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I grew up around big(ish) dogs: the golden and labrador retrievers of the world. But my view of the dog world changed when, at the ripe age of seven, I came face to chest with an Irish Wolfhound who served as both the draw and mascot of the mountain shop in which I found myself. I could nearly walk beneath the hound without stooping, and I fell in love immediately. I can’t say he loved me in return, but he stoically allowed me to slather love all over him.

My love immediately extended to all large dogs (except those that drool; which is a limitation, alas, that continues to this day), and I’m convinced I still might shuffle off this mortal coil petting something I shouldn’t.

The love I found in the mastiffs to the danes, however, did not extend to the small breeds. I’d found them less than tolerable from their tendency to shake or attack or pee seemingly unprovoked. As time went on, I met lovely versions of breeds from chihuahuas to bishon frises and my distaste turned into tolerance, but I could still take or leave them. Until Snowball came to live with me.

His human mom passed away, and the fact that he was eighteen, nearly blind and deaf, and didn’t have the use of his back legs meant he wasn’t long for this world and wouldn’t find a new home; he was going to be put down. As long as he had some life left in him, I couldn’t let it happen, and I took him in. I dog proofed my home to ensure an aged Maltese would be safe, and he joined me for the last of his time.

I found myself caring for him and worrying about him when I had to step out of the house for the shortest of times. I had him into the vet two or three times to make sure we could do what we could for him without being overly invasive and with the understanding he was near end of his life. Simply put, I wanted to give him the best life I could in the time he had left. After a month, he decided he’d had enough.

In that month, he wormed his way so far into my heart, I wept as he passed away in my arms. And thus my love of little dogs was born.

It took months before I found Tucker. Another little Maltese with joint issues and epilepsy. It seems I have a soft spot for medical cases as well. His personality is quite different than Snowball, but he’s wormed himself into my heart in much the same way. He’s seven, and I expect and hope he’ll be with me far longer than Snowball was.

I hope the lesson I’ve learned from my experiences with the big and little dogs of the world is that love can be found in surprising places; ones that may be completely unexpected.

I’ve been silent for too long.

I’m resurfacing with plans of posting somewhat more regularly here and behind the scenes with continued efforts to write what I’d like to write well enough that I end up with a finished product I’m comfortable letting see the light of day and other people’s eyeballs.

Beware, in future posts, there will be some gnashing of teeth and frustrations and political rants, so if that’s not your thing, you might find it more comfortable to be elsewhere.

In addition to expected ranting, I’m currently actively doing things to help build and protect the communities and the world I’d like to see: volunteering, calling my congress people, peacefully protesting, posting quite a bit on platforms I can get behind, getting off of platforms I can’t, changing my consumerism and buying habits, supporting communities that have been disenfranchised, lending my abilities and expertise to organizations I hope I can help build things that promote a world for all and not just for the folks with the greater privilege.

I’ve also been quiet about what I am and what I support. No longer. I am queer, non-monogamous, and disabled (and lucky I am as abled as I tend to experience). I am a white, cis-gendered woman and think of myself daily as such to decenter the idea that either whiteness or cis-genderism are normal (implying being trans or black or another person of color is not). I have work to do and expect to always have work to do.

Sometime since my last post, I lost my voice working toward making those in my life who’s views differed from mine more comfortable. I haven’t figured it out yet from how to let my voice be heard to how to manage those difficult relationships; I don’t know that I ever will. I do know I’m still working on all of it.

I’ve been a judgmental bitch.

There was a time I approached everything with the curiosity to understand. Even what I considered the most heinous of ideas would drive an almost childlike wonder about how someone landed so far from my own ideas; what in my life drew me down one path, and what in someone else’s life drew them down another?

Sometime between realizing my country was never what I thought was and watching me and my fellow citizens try to make sense of our volatile, dangerous, and frightening world stage with its plague and systematic brutality, my compassion gave way to judgment; my thirst for connection and understanding was incinerated by my horror at what we, as a species, are capable of.

Add to that, or perhaps exacerbated by that, I had my own spectacular melt down from an unrelated-to-world-events event. Which nailed the coffin in which my compassion had been laid to rest.

There is one person in my life who challenges me like no other; and for whom I’m eternally grateful. I don’t mean the hands-up-against-the-wall, beat-you-down kind of challenge but the challenge of curiosity; the sincere wondering what, how, and why I’m thinking what I’m thinking or experiencing what I’m experiencing.

And the realization that I’d come so far down the path of judgment leaving compassion as a mere glimmer in my eye was because of this person’s curiosity. This person pried those coffin nails up and threw back the lid, allowing me to take a deep breath and reminded me of what I’d lost.

I suppose I still needed space to be upset and angry about my own loss as well as the suffering on the world stage (and grief can be difficult and ugly), but it’s time now for me to accept that loss; to understand that this is the state of things; and to remember that my path isn’t to lead an army. My role is that of the small cog in the middle of a vast machine; it is to interact with people one-on-one. To meet them where they are and to share our knowledge and wisdom with one another. To do that effectively, I must come from a place of understanding, empathy, and compassion. This is my home, and it’s where I (sometimes uncomfortably) belong.

I’m not home yet, but I’m in the driveway, and I know what’s around the corner.

When my eldest child was under 3 months old and I had taken us to a nearby mall to escape the cabin fever that gripped me. I sat on one of the many available benches; I didn’t know malls could be that empty until I was on maternity leave and saw them when most of the rest of the world was working. A lovely older woman sat next to me and struck up a conversation.

“He’s beautiful,” she said.

I would have brushed this off as something everyone says, but I’d had too many people physically stop me to tell me how beautiful my son was. It didn’t really matter; he would have been beautiful even if he looked like a lizard.

“Thank you,” I said, still not knowing exactly how to respond. She wasn’t really complimenting me, but I settled on a thank you on behalf of the little boy I loved so dearly.

“Mine are all grown and moved away.”

“I’ve heard it goes fast.”

“May I give you a piece of advice?”

I looked at her. Rarely did anyone ask before bestowing their view of the world on another.

“Yes.” And I really did want to hear it.

“Enjoy your children for what they have to offer at each stage in their life. When mine were babies, I couldn’t wait for them to talk. When they could talk, I couldn’t wait for them to be able to tell me what was wrong. When they were teenagers, I couldn’t wait for them to mature into adults. So, I never got to enjoy them when I had the chance to. I was always waiting for the next stage.”

I was blessed not only because this lovely woman chose to share her story with me, but because I was in a place where I could hear it. Every time I wanted to ground my children until they were thirty, or had to leave the room to take a deep breath, or wanted to throw one of us out a window, I heard her voice. And I continue to hear it even though the eldest is an adult and on his own.

Now I’m sending her advice out into the world for those who are in a place where they can hear it, only I’ve put a bit of a spin on it. Enjoy your children at each stage in their life for who they are. So many of us pile our hopes and fears on our children and don’t allow them to become the people they will be. We think we can mold them into what we want them to be. We fear for their safety and drape our need for their success on their shoulders.  Let all that go and simply love them.