i was writing out some postcards and it occurred to me that i would love to send out a bunch of postcards letting people know that they are loved. not as myself, in this particular case, but as the instigator, the go-between, the merry-maker.

i want to spread surprise and mystery and delight.

so, i am turning this image into a postcard. for $5, i’ll send one to the person of your choice, letting them know that there is someone out there who is thinking about them and who wants them to know that they are loved.

it’ll make them happy. it’ll make you happy. it’ll make me happy. win-win-win.

here’s how it’ll work:

1. you’ll click yes, please and complete your payment.
2. i’ll email you and ask for a name and address.
3. i’ll send your special someone a postcard.
4. we’ll all smile.

p.s. i did consider telling them who loves them, but there is something about the mystery that seems like a lovely reminder that we are all loved more than we will ever know. that being said, feel free to tell them yourself.

“When one flower blooms, spring awakens everywhere.”

– John O’Donohue

dear atlas,

today, you are ten years old. can you believe it?

i don’t know how we’ll celebrate, but i’m guessing we’ll do what we always do, which means i’ll take you for a hike and then to the kitty store for a treat. (just between us, i suspect that if you try to sneak a second pig ear from the bin today, i won’t make you put it back.)

did you know that when i took this picture, you were two years old? if it weren’t for the silver hairs on your chin and your general disapproval of bouncy puppies, i’d think you hadn’t aged a day.

i loved you then and i love you now.

i love you when you escape out the front door and ignore me when i call you. i love you when you eat something gross and then smile open-mouthed at me so i can smell it. i love you when you kick me in your sleep. i love you when you have an accident in the house and i have to clean it up. i love you when you pull on your leash. i love you when you forget our “no barking in elizabeth’s ear in the car” policy and bark in my ear in the car. i love you when you are wet and muddy. i love you when you wake me up three times in the night to go to the bathroom and i am bleary-eyed and cross and incoherent.

i love you when you see that i’m crying and come and sit in front of me with wide eyes. i love you when you let out a contented sigh and close your eyes because i sat down on the bed next to you in the evening with a book. i love you when you race down the stairs because i asked you if you want to go on a hike or go on an adventure. i love you when you rest your head on the armrest in the car and stare at me while i’m driving. i love you when you bound back and forth on the trails and then stop in front of me with a giant smile. i love you when you steal and eat the empty toilet-paper roll.

you are the best four-legged buddy in the world. you are silly and saucy and serious and stubborn and smart and you can run circles around me even with a splint on your leg.

when i first saw you, my heart cracked open, and i have never been the same. you have taught me so much about life and love and i am a better and bigger person because of you.

happy birthday, my dear puppy. i love you more than all the stars in the sky and all the fish in the sea. i hope you know that, today and always.

a few weeks ago, i redecorated my bathroom. i now have a grey linen shower curtain, new art, and nothing on the sink except for a candle, soap, and the occasional flower. it is very calming.

the previous art – a photograph of a fall scene in michigan, a gift from my sister – is in a closet, waiting to be taken to a framer. i love the photograph, but i have never fully appreciated it because i do not like the frame i chose. i went into a store to find a frame and a mat; they didn’t have the right frame; but i didn’t feel like going to another store so i just bought a frame that was sort of ok. it has been bugging me ever since. the little things do make a difference.

after much deliberation, the art i decided on included one of my photographs. as usual, i ordered it from shutterfly. if i am ordering prints for myself, i almost always order them from shutterfly. it’s fast and easy and i am always happy with the result.

i was thinking about this, because when i order prints of my photographs to sell, i order them from a local print shop. i do this partly because i like to support local businesses, partly because i like the quality of their prints, but partly because in the back of my mind, i think of words i see listed in the description of prints for sale from other photographers/artists, words like “premium”, “archival quality”, and “good for 100 years”.

who knows, maybe those same things are true of prints from shutterfly, but i don’t think they are a lab geared toward the professional photographer.

the reason i was thinking about this is because i realized that longevity and the idea of heirloom quality art – something you will pass down to your children – aren’t important to me when it comes to art. in fact, i suspect that thinking about longevity (maybe not in terms of how long it will last, but in terms of how long you will love it) is yet another factor that stops people from purchasing art, especially if they are someone who is learning how to identify and honor their own unique style. if you’re not sure whether you love a piece today, trying to determine whether you’ll love it forever on top of that is a fool-proof recipe for decision paralysis.

our tastes change. what we love and are drawn to today might not be what we love and are drawn to next week or next month or next year.

i might need to write more about this, especially since one objection to honoring this is related to money and there are many ways to take that into consideration.

for now, i just want to wish you permission and courage, so that, as rumi says, you can “be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love”, even (and especially) when it changes.

speaking of art, i have an 8×10 print of my photograph (pictured above). if you want it, leave a comment letting me know, and i’ll draw a name from the responses.

if i were going to start a fortune-telling business, i would start here. i would foretell the future by looking at the sands of time.

a week or so before atlas turns 10, shall we see what he looked like as a puppy, nine short-long years ago?

look at that – he looked exactly the same. he even had the same expression when i tried to play william wegman with him.

i have to tell you a story, mostly because i am pretty sure it will be comical in retrospect, and i do love a good laugh.

the characters: me and atlas, though atlas is hiding under the covers through most of the story.

the scene: it is dark thirty on monday, also known as the wee hours of the morning. i have only recently fallen back asleep after letting atlas out for his middle-of-the-night potty break.

i am deep in dreamland when i am roused by a very loud alarm.

the sound of the alarm shakes me and my heart starts to pound. the trouble is that i am not fully awake, and am still in the throes of my last dream, so i can’t be sure that the noise isn’t just a very vivid dream fragment. i take deep breaths to calm myself and try to fall back asleep.

BEEEEEEEEEEP. (the sound is so shrill and piercing that it requires capital letters. i think the alarm must be a close cousin of the air horn.)

still half-asleep, i realize that it sounds like the low battery alarm for the smoke detector. with a sigh of relief, i remember that i have an extra battery.

i stumble out of bed, find my glasses, find the spare battery, drag the ladder into the hallway and climb up, only to look up and realize that i am two feet away from the smoke alarm. i climb back down and reposition the ladder, climb up, change the battery, climb down, and try to close the ladder so i can put it away.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i decide that it must be a “yay, i have a battery again” sound and crawl blearily into bed.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

stupid spare batteries.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i try to ignore the sound and fall asleep.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i stumble to the computer to see if safeway is open all night so i can buy a new battery. it is not. i stumble back into bed and try to ignore the sound.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i decide to take out the battery so i can sleep, just until morning.

i stumble out of bed, find my glasses, drag the ladder into the hallway and climb up, only to look up and realize that i am now three feet away from the smoke alarm. i climb back down and reposition the ladder, climb up, take out the battery, climb down, and put the ladder away.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i tell myself that it’s just giving me a final warning and stumble back into bed.

BEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEEP.

stupid smoke alarms.

i stumble out of bed, find my glasses, drag the ladder into the hallway and climb up, only to look up and realize that, yet again, i can’t reach the smoke alarm. i climb back down and reposition the ladder, climb up, put the battery back in, climb down, and put the ladder away.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i tell myself that the sound is only annoying because i think it shouldn’t be there and i think i need it to go away. i tell myself to embrace the sound.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

stupid change-your-thoughts practices.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i lay on my side and squash a pillow onto my head and scrunch my eyes closed. i toss and turn for hours.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i drive to safeway and buy a new battery.

when i get home, i drag the ladder into the hallway and climb up, only to look up and realize that i still can’t reach the smoke alarm. i climb back down and reposition the ladder, climb up, and replace the battery.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i am still standing on the ladder. an involuntary tear rolls down my cheek.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

stupid smoke alarms.

stop beeping!

i decide it must be broken.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i wonder if maybe, just maybe, the sound is coming from the carbon monoxide detector that’s a foot away from the smoke alarm. then again, i’ve never heard that go off before, who knows if it even has batteries, and the noise sounds exactly like the smoke alarm.

i stand on the ladder, my eyes glued to the smoke alarm, waiting for the beep.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i think it’s coming from the smoke alarm. but it’s so hard to be sure.

i climb down, move the ladder over a foot, climb up, and stare at the carbon monoxide detector.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

the red light right next to the words that say “move to clean air” goes on at the same time.

i wonder if i should panic.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

i call the apartment office and tell them that my carbon monoxide detector is going off and i don’t know if i should panic. they say that the battery is probably low and they’ll send someone right over to change it.

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

someone comes over and replaces the battery.

there is silence. blissful silence.

once upon a time, on a quiet street, in a rather deserted part of town, someone slipped in one night and hung a painting on the side of a building.

it was a large painting, the kind that makes you feel small when you stand in front of it.

the unusual thing about this painting – though perhaps this is not so unusual at all – is that no two people could agree on what they saw in it.

you might stand in front of the painting and see a ship, far out at sea, sliding up and down waves the size of mountains.

your sister might see a magnificent oak tree in the middle of a meadow; the tall grass is waving back and forth in the wind and it looks like it is bowing to the tree.

your neighbor might see a basket of pears sitting on a counter, impossibly ripe and glistening in the sun.

your teacher might see a looking glass, reflecting back a beautiful, strong, wise woman.

i guess the most unusual thing about the painting is how tangible its effect is on its viewers.

you smell the salt of the sea and hear the roar of the waves and want to shout as exhilaration rushes through your body. your sister feels the earth beneath her feet and the soft brush of the grass against her skin. your neighbor can taste the ripe pears on her tongue and smell the crisp fall air. your teacher feels seen, heard, respected.

i don’t know what each of you would see in the painting but, if you see it one day, i’d love to find out.

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.”

– John Muir

i forgot to show you a picture of atlas and his thanksgiving dinner!

if atlas were writing this post, he would say, “look at my empty bowl. there was a giant turkey and an entire table full of food and they didn’t give me any of it. poor me. i was so hungry.”

ha.

first of all, he eats at the speed of lightning. i don’t think he even chews his food. i had my camera ready before i gave him his bowl and i still couldn’t capture it. second of all, he ate about three dinners. amy fed him turkey while she was carving it. i gave him his bowl of food before we ate. while we ate, he wandered – happy and drooling – back and forth between amy and me, the two people he knew would feed him.

speaking of things atlas would say, here is another one of his opinions: “people don’t bring bread for the ducks. they bring bread for me!” you know, because the ducks are well-fed and he is not. if there are no ducks and people around, i let him eat it, mostly because i’m not convinced that bread is good for ducks.

want to know just how much atlas loves food? he doesn’t like water. he will only rarely go into the water after me, his favorite person. but once, he walked right into the pond to get a tiny piece of bread.

in order of love, it goes kitties, food, then me.