and worn thin.
Add to this the difficulties of any year — financial ups and downs, helping the ones you love deal with illness or displacement, the loss of those you hold dear — and the effort to unwind becomes that much more difficult.
Oh, the things I do to decompress are still enjoyable. The kitties snuggle, the cakes rise, the pages of the books turn and I take great pleasure in them. I love where I live and have thoroughly enjoyed the beauty and wonders of Autumn. My family and friends are golden, and thankfully, for the moment, I still have my health (not counting the migraines I’ve suffered since the mid-’90s and the annoying cough).
Yet the stress does not dissipate; instead it temporarily freezes like ice on Friday morning and melts back into being once the weekend ends. And when I try to sleep, the nightmares come. I toss and turn; I repeatedly wake. My lower back aches from contorting myself into uncomfortable positions, my neck and shoulders exist in a permanent state of tightness no matter how many massages I obtain.
There is no rest.
Still, I press on. As M recently said, this could be the best we ever get. There may be even tougher times ahead and we need to prepare for that. I know he is right, which is why I gird myself for what’s next, try to make meaningful changes, help others whenever I can and, hardest of all, attempt to remain hopeful.
—Photo by Ben Earwicker, Garrison Photography, Boise, Idaho.
“If you dread a day of rest from the digital world, then you probably need one.” –Sharon Samiento
Most of my daily life is plugged in to technology. I spend a minimum of 10 hours a day working, sitting at a desk, utterly focused on my computer and cellphone. When I’m “off the clock,” many of life’s pleasures also take place in front of screens: writing, reading on a Kindle, watching movies or Netflix, browsing the internet or playing video games.
Such a technology-based life feeds my curiosity — and pays the bills — but when combined with the madness of the news cycle, it can be hell on the body and soul. I don’t breathe normally anymore, in that I have to remind myself to do it, deeply and purposefully, or else the air I consume is shallow. Sitting upright in a chair takes mindfulness; the posture of slumped shoulders is so easy to assume when you’re focused outside of your body.
I crave quietness more than I used to, quietness of environment and of the mind. At least for a little while.
So, I’m going to reclaim a day each week to unplug and decompress. Abby Falik takes a similar secular sabbath. The founder and CEO of Global Citizen Year, a nonprofit that channels teenage wanderlust toward social good, recently told the Books of Your Life podcast that the practice had made her more productive in the rest of her life.
Just what will I do with that day? Why, I’ll read, of course, but books in a dead-tree format (paperback and hardcover) rather than an electrical one (audio and ebooks). I’ll bake new recipes instead of just collecting ideas from food blogs. I’ll write letters and poems, stories and novels in longhand; such scribblings can easily be transcribed into the computer later for editing purposes. And, I’ll do my best to get outside more. As a writer, it’s so easy to become homebound and isolated. Yet inspiration comes from outside forces as well as imaginative ones.
Trying new activities, exploring unknown places and generally saying yes to non-techy adventures will, I hope, make me a little less stressed and a lot more inspired.
“Night is not something to endure until dawn. It is an element like wind or fire. Darkness is its own kingdom; it moves to its own laws, and many living things dwell in it.” –Patricia A. McKillip
Duncan Hines. Duncan Donuts. The Duncanator. Puppyface. He was a dog known by many names, but the one he officially received upon his appearance in our lives back in 2010 was Duncan Walker Weir.
He died last night at the age of 9 after suffering from a brain tumor.
Duncan was part of a litter of puppies born on a Vermont farm. As a birthday present to himself, Marcus adopted Duncan on the same day his friend Sherry adopted Duncan’s brother, Shakazulu. This meant the pups, who were nearly identical, would be able to spend their lives together.
If we went out of town, Duncan would stay at Shaka’s house and vice versa. It was during one of these visits that the brothers invented the game “Chase Me”:
After one such sleepover at our place, Sherry and Shaka got into their car to head home. Apparently Duncan didn’t want them to leave yet so he broke away from M’s grasp and chased after their car. Several drivers swerved to avoid him, but one vehicle struck Duncan and kept going, leaving his broken body on the side of the road. As neighbors sped after the hit-and-run driver, M raced to Duncan’s side.
Duncan survived the collision, thanks to the skills of emergency vets at the local animal hospital. He suffered multiple contusions and a broken hip that required both an operation and months of confinement. Eventually, Duncan did heal, but he never saw his brother again. Just before Duncan’s rehab was complete, another hit-and-run driver crashed into his brother. Sweet Shaka didn’t survive.
Once back on his feet, Duncan resumed his favorite activities: playing an abbreviated version of fetch (he refused to bring the ball back more than once or twice), rolling in the grass with his feet wildly dancing in the air, going on leashless hikes through the woods, running through fallen leaves, bathing in snow drifts and chewing on his toys.
The cats helped to raise Duncan so he never treated them like the enemy. Instead, he learned to purr as a sign of happiness (it sounded like a piggy grunt) and paid extra careful attention to his grooming habits. He befriended the neighbor’s outdoor tomcat, every squirrel who appeared in our yard and, unfortunately, a couple of less-than-thrilled skunks who he probably assumed were just smelly cats. After a litter of kittens arrived at our home last fall, Duncan immediately became their 90 lb. “big brother,” teaching them how to wrestle and beg for ham. And when our friends adopted a Golden Retriever puppy with special needs earlier this month, Duncan showed her the ropes.
Strangers who met Duncan would often ask about his ancestry. We tended to describe him as a “Heinz 57” dog (i.e., a mixture of several breeds, an all-around mutt). Over the years, M and I agreed that he appeared to be a unique combination of German Shepherd, some sort of retriever, a bit of husky and possibly a smidge of beagle.
Duncan generally preferred the company of women to men, though he made special allowances for the “pizza man.” This probably had more to do with the fact that we gave Duncan bits of our pizza crusts than an affinity for the fellow who delivered the pie. While kibble was his main source of sustenance and he was taught from an early age that it was impolite to beg, he still enjoyed the occasional piece of carrot, a hunk of cream cheese, a slice of salami and once, a stolen plate of pork chops.
Duncan kept me company while I worked through the night. Until illness affected his ability to climb stairs, he also rested near my bed while I slept during the day. He liked reclining on the loveseats and on the big dog pillows, but would forego these spots if the kitties were sleeping there first. The very best place to rest, however, was at our feet or by our side. He just loved being near “his people.”
In the few extended periods that we were separated from him, caregivers would remark on Duncan’s habit of waiting by the door or peering through the window, as if willing us to return.
Even if we just went out to eat for dinner or to a movie, we’d find him waiting at the garage door, his expression and demeanor making it clear that it felt like we had been gone forever. This was even more true for M, who was Duncan’s favorite. Anyone who spent time in our house saw that Duncan loved us both, yet he worshiped and adored M.
The two of them were boon companions. They swam together, did chores together, even went to work together. People on the hiking trails knew Duncan by sight, for he was friendly and well-behaved. M was simply known as “Duncan’s dad.” And when their stubborn personalities occasionally clashed, any disagreements were quickly forgiven.
Once we learned that Duncan had only a few months left to live, we vowed to make the most of that time. So we gave Duncan belly and chest rubs, balls and toys, rides and runs, so many treats and lots of love. When the cancer began to affect his sight, mobility and demeanor, we decided it was time to put him down.
Last night, after the vet gave Duncan the first shots — the ones that put him to sleep — he continued to look at us with his big, brown eyes. We pet his fur and told him how very much we loved him and it was clear he knew he would not die alone. Just before he received the fatal dose of medicine, Duncan gave M a few final licks and then he was gone.
