Mar 22, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
Spring-Dog
(Chronicles of Holly — End of Week Five)
©By Vijaya Sundaram
March 22, 2014
Today, a breath of warmth and coolth wafted over our backyard.
A signal it was, a promise of, as we like to say, new beginnings.
It’s a contradiction, though, because, once there’s been a beginning, it’s the only one of its kind. Still, quibbling aside, it felt like a new beginning, a sense of green shoots of our dead selves pushing up anew through the ground,
Our memories being short-term, we welcome the first breath of Spring, as if we’ve known no other. Despite this, an ancestral memory stirs our blood, and our nostrils flare. If we had paws and a snout and a tail, we’d know what to do — we’d pad over to the back door, scratch eagerly, be let out and chase our tails and perhaps, a bird for the sheer joy of being alive on a spring day.
A dog is good for this.
A dog knows what to do. There are no agonies of indecision, no “Should I do this, or something else more mundane and tedious?”
So, this morning, I embraced my inner Dog and my real Pup, and we sallied forth into a cool, bright Spring day. Holly was happy, and her tail was a flag of pride and pleasure. Her snout took in everything. Her paws seemed to just lightly touch the earth — she seemed to be fashioned out of sky and air and rain-cloud. Her eyes were bright, and she grinned in her imp-like way. We walked to the park.
You can imagine the rest.
———————————– Another new Beginning ——————————–
Tags: Chronicles of Holly continued, Spring-days with pup, Walk to the park with dog
Mar 21, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
A strange fit of yawning is afflicting me.
Can’t stop.
Even the word, “Yawn,” sets me off.
(The same thing with the word, “cold.”
I always, ALWAYS get cold when I hear or write the word.
Annoyingly, the opposite does not work. When I write, “hot,” or hear it, I don’t get all heated up. )
… This yawning has GOT to stop.
My face cannot stand it. Feels as if it’s trying to push itself out of itself.
Yes, I know, I’ve got to go to sleep. Wait! Sleep?
Seriously? At 9:40 p.m.? That’s, like, early evening for me!
Meanwhile, the pup is passing the most horrid SBDs right now! Silly thing! (Must be all that good, natural pup food!)
My nose cannot stand it.
She lies like a dark, furry little rug on the floor, muscles completely relaxed, one foot, sorry, paw over the other, and tail stretched out. Her pretty snout is long and sweet.
Her dark eyes open, check that I’m still there, then close.
She is a lovely, little (not so little at almost fifteen weeks) fuzz-bunny.
Everything always goes back to the great canine deity.
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Tags: #Dog, canine, deity, early bedtime, yawnng
Mar 16, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
Chronicles of Holly: An update.
We don’t give Holly “people” food. We plan not to feed her scraps from the table. However, I have given her Puréed pumpkin, as recommended by our breeder. I’ve also given a few slices of peeled apple recently. She LOVES them. As time goes on, she’ll graduate to certain “approved” vegetables. Her dog food is really good quality, no preservatives, all-natural crunchy food. She gets a couple of dog biscuits after “training” with me (that is, when I teach her tricks). I change her water a few times a day, and she has three water bowls — two upstairs and one downstairs. She drinks copious amounts, it seems.
Holly gets to take plenty of walks — twice or thrice a day. Long ones. We take turns. One good side effect of this? I’ve actually lost about four pounds in a couple of weeks.
She loves other dogs, but is still getting the hang of “making friends” the doggie way. She’s still a little nervous with certain bigger dogs, but still wants to play, barking out little invitations, and taking on “play” posture.
She never bothers us at night. Sleeps peacefully in our room, but starts off by sleeping in S’s room, then pads over to ours and sleeps on her little “bed” there.
She’s almost totally house-trained. Has been almost since the first week. The second week she had a few major mishaps, because I went back to school after being with her for a week, and I think her routine was disrupted. Since then, only the occasional minor incident. Almost always, she goes to the door, and lets us know what she wants. Luckily for her, we’re attentive.
I’ve taught her “sit,” “stay,” “lie down,” “shake paws,” “roll over,” (that last one is still hard for her, but she does it 70% of the time), — oh, and I’ve also taught her “fetch,” and “drop the ball.” It’s amazing what this little puppy has learned within three-four weeks!
I swear she has a sense of humor. She grins, and definitely likes to play a lot. She always goes for clothes that hang down, or things close to the edges of tables, or our coats or shoes. She does this in a grinny sort of way.
She’s very patient when I give her a bath (I’ve given her three). No trouble at all. She’s as good as gold. She doesn’t mind her teeth being brushed (W does that). She seems to like the toothpaste!
We almost never leave her alone at home. The longest she’s been alone at home was about half an hour a couple of times, when W had to leave for work, and I came home with S half an hour later.
She is secure, cuddled, well-loved, well-fed, well-walked, and well-groomed (that is to say, wiped or bathed, and brushed by me).
One negative: She chews our clothes and nips at me a little too much for my liking. HAVE to get her to be less nippy with me. She doesn’t do that to W. On the other hand, I’m the first one with whom she bonded — she leaps up to greet me when I come home, and her mouthiness turns into nippy-ness. A few days ago, and today as well, I did the Cesar Millan thing of ignoring her and going about my work, and she followed me around desperately willing me to notice her. It was hard. However, the reward? She didn’t nip. The problem is, I find her too cute. I have to train myself. Of course, I have chew toys with which I try and distract her. It works if I really mean it — she has a couple of mice, braided and knotted ropes, a couple of squeaky toys, a couple of balls, a cow horn or hoof given to us by the breeder and a nylabone. When we go out into the backyard, he adores picking up an mouthing pine one’s and sticks. The butterfly bush is a favorite to chew on, if I let her.
On another note, I love her undocked tail which wags happily when she eats her food, and droops in a strange way when she drinks water. That tail is SO expressive.
And her snout? That lovely nose? I could write poems about it!
And those rolling black eyes, so expressive, so sweet!
Thanks for reading.
Tags: Chronicles of Holly, Crabapple Downs Standard Poodles, life with fourteen-week old standard poodle pup, Puppy-Training, walks ith fourteen-week old puppy
Mar 8, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
My past few FB posts about Holly:
March 1, 2014
Holly is a delight. Long walk with her in the morning. The pup is a pleasure to walk with. She continues to be charming and funny, and good. That’s all for now about her.
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March 2, 2014
Long walk with Holly and S to the playground, up and down the hilly regions of the place where I live, and romping in the baseball fields near the playground. All snow-and-ice covered, it’s heaven for a snow-pup like Hol.
Got my exercise with her yesterday and today. We walked AND ran.
Feeling good.
She’s tired and asleep.
Just as it should be.
Got my exercise with her yesterday and today. We walked AND ran.
Feeling good.
She’s tired and asleep.
Just as it should be.
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March 7, 2014
Didn’t even get on FB for a couple of days! Amazing!
Anyway, been somewhat overwhelmed with work.
Also, busy at home with Holly — taught her to sit and stay the first week, shake paws and lie down between Wednesday and yesterday. Today, I taught her to roll over.
I never knew I could do “dog training!”
Little Hol loves to learn.
She was terribly nippy earlier in the week (teething like mad), which freaked me out a little. She gets too excitedly happy when I come home, and is beside herself with joy. Her loving mouthiness turns to nipping, which she then cannot control. Commands don’t work. Loud commands DEFINITELY don’t work. After Tuesday’s somewhat exhausting session of nippiness, I learned a few things: Be calmly attentive, not overly so. Keep a low voice, a reassuring one. Distract her with a teething toy when she needs to nip. I did all three things. She calmed down immediately and was just loving. When she did resume nippiness later, I simply didn’t allow it. I walked away, or tossed her a chewing cloth, which she’d happily attack.
When she calmed down, I continued to teach her tricks all through the rest of the week, rewarding her with bits of doggy treats. She really, really loves to learn new things. She’s bright.
We’re both learning.
She adores all of us, I think. We adore her back.
Anyway, been somewhat overwhelmed with work.
Also, busy at home with Holly — taught her to sit and stay the first week, shake paws and lie down between Wednesday and yesterday. Today, I taught her to roll over.
I never knew I could do “dog training!”
Little Hol loves to learn.
She was terribly nippy earlier in the week (teething like mad), which freaked me out a little. She gets too excitedly happy when I come home, and is beside herself with joy. Her loving mouthiness turns to nipping, which she then cannot control. Commands don’t work. Loud commands DEFINITELY don’t work. After Tuesday’s somewhat exhausting session of nippiness, I learned a few things: Be calmly attentive, not overly so. Keep a low voice, a reassuring one. Distract her with a teething toy when she needs to nip. I did all three things. She calmed down immediately and was just loving. When she did resume nippiness later, I simply didn’t allow it. I walked away, or tossed her a chewing cloth, which she’d happily attack.
When she calmed down, I continued to teach her tricks all through the rest of the week, rewarding her with bits of doggy treats. She really, really loves to learn new things. She’s bright.
We’re both learning.
She adores all of us, I think. We adore her back.
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March 8, 2014
Gone is the bliss of a Saturday morning, where I can moan quietly, roll over and fall asleep for another few hours.
No, today, I got up at 6:00 (6:00 !!!) just as I do EVERY day of the week, and dealt with Holly’s business THREE times! Made coffee, said, “What the hell, might as well go for a walk with aforementioned puppy!”
So we did — Holly and I, around 7:30 or so.
And it was a beautiful morning. The sun was gentle, the cold wasn’t bitter, and the pup and I sailed down the street, she as good as gold, and I not much worse.
We walked up and down the side streets, and went to the playground where there’s a baseball field, and MANY dogs.
She had fun! The place was swarming with dogs, and I’ve seen several of those before, pre-Holly. Mostly big ones, but a couple of small ones. At first, Holly was skittish, but they all did their usual bottom-first greetings, and soon, she was quite comfortable with a couple of them, barking out playful messages, and not skittish around the rest.
Doggy kindergarden? Doggy play-date? Maybe a meet-and-greet. The other dogs were off-leash, and soon, I’ll do the same, but not yet. I’m not ready.
Nice scene.
Now, she’s sacked out on a bean-bag, and I’ve draped a blanket over her. Only a black-grey snout is sticking out, flanked by two floppy ears.
She is SO, so, so CUTE!
And I’m so, so, SO TIRED!
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Tags: blue brindle, Chronicles of Holly, Puppy-Training, standard poodle pup, Walks with dog
Mar 1, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries, Original Poetry
This is what I posted on Facebook (edited slightly) on Thursday Feb. 27, 2014 — oh, and forgive me for my utter vacuous silliness!
——————————————————————————————————–
About Holly …
(My latest ditty to the tune of “Shiny Little Surrey With The Fringe on the Top.”)
Who’s the silliest Holly ma Holly
She’s the silliest Holly ma Polly
She’s the goofiest golly ma wolly
In our lit -tle house.
Watch that Hol and see how she patters
When she leaps, she’s all that matters
When she slides I keep up my natter
Till her eyes roll around.
She snaps her teeth and chews my hand
She leaps and swoops in the kitchen
She squeaks and squooks to beat the band
And grins while her tail keeps a-twitchin’
….
I’m so happy, I grin like a silly
When I think of our silly ma-billy
When I see our goofy little furry
With the fringe on her top.
Watch her fringe and see how it flutters
When she eats and drinks and she mutters
When she squeaks and sings, she’s a nutter
With a pretty mop …
For she’s a funny little furry
With the fringe on her top.
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And so on.
Well, that’s all.
So much for my “creative writing!”
Tags: Holly the Standard Poodle Pup, Holly-days, Puppy love, Shiny Little Surrey With The Fringe On The Top, Silliness with Holly
Feb 22, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
This is what I shared on FB during this past week:
February 17th, 2014:
So, it’s finally happened. We have our standard poodle pup — she chose us, and we love her. She is good as gold, and rode mostly on my lap on the four-plus hour journey all the way back from Colebrook NH — no messes, no pukes, no food, no water. She refrained from eating or drinking (wisely, on hindsight), but snuggled close to me, and later to S. No whining (except a little after S and I went to a Chinese restaurant in Concord — we got food food for Warren, who snuggled with pup in car, while S and I ate in the restaurant). Came home, and her tail wags and snuggles began. Finally, she ate, and drank. S and W set up the dog crate upstairs in S’s room, made a nice nest. Holly (named by S, after Captain Holly Short of the LEP Recon, thanks to Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl) went in, and settled down on her own. Then, back out she came, climbed up on my lap and snuggled again. Drank some water, and is now curled up happily near W, while I write this. She has innate good manners.
I think she likes us.
Puppy.
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February 18th, 2014:
Sleep?
Yes, it is a blessed thing, beloved from pole to pole.
(And when I get it, I shall utter thanks.)
Holly is alive and well, has eaten and drunk, done her doggy stuff and is happily checkng out the house. She’s playing hide and seek with S now, so S informs me.
Yes, it is a blessed thing, beloved from pole to pole.
(And when I get it, I shall utter thanks.)
Holly is alive and well, has eaten and drunk, done her doggy stuff and is happily checkng out the house. She’s playing hide and seek with S now, so S informs me.
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February 19th, 2014:
Chronicles of Holly:
Holly has established herself firmly in the family. She did so yesterday, nay the night before, when she arrived. She regards me as her divine Mother, S as her divine Sister, and Warren as her divine Father. We are her holy Trinity.
She knows where her food and water are, and is eating and drinking well. Last night, she slept almost all night in S’s room, in her little nest of clean towels and fluffy blanket, and my old shirt for comfort. She squeaked once or twice for me (I went to her, stroked her, and she went back to sleep). At five in the morning, I went in to check on her, and I found her in the bathroom, where she had gone to explore. She had shut the door by mistake. She seemed pretty calm about it. No agitation. She was pleased to see me, though. She went back to her bed, and slept.
She did not have a single “accident” in the house, beyond the first night. We (mostly I, yesterday) have responded to her every signal, and she knows and loves the snowy backyard. She comes to me, then goes to the kitchen door to let me know what she needs to do, and doesn’t shy away from the leash in the least.
She stayed in W’s arms while he taught yesterday, and looked at me in wonder, when I came in while he was teaching, and I sang back Warren’s notes.
She knows that is a musical household (all three of us sang to her in the car on the day we were bringing her home, and she fell asleep to us, and to Pete Seeger, waking up and looking around when he whistled on a few tunes).
She looks for us, and knows we’ll not ignore her if she calls. She greets us with an excited wiggle and waggles of tail.
She’s lovely. She’s bouncy. She’s calm. She’s funny. She loves her chew toy.
I’ve never looked after a dog before! It’s almost (just) like having a baby.
I love doing it.
If you read this far, thanks for your patience!
Warren just brought her home from a nice, long walk, and after greeting me and S excitedly, she lay down — she’s happy to lie on her pillow in the kitchen, in front of the portable electric radiator.
I’ll stop babbling now. The world of boring-things-to-do is calling me, alas.
Holly has established herself firmly in the family. She did so yesterday, nay the night before, when she arrived. She regards me as her divine Mother, S as her divine Sister, and Warren as her divine Father. We are her holy Trinity.
She knows where her food and water are, and is eating and drinking well. Last night, she slept almost all night in S’s room, in her little nest of clean towels and fluffy blanket, and my old shirt for comfort. She squeaked once or twice for me (I went to her, stroked her, and she went back to sleep). At five in the morning, I went in to check on her, and I found her in the bathroom, where she had gone to explore. She had shut the door by mistake. She seemed pretty calm about it. No agitation. She was pleased to see me, though. She went back to her bed, and slept.
She did not have a single “accident” in the house, beyond the first night. We (mostly I, yesterday) have responded to her every signal, and she knows and loves the snowy backyard. She comes to me, then goes to the kitchen door to let me know what she needs to do, and doesn’t shy away from the leash in the least.
She stayed in W’s arms while he taught yesterday, and looked at me in wonder, when I came in while he was teaching, and I sang back Warren’s notes.
She knows that is a musical household (all three of us sang to her in the car on the day we were bringing her home, and she fell asleep to us, and to Pete Seeger, waking up and looking around when he whistled on a few tunes).
She looks for us, and knows we’ll not ignore her if she calls. She greets us with an excited wiggle and waggles of tail.
She’s lovely. She’s bouncy. She’s calm. She’s funny. She loves her chew toy.
I’ve never looked after a dog before! It’s almost (just) like having a baby.
I love doing it.
If you read this far, thanks for your patience!
Warren just brought her home from a nice, long walk, and after greeting me and S excitedly, she lay down — she’s happy to lie on her pillow in the kitchen, in front of the portable electric radiator.
I’ll stop babbling now. The world of boring-things-to-do is calling me, alas.
________________________________________________________________________
February 20th, 2014:
Chronicles of Holly:
Yesterday was Day 2, and Night 3 at home. What can I say? This is one intelligent pup.
Yesterday night, one of Warren‘s students came home, played his guitar and sang.
Holly barked. And barked. (Even her barking is cute.)
We think she didn’t like energetic strumming. We hadn’t heard her bark at all till then. (She wasn’t sure what to make of the sound of a guitar, or perhaps, she was just startled.) She retreated into the kitchen, and stayed close to me. Ah well. We knew we had to get her used to the guitar right away.
So, last night, before her bedtime, Warren played a little. This morning, both he and I played some guitar. She looked at me holding and playing my guitar, and then at him holding and playing his, and looked VERY intelligently back and forth at us for a few moments, while we played. Then, she lay down and closed her eyes — didn’t bark at all. (Perhaps, she likes finger-picking. Sorry, pup! We’re going to strum too. Get used to it!). Warren said he wanted to teach her to play the piano. Yikes!
On the house-training front, she has me and us trained very well. Goes to the back door, indicates what she needs to do.
She’s very nippy (in a non-hurting way) just before bed. We let her know it’s not okay. So, she nips at her chew toys and tumbles around whoever is sitting with her. That’s her bedtime pre-sleep routine (I’ve noticed it every time she settles for a longer nap or sleep. It must be what she and her siblings did.)
And, as far as I know, she slept all through the night last night. So did I. Finally, I got much more sleep, without being worried about her.
Day 3:
She is showing more and more independence, nosing around, venturing into rooms that we’re not in, lying down on other spots that the two she’s elected as her own.
Holly has gotten to know some side streets on two or three walks that W and she took. Today, she played on the snowy slopes opposite our house, with all of us. LOVE, LOVES, LOVES the snow! Romps around in it like any child. She’s infatuated with her big “sister”, S. Holly ran after S, and followed her around in the snow, with me racing behind, trying not to get her entangled in her leash. Now, W and S are out, and Holly squeaked a little, missing them. It’s sweet. She kept going to the door, and looking at me. So, I distracted her, and now she’s napping (after nipping and chewing a bit at things, of course!)
HOW could I ever go back to normal life, now?
And yet, I suspect I’ll be ready. We’ll all settle into a nice routine. We’d better, or we’ll pay for it dearly.
But for now, Holly’s needs rule.
Yesterday was Day 2, and Night 3 at home. What can I say? This is one intelligent pup.
Yesterday night, one of Warren‘s students came home, played his guitar and sang.
Holly barked. And barked. (Even her barking is cute.)
We think she didn’t like energetic strumming. We hadn’t heard her bark at all till then. (She wasn’t sure what to make of the sound of a guitar, or perhaps, she was just startled.) She retreated into the kitchen, and stayed close to me. Ah well. We knew we had to get her used to the guitar right away.
So, last night, before her bedtime, Warren played a little. This morning, both he and I played some guitar. She looked at me holding and playing my guitar, and then at him holding and playing his, and looked VERY intelligently back and forth at us for a few moments, while we played. Then, she lay down and closed her eyes — didn’t bark at all. (Perhaps, she likes finger-picking. Sorry, pup! We’re going to strum too. Get used to it!). Warren said he wanted to teach her to play the piano. Yikes!
On the house-training front, she has me and us trained very well. Goes to the back door, indicates what she needs to do.
She’s very nippy (in a non-hurting way) just before bed. We let her know it’s not okay. So, she nips at her chew toys and tumbles around whoever is sitting with her. That’s her bedtime pre-sleep routine (I’ve noticed it every time she settles for a longer nap or sleep. It must be what she and her siblings did.)
And, as far as I know, she slept all through the night last night. So did I. Finally, I got much more sleep, without being worried about her.
Day 3:
She is showing more and more independence, nosing around, venturing into rooms that we’re not in, lying down on other spots that the two she’s elected as her own.
Holly has gotten to know some side streets on two or three walks that W and she took. Today, she played on the snowy slopes opposite our house, with all of us. LOVE, LOVES, LOVES the snow! Romps around in it like any child. She’s infatuated with her big “sister”, S. Holly ran after S, and followed her around in the snow, with me racing behind, trying not to get her entangled in her leash. Now, W and S are out, and Holly squeaked a little, missing them. It’s sweet. She kept going to the door, and looking at me. So, I distracted her, and now she’s napping (after nipping and chewing a bit at things, of course!)
HOW could I ever go back to normal life, now?
And yet, I suspect I’ll be ready. We’ll all settle into a nice routine. We’d better, or we’ll pay for it dearly.
But for now, Holly’s needs rule.
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February 22nd, 2014:
(Chronicles of Holly, continued):
So, yesterday was Day 4, Night 5 with Holly at our place,and I was exhausted. Yup, I was.
She is learning a lot, though. We were walking down the sidewalk with S and S’s best friend and her friend’s mother, when it began to rain. I scooped up Hol, and she wriggled, wanting to get back down. We started to walk faster, then ran towards our home, S running in front, Holly chasing after her, sith me chasing after Holly, making sure her leash wouldn’t pull on her neck. Foolishly, I overshot our house by a few feet, but Holly pulled up short exactly, exactly at our front steps, pulling on her leash! Then, she proceed to climb rapidly up ALL of our forty steps to the house! Clever dog! (Shaking head in amazement.).
She was cold and wet, so we gave her a nice, warm bath with pleasant, earth-friendly dog shampoo, toweled her off, blow-dried her and brushed her. She smells and looks very nice now. (My problem is that, while I LOVE dogs, I am not fond of “dog-smells” –I’ve got to get used to their dogginess!)
Earlier, I’d gone out to get some dog supplies, and do other shopping. Been out for three hours. Came home, tired and grumpy, thinking, “More work to do now, with all that pickup of dog stuff, doggie-smelling laundry to do, more cleanup, and … Stuff!”.
Then, as I walked slowly up my forty steps, weary and wishing to be twenty-two years old again, something happened. I saw Holly in my mind, and it was as if two mysterious fishing lines tugged my lips upwards, and fished out a smile.
I came home, and she pounced on me, nipping happily at my clothes and me, and squeaking with joy. Didn’t leave my side for a while.
Later, I did have a small meltdown, I was so tired. I thought of ALL the things I HADN’T done– missing those stories I didn’t write or even think up, those papers I haven’t yet graded, “The Secret Garden” which I still have to finish reading to Sharada, the time I spend with her (sans other pressing duties, like taking Holly for her potty outside and having to do all that business of picking it up and disposing of it all … ).
Mysteriously, Holly picked up my distress ( which was mostly a quiet one), and walked into the bathroom, where she looked forlorn when Warren went to look for her. Of course, I gave her plenty of hugs after that!
Two days ago, I taught her to come (she doesn’t really need to earn THAT (she already knows) and Sit (she learned that almost immediately). Nothing like a little dog-treat to teach a couple of tricks. She’s a quick learner. She’s hungry for more to learn.
Now, I have to learn to train a puppy who is super intelligent, and I’m afraid I won’t do a good job, being too fond and too wimpy to say “NO” firmly enough when she nips at my clothes, the rug or my socks or my hand (by mistake). Warren is better at this — still, I’m a pretty quick learner myself. So is Sharada.
So, I turn to my borrowed copy of “The Everything New Puppy Book,” and bury my nose in it from time to time.
All this is nothing compared to how she makes me, and us, feel.
She makes me feel happy.
She makes all of us happy.
So, yesterday was Day 4, Night 5 with Holly at our place,and I was exhausted. Yup, I was.
She is learning a lot, though. We were walking down the sidewalk with S and S’s best friend and her friend’s mother, when it began to rain. I scooped up Hol, and she wriggled, wanting to get back down. We started to walk faster, then ran towards our home, S running in front, Holly chasing after her, sith me chasing after Holly, making sure her leash wouldn’t pull on her neck. Foolishly, I overshot our house by a few feet, but Holly pulled up short exactly, exactly at our front steps, pulling on her leash! Then, she proceed to climb rapidly up ALL of our forty steps to the house! Clever dog! (Shaking head in amazement.).
She was cold and wet, so we gave her a nice, warm bath with pleasant, earth-friendly dog shampoo, toweled her off, blow-dried her and brushed her. She smells and looks very nice now. (My problem is that, while I LOVE dogs, I am not fond of “dog-smells” –I’ve got to get used to their dogginess!)
Earlier, I’d gone out to get some dog supplies, and do other shopping. Been out for three hours. Came home, tired and grumpy, thinking, “More work to do now, with all that pickup of dog stuff, doggie-smelling laundry to do, more cleanup, and … Stuff!”.
Then, as I walked slowly up my forty steps, weary and wishing to be twenty-two years old again, something happened. I saw Holly in my mind, and it was as if two mysterious fishing lines tugged my lips upwards, and fished out a smile.
I came home, and she pounced on me, nipping happily at my clothes and me, and squeaking with joy. Didn’t leave my side for a while.
Later, I did have a small meltdown, I was so tired. I thought of ALL the things I HADN’T done– missing those stories I didn’t write or even think up, those papers I haven’t yet graded, “The Secret Garden” which I still have to finish reading to Sharada, the time I spend with her (sans other pressing duties, like taking Holly for her potty outside and having to do all that business of picking it up and disposing of it all … ).
Mysteriously, Holly picked up my distress ( which was mostly a quiet one), and walked into the bathroom, where she looked forlorn when Warren went to look for her. Of course, I gave her plenty of hugs after that!
Two days ago, I taught her to come (she doesn’t really need to earn THAT (she already knows) and Sit (she learned that almost immediately). Nothing like a little dog-treat to teach a couple of tricks. She’s a quick learner. She’s hungry for more to learn.
Now, I have to learn to train a puppy who is super intelligent, and I’m afraid I won’t do a good job, being too fond and too wimpy to say “NO” firmly enough when she nips at my clothes, the rug or my socks or my hand (by mistake). Warren is better at this — still, I’m a pretty quick learner myself. So is Sharada.
So, I turn to my borrowed copy of “The Everything New Puppy Book,” and bury my nose in it from time to time.
All this is nothing compared to how she makes me, and us, feel.
She makes me feel happy.
She makes all of us happy.
________________ That’s all for now! Thanks for reading! ______________________
Feb 10, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries, Reading, Writing, Thinking, Teaching and Learning
So, one of the nice things my school system does is to offer various workshops and seminars through a lovely Professional Day program. We sign up, get chosen to go by lottery, and then choose from a menu of wonderful offerings. If we are fortunate enough, we get what we want from that menu, and even if we don’t get our first choice, we still get to go for excellent seminars. I’ve gone for several workshops and seminars (many of them which offered me my first choice) over the past ten or more years, and every single one was satisfying to me as a teacher and as a student, because I always brought back ideas, both into my own personal practice of writing, and also into my professional practices as an English teacher.
I was fortunate this year, because I signed up for, and got to go to, a creative writing seminar with Michael Downing, author and Creative Writing Professor at Tufts University.
I missed the first Friday, because we had parent-teacher conferences. I went for the next two Fridays, and both were excellent. The focus was on Flash Fiction and Micro-Fiction. Mr. Downing gave excellent prompts, as well as deeply satisfying talks and feedback on the process of creative writing. I came away, feeling both inspired and somewhat overawed by the uphill slope I have to tackle as a writer.
I won’t go into all that here, however. I just wanted to say that I had such a good time, I wondered why I was not doing more writing. Yes, yes, I’ve written on my blog almost every day, except, oddly, for the past three weeks. However, I do need to get out there, and attend more workshops, create or join a Writing Group, meet with said group, give feedback, receive feedback, and read more.
I want to do all of this, as well as teach 8th Grade English, grade hundreds of papers, practice guitar, go on walks in the woods with family, cook, clean and be a good, home-schooling mom to my wonderful little nine-year old daughter, take her to swimming and dance class on the weekends, because my husband takes her everywhere else during the weekdays, while I’m teaching, and generally be upbeat and organized. Now, we’ll soon be adding a Standard Poodle pup to the mix, and I think I know I shall officially be the most distracted person on the planet, at least for a few weeks.
I’m upbeat, however. My problem is that I love doing all of those things. I love writing, I love teaching, I love being a mother, a musician, a housewife. (I could do without grading and other administrative tasks attendant upon that).
Choose! I can hear a disembodied voice saying to me.
But I don’t want to choose! I want to push the edges of the day in either direction, maybe add about four more hours to it, and have those hours book-end my writing.
Mmmm … that would be most satisfying.
(Shakes herself out of dream-state, and looks briskly around).
Right. Where were we?
Ah yes, the workshop. My next three posts will be the prompts that Michael Downing gave, and my two drafts of each of the three stories I wrote. Hope you enjoy them.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tags: Distraction, Flash Fiction, Michael Downing, Micro-Fiction, Work and Play, Writing, writing workshop
Jan 29, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
Forgetting
©By Vijaya Sundaram
(Begun on January 28th, and continued on January 29, 2014)
My entire life has been a long process of forgetting.
This is not to say that I forget all who have done me a kindness, or been good to me, or have helped me, or have influenced me profoundly. I remember them and bless them, and thank them in my mind every day.
This is not to say that I deny people from the past, or slight them in memory.
It’s just that I cannot handle too much memory. I feel weighted down with it. Something gives. The names or faces of people sometimes get buried deep. Yes, I know it happens to all of us to a greater or lesser degree, but every forgetting by me seems both a blessing and a betrayal on my part.
And then, I berate myself. Who are you? Are you so important that you cannot remember someone who remembers you vividly? Do you think you’re greater than they are?
I know it’s not that, though. It’s just that everything is too much for me to bear. Remembering is too much for me to bear. Any memory, whether it be sharply defined, or nebulous and hazy, brings me to a deep place of introspection or sadness. I don’t like it.
I don’t wish to live in the past. I like sloughing it off. Perhaps my forgetting is consciously unconscious. I will never really know, for sure.
I was remembering my father yesterday (as I do, every day). I remembered what memory means, meant, to him.
My father had the memory of an elephant. He always recalled people, events from his past, and historical events – history mattered to him. He was often shocked when he’d mention a name of a relative or a friend of his, or someone we’d all known from my childhood, and I wouldn’t remember. He was genuinely startled and (I suspect, upset) by this. Somewhere within him, I think that he might have feared that I might forget him. I haven’t, of course — how could I? I still see him vividly, both as he was at the end, with tubes and medical apparatus attached to him in a hospital, as he lay dying of liver cancer, and as the young man he was, when he took us on his motorbike in the city of Pune, India. I remember him as the middle-aged man with jaundice, to whom I read P.G. Wodehouse, making him chuckle in the summer afternoons in Madras, India. I cannot forget how everyone adored him. I also remembered that if they were upset with him, they somehow couldn’t hold on to it in his presence. I can summon up in my mind’s eye, the breadth of his expansiveness when we were in a room filled with people. Some of that expansiveness, that Jovian capacity of his rubbed off on me, I think. I expand, too, in a room of people, but, like my mother, I also know how to shrink back into myself.
(There will be more about my mother later, and not in this piece. This piece is about memory.)
So, my father remembered everything, and was great at telling anecdotes. He would fill my eyes with scenes from his childhood. He would, later in life, talk about his travels to places around the world. He was a restless person, I think, trapped in conventional marriage and fatherhood. While he was great at being a kind and loving dad (and I know he adored my mother), I think he probably wished to escape, sometimes. Those travels he did (from business circumstances over which he had no control, and which came at great cost to my family) would be the stuff of his tales. He always came off sounding great in those stories. He remembered things beautifully.
And yet, he did this thing that disquieted me – he’d adjust his memories, repaint them, re-upholster them to suit his liking. It was almost as if any painful moments of the past had no right to be, and only pleasant things remained. He never, ever recollected painful things in our presence – not when we were young, not when we were old. Any of his remembrances of difficult times would paint him in a good light, but never others in a bad light, and although he did belittle others, sometimes, to make himself look good, he was never malicious.
This lack of balance that he exhibited towards his past, in terms of softening it, creates a curious imbalance in me. While I don’t try and soften it, per se, I remember only the better bits.
I don’t like to dwell on painful things. What point is there in doing that?
I dislike talking about embarrassing things. I find no pleasure in turning them into charming stories. Some people do that beautifully, and I love hearing them, but I’m no good at them.
I prefer not to hold grudges. I want to forgive, always. It hurts me to not forgive. When someone who has harmed me is nice, I act like a puppy and melt towards them. I don’t forget, though. A part of me is still wary. However, I always forgive.
However, I don’t forgive myself, ever, for hurting anyone.
I dislike re-hashing the past (and yet, I do rehash it with my siblings, something that I would suppose many siblings do).
I vow not to repaint the past to suit my liking. In my mind, when I realize that I did wrong, hurt people’s feelings, didn’t speak up when I should have, spoke up too harshly, when I could have been kinder, there are no ifs, ands, or buts about that. Wrong is wrong. There are no excuses.
However, I will not talk about that to all and sundry. Why should I? It’s none of anybody’s business, except mine, my husband’s (because he should know), and the person I wronged or hurt in any way. The problem with people (that includes me), is that once we have a picture in our heads about how someone was, or how someone behaves, we find it hard to dislodge that memory of that person. It occludes our vision of the person who is currently before us.
I may not repaint the past to make myself look too good when I wasn’t, but like my father, I tend to dwell on pleasant things. In that instance, I am like him.
The past has no meaning for me, except that I have to admit that it has taught me things. Sometimes, although I dismiss nostalgia as indulgence, the past wafts over me like a perfume-laden breeze, or a magic carpet. And then, I let it bear me away, and I ache with longing for when I was little, and played in the dirt, or when I ate gulkhand made from sweet roses in the garden of a neighborhood acquaintance in Poona (now Pune), India.
I remember missing the school bus one day, because I was too intent, in my kindergarten innocence, on picking fresh, ripe fruit from the tamarind trees in my school grounds. I managed to get home, by flagging down a rickshaw, and taking the driver through the tortuous bus-route to get me home (I didn’t know my address, you see, but I knew the way home — I have always known the way home in every sense of the phrase). The amazing thing is that he got me home safely. My parents were so grateful — that rickshaw driver was a good man, who must have chuckled at my innocent brashness. I remember expecting to be driven home, and I was! Only as a grown-up did I fully realize how dangerous the situation could have been.
I remember many things, but they are like things which happened in a dream, to somebody else, and yet, I know that somebody very well, as well as I do myself. Oh, it’s confusing!
I am amazed that the creature that I was is the same entity as the creature that I am now. And yet, so much has been sloughed off. So much has been rebuilt. So much is about new memories overlaying old ones.
I feel like an archaeological dig sometimes. When I try and remember things, re-member, as in re-attaching all the parts of myself that seem to have floated off into the deep space of the deep past, surprising things surface. It is not that I dislike my past – it is that for some reason, it seems irrelevant to my conscious mind. And yet …
My cells remember. My blood, constantly renewed, remembers. My eyes remember. My nose and ears remember. My skin remembers. My feet remember.
Songs come floating back on a stray breeze into my mind. I stumble upon a line from a book or a movie, and a whole chunk of my childhood, or young adulthood breaks off and floats towards me. I take care to avoid a collision, but as it floats by me, I admire the crystalline beauty of an encapsulated past. Frozen in its depths are images, faces, songs, people in mid-action, reflections in pools, sensations, tastes, colors. Some of them lack context. They come and go, little bubbles of memory, untethered to other memories. Some, however, are linked, like creatures in a dream move about in that frozen landscape, holding hands.
(Mixed metaphors, anyone?)
How can we ever get old, when we remember on that level?
And yet, I forget so many of the specifics – names of people who drifted in and out on the tide, names of places I’ve been and bus numbers of buses I rode for years. I forget what it was that made me drift away from certain people. I forget why I couldn’t bear the smell of someone or something. I forget why I was completely unaware of things when I was a certain age, and painfully aware of every slight, every injury at a much later age. I cannot seem to understand why other people’s lies or disingenuous behaviors made me so angry and so upset that I lost my capacity for compassion, or for distance.
I spend much of my life forgetting things. Was this the result of conscious choice, or is it rationalization after the fact? Is all this “forgetting” a measure of protection? (For, I feel that my capacity for memory is finite, and I cannot overload this particular camel with the last straw that will break its back.)
The fact is I’ll never know.
What I do know is that I have met a whole lot of people in my life, from years of teaching, performing, living. I wish I could recall all of them. Every one of them gave me something, and I’m grateful to all of them. Because of all of those who gave me perspective, criticism, love, support, respect and kindness, I think I’ve become better at being a person, at being a friend, at being fully aware of my actions. Isn’t that what the past is supposed to do for us, not load us down with pointless facts, but amorphous experience?
I guess my past has taught me, after all.
I hope so.
_____________________________ The End ______________________________
Tags: #Forgiveness, #Nostalgia, Forgetting, Growing up ïn India, Memory, Remembering the past
Jan 26, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries, Essays: On Books, Art, Literary Appreciation and so on
Meditations on Food
©By Vijaya Sundaram
January 26th, 2014
I want to talk about food today.
Food is to live for, isn’t it?
Consider its texture. It’s crunchy, it’s crackly, it’s squishy, it’s pulpy, it’s juicy, it’s munchy, it’s crisp, it’s burnt, it’s caramelized, it’s boiled, it’s sauteed, it’s roasted and fried. It’s baked, it’s broiled, it’s raw, it’s oiled. And it’s barbecued, an elegant, but barbaric practice. (I mean, would you like to be seared and singed, burnt and bruised over hot coals? I hear you say, “No, but I like my food that way! Now, move aside, while I gnaw hungrily at this former-animal-turned-grilled-thing!”)
Consider its shapes. It’s square, or rectangular, and round or oval, or triangular or purse-shaped. It’s shapeless, disk-shaped, sometimes encased in glowing red (pomegranates), or translucent white (lemons), sometimes lumpy and pendulous (jackfruit) sometimes star-shaped (star-fruit). It’s chunky, it’s stringy, it’s beady, it’s linked, it’s cylindrical and semi-spherical and it takes the shape you wish it to be.
Consider the egg. It’s yellow in the middle and white around, which I hate, but then I think of the sun, and it makes sense. I may not want to eat it, but I respect it for what it could be — a possible chicken, descendant of a dinosaur. I become a hypocrite when I eat it in its disguised form in cakes or pancakes, or muffins or cupcakes, or pudding or flan. It’s okay when it’s in quiche (I cannot stand it sometimes) or in latkes (yum!)
Consider fruit. Made to hold the future of the race of whatever tree from which it bends, pendant and pregnant, the casing for the seed, the womb within which the seed or seeds will send forth future seeds, and they, their seeds, the fruit we covet lies just beyond our reach, taunting, tempting, trembling lest we sink our teeth into its juicy flesh. (Gosh! I feel positively brutal when I eat the poor, hapless fruits I love. Of course, I do so lovingly, giving thanks for each exquisitely satisfying, sensual bite.) Consider the deep orange of the Alphonso mango, its lovely paisley shape, its juice the apotheosis of richness, herald of early summer, its pulpy ambrosia running down between one’s fingers, as one closes ones eyes, and licks each finger in an ecstasy of greed and pleasure. Consider the pomegranate, its ruby-rich, glowing red jewels surrounded by protective, beautiful, red, inedible skin. Seed after pearly seed dies between our teeth, while the transparent blood of the fruit stains our hands and tongue. Consider the jackfruit, so lumpy and ugly on the outside, so velvety and pendulous and multi-fruited on the inside. Dip one of those (de-pitted, of course) in golden honey from Kerala, raise it to your mouth, bite into it, let the nectar flow down your throat, and close your eyes. You are one with the gods. Consider the purple bleeding jamun of Pune and other cities in Maharashtra. Another ungainly-looking fruit at first glance, but then, pop one, de-pitted or not, into your mouth, and sigh in bliss as purple tartness flows down your throat. (Take care to spit out the seed, of course!). Consider the fig, whose sweetness and million-seeded flesh makes me think that it was the original fruit of temptation in the fanciful Garden of Eden. It is a fruit that speaks of forbidden things. Then, there is the koyyapazham, known as the guava, the seetaphal, or custard apple, and the pearly, water-filled palm fruit known in Tamil as nongu, otherwise known by Maharashtrians as tadgole, so translucent, so rich and yielding to the tongue, whispering of sensual pleasures. And of course, there’s the watermelon, and gleaming purple, red and green grapes, the many faces of the apple and the orange, plus the kiwi, the plum, the apricot, the peach … all gifts from the gods, but not really for us — just for the tree’s own self-generation and for the earth. Unfortunately for the tree and the earth, but fortunately for us, we got there first.
Consider the vegetable. So many kinds, so dewy, tender, rich, succulent, fresh, squashy, snippy, crisp with water and flavor, so leafy, so root-flavored, so tear-inducing, so satisfying to cut into and release their various fragrances! Arrayed before my mind’s eye are ripe tomatoes and emerald-green ones, russet, white, yellow and red potatoes, crunchy bright green beans, peas whose green skin is so easily removed, the bitter karela, the curmudgeonly but divine eggplant, whose exterior tempts, but whose interior demands more work, the humble cabbage whose smell once released and allowed to escape, makes any vegetable better, especially with grated coconuts, green peas, talchukottal and shredded carrots, rich green spinach and cucumbers laden with water and tight, bright skin encasing it. Broccoli (which George H.W. Bush petulantly disdained, revealing even more of his lack of good sense), cauliflower, kale, lettuce, carrots, beets, radishes, onions (so many types of onions — pearl, baby onions, red onions, brown onions, green onions, shallots, scallions, leeks, each of whose flavors creates an entirely different dish when one is substituted for another)! Oh, and so many, many varieties of peppers, and green and red chillies!
Consider taste. Syrup-sweet, honeyed, sugar-crisp, lemon-sour, tamarind-lip-curling-sour, lime-tongue-tingling sour, spring-fresh minty-ness, basil-so-holy, parsley-sprigged, coriander-maddening, spicy with curcumin, spicy with capsaicin, spicy with pepper, spicy with mixed, ground masala, mouth-freshening cardamom, throat-soothing cloves, fragrant cinnamon, face-twisting bitter-gourd, nose-wrinkling asafoetida… all of these call to us, and offer themselves up to our ravenous appetite for a departure from daily-ness.
Consider all the different cuisines of the world. All the different grains, the heavenly baked breads that give up their essence when cracked open by rough, loving hands, the simmering, spiced stews, the creamy, or sour, or tart, or cumin-seed-imbued sauces, the flaky and crisp dishes served up in so many guises. I do, and it pleases me. I cannot say I am brave enough to try them all, but I like reading about them. That’s what turns me on, more than the food itself might. Charles Lamb, when he wrote about roast pig and crackling, made me desire that hitherto repellent-sounding food. Even Enid Blyton, when she describes tomatoes and tongue, sausage and pudding, makes me hungry. When a mystery writer like Sue Grafton indulges in a sensual description of whatever her private detective, Kinsey Millhone, desires in terms of food, it makes me want to snarf up that quarter-pounder (disgusting though it really is to my eyes, nose and mind) and bite into fries crisped in deep fat — fortunately for me, I’m a vegetarian, so I won’t ever taste the quarter-pounder, and I steer clear of French fries in real life! Not quite in the same vein, but still vicariously, I read Ruth Reichl’s description of sushi (which I’ll never eat), described in such loving, ecstatic, sensuality that it makes me almost moan, I close my eyes and swoon with pleasure, imagining it all. When she describes some exquisite French or Italian dish, I am almost jealous, because I know I shall never, ever bring myself to taste it, because it’s almost invariably non-vegetarian food that she rhapsodizes over! (Damn it!)
Still, all those descriptions make me feel part of the culture of tasting it.
Words can do that.
Who cares for the real thing, when words can make it all better? Words, enticing waiters all, carrying trays beautifully balanced with fragrant dishes, take a message to my hungry mind, as I wait, poised at a table set for one, with a tender rose in a small glass vase in front of me, and a single, rose-shaped candle in a crystal bowl of water, bringing to my mind’s palate an experience which cannot be matched by the real thing, while Persian or Turkish classical music plays in the background, and censers waft perfume into the air, and silken curtains billow in a world that can be so much more real (and much less messy) than this one!
On the other hand, I do like to eat. So, all you vegetables and fruits, all you delicacies and dishes that are made for the likes of me, tremble, for I shall come for you all! And all you textures and tastes, you colors and aromas, you finger-friendly, tongue-delighting treats awaiting me in my future, I draw ever closer to you, for I love you all!
_____________________________ The End __________________________________
Tags: aromas of food, cuisines, delicacies, essay on food, Food, senses, sensory pleasure in food, textures of food, words as reality
Jan 25, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries, Parenting/ Home-schooling / Family Music and other Notes
Meditations Upon Walking on Solid Water
©By Vijaya Sundaram
January 25, 2014
I had never walked on water in my entire life. Today, with quaking heart, I did.
It wasn’t too bad. It was lovely, in fact.
To think that there was a pond filled with water which teemed with possible life, which would, in springtime and summertime, have ducks and geese, and frogs and fish, which now supported my weight, and sang it’s safe, it’s safe to my internally trembling self!
(I was fine on the outside, although I wanted to get on it, go across and back as quickly as possible. For, despite all the assurances and reassurances by my husband, who said, “I grew up near a lake, don’t worry, this pond is frozen solid, look!” and jumped on it, all my cells shrieked, No! It isn’t. Don’t!)
My daughter, intrepid and impatient with me, said, “Come on, Mom! It’s great! See? And she walked on ahead of me, following my husband.
I knew that she was anxious for me to enjoy it like she did. So, I put on my brave face, and squared my timid shoulders, and did.
Something interesting happened then. I wasn’t afraid, anymore. I put my trust in my husband and my child, and walked on solid water. Ice is interesting. It has personality. It has stillness. It is mysterious, a presence that could be either kind or cruel. It was kind to us today. No betrayals lurked beneath its opacity.
Then, we went back to the main trails in the woods where we were walking. We walked in companionable silence punctured by occasional inconsequential chatter in the dark stillness of the night-time woods, lit by snow. We heard the creaking of an occasional tree, as we wound our way up to the very top of the hill in the woods.
There we stood on snow-covered rocks, and looked down on the intermittent shoals of cars, exotic fish of gold and red streaming towards us and shimmering away from us on the highways far below. The lights of the city gleamed jewelline in the winter night. A faraway airplane took off, glittering into the sky, from the distant airport.
Our daughter is a child of winter, and a child of these woods. The woods are hers, that hilltop and its tower belong to her alone (also to us, by extension), and that pond we walked on has been part of her consciousness since she was about twenty-two months. She gazed around and exclaimed over and over, “It’s so beautiful here, isn’t it?” And she sighed and sat on a snow-covered rock, gazing into the night. My husband and I murmured in agreement, as we stood and gazed out, eyes saturated with the lights of the night.
Permanence is an illusion, I know, but I like to think that these words and that pond are part of the permanence of her memories. I want for us to build a universe of memories. These will sustain her (and us) through what is sure to come in the future, because the future is always jealous of the present.
And the present is our gift from the Lords of Time.
____________________________The End___________________________________
Tags: #Daughter, #Father, #Memories, family outing, illusion, mother, permanence, Time as thief, walking on a frozen pond, winter walk in snow-covered woods, woods at night