It was a beautiful spring day, albeit an unusually muggy one, which is so not good for curly hair. The other day I went to a new hairdresser for a slight trim and ended up getting bushwhacked. And so, coupled with the humidity, I'm currently sporting a less-than-flattering Afro. Attractive on Beyonce maybe, not so much on me.
Which is why I felt the rare need to go shopping, a task that I normally eschew. I wanted to pick up a new lip gloss, maybe a new top, earrings or burqa. Anything to make me feel better about this rat's nest that I'm stuck with for the next few weeks.
But in grabbing my car keys and heading toward the garage, I did something I shouldn't have done: I made eye contact with Olivia.
Big mistake.
Immediately she jumped up from her pillow and began dancing in circles around me, bursting with joy at the prospect of a walk. When I tried ignoring her, she started doing her playful downward dog position, bony butt in air and long skinny tail spinning like a helicopter propeller. I had to admit, she looked pretty darned cute, but really, mama felt like a troll. Mama needed to feel good about herself. Mama needed a little retail therapy.
"Sweetheart," I said with just a teeny bit of guilt. "We'll go for a walk later, I promise." And I grabbed my purse and started to leave.
But then I thought about my playful dog who spends weekdays alone while I'm at the office. My adoring dog who lives and breathes for my presence. My sweet dog who asks for nothing but my company. My devoted dog who loves me unconditionally, bad haircuts and all. I looked at the light in her eyes, thrilled with the promise of a walk. With me.
I set down my purse, hung up my keys, and put on her leash. And as we began our three-mile walk it dawned on me that maybe mama didn't need retail therapy after all. Because it was a glorious sunny day and the park was bursting with spring flowers and falling cherry blossoms that floated through the air like pink snow. Olivia was at my side, prancing with joy and looking up at me every now and then with happy, loving eyes.
Soon, I forgot about trivial things like bad haircuts. Instead, I was relishing this interlude with nature, this precious time with my dog. And I was feeling pretty good.
Turned out my solution wasn't retail therapy, but "tail" therapy--something Olivia was happy to provide.
Did you know there was a dog saint? And that it was a Greyhound? Yeah, me neither! This is a rather timely revelation, considering that the new Pope has named himself after Saint Francis, the Patron Saint of Animals. Here's the scoop:
"Saint Guinefort was a 13th century dog that received local veneration as a saint after miracles were reported at his grave.
Guinefort the greyhound belonged to a knight who lived in a castle near Lyon [France]. One day, the knight went hunting, leaving his infant son in the care of Guinefort. When he returned, he found the nursery in chaos - the cot was overturned, the child was nowhere to be seen and Guinefort greeted his master with bloody jaws.
Believing Guinefort to have devoured his son, the knight slew the dog. He then heard a child crying; he turned over the cot and found his son lying there, safe and sound, along with the body of a viper. Guinefort had killed the snake and saved the child.
On realizing the mistake the family dropped the dog down a well, covered it with stones and planted trees around it, setting up a shrine for Guinefort. Guinefort became recognized by locals as a saint for the protection of infants."
According to Wikipedia, the cult of this dog saint persisted for many centuries, until the 1930s, despite the prohibitions of the Catholic Church.
Maybe the new Pope will "paws" for thought about this because hey, if ever a creature deserved sainthood, it would have to be a dog.
Can I have an "amen?"
So Friday at sunset marked the start of National Day of Unplugging, a 24-hour period in which our wired society is encouraged to unplug and recharge. Stop and smell the flowers, so to speak.
I love this idea. During my 13 days in Israel, one profound and memorable experience was observing Shabbat (the Jewish Sabbath) during which observant Jews abstain from labor of any kind. Even our hotel in Jerusalem featured one elevator designated specifically for Shabbat; it was programmed to automatically stop at every single floor so guests wouldn't have to go to the "work" of punching their floor's button.
That may sound a bit extreme, but the concept of Shabbat resonated with our group. We agreed with the advent of hand-held devices that fit in our pockets, we're now too plugged in and, as a result, tuned out. I have to confess while I'm sitting here, typing these very words, I'm simultaneously playing Words with Friends on my iPhone (nice play, Don). Okay busted, I'm checking email too. On two different accounts, no less.
Celebrating Shabbat made me realize that I don't know how to relax anymore. Be in the moment. When I'm not sitting at a desk in the office, I'm sitting at my desk at home writing columns, meeting deadlines, or I'm racing around doing errands: cleaning house, grocery shopping, paying bills, getting gas, doing laundry. Oh, which reminds me: excuse me one moment while I move my wet linen from the washing machine into the dryer.
Okay, I'm back.
I can't remember the last time I crashed on the couch in the middle of a Sunday afternoon with a book (and reading "The Accidental Creative" for my marketing job doesn't count). The last time I watched I Love Lucy reruns in the middle of the day. The last time I sat on my sunny balcony and enjoyed the stunning valley view without checking my iPhone.
The last time I did nothing.
Instead, every minute is accounted for. When it isn't, I find my head spinning and looking for the next chore to cross off my list: aren't there bills to pay? Tubs to scrub? Weeds to pull, statements to file or drawers to clean? I've become so wired to work that I've forgotten how to live any other way.
Given my career, maybe I can't totally unplug for 24 hours but I can take baby steps and, as I mentioned above, try to stop and smell the flowers. Maybe I'll do just that during the beach walk I'm taking this afternoon with Olivia and my good friend Sue and her greyhound, Stella.
And the phone will stay home. Well, in the car at least. Okay, in my pocket, but I won't take it out. More than once, anyway. Okay, twice max.
Like I said, babysteps.
