The Snow Globe

I don't like being different. But sometimes, in some ways, I do feel different from most people. Take Christmas for instance. For lots of people who celebrate it, Christmas is a fun time. Decorating, hosting parties, buying and wrapping gifts. But you know, that stuff just doesn't appeal to me all that much. 

This year I am going away for Christmas. A great way to forgo all the decorating, baking, socializing that isn't really my thing. But even an old grinch like me can be a little bit sentimental. I didn't think so. Until I started poking around in the boxes of Christmas decorations I have stashed in the closet. I was looking for a ribbon to tie around the plate of cookies I was taking with me to the doctor's office. And there it was. 

I took the snow globe out of the box and placed it on the ledge that separates the kitchen from the living room in my small home. I reached over to give it a shake. Inside the globe, Santa is busy making cookies, a cheery scene. As with all snow globes, it is snowing in Santa's kitchen, but that doesn't matter. Somehow Santa and cookies and snow all fit together and it is fine. What matters is that this particular snow globe is the only decoration I need to put me in the Christmas spirit, despite the fact that I am often a curmudgeon this time of year. I turned the little knob and the sound of Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas filled the room. 

This little globe was given to me by a dear friend. A friend who loves Christmas. It is as if she infused this gift with all the happy feelings she gets as she does her own decorating, baking, and entertaining each year. Nothing but good feelings come as I gaze upon the little globe. And that is what Christmas should feel like. 

Not feeling that way about Christmas can be explained easily enough. But explaining feelings and changing them are two different things. I made a vow long ago not to fake my way through the season, even if it meant doing nothing at all in the way of Christmas traditions. I have found that doing one or two things like baking gingerbread with a house full of kids, or buying a special gift for someone who needs it are more meaningful than when I used to try to do it all. 

Each year is a little different, kids grow up, people move, families join and you work out who will go where when. Being flexible helps, I find. And letting go of expectations helps too. That way, when something sweet happens, like finding the snow globe and taking a minute to enjoy it, it is real. And being real at Christmas feels so much better than faking it. 

It's been a year since I wrote those words as I paused to think what Christmas means to me, while waiting for the snow to clear so I could continue driving, on my way to visit my family. And guess what, the snow never stopped, and I never did get to go visit my family. I was stranded in Portland in my old neighborhood. Christmas last year was spent among neighbors I had never gotten to know as we shared our food stock and shoveled one another's driveways, an experience that changed me. 

It's funny how much difference a year can make as well. Since then, I've continued making my home in Friday Harbor. I am so grateful for my new friends here and the way people have welcomed me. And this year, I'm flying to see my family. It's a whole year longer since my husband died, and I've been a cancer survivor for one more year too. My life as a writer is one year older, and in many ways I'm having more fun than I have in years. 

And this year, I feel like much less of a curmudgeon. A little Christmas miracle. As I make a new life for myself here, I am finding that I value everything I have much more. And while what I have materially is less than it used to be, when I think of the things that really matter to me, my friends and family, I feel richer and happier than ever. 

Last year when I wrote about the snow globe my friend gave me, I really was having one of those Christmases where I wasn't in the mood, and everything went wrong. That little snow globe was like a single candle flame. It gave me a glimmer of hope for better times. And here I am, one year later, and times are truly better. 

Merry Christmas.

© M.E. Rollins

One Bad Novel

A friend told me recently she was taking up painting, and was excited to paint her first bad painting. I was curious what she meant. She said when you start something new, before you can be good at it, you have to be willing to be bad at it. That got me to thinking. For months now I've been messing around with novel writing, taking classes, trying my hand at fiction for the first time. My friend taught me that if I'm going to be any good at novel writing, I've got to be willing to be bad at it first. I guess novels and paintings are a lot like pancakes. 

At least it doesn't take 10,000 hours to learn how to make a good pancake. You can get that from page 57 of the 1971 edition of the Betty Crocker Cookbook. That's how I did it. According to Malcolm Gladwell, it does, however, take an average of 10,000 hours to get really good at a profession or art form. 10,000 hours, or ten years. For more on that observation, see Gladwell's book, Outliers. I'm no expert on it, the idea just interests me. 

10,000 hours or ten years sounds like a long time when you're fifty six. I got some good advice when I was contemplating going to architecture school at twenty four. My sister said, in five years, (a B. Arch takes five years at U. of O.) you'll be twenty-nine, whether you go back to school or not. That was a very good point. I did eventually finish, and had a productive twenty year career in architecture after that. Of course, according to the ten year rule, it's possible I wasn't any good until the second ten years, unless you count the five years of school and the two years of drafting school before that. Yes, I think I'll count those. 

But whatever the case of how good at it I was, I did make money for my family, I got to draw and make models which I'd loved since childhood, I had some fun, and met a lot of very interesting people. Writing is like that. All kinds of interesting people show up in a writer's life. I get to play around where the complexity of the medium is a never ending source of fascination. You know when you think about it, even if you stink at something, if you are having fun, does it really matter? And even people who, in my opinion, stink at writing, still can make money at it. I hope to make money at it while not stinking at it. The proof of the pudding will be in the eating.

As far at the novel goes, I have two characters I've been trying to make conform to some sort of logical plot line, and they are just not having it. They won't even identify who they are or what they are about, and they refuse to fill out a character checklist. After reading Danielle Steel, I decided it would be safest to write in third person like she does. I tried that and I had a little fun, but in terms of pushing the novel forward, it wasn't working at all. Then I thought, since I write these essays in first person, why don't I start my novel that way. Ah, that was much better. Once I tried making my protagonist the narrator I could see I'd found a voice and a point of view that worked.

So off I went with my story. That was like trying to steer a rear wheel drive car in a skid in the snow. I had some engine power, but trying to go in the right direction was very tricky. I'd turn the wheel one way and the story and the characters went the other direction, waving and laughing as they went. So now I have a very nice short story with a completely different protagonist having a completely different experience. I like the story. I just found that it wrote itself. I provided the point of view and the voice, the story provided the characters, the climax, and the moral. The novel is nowhere to be found, I think it is under a dirty bank of snow back behind me somewhere. 

But that's the fun of all this writing stuff. I took the leap, decided that no matter how bad my first effort was, I'd give fiction a go, and in the end have what I think is a presentable short story. I like the characters and I care about what happens to them. I cried with them, and I laughed with them. And that's all any writer can hope for I think. Writing, like any art form is a bit mysterious. But then, that's what I like most about it. You just never know what's going to be around the next corner. Or who you'll meet fictional or otherwise. 

My friend has since announced she is trying all kinds of others things, being willing to do them badly while learning, and is having lots of fun in the process. I think I'll stick to the writing, for now anyway. When barrels of money are sitting around, I'll try some other things. What fun it is to be doing something you love, looking for the income to follow. It's a bit scary at times, but never dull. 

© M.E. Rollins

October

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. When I was in treatment for breast cancer in 2006, I was surprised at my own reaction to Race For the Cure, which happened in September, followed by Breast Cancer Awareness Month in October. As with other events in my life, I sought support from other people, in this case my fellow survivors, and I found others undergoing treatment around me felt the same way I did. We wanted nothing to do with either one of those events. And here's the reason why.

Cancer, cancer, cancer, that's all we heard all day long, only to go home and see ads on TV for Race For the Cure, and then public service announcements all about October being Breast Cancer Awareness Month. One breast cancer survivor I met said, "By the time October was over, I just about couldn't stand it." It's not that any of us felt these were unworthy causes or that the intention of the instigators of said events had anything but a genuine desire to help. It's just one of those unavoidably strange things that happens when you've got cancer. 

I'm sure there are psychological explanations for the way we felt, and I'm sure not everyone feels the way we did. I thought about it for a while, then decided not to worry about figuring that out. What was more important for all of us was to honor our feelings and keep on with our treatment, even if it meant only turning on the TV when we wanted to watch a DVD, shutting out the rest of the world if we had to. I discovered being in treatment for breast cancer was similar to my previous experience of being a widow. There is no wrong way to do it, although there may be plenty of good hearted, well meaning people who would love to tell you how you should be doing it differently than you are. 

A group of my closest friends formed themselves into a Race For the Cure team in September 2006. I could see it was good for them to do something constructive in the face of my diagnosis, and they raised money for breast cancer research in the process. What I couldn't do was come up with a reasonable explanation as to why I couldn't even bring myself to make an appearance, let alone walk in the race. I was healing from surgery and I was having radiation prior to chemotherapy. Although I was a bit tired, I could have gone to the race. I could have at least made an appearance. I was able to get to the survivors' luncheon the day before the race. But as I posed for a picture with my new cancer friends, I couldn't help feeling I didn't belong there. 

Now that it's been seven years, all that has changed. I've gone through accepting that I've had cancer and come out the other side. I've had some time to feel like I'm living a normal life after cancer. Everyone's journey through cancer is different. Most people I know who've survived cancer will say having cancer changed them for the better. I'd say that's true for me as well. When you meet someone in the chemo room that is kind of annoying and gets on your nerves and you find out a few weeks later that they've died, it adjusts how you view other people. When you are weak and weary from chemo and whine to the doctor and he laughs along with you when you make a joke instead of hurrying you out of the office, you learn by example about true compassion. When your chemo nurses applaud your every step forward, even when you feel like you're not strong enough to make it through, you learn we're all just muddling through, and that's okay. 

Now when October comes around and the leaves are changing color and we're getting tucked in for winter on the island where I live, I would ask one thing. If Breast Cancer Awareness Month scares you, know you are not alone. But don't let your fear prevent you from getting a mammogram, or learning the proper way to do a self breast exam and doing one once a month, or being assertive with your medical care giver or your insurance company. When you live in a place that's somewhat remote, it's easy to ignore things that take a little more work to accomplish, such as breast cancer screenings and follow up tests if you need them. 

Just know this. Early detection lessened the impact of the treatment I needed, and most likely saved my life. And here's another little tidbit. I am actually less afraid of breast cancer now than I was before I was diagnosed, and when I was first in treatment. Even though my risk is somewhat higher now. That's because I'm armed with knowledge, I know how much love and support comes out of the woodwork right along with the cancer diagnosis, and I've learned first hand that having cancer put me on a journey that has enriched my life. 

© M.E. Rollins

Miles To Go

As I cross over the borderline of my mid fifties into the hinterland beyond, what will I find? I have never, until this moment had the feeling that I was old. In my mind I've been forty for fifteen years, only to wake up one day having entered foreign country. Like a sleeping passenger on a train, having crossed a border in the night. What rights do I still have? What are the bylaws of this land? Do I still get to dance around the house in my underwear? Do I get to be happy? Will I be valued? 

I don't know what's come over me, I've been writing poetry lately. I was always the child in my family who pleaded for another story, who lay awake in my bed, who crept to the bottom of the stairs to hear the grown ups talk. No wonder I had nightmares when I finally fell asleep. And so it is now. I'm not ready for it to be bedtime yet. Tell me another story. 

You're only as old as you feel, they always say. Inside there's a child wandering around. On the outside, my knees creak and my body grows weary sooner than I think it should. There are crowns on my teeth and battle scars abound from surgeries and accidents, accumulated over many a year. But inside, there's a child wandering around. 

Have I done all I came to do? Well, that's the question isn't it? Some I've known have done a lot and gone out early, in a blaze of glory, like shooting stars. Not me, though. I've only just now started writing poetry. A late bloomer so to speak. My life's accomplishments seem small compared to some. There's music still inside. 

Robert Frost said it best. I've miles to go before I sleep. And promises to keep. As new descendents come along, I find myself once again sitting on the floor, playing. The toothless smiles of babies, is there any greater joy? The little ones, they know the secret. That time is just a concept. They wonder not what their purpose is. Except to live and grow and cry and laugh.

What can I learn from them, these little messengers? That time is just a concept. It's true. And if you're at the crawling stage, then crawl, and when you're on your feet and get a chance to run, run like the wind. And laugh, and sometimes cry. But not for long. There's too much life to be lived. A band-aid, a kiss, and a cookie go a long way. That's for sure. 

And so these things I ponder as I find myself in this new land. Years ago, when I took a cruise, I found myself quite happily the youngest one on board, or nearly. A veritable fountain of youth it was. But I was, by far not the liveliest, and by far not the one laughing the hardest or the loudest, or dancing the longest into the night. 

What can I learn from them, these messengers from the other end of the spectrum? Writer Gay Talese, 77 this year, says he dresses up every day, not because he goes to work in his writer's garret, but just to say, “I'm alive today!” Hooray. Not a bad idea that. “Grandpa wore his suit to dinner nearly every day, no particular reason, he just dressed that way.” - John Prine. Maybe now we know why. 

There's a child inside wandering around. I doubt I'm alone in this. Because, as I have paused, as I am doing now, realizing I am not forty but fifty-six, before that, not twenty-seven but forty, before that, not sixteen but twenty-seven, the same thing has happened. I've adjusted. And learned to live life again. And whenever I take the time to compare notes, I find that others feel the same way too. There's a child wandering around inside with miles to go and promises to keep. 

© M.E. Rollins

Fall

The angle of the sun is lower in the sky which brings a change to the quality of light that says it's Fall. The shadows on the ground are noticeably longer and the number of hours of daylight are noticeably shorter. The Autumn equinox is still two weeks away but the last of the summer visitors have come and gone with Labor Day and the kids are back in school. There's definitely a different feeling now, as summer tips its hat to the town of Friday Harbor. 

It's been a mere fifteen weeks since Memorial Day. The bookends of Summer, these two holidays. And this place, with its more northerly latitude, responds to the dates on the calendar with precision. Further south, September stretches out summer like a rubber band. But here, the leaves are changing color and there's a nip in the air as if a conductor has taken out a pocket watch and waved to the engineer it's time that the train of this season leaves the station. An improper metaphor for life on a small island. 

Let's think about boats instead. Even the color of the water churned up by the engines of the ferry boats plays along. It's a greener green than it was last week. The water shimmers in the bay as the ferry pauses in the distance before taking off in the direction of the mainland. The Sidney boat has made its short stop here and is back on its way again. The visitors on deck are quieter. A little boy waves goodbye to us as we stand on the dock. Fall is here and they're going home. It's late evening now and time to walk back home ourselves. 

The dock is vacant and the happy chatter of voices on the boats below has been blown gently away. Gone with the summer breeze. The air is crisp as Fergie and I walk up from the observation dock past a group of kids shrimping on the floating dock below us, their net dipping into the water, the bottom of their bucket filling with the gray brown creatures. "We've got a lot!" They say as we pass by. Fergie barks as if to say, "This is our dock, you interlopers." They laugh and go back to their shrimping. 

Winter's on its way, but first there's Fall. Fall in a small town that welcomes visitors all summer means potlucks and cozying in. Costume contests at Halloween and community dinner at Thanksgiving. Fergie and I’ve been here going on a year, the hour hand on the clock of the year is coming round to where it was when we started, just past ten o’clock. It's quarter past eight and when the clock strikes nine, Fall will be in full swing. Headed towards midnight, the darkest time of the year, but also the lightest. 

Soon Spring Street will be decorated with twinkle lights and the street lamps will be coming on as dinner time approaches. But for now, it's Fall. And best to savor this time. To let the season have its due. Winter will be here soon enough with its wind and rain and maybe even snow. The sun is lower in the sky and the shadows are growing noticeably longer. There’s a nip in the air and the leaves are changing color. In this place with its northerly latitude. 

© M.E. Rollins

Fergie Speaks

Fergie here. I've decided to take over the column for this week. The topic is diet and exercise, and my mistress, although she has many other fine qualities, is not strong in these areas. I keep trying to show her the way, but if I leave it to her to interpret my message to the world on these topics, she's bound to get it wrong. 

Let's start with exercise. Unlike my owner, I live to take a walk. She obliges me and comes along, but I am the real instigator. I look at her with my "puppy dog eyes", and well, you get the rest of that story. If that doesn't work and she goes a night without walking me, I have another trick. I drive her crazy, running back and forth, barking, throwing my toys at her. This is especially effective if done at bedtime. I think she mentioned my ESP before? Well, it really comes in handy here. I use it to sense the precise moment she is too sleepy to think straight, then that's when I launch my attack. This is not mean. I call it tough love. She needs those walks just as much as I do, I just happen to be more mature about it than she is. Well, actually, we are of about equal maturity, but I just plain like walking so much, and she won't let me go alone, so I have to find a way to get what I want. Believe me, the next night she will gladly grab my leash and call me to the door to avoid another session of well, let's admit it here, torture. 

Now, the whole trick to a good walk is to have a goal. My goal is to go sniff everything edible and otherwise down on the dock. Fortunately for me, my owner, let's just call her MER, also loves the dock. It's about a mile and a half from where we live, so I get a full three mile walk out of the deal. MER, well she gets to sit on the dock and wait for a ferry to show up. Dullsville. But this all gets me what I want, so I play along. I jump when she calls me onto her lap. I sit still while she pets me and tells me I am a good boy. Jeez that gets old. "Are you a good boy, Fergie? Yes, you are, you are a good boy. Good boy!" Good grief is more like it. But again, I get my payoff, so I go along. 

After a while, even she gets bored with the ferry pulling into the dock and we get to walk back. I walk a little slower, even though I secretly love this part. I want her to think this is a bit tough on me. That way, I'm more likely to get scratched and petted when we get home. I do like that part of her shenanigans. I guess if I'm giving lessons as she says, here's one. If there's a place on you that you cannot scratch yourself, and even I have a few, try to trick someone else into doing it for you. Try to make it pleasurable for them by giving them doggie kisses. It involves licking their hands, but don't worry, you can get them back for having to do this by licking other things they'll forget about as soon as you start to give them the doggie kisses. Don't forget to use your eyes. Big, round, and pathetic, that's my motto. 

On to the subject of what to eat. My advice? Get an owner. They are much better at feeding others than they are themselves. That's my experience anyway. I get a steady diet of healthy, plain, dry, dog food. Oh and water, don't forget the water. Yippee! If people fed themselves the same way my owner feeds me, the world would be a healthier place. Maybe not a happier place, but definitely healthier. I keep trying to get this message across to MER, but she's a bit dense here. Don't get me wrong, I love her and all, but she's kind of stupid when it comes to food. 

Now, about what to eat, I'm not saying that once you get an owner, you have to completely submit to them. It's good to make them think you are of course, but there are ways around it. For instance, if your owner is watching TV and puts a snack on a table that's within reach, act nonchalant. And wait until they get up to go to the bathroom. Then sneak over, but be sure to take small portions and try not to get slobber on their snack. Then listen for the flush. That's your cue to get back to where you were before they left the room. You don't have to be that careful about exact placement. Most people aren't that observant. 

There's just one thing more I want you to remember. The next time MER writes a column about a lesson I've taught her, just act normal. I'll get back to you from time to time and give you the real story. And if you see her on the street or at the market, do something for me will you? Pet her on the head and say, "Good girl." But only if she's buying vegetables. 

© M.E. Rollins

Birthday Surprise

When I first came to San Juan Island, I fell in love with walks on the dock, and with B&Bs that have feather beds. I knew instantly that I felt at home here, but didn't know why. I loved the fresh air and the sunshine. I loved that I could walk to anything I wanted to see, buy, or do within the one square mile of Friday Harbor. But when people said to me, "Isn't that where they have whale watching and kayaking?", I'd have to say, "Yeah, I guess so, but that's not why I want to live there." I had to be honest after all. But something happened the week of my birthday that changed all that, in a way that was totally unexpected. It was a birthday surprise, so to speak, from the universe. 

I'd been in California the week before and gathered sisters along the way back north so we could end up on the island for my birthday. It was an act of faith for me since I've never been big on expecting much in the way of birthday celebrations. Something my mother taught me, no expectations, no disappointments. This year, my 56th, my sisters convinced me that I was worth celebrating by coming all the way to San Juan Island, my new home, to celebrate with me. And celebrate we did. We found a teeny tiny carrot cake at King's, not more than four inches in diameter, but completely decorated just as if it were a "big cake". Perfect for three aging, yet still vain sisters, who have learned a little goes a long way in the cake department. We walked to breakfast at Rocky Bay Café. We watched a couple of chick flicks. And the sisters went home with gifts of lavender. Yes, we did all this and more. My dear sisters slept on an air bed and a sofa for two nights just so they could be here for my birthday. And that was wonderful. But the most wonderful part of the weekend they spent here was a gift to us all, and we could not have planned it ourselves, nature herself did it for us. Or maybe it was the whales. 

The morning of the one full day they were here, we woke up to a downpour. No matter. We donned raincoats and dug out umbrellas for our jaunt into town. It was fun and the air was fresh. We stood under the overhang of the movie theater and sipped coffee while waiting our turn for breakfast. We planned our day. There was the lavender farm of course, and we all agreed we must eat fish and chips at some point. Only I knew that if we started at the lavender farm and made our way north to Roche Harbor, we could take the spectacular west side route and see Vancouver island and Haro Strait. So after breakfast, as the rain stopped and things were drying out, we started our tour of the island. After the lavender farm, I unveiled my surprise drive along Westside Road. As we approached Lime Kiln State Park, I remembered a friend had mentioned it is sometimes possible to see the orcas from the park. I said as much to the sisters as I pulled the car into the parking lot. I hadn't planned to stop, it just seemed like it might be fun to check out the park. 

After circling for a parking space, and getting out to look for the trail, we spotted the interpretive center and I popped my head in, meaning to ask about the trail to the lighthouse. The guide there told me she had to lock up because, “the whales are here.” Just typing the words brings back the surprising excitement we all felt at that moment. After she closed the door, she waved us along and we followed her down to the lookout platform and lighthouse, where a crowd of people had gathered. By this time, the sun had come out and the day had changed from rain to blue skies and it was warm and beautiful. 

One sister took off with her camera onto the rocks. The other sister and I stood at the rock wall looking, seeing nothing but a bunch of whale watch charter boats out in the distance. Then, others who had binoculars and were perched on the rocks above us let out a collective shout of glee and excitement. Still we could see nothing. Then, the tiniest profile of an orca leapt clear out of the water out by the boats. It was miniscule. "That's why people take the charter boats." I thought. We stood, scanning the dark blue, almost black water with our eyes. Then we saw the fins. Groups of three, five, or more fins cutting through the water. First at a distance, then getting closer. The energy of the crowd on the shore was building. Everyone stood transfixed, eyes scanning for another glimpse of fin. Then, the first orca surfaced, right at our feet, swimming like a sewing needle up out of the water, then back down again. Over and over, until they'd passed, then circling back to do it again. Then another one, and another one. Then the real show began. Groups of orcas playing at our feet.

They jumped out of the water, singly and in groups. They chased one another around. They seemed to be playing to the crowd as hoops and hollers went up with each new trick. Then, in unison, right in front of us, two beautiful whales stood straight up out of the water, pausing there for a few seconds, exposing their pure white underbellies to us. We, the two sisters in the family who are both widows, were getting a nod from two beautiful creatures who seemed to have a message just for us. It only lasted a moment, but it was something I will never forget. Then, as they sank back into the water, another orca did a backflip and waved a fin at us, as if to say "so long". Then, one by one, the whales swam north. The whole show lasted ten or fifteen minutes at the most. The crowd on the rocks stood for a moment then started to break up like a crowd does after a really good parade. The guide headed back to the interpretive center, saying, "That was J-pod and part of L-pod." 

Well, for the rest of the day, as we drove north admiring the view, as we ate our fish and chips at Lime Kiln Café, then later as we watched our second movie, clear into the next morning when the sisters got in line for the ferry that would start them on their journey home, we couldn't stop talking about the whales. It was the highlight of the weekend. My birthday weekend. We just couldn't get over how lucky we'd been to have lingered just long enough at all our stops before Lime Kiln to get there at the precise moment the guide was locking up. We kept going over the day, saying, “If there hadn't been a line for breakfast, or if we hadn't gone back for that extra lavender plant, and if we'd stayed any longer anywhere along the line, or if I hadn't remembered what my friend had told me, we would have missed them.” And it was true. It was incredible, serendipitous timing. 

I didn't know why I felt like this was meant to be my home when I came here, but now I do. Magical things that cannot be explained happen here, and sometimes you get to see the whales. 

© M.E. Rollins

Fergie Does Yoga

Once I realized Fergie had lessons to teach about the art of napping, it occurred to me that perhaps there might be other things he could teach me. So I started observing. He licks a lot of places I could never reach, nor would I want to. Any lessons there? No, I don't think so. He likes to dig through the trash and tear to shreds anything he finds of interest. Any lessons there? Can't think of any. But there is one thing he does each and every day that might be the source of some inspiration for me, and it is the first thing he does upon rising. Fergie does yoga. 

When I took yoga classes, my favorite part was at the end when the teacher had everyone lie down on our backs on our yoga mats and relax. He or she would then talk the whole class through progressive relaxation. I loved that part. The feeling of peace and contentment I got from it made all the difficult stretches and strengthening and balancing poses worth the effort. By the time the teacher sounded the resonant ping of the brass bowl, the signal that class was over, I had a feeling that could be called bliss I took with me out the door, into my car, and into the rest of my day. 

But in order to get to the good part, the relaxation part, I had to do the poses. There were a few I didn't mind. Child's pose, the warrior poses, even tree pose where you stand on one foot, put the flat of the other foot on the inside of the opposite knee while stretching both arms straight up over your head, a pose from which I almost always fell at first. I could do them well enough from the beginning to keep working at them. But there was one pose I really did not like. Downward dog. Downward dog takes a kind of physical flexibility genetically engineered out of my family tree. It stretched parts of me that left me limping. In order to even get close to downward dog, my patient teachers had me bending my knees, bracing against the wall, doing the pose for only a few seconds. No matter what they tried, I'd end up with silent tears running down my face as I watched the rest of the class enjoying downward dog. Doing downward dog had me feeling like a dog, but not in a good way. 

And strangely, what I've noticed is that the part I liked least about doing yoga is what my little dog seems to enjoy the most and with which he starts every day. Downward dog comes as naturally to him as waking up. It is, after all, called downward dog, and he is one. He stretches his front legs way out in front, dropping his torso to the floor, while leaving his back legs standing. His tail end stretches up and back. This is downward dog, and he does it perfectly. Then he does his other poses. He does upward dog, also perfectly. Then he does the pose I call dog walking forward while stretching back legs. And that's his whole routine. 

I still do yoga. Not because I am self disciplined or because I believe it will make me a better person. I do yoga because I prefer not to have back pain. Twenty odd years ago, I ruptured a disc in my back by foolishly doing some heavy lifting I had no business doing. It was a bad rupture, and after a long stand off with my doctor, I relented and had surgery to fix it. After the surgery, I would occasionally have bouts of my back "going out". It seriously impinged on my desire to get things done. One day I dug out the leaflet given to me by my surgeon. In it there were several simple exercises to do every day to prevent back pain. I looked at the exercises. Every one of them I had done before, in yoga class. They were yoga poses, the easy ones I liked doing. No downward dog. I started doing them, and have done them religiously ever since. And knock on wood, I have been pain free since then. 

Here's what I've learned from Fergie about yoga. Do the poses that come naturally to you. I have never seen Fergie attempt tree pose. I'd love to see that, but it would be as difficult for him to do tree pose as it would be for me to scratch my chin with my foot as he can do. Fergie is a dog. And he knows it. So he does only two yoga poses, downward dog, and upward dog, and then he does that thing where he stretches his legs. How smart he is to know that is what he should do. 

And how smart the yoga masters were to name their poses after the creature who perfected them. Second, do the poses that make you feel good. Fergie does downward dog and upward dog because they make him feel good for the rest of the day. All that napping can leave you a bit stiff if you don't work out a little. And lastly, make a habit of doing the things that make your body feel good. Fergie doesn't think about stretching, he just does it. And that's about it. Once again, I've learned some things from my little companion. As I finish writing this, Fergie is looking at me, his chin propped on a pillow, his eyes only half open, as if he knows what I've been writing. Next time, we'll talk about Fergie and ESP. 

© M.E. Rollins