Sleeping dogs

It all began on a wet and rainy Tuesday afternoon. Looking around at what should be done versus what she wanted to do, Rose chose the later. As usual, the house stayed in the same cluttered messy pattern that was more often typical than not, and Rose early went to the computer. An anxious bubble in her chest, she toyed with the computer, checking her face book account, even pausing long enough to make a couple of updates, before getting before clicking on the icon that would open the word processing program.

There before her lay the snow white page waiting to be filled with her musings. Just like an eager child on Christmas morning, impatient for the wrappings to be torn off the delicious packages nestled under the tree, Rose was filled with the same trepidation as the child: would the words be the gift she really wanted? Pausing only for a few moments, she began the ritualistic tap trapping of the keyboard, allowing the words to flow forth to fill up the page that lay before her.

Her audience for the morning we two sleepy dogs and a cat. None of which cared whether she was tapping away at the computer or cleaning the disheveled house. Their half asleep state interrupted only occasionally by the noise of a nearby car or an exclamation from Rose. They were patiently waiting for their turn, when, weary from the exercise of writing, she would turn her attention on them, scratching behind ears, and perhaps even venturing out with the dogs for a walk around the neighborhood. But for now, they lay like old men on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

But for Rose, her audience was of no importance at the moment. The exercise was to cover the white space that lay before her. It didn’t matter if the result was publication worthy or not, only that the words made it onto the page.

Often, she would muse about her life and of opportunities missed. In her struggle to maintain a balance in her life that masked the insanity she felt always bubbling just beneath the surface, she would revisit those lost times. They would be examined; dissected like a frog in a biology class, in order to discover their deeper meaning. She hadn’t arrived at this place walking down a petal strewn path. No. Her path was uneven and rocky, barely a path at all in many places.

Sometimes, it would be so garbage filled that it was all she could do to keep breathing; her existence only that of the breath and placing of one foot in front of the other. It was during these times that the path became invisible, and the insanity was allowed to spew forth, like some molten lava from a long dormant volcano.

Chaos would replace the normal. It could take months before the path reemerged from under the piles of garbage. Slowly, with a great deal of effort, Rose would begin looking for pieces of the path, anything to let those around her know that she was emerging from the chaos once again.
Hours turned into days, which turned into years. Rose began to realize that she was gaining some wisdom with the unrelenting march of years. It came out of no where, like a rainbow appearing after endless days of gray sky. Sometimes, it came in the form of a gift -- an unexpected conversation with an old friend or an even older soul. Whatever the method of acquisition, Rose began to scoop up the bits of wisdom that she would find, and try to apply them to her own existence, much like one trying to fit together the parts of a jig-saw puzzle.

It was on that one rainy Tuesday afternoon that Rose realized that instead of looking backward, trying to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together, that she should be spending at least some of her time looking forward, and learn how to read that path before stumbling down it, and caution should be taken when running head on into a pack of dogs. For sometimes, if you let sleeping dogs lie, the end result is a well rested dog.

Reflection

Listening to a variety of music this morning -- and, as usual, drift back to Michael Jackson. If you are not a fan, you should really listen to some of his music -- like Heal the World, Man in the Mirror, Black or White, and You are Not Alone for starters. He had a message, and it is now for us to pick up and carry on regardless of personal feelings for him.

The message -- to take care of each other and our planet -- is perhaps needed more than ever before. Check out the news -- pick up a paper, listen to the radio, watch it on TV. We are a violent planet. We are a violent nation. I live in the St. Louis metropolitan area. Each night on the news, there are more gang wars, more people destroyed in my own backyard.

Has life always been this way? With the internet, we can catch things just as they are happening, and we see globally each night on television. Is it just because of this instant access that gives us pictures that we have never has access to before. My husband and children love history. It seems that since the time the Europeans first came to what we now know of as the USA, we have been a violent people.

Native Americans helped those first settlers to survive. In hindsight, it was a terrible decision on their part. We, collectively, have reduced their numbers until some tribes no longer exist. Things have not changed much since that time. A lot of the violence stems from greed. We want what we don't have. More money, more power, more things is the message that is continually broadcast.

That is why the words sung by Michael Jackson are so important. Listen to his broader message. Stop fighting. Stop hounding people to the point that their lives seem to spin out of control. Stop buying needless things to stuff our houses until they seem to burst at the seems. Just STOP. Replace anger, violence, greed ... with love, compassion, giving. One by one we can make those needed changes.

the dance

Sitting in the now quiet house, ideas begin to flow like electric current to a light bulb. How to get them to their destination becomes the issue, as the often half formed ideas flit about in a haphazard fashion. Some begging to be released, while others cling to the corners as if they are afraid to be released in the time tested tradition of pen to paper.

Plagued by self doubt, the writer pecks at the keyboard for a few moments, then drifts as eyes stray to the pencil, standing almost stoically in the kitten covered mug that is spending its eternity as a pencil holder. Often, it is not the tap tap of the keys on the keyboard, but the drag of the pencil across the paper that enables the thoughts to be released and allowed to flow unimpeded across the pages of the notebook. It is the dance of the writer, performed to an audience of sleeping children, pets, and the often neglected husband. Sleep comes easily to them, but not the writer.

Until most recently, the inability to fall into the same sleeping patterns like the other members of the house was seen as a detriment. Something to rant against when engaged in conversation with others, and a reason for taking the offerings of the family healer. This masking provided a sense of normalcy to the writer, and was not taken for the gift that was. The gift that it is. For it is in these moments that the dance begins, and the stories unfold.