Embrace the Open Window

“When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.”

--Julie Andrews as Maria von Trapp in The Sound of Music

“Keep passing the open windows.”

--John Irving, The Hotel New Hampshire

The Bible and the Buddha aside, sometimes I think that all you really need to know you can learn from Maria von Trapp and John Irving. I was reminded of this recently, after falling into a funk, due to a run of bad luck which included losing my job and my dog. When our beloved Shakespeare died, I wrote a blog about it—and my misery was met with compassion, kindness, and generosity from you all, friends and strangers alike. I thank you truly, deeply, sincerely.

One of you, my dear friend Gina Paniettieri, read the blog and asked me to join Talcott Notch Literary Services. “When can I start?” I asked. “Now,” she answered. Within hours, I was in business.

When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.

But escaping through a window is neither as easy nor as direct a path as leaving through the front door. A fall from a window can be fatal. Going from a lifetime of staff positions with big companies paying handsome salaries and benefits to the uncertain glories of a commission-based income requires a leap of faith. 

Keep passing the open windows.

Both Ms. Von Trapp and Mr. Irving offer sound advice. But the paradox of life on earth is that we must traverse a world in which both axioms ring true. We must recognize an open window as the escape it is when we see one, remember that jumping is always a risky business, and then take the plunge anyway.

Because life is short, and we need to climb every mountain, even if we are all terminal cases.

Wish me luck!

The Year of Giving Continues

Days 52 – 65

Given in nurturing, care-giving, and mourning to Shakespeare.

Day 66 of 365

Freddie, our beagle, has been very lonely since his pal died. So I give him lots of love and attention and treats today and every day as we mourn Shakespeare.

Day 67 of 365

I send my daughter Alexis a beautiful Seven Chakra Necklace, made of lovely faceted gemstones I’ve selected myself, and strung on a sterling silver chain by my favorite jewelry designer Susan Reynolds. Check it out. (If you want one, just let me know.)

Day 68 of 365

At a networking lunch, I give a struggling entrepreneur a lot of marketing ideas, and volunteer to write some web copy for her.

Day 69 of 365

I donate a dozen pair of jeans—my man’s jeans—to charity. It has occurred to me, finally, that when I’m really at a loss for what to give, I can give away his stuff, too. (Hey, it’s okay, I did ask him first.)

Day 70 of 365

I take Freddie for a long walk in the cranberry bogs. Shakespeare loved the bogs, and we haven’t had the heart to walk there since he passed. But today I dedicated my walking meditation to Shakespeare, and Freddie and I hit the trail. It’s as if Shakespeare is there with us; I hear his spirit in the wind.

Day 71 of 365

I send my sister Pisces Hallie, Renee, and Carol birthday cards—with real notes inside, instead of my usual “Love you!” scrawls.

Day 72 of 365

I write up a quick guide to asanas and chakras for a yogini artist friend to use in her work and email it to her.

Day 73 of 365

My middle child—now thirty-something—is always losing things. Still. So I send Greg another medallion to replace the one I sent him for his birthday six months ago. This time I give him a fossilized quartz stone strung on a dark leather cord. This talisman combines the strength of clear quartz, known as the Power Stone, with the wisdom of the ages, represented by the fossils inside. Let’s hope he can hold onto this one long enough to evoke its mystical properties.

Day 74 of 365

Today’s my birthday, and I give my significant other, who’s on deadline, a break and tell him, no worries, we can wait until the weekend to celebrate. And I really mean it.

Day 75 of 365

I have dinner with a friend, and give her my full attention as she tells me about the troubles she’s suffered since we last saw each other. Mine pale in comparison, and I am reminded that this is always true, and were I to pay as much attention to what’s going on around me as to what’s going on inside me, I’d practice more compassion, gratitude and lovingkindness.

Day 76 of 365

I come up with both a series title and a book title for my Scribe Tribe sister’s new cozy—and encourage her to finish it.

Day 77 of 365

My son Mikey is home from college for the weekend. I give him a big hug and twenty bucks for gas. He disappears with his friends, and I do his laundry.

Day 78 of 365

I give up resenting the fact that I got laid off—and embrace my new opportunities. 

Letting Go of Shakespeare

 “If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.”

                                                            --William Shakespeare

In the past two weeks I haven’t done very much. I haven’t written a blog. I haven’t been to a yoga class. I haven’t walked through the bogs or watched What Not to Wear or called my mother, all tactics usually guaranteed to lift my spirits. Most important, in this my self-proclaimed Year of Giving, I haven’t given away a single thing.

This. Is. Resistance.

Resistance happens when the flow of your life is dammed by your own obstacles, your own obtuseness, and/or your own obstinacy. But, you say, I had a good reason for not being here, not going there, not doing this or achieving that. There’s always a good reason.

And I had a very good reason. Indeed, I had lots of good reasons, all of which amounted to this: I was sitting alone in my too-quiet house with no job and a dying dog feeling very sorry for myself.  

Shakespeare has been my dearest companion since we adopted him in Las Vegas 13 years ago. A big, shaggy black mutt of sweet and even temperament, he’d been abandoned by his previous owners. Nameless and homeless and ageless, he was a grand dog who deserved a grand name—so I called him Shakespeare and took him home as an early Christmas present for me and Mikey. We fell in love with him, and he with us. Everyone loved Shakespeare, he was easy to love.

But ultimately he was my dog. Perhaps because he remembered that I saved him, and he thought it was his turn to save me. And he did save me—over and over again. Shakespeare saw me through lay-offs and break-ups and cross-country moves. He led me on long walks when, blinded by endless tears during my divorce, I took my grief outside where Mikey couldn’t see. He served as my sentry, positioning himself by my bedroom door for his watch every night. He curled up at my feet when I collapsed on the couch after work, too tired to move. And one evening when I fell asleep after putting the kettle on, thereby setting the kitchen on fire, it was Shakespeare who roused me just in time.

Such Sweet Sorrow

So there I was, sitting alone in my house feeling sorry for my poor self, with no job and a dying dog. Dr. B said that Shakespeare had cancer, but given his advanced age, surgery and chemo really weren’t options. He gave us meds to make our ailing dog more comfortable, and sent us home.

For a few weeks, Shakespeare seemed to rally. But then he took a sudden turn for worse. He couldn’t walk, he wouldn’t eat, he cried in his sleep. He was failing—fast. I sat by him, day after day, praising and petting him, as he slipped into the next world.

Resistance was futile. Shakespeare died. And I gave myself the time to mourn.