After Brittany

Brit with one of her many "bunnies"

I believe in an after-life. There, I said it. It's not anything traditional like a heaven in the clouds. It's a feeling more than anything else.

Sitting on my couch today surfing the net, my nose woke up as I sensed a dog in the room. It was unmistakable - the familiar doggie smell of a wet mouth that just lapped up the water in the bowl; a whiff of dog fur that is due for a bath.

My dog Brittany has been gone for a year and a half now. She was the best dog on the planet. And I told her that every day. 

She was my constant companion, even in the shower. She didn't like closed doors between us so I would leave the bathroom door partly open so she could come in when she wanted to as I showered.

I'd be in the shower lost in my to-do list for the day and I'd hear the familiar slamming of the door against the bathroom wall. Within seconds, I would look to the end of the shower and see a brown and white nose poking itself around the shower curtain. That was it. Just a nose.

That nose would disappear in a matter of seconds and I would finish my shower. Brit never needed to see me to know I was there. She connected with me using all of her senses.

It's lonely all day in my house without my forever pal. Sometimes I miss her more than I do my own mother. We had a great run, me and Brit. But like all great things, it ended too soon.

People ask me when Ron and I will get another dog. I often say that I'm not ready. That it's too much money and work and, ultimately, sadness. My life is focused on caring for an elderly parent now and I'm sort of caretaker-ed out.

The truth though, buried deep beneath the credit card statement and protestations, is that the only dog I want is Brit. She's here still and this is her home. 

Like Brit, I don't need to see her to know she is here. And I'd rather live with her spirit, full and strong, than diminish it with another's scent.

Our common experience

Once in a while I splurge on myself and get a spa pedicure. I only do this in the summer since I live in cowboy boots the rest of the year and no one sees my feet in public.

There's a place in nearby Chelmsford where I've been going for the past year. I like the nail technicians there and the owner is very customer-oriented.

Every time I go I get looks from other women who are having their nails done. At first I thought it was because I talk too loud while chatting with the nail tech over running water. Maybe people go there to relax and tune-out and I'm just a major disruption.

But there was something else that became more noticeable in my time there. No one but me (and my friend Jan who came with me once) spoke to the nail techs who were working on their feet and legs.

The nail techs and owner are Cambodian. Some speak better English than others. And although I don't think there is prejudice involved (though I am a bit of a Polyanna in that regard) I think people are uncomfortable communicating with those who don't speak English as their primary language.

The nail techs try to start conversations with their customers but the customers don't seem comfortable carrying on those conversations past the initial answer. 

The tech I had last week was a bright and ambitious young college student named Lin. We talked about school, learning English, her family, her dreams. We laughed a lot even though I had to ask her to repeat a sentence a few times because I wasn't understanding her. She was more than happy to speak again slowly and our conversation continued.

At one point, she spoke to her boss in their native language but immediately told me what they said and stated that she really doesn't like doing that in front of people who don't speak the language. It was incredibly insightful and respectful. I was so impressed with her and her desire to start her own business when she graduates.

The entire time I was there (40 minutes) I did not see one other customer even attempt to have a conversation with the person at the end of their feet. Noses were buried in magazines and cellphones.  

I wondered how you could have another human doing something so personal as nail techs do and not reach out in a human way. It was almost like the woman at the end of their feet was a non-being. 

Was it all about being uncomfortable as I suspected? If so, I hope that someday they make the effort to do the difficult thing and engage in conversation. 

I left Lin a great tip but that shouldn't be the only thing she goes home with. I hope others who were there stretch themselves next time and work through their inhibitions. 

How else are we to create a sense of dignity and commonality in the melting pot that is America?

My mother's garden

The last rose of summer in last year's garden

Tomorrow is the 4th of July. I've spent it at cookouts at family member's homes for 53 years straight. This year, Ron and I are claiming the day for ourselves and doing whatever the heck we want.

Chelmsford, MA (the next town over) has a big party on the Common the night before and the day of the 4th. Lots of vendors, bands, a parade, and friends to bump into. Every year we work the July 4th breakfast at our church which sits in the middle of the Common. This year, we're taking a break.

Ron and I just got home from the Common after talking to several folks at the non-profit booths including the champion of the Chelmsford High Alumni Association, George Simonian.

George was friends with my grandfather who taught and coached at CHS for many years. My grandfather is a bit of a legend 'round these parts and I'm proud of that. 

What makes me happy about talking to George is the connection to my past and the Nolan name in local lore. It's one of the reasons I include my maiden name in my signature. 

My husband and George are two peas in a pod. They both love to help youth (my husband is on the Nashoba Valley Technical School school committee) and are passionate about helping youth be the best they can be and preparing them for the future - because the kids are the future.

Standing there and watching the two of them speak with enthusiasm and affection is one thing I love about the 4th. My grandfather is there somewhere in that conversation with one hand on George's shoulder, and one hand on Ron's nodding his head in approval. I wish Ron and my grandfather had met. They would have been fast friends.

When Ron and I got home tonight, I headed outside to check on my flowers. I floated between garden areas with my watering can and an eye for deadheading flowers past their prime.

It struck me that my flower visits are a dichotomy. In one hand I hold the means by which flowers live and grow; in the other hand is the instrument by which the blooms past their time are laid to rest.

Out with the old, in with the new. That's what my mom used to say. She unceremoniously threw out obsolete items and welcomed all that was new and vibrant. And when someone she loved died, she spent a lot of energy focusing on only the good times.

As I walk in the dichotomy of my flower beds, I think of how all of nature prepares us for the inevitable flow of life. As one bloom fades, another readies itself to take its place. 

My grandfather passed this to George and George passed it to my husband. My mom's bloom faded into mine and I, in turn, will fade into the blossom of the next generation. 

But that's only if I do it right. If my George finds a Ron the way my mom found me. My mom prepared me for all of it. To be the bloom that replaces hers. To hold both the past and the present in the garden of my life. To spend my energy on what grows and let go of what dies. 

This is my mother's garden.

Our hands, our future

There's a simple, almost primal joy in creating something by hand. As technology takes our hands and applies them to a keyboard-only world, I feel that I am rebelling by doing more handwork. 


I've talked about my hand-piecing, hand-quilting craft before on this blog. But it's really much deeper than just the Zen quality I gain from putting needle and thread to fabric.


As you become more familiar with a task, you stop thinking. Your body - often your hands - take over. While piecing and quilting I find myself sometimes looking down at my hands in wonder. 


How did I get to the point where my hands work so quickly to thread a needle, move two pieces of fabric together almost without effort into the correct position, and even recover from a mis-stich so effortlessly?


I get that same feeling when I play guitar. A couple of weeks ago I was teaching a friend (with only two formal lessons under her belt) to play some basic chords. When did I become such an expert? How did my hands become so familiar with the neck of a guitar?


I know you'll say that it's just a matter of repetition but it seems more than that. I think intuition plays a big part. Creating things with our hands is as true to our nature as mammals as we can get. Yet, we are quick to delegate "manual labor" to others. Handwork is quickly becoming a blue-collar specialty.


When I was a kid, my dad and his friends used to get together on Saturday mornings and build dormers on each others' houses. Then they moved on to picture windows. No one ever hired a carpenter unless it was a job outside of their common-sense realm like building a house from scratch.


Where has that trust in our own sense and our own hands gone? 


When my friend Lynne was teaching me how to quilt a few years ago, I was (and still am) adamant that I would make my quilts entirely by hand. I wouldn't have it any other way. No machine ever touches my quilts.


There are people who look at me like I'm insane when I tell them that. But their looks of confusion quickly turn to wonder. My grandmother made quilts by hand but no one looked on in wonder then. It was a standard answer because most people didn't have the money to buy fancy sewing machines and certainly never considered outsourcing the final quilting to a quilt shop as is often done today.


So how do we capitalize on that sense of wonder and inspire others to get back to the basics? 


I don't know anyone under the age of 50 who quilts, knits or sews. Will texting replace the beautiful handwork skills we've inherited from our ancestors? Will we begin giving up life-sustaining and creative skills like cooking and baking and delegate them to a trained few? 

I worry about these things as I see computer skills become more and more important in school curriculum and social interactions. And then I think: Who can I pass this wonder down to?

Should vs. want

I've been working at finding some space for my writing. Not physical but mental. My world lately is consumed by thoughts and concerns about caring for an elderly parent. I've noticed that space in my brain for more ethereal ideas is easily taken over by the need to worry about things over which I have no control.


Nobody really wants to worry. It's compulsive behavior. And so often we feel trapped and ultimately defined by our compulsions. "If I'm not a worrier, than what am I?" 


For the last few days I've been contemplating the power of the spirit. To me, no brain - not even one as perfect as Einstein's - can hold a candle to our intuition and inner voice. I would use the term "soul" but so many people go straight to traditional religion when they hear it and that's not where I want to lead you.


My friend Tiffany said to me recently that we use the word "should" too often in our language. "I should really get my housework done." "I'd like to spend some time with friends but I should get to work on my volunteer responsibilities."


Tiffany suggests that a shift to the word "want" changes not just the sentence but our attitudes. I do want to have a clean house and give back with my volunteerism. So, why do I use the word "should" all the time?


When it comes to writing, which is how I get in touch with my inner voice, I don't want to get in the habit of using the S word. I truly enjoy finding the pearl that lies within a moment. And I enjoy thinking about the wisdom that each of us gains as we go through life. Mostly I love putting words around that wisdom and feel that this is the one true gift I have to offer during my time on this planet.


I'm finding space and, at the same time, finding me again. I should and will do a lot of things but I want to stop being a slave to my compulsions. Worrying about the next thing I will have to do. I will replace the worry space with the want space. 


What will you put in your want space?

Glads for mom

A lot of my family's time this week is being spent remembering my mom and also, I think, dreading tomorrow which marks one year since she passed. 

I believe that everyone's essence is in their personalities not their bodies. So for me, I feel like today is more of the anniversary I've been dreading since the day before she died was the last time we had a conversation.

Last week I was out shopping and came upon a bin filled with different colored gladiolus bulbs. I was struck by them since that was my mother's favorite perennial. My great aunt and uncle were really into glads (as mom always called them), so much so that they had huge gladiolus gardens around their house.

Mom just fell in love with the flowers and so they would invite her over to pick as many as she wanted to bring home. She loved all varieties of colors and would make a beautiful arrangement with them, admiring them as long as they lasted in their vase. Mom looked forward to gladiolus season every year and could never drive by them without commenting on their beauty.

As I stood in the store I reminded myself that I've never had luck with bulbs in my yard. I think the moles use them as late-night snacks since I lose more every year. But with glads you dig them up every fall and replant them in the spring. So maybe this would work.

I picked out a variety of colors and brought the bulbs home. This week I will find the perfect spot for them and plant them in my yard. 

I will honor her memory as I plant them, enjoy their beauty when their season comes, and return them to rest in the winter. I'll remind myself that a great love is always there. Sometimes it blossoms and sometimes it sleeps. But it never really dies.

I got the music in me

I had a follow-up appointment with the shoulder surgeon yesterday and he was trying to get a feel for whether I was returning to my previous activities. 

Doc: Do you play golf?

Me: No, I play guitar.

When I was in high school, I wanted to be a folk star. Most kids probably dream of being rock stars, but not me. 

I wasn't inspired to play and sing because of the Beatles like a lot of people in my generation. I was inspired by John Denver and his acoustic guitar. He also sang in my key making it easy for me to sing along. 

When I was young, my mother insisted I take piano lessons. We all did, though none of us kept it up. The lessons helped me understand more about music and music composition and for that I was grateful.

But it was hard to play piano in the living room when everyone was watching tv. And when I got into my teens, I wanted to be in my room by myself more anyway. So the guitar was also a great solution to my music yearnings while still giving me the space I needed.

My folks gave me a "starter" guitar for Christmas when I was 16. Next to my engagement ring 12 years later, it was the best gift ever. I immediately signed up for guitar lessons at the Andover YMCA. 

We learned how to strum in different rhythms and finger pick. The instructor also taught us all the major chords we would find in most songs. I played and played until my finger tips bled. But once I got the callouses going, the pain went away and I was able to focus on switching quickly between chords and then switching without having to look at my fingers. 

I got a bunch of songbooks (John Denver's was, of course, first on the list) and played songs until I knew them without looking at the music. My guitar came with me to college where I would sit on "the quad" and play and sing for my friends. It also came with me to the beach in the summer when the gang would build a fire in the dunes at night and sing Beatles songs.

Because I was an English major, I started writing poetry and then putting the poetry to music. I wrote some pretty good songs and a friend asked me to record them in his basement studio. Friends added background harmony and instruments. They were pretty sappy songs but I still think they were quite good.

After I was married, I joined the church folk choir where the choir director liked my stuff and had me do quite a bit of playing and singing. She and I also did a St. Paddy's Day gig where I learned traditional Irish folk songs that I perform today.

For many years, I got too busy to take time at night to play - and sing. I actually like to play mostly so that I can sing along. Singing is a bigger love of mine than guitar. Strangely, I sing better while playing, probably because I'm so focused on playing the correct chords that I can relax and not over-think the vocals.

These days I play and sing in church at our circle worship services at night, often with my friend Will on piano and voice (see video above).

Music brings so much joy and, when needed, comfort to others that it's hard to imagine my life without it. When I was in a chorale that went to nursing homes on Saturdays, I saw just how much music lifts us up and takes us back to times of great emotion - happy or sad. No matter how long ago those times happened.

My guitar playing might not be Hendrix-like and my voice certainly isn't as good as Denver's but it brings me a lot of happiness. And when someone asks what I play, I still get a thrill out of answering, "Guitar."