It was a funny kind of Christmas. My partner wasn’t feeling super well, so we stayed home. Of course we are worried, though it seems to be just an allergy-related sinus problem. Happens every year. Nevertheless, she’ll get tested tomorrow for COVID.

Maise the Dog and I went for a walk around the neighborhood in the middle of the afternoon. It was crazy warm, and as a result, people had their front doors standing open, or were hanging out on their decks and in their yards. The sound of happy laughter and the smell of baking and of barbecue grills filled the air.

Neighbors were chatting to each other across the street about who was visiting, or who wasn’t because of COVID, or what gatherings and planned trips had been cancelled. There were lots of folks out for a stroll, enjoying the warmth and sunshine, greeting each other with a smile and a wave or stopping to chat for a moment. The height of the afternoon, though, was a young family—mom, dad, and a couple of kids—walking and laughing around the neighborhood in their Christmas pajamas carrying a big shopping bag. Evidently they were delivering little Christmas gifts to friends. They were having such a great time with each other. It was wonderful!

2021 has not been kind to any of us, but for some reason, this year I feel more in the spirit of Christmas than I have in the past decade or two.

May the joy of the season be with all my readers, and may 2022 be peaceful and kind to us all.

For a few days now I’ve been trying to remember the times in my life when I was happy. They’re few and far between, it turns out, or at least the ones that I can remember. But I kept thinking about it, and just now remembered how happy I have always been during the first months or years of my loving relationships. It’s the nesting—the building of a safe, warm, and happy home for the two of us. That’s a pattern—nesting does make me happy, more than any other prolonged activity. (There are other happy times, of course—being with horses, for example—but those have been, for the most part, single events and not of any duration.)

So that’s the first insight.

I’ve also been thinking and puzzling over why I am SO passionate over these book nooks. (A book nook, in the broadest sense, is a small, enclosed diorama that takes up approximately the space of a book on one’s bookshelf.) And mine are not just any scene from a movie or a dollhouse miniature—mine all have the theme of being outdoors in a safe and beautiful place. It makes sense on the surface: Since childhood I have loved being outdoors and pretty much always feel safe and peaceful there. But my fascination with them feels like more than that—and a psychologist friend and I have been talking about their similarity to Jungian sand-tray work. So I kept feeling into the question….

Down in the kitchen just now I was washing a drinking glass that dates from the early 1970s—my first husband and I purchased a set of these at a kind of “dollar store” before we were married. This glass is the only one I have left from the set, and I wondered why I keep it—that’s when the “nesting” thing hit me.

At the same time, I’m involved in a fascinating discussion about book nook lighting issues in my group on Facebook, and specifically thinking about how to light my current work in progress, entitled “Paths of the Dead.” Inspired by a scene in Lord of the Rings but set in the time and location of my ancient ancestors, this nook will portray a scene in which a young couple (with their infant in arms) is fleeing SOMETHING down a narrow gorge in the mountains through which they must pass, despite their terror. I’ve been trying to understand why they’re doing it—what are they fleeing, and why? And where are they going?—and have been asking Grandmother Taz (in whose time and place the scene is set) to help me listen in closely so that I can understand it better. So far, no dreams or conversations have happened, and I’ve been disappointed….

But this morning, a “flash of light”: Putting the “nesting” thing and the “terror” thing together, it occurs to me that my nesting is about creating the safe space that I never experienced as a child. And so are the first two of my nooks. “Sanctuary,” the first one, is about a quiet and lovely space in the woods where I can go and be alone or with my horse. “Midnight’s Paddock” (“Old Friends”) is about a dreamy location where Midnight the Horse (and I, hiding in the trees) can experience the love of a human family but also run free in the woods.

As a logical, psychological extension or next step in this story line, “Paths of the Dead” represents fleeing from some deadly terror into a wilderness where even Nature doesn’t feel safe. Wow…no wonder it frightens me and draws me in at the same time! It likely mirrors something, or some feeling, from my childhood experience…and something that carries over into the present time in some fashion.

Thank you, Grandmother Taz and my other Guides, for your help. That help doesn’t always come in the way that I expect or want, but it’s always there if I’m open and listening.  

Onwards, now, to see what’s down that frightening path….

Our Maise is quite the dog. From what I’ve learned, Border collies (and especially the smooth-coated, prick-eared variety) were specifically bred to work independently at a pretty good distance from the handler. That’s our girl, for sure. I had a chance to see her instincts in action this morning.

We went on our normal outing in the woods behind the house, with Maise and her buddy Little Bear the Cat running ahead and exploring together. Maise, as always these mornings, was off leash. The ratty, overgrown wooded area is pretty private and inaccessible except by crossing a steep-banked creek or a railroad track, so there are rarely any people around. It’s pretty safe to let her run there.

For a little while she stayed close by, waiting for me to catch up as we meandered down the path cut through the honeysuckle and downed trees. But then she disappeared down into the creek someplace.

That could be worrisome. We’ve tried to train her to stay right near us, and tried to teach her to come when called. It has not gone well; her recall sucks. Nothing wrong with her hearing. When I call, she’ll usually look up, cock her head, and go on with whatever it is that she’s doing. I’ve tried using my sweetest voice, my best baby talk, the tastiest treats, and even a dog whistle. Yeah, she hears them, thinks about it, and then, once in a while, comes back…or not. Not good. It’s that independence that’s in her blood and bones.

So why do I let her go, you ask? Because we both love the woods so much, and it is impossible to walk a leashed dog along narrow, brush-infested trails. I tried many times, and it was a disaster. Neither of us had any fun at all, but the desire to be outside was strong. After some work in a little temporary pen I built in the yard, and some tentative and mostly successful efforts in the common area near the house, I decided it was worth the risk. And mostly, in those early days, things worked fine. Mostly, but not always. There were days when she’d shoot off alone, chasing a squirrel or an irresistible smell. No amount of yelling would prevent it, or bring her back.

Used to be that I’d go crashing through the underbrush after her, shouting (and yes, cursing occasionally). It never did any good. When she did return, all happy and wiggly, it would invariably be from the opposite direction to where I’d been looking. Then I’d clip on her lead and angrily drag her back to the deck, close the gate, and leave her there to ponder her misbehavior.

After a couple of months of this, I read or watched something that gave me an idea. This trainer said she always watched to see if the dog, off lead, paid attention when the owner turned and went the other way. Maise, I knew, did pay attention. So I tried an experiment: When she took off, I took off in the opposite direction, and went back into the house. I was pretty darn nervous about it, but nothing else was working.

To my huge surprise, not five minutes later a worried-looking little dog came racing onto the deck and peered in the door. Well, interesting! I waited until my heart rate went back down, then let her in.

The next time she took off, she didn’t reappear for quite some time, so I finally went looking and found her on the front porch, lying calmly in the sunshine and surveying the street. No telling how long she’d been there.

Over the last month or two, things have continued to evolve. This morning’s adventure shows where we are right now: When Maise disappeared into the creek, I walked a few yards back down the trail toward the house, and waited silently. Maybe a minute later, I saw a black-and-white missile streaking through the cleared area near the house and up onto the deck. The air this morning was damp and perfectly still, so she hadn’t caught my scent, and I had been motionless, so her sharp eyes hadn’t spotted me, either.

I laughed and called out to her. Up came her head, and a second later she was racing to me, full-speed, and slid to a stop just in front of me. We enjoyed a few minutes of laughing and rolling and playing while I told her what a wonderful and amazing dog she is. And she is!

I’m no dog trainer. But what I am good at is relationships. Finally, after many months, Maise’s strengths and abilities have become clear to me. I’ve moved from trying to dominate her to being in a stronger and stronger relationship with her, so that there’s growing mutual trust between us.

Wow. She and Galahad the Horse are both teaching me so much about life and flow and love without conditions. I’ve been fighting it tooth and nail because of my own history, but thank goodness for such wonderful teachers, and for the opportunity for learning. Amazing!

[Cross-posted on The Alchemical Horse.]

We’ve had a string of absolutely gorgeous weather—many degrees above average temperatures and bright sunshine after a couple of weeks of chill and gloom. It started on election day—hope that’s an omen of better times to come. And my experience on a recent afternoon seems promising in that regard, also. I’m just hoping for reconciliation, less ugliness, more community feeling, that kind of thing. My concern is less political than community-centered.

Because the day was so lovely, I decided to take Maise for a quick walk in the park, which she loves, before heading to the barn to take care of my horse Galahad. The morning had passed too quickly and I was running way behind—I needed to be back at the house by 12:45 in order to attend my Quaker Meeting online at 1:00.

The plan was to take a quick, fifteen-minute jaunt around the upper, paved portion of the walking trail near the parking lot. Maise never seems to care where we go. After all, there are wonderful smells and places to pee everywhere. But we hadn’t gotten more than a few hundred feet along the path when I noticed the head of the little trail that goes down through the woods, winds around near the creek, then circles back to the far side of the parking lot. That would take more like an hour to tour with an inquisitive dog. There clearly wasn’t time.

But there was a quiet, insistent voice in the back of my mind: You could do that instead. I started to argue about how far behind I was, but then slowed down enough to really feel into the choice. Yes. I needed that, especially on the day after the election here in the States, while all the angst was still strong and upsetting. So, following this gentle leading, Maise and I turned downhill into the woods.

The silence was striking. Even though there was the usual sound of traffic in the distance and of some heavy machinery half a mile or so down and across the creek, there remained a feeling of deep quiet and peace under the trees. I could feel myself relax. But I’ll miss the Meeting! Part of my brain was still fussing about that.

Suddenly I could feel a kind of space open up, and the faces of all the Friends in my community appeared on the “Zoom screen” inside my head. OK, I thought. I’ll just attend Meeting here, as I walk. Sure enough, the sense of their presence stayed with me; it felt warm and real, immediate and supportive.

It’s very difficult to describe these sorts of experiences in words. All you can do is give the barest hint, and unless the reader has had such experiences herself, it won’t make a lot of sense. But it can be profound. I walked in a state of gratitude and joy, and felt like my friends were all right there with me.

Along the way Maise and I met some folks out for a stroll, and we chatted for a bit (at a safe distance, of course) about how these woods felt like the perfect place to be on this particular day. Farther along, we clambered down a steep bank (well, Maise ran and I clambered) to the stream bank, where she sniffed along the water’s edge and I picked up a lovely, smooth rock to tuck in my pocket. I breathed freely for what seemed like the first time in days.

We had nearly reached the sharp turn back up to the parking lot when I saw, coming up from the bed of a little feeder creek, a young man of maybe 20 or so…and a tiny fuzzball of an old dog, off leash. Startled, I realized that this was the same young fellow whom we had met last spring right after the pandemic started causing us all to keep our distance. He and I had gotten into an altercation about his dog being off leash and my being on the trail at all (or so it seemed at the time).

You’ll need some background here. If you want to read about the episode, it’s the one before this one (“An Angry Young Man“). The short version is that someone had sprayed a few of the larger trees along the path with a particularly nasty version of the political squabble of the day. The young man and I had both stumbled on it, and (as so often happens with people) had not realized that our anger was not with each other but with those who had defiled the woods. Instead, we found other annoyances to vent about, and things just exploded. I, for sure, was not my best self in those moments, and had regretted it ever since. But I never, ever expected to be able to set things right. After all, I’d never see the fellow again (or wouldn’t recognize him if I did, given my face blindness). So this encounter, complete with that unmistakable little old dog, felt like a real Godsend. It felt like it arose out of the feeling of gratitude and spiritual community that had been present for the entire walk.

The little fuzzball stopped (he seems to be half-blind), took a good sniff of Maise and her energy, and came bounding and bumbling along the trail toward us. Once again, I was nearly pulled off my feet by Maise’s playfulness, but we’ve gotten a bit better about that.

“Hey there!” I called out. “I recognize you! You’re the fellow we met last spring, and you and I got into quite a fight about the graffiti.”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“That was really ugly stuff.”

“You can say that again!” So obviously, he remembered the incident, too.

And then I apologized. “You sure didn’t see the best of me that time! I am so sorry it went that way!” Finally, the opportunity to explain, to make things right. Thank you, God!

It was a brief conversation. But he knelt down, asked Maise’s name, and petted her.

“I never thought I’d get the opportunity to make things better,” I said. “This is wonderful.”

“Well, that’s the thing about these public trails. You see the same people,” he replied, petting the dogs, who knew nothing about all the human craziness. They just wanted to play.

He stood up to walk on, nearly but not quite six feet from us. Finally, he very briefly made eye contact—such a reserved fellow…. “We’ll see you next time! Bye, Maise!” And they walked and bumbled on down the trail.

Gratitude. Immense gratitude. Such a blessing for me (and maybe for him, too). And all because I followed a tiny suggestion from Spirit and just opened my heart to beauty, peace, and opportunity.

So yes—maybe the blessings of reconciliation, of community, of peace, are within our reach after all. I have hope.