Archive for February, 2003

I don’t even know where to start today.  There are so many things I’d like to write about but I don’t want to have too many topics in one blog.  I think that weighs it down for me.  Besides, I can be verbose on one topic and if I included too many, y’all would get bored. 

First off, though, I’d like to send out my condolences to Mister Rogers’ family.  I can’t imagine a world without him in it.  I know he’s been ridiculed over the years but I think that he was truly one of the good and gentle spirits in this world and I can tell you that I loved to watch him when I was a kid.

RIP Fred Rogers

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MuSe made an important point.  Crafting can be defined as art.  I’ve seen some quilts that are absolutely amazing and are works of art.  I think, too, that crafts are often defined as “folk art.”.  It is.  It is the art of the home, the heart, the family.

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twiddle38 also made a great point, and, thusly, the main topic of today’s blog.  He said that he didn’t think he had the patience for crafting but that, perhaps, writing is like that.

I think writing is a craft.  It takes work, it takes patience, it takes practice in order to get it right.  Just like with stitching a quilt, if your lines are off, you pull them out and start over.  With writing, if something is not working, you re-write, re-write, and re-write again.  That’s why we call them drafts.  They are the practice for the “real” thing.

From what I’ve read, people seem to think that writing should come naturally.  I wonder why that is.  Does art come naturally?  Can most people pick up a paintbrush and paint a masterpiece without studying and practicing?  Can a world class runner run and win without daily practice?

Writing requires practice.  Writing requires dedication just like any other “craft.”  Yes, some people can pick up a pen (or a keyboard) and produce amazing pieces but that is rare.  Most people do have to re-write (sometimes many times over) to make it work.

We don’t give enough credit to writing as a craft.  It is important and we should cherish it more.

I don’t think I’ve really talked about Dakota a whole lot in the past.  I probably avoid talking about him because my feelings for him are so intense that it might come off as a bit strange.  He’s a dog, afterall, right?

About 7 years ago, I was living in a small apartment downtown with my little rat-haired terrier, Mandy.  At that time, She was about 10 years old.  I felt bad leaving her home alone as I went off to work and was actively looking for a friend for her.

I was at the mall with my mom and sister and we, of course, went by the pet store.  Normally we just look because this store makes us sad.  We hate seeing all of these little babies trapped in glass boxes where people knock on the glass (not a good thing for puppies and kittens) and where they are often left to lie in their own feces.

This puppy, though, had kept us coming back.  We were partial to beagles and bassetts and fell in love with every one of them that we saw.  This puppy was 4 months old and had been at this store for at least 3 months.  He started off at $400 and no one would buy him.  On this day, his price was down to $199.  My mom asked me if I wanted him.  Of course, being the sucker I am, I said yes.

We paid for him and were told to come back in an hour to pick him up (they were going to bathe him, get his papers, etc).  We went to Ruby Tuesdays for lunch and sat there, thinking of names.

I knew his name was Dakota from the minute I saw him.  He has a red coat (well, he’s a bi-colored beagle but he’s not lemon…he’s got red – much the same color as my own hair).  His coloring just made me think of the old westerns and the Dakotas for some reason (I guess I could have named him Sedona and that would have fit, too, but he’s Dakota).  Anyway…because he’s AKC registered, we had to come up with a regal name.  We just started getting silly.  His full name is Duke Dakota de Sota.  :-)

Dakota and Mandy saved my life.  I mean that.  I had a very stable older, smaller dog who was queen of my house.  In comes this puppy who is full of love (a bit neurotic because of his stint in the glass house) and willing to share it.  I was healing from being in an incredibly abusive relationship and they were my saviors.  They gave me love without any restrictions or conditions.  I wasn’t used to that.  They gave me companionship without me having to walk on egg shells or be hit if I said the wrong things.

They saved my life.  These two small dogs actually saved my life.

Mandy passed away a year ago last summer.  I still feel the loss sometimes.  She was the beginning of my healing.

Dakota has had to put up with my traveling (he stayed with my mom when I lived in Great Britain).  He sometimes lets me know that I’m not supposed to leave him behind when I’m pursuing my life.  He is a PART of my life and makes sure that I know that now.

His neuroses have grown over the years.  He has abandonment issues.  He doesn’t like being confined in small spaces for too long.  He has a hard time being without other dogs (which is why he often stays with my mom and not me – she has 11 dogs, 2 pigs, and 2 horses).

But the core of Dakota is still there.  He cuddles with me.  He still lays on my chest like he did when he was a puppy.  He still bounces around when I come home like he did when he was a puppy.  He still likes to  play our rough-housing game.  He still likes to love.

He teaches me a lesson every day.  Sometimes I don’t recognize it for what it is until later, but he is always teaching me.

My emotions and love for him are great.  They are, at times, so strong that it scares me.  This little friend saved my life, brought me back to the land of living, and taught me how to love again.  I can’t even put a price on that. 

He is precious to me.

Dakota is on the right.  His daughter, Trixie (on the left), was killed in a tragic accident a year ago, November).  Trixie was my baby, too.

I’m feeling confined. I feel like I’m confined in this life that I’ve built around me. I’m not confined by my life, just by the things I’ve allowed to happen. I feel restricted. I feel, sometimes, like I can’t say or do the things I’d really like to say or do.

You take the good with the bad, the positive with the negative, the hard with the easy. But I wonder, is there a point when you say enough? How do I determine when that is? How do I know that when I say enough, it won’t be worse? What if the good then gets bad, the positive goes negative, the easy gets hard?

Is life ever just..there? Is it ever not a struggle?

I’m being cryptic, I know. Sometimes I feel like I have no place to be honest and open…even here.

Sometimes I think I should just change my name, my address,and my online personas and start all over again.

Odd thing happened yesterday. I was at the store and picked up a book, Peace Like a River by Leif Enger, and started to read it. Ok, that’s not odd in and of itself. Heh.

This book states, unequivocally, what I meant about miracles. I know, I’ve beaten this horse to pieces. I don’t know what my sudden fascination with miracles is but it is…and now I’m pondering it.

“Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it’s been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week — a miracle, people say, as if they’ve been educated from greeting cards. I’m sorry, but nope. Such things are worth our notice every day of the week, but to call them miracles evaporates the strength of the word.

I believe I was preserved, through those twelve airless minutes, in order to be a witness, and as a witness, let me say that a miracle is no cute thing but more like the swing of a sword.”

I think that sums it up nicely. I don’t know why miracles are affecting me in this way but I do want answers. Like SummerSong said, she’d want an answer to why something is happening the way it is. I’m the same way.

But I wonder…are there things out there that just happen without explanation?