Cold gray skies drizzled rain as I left DC today, just when I thought springtime was coming. Now, I find myself in the back of cramped flight with a French kid behind me kicking my seat. He’s part of what looks (and sounds) like a large high school tour group that I somehow ended up sitting in the middle of. And did I mention that someone nearby has gas? Jeez.
Anyway, as I finally find my writing time, the winter-like woes of travel far from overshadow the burgeoning spring joys of the past few weeks, and the journey ahead. It all started a few weeks ago with a new look…
Somehow during the past few years when I wasn’t paying much attention to it, my hair grew really long (again), so the need for a massive chopping was long overdue. During the customary pre-cutting chat, my hairdresser hesitated as she stood behind me, examining the fro carefully, and said, “You know you have enough to donate to Locks of Love if you want to.”
I couldn’t believe it. Was it really that long? She assured me that the required 8 or 9 inches of ponytail was there. And suddenly, I heard myself say, “Well, cut it off then!”
And off it came – those curls that have been perpetual bane of my existence are now on their way to being woven into a wig for a sweet, sick kid somewhere. It was one of the best things I’ve done in a long time – a tangible way to give/give up something for someone else. Plus, it was my own sort of tribute, a little altar of remembrance for those I’ve known who’ve battled cancer.
Then came the puppy… years of wanting, months of looking, and the single epiphany of knowing she would be put to sleep if I didn’t take her, and into my life came Miss Mississippi Masala, or Mazzy, for short – simultaneously southern and international. Nothing less for my dog.
She’s as sweet and charming as she is cute. A lab, beagle and maybe even Rhodesian Ridgeback mix with the heart-melting face of a brown weenie dog that couldn’t help but win me over. The responsibility of dog ownership has already been good for me – her “need to pee” dance gets my lazy self out of the bed in the morning, and her “so happy to see you/need to pee” dance welcomes me home in the evening, at reasonable hour even. Being forced to think of someone other than myself is an ongoing exercise in giving that I didn’t realize I needed so very much.
Beyond that, the responsibilities of puppy motherhood have humbled me as well. From christening my friend’s antique rugs to a bout of dreadful diarrhea that more than “broke in” my apartment, we’ve had some trials already. Yet, it’s her persistent sweetness and adoration (and cuteness) that tame my flashes of anger and my gag reflex, too.
It’s a new season all the way around. The daffodils have emerged for their annual dance of splendor, and just this week, I watched the leafless trees begin to blossom with color on my and Mazzy’s morning walks in the park. And gradually I realized that perhaps for the first time in the eleven years since my Mom died, I hadn’t secretly dreaded this time of year, and the anniversary it represents.
Perhaps it was the challenges of the past many months that have grounded me more, helping me grab hold of the reality that my loved ones, especially her, are always with me. Maybe it was the many nights of dreams of her, after years of having none, and at last getting to apologize for being such a terror. Or it could be that, in a way, I’ve finally set up so many emotional, spiritual, and physical altars (my own little mental memorials) that my fear of forgetting has at last abated. Now, instead of the grave marker, I can look at the flowers growing vibrantly and beautifully beside it, and smile, just as she does.
The pastor at the Easter service I went to talked about how we all so often get stuck in a “Good Friday” mentality – the day of suffering and death, the day it looked like everything was ruined, like our time was wasted, and that all is hopeless and lost. That’s so often our modern perception of difficulties, both big and small, amid the craziness of our world. Yet, if we shifted our minds and hearts instead to more of an Easter morning focus, we’d find an entirely new perspective – a day when Hope emerges from the ashes, Joy follows suffering, and even death holds Promise for the future.
And I see those promises all around me. Maybe it’s because finally the fast and furiousness of my life of work and travel has somewhat (slightly) slowed down, long enough for me to breathe deeply, and appreciate the changing seasons, both inside and outside. The winter malaise is giving way to warmth and color. I spent Saturdays of art and jazz in the park with friends and my new puppy. My nephew Grey turned thirteen. And as I write, I’m in a new country, well on my way to 33 countries in my 33rd year.
And with each passing day (and mile) I am continuing to find that those little blossoms of Hope, tiny though they might be, are all around me, year around...
relaxing on Easter Sunday
isn't she the cutest thing?
