Wild Geese & Worried Dogs

Last evening I drove from my little place in the woods to the indianapolis airport, hoping to beat a brewing ice storm.  I had a lot on my mind and was feeling distracted, my thoughts ping-ponging from one thing to the next and back again.  Then, while waiting at a stop light, I happened to look overhead just in time to see a flock of long necked geese in perfect V formation. At that very moment a bit of sun peaked out from the grey heavy-laden clouds, illuminating the motion of their gracefully moving wings. It was like someone opened up a door in my head and heart, saying, “Oh Carrie, be here, this matters, this is truly fine ”  

Earlier that day while I was packing my bag my dogs, Lily and Ella, sat looking at me meaningfully.  Lily was looking particularly anxious and mournful as is her nature. Ella is perhaps the most zen, amicable, don’t-you-just-love-love-love-I-mean-love-love-pretty much EVERYTHING!  In contrast, Lily’s tendency is to be in a constant state of existential crisis.  She’s a herding dog mix, which means her deep down genetic job is to be ever vigilant for the presence of wolves or coyotes or badgers or bears or loud noises or Voldemort or falling comets or anything that might constitute harm or danger to those she loves.  She knows when I pull out my carry-on and fill up the little travel bottles I’ll be leaving soon, gone where she cannot see me or sit by the door where all those crafty dangerous things might sneak up. I stopped and sat down between these two companions to scratch around Ella’s soft ears and calm Lily’s worried brow,  I told her that there are no wolves at the Indianapolis airport, that I would be very careful to steer clear of any roving badgers and bears and particularly any hint of Voldemort.  She heaved a big sigh, as only a little worried dog can do, and laid down to watch me finish packing. 

I remember my daughter reading me an essay she’d written from a prompt, “write about something you learned by watching someone who was good at that skill.”  Her piece was about what she’d learned by watching me pack for tours.  She wrote about black boots, black jeans, a lot of black tops, a Rand McNally and often more books of poetry than socks, a small bag with a changing collection of items I’d lay out like an altar on so many motel bedside tables - a feather and stone, a picture and prayer beads.  She said she’d learned that you can roll your socks and put them in your extra shoes, that you can always trust a McDonald’s bathroom, and whenever possible to travel light and let go of what doesn’t matter, because if you don’t need it, you’re gonna have to lug that heavy stuff around.  She learned that it was good to always carry something that grounds you somewhere because the soul can get stretched thin and you might need a slender thread to find your way back home. Oh, and poetry was always worth the extra space.

I remember times in my life that were filled with a lot of collecting and building, times when I was drinking from a fire hose, taking in this big complicated, wondrous life, running with my arms wide open toward a lot of outer goals and some elusive spiritual horizon line. It was the season of breathlessness.  But seasons have a way of rolling from one into the next, an endless procession of handing over that leads (often without fanfare) to the place we are now standing, or in my case the stoplight were my car was idling.