awareness

Hey there,

Tiny rant…

I’m so freakin’ over this election! Who’s with me?

Dear Buddha, I want my peace of mind back. I don’t want to hear about walls, deportation forces, emails, hacks, or the “fixing” of anything.

I am currently on the lookout for my wisdom, serenity and divine nature. If you see them, will you tell them I’ll leave the light on for ’em?

As for the hat…who doesn’t love an acorn hat?

Which brings me to other breaking news: I have squirrels who love to bury their peanuts (don’t ask), in my planters so I sprayed squirrel repellant on some newly planted flowers today so they’ll stay inside of the pots for a change.

Word to the wise: Always smell the repellent before you spray it liberally around your garden. 

This stuff smells like the nastiest dog fart mixed with the smelliest teenage feet, with just a hint of Uncle Bill’s breath after a Hoagie—and a big fat cigar. Needless to say, it is some serious stank.

But they were right. I haven’t seen a squirrel all afternoon. I have also not been able to go out back without gagging.

Just another day in my glamorous life!

Carry on,
xox

Hey guys,
I was going to write about this very subject. About belonging to a perfectly imperfect tribe, the useless pursuit of perfection, the messiness of life, and the complete and utter lack of balance I’m able to maintain in my own. Fuck you balance.

No…I’m not bitter.

But as usual, someone has beat me to it. And not just anyone, Elizabeth Gilbert.

That happens a lot. The same topics being talked about at the exact same time. I often wake up to find that several other writers, independently of each other, even on opposite sides of the world, have written exactly what my blog is about that day.

Not to get all quantum physics on you but it is my belief that an idea emerges from the inspirational soup and circles around. Sometimes only one person picks it up (Steve Jobs), and sometimes many do.

So, here is Liz Gilbert’s take on this topic. And I think she wrote just about the best sentence in all of English literature, “so, is that the person you would call in the middle of night when your life looks like a DROPPED PIE…?”

Right? #todaymylifelookslikeadroppedpie

Carry on,
xox

Dear Ones:

An Instagram friend named Jennifer Orkin Lewis (@augustwren) made this image of one of my quotes…and I think it’s so lovely!
I always talk about embracing the “glorious mess” whenever people ask me questions about how to find “balance”
in this crazy world. Friends, listen to me — I gave up on finding balance a long, long time ago. That ship has sailed, and I ain’t on it.

And seriously, guys, do you know ANYONE who lives their life in perfect and constant balance? And if you did know such a person, would you want to be her friend? Is that the person you would feel comfortable ugly crying in front of? Is that the person you would call in the middle of night when your life looks like a DROPPED PIE, and you know she would never judge you for having screwed up?

No.

The people I love and trust are no more balanced than I am. My beloved friends are the ones who have embraced their own glorious mess — and who have helped teach me, in the process, how to embrace my own.
Try to take it easy on yourselves this week, ok? Shed the obsession for perfection. Let go of the knife you’ve been holding to your own throats. IT’S ALL GONNA BE OK. It’s a messy business, being a human. It’s a messy world. It’s a messy life. And it’s all freaking glorious, and I love it.

Have a great week, lovelies. You’re all a bunch of hot messes, and you’re all perfect.

ONWARD,
LG

(And for more of August Wren, https://www.creativebug.com/…/illustrative-painting-with-go)

I’m ashamed to say that I went into Friday’s AMG Driving Academy bellowing like a blustery fool. The second biggest one in the country.

I declared that I would “kill it!.” That I would “shred that racetrack, drive like a bat-of-of hell, and win!” If God has gifted me with any two things in this life it would be audacity—and conviction. Which, if you think about it is horrifying. There is no balance because sadly, I was getting a second helping of pie when common sense and humility were being passed out.

You see, I believe in the alchemy of osmosis. That the very act of living with, and sleeping next to my husband, the motorcycle and car, track-day speed demon, would make me fearless…and faaaaaaast. After fifteen years SOMETHING cool has to rub off, right? (I’m still waiting for the French accent.)

But I was missing the most important ingredient. SKILL.

Maybe you’re like me and you have no idea how this shit happens. Here’s how a track day works:
They vomit three day’s worth of facts, rules, statistics, and blah, blah, blah at you before you’ve had your coffee. It isn’t civil. After about thirty minutes, they see your eyes glaze over and they’ve bored themselves to the point where they announce, “fuck it, let’s go drive!”, and proceed to lead you to a fleet of very expensive, high-performance cars.

Then they start the day with an exercise. An ice breaker to get you acquainted with the power of the vehicle at your disposal.

Imagine this being yelled at you by an auctioneer.

“Getinyourcars! Adjust the seat and mirrors,go to the line,push the gas pedal TOTHEFLOOR! get the car up to 60 mph in like five seconds (not 58 mph, not 63 mph!), when you see the blue cones slam the brakes TOTHEFLOOR! You have an obstacle right in front of you,(an imaginary gas truck), control the skid while turning the vehicle to the left to avoid becoming a charcoal briquette, then steer immediately to your right to get back into your lane and come back! Go!Go!Go!Go!”

As Raphael and I  ran to our car I started to shake. Violently. “I have NO idea what he wants us to do!” I shrieked. The guttural sounds of four-hundred horses X6 being held back drown out our voices. It was deafening. FUCK! I needed more classroom time! I have questions! “Just watch what I do” he yelled as we hurriedly buckled in. Luckily, that was going to be unavoidable.

What I learned about myself:
1. You need to say “Pay attention to this, it’s going to be on the test, come in handy, save your life later” when you’re disseminating information to me. I like to be informed and clear on what exactly I’m supposed to do—before I’m expected to do it. Also, I like a little foreplay before the main event. I like training wheels and water wings before I venture into the deep end. Huh. Go figure.

2. I’m always the calm one in a crisis. Not here. Turns out I shake violently when in a high adrenaline situation. Or flooded with survival hormones. That does not bode well for deftly steering yourself around a pretend fiery hazard.

3. Eventually, I needed my own car. I wasn’t enjoying the passenger part. It was literally making me sick.

Next was the Skid Pad which is exactly like it sounds. They wet the pavement and you go in a circle, pushing the gas to the floor, causing the car to spin like a bad-ass ice-skater, (all the people who grew up driving on ice did extremely well). Then using some skill you were supposed to have picked up (I was busy getting a muffin), you steer yourself out of an “uncontrolled skid” which is just another way of saying a squealing hot-mess of spinning metal and smoking tires. Basically, you’re drifting (car term). To me, it felt like I spent an hour in a high-speed blender.

What I learned about myself:
3. Even though I took a pill for it, I get queasy when you spin me in circles at a high rate of speed.

4. Because it was so hard, it was a rush watching other people do it well.

5. Even though I grew up in So Cal—I didn’t suck.

This next exercise I LOVED. It is called Auto-Cross and basically, it’s a course of cones consisting of straightaways where you accelerate as fast as you can and then attempt corkscrew and hairpin turns all done at high speed—without knocking over any cones. It is unbelievably fast and furious. And it is timed. A best personal time…and a team time. The pro time was 22 seconds. Seconds! Gulp.

What I learned about myself:
6. Once I calm down and realize the stakes are…nonexistent, I have fun.

7. When I’m on a team— I am competitive as fuck.

8. I really DO like to go fast.

Then, when you’re as dizzy as a drunken sailor they feed you lunch. Lunch is where you confer with the others to figure out just how bad you’re actually doing as opposed to how bad you think you’re doing. I also was curious to see if Raph was off sitting with the cool kids. Had I brought shame to the family? Or had I done well enough to sit next to him—to make him proud. (I was happy to see that he had saved me the seat next to him.)

9. I learned that where racing is concerned (and probably a thousand other things I never think about), I want to make him proud. (Head slap).

After the food and all of our new-found knowledge had settled, they led us onto the world-famous Laguna Seca racetrack and that is where I have to say, I learned the most.

Follow the lines. There are cones placed at various places along the track that you are supposed to focus and aim for. It helps you to place your turns and to use the entire track. It hastens the sense of flow.

Speaking of flow, there is no chance in hell of over thinking while you race. None. Everything happens too fast to think about it. I found myself driving with some kind of weird supernatural, mindless-instinct. 

Use the whole track. In my newbie-ness, I was tempted to drive in a straight line or hug the edges. Using the entire track felt FAST. But after I got the hang of it—also really skillful and empowering.

Don’t forget to breathe. I had to be reminded. Constantly. By my husband. Who likes me to be conscious while I race expensive, fast cars.

Follow the instructor’s lines. VERY important to learn the track behind an expert. I suck at follow-the-leader. I hate it. Until I wanted to survive more than I wanted to blaze my own trail—then I learned to love it.

Focus. Focus. Focus. It is exhausting. But just like in life, a lazy, distracted mind can lead you into the weeds.

Look way ahead to where you want to go. Not to what is directly in front of you. If that’s where you focus—that’s where the car will go. Even if that means you’re looking out the side window—in the middle of a sharp turn—at high speed. Look where you’re headed. Not out in front. Counterintuitive, I know. But when you’re spinning on ice that’s what controls the skid. That’s what gets you around the fiery obstacle.

So now you’re thinking this is where she ties spirituality in with all of this racing stuff  and you’re right. I truly believe these exact same skills are the ones I’ve had to remember—and utilize—to get myself through this crazy life. How about you?

Carry on,
xox

Since I wrote this piece last year, a book by the same name has come out. How about that? An entire book filled with stories about this crazy, enigmatic, whimsical guy who lives life strictly on his own terms.

“The legend, in case you haven’t heard it before, usually goes something like this: “My [brother/buddy/cousin] was in [Chicago/New York/Los Angeles] a couple of years ago, just walking around, when all of a sudden some guy runs up from behind him and [gives him a bear hug/puts his hands over his eyes/puts him in a headlock and gives him a noogie]. So he spins around and it’s freaking Bill Murray, man. Bill Murray! From Ghostbusters, man! No, no—the tall one. You know, he was in Caddyshack? Anyway, Murray looks at my [brother/buddy/cousin] right in the eye, and says, ‘No one will ever believe you.’ And then he just walks away! How nuts is that, dude?!”
~GQ Magazine

https://www.amazon.com/Tao-Bill-Murray-Real-Life-Enlightenment/dp/0812998707

“I live a little bit on the seat of my pants, I try to be alert and available. I try to be available for life to happen to me. We’re in this life, and if you’re not available, the sort of ordinary time goes past and you didn’t live it. But if you’re available, life gets huge. You’re really living it.”
Bill Murray to Charlie Rose, 2014]

I heard once that when we die the first question we ask when we get to the other side is: How did I do?

Can you imagine? How did I do?

Not, “where’s the big guy or which way is the the buffet?”  We ask, How did I do?

So, if that is indeed the case, what do you want to hear back?

“You did okay. You played it a little safe, though.”

“You forgot to have fun!”

“Better luck next time.”

Or the worst one of all: “You completely missed the point.”

Wouldn’t that just suck?

Sooooooo…..

Let’s let life get huge.

Let’s add value and leave a wake of shattered rules behind us.

Let’s all let our light shine bright, replacing our earthly halo’s with the real deal.

Why not? Isn’t that the point?

Carry on,
xox

That one hit’s home…doesn’t it?

When I think of all the hours, days, weeks and years I’ve wasted “overthinking” things. It makes me want to scream…and eat every Kit Kat bar I can find. And I’m not even that bad. I’m SOOOO much better than I used to be. I know a few people who have reached professional status as far as “overthinking” goes.

I think things turned around for me when I stopped giving all those fucks.

So, I guess that’s my advice. Chill. Have a cocktail. Eat a carbohydrate. Leave things up to a greater power than yourself, one that has an overview of your life and may just give you a clue IF it can wedge a thought in that crowded head of yours edgewise.

And stop giving so many fucks.

Carry on,
xox

I have a tribe. A writing tribe of women.
Mel is a part of that tribe.

Mel writes in a way that her words paint pictures inside your imagination.
Mel’s writing transports you to the very place she intends to take you.
And while you’re there…she steals your heart.
She does it to me every fucking time.

My editor says I make her snort laugh coffee out her nose.
Mel made her editor cry.
She wins. Because everyone knows editors have their tear ducts removed. They never cry.

Her editor at Elephant Journal also told her “This is, hands down, one of my favorite elephant articles to date.”

Well…That…a compliment…That is an occurrence so rare it’s up there with editor tears and portraits of Jesus on burnt pieces of toast.

Now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed her with all the gushing I’ll let you see for yourself. I’m posting the link only so you will go over and tweet and comment.

Ladies and gentleman, my friend, Mel Maure:

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2016/10/stop-ignoring-these-connections-they-can-turn-your-day-or-life-around/

*Melanie Maure is a forest-dwelling kind of gal who splits her time between writing and private practice as a psychotherapist and she teaches a little yoga on the side. One of the strongest influences on her writing is the twenty years experience she possesses helping people navigate PTSD, injuries and the effects of physical, mental and emotional trauma.

As a woman, therapist and writer Melanie believes humor is a key ingredient for recovery and growth, and her writing often reflects this belief. She is currently in the third round of revisions on her debut novel, which recently received agency representation with RO Literary. Mel did an extremely awkward happy dance on that day.

Melanie lives works and plays in Peachland, British Columbia with her husband Jason and her fur-child Slim Jim.

Melanie can be found in the woods or at these more convenient locations: email, Instagram, Facebook.

I have to remind myself that this could be—this should be—true when making any decision.

Right? I mean just the thought of making a decision unfettered by financial restraints makes my heart beat faster.
I palpitate all over the place.
Possibilities start to appear.
Were they hiding? Not really. I was just too tangled up in penny counting to see them.

But maybe I can only speak for myself.

The thing is, I’ve talked to several of my friends this week who were also weighing options. Career, geographic relocation, relationships. You know, the stomach-clenching terror-trifecta. They were making lists of pros and cons, calculating risks, and looking for signs. Anything to give them a clue.

I was right there with them, looking to the sky, turning over every rock. Listening for a booming voice inside of a burning bush.

I’m looking at having an elective surgery (nothing major), around the end of the year. The doctor I want to use is out of network (insurance speak), so I will have to dig deep into my own pockets—or be okay with a complete stranger cutting me open.

“What if money wasn’t an issue?” I asked my friend at brunch on Sunday. She’s barreling toward some biggies in the next few months. Good stuff, life changing really. No pressure. She has a lot of options, but sometimes all those choices complicate things. They muddy the water.

“Mmmmmm…” she mused, enjoying a bite of ricotta pancake. “That’s easy.”

“Then that’s the answer!”  I announced, and suddenly, we both had clarity on our respective conundrums. And bacon. We had bacon.

Fuck you money! You are not the boss of us!

I always forget it really IS that easy. Don’t you?
Money is figureoutable. It really is—if we can step out of fear’s grip.

Maybe I can unimagine Edward Scissorhands having his way with me in an operating room because of my belief in lack. And hey, I am most certainly aware that my angst is a result of giving it a face—and way more power than it deserves.

Maybe you’re at a crossroads. Maybe you needed to see this right now. Maybe you need to ask yourself  “What would you do if money wasn’t an issue?”

Carry on,
xox

To my dear men,
I have had the supreme good fortune to have been surrounded by you guys all of my life. How lucky am I?

You are unfailingly decent men.
Good men.
Nice men.
Respectful and kind men.

And as the past few weeks have unfolded with this Trump Tape of Horrors and the ensuing conversation that followed, I have watched you squirm.

Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it.

Although the language wasn’t new to you because hey, come on, you’re all grown-ass men—it was rough. Crude. I saw you cringe or walk out of the room. It embarrassed you and I took note of that.

The conversation about the sexual assault of women has been locked up. Sealed in a stinking Pandora’s Box for decades.
This incident has opened it and unleashed the Kraken, I know, and it’s uncomfortable.

That’s why we haven’t talked about it.

I see you trying to understand why all the women in your life are reacting so strongly to this. Why are we so emotional? Why is our hair on fire?
Finally, after about a week of talking and asking questions—we clued each other in.

During our talks what really surprised me was the genuine—GENUINE—shock you expressed at this sentence:
“I do not know a single woman, regardless of age, race, size, or color who has not had to fend off an unwanted sexual advance in her life. Ask your mother, ask your sister, ask your daughter. NOT A SINGLE ONE.”

After I said that you all sat back in your chairs like you’d been physically pushed. You shook your heads in disgust. One of you put your hand to your mouth to stifle a gasp.

“I didn’t know that… I didn’t know how pervasive it is”,  was the resounding chorus from the decent men I know. I’m going to cut you a break because good and decent men tend to hang out together, so the odds of you seeing bad behavior goes up. And let’s be real—its not on your radar.

Probably because we, the women around you, are not putting it there. So now I will.

Look, you guys lock your doors at night, right? You watch your wallets in a crowd. You don’t talk about fight club. That’s about the extent of your concern for your personal safety.

It’s different for women. Our bodies are what “they” want. The perv, the creep, the rapist or the jerk shoving Tic-Tacs in his mouth, waiting to get off the bus and hug and kiss us on demand. 

You guys have always tried to keep me safe and I love you for that. You have warned me out of certain neighborhoods at night. You have escorted me to my car in dark parking lots. You have walked me protectively past construction sites listening to the cat calls. You have alerted me to the fact that my tires had dangerously worn tread and that you didn’t feel it was safe to drive through the Nevada desert alone at night—but you have no idea what it means to be the object of every creep’s unchecked lust.

It’s such a common occurrence, we don’t talk about it. So common that if women blew a whistle every time there was an impropriety—you’d hear nothing else.

I love you guys, I really do. Good men are the majority in my opinion. But I think you’re innate goodness has left you naive. And it’s time you knew the truth.

Women deal with this shit. Day in and day out. And it’s got to stop.

Not just me. Every woman you know. We just don’t talk about it.
Until now.

And you should too. To each other and to the women in your life.

Thank you so much for listening.
xox

Hey you guys,
Well, look at this. Two years have gone by and I haven’t changed a bit. Consistency is a virtue…isn’t it?
Carry on,
xox

We have all had those days. You know the ones where you find fault with EVERYTHING? The sky isn’t the right Tiffany shade of blue and the air conditioning is blowing too cold. So tell me, how do you get yourself out of it?

Do you, at some point realize your ridiculousness and slap yourself the hell out of it?

Or do you marinate in the fact that you’re so contrary that if George Clooney sat down beside you you’d tell him he needed a haircut and an Altoid?

I know you know we ALL know when we’re being an ass.

We wake up every day and there are two sides of the bed on which to get up.
The sunny side or the dark side—the right side or the wrong side.

The question I’m asking is this; if by some cruel twist of circumstance and hormones, when you put your feet on the floor and you wake up in the land of EVERYTHING IS WRONG, do you indulge and make those around you miserable? Or do you do your damnedest to climb out?

I’ve done both. I DO both. Guilty as a charged in the court of I’M A HORRIBLE, TWO-SIDED BITCH.

These dark days do not come naturally to me, but when I’m under their spell – watch out – and know that I DO realize what an ass-hat I’m being, I just can’t help myself right. this. minute.
God, I’m so sorry.
Not really.
See what I mean?!

Case in Point: the kitchen looks the same as it did two days ago when I was feeling so twinkly and grateful.
The bright summer sunshine shone on a couple of places that have chipped white paint but that only made it look charming and cozy. Our coffee maker broke, we replaced it, no harm no foul (thank you Amazon). The wine stains on the wood countertops triggered happy memories. Faded purple reminders of a really fun party last summer.

Today, (wrong side of the bed day) I’m seriously entertaining throwing a grenade behind me and shutting the door, giving us the opportunity for a fresh start.

You’re welcome Honey, what can I say…I’m a giver.

Oh, by-the-way, don’t tell me I’m acting unreasonable—because that’s like taking a hose full of lighter fluid and spraying it on a forest fire.

I KNOW I AM. AND I’M WORKING IT OUT.

But I will deny it until my dying breath. I will tell you I’m “fine.”
I’m sorry if your feelings and our kitchen have become collateral damage. If you want to survive this:
Don’t make eye contact and DON’T try to hug me. I have a fork in my hand.

Inevitably, these are the days they’re out of sesame bagels, the coffee order is wrong and you don’t find out until you’re back at the office, and there’s a fly, doing the backstroke, in your won-ton soup.

My best strategy in the past has been to isolate for a while.  Take a long, lovely walk outside in nature (I can’t today, with the heat index and the humidity, it feels like Thailand.)

Meditation can be a good way to snap back into a loving place along with exercise. Neither of those has worked, so I’m still marinating in my misery.

Hormones, I’m blaming hormones. 
I remember feeling this out of sorts during puberty, but the Good Lord had the common decency to deal me that hand when I wasn’t old enough to marry, operate heavy machinery or carry a firearm.
Whatever shall I do now?

The trick for me is listening to my own words as they spill uncensored from my lips.
If they make even me cringe, I need to make a correction.
I need to shut up and realize I’m acting like an ass.
You guys, is that what you do?

I just listen to myself. Step up and out of my body as I berate the barista, or the lady at Ralph’s, or my husband.

If every other word is a snarky critique or fuck, chances are you’re having THAT kind of day.
Sometimes, what I hear ME say is so vile it makes me laugh—which breaks the spell.

What if that doesn’t work?
Do everyone, including yourself a favor.
Remain silent, drink wine, go to bed early, and before you go to sleep say a little prayer for a better disposition tomorrow.

Love you anyway,
Xox

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Hi Loves,
Feeling anxious? Fearful of the dystopian future being predicted by the talking heads on cable TV? Take a deep breath…and feel safe. You are safe. All is well. Well-being abounds. And fear is an invented lie.
I should know. Well, me and Dita my dog.
Carry on,
xox

Late one night last week, our dog, a nine-year-old boxer, startled us all awake…

The puppy heard it before anyone. She brought it to our attention by running around the bed, her nails tapping out a sort of morse code S.O.S. on the wooden floor. She may be young, but she’s resourceful.

It was 3 am. My husband got up and went to look into the old girl’s cubby in the wall, her virtual cave of a bed, to see what was what.

Querida (Dita for short) was thrashing around, on her back, legs in the air, doing the cartoon run for her life. You know, the one that gets you nowhere.

I could hear her wild breathing – the snorts and hoarse panting. It sounded like she was in the fight of her life with an invisible foe. Come to find out she was battling her own demons.

It appeared (as reported by a somewhat reliable source, my husband) that Dita had somehow become wedged between the wall and her down filled, hotel bed quality, better than any dog deserves – cushion. A crevice had opened during the night, and while she lay unaware, peacefully dreaming her sweet doggie dreams, it had swallowed her whole.

He reported that she looked like a bug on it’s back, struggling to right itself, only problem was – she was uncomfortably wedged until he was able to free her.

When he pulled her out of what I’m sure seemed to her to be a deep, dark, Grand Canyon sized chasm, my girl tried to shake it off.
She paced; wandering around our dark house, going in and out of every room, as if searching for her lost car keys. Several minutes later I heard her take herself, in her adrenaline infused stupor, outside to pee, after first tussling with the doggie door. I think she just needed the cool, fresh air.

Her breathing was rapid, she was panting, her little heart running a marathon.

As I watched my dog use the ancient instinct she was born with to navigate the terror inside that dark and twisted place that was her mind – I had a realization.

Through some fluke of nature, some law of weird science, Dita really IS my daughter, because here it is 3 am and she is having a panic attack!

Panic attacks used to be my wheelhouse, I know them well. Boy, could I relate.

Curiously, our attacks were identical, the reactions the same – an instinctive, primal, repetitive dance of self-preservation.

I too have woken up flailing like a bug on my back, my brain convincing me of my imminent demise after falling into an invisible abyss. I too have walked the halls, alone, searching for comfort, my hand feeling its way in the dark, touching old wood in the hopes of grounding; soaking up its familiarity. I have not gone outside to pee, (there but for the grace of God), but I have spent the hours just before dawn shaking in the bathroom; waiting for my heart to stop racing.

And it is ALWAYS, without FAIL, 3 am(ish). WTF?!

Have you ever had an anxiety or panic attack? If you have you know what I’m talking about. I would not wish them on my worst enemy. On those unfortunate souls, I wish a bad perm and severely chapped lips. Anxiety attacks, in my opinion, are somewhere along the lines of emotional waterboarding.

They are torture. Self-imposed torture—but torture just the same.

Mine felt like a cross between a heart attack, losing my mind, and being chased through the streets by a Velociraptor. My heart would beat out of my chest, while an elephant or two pulled up a seat right there and got comfy.
I would obsess on my breathing and start sweating, gasping for air – fight or flight in all it’s glory.
The sky appeared to be hung too low, making me feel like Chicken Little.
My sanity seemed elusive, my thoughts raced like a wild animal escaped from its cage.

I have actually looked at myself in the mirror and not recognized the person behind my own eyes.

Sometimes it would be preceded by a stressful situation, but often times not. Hence waking up in a full panic for no apparent reason; which just added confusion to the already fear infused emotional cocktail that was messing with my head.

These three questions ran on a loop inside my rattled brain: Why me? Why now? When will it end?

So, I watched my poor pork chop of a boxer (she’s not fat, just thick in the middle from age – again like her mother) try to navigate her fear, struggling to maintain her sanity. She had believed the story her mind was telling her, and THAT’S when the terror took hold.

She believed she was trapped ( huge anxiety trigger) and it caused her to hyperventilate (classic step two of panic attacks) which then convinced her she was going to die.

Dita did what you do in that situation. You flee, you run, you take a walk, you look for someplace that holds comfort for you—you do whatever it takes to gather your wits.

Once we figured out what was happening, which took us awhile because we were all so groggy (except for the puppy, who thought being up in the middle of the night warranted popcorn, bad TV and a pillow fight) we brought her up onto the bed with us; disoriented and frantic.

Because isn’t that the final solution you come to after you’ve worn out all the other options? That you must eventually find your way back to bed?

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about just that in Eat, Pray, Love.
After spending hours crying on the bathroom floor, begging for mercy from her emotional pain; a voice in her head answered her prayer for guidance, “Go back to bed Liz” was its simple directive.

Since Dita was too scared to go back to her own bed, ( do you blame her? It had tried to eat her alive!) I knew the next step – she had to come up with us. (I would have crawled in bed with my parents during my attacks—if I’d lived at home and wasn’t 25, 35, 40.)

With one hand on her head, I lay there deep in thought, realizing that her fear had been as baseless as mine all those years ago.
She was fine. It was self-invented.
Easy for me to say from where I sit NOW, but it’s true.

Her mind presented false evidence that appeared real. FEAR.
With hindsight, I could see that mine had been just as ridiculous.

After another fifteen minutes, she took a deep, calming breath, settled down, and fell asleep. My husband and I then took a turn, each taking our own relief-filled deep breath.

I continued to stroke her graying, velvet ears, listening to her softly snore.

I’m happy we could help her.
Because of my (our) familiarity with this kind of behavior, we had kept the lights off and stayed calm, talking to her softly, petting and kissing her face. We hadn’t shadowed her, following her from room to room, asking her what was wrong. That would have made her feel more anxious.

Animals can sense energy, they can feel your fear.

No, we did all the things I’ve learned in order to calm myself when I’m in the midst of an anxiety attack. Slow, deep breaths, remaining calm and finding a place to feel safe. Apparently, that works for people and dogs.

If I can tell you one thing, it’s that she is fortunate to be a dog. With a minimum of baggage and tons of good canine instinct, she was able to calm herself in a little less than an hour. That makes her my hero—I only wish I’d been that adept.

Yep, she’s my fearful, furry daughter and clearly, I’m her mom.