A moment or two to breathe...

I got the bad boy home last night. From Erda to Provo, it was quite a ride for both of us. He took the whole situation like a champ, bless his heart. It was his first time away from his siblings, his first car ride, his first time to wear a collar. It was my first time to be responsible for another life. I was so stressed out.

When we got home, I unloaded the pup and took him to the back yard. He wasn't too sure about his new surroundings. Even though I had things to unload from the car, I wanted to stick around for a minute or two while he adjusted. I laid down on the grass. Two seconds later, he was curled up beside me, panting away in the kind of deep, heavy breathing that comes from being tired out of your mind.

After feeding my grandpa, I turned off the nightly schedule on the sprinkler system, then I took my blankets and pillow out to the back yard. It was a while before we fell asleep; he kept opening his eyes to see if I was awake, and I kept opening my eyes to see if he was still there. Every time he'd move, I'd wake up. Every single noise seemed to alert him. He was just so scared.

I woke up on the lawn at about twenty minutes to six. It was still half dark, but I could see his eyes through his black mask staring back at me. I wonder if he really slept much at all. He was just so tired today. He didn't want to go on walks, he only played for about five minutes before taking a nap, and he didn't really look amused at anything. In the middle of all my worry, I kept having to remind myself that he's probably reeling from the big change.

I got so stressed out just thinking about him, whether or not he would have been better off back with the breeders. I've never felt so freaked by responsibility before.

We both need time to adjust.

Neurotic Parents

Picture a family of whacks, dressed up in their matching cashmere sweaters for a photo that will appear on their Christmas card, with some cheesy message about "Wise men still seek him" inside. The kids aren't allowed to eat anything that isn't organic. The children aren't allowed to sleep over at someone's house until they're 12. And none of them have seen a horror movie before they enter high school. It seems like a family situation straight out of a movie. Everyone rolls their eyes at the paranoid parents (quite often, just an overprotective mother) and wants to scream, "Back the hell off and let the kid grow up!"

I went shopping for Pistol on Wednesday night. I had to get a collar, dog food, crate, etc. in order to be able to bring him home today. As I started shopping, I found myself understanding those overprotective mothers. I looked at the ingredients on each of the doggy treats. I asked myself, is this organic? Are these ingredients going to make the kid overweight? I looked at the puppy foods and thought, is there too much calcium in this brand that will make him grow too fast and give him bone problems? Is the kibble small enough that he won't choke? I looked at the chew toys and put down the ones that he could choke on as well. I looked at the doggy crates and asked myself, is this one going to break his teeth or hurt his mouth if he starts chewing on it? Is there anything that will pinch his poor little body if he tries to get out? My mind ran through all of the dangerous possibilities.

I woke up today feeling really excited that I get to bring my boy home, but mostly, I just get so scared when I think about it. I've never been solely responsible for another life like this. Most people can accidentally kill a goldfish and not bat an eyelash, but this is a dog. There's more of a connection to a mammal of this kind. I just don't want to screw up another life. What if the poor boy gets lonely? What if I don't feed him the right stuff? What if I don't give him enough exercise? What if I spoil him and he never learns the kind of discipline that makes a truly happy dog?

I'm glad I'm being opened to new perspectives in life--the kind of perspectives that I used to scoff at. It's lovely to be able to develop that respect for different feelings and viewpoints.

Wish me luck. The kid is fully mine in less than three hours.

Baby Pistol

Has anyone ever heard of Erda? It's a quaint little place--a small gathering of farm homes rather than a city or town. Golden wheat fields wave in the wind, streets don't have gutters, homes have porches large enough that you can actually entertain on them, every one owns at least one horse and knows how to shoe it themselves. It's a nice place to see, then get the hell out of because it's too quiet and small. Places like that always seem to make me sad. Some personalities can feel so peaceful and beautiful in that kind of setting. I always feel really small and alone.

I'm tired of being alone. I live in my grandparents' basement, and I mostly sleep. I have goals and pursuits to carry me, but I don't feel quite as fulfilled as I'd like. I feel most fulfilled when I have someone to take care of. Rather than talk to myself all the time, I'd rather talk to a dog.

I remember begging my parents for a Saint Bernard since the time I was ten or eleven. Mind you, this was before that movie "Beethoven" came out. But my parents, remembering our latest and only family dog we had as a child, couldn't bear the thought that another dog might be neglected. Plus, they didn't like the bugs that animals sometimes attract.

I'm twenty-six, for kripes sake! What's holding me back?

As far as I know, there are only two Saint Bernard breeders in the state of Utah: one in Cache Valley and one out in Erda. Erda is a half-hour drive from Salt Lake. I usually have to go to Salt Lake on Tuesdays for my harp lessons, so I figured I would go out to Erda beforehand so that I could see the puppies.


I passed by the Salt Flats and the Great Salt Lake on my way. Can you believe that I had never seen either? It was really fascinating to see a place like that in Utah. It was also really dangerous; I was driving and talking to my mom on the phone at the same time. It doesn't make sense to stare and multi-task in the car. Don't do it, guys.

In the past two months, these breeders have had two different litters. He opened the gate to let them out of their kennel, and the twelve puppies scattered like mice--so intent to explore the world and play. I sat down on the grass, and two puppies came up to sit on my lap, one started nibbling at my hand, another started chewing on my shoe, and the rest just ran around me, chasing and tackling each other. You've never seen a cuter bunch of nuggets.


Anyway, this is my boy, and nine week old male that I'm bringing home this Friday. I get really irritated when breeders will name their puppies, only to sell them away. What right do they have to name a dog that will spend the rest of its life with someone else, just because they happened to be there when the litter was dropped? These breeders don't name their puppies. He's all mine, and I decide his name. He's Pistol.

Flashback

Yesterday was my first harp lesson in over a month. I've missed them. I really need another pair of eyes and ears (an experienced set of eyes and ears) to help me identify those areas where I can improve. It's critical as a harpist. Most people, bless them, are so enchanted with the sound and the aesthetics of the instrument that they rarely identify poor playing. You have to be a harpist in order to appreciate the work another harpist has put into his or her presentation.

So Carolyn, with all her praise and sharp instruction, is my best asset for where I want to go. We're both acclimated to the charms of the harp. We're far less likely to be blinded by its intrinsic novel quality. We can examine my abilities for what they are, then find ways to improve them so that I can become far more able.

It feels marvelous to be drifting away from simply spending my time dreaming and wanting to really practicing. Work will set you free. (I feel less apprehensive about using those exact words in English rather than German).

My teacher lives literally right around the corner from both The London Market and Elizabeth's English Tea Shop and Bakery in Salt Lake City. I went into The London Market to treat myself to some chocolate digestives (they're cookies, not laxatives), some blackcurrant jam, and a bag of sherbet lemons. I had the wildest flashback as I was walking out the door. The door surface is covered in magnets of Underground and London street signs of various sizes. Then I could hear Joanna Lumley's voice so clearly in my head, saying, "The next station is South Kensington. Change for the District and Circle lines to other destinations. Please mind the gap." The euphoric wave of memory was most welcome and pleasurable.

Near Comatose in the Morning

Death. I'm so put out. I wanted to keep the "morning" thing going. For two weeks in London, I was in the habit of going to bed early and getting up typically at about six. I loved that. I have never been a morning person, but that kind of habit, once developed, was heaven. I had the most quiet and uplifting hours of the day all to myself.

Now, this morning, I'm up early for work (we open at six), and I feel like I've been shot in the head at close range. Damn. Maybe I just need another week or two of visiting places that all close at five to get myself back into the divine routine. I really hate that "The Golden Girls" doesn't come on until 11. I'm sure that doesn't encourage my early bedtime much.

I'm trying to find a comfortable sleeping position in these office chairs. There's not really anything to support the head, so I find it's more comfortable to sit crooked in the chair and just let all my limbs hang dead over the side. It works, until someone comes in and I actually do look like I've been shot in the head at close range.

I bought a journal yesterday. A small one with lovely flourishes and ornamentation. I can't stand that I spent $15.95 on a blank book when I can make such beautiful ones myself. But I just won't write in my own. I've tried it. I can bookbind so beautifully--this, I know. But writing in a book I've made myself has just about as much appeal as eating a meal that you've made yourself; someone else's always tastes better.

Half of the reason my trip was so lovely was because I wrote everything. I didn't have to keep some enigmatic collection of feelings and thoughts in my head. I got to make them real by writing them. Aside from its utility, I don't care for it much. It just takes too long, and my hand can't keep up with my head. But like it or not, it's a cunning little exercise that makes my life better. I can spend $15.95 in a heart beat in order to improve and bring order to my life.

I detest infatuations. They ruin everything. I love a nice, peaceful, uninterrupted life. You really like someone, and it's all turned on its head. Most people like to run with their emotions, feed into their intrigue. Me? I'd just like to get back to my "To Do" list. Passion is so unproductive.

My procession...

Do you ever think about what it might be like to enter heaven? I'm not talking about feelings; we all know that it will be bloody wonderful. I'm talking about what it will look like.

I really hope heaven is plastic--that it becomes whatever people want it to be. I plan my own ascension just as one girl might plan her own wedding. I want it to have the feel and majesty of a stately procession or a coronation. I want to walk through rows and rows of gothic arches, as one might find in a cathedral. I want to be wearing white, naturally. And for kripes sake, I don't want my hair back. Heaven, to me, would simply be not having to shave my head. It will just stay shaved.

My sister had us siblings listen to some music in the car the other day when we were driving back from the airport in Texas. One of the songs was "Pie Jesu," a movement of Gabriel Faure's Requiem. Slow. Peaceful. It made the soul stand still in reverence. I thought to myself, "This is what I want sung as I meet the Lord."

Now, I just need to decide what we'll all have for refreshments afterward.

Big Headed Generation

So, my aunt says that technology has made us arrogant. We're diluted into the notion that the world is interested in our lives, our blogs, our Facebook and MySpace pages. Ouch! Two people at the most read my blog--this I know. Even most of my own siblings couldn't care less, each of them having browsed through my postings maybe once, only picking up on anything every third sentence. This I am okay with. But I've been tearing myself apart, trying to figure out if I've ever "diluted" myself into thinking that people are checking my blog every morning to see what Aaron's up to. Nobody wants to feel that stupid.

I hope I'm one of the people that just blogs anyway. I have a co-worker who is about to give birth soon. I don't check her blog every day. I wonder how few or how many people read it. Even if no one did, it's one of the most beautiful blogs. She periodically writes letters to her unborn daughter, mostly talking about her baby kicking, straining her system, her preparations for the birth, and how she is so excited to meet her daughter that she can hardly stand it. If no one read any of that, she'd blog anyway. And it'd still be one of the most beautiful blogs.

My boss is about to leave soon. She's one of the most wonderful and well-rounded people I know. If I were ever going to have children, I'd want a daughter just like her--happy, kind, and always seeking for the wisest path. Her blog is just about the only way I'll be able to keep tabs on her and her family. Her blog is always a joy, filled with stories of her darling children, details on the progression of her and her husband's life and career, marvelously punctuated with moments of truth. If no one ever took the time to check in on her life, I hope she'd blog anyway. She needs to write such beautiful things.

Then, some people hardly write; they just post photos and videos. A former coworker of mine had twin boys last March (his wife had them, but he pays for them). They post photos and videos every now and then to keep their families updated. I'm so glad they have a blog. I never really had much to do with this former co-worker, so there's no way that I'd otherwise get to follow the growing up of two of the most precious little boys you've ever seen (no politeness, no exaggeration). If no one ever checked in to see how big those little squirts were getting, I don't know if they'd blog anyway.

Another co-worker of mine is bursting with ideas. He always keeps his mind working on what can be done to improve his life, improve the future for his family, and improve the nation and world. Not everyone agrees with his ideas, but he suggests them anyway. He blogs these ideas (just the one's that he doesn't have to worry about someone stealing) to get them down, out of his head. He lets his mind take him all of the good places that it wants to both in learning and creativity. With such a busy mind, he has to get these thoughts and ideas out. If no one cared to see what he was thinking or inventing, he'd blog anyway.

You see, no one wants to inconvenience someone else for a relationship. I often wonder how those are formed anymore because there's just not time. We all have a routine for surviving the day. We most of us have an adequate safety net built up for when things crumble. Parents are only called if something's wrong. Friends are invited to come around only when we're bored. Siblings are for birthdays and Christmas. Any more than this and you feel like you're intruding. No one wants to ask for time anymore because we know from experience that everyone's just too busy trying to get ahead. We're working like heathens to get to a place where our "life can finally begin."

I'm glad people blog because I can still look in from time to time without taking away from what people want to do or who they want to be with most.

Me? I'll blog anyway.