As I have lived these past months with job loss, questions of identity, and the death of my father, I have come to know one thing for certain: every woman needs ruby red shoes to find her way home. But the journey is much more bearable if she has a dependable pair of boots.

Mine are made by a company called BOGS. Best $90 I’ve ever spent. Made of neoprene and rubber – lightweight, fully waterproof and warmer than I thought possible.

Every morning, I start my day with a walk along the shore of Lake Michigan with dog Maggie. And every morning, we traverse the same stretch of beach – though to get there we have to cross a creek that cuts through the dune and runs into the lake. Depending on the weather and the strength of the winds, the shape of the creek and the depth of the water can change dramatically, but the water is always icy cold.

Like so many things in life, there is no way to reach the other side except by heading straight through. So with pant legs tucked into my BOGS, I ford the creek – and I giggle like a little kid when I have splashed safely to the other side, my feet still warm and dry.

Mother Nature continues to amaze me, particularly if I walk slowly and keep my eyes open. Every storm, every change in temperature and every shift in winds creates a unique palette of color and texture. Even on the most overcast winter day, I come away surprised by the myriad tones of beige, white, grey and blue – there is rich and vivid color here if I look carefully and close.

When we set out each day, I’m certain this walk is about exercising Maggie. And just as regularly, this walk turns out to be deep nourishment for my soul.

Here are a few snaps from my recent stroll, courtesy of these fabulous boots.

(Full disclosure: red boots shot is not mine – inspiring stock photo!)

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I’ve just come back from a weeklong retreat at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House in Taos, New Mexico where I had the privilege of joining 18 other women for a mediation and writing retreat – primarily in silence – with Natalie Goldberg. The accommodations at Mabel Dodge, and the snow and sunshine in Taos, were in themselves worth the trip, but the main attraction was a chance to study again with Natalie. If you don’t know her classic, Writing Down The Bones: Freeing The Writer Within, I encourage you to get a copy as soon as you can. And you’ll want to read the other books she’s written since, including her recent book on memoir Old Friend From Far Away.

A few things that I appreciate about Natalie:

  • Her Brooklyn accent. It conjures up good memories of my New York relatives – and makes me smile.
  • She isn’t looking for groupies. She is a gifted teacher who wants to share what she knows – not be worshiped. How lovely. No need to impress. Just be.
  • Her commitment to writing as a practice. Natalie is a Zen Buddhist, and she draws parallels between sitting meditation and writing practice. In meditation practice, you sit – and no matter how many times your mind wanders and chatters, you just keep sitting and breathing. You learn to anchor your mind in your breath. And once in a while, you have a moment when you reach that place of peace beneath the chattering mind. So, too, in writing practice. You keep moving the pen across the page, anchoring your mind with the pen. The Resistor and the Critic start yapping (the Buddhist term: Monkey Mind), and in my case they offer such helpful comments as “Who do you think you’re kidding? You can’t write. This is stupid. You’re stupid.” But you keep writing. And once in a while you get past the chatter – and out comes what Natalie calls “First Thoughts,” the words that come from deep in your heart, uncensored. Hello Self!
  • She tells us, “You’re free to write the worst junk in the world.” Her workshops and retreats are not about critiquing output. Natalie reminds us again and again that she is teaching us a practice that will help us learn about our mind, recognize resistance, listen politely, and keep writing – or creating or expressing ourselves in any way. Writing practice, she tells us, can be used as a way to “penetrate your life and become sane. What is said here about writing can be applied to running, painting, anything you love….” Sanity, creativity and being present: good goals for living.
  • Her insistence that we must read and study other writers. This time it was Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon and Carson McCullers Reflection in a Golden Eye. While I could not imagine an entire book about bull fighting, and I really really wanted to hate it, Hemingway drew me in. McCullers is brilliant – her description of place left me humbled.
  • Her belief in the power of silence. Outside of class time, no talking, no words, no media. Communal meals in silence. After the first awkward moments, it becomes natural – and profoundly replenishing. As the retreat came to a close on Friday, we broke our silence with a Shabbat service, a meaningful way for Natalie to honor and share her Jewish heritage. As we broke the challah and passed the wine, we wished each other Shabbat Shalom. And I was reminded of the deep and important roots of the ritual of Eucharist that I share with my Episcopal friends on Sundays.

My time in Taos was nourishing food for the soul and the perfect way for me to slow down and become mindful about the Christmas season. May we all know peace in the coming days….

Now, to quote directly from Writing Down the Bones, “Get out there and write your asses off!”

It’s 32 degrees in Michigan, and the geraniums in our window boxes are still going strong. Amazing – the new buds keep pushing through despite the first frost and the cold days. Each of these buds reminds me of the tremendous force of life in all of us that knows nothing but how to keep pushing to live, to dance, to thrive. I’m glad to report that I feel a lot like these geraniums. From the outside, the last 18 months of my life appear to have been coated with frost – loss of job, financial challenges, my dad’s unexpected death this summer. But there’s been an equal amount of new life, love and joy: a puppy who teaches me every day about the importance of play, a new generation of great-nieces and nephews filling the world with delight and laughter, reconnection with old friends, and the rediscovery of the deepest, creative longings of my soul. One of the greatest gifts of these past months? My ability to be fully present to my dad’s dying process. It was a sad yet truly sacred experience for me, and I hope to write more about it in the coming weeks. But right now, I’m glad to be back in my “rubyredshoes” space. I feel a whole new layer of my protective shell breaking open, and new buds pushing forth. I think the Universe is stirring up something really good for me – what’s she stirring up for you?

It’s official – I’m old and antiquated.

Here’s how I know: I stopped at the local farm market yesterday to pick up some fresh strawberries, and when I pulled out my wallet to pay, the young blond teenager at the cash register said, “Oh what a cute wallet!”

Important sidebar: I’m a big fan of a wallet called The Taxi. It’s a compact leather wallet originally designed for travel, but I use it all the time. The Taxi comes in an array of colors and prints, and one of the latest versions features book cover art from the Nancy Drew mystery stories I read as a kid.

“Isn’t it great?” I was grinning with delight that she had noticed. “I just love Nancy Drew!”

She stared at me blankly. “Oh. Is your name Nancy?”

[What? Confusion and furrowed brow on my part]

“No. I just loved her as a kid growing up. Did you read the books?”

Another blank stare…and the slow shaking of her head.

“Oh,” I sputtered, as the light dawned…“You’ve never heard of Nancy Drew?”

“No,” she smiled sweetly.

OMG, can this be possible?

Life with Maggie the puppy has brought back fond memories of a few favorite tunes from childhood. Here’s one of the many Sesame Street ditties I still carry around in my head – a classic from Oscar the Grouch. I found myself singing this one out loud this morning when I spotted Maggie trying to eat from the garbage can…

I can still remember the feel of the carpet as I sat on the floor in front of the color TV that was housed in a wooden console with Martian-ship legs. I was scooting around on the floor as I sang along with this grumpy character who sounded an awful like the male relatives on my dad’s side of the family. We were living in Blauvelt, New York – in a modest Mad Men-style house my parents bought when the suburban development was brand new – which means I must have watched the original 1969 broadcast when I was just four years old. Wow. Amazing what stays with us, isn’t it?

Have fun with this – and remember that it’s best enjoyed when you sing along OUT LOUD!

[P.S. I had completely forgotten that Oscar was ORANGE when he first appeared...]

I wrote this post a few weeks ago and was hesitant to publish it. After all, did I really want people to know that I have had these terrible, evil thoughts about our sweet little puppy? Of course not. But who am I kidding? If you’ve ever decided to bring home a cuddly ball of doggie fur, you know that the first few weeks of bonding bliss are filled with play and laughter – as well as sleeplessness, destruction of shoes, and moments of utter frustration. So here is the unvarnished truth:

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I want to kill the f’ing puppy.

She’s been here for five weeks, 23 hours, 15 minutes and seven seconds, and I know I should be writing heartwarming entries about life with Maggie and the magic she is bringing to our lives, but right now I want to murder the little beast. Or at least sedate her for a couple of days.

In between puppy feeding, walking, playing and training, I’ve been struggling to find time to write. I was finally sitting at my computer beginning what Anne Lamott calls a “shitty first draft” when I glanced up to see Maggie peeing (yet again) on the rug. I leapt from my chair, scooped her up in my arms and rushed out to the backyard. I put her down on the grass to finish her “business,” and before I could snap on her leash, she took off like a bat out of hell, diving behind a row of bushes. It is here – in this no man’s land between the shrubbery and the fence – where I have found her snacking on bits of detritus that land there when a strong wind blows across the lake. I’ve never been able to squeeze in for a close look, but I’ve spotted a piece of PVC piping, an orange peel, a plastic grocery bag and piles of poop from lord-knows-what kinds of animals who creep and crawl in the night. It is also in this spot that Maggie first discovered a smorgasbord of old roof tiles – a tasty and toxic snack that created quite a ruckus in her intestines last week.

Once I coaxed her out from under the shrubs – testing three possible ways of doing this, including shouting, then cooing, and then whimpering like a dog – she bolted right past me, running down the driveway toward the street. She’s done this several times, and I have now confirmed what I’ve read in at least eight different “how-to-think-like-your-dog” books: in this situation one should not chase the puppy – since this will encourage her to believe she’s engaged in an exciting game of tag.

So what exactly was I supposed to do? Let her run into the street, get hit by a car and then turn for some kind of consoling wisdom from The Monks of Skete, Cesar the Dog Whisperer or the woman who trained Bo Obama? Of course not. I did what any rational, professional, grown-up and Zen-meditating woman would do. I cried. Then I stomped my feet and went back into the house shouting (for all the neighbors to hear), “Fine. Get killed – see if I care!”

Naturally, as if on cue, she appeared behind me on the stoop – tail wagging, head cocked and looking so darn innocent and cute.

OK. Maybe I’ll let her live another day…

Remember Shop Class?

If you’re under 25, you might think I’m suggesting we had classes in school about power-shopping at the local mall – no such luck.

When I was in junior high, in the late 1970s, Shop Class was about mechanics and woodworking – lots of drilling, pounding nails and making stuff. The treasures you crafted, a stunning recipe box or a metal ashtray perhaps, ended up as Christmas gifts for your parents. And like a fine wine to the proper cheese, Shop Class was paired with Home Economics, where we learned to cook and sew and clean stuff.

These classes, of course, were throwbacks to a time when girls and boys were educated for expected societal roles, but since this was The Age of Aquarius, the classes were now co-ed. Girls wore safety glasses and built things – and boys cooked spaghetti and stitched aprons. Unfortunately, in the midst of all this liberation, I had one of my first memorable encounters with the sharp and painful edges of gender bias.

When I was in 7th grade, I rushed home from school one day carrying a permission slip from my teacher of Industrial Arts (apparently, this was the formal name for Shop). Before we students could roll up our sleeves and begin to build, we had to have our parents sign a form that promised they wouldn’t sue the school if we happened to drill into a hand or cut off a body part with a power saw.

My father refused to sign my permission slip.

What? But, Rob (older brother) just took Shop, you signed his permission slip, and he made a huge wooden sign that says The Trabucchi’s and it’s hanging at the end of our driveway. We love that sign! What are you talking about?

Power tools, Dad explained, were simply too dangerous to be handled by a girl.

I was stunned. I cried, yelled, sulked and tried to appeal to my mom. No go. So for weeks on end, my classmates looked at me with pity as I sat in the corner of the Industrial Arts workshop while they learned how to use sanders, routers and power saws – and I tinkered with a few pieces of scrap lumber and a couple of wood screws.

Humiliating? You bet. Painful? Of course. Just the beginning of the many challenges I faced as the eldest daughter of a strict Italian father? Oh, don’t get me started.

But revenge is sweet, my friends. The other day, I bought my first set of hole saws, and I drilled perfect circles through layers of metal, wood and insulation in our front door – replacing the door handle hardware and installing a deadbolt lock. Click, click. Perfect fit.

Girls can’t handle power tools? Just you watch.

What is it with the big things happening in twos these days? There was the house purchase coupled with the job loss. Then came the sewage backup in the basement joined by the hot water heater leakage. The latest? The day that we welcomed our new puppy home, I backed my car into a steel girder – and the girder won. So, on the first morning in her new home, puppy and I waved goodbye to my Toyota as the tow truck hauled it away. Very Exciting!

$2500 worth of damage later, the car is still in the body shop. Hundreds of dollar later (chew toys, comfy beds, organic food & the latest in stylish dinnerware, collars and leashes), the puppy has turned our life – and the laundry basket – upside down. But she’s so darn cute. Meet Maggie.

OK, I definitely feel like Dorothy just as she’s woken up in Oz.

“Where am I and how did I get here?”

Snapshot one: Suddenly, I’m a housewife. All kinds of time on my hands, no kids, no job, no regular schedule. My husband comes home from work, and I rush up to him and say, “look, honey…today I put up new blinds!” or “look, honey, I went grocery shopping and got your favorite kind of apple!” Of course, he’s impressed and grateful, but he doesn’t expect me to feel the need to justify my existence every day. But I do. And I’m starting to like Betty Draper!

Snapshot two: I’m running around town with a flyer for a special service at my husband’s church (yes, mother-of-god, last year at the age of 44 I became a preacher’s wife – one who has a terrible habit of swearing). I’m excited to tell the barista at Café Julia’s about the Blessing of the Animals happening next week – my cheeks are flushed, I’m so excited. Who IS this woman?

Snapshot three: I’m climbing up on a ladder in the bathroom trying to finish smoothing over the blue paint spots that ended up on the white ceiling. Overall, I’m pleased by the work I’ve done here, but I fell for the ploy about special paint “edgers” that allow you to skip taping the ceiling (lies, all lies!). As I stretch up high, I find myself needing that other brush – the one on top of the toilet tank, now out of reach – and I think to myself, “I really need a tool belt.” Seriously. A tool belt. I’m going to Lowe’s tomorrow.

Love,

Dorothy

Until last week, I had never painted a wall in my life.

You might think of painting as a chore and drudgery, but I’ve spent 20 years renting apartments where the landlords were strict about not altering the plain white walls. For decades, I’ve equated brushing color on one’s walls with Getting In Trouble – and since I am the daughter of a NYPD cop, getting in trouble is Not An Option.

Last week, in the midst of some minor internal agony about my current state of unemployment and numerous questions about the meaning of my life, I started to paint our bathroom. The verdict? Painting walls is wildly liberating. Painting walls is invigorating. Painting walls is FUN – as in “oh-my-god-I’m-sure-I’ll-get-in-trouble-for-this” kind of fun!

Who knew? In the weeks since I bought a house and lost a job, painting has offered me a new kind of freedom. I stuck that brush in the can, I loaded it with gorgeous “summer blue” paint, and I threw long strokes up on the wall and watched in wonderment as the color of a spring crocus wiped away the boredom of white.

Painting walls has been rewarding in other ways, too. The physical activity has forced my mind to slow down, and while I am painting, I stop obsessing about the future. Transforming the rather ugly bathroom with gorgeous paint has also reminded me about the creative energy that gets unleashed in me when I “play” with paint on canvas.

Six years ago, I took an adult education class at the Maine College of Art; the course was called Painting for the True Blue Beginner. I had always loved color, adored art of all kinds, and desperately wanted to learn the magic behind putting paint to canvas. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been in an art class (elementary school?), and I was pretty sure I had no artistic talent. After all, I could barely draw a stick figure, let alone anything that you might be able to recognize. But this teacher, in the course catalog, insisted that we can all learn to draw and paint, and she promised her class would provide a safe, non-judgmental environment.

On the first night, I thought up a whole bunch of reasons why taking this class was a stupid idea. I was trying to run a consulting business. I didn’t have time for this. How was this going to help me make money? Didn’t I need to eat and pay the bills? I trudged up the street, pulled open the doors to this modern, hip-looking building and found my way to the studio classroom.

Turned out, at age 39, I was the youngest person in the class. We were all nervous. As we went around the room introducing ourselves and saying a few words about why we were taking the course, I could see each person become the 7-year-old they had been when someone had told them that they had no artistic talent. Honestly, it was a different version of the same story for nearly every person in that room! And yet, each of us had been carrying around this deep yearning – for decades – to express ourselves through paint.

Working with the philosophy and techniques of Betty Edwards, author of the groundbreaking Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, artist and teacher Patsea Cobb led us gently through each class. I continued to get nervous every week when I packed my drawing pencils and paints and headed to the studio. I told myself each time that I had better things to do. But you know what? Betty Edwards was right, and Patsea kept her promise. In just ten weeks, my drawing ability went from Stick-Person Level I to Something-You’d-Recognize, and I was painting happily on canvas.

Six years ago in that course, I learned something that painting my bathroom brought back to me in an instant last week: there is nothing that absorbs my creative energy and transports me to another world like the play of the brush in paint. Some kind of magic happens as the long strokes, the curving lines, and the sensuous colors work their way across a bright white canvas. The texture of the paint, the connection with the canvas, and the heart-breaking sumptuousness of color make my insides dance with joy!

So, today, I am deeply grateful for my new home and its rather ugly bathroom, and I’m grateful for a can of paint called “summer blue.” And I might even be just a teeny bit grateful for the loss of a job – for the time that has been freed up to paint, write and sing from my soul.

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